by Andre, Bella
Barbara also recently released the WISH SERIES, a series of books connected by the theme of wishes including: A SECRET WISH (#1), JUST A WISH AWAY (#2) and WHEN WISHES COLLIDE (#3).
Other popular standalone titles include: DON'T SAY A WORD, SILENT RUN and RYAN'S RETURN.
Barbara's books have won numerous awards - she is a six-time finalist for the RITA for best contemporary romance from Romance Writers of America and a two-time winner for DANIEL'S GIFT and THE WAY BACK HOME.
Barbara has lived all over the state of California and currently resides in Northern California where she draws much of her inspiration from the beautiful bay area.
For a complete listing of books, as well as excerpts and contests, and to connect with Barbara:
Visit Barbara's Website
Join Barbara on Facebook
Follow Barbara on Twitter
Sign up for Barbara’s Newsletter
May Day
Heather Graham
May Day
Copyright 2014 Heather Graham
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Prologue
1607
The Village of Ravenscroft
The British Isles
Borderland
The air was already horrid, filled with the smell of burning flesh. Mary MacIntosh breathed in the acrid smoke and fought fiercely against the trembling that seized her.
I’m next, she thought.
It had all begun quite simply and when Ewan Dougall, the butcher, had suggested that she was about to be arrested for witchcraft, Mary MacIntosh had laughed off the very idea. While she knew that trials had raged on the Continent, they hadn’t been particularly popular in England and Scotland. James VI sat on the throne and while she’d heard that the king was quite big on the subject, she’s also heard that he considered himself an intellectual man and that witchcraft was not really an intellectual subject.
Ravenscroft was small. Over the years, it had been part of one country or the other—depending on who was in power and what war had been fought and who had won. At the moment, it was a lovely little hamlet in Scotland with a population of less than a thousand, mostly farmers, a few artisans, and a kind laird who ruled over the isolated beauty of the hamlet.
But Laird Montfort was dead; beheaded before being tossed upon the fire, do to his rank. There were different laws governing witchcraft and the penalties for the practice in different places, but here in the hamlet it had been determined that the practice was treason against the king, and thus they were to burn. Of course, that notion was two-fold to many; a burned witch could not come back from the dead to cast harm upon others again.
“Mary! Mary MacIntosh!” came a cry.
She felt her arms wrenched and she was half lifted and half dragged from the cart that had brought the condemned to the little tor by the inlet to the sea.
She had never confessed to witchcraft—nor had she been tortured. Justin Stuart—a very distant relative of the king who had grown up in Ravenscroft—was the one shouting her name. He had been the “witch-finder” sent to the village as the magistrate in charge of the proceedings. He had teased Mary as a child, and she now knew, he’d thought he loved her as they had become young adults. He’d offered her thinly veiled reprieves—if she’d throw herself on his mercy.
But she was in love with Brian, son of the deceased laird.
And he loved her. He’d been away on the king’s business when this mess in the hamlet had begun; had he been here, his father would never have died.
And nor would she.
She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to forget the horrible scent of burning flesh on the air. The day should have been fresh and sweet, filled with the freshness of spring. There should have been laughter and celebrating in the village—there should have been May Day festivals going on, hard-working farmers and artisans and all taking place in pageantry in which only needed to be the young and lovely and kind and not royal or noble in any way. Everyone in the village should have been on equal footing that day as it had been on May Day for years—all just welcoming the new life that spring promised every year.
Instead, they were being offered death and despair.
And even now, with the scent of charred humanity on the air, she prayed that Brian would return. Return with his small host of knights and put an end to this charade.
She choked and gasped against the stench as she was dragged up to the pyre and tightly bound to the stake.
She heard Justin Stuart call out as the other villagers stared at her, most with bowed heads, and some with tears in their eyes. They had never seen this tragedy coming to them. Yet they stood where told—lest they find themselves accused.
Lainie Bothwell was tied to the stake next to hers. She looked over at Mary and said, “Oh, Mary, I’m sorry, so sorry. They ripped out my nails…I gave them your name.”
Lainie was just sixteen. She looked as if she were eighty. She was well tied to the stake because she couldn’t stand anymore. They had set her upon the rack to gain her “confession.”
“Lainie, they’d have come for me no matter what you had said. I am sorry for you, so, so sorry,” Mary replied.
“Mary, Mary MacIntosh!” Justin roared. “You are accused of the most heinous treason to the King; accused of the most wicked crime of witchcraft. You did dance naked beneath the moon and sign into a pact and fornicate with the Devil, giving yourself and your soul to Satan for the prime purpose of bringing ill to our most righteous King James! Confess now, woman, and save your soul!”
“My soul, sir, is righteous!” she cried in return. “And I will rest in the arms of God, sir, while you, for your cruelty and abuse of the law and your cruelty to God’s innocents, will burn in hell for eternity!”
“Light the faggots!” Justin roared.
Mary began to recite the Lord’s Prayer. Perfectly. A true witch was supposedly not able to do so. But nothing here was as it should be.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven….”
There was an outcry among the people watching and Mary was grateful—though she feared for them. She saw Ewan the baker sobbing silently.
“Hallowed be Thy Name!” she cried.
She felt the heat as the faggots and branches at her feet were lit.
“Thy Kingdom come. Thy Will be done!”
Smoke was filling her lungs.
“On Earth as it is in Heaven!”
And then it happened.
Brian Montfort came riding hard toward them, his great charger making his way up the tor, his eight mounted men following behind.
“Cease!” Brian roared. “Cease this sham of justice!”
“Fight them! Fight those who would deter justice!” Justin cried.
Justin had come with a party of ten. Ten well-honed knights, all seeking the King’s approval. At Justin’s command, they leapt for their horses and secured their weapons.
Two of Justin’s men were archers; they fell into position and arrows flew. Mary watched as one man was struck and fell from his saddle.
The smoke was rising. She felt her consciousness slipping away.
She knew It would return when the fire licked her flesh.
But Brian’s men were riding hard on them. Seven missed the arrows and mad
e their way toward the clearing at the bluff. The people screamed and scattered.
And Justin’s knights met Brian’s men in a horrible clash of swords and battle axes.
***
The fires had been set; there was no time!
Brian Montfort slashed his way desperately from man to man. Those fellows with him—friends from childhood, seasoned fighters, all, and men who knew too well too many of the dead—fought as fiercely.
His sword in his left hand and his axe in his right, he repelled blow after blow and men fell around him. He felt a rip in his arm; he’d been cut, but he barely felt the sting of the slice on his flesh. He whirled and all but beheaded his opponent.
Just for a moment he looked up. He saw her. Mary. Beautiful Mary with her sky blue eyes and pitch dark hair, her smile, and her gentleness, kindness, and sense of justice….
Mary, now in billows of smoke….
And yet, for one second, her eyes met his. And he thought that she smiled, and that she spoke.
I will love you forever! He thought that was what she said.
“And I, you!” he cried in a fury.
But then she screamed. A sound that rent the air with its anguish and agony.
The fire had come to her.
He ran; he ran as hard as he could for the fire. But then something burst within it and a conflagration exploded into the sky and even as he tried to race into the flame, he knew that she was gone. He was wrenched back by his man Angus.
“Brian, ‘tis no good. She rests with the angels, angel that she is!” Angus said.
He turned then; Justin Stuart—the petty, jealous, bastard prick!—was getting away.
Brian wrenched free from Angus and leapt atop his horse. His great warhorse, Liam, ate at the earth, as if he, too, knew what travesty had occurred here on the tor.
Brian caught up with Justin. He threw himself from his saddle and onto the man, bringing them both down hard on the earth. He heard bone break and the weasel cried out; he was sure he’d cracked one of his own ribs.
But the man was still alive. And he wanted him to burn—burn like those he had so viciously tortured.
He dragged him up and to his feet.
“The law! The King’s law!” Justin screamed. “You’re a traitor! I am an agent of the King! I work with his blessings—“
“Then damn you and damn the king!” Brian said, and he turned back, dragging the man with him.
Now, the whole tor was ablaze. The people had scurried, terrified of the King’s men—perhaps frightened, even, of their own.
He wouldn’t tie the man to a stake as he had done to his victims. His fury was so great that he would not take the time.
But Justin continued to fight him. First he threatened, and then he wheedled, and then he threatened again. He screamed with each step they took as his broken leg hit the ground.
But Brian reached the flames.
And he lifted the man in his fury and raged at him. “Burn in hell, Justin. Burn in hell forever!”
Justin Stuart stared back down at him and raged. “Nae, man, this cannot be! Set me down—lest wrath fall upon you and yours forever. If you dare to kill me—“
Brian dared.
He threw the man into the flames. And he listened to his screams.
But though he knew that Mary was now dead and gone, it was her screams that seemed to echo with agony in his head.
He stood shaking, tears in his eyes, as he watched the flames, felt the heat.
Then Angus grabbed him by his shoulder. “We’ve got to go; we’ve got to get you out of here!”
“Where?” he asked dully. “Why?”
“The King will send more men for you; you will be tortured and burned as well,” Angus said.
He didn’t care; he really didn’t care. Life meant nothing. Mary had been his life.
He heard Angus muttering and he didn’t fight the man as he was dragged away. He wasn’t sure what Angus meant to do; there would be no place in the British Isles for him to hide once the King knew what had happened.
“Come, lad, come!” Angus roared.
He felt dull. Dull and numb. But he asked Angus dryly, “Where? Where would you have me go.”
“The colonies,” Angus said. “America.”
Brian barely heard Angus. He stared at the sky; the fires continued to burn and the smoke to rise and he thought that he had died along with her—all that remained were the years until he could come to her again. Come as a whisper of smoke, as a soft brush on the air….
He remembered so little.
He felt nothing.
And then, one day he opened his eyes. And he realized that he was at sea.
Scotland, fire, and all that he had loved were gone.
He’d had his vengeance, yes.
And yet….
I will love you forever, she had said.
And I, you, he had replied.
And so he knew that it would be.
Chapter 1
The Village of Ravenscroft
The British Isles
The Borderlands
Now
May Day
Jackson Crow lay on his side, his eyes barely opened. He watched as Angela stretched, tossed off the covers, and walked to touch the drapes, pulling them back just slightly to stare out at the beauty of the countryside that surrounded them.
She was stunning; tall and lithe and perfectly formed, fit and shapely, and natural as she moved with grace and ease. She turned, as if suddenly aware that she had wakened him, and she smiled and ran back to the bed, taking a flying leap and landing atop him.
“Lovely—and perfect! So perfect. What a beautiful trip!” she told him.
He reached up and stroked back a lock of her blond hair. It still teased his flesh, still roused him though their night in the castle had been wild and wicked already, everything he might have wanted in a honeymoon—had they ever been able to take one.
They hadn’t. They had married quietly one day, just heading off to the church where Angela had made friends with the priest, bearing their quickly acquired license with them. Their co-workers had known for a long time that they were married, but had allowed them to rather ease the truth out rather than make a bold announcement. But in the budding years of the special FBI division known unofficially as the Krewe of Hunters, work had been almost all consuming. From the moment Adam Harrison had contacted Jackson and the Krewe had been born, they’d been busy. They were all proud of their work; they solved what eluded others. Some liked to refer to them as “the ghost-busting unit,” but they all kept quiet unless they were among themselves, and over time, while they still bore the moniker, they were also given a great deal of respect.
Their numbers had risen; there was now three sets of “hunters,” even though they mixed up members as availabilities and talents changed, they now had the original “Krewe,” the “Texas Krewe,” and the “Yankee Krewe.” The last was a bit of an oxymoron since they’d become the “Krewe” because their first case had taken place in New Orleans. But they were a mixed “Krewe” as it was—with all different backgrounds and talents and for all of that, they got along amazingly well and worked together in that same spirit. Their ethnicity included bloodlines that stretched back to Asia, Africa, and Europe but they all shared one thing—an ability to sometimes speak with the dead.
It wasn’t a talent one went around announcing; people either thought you were a quack or in need of serious mental health attention.
It didn’t mean that the dead were always available—as on a cell phone call-up. The dead passed on most of the time, to whatever lay beyond. Despite their “talents,” what actually lay beyond the light that came for the good at heart eluded their scope of knowledge—just as whatever lay beyond the dark pitch that sometimes came for those whose souls were not so pure.
One thing they learned was those who did stay behind usually did so for a reason. Some, because they held sentinel at certain places where history had caused a toll
so high with emotions that they needed to find their own peace.
Some because they waited to do their best to help, not sure when tragedy would strike again. And some waited, hoping to find those they had loved in life—and didn’t know how to reach in death.
In working, they had discovered that among their numbers, they often wound up together; no “relationship” restrictions had ever been placed on the Krewes. Maybe Adam had seen from the start that it was natural they fall for one another—who the hell else was ever going to understand you or the way that you ticked?
And still…
Maybe just because it was private, they had kept their wedding quiet for a long time. But now everyone knew, and he’d announced a few weeks ago—just after a conversation with Sheriff Conar Martin of Ravenscroft in Scotland, with whom he’d settled a case long before the Krewe—that he and Angela would be off to Europe for a few weeks. Logan Raintree—head of the Texas Krewe—would be in charge while he and Angela were gone.
They’d spent a few night in Paris, strolled the river, dined at little cafes along the Champs Elysess. They’d gone on to London and visited the Tower and Westminster and a dozen other places. And now they were here, at Conar’s beautiful little village in Scotland, bordered with England. Conar had invited them for the villages May Day celebrations.
“Charming, beyond all imagination!” Angela said, her eyes bright as she looked down at him. There’s a piper up on a cliff over there; there’s a May Pole up and I see people in all kinds of kilts and tartans and dress and there’s already some kind of a pole-throwing contest going on—“
“Caber toss,” he told her.
“Yep, that!” she teased. “I was thinking that we needed to go see what was going on. So many people are dressed up. Lot’s in medieval—there’s a Guinevere riding around on a horse, I’m pretty sure.”
