by Rue Allyn
They stopped: Boone climbed down and set Mindy out of the wagon. She stood in the front yard of her new home and sighed, with her hands on her hips.
“Home,” Mindy said. “I like the sound of that.” She turned to her new husband. “I’m happy, Boone. Really, really happy.”
They began unloading the wagon and made the first trip into the house. Inside, Mindy ran her fingers over the furniture and fixtures, then whirled to Boone, “I couldn’t be happier!” Her face was radiant.
Boone stepped over and picked Mindy up. He whirled her in a wonderful, dizzying circle and then hugged her to him. “No more tears?”
“Not anymore.”
“I love you, wife.”
“I love you, too, Torment.”
As she glanced around the house, something out the back window caught her eye. She stepped closer to take a look and then exclaimed, “Boone! What on earth have you done?”
The pair of them stepped out the back door of the house and stood in the dirt yard. Mindy stared up at the most elaborate tree house she had ever seen. There were three levels with gradually rising stairs between.
“It’s for you, Mindy.” Boone said. “I built it for you. I hoped you’d come home with me some day.”
“A tree house, Boone?”
Boone looked down. His face had turned a bright cherry apple red. “When I first met you, Mindy, you said you’d never been kissed, never been married, and never climbed a tree.” He looked at her. “I wanted to be the one who made all those things come true.”
With a cry of delight, Mindy jumped into his arms, and they whirled. Standing in the back yard of their home, while the joyous sun shone overhead, Mindy knew all her dreams had come true.
About the Author
Robyn Corum is a happy housewife and mom who lives in Hartselle, Alabama with her husband, three children, one son-in-law, one dog, one cat, and recently, two scorpions. She loves reading, crafting, creating graphics and writing. Her favorite hobbies are hunting for four-leaf clovers, gently torturing her teenagers, and celebrating when a string of words bang against each other in an altogether remarkable way.
She is author of the book, Pieces of Her Mind, a collection of Japanese short form poetry, with seventeen other women, available November 2012.
Robyn is currently at work on a novel about a mail order bride who is forced to leave New York City for the west in the late 1800s. Both are called “Ama.”
Learn more about her at:
www.facebook.com/MelindaHeadsWest
http://about.me/robyncorum
http://pinterest.com/robyncorum
Contact her at:
[email protected]
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
The Winter Promise by Jenny Jacobs
Charming the Chieftain
Deanie Roman
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2012 by Deanie Roman
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6255-5
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6255-6
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6256-3
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6256-3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com, istockphoto.com/danez
To my hunky husband, Kevin Campbell, who encourages me to dream big, and also to my beautiful daughter, Meghan, who always cheers me on. Finally, to my fabulous parents, Dean and Suzie Romagnoli, who nurtured my love of reading.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
About the Author
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Acknowledgments
To my friend, fellow military wife, and blogging partner, author Cate Parke. I appreciate your keen eye, and patient (albeit failed) attempts at teaching me proper punctuation. More importantly, I want to thank you for your unwavering friendship. I would also like to give a warm thank you to one terrific editor, Terese daly Ramin, whose guiding hand kept me from wandering off onto rabbit trails. Lastly, I’d like to thank my good friend, café and taschen buddy, and talented web designer, Amy Hasenyager. If not for your artistic vision, I’d still be choosing wallpaper colors.
Chapter One
1487
Caeverlark Castle, the Borders, Scottish Lowlands
“Out with it.”
Aeden eyed his uncle. Tam knew him too well, and like a hound worrying a bone, he often proved as tenacious. Pensive, he slid his fingers over the tight knot of scars that trailed down the side of his face and ended at the base of his throat. Irritated by the reflexive action, he dropped his hand.
“’Tis no’ far-fetched to assume the woman may refuse me. Most females are cowed afore I open my mouth, and these are people I have walked alongside since boyhood.”
Tam scoffed. “Come now, ye exaggerate. Any lass worth her salt would — ”
He sliced his hand through the air. “Enough. I did no’ reveal my thoughts to gain your worn-out flattery.”
His elder scrubbed his knuckles down the side of his face and gripped his chin. Aeden knew the gesture well. The old man had more to say and wouldn’t be denied.
“Granted, she may balk at first … ”
A grim smile stretched Aeden’s face at his uncle’s effort to dilute the truth. Tam wasn’t above lying to achieve his end. Too bad, Aeden knew his game.
“ … yet, once ye tell her who sent ye, her upset would be but brief.”
Aeden shook his head in disgust and turned to stare out the wind-hole.
“I take no pleasure in distressing women, however brief their distress may be.”
• • •
Carlisle, Northern England
Three months later …
Elisande stared, entranced by three drops of softened wax taking shape in the murky water. Candle-smoke filled her nose with the aroma of beeswax. The familiar sweet scent called to mind the snug haven of her mother’s bedchamber illuminated by fat tapers scattered across every surface. Warmed by a flickering hearth-fire and endless beakers of spiced cider, she learned the fine art of canvas-work, oftentimes perched on a cushioned stool near the inglenook, while entertained by tales of her mother’s childhood.
All at once, her self-control faltered. Unable to concentrate, she shook her head to block the cherished memories from her mind, determined to continue the ancient ritual.
“Water, wax, taper’s light, lead me through the darkest night, and with your guiding hand, lead Chief Maxwell to this land.”
“Now, the dagger,” she whispered into the silent chamber.
The fingers on her right hand fl
exed around the worn hilt. Her knuckles whitened from the strength of her grip. Undeterred by the numb sensation, she raised the angled knife. Her pulse quickened as she chanted, “A flash of color, a burst of flame, an incantation in his name. A dagger plunged to breach the seal, an answer sought, and evil revealed.”
Unexpectedly, a strident shriek rent the air, causing her to drop the knife. It flipped tip over end repeatedly before it hit the water with a thunk. Heart in her throat, she spun around in time to see a servant wrench open the chamber door and bolt from the room.
Elisande placed an unsteady hand over her heart and considered what to do about the submerged dagger, wet stole, and sodden taper. “Mayhap I shall begin anew,” she muttered, and then caught a glimpse of sun over the mountain. Without the cover of darkness, the wax effigy lost its import. Her shoulders slumped.
“Two days’ worth of preparation all for naught,” she heaved a sigh.
Dispirited, she dragged the long-sleeved chasuble over her head, folded the vestment with care, and stowed it in the bottom of her carved hawthorn chest. She mopped up spilled water and retrieved the ritual knife. A perfunctory knock drew her attention to another servant framed in the doorway.
“You are wanted below stairs.”
Elisande’s stomach dropped as she stepped across the threshold of her bedchamber. Wary, she cast a suspicious eye over the darkened corridors in search of Warford’s henchman, Sir Stuart. He appeared from the shadows, a knowing smirk on his narrow face. She ignored him as he fell into step behind her. She laid one hand on the inner wall, descended the narrow staircase with the baron’s lickspittle in her wake, continuing on to the stark Great Hall, stripped of its treasures to satisfy her father’s trustees.
On the far side of the chamber, she spied her betrothed sprawled in her father’s favorite chair. His leather-shod feet propped on a straw-filled cushion embroidered by her mother. The seams of Sir Warford’s tunic stretched across his paunch, flopping over a tightly cinched leather belt. Once fair complected, his florid skin exhibited broken cheek and nose veins, ample proof of the man’s excessive habits and slothful existence. The observation whittled away her hard fought composure. Apprehensive, she skimmed her thumb along the smooth surface of her comfort stone nested in the palm of her hand. The deliberate rhythm helped soothe her fraught nerves.
“Lady Elisande,” Warford’s voice radiated menace. “I have awaited your company longer than is necessary. Come here to me, now.”
The displeasure in his tone formed a cold knot in her stomach. Mistrustful of his dark mood, she sent a beseeching glance in her father’s direction. He frowned and urged her forward with an impatient jerk of his head.
Warford followed her look and chuckled. “Cadby will not come to your aid. I’ve bought you lock, stock and keg.”
Despite the black edge of fear that swept through her, Elisande disobeyed the baron’s demand and sketched a brief, shallow curtsy where she stood. Warford’s eyes narrowed as he stared her down.
“So, you have no words of greeting for your betrothed?”
“Baron Warford.” Her tone held bare civility.
As servants bustled about, a draft of cold night air flowed into the room and sliced through her thin dress. The baron shifted his mud-colored eyes to her erect nipples barely covered by the bodice’s scandalous décolletage. The hoyden’s rags were chosen by her step-mother solely on the knowledge Warford favored the indecent display. A fortnight ago, Elisande defied the edict to dress for the baron and returned to her private chamber after supper to discover her old clothes had vanished, replaced with a wardrobe full of wide, deep necklines.
Stuart gripped her upper arm and shoved her forward. Warford snatched up her hand, and deposited a moist kiss on the palm, never lifting his eyes from her breasts. Repelled, she wrenched her hand free and scrubbed it down her skirt. Sudden fury lit Warford’s eyes. He sprung to his feet, snaked an arm around her waist, and molded her to his paunch. His flattened lips against the shell of her ear made her flesh crawl.
“In a few days’ time you shall suffer more than my tongue in your hand.”
Her gasp echoed in the cavernous room. Terrified, she twisted sideways to beg her father’s intervention. Unmoved, her hollow-eyed sire quit the chamber without a backwards glance, although one word echoed throughout the corridor in his wake.
“Witch.”
Her father’s unfounded accusation rang in her ears.
As if he knew the inner workings of her mind, a cruel smile warped the baron’s lips. “Never forget, Elisande — ”
She ducked her head. The sour odor of sweat and mead rolled off of him.
“ — you are mine to do with as I please.”
Unmindful of the consequences, she shoved against him.
“I shall never belong to you,” she spat.
He hooked his thumb under her chin and clamped down on her cheek with his fingers digging sharp nails into her tender flesh. She struggled to govern the panic inside her, as he applied more pressure. She whimpered and clawed at his hand until he released his painful grip. He studied her face a beat or two, and smiled. Clearly, he found pleasure in the pain he inflicted.
“Disobey me again and I shall demonstrate that I need not the formalities of the church to bed you.”
She brought a hand to her swollen cheek. Pin-pricks of revulsion chased a shudder up her spine. “My father would never stand by — ”
He laughed, low and mean. “You are naïve to believe your father cares anything for you. He has a nubile young wife who cannot wait to rid this house of witchery.”
He pushed her hand aside and trailed a finger from her cheek to the top of her breast. His breath became shallow, his words breathless. “Submit to me of your own free will this night, and I shall grant you a reprieve.”
The blood drained from her face — she burned hot then cold.
“You are mad if you believe I shall give myself to you willingly.”
A feral light gleamed in his eyes, and he closed the minuscule space between them.
She flinched and held a hand in front of her face in a protective gesture.
“Lovely Elisande. You have no idea of the arduous event before you. If you come to me tonight, I shall save you from the purification ritual so desired by your father.”
“If you truly possessed an ounce of compassion, you would halt the rite in any case,” she retorted, her voice bitter.
“True, but I confess, I shall enjoy your screams more.”
Incapable of bearing his presence any longer, she wrenched her arm free and staggered back. His smug expression angered her beyond good sense and before she fled the hall, she lashed out at him. “One day I shall see you dead!”
• • •
Her careless words only served to whip Warford into a fury and he vowed the purificator free reign to exorcise the evil from her soul. She decided to accost her father during his evening stroll and plead for his intervention. If she appealed to his sense of obligation as her sire, she believed his intercession would follow and the wedding halted. She ran a hand over her top lip and swiped away the beads of perspiration. She had to try in the name of her mother’s memory, and if her attempt yielded nothing, then it would be her last night in Cadby Hall.
Once the fervor over her ill-thought-out speech died down, Elisande put the unplanned-for stratagem into action. She crept along the secondary passage toward the kitchens, avoiding the main corridor. Beleaguered servants, their platters stacked with milk-fed kid, loaves of manchet, hedgehog roasts, flagons of juniper beer and currant wine, took little notice as she entered the overheated kitchen. She scrutinized Cook hunched over a low stool. Her skilled fingers plucked a swan in preparation for tomorrow’s wedding feast. Elisande skirted her way around the deaf woman, crossed to the far wall, and slipped through the one door that stood ajar.
• • •
“Find her!”
Warford’s roar ignited a well-orchestrated flurry of activity in
the manor’s side yard. Cadby servants lit torches and handed off lanthorns to the mounted yeoman, who accepted sword, dagger, and longbow from another servant. Fine wisps of dust coated the air when the riders struck out in pairs. She observed the rout crouched behind a barrel near the pigsty. Undecided, she glanced behind her at the postern gate. Could she make her father see reason before Warford discovered her and locked her in her bedchamber, or, was he so enamored of his new wife he’d believe any lie she spewed?
A trio emerged. Lady Cadby clung to the arm of a clergyman. Elisande shrank back in horror as the old man’s identity became clear.
“Dear God, he summoned the madman. He truly means to see me through the ritual,” she whispered, terrified.
Any vestige of love she harbored for the man who sired her withered and died the moment he embraced the purificator. That he should permit the torture of his only child on the hearsay of his second wife aggrieved her. She never believed anything could devastate her more when he sold her to the sadistic beast, Warford, in order to preserve ownership of Cadby Hall. Tears long denied blurred her vision as she bade a silent farewell to her home. Her decision made, she sprang to her feet, bolted through the gate, and plunged into the darkened forest. With the agility of a fox, she ducked under low-hanging branches entwined around skinny poplars and sidestepped nettle-bushes without hesitation and headed north.
After a while, a cramp seized her leg and forced her to an abrupt halt amidst a crowded blackthorn grove. She lowered onto a stout, lichen-covered log and massaged the back of her thigh. The loamy fragrance of the moss-laden air calmed and comforted her. A sad smile curved her lips. Being unaccompanied in the wilderness should cause acute anxiety, but her senses were inured to the night clatter and nocturnal creatures. Years of seeking refuge from Warford’s unwelcome advances cured her of real or imagined worries in a trice.
Tonight, however, the forest appeared oddly quiet. The churring trill of the Nightjar remained noticeably absent. Alarmed, she listened for any peculiar noises and imagined faint whispers on the air. She curbed her breathing and, when a few tense moments passed without incident, she deemed it safe to continue on. Still a bit apprehensive, she started on a downward descent made more treacherous by an overshadowed moon. At the bottom of the path, an exposed tree root snagged the toe of her worn ankle bootie and catapulted her like a boulder from a trebuchet toward the rock-studded basin. Powerless to meet her fate wide-eyed, her lids slammed shut and both hands thrust out to brace for a violent impact. If not for the man’s swift reflexes, she would have landed face down in the dirt instead of against the inflexible musculature of a broad chest.
