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: Taming the Lyon

The Wild Rose Press

Heat Rating: STEAMY
Word Count: 65,325
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Recently widowed, Dr. Margaret Boynton leaves England and sails to Africa. She finds herself up against dangerous animals and terrifying witch doctors. Determined never to fall in love again, Margaret finds her most formidable enemy is her own heart when she meets the enigmatic Jeremiah Lyon.

A scoundrel whose scarred face and ice-blue eyes make strong women weak, Jeremiah Lyon, legendary great white hunter, resents his assignment to escort a middle-aged doctor to the mission hospital. She isn't what he expected...and neither is his unguarded reaction to her.

When a secret society of cannibals kidnap Margaret, can Lyon rescue her before their chances for a future are destroyed forever?


She stood abruptly, causing the chair to tip over. “If you’re trying to frighten me…you are…well…” She tossed the remainder of the coffee into the fire, sending a shower of red winking sparks into the air. “Goodnight, Mr. Lyon.”

The echo of his laughter followed her as she strode to her tent. “Welcome to the Dark Continent, Doctor.”

Once inside her tent, Margaret huffed about the small enclosure. She rarely cried, which made the tears that burned behind her eyes that much more frustrating. She unbuckled the straps on her leather satchel and removed her journal, pen, and ink bottle. Sitting on the edge of the cot, she realized she was holding her breath. Using meticulous care, she uncorked the bottle of ink and dipped her pen.


December 1909

No one prepared me for Africa’s beauty and dangers. No one prepared me for Jeremiah Lyon. Great White Hunter. Dangerous. He is arrogant, terrifying, and oh, so magnificent. It shakes me to the very core that he instills unsettling emotions inside me.

Pen poised, she listened to the voices. She wondered what had caused Lyon’s gusty laughter, and prickled at the thought of being the subject of the men’s conversation. She ran her tongue around her lower lip. Realizing guiltily the direction her thoughts were taking, she focused on memories of Seamus. She sighed. He had once dubbed her the “iron maiden.” She was too brusque, too angry, too closed off when dealing with people. Not great qualities for a doctor. Seamus had later explained that he’d meant it as a compliment, that she was in control, and that is what he admired about her.

Exhaustion taking its toll, she stored her writing materials in the satchel.

Margaret undressed down to her chemise and, as Lyon had instructed, turned her boots upside down on the knobs at the end of the cot to keep out scorpions and other unwanted creatures. She crawled between the sheets, sat up, and untied the lacings that held the mosquito netting out of the way. The cascade of gauzy material reminded her of a gigantic bassinet. An overwhelming sadness gripped her as she thought of her son. She squeezed her eyes shut to conjure an image of Jonathan’s beaming smile and blue eyes. All she saw was his lifeless, mud-splattered body. Tears welled, and she stifled a sob.

She rolled to her side and listened to the fearsome night sounds just outside the canvas walls of her tent. Hippos splashed and grunted up and down the river…URRnnt, UUrrrnnnt…so loudly she pulled the pillow over her head to shut out the noise. She reached beneath the netting and touched the rifle for reassurance. Africa, the Dark Continent, had sounded so romantic. Why had she believed coming here would erase her grief, would make her feel whole again? Self-doubt crowded her thoughts, and she questioned her judgment in coming here. Surely tomorrow would be a better day. She hoped.