by Conn, Claudy
Mooning over Joe when they first split had been stupid and a total waste of time. She was certainly over him; now she was very sure she would not allow herself to be swayed by a handsome face and a killer smile, ever again.
She knew now she had only been infatuated.
Her heart had always whispered that he was not the picture she had painted of him. He was and always would be a player. He had an eye for the ladies and did not even try to control himself.
She didn’t think it a total loss. When she’d met Joe she’d been so ready to spread her wings, and he had been all about that. For almost a year, it had been a thrilling ride.
He had never really loved her, and the truth she made herself face was that she hadn’t really loved him either. He had been fun.
Okay, chapter closed, and now she was off to her mother’s homeland with a group of seniors!
Just what she needed to relax—simple, easy, and no complications. Then in a couple of months, Charleston Aquarium, here I come!
After the love of her life is taken from her at Waterloo, Jenny is sure that joy and love are lost to her forever. But life has more in store for Jenny,
After the Storm
~ Prologue ~
Did ye not hear it? No: ’twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;
On with the dance! Let Joy be unconfined,
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet.
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet—
But Hark! That heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! Arm! It is—it is—the CANNON’s opening
Roar!
—Lord Byron, 1816,
written to mark the Duchess of Richmond’s ball on the eve of the Battle of Waterloo
THE WIND, NO longer warm from the rays of the sun, bit at her face, causing her to blink. Long, chestnut-colored hair whipped around her slender neck and her lashes. She put one ungloved, delicate hand up and brushed the thick strands away from her face as she stopped her determined steps.
Desolate eyes stared at the tall oak—their oak. They had carved their initials there when they had a future, when they had hope.
“Johnny,” she whispered. “Oh, my Johnny.” Finality infiltrated her tone and resignation the slope of her shoulders. Anguish tempered by time swept through her body as she dropped to her knees, heedless of the damp grass.
A year had passed—one entire year since the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, since the last time she had kissed his lips, seen his face—one year since Waterloo.
A sick sensation swept over her when she tried to recall his face, that wondrous, boyishly handsome face as he stood before her that awful night.
They went, all of them, almost merrily to Waterloo. Even then—with those dreadful drums beating throughout Brussels—even then, they looked as though they were off to a parade.
Jenny remembered the sound of those drums, calling their men to arms. The officers attending the Duchess of Richmond’s ball had left hurriedly, some actually going off to battle in their ball attire, and Johnny, her Johnny had been among them.
Exploding cannons—the sound filled the atmosphere, as the beau monde breathlessly awaited the outcome. So many of her friends, so many of the English gentry were there in Brussels that spring.
Napoleon had escaped, gathered his army, and begun to march. The Duke of Wellington, their hero, went off to meet him. The English believed Wellington would win the encounter with the Frenchman and were there to witness it.
No one had anticipated the amount of blood it would take to fulfill their expectation. Thus it happened on June 18, 1815, that Wellington met Boney at Waterloo, and her John was lost forever.
Mac had been there. He had lived, and while she searched for Johnny, Mac found her. Lieutenant William McMillan had taken hold of her shoulders, and when she saw his distorted features she backed up from him screaming. She wasn’t sure anymore what she had screamed.
“Jen, Johnny’s last words to me were of you. He said he loves you and that you have to move on …”
Jenny thought she could no longer cry and was surprised at the tear that made its way down her cheek. She closed her eyes. She had come to their tree to say good-bye, but could she? She didn’t feel ready. “Haunt me, Johnny, come to me as a ghost,” she hugged herself and prayed. “Stay with me forever.”
Her father and aunt had hurried her home to Devon, and even for their sakes it had been so very difficult not to fall into a decline. For weeks all she wanted to do was go to sleep and not wake up.
Her father had coaxed her outside by telling her the horses she loved needed attention. And that had worked to get her out a bit. Slowly, albeit listlessly, she began to eat, talk, walk, but she felt as though all joy in life had been snatched away.
She got to her feet and touched the tree before turning towards home. She loved the quiet solitude of her beloved Devon landscape. It was like a tonic that soothed her. Johnny had never quite been at home in the country. He was too restless.
She crossed the open field with slow, long strides and felt the overgrown grass brush against the thin material of her stockings at her ankles and calves. The day had been touched with scudding clouds, and they hovered with the tease of rain.
It was still mid-afternoon, and yet, because of the overcast sky, it appeared later. Jenny’s gaze swept upwards, and she made the decision to take the shortcut across Farmer Cubbins’ field. She reached the roadside fence, picked up her skirts, climbed nimbly up, sat on the aged wood stocks, and then pushed herself forward onto the country dirt road.
She had been so engrossed with getting her skirts past the splintered rail and her feet over the ditch that lined the road that she hadn’t noticed the rider coming around the bend.
Her sudden descent onto the road caused the horse to rear and champ at his bit. This startled Jenny, and before she knew what had happened, she had released a screech, stepped forcefully backward, and landed herself in the very ditch she had tried to avoid.
~ One ~
A LOW, STRONG MALE voice cursed beneath his breath as Jenny tried to recoup and get to her feet.
As she pressed her hands into the earth and tried to straighten, she heard him dismount and within an instant felt herself pulled up into a standing position, though she wasn’t sure her shoes were touching the earth.
A pair of startlingly blue eyes glared angrily down into her own, and the voice said in a tone that made her open her eyes wide, “Well, well, at least it’s a pretty wench that’s detained me.”
He sounded as though he were some huge giant about to eat her, and without another word, and before she realized what he was doing, that was what he did.
Jenny found herself being ruthlessly kissed! In that moment, with this stranger’s lips on hers, she was almost too shocked to react, but she was just a bit aware of a tingling sensation that journeyed through her body.
At length her mind returned to her and she made an effort to resist by putting her hands to his chest and pushing hard. This, however, did not budge him. He seemed to hold her in a vice-like grip. She should have been afraid but was too astonished to consider that.
She was, however, furious at his daring, and when he put his head back to look at her and laugh, she felt something of her old self return. The old, vibrant Jenny would never stand for such treatment!
As he got into position, obviously meaning to kiss her again, she reacted and, feeling both outrage and anger, formulated a quick plan.
She immediately relaxed in his arms and allowed the scoundrel to believe he had conquered her. As she expected, his grip eased up.
Jenny had just enough time to bring her booted foot into position and then thrust it hard and forcefully into his shin.
She felt a great deal of satisfaction as he cried out in pain and paused only briefly to wag her finger and t
ell him, “Fie, sir—fie!” Then she ran. She held her skirts in hand and put the road behind her as fast as she could, only stopping when she sighted the green lawns of her home, Ashley Grange.
Once on her own estate, she leaned up against a tree and, breathing hard, hurriedly glanced behind her. Thanking providence her assailant had not deemed it worth his trouble to pursue, she sucked in a long, delicious breath of air and then proceeded to the house. Oddly enough, her anger abated and just a touch of amusement tickled her senses as she thought of the way he’d reached for his injured leg. Ha, served him right.
According to prophesy, Ravena is the only one who can rescue a powerful sorcerer trapped in another dimension—but the prophesy doesn’t promise she’ll survive the experience. Read her story in
Hungry Moon: Quicksilver
~ Prelude ~
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet
1575, Scottish Highlands, where many honored their clans and chose to follow the old ways
Quinn MacValdane had a great deal of weight on his shoulders, but those shoulders were huge and certainly capable of carrying the burden. The weight, however, was unlike any other he had ever lifted, and he was tired of constantly having to deal with it. He just wasn’t ready to get married!
He was more than six months away from turning thirty and tired of the nagging as his birthday drew closer. He had to get out and away from it!
Mayhap he just needed a tussle with the pretty tavern wench, Sarah, to loosen up his nerves? Och but he liked her full breasts. The notion of her naked body under him made him smile, and he felt his dick spring up, ready for action.
A crackle of twigs made him look around and hold his lantern up.
He had heard the rumors but had shrugged them off. He wasn’t concerned—why should he be?
He was a sorcerer with supreme powers and had naught to fear from the beast.
Thus, he proceeded into the woods to take the shortcut to the town tavern. He grinned and hummed to himself, much like a boy at the thought of a few drinks with his friends and then a bit of fun with Sarah. She was a lovely, full-bodied woman …
He heard something again.
His hearing had always been extraordinary, and it told him now that something moved stealthily through the woods at his back and was eating up distance between them.
Once again, he held up his lantern and looked around—not afraid, but wary, very wary, for he knew that something evil was at his back.
He touched the silver-tipped sword that was tucked at his belt. If something rabid was out there, it was time to put an end to it! And, bloody damn, he was just the man to do it. He would enact his shield, protect himself from getting bitten, and finish the beast once and for all. The shield would protect him from the dangers of a rabid bite.
Everything in the forest seemed to go still.
Nothing seemed to move. Even the crickets had ceased their chatter.
Warily he started forward again.
His mother’s face flashed in his mind.
If only she would stop her nagging at him. Lately it was always the subject at the dinner table.
She was a dear heart, but he wasn’t in love, and he wasn’t ready to tie himself down to one woman.
She wanted grandchildren, something to fill the void and still the grief of his father’s passing. She wanted him to carry on the line.
He liked being single … he liked women …
He had told her to leave him be.
He was the only son, she enjoyed reminding him. She wanted to keep Valdane in a direct line. If he didn’t have a son, the castle and the estate would go to his father’s brother. What she didn’t realize was he didn’t care. He loved his good uncle—why shouldn’t the estate go to him?
These thoughts were once again interrupted, and Quinn MacValdane knew the creature was not only at his back, it had had gained ground.
The first thing that assailed him was the odor. Musky, and because his sense of smell was as good as his hearing, the scent of fresh sweet blood filtered through to him. It was dripping saliva mixed with blood.
The second thing that assailed him was the sound of the beast, the low, unthinking wild growl. The sound was primal as the creature trumpeted hungrily with mindless rage.
The third thing was the sure knowledge that this was something sinister, something otherworldly: more, so much more than a rabid beast—more than the ‘werewolf’ he had actually expected to appear.
It was near, and it was exploding with Dark Magic.
This beast was frothing at the mouth and mad.
He would not be able to outrun it, and he wasn’t sure his shield would hold against its Dark Magic. What was this? What kind of werewolf had magic?
He felt its power vibrate in the air. He had been just a teen when the male members of his family had hunted and killed a werewolf years ago. This was so much more.
Quinn MacValdane did the only thing he could do: he enacted a spell that enswathed him with a protective shield.
It should have been enough.
He set down his lantern and withdrew his silver-tipped sword.
His shield should have worked like a coat of armor, but he had been right—this was more, so much more than a werewolf. This creature wielded Dark Magic and had stalked him with purpose.
It stood a foot taller than Quinn’s six feet. It clawed the air, its amber eyes burning with bloodlust. It was drooling saliva and blood from its recent kill, and it roared with fury.
Quinn looked into its eyes and knew he was looking into the eyes of madness. It swiped at him, but its claws bounced off his shield.
Infuriated, it went down on all fours, and Quinn heard the voice, its voice, in his head as it began reciting an ancient Gaelic spell.
And then he knew.
It was tearing apart his shield with its magic.
He looked up and noted the moon was in its full glory as the feral creature attacked with a ferociousness he believed would kill him.
He picked his spot and began maneuvering it in a circle. It kept its head low and stared at his sword, which seemed to deter it.
Quinn couldn’t get over its size … huge and pulsating with power.
He studied it, trying to get its measure, its weakness. Its fur was ragged, spotted with what smelled and looked like blood.
Fangs, sharp fangs snapped as it snarled. Violence governed its purpose, and that purpose was to tear, maim, kill—and something else. Usurp. It wanted his magic. He could hear its thoughts in his head. What kind of werewolf was this?
Devour … take … take Quinn’s magic. Damn, how did it know his name? How the bloody hell could it know his name? Who was this? Weres lost all memory of themselves, their loved ones—it was part of their curse. This one was a thinking, magical beast.
He could detect nothing of the human in it. And yet, somehow, it seemed familiar, must be familiar if it knew his name?
This thing looked to be unmistakably insane, and yet, Quinn fancied he saw purpose in its amber-lit eyes.
Would his white magic work against the beast?
Once again it attempted to slash at him. Quinn jumped out of the way, knowing he had to call on darker magic to protect himself.
He needed a ward, but he had no time to create one. He had but one chance for survival.
The silver-edged short sword he was never without.
And then the werewolf sprang into action, and Quinn sneered as he shouted, “Well then, beast—come and get it if ye be a mind to!” He plunged his sword just at the right moment directly in the center of its beating heart.
But even as the were roared and suffered excruciating pain, even as it started to fall, even as death began to take it, its jaws locked down on Quinn’s shoulder and bit—bit hard—and Quinn’s fate was sealed.
He was able to punch and beat the creature off, and he watched as it fel
l to the ground, rolled over onto its back, and began the transformation back into man.
Quinn saw at once it was Whelan MacPoole, clan leader of the neighboring estate. Husband to his mother’s sister.
They had never been friends throughout their family’s history. He should have known. He should have suspected. The signs had been there all along, if only he’d noticed.
Quinn bent, pulled his silver-tipped sword from the man’s heart, and stood to look up at the stars before closing his eyes.
He had been bitten.
~ Prologue ~
All that glisters is not gold
—William Shakespeare
Present day, New Jersey
RAVENA MACALLISTER LOOKED at her wristwatch. It was nearly six o’clock. It had been a hectic day. Graduation was over. She had her BA in her hand, but she had one more night at the fashion school where she had been taking additional classes as she pursued her dream of designing clothes for the fashion industry.
Todd Decker, her boyfriend of two months—a record for her, as she rarely dated, let alone ever thought of any as ‘keepers’—wasn’t expecting her. She had thought she had one last class at the Fashion Institute, but it had been cancelled.
She was going to surprise him. Tonight was the night.
He had been trying to get her into bed. She had been resisting. Why? She couldn’t put a finger on it. Perhaps she wanted more. Her friends told her she was nuts, that she would lose him. She didn’t want to lose Todd, and she knew after two months he was getting impatient with her refusal to take it to the next level.
