by Meg Allison
Together they might uncover secrets that lurk in the shadows before another life is lost. But Jason isn’t sure Sabrina will forgive his lies when she learns the full truth.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Secrets and Shadows:
She stared out the window of the low, black Mercedes as countless trees rushed by in the outer beam of the headlights.
Everything…everything…everything…
The word echoed through her mind like a mantra. What could one person do with so much wealth?
“Sabrina?” Jason’s quiet voice stole through the fog in her brain. She turned her head to look at him.
His long, lean hands smoothly turned the steering wheel, guiding the thousand-pound piece of luxurious steel along the winding mountain road. There were no streetlights to guide them, only the soft white beams of the car, the red aura of taillights glowing behind as they curved ever higher up the sloping road.
“You still with me?” His gaze remained intent on their destination.
Sabrina nodded. “Yes, I think so. It’s just that I didn’t expect this.” Her voice trailed off as he swung the car around a sharp bend. She knew if she could see far beyond her window, the view of the downhill side of the mountain might make her sick.
Sabrina had always had an unreasonable fear of falling. In her mind she could see, almost feel, the ground give way as she tumbled into blackness. The knowledge that this was how her father had died―his car plunging down the placid, tree-covered mountain―had given her very vivid nightmares.
“You mean the money?”
“Yes.” Sabrina turned her body toward him, the seatbelt biting into her neck. “When I told him that I was getting married, he said I wouldn’t get a dime from him. You know my father―he never made a threat he didn’t intend to keep. Now here I am, his sole heir, and I haven’t a clue why. Why did he do that, Jason? Did he ever say anything to you about me or the will or…?” She reached out, laying her hand on Jason’s arm. His muscle jumped beneath her fingertips as if her touch shocked him. Sabrina lost all train of thought.
It happened every time she touched him…electric, sizzling heat and awareness. Ten years hadn’t dimmed the flame. Did he feel it as well? She dropped her hand, clasping it with the other in her lap as she gazed at his profile in the green-tinted light from the dash.
Jason cleared his throat. “I wasn’t privy to his financial decisions and he sure didn’t confide in me where his estate was concerned. After all, I am just the chauffeur.”
Sabrina frowned. “Why are you still working for my dad? And what was that business earlier about a deer scaling a ten-foot wall and that it wasn’t safe for me to drive alone? You want to tell me what’s going on?”
He glanced at her. The tightening of his jaw spoke volumes. Jason was trying to figure out how much to tell her.
“What are you hiding?” she asked. Then, like a light clicking on, it all came together―Vivian’s comments, Jason’s reticence. “It wasn’t an accident.”
She thought Jason’s shoulders tensed beneath the dark fabric of his suit.
“No.” The word was spoken so softly that for a moment Sabrina thought she’d imagined it.
“What happened?”
“He hadn’t been drinking, even though they did find an empty scotch bottle in his car, and I know the difference between brake-lines that have been cut versus the damage that can be done in a wreck. There was also some internal damage in the steering column that seemed very unusual.”
“How do you know all that?”
“You remember Bill Wright? He’s been the Chief of Police here for a little over six years. We’ve been friends forever and I talked him into letting me look at the car. What was left of it.”
She stared at him a moment as his last words sunk in. Her stomach rolled at the image that came to mind―twisted, smoldering metal. “What does the chief think about all of this?”
Jason sighed. “He’s investigating, but thinks I’m overreacting. Besides, he’s got the town council breathing down his neck, stressing how much the upcoming Spring Carnival needs good public relations. They don’t want it getting out that we might have a murder on our hands.”
“Why is the carnival so much more important than my father’s life?”
“It’s not that…it’s because this is a major source of income for Castle’s Grove,” he told her. Sabrina clutched the door handle as they gunned through a rather sharp curve. “Besides, on the surface it does look like an accident. They’d much rather accept the facts at face value―a rich man drank too much and took his ’Vette for a spin off the mountain.”
She swallowed hard, trying to keep her mind on their conversation and away from thoughts of cars falling off the mountainside.
“My father had a lot of enemies. His personality alone would account for that. But I have a hard time believing some well-heeled antiques collector got mad enough to have him murdered. Are you sure about all this?”
Sabrina watched him, waiting for an answer. Then she realized he hadn’t been listening. Jason’s gaze darted back and forth between the area illuminated by the headlights to the rearview mirror. He frowned, his jaw tense.
“Jason?”
“Quiet!” He glanced in the mirror again as they rounded a bend, then turned his head to the side mirror at his left.
“What’s wrong?” Sabrina asked as she looked over her shoulder. They came upon a straight stretch of road. She noticed a car about two hundred yards behind them and closing in fast. Sabrina glanced at the narrow road ahead. There was little leeway for passing. Another idiot tourist trying to get someone killed? Or something worse? Her heart pounded as her mouth went dry.
“Maybe you should pull over and let them by.”
Jason shook his head. “I don’t think passing is what they have in mind.”
All the while he spoke, Jason’s gaze switched between the road and the rearview mirror. Sabrina turned to watch, a cold lump of fear settling in her stomach. The other vehicle was three car lengths away. Jason pressed down on the gas, giving the powerful engine its head as he smoothly maneuvered down the two-lane road, straddling the centerline around the curves.
“Jason…?” His name left her on a whisper of fear, her fingers digging into the seat and door handle.
“Hold on,” he murmured.
She heard a loud popping sound and the Mercedes’ rear window splintered. The other car’s headlights illuminated the glass and Sabrina blinked at it in shock. The design created looked like a bluish, crystalline spider web. “What was―?”
“Get down!” He took a hand off the wheel and pushed her head down into the seat. Sabrina lay there for a moment as icy terror wrapped around her like a serpent. She could feel the pressure of his hip against the top of her head. The rich aroma of leather mingled with the scent of Jason’s spicy cologne.
Someone was shooting at them. It couldn’t be real. That kind of thing happened on TV or the movies, not in the Poconos. People skied the mountain slopes. They honeymooned and bathed in heart-shaped tubs. They came to drink and listen to comedians. They did not shoot at the residents.
Another shot, and more glass shattered. She felt Jason’s body jerk, heard a series of sharp cracks and then Jason’s deep voice cursing above her.
“Are you hurt?” She tried to raise her head but another shot zinged by, fracturing the windshield. She heard a scream, realizing a moment later that it was she who’d made the sound.
“I’m fine―stay down,” he said in clipped tones. “I’ve got an idea.” Her body slid into him as the Mercedes glided around another curve. The squeal of tires―theirs or the other car’s, she wasn’t sure―made her stomach lurch. “When I count to three, hold on to something and don’t let go. You got that?”
Sabrina nodded, then realizing he couldn’t see her added, “Yes.”
For what seemed an eternity, she listened to the powerful roar of the engine and the squawl of rubber on asphalt. Sabrina felt the road curve
under her as the car moved, then they seemed to be on a straightaway. Her body tensed. Her fingers dug into the creamy leather.
“Here we go,” Jason said. “One…two…”
Sabrina filled her lungs, wondering if it would be the last breath she ever took.
Don’t fall off the mountain…don’t fall off the mountain…
“Three!”
Torn between two powerful lords, pulled toward one infallible destiny…
The Songbird of Rushen Abbey
© 2006 Gloria Wiederhold
Coming soon in digital and paperback from Samhain Publishing
On the hauntingly beautiful Isle of Mann, legends say that King Alban will cross paths with a maiden gifted in song who will one day be his queen. Alban finds that maiden in Estelle Percy, a young woman known as the “Songbird of Rushen Abbey” and reputedly the descendant of royalty. However, Alban isn’t alone in his quest to claim the Songbird. Lord William Percy has set his sights on Estelle, too.
As these two powerful men vie for Estelle’s heart, their lives become intertwined in a web of love, desire and deceit in this sweeping, romantic adventure.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The Songbird of Rushen Abbey:
It was market day and King Alban was nowhere to be found at Peel Castle. He had notified only one of his whereabouts―Sir Roan, his most trusted knight and confidant―and thus avoid a desperate search party from venturing out to locate their missing king. Following the dishonor endured in the annulment of his marriage and the recent death of his beloved queen mother, Alban entrenched himself in his chambers occupied by matters of state but occasionally he found time.
Time to steal away and ride quietly in the surrounding wilderness. Time to ponder how often he regretted his position and the myriad duties associated with the title, King of Ellan Vannin. To ease his soul, he enjoyed walking amongst the peasant folk of the small fishing village of Peel, wearing an old, tattered travel cloak to avoid being recognized. It was a colorful, bustling place with vendors bartering their wares in harmony with the cries of the black-tipped winged seagulls that soared aloft and the crash of the surf against the stony shore.
How contentedly the folk of Peel Village went about living their simple lives under simple terms. He watched in wonder as they busily prepared the stalls at market, most of them organized in neatly spaced rows. Local farmers offered an array of spring crops, consisting primarily of legumes and a variety of herbs. Fishmongers offered their catch of the day―pike, herring, eel, crab―in addition to an assortment of fish preserved in salt or pickling. Alban pitied a scrawny youth caught pilfering from one fishmonger. The unfortunate lad was tied to a stake with a neckband of rotting fish, forced to endure the wrathful ravings of the fishmonger’s wife and the reek of putrid fish as punishment, fortunate not have had his ears cropped.
There were bright, newly spun woolens and fine linen cloths displayed by the mercer. One of Alban’s favorite stalls was the baker who offered a luscious array of crusty breads, pies and biscuits prepared by his family, all apple-cheeked redheads. Those that could not afford to set up a stall simply sold from baskets lined at their feet, or set out blankets displaying their wares. One young lass held up newly whelped pups for sale whilst her brother kept a basketful of kittens from scampering away.
That morning he accounted himself especially fortunate to find a group of traveling peddlers from the Far East bartering exotic silks of vibrant colors, intoxicating perfumes and rare spices. Never had he tasted elixirs so spicy sweet or appetizers so savory. He enjoyed the market place not only for the vendors but also for the lively entertainment it provided. There were troupes of acrobats, minstrels, mimes, sword-swallowers and fire-eaters. An immense brown bear wearing a frilly collar was receiving most of the attention that morning as it balanced a ball upon the tip of its wet nose.
The crier, dressed in colorful garb, paraded amid the bustle of villagers ringing the hand bell as he announced the hour and latest local events of significance in a resonating, clear voice. As Alban listened to his declarations, a gnarled hand grasped him suddenly by the sleeve. Startled, he turned to find an old woman standing before him, her face weathered and heavily lined, her eyes horrible and glazed. One heavy eyelid remained half shut whilst the other glared errantly from beneath the tattered kerchief she wore upon a disheveled mass of white hair.
Old Fatima, the village witch. He had seen her before, begging and scraping together a wretched existence more from the pity of strangers than any success she might have found in her soothsaying. “Nay woman, I do not wish to have my fortune read,” he refused for the hundredth time ere she had uttered a word. He recalled how many times in his youth the old crone had pestered him to allow a reading, always with the greatest urgency. Queen Rosalind would pull her son away from the gypsy, quoting scripture from Exodus with disgust:
“Thou shall not suffer a witch to live.”
Old Fatima, hunched over and limping, persisted in following Alban throughout the streets of Peel, ignoring his commands to leave him be. Soon he became so flustered with the old woman that he nudged her out of the way with his walking staff. Finally, he confronted her.
“Will you not leave me in peace, woman?” He released a heavy sigh of frustration. He reached in his pocket to produce several coins, which he offered up, hoping to rid of her via payment. Fatima merely shook her head at his ire and the coins.
“King of Vannin…” she began, recognizing him beyond the humble disguise. “Thou art doomed nevermore to know a peaceful slumber after the passing of this Yuletide season.” The sullen look upon her leathery, lined face and the fearful tone of her voice filled him with trepidation.
“What do you mean?”
“Thou shall suffer for the misdeeds committed by your father against a soul who wanders the earth until truth and justice be rightly served. The past shall be relived, so amends can be made. Once thou sees her face and hears her voice divine, nevermore shall you know peace until death in its mercy close thine eyes. So be it, King of Vannin. Thou can not escape this fate.”
Alban laughed, stepping away from the foul woman. “You speak in riddles. I can make no sense of your supposed prophesies.”
Fatima broke into an eerie grin revealing the few rotted teeth that remained in her mouth. Alban felt a wave of disgust and sickness rise up in him so that he gagged and turned away. The sweet sounds of the village suddenly became a cacophony of discord, above it all was Fatima laughing lightly.
“Beware, Alban, King of Vannin…” Her voice echoed repeatedly in his mind as he made haste away. “You can not escape this fate.”
Suddenly left as the head of the family, Kitty McKenzie must find her inner strength to keep her family together against the odds.
Kitty McKenzie
© 2006 Anne Whitfield
Available now in digital and paperback from Samhain Publishing
Evicted from their resplendent home in the fashionable part of York after her parents’ deaths, Kitty must fight the legacy of bankruptcy and homelessness to secure a home for her and her siblings.
Through sheer willpower and determination she grabs opportunities with both hands from working on a clothes and rag stall in the market to creating a teashop for the wealthy. Her road to happiness is fraught with obstacles of hardship and despair, but she refuses to let her dream of a better life for her family die. She soon learns that love and loyalty brings its own reward.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Kitty McKenzie:
Kitty walked over to the cooking range and picked up a few of the pots dangling on hooks above it. They’d be useful. On a shelf to the right of the range stood a few items of food. A jar of currants and a small bottle of pickles, plus a marble slab that held a chunk of dreadfully smelling cheese and some shriveled up salty beef. Indeed, it made her sad to see that a woman of Martha’s age had very little to show for all those years.
She heard Connie banging about in the other room and went to investigate.
In the bedroom, Connie had flipped the bed over on its side and banged on the floorboards underneath.
“What are you doing?”
Connie sat back on her haunches. “She’s bound t’ave some money stashed away somewhere.”
“Oh, good heavens. I feel like a grave robber. Put that bed down this minute! We are going. I’ve had enough.” She spun on her heel.
Connie followed her out. “I’m tellin’ you it’s worth lookin’ about a bit.”
“No.”
“Lass, you going t’need every bit of it.”
Kitty spun to face Connie. “Why are you so sure she has some money hidden away? She was a woman who sold secondhand clothes on a stall all her life! What makes you think she has hordes of money somewhere?”
“Cos it mekks sense, that’s why! Iris Nettlesmith has had a stall beside Martha for forty years. She knows Martha has done some good trade over the years, but it never showed that she spent much of it. She never had no family ter spend it on. So, the money must have gone somewhere.”
“I doubt it.”
Connie put her hand to her head and sighed. “Who knows, mebbe Kingsley’s grandfather gave her money? It won’t do any harm ter look now, will it?”
“Five more minutes and then we go home and forget all about it.” Kitty took off her coat. She went to the other room and began to press on the floorboards. Connie pulled at the bed and then looked for secret compartments in the chest of drawers and the cabinet. After an hour of pushing and prodding, turning and picking up anything not nailed down, they gave up.
“I told you so,” said Kitty through the dust they’d stirred up in the room.
Connie banged her fist on the table. “It’s here somewhere, I can feel it.”
Kitty chuckled. “Come on, it is almost dark.”
She reached for her coat and gloves resting on the back of the sofa. One of the gloves fell to the floor and, bending to pick it up, something caught her eye. The sofa material was a dark olive green, but the fabric on the back looked newer than the rest. The stitching around the entire back part of the sofa was in a different shade.
