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enchanting historical romance …
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County Roscommon,
Ireland—1751
A brilliant beam of sunlight reflecting on the water momentarily blinded him, then in the blink of an eye a radiant vision appeared before him. Is she real or is she a wood sprite? he mused. After all, this is Ireland.
The girl was slim and delicate, with an ethereal quality about her. As he stared, a sunbeam touched her, forming a glorious halo about her head, and her shining hair, falling in ringlets to below her waist, turned the color of pure-spun gold. She stood amidst the tall grasses of the riverbank while dragonflies and tiny insects with transparent wings flitted about her, rising like motes of dust from the myriad wildflowers. He had the distinct impression that if he moved or spoke, he would break the magic spell and she would vanish into thin air.
John Campbell, unable to help himself, was compelled to quote A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.”
The queen of fairies turned her head to gaze at him for a moment. “What, jealous Oberon?” She raised a dismissive hand to the dragonflies. “Fairies, skip hence.” She lifted a proud chin and glanced away from him with disdain. “I have forsworn his bed and company.”
The tall, dark young man took a step toward her and delivered Oberon’s line. “Tarry, rash wanton. Am I not thy lord?”
Titania smiled and sank into a curtsy. “Then I must be thy lady.”
He closed the distance between them in two strides and, laughing, took her hands and raised her. “What on earth is a beautiful English lady doing unattended in a meadow in the wilds of Ireland?”
He looked compellingly dark and dangerous but her glance traveled over the fishing basket and the rod slung casually across his back. “I live here. I’ve come to the River Suck for salmon, just as you have, sir. Come, I’ll show you a good spot.”
He followed her as if mesmerized to a place where the willows hung low on the riverbank to dip their weeping branches into the water, then sat down beside her and cast his fine. The enchanting creature was a mystery he could not fathom. Though barefoot and wearing a threadbare smock that shamelessly revealed her ankles, she spoke in a cultured English voice and was obviously well-read.
“You have no trace of Irish dialect in your speech,” he said.
Pretending a confidence she did not quite feel, she crossed her legs, cocked her head to one side, and launched into a ditty:
“In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty,
I first set me eyes on sweet Molly Mallone;
Through streets broad and narrow,
she wheeled her wheelbarrow,
Cryin’ cockles an’ mussels, alive, alive-o!“
Her Irish brogue was rich and authentic; her singing sweet and melodious. Her accent changed from Irish to Scots in a heartbeat as she decided to trust him. “I detect a wee burr in yer own speech, laddie. I’d guess ye’ve spent time in Scotland.”
It was an understatement. He’d spent time in Scotland all right. When the Jacobite rebellion broke out to overthrow the king, his father was appointed to command all the troops and garrisons in the west of Scotland. He’d fought alongside his father and the king’s son, the Duke of Cumberland, at Inverary, then at Perth, and finally at the horrific Battle of Culloden where the uprising had been crushed once and for all.
John banished thoughts of war and smiled at her. “My mother is Scottish.”
She proceeded to tell him a joke about two Scotsmen concerning what they wore beneath their kilts. The subject matter was quite risque and John was almost overwhelmed by a powerful desire to take the delectable morsel in his arms and devour her whole.
She smiled at him; her golden lashes swept to her cheeks and then lifted and he received the full impact of violet eyes. “I’ve been trained for the stage.” When she immersed herself in a role, acting out a part, she was able to hide her acute shyness. “I’m going to be an actress!” she said importantly.
John Campbell’s breath came out in a rush of relief. Here was no lady, St. Patrick be praised, but an actress. That made her fair game for seduction. “How old are you?”
“I’m sixteen, almost seventeen—quite old enough,” she assured him. “How old are you, sir?”
The corners of his mouth lifted in amusement at the inappropriate question, asked so matter-of-factly. “I’m six and twenty and have all my teeth.”
“Do you have a name, sir?” The fine English lady was back.
“My name is John.” He did not offer his family name. “As you guessed, I am in Ireland to fish … and hunt.” He stressed the last word, glancing at her breasts, then his gaze returned to her lips.
“How do you do, John? My name is Beth. These parts are renowned for fine game birds. We have snipe, quail, pheasant, goldcrests, and even partridge, though I’ve never tasted it.”
“Really? It just so happens I have a plump roast partridge and a bottle of wine in my basket. Why don’t you share them with me?”
“I’m not the least bit hungry but since it would be impolite to refuse your hospitality, it would be my pleasure to taste the partridge, sir, though not the wine.”
“Why not the wine?” he asked, amused.
“ ’Tis rumored that it steals the senses. Would you like me to hold your rod, John?”
For a moment her words dizzied him, then he realized that she had stolen his senses—she was innocently offering to hold his fishing rod while he got the food. He handed it to her, then opened the basket and extracted a large linen napkin that held the roasted fowl. He unwrapped it and broke the bird into pieces.
“Take it quickly.” She handed the rod back. “I believe you have a salmon on your line at this very moment.”
He reeled it in and with a swift motion dipped his net into the water and flipped the fish onto the riverbank. With any luck, I’ll lure another to take my bait. His dark gray eyes studied the lovely golden female at his side. “Tell me, Beth, how do you intend to catch a salmon without a rod?”
She picked up a leg of partridge with the thigh attached and bit down with relish. “A man needs fancy paraphernalia. A maid must manage without!”
John’s dark eyes widened. Had this enchantress made a racy observation regarding their anatomy to provoke his male lust? He watched her select a breast with its wing intact and saw her lick her lips in anticipation. She had denied that she was hungry yet she was making short work of the partridge. When she set down the bones and sucked on her fingers, he felt his cock stir. He moved the napkin closer to her, and when he saw her look at the remaining pieces with longing, suddenly he wished she’d look at him that way.
“You’re not hungry, John?”
He shook his head in denial. He was hungry, all right, but not for food. All he wanted at this moment was to watch her eat. With a feminine, feline grace, she quickly bit into the fowl with sharp white teeth, closed her eyes with untold pleasure when she swallowed a morsel, and then licked her fingers to savor the taste. He wondered if she would relish everything in life with such lusty enjoyment, and his imagination took erotic flight.
She devoured the last of the partridge and wiped her hands on the linen. Then she stretched out beside him, prone in the grass, and gazed down into the water’s depths. A shadow beneath the surface inched forward. She waited patiently until it edged closer but the moment her hand slid into the water, the salmon darted away. “We’ve been making too much noise,” she whispered, placing a finger against red lips that looked berry-stained.
John stretched out beside her so that their bodies almost touched. I’ll let you hold my rod, sweetheart. He didn’t say it aloud though it was what his body craved. He watched her lovely heart-shaped face as she focused fully on her task. Her skin was like translucent porcelain and while this close he could see the tiny blue veins of her eyelids. As her g
lance followed the shadow of the fish beneath the water, the tip of her pink tongue slid over her full lower lip, and he was lost.
He hardened instantly and reached for her. His arms swept about her, holding her captive against his hardness, while his lips took possession of her tantalizing mouth. He drank in her loveliness thirstily, knowing he’d never tasted anything as sweet.
Shocked beyond belief, Beth bit down on his lip and sprang to her feet. He stood, too, towering above her, wanting to gentle her to a giving mood. “How dare you try to ravish me, sir?” Her breasts heaved with indignation as she drew back her arm, reached up on her tiptoes, and slapped him full across the face. She turned on her heel and began to run.
“Beth, wait …”
Suddenly she stopped, turned around, and strode back to him, violet eyes blazing. She swept him with an accusing glance, then bent and snatched up the fish he’d caught. “My salmon, sir!”
On the journey home Beth’s thoughts were filled with the devastatingly handsome devil she’d encountered by the river. He was tall, with a dark, smoldering quality about him that should have warned her he was dangerous, but truth to tell, she hadn’t experienced fear until she’d felt the strength of his well-muscled body when he’d held her captive against him. Still, she mused, the fear of him was minuscule when pitted against the fear she felt of returning home without a salmon for dinner.
It would take far more courage than she possessed to face her mother empty-handed.
Bridget Gunning was an extremely attractive woman whose red hair only hinted at her sharp tongue and flaming temper. She was the undisputed authority figure in their household, whom none would dream of disobeying, least of all her husband. Beth’s mother never let them forget that she had sacrificed her promising career as an actress on the London stage to marry Jack Gunning and give him two beautiful daughters. She called her husband feckless, which Beth acknowledged was true enough, but she loved her handsome father for his easygoing ways and ready smile.
Jack Gunning’s family were well-to-do landowners in St. Ives, Cambridgeshire, but since he was the youngest son and could hope for neither wealth nor title, he had become an adventurer and a gambler. When he wed an actress, his reputation as black sheep of the family had been sealed, and the arrival of two daughters in rapid succession had put an end to Bridget’s promising career on the stage. He took them to St. Ives to live off his family’s charity, where they were barely tolerated while he haunted London’s gaming clubs.
Then by a stroke of fortune, or so it had seemed at the time, Beth’s father had won Castlecoote in a card game at White’s. The couple instantly packed up their daughters and moved to their castle in Ireland. Castlecoote, it turned out, was no castle at all but a rambling old hall in need of repair. It stood, however, on a lovely piece of rolling farmland in County Roscommon, so they had made the best of their disappointing situation and stayed. Though they were surrounded by prosperous sheep and cattle farms, Jack Gunning was no farmer and eked out a living by tending a few goats and selling the animals’ milk and cheese.
The Gunning daughters, Maria and Elizabeth, were exceptionally beautiful girls, and their mother decided to train them for the stage, where they would undoubtedly make their fortune once they were old enough. To this end they were taught to sing and dance and made to practice a scene from a play every night of their lives. Though their mother was a strict taskmaster, Beth knew she was more lenient with Maria, who was older by two years. Because of her exquisite looks, she was their mother’s favorite. Beth felt no resentment. It was right and proper that Maria’s beauty made her special.
“Elizabeth Gunning, where the devil have you been?” her mother demanded sharply the moment Beth stepped into the kitchen.
Tongue-tied as always in the face of her mother’s wrath, she held up the salmon for explanation.
“Is this to be another dumb show, where you practice your mime? Don’t think the salmon excuses you from bringing the water from St. Brigid’s well. Maria had to wash her face in ordinary well-water today because you forgot.”
“Don’t fuss, Bridget. Water is water.” Jack winked at his daughter as he took the salmon.
“Water is not water, Jack Gunning! Your daughters owe their flawless complexions to the water from Holywell House.”
“Beth can run there and fetch a jug, while I fillet the fish.”
“Do not call her Beth. Her name is Elizabeth. I picked beautiful names for our daughters, names that will benefit them when they are on the stage.”
Beth almost made a grab for the jug but her mother’s critical eye stopped her. Instead, she lifted it gracefully from the stone sink and sank into a curtsy. “I shall be pleased to go for the water now, ma’am.” She would do anything to please her mother.
“Much better, Elizabeth. Never forget that plainer girls must try harder to please.”
“Why didn’t you tell her about the letter?” Jack asked, when Elizabeth had left the house.
“And spoil the surprise for Maria? I shall tell them tonight after they’ve practised their parts.”
Elizabeth encountered Maria as her sister came out of Holywell House. The two girls fell into step and they walked toward St. Brigid’s well. “I’m sorry, Beth. I told Mother it was your turn to fetch the water today. Will you. forgive me?”
“Of course. I met a man today—he was fishing by the river.”
“Was he a gentleman?” Maria asked avidly.
“Well, he wasn’t Irish, if that’s what you mean.”
Maria laughed at her sister’s droll remark. “I mean was he rich and well-spoken?”
“Yes. English gentry I expect, here for hunting and fishing.”
“Ooh-la-la, most likely staying at the royal hunting lodge at Ballyclare. Was he handsome?”
“Handsome in the extreme,” Beth said with an involuntary sigh.
“Did he try to kiss you?” Maria asked knowingly.
“How on earth did you guess?”
“Oh, Beth, you’re so innocent! How could any man resist you?”
“Well, I resisted him, I can tell you!”
“Little goose. You shouldn’t have resisted. If he fancied you, perhaps he’d take you to England with him. How else will you get out of this godforsaken country? Tomorrow, I’ll come with you and try my own luck.”
Beth pulled on the rope and then tipped water from the wooden bucket into her jug. For all her beauty, Maria had no reticence and said whatever thought came into her head, whether it was appropriate or not. “You’d truly let a man kiss you, Maria?”
“I’d let him do anything that pleased his fancy if he’d take me to London, Beth. Only if he was rich, of course.”
During the course of the afternoon as John Campbell caught half a dozen salmon, his thoughts were filled with the image of the enchanting wood sprite he’d encountered. She was easily the most beautiful female he’d ever seen but that wasn’t the only thing about her that was so arresting. She was direct, without subterfuge, and he found it enchanting. She was also natural and free spirited, speaking her thoughts without coquetry or calculation. And she was completely unaffected, as if she had no notion of her exquisite loveliness.
When he arrived back at the lodge, he saw that his companions who had been hunting had arrived before him. He left his catch with Ballyclare’s chef and then joined the other men.
His younger brother, Henry, raised his glass of Irish whiskey in a salute. “You missed out on a damned good hunt, old man. I bagged a red deer.”
“How was the fishing?” enquired his friend, William Cavendish.
“Fresh salmon for dinner,” John announced with a grin. “I don’t think I missed anything.” He pictured Beth in his mind. “Enjoyed myself so much I believe I’ll try my luck again tomorrow.”
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Ravished
© 2002 Virginia Henley
ISBN: 978-0-451-20737-1
SIGNET
Ed♥n
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Ravished Page 42
