The Emerald Storm (Ethan Gage, Book 5)
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In the fifth installment of master storyteller William Dietrich’s bestselling adventure series, the swashbuckling, battle-scarred hero Ethan Gage must race from the slopes of the Alps to the sultry tropics of the Caribbean to pursue a mysterious Spanish treasure as the fate of England—and of the world’s first successful slave revolt—hang desperately in the balance.
The Emerald Storm is the action-packed historical masterpiece that Ethan Gage fans have long awaited. Fans of the Indiana Jones adventures, the Sharpe’s Rifles series, and the thrilling works of James Rollins, who himself calls Dietrich’s writing “adventure at its grandest,” will find The Emerald Storm a satisfying, sword-in-hand romp through history—and new readers will discover it as the perfect introduction to the breathtaking Ethan Gage Adventures.
grip. Paving sounds very smart, but it’s as questionable a strategy as steamboats and submarines. Dandies complain of the mud, but that’s what boots and planks are for. I’m nothing if not opinionated, and right more often than I’m listened to. Another ball punched a hole in our coach, the hole as round as a trollop’s lips, its appearance jerking me out of my civic reverie. The other confederate hanging on our stern fired a pistol in reply. We were being chased. “Gage, I’m told you’re
“There’s no voice for abolition here?” The subject was becoming a heated one in England, I knew. Taking ideas from France, men were agitating for the end of the slave trade, or even the end of slavery entirely. All the revolutionary tumult in the world has brought remarkable notions. “There are Quakers, who are politely ignored. Parliament, however, is full of dangerously utopian ideas that attack free market values, fostered by comfortable liberals with no sense of reality. West Indies
even matter? I could feel the man-beast behind me, crouched in the shadows. “Come, and I will tell you.” Her clothes slid off her body without a touch. She was, of course, perfect, but so flawless as to seem eerie, forbidden. Her form was regal, her skin what we lost in Eden, and her breasts, belly, thighs, and dark triangle all hopelessly seductive. She was sex incarnate. I groaned with lust and longing. Ezili waded into the water, the ripples seeming to reflect her flowing form, her
time for freight to go from Nantes to Paris from four months to two weeks. Such speed seemed unlikely, but Livingston (a steam engine enthusiast who’d written to the inventor of that device, James Watt, in London) had joined Fulton’s project. The eccentrics were as happy as boys with a play fort, so to keep their favor, I quit pointing out that machines are expensive, heavy, and deafening. Like all men, the pair liked things that made noise, be it a lusty wench at full gallop, the crack of a
I’ve yet to kill you?” “Let’s start with my emerald.” “But of course.” He’d expected this, and the devil hauled it out with the aplomb of Catherine the Great, tossing it at my feet like a worthless pebble. “I’m not a thief, Monsieur Gage.” “The hell you aren’t.” “I only borrowed it to encourage our partnership.” “Then return it like a borrower, if you want manners.” At that we stared like rival lions. It’s amazing what the eyes can convey: contempt from Martel and hatred