Prelude to Heaven

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Somewhere in the distance, he heard the rumble of thunder. He felt a drop of warm summer rain on his skin, but then it turned cold... the rain again, the damned Irish rain, carried by the winter wind through the one-foot square of window above his head. He pulled against the chains that held him to the wall of his cell, but he couldn't avoid the icicles that hit the back of his neck like tiny needles. Seven hundred twenty-six...

  The wagon slowed. A push of somebody's boot, and he rolled off the back, landing on the dirt road with a thud. A fresh wave of pain shimmered through his body and he cried out, hating his own weakness, just before the blessed darkness overtook him. Seven hundred twenty-five, seven hun...

  When he awoke, he was lying in the middle of a road in the middle of nowhere. He was alone, and it was morning. Closing his eyes, he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

  ***

  Olivia Maitland needed a man. It wasn't just because she wanted to clear the south pastures and plant cotton next spring. It wasn't just because the fences were falling down and the back porch sagged. It wasn't just because the peaches would be ripe in two months and there was nobody to help her pick them.

  No, the fact was, Olivia Maitland needed a man because the roof leaked like a sieve and she was afraid of heights.

  She snapped the reins, but Cally was a stubborn old mule who intended to take her to town in his own good time, and he made no attempt to move faster. The slow pace only gave her more time to dwell on her problem. Olivia shifted her weight on the wagon seat and tried not to be impatient.

  Maybe when she got to town she'd find that this time somebody had answered the advertisement. She'd used her egg money to put a help-wanted advertisement in the Jackson Parish Gazette, and she'd put up notices all over town, but that had been over three months ago, and she hadn't had a single reply. Of course, all she could offer was room and board, and that didn't make for much of an incentive. What few able-bodied men there were around Callersville could work at the sawmill for real wages or tenant farm for themselves.

  A drop of rain hit the back of her hand, darkening the worn brown leather of her glove. Another drop fell, then another. Olivia glanced up at the heavy, gunmetal gray clouds overhead, and she wondered if she ought to turn back. It had rained during the night, and the road was already muddy. She might make it to town, but if another storm came down now, Cally would never be able to get her home.

  Her trip was probably futile anyway. Stan had told her last time she was in town that she could no longer buy at the store on account, and she doubted asking again would accomplish much.

  Olivia caught her lower lip between her teeth and stared at the rutted, curving road ahead. Times had been hard ever since the war, but since Nate's death the previous summer, times had gotten even harder. Nate had been old, cranky, and not always reliable, but he'd been strong for his age, handy with a hammer, and staunchly loyal. He'd also been there to help her bring in the harvest.

  She had three girls to raise, hogs and chickens to tend, peaches to harvest come September, and there weren't enough hours in the day to manage everything by herself. Until Nate's death, she hadn't realized how dependent she'd become on the old farmhand or how much she would miss him.

  She thought of her girls and wondered how she was going to provide for them if she couldn't get her peach crop to market. Perhaps she should never have taken them in when their parents died in '65. Perhaps they'd have been better off going to the orphanage if she couldn't take care of them properly.

  All the burdens suddenly seemed so heavy, and Olivia felt much older than her twenty-nine years. "Lord," she murmured, "I could really use some help down here."

  As if in reply, the rain began to pour down, and Olivia sighed. "I guess not."

  She hunched forward on the seat and pulled her broad-brimmed straw hat down lower over her eyes. It wasn't much to ask for, really. Just one man to help, a man who didn't mind hard work and didn't expect to get paid for it.

  Olivia pulled on the reins slightly, guiding Cally around the sharp bend in the road. As the wagon rounded the curve, she noticed something lying directly in her path about two dozen feet ahead. She jerked hard on the reins, bringing Cally to a stop, and stared between the mule's ears at the man who lay sprawled in the middle of the road.

  She should probably just turn around right here and head home. There were always nasty characters wandering the roads these days—had been ever since the war. Olivia toyed with the reins in her fingers, uncertain what to do. She was alone, and the man was a stranger.

  Still, he didn't look like much of a threat just lying there like that. Keeping her gaze fixed on him, Olivia climbed down from the wagon. She hitched her faded brown skirt up enough to keep the hem out of the mud as she moved closer.

  It was kind of hard to tell what he looked like, but Olivia knew he wasn't from around Callersville. His short hair was black, but caked with mud. His face was lean and clean-shaven, but swollen and darkened by purple bruises. There was a deep gash above his eye, and another on his chin. His clothes were torn and muddy. He didn't move as she came cautiously closer, and she wondered if he was dead.

  But as she hunkered down beside him, she saw the rise and fall of his chest. No, he wasn't dead. At least, not yet.

  She stood up and glanced around, but she saw nothing that might explain what this man was doing out here in this sorry condition. He was alone and didn't appear to have any belongings with him.

  Suddenly he groaned, and she realized he must be in a great deal of pain. She couldn't just leave him here. If she could get him into the wagon somehow, she could take him back to the house.

  Olivia stared down at the unconscious stranger, and she wondered if he knew how to patch a roof and pick peaches. Right now, he didn't look capable of much at all. She sighed and pushed back her hat, glancing at the dark skies above, blinking at the rain that hit her face. "Lord," she said heavily, "this isn't exactly what I had in mind."

  Want more? Download your copy of Conor’s Way now!

  Back to Order Links

  The Seduction

  Chapter Two

  Margaret hummed under her breath as she studied the couples waltzing across the parquet floor. She watched them from her hiding place behind the tall potted palms and ferns that screened a quiet alcove. From here, she hoped to watch the dancing and enjoy the music while avoiding all the men Cornelia insisted on introducing to her.

  She took a sip from her fourth glass of champagne. A figure in black suddenly caught sight of her peeking between the palms. Margaret groaned in dismay and stepped back deeper into the alcove, but not before she saw Roger begin walking toward her. She gulped down two hasty swallows of champagne as he came around the palms.

  "I thought I saw you hiding back here," he said. "Have I told you how lovely you look this evening?"

  "Yes. At least twice."

  She watched him struggle for something else to say. He finally managed it. "I'm sorry if I keep repeating myself. But it's true. You look quite beautiful."

  "You give me many compliments, Lord Hymes." She took another swallow from her glass. Lovely stuff, champagne. She decided to find out how far Roger was prepared to carry on this courtship charade. "Answer a question for me. Just what exactly is it that you find so beautiful about me?"

  He stared at her, taken aback by the bluntness of her question. "Well..." He paused, studying her. Then he rallied and said, "You have a lovely face."

  "Really? What about my hair? Does it look as dark and rich as mahogany?"

  A genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was beginning to perceive her point. "I'd say that's an apt description."

  "And do my eyes sparkle like fabulous jewels?"

  His smile widened. "No. Your eyes are brown."

  She laughed, and so did he. She looked up into his face and realized that when his smile was genuine, when he wasn't saying the things he thought she wanted to hear, he wasn't irritating at all. If only he weren't so perfectly
proper.

  Still, she studied him for a moment. He did have a nice mouth. She wondered how it would be to kiss a man. Not the tentative pecks on the cheek she had received from the boldest of her suitors, but a real kiss.

  A wild, reckless feeling swept over her, along with an overwhelming curiosity. Marrying Roger was something she had no intention of doing, but kissing him, well, that was something else entirely. She drained her glass, then tossed it carelessly into a nearby fern. "The gardens of the villa are lovely by moonlight. Perhaps you would care to see them?"

  He stared at her in astonishment. "Now?"

  Margaret saw the eager hope in his face and felt a glimmer of doubt, but she pushed it aside. "Meet me in the center of the maze at midnight," she whispered, then left the alcove to rejoin the ball, leaving Roger gaping after her.

  ***

  The sounds of the party floated toward Trevor as a door opened behind him. Several men wandered out onto the portico to smoke cigars, and he did not want company. He wanted quiet and time to think. He rose and went down the steps toward a maze of high boxwood hedges, finding his way by moonlight. He entered the maze and took the first path, racking his brain for a way, any way, to raise two hundred thousand pounds.

  Damn Geoffrey for putting the family in this situation. But then, his brother had always been a fool. Geoffrey, who couldn't be bothered to care about the estates he had inherited or do the work required to maintain them. Geoffrey, whose main concerns had been the most fashionable knot for his cravat and whether or not the Prince of Wales would invite them to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot again this year. Geoffrey, who wouldn't have known a sensible investment if it bit him, who’d always had the arrogant assumption that money just came to peers of the realm by divine right. And now that the family coffers were empty, Geoffrey lay in the family plot with a bullet through his brain.

  Trevor wondered if Elizabeth would wear black for the full year and pretend to grieve for her dear departed husband. Probably not, he concluded with cynical detachment. She hated black.

  He took a turn in the maze and found himself staring at a solid wall of boxwood hedge. A dead end. He turned around and retraced his steps for a bit, then took another path.

  Elizabeth. The vain and frivolous wife of a vain and stupid man, who cared even less about the estate than her husband did.

  In her letter to him, Trevor's mother had bemoaned the dreadful condition of Ashton Park. The roof over the west wing leaked, the carpets were threadbare, and the drains had ceased to work properly more than three years before. Jewels handed down through generations had been sold, family portraits pawned for their gilt frames, and the gold-plated dining service for two hundred, a gift from Queen Elizabeth to the first Earl of Ashton, had long since gone on the auction block.

  None of that mattered to Trevor. Jewels and portraits and tradition be hanged. Ashton Park mattered for only one reason: it was his. Leaky roof, worn carpets, bad drains, and all, it now belonged to him.

  Trevor took another turn and found himself in a plaza. A fountain, its water gleaming silver in the moonlight, stood in the center. In the shadowy corners were stone benches partially screened by rose arbors and clearly designed for lovers' meetings. He took a seat on the nearest bench and stared between the rose canes at the fountain beyond, turning his thoughts from the past to the future. For the first time in his life, he had something that was truly his own, and, by God, he was not going to lose it because his brother had been an idiot.

  The sound of rustling skirts broke into his thoughts, and Trevor leaned forward, watching as a girl strolled into the plaza. Dressed in a ball gown, she was clearly a guest at the party and had come out here for a stroll. She paused quite close to where he sat.

  "Why don't you kiss me?"

  Her whispered suggestion startled him. He thought for a moment she was speaking to him, but he was deep in the shadows of the arbor and doubted she could see him. Besides, he'd never met her before, and she would hardly make such a charming invitation to a perfect stranger.

  Puzzled, he watched as she again whispered to thin air. "Roger, I want you to kiss me."

  Tilting her head to one side, she considered that for a moment, then shook her head as if dissatisfied. "No. Too forward. That will never work."

  She began to pace back and forth in agitation, preoccupied with her own thoughts and completely unaware of the man less than ten feet away. She stopped and lifted her head to look up at an imaginary partner. "Don't you want to kiss me?"

  She sighed. "No, that's not right either."

  Trevor realized what she was on about and smiled in amusement. The girl was planning a midnight tryst—obviously her first—and this was a rehearsal of some sort. He studied her with an appreciative eye. He could have told her there was no need to worry. With a woman like this, a man would have to be both blind and stupid to need encouragement.

  The moonlight revealed a deliciously generous figure in a velvet gown of midnight blue. He noted the neckline of the dress and tempting expanse of creamy skin that made an inviting path to her cleavage. His gaze moved further down. Fiddle-waisted, her body was beautifully molded, every curve perfectly proportioned. When she turned her head slightly, he saw her wide, dark eyes, dumpling cheeks, and a mouth definitely worth kissing. He was intrigued, and silently applauded Roger's taste.

  The sound of a discreet cough diverted his attention, and he glanced toward the plaza entrance, where a man stood, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. This must be Roger.

  "Lord Hymes." The girl beckoned him forward. "I see you found your way through the maze."

  The man walked to her side. "Took me a few minutes," he said. "A rather tedious journey."

  It seemed the romantic rendezvous was about to begin. Trevor glanced at the entrance again, and realized it was the only one. There was no way for him to escape without being seen. He could simply stand up, rustle the bushes to announce his presence, and make a quick retreat, but he really didn't want to spoil the girl's romantic moment. Besides, he was curious to see if she succeeded in her intention. He would leave if the situation became too intimate, of course. If that happened, they wouldn't notice his departure anyway.

  The girl took a step closer to Roger. "I hope it was worth the trouble," she said softly.

  Trevor grinned at the girl's hint for a compliment, recognizing it to be the first move in the game.

  Roger, however, took no notice of the opportunity she'd given him. He glanced up at the sky. "Lovely night, what? A bit chilly for a stroll perhaps, but warm enough for February."

  "Yes, it's a beautiful evening," she agreed, glancing at the moon overhead, then back at the man before her. She gave him a dazzling smile as she leaned closer to him. "Italy is so romantic, don't you think?"

  "Er, yes, yes, I guess it is," he stammered, running a finger inside his collar in a stiff and uncomfortable fashion. Trevor's grin widened. What a cold fish, he thought. Was the man frigid, queer, or simply stupid? He felt sorry for the girl, though. It was a shame that such a delectable woman should have to work so hard for a kiss.

  Roger cleared his throat. "I must say, I was astonished by your invitation to go for a walk. Delighted, of course, but astonished. You have so many suitors."

  "None of my suitors have ever kissed me," she said, abandoning any attempt to be subtle.

  Trevor didn't hold that against her. Coy women had never held any charm for him. Besides, subtlety was not going to work with a man like this.

  "I should hope not," Roger answered her pompously. "You are a lady of quality. No gentleman would presume to be so forward."

  Trevor rolled his eyes. To hell with the proprieties. Kiss her, you idiot. Can't you see that's what she's waiting for?

  "Of course not," the girl echoed with such consternation and disappointment in her voice that Trevor choked back a laugh.

  "Unless he were engaged to you," the man went on. "Then it would be quite all right, of course." He took a deep
breath, as if gathering his courage, then grasped her hands in his and suddenly dropped to one knee. "Margaret—may I call you Margaret?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "I have such sincere regard for you, that I feel compelled to express my feelings. I have a deep fondness for you, and I respect you utterly. You would be the perfect wife for me. Will you marry me?"

  The sight of a fastidious Englishman down on one knee in damp grass proposing marriage with all the passion of a schoolboy reciting catechism was nearly too much for Trevor.

  Despite how silly the man might look at the moment, Trevor knew that most women would have been delighted by such an offer and would have accepted it triumphantly. This woman, however, did not look delighted at all. Nor did she seem to find the situation amusing. Instead, she stared down at the man in astonished dismay. She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again, as if she really didn't know what to say. This was clearly not what she had been hoping for.

  A few passionate kisses, some romantic words, yes. But it seemed a marriage proposal had not figured into her plans. Trevor wondered what she would say.

  She tried to pull her hands away, but Roger held them fast and went on, "I've been planning to ask you for your hand almost from the moment we met, but I confess that until tonight, I wasn't certain of your feelings for me. You can be so circumspect, my dear."

  "Roger," she said, "I'm afraid that you have mis—"

  "But your charming invitation to walk in the garden told me that you care for me a great deal more than I realized," he babbled on as if she hadn't spoken.

  Once again, she tried to speak. "But I really—"

  "Tell me you'll marry me," he urged. "We would be a splendid match, you and I. All of society will envy us."

  "Yes, I'm sure they would," she murmured, "but I really don't think—"