In 1814, Sara Stevenson, the well-bred but high-spirited daughter of celebrated Scottish lighthouse designer Robert Stevenson, falls in love with a common sailor, Thomas Crichton. On the day of their clandestine elopement, Thomas mysteriously disappears, leaving Sara heartbroken, secretly pregnant, and at the mercy of her overbearing family. Refusing to relinquish her hopes that Thomas will someday return to her, Sara is banished to an eerie lighthouse on lonely and remote Cape Wrath. There she meets William Campbell, the reclusive yet dashing light-keeper who incites her ire—and interest. Soon Sara begins to accept her life on the cape and her growing attraction to William—until a mystifying package from an Oxford antiquarian arrives, giving intriguing clues to Thomas’s whereabouts. Through her correspondence with the antiquarian, Sara slowly uncovers the story of her beloved’s fate. But what she doesn’t immediately grasp is that these letters travel an even greater distance than she could have imagined—as the boundaries between time and space unravel to forge an incredible connection between a woman and a man many years apart.
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|Title of Romance eBook: The Exile of Sara Stevenson|
|Release Date: 07-27-2010|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Ballantine Books|
This eBook download is available in the following formats:
|Parent title||The Exile of Sara...|
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The Exile of Sara Stevenson
Somebody once told me that every tower had a ghost, and every ghost had a story. Certainly there’s nothing more compelling than a well-told ghost story. They made for great fireside tales, tales devised to scare children so they’d lie awake in their beds late into the night straining to hear ghostly footsteps on the landing, the rattling of chains against the walls or, heaven forbid, the high-pitched moans of the unliving. As a child, tales of the ghosts of Edinburgh enthralled me—specters such as the immortal Wizard of West Bow Street ambling down the lane with his demonic thornwood staff, boisterously celebrating his hellish afterlife, or the Lone Piper playing his haunting lament in the secret tunnels beneath the Royal Mile. There were gray ladies wandering through castles by the score, and the White Lady of Corstorphine appearing in a virginal gown of white as she brandished the very sword used to kill her unfaithful lover . . . still dripping with his blood! I’ve heard tales from those who have witnessed for themselves the Death Coach—that notorious ghostly soul-collector, pulled by black, demon-eyed steeds who blew flames of fire out their nostrils—and lived to tell their tale, and fewer still were those who had actually seen the headless drummer boy at the Castle, beating his ghostly tattoo, an augury of a future attack on the city. It was marvelous fun, but just stuff. Besides, it was common knowledge that those who claimed to have actually seen an entity dangling between the living and the dead were those known to succumb to flagrant imbibing. Sure, some argued that excessive drink was a result of a frightening encounter, not a precur...