When You Wish

by Jane Feather

  At the top of the arc, she flung herself backward, turned a neat somersault, landed on both feet, flipped backward, her body curved like a bow, then straightened, her skirt settling around her again as she swept into a triumphant bow.

  Gareth found himself applauding with the rest. Her face was flushed with exertion, her eyes alight, beads of perspiration gathered on her broad forehead, her lips parted on a jubilant grin. She put two fingers to her mouth and whistled. The piercing sound produced out of nowhere a small monkey in a red jacket and a cap sporting a bright orange feather.

  The creature dragged off his hat and jumped purposefully into the crowd of spectators, chattering in a manner that sounded vaguely obscene to Gareth, who tossed a silver penny into the outthrust cap, receiving a simian salute in response.

  The girl began to turn cartwheels as she waited for the monkey to return from his fee collection.

  A trio of musicians had just taken the stage, with flute, hautboy, and lute, and he was about to turn away when he saw the girl again. She was sidling around from behind the musicians, something in her hand. The monkey was perched on her shoulder and seemed to be imparting news of grave importance into her ear.

  Gareth paused. The girl’s air of mischief was irresistible. The musicians played a few notes to establish pitch, then settled into a lively jig. The monkey leaped from the girl’s shoulder and began to dance to the music. The crowd laughed and were soon tapping feet and clapping in rhythm.

  Gareth watched the girl unobtrusively position herself just below the musicians. She gazed up at them and put something to her mouth. It took him a minute to realize what it was. Then he grinned. The imp of Satan! She was sucking a lemon, her eyes fixed on the flautist. Gareth waited in almost dreadful fascination for what he knew was going to happen. The flute player’s notes began to dry up as his mouth puckered, his saliva dried, in response to the girl’s vigorous sucking of the lemon.

  With a sudden bellow, the flautist leaped forward, catching the girl an almighty buffet across the ear. She fell sideways, promptly turning her fall into a cartwheel with all the expertise of a professional entertainer, so that the crowd laughed, believing the entire byplay to be part of the amusement. But when she fetched up at Gareth’s feet, righting herself neatly, she had tears in her eyes.

  She rubbed her ringing ear ruefully with one hand and dashed the other across her eyes.

  “Not quite quick enough,” Gareth observed.

  She shook her head, giving him a rather watery grin. “I usually am. I can usually run rings around Bert, but I was distracted for a minute by Chip.”

  “Chip?”

  “My monkey.” She put her fingers to her mouth again and whistled. The monkey abandoned his dance and leaped onto her shoulder.

  She had a most unusual voice, Gareth reflected, regarding her with frank interest as she continued to stand beside him, critically watching a group of jugglers who had joined the musicians. It was an amazingly deep voice to emerge from such a dainty frame and had a lovely melodious ripple to it that he found very appealing. She spoke English with a slight accent so faint as to be difficult to identify.

  The monkey suddenly began a frantic dance on her shoulder, jabbering all the while like some demented Bedlamite, pointing with a scrawny finger toward the stage.

  “Oh, sweet lord, I knew I should have made myself scarce,” the girl muttered as an exceedingly large woman hove into view. She was wearing a gown of an astonishing bright puce shot through with scarlet thread; her head seemed to ride atop a massive cartwheel ruff; the whole was crowned with a wide velvet hat tied beneath several chins with silk ribbons, gold plumes fluttering gaily in the sea breeze.

  “Miranda!” The voice emanating from this spectacle suited the grandeur of its appearance. It was a massive, heavily accented, throaty bellow that was promptly repeated. “Miranda!”

  “Ohhhh, lord,” the girl muttered again in a long-drawn-out sibilant moan. The monkey took off, still chattering, and the girl dodged behind Gareth. She whispered urgently, “You would do me the most amazing service, milord, if you would just stand perfectly still until she’s gone past.”

  Gareth was hard pressed to keep a straight face but obligingly remained still, then he inhaled sharply as he felt a warm body slip inside his cloak behind him and plaster itself against his back….

  If you liked BEWITCHED, you’ll love

  THE ASSASSIN

  BY ELIZABETH ELLIOTT

  coming soon

  AVALENE DE FORSHAY was furious. The best and bravest knight in the whole of England was a fraud, an imposter who wasn’t even English! The man he had pretended to be was the stuff of legends; a knight kind and courteous, handsome in form and face, sworn to keep her safe from all dangers. The cur had wooed her with lies and deception. Her cheeks burned each time she recalled her lovesick antics, the long riband she had dyed a shade of deep emerald green to match his eyes, and how unworthy she had felt when he’d accepted the token of her favor. That simple act had declared him her champion, a knight forever chaste in his adoration, fiercely dedicated to the protection of her virtue and honor.

  Life had seemed so full of promise, his chivalrous act a sure sign that God would reward her long years of penance. Even the morning she had awoken outside the walls of Coleway Castle, she had believed every lie he’d told her and trusted him completely. She should have heeded her conscience, those small warnings that he was too good to be true.

  Yesterday she had learned too late that her perfect knight was nothing more than a common thief. He had carried her away from her home in the dead of night and left behind the one prize he didn’t want. Her heart.

  Now he had the gall to remind her of his betrayal. She looked him squarely in the eye. “You will never be my champion, Sir Liar.”

  “I carry your favor,” he said in that deep, silky voice she had once adored. The sound would have no effect on her at this late date if he had thought to steal an extra horse. Instead he had seated her like a common strumpet across his lap, trapped within the strong circle of his arms.

  Her mind could ignore the inescapable intimacy, but her traitorous body refused to accept his betrayal. She had faced that sad fact an hour ago when he reined in the horse to avoid a muddy section of the road and his arm had accidentally brushed against her breasts. The shock of unwelcome desire eventually passed, but she still felt a ridiculous urge to rest her head upon his broad shoulder and let her pulse race unchecked. Instead she kept her arms folded tightly across her chest, determined to ignore the few pleasing qualities he still possessed and their seductive effect on her senses.

  Her captor seemed unaware of her discomfort. He placed one hand near his heart. “You insisted that I wear the token of your favor in the next tournament.”

  “Thieves cannot participate in the sacred trial of combat,” she shot back. “Even if you were a knight, the lists are closed to those who break their vows of chivalry.”

  “Indeed?”

  “You prove my point. An honorable knight would never speak to a lady in such a sarcastic tone.” She lifted her chin and mimicked his air of superiority. “‘Indeed.’”

  His expression rarely revealed his thoughts, and now proved no exception. The long silence that followed gave her ample time to recall her situation. Her fate lay in the hands of this stranger, and she had just reminded him that he was a man without honor, the sorry sort of rogue who ravished fair maidens and visited unspeakable cruelties on the defenseless. Her throat constricted and she tried to swallow past the lump of fear. “Do Italian knights take different vows of honor?”

  “Are you hoping for a vow to protect damsels in distress?” His smile made her forget much of her fear, yet its breathtaking effect was enough to distress any damsel. Whatever he saw in her face made him chuckle. That, too, had disturbing consequences. Impulsively, she smiled back at him.

  “That would be nice.” Her voice sounded hopelessly giddy. She cleared her throat and attempted a more dignified
tone. “Do Italian knights swear to uphold the rules of chivalry?”

  “The vows are similar,” he admitted, “although the English chose strange ways to interpret them. I suspect you would create a special order and knight me yourself, if I agreed to follow your own notion of the rules.”

  She thought that over for a moment. “Then you are not a knight, even of a foreign order?”

  “The spurs are mine,” he said, “earned fairly in battle.” His expression turned somber as he brushed his fingertips over her cheek, then lower to the soft skin beneath her chin. He seduced her with his eyes. “I hold your favor, and I am indeed your champion. In more ways than you can imagine.”

  The intensity of his words frightened her. This was not the noble knight who had sworn to defend her honor and virtue. Lord knew what fate he intended for her heart. It was a bad time to realize that he had stolen that prize as well. “Do you swear to protect my … my honor?”

  “’Tis my duty.” His answer made her breathe a sigh of relief, but the glint in his eyes made her suspicious. “Of course, the Italian rules of chivalry are not so restricting as your English rules.” He leaned closer, until his lips were no more-than a breath from her own. “I took no vows of chastity, sweet Avalene.”

  Be sure to watch out for

  STARCATCHER

  The dazzling historical romance

  from national bestselling author

  PATRICIA POTTER

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  WITH HER HAND held securely—nay, tightly—in Patrick’s, Marsali allowed him to lead the way toward the other side of the secret grotto, where a high pile of rocks and a thicket of hawthorne would provide them some privacy.

  Hours ago, she had been dreading a ceremony that would bind her to a man she distrusted. Sick with dismay and terror, she’d prayed hopelessly that Patrick would come to rescue her. And here he was. The man she’d loved all her life.

  He had changed. Her handsome prince was a man now, one whose face bore physical scars, and his soul scars of another kind. Yet his glittering green eyes, as vivid as emeralds, softened each time they looked at her.

  As they walked, Marsali studied the man who held her hand as if he were afraid she might escape, and for a moment, she was seized by uncertainty. More than twelve years separated the boy she had known and the man she had just met. There was a hardness to him now, an aura of danger, that she did not remember.

  She wanted to put her arms around him, feel his arms around her. She wanted the comfort of his closeness. But their clans were at war. And while she told herself he was still Patrick, her Patrick, her senses told her something else. Her father had been willing to trade her to achieve his own ends. Her brother Gavin had supported him. So would not Patrick want to use her, too? Did not all men think of women as weapons to be used to wage their bloody wars?

  She would be a fine trophy to flash before Gregor Sutherland. It would please the marquis greatly if his heir were to bring home a Gunn hostage. And she knew her father well enough to realize he would never give her up to a Sutherland without a fight.

  Marsali’s head was filled with both longing and doubts. Still, her hand tightened in his, clutching a few moments of fading dreams. Her love. Her starcatcher. She had looked for that star every night and prayed for his safety. As long as it hung bright in the dark sky, she had known he was safe.

  Patrick pulled her to a halt beneath an old, gnarled oak. Suddenly his arms crushed her to him as if he needed her as much as she had needed him. No man had ever held her like this, so close, so … intimately. So that she could feel every inch of his lean, hard body pressed to hers. He was so tall and strong, and for an instant, she was afraid.

  Then she looked up and found him regarding her, his green gaze familiar and filled with hunger. She had never hoped that he loved her. It was enough that she loved him, and that he’d consented to their betrothal. Yet as she grew accustomed to his tight embrace and, indeed, relished it, she realized she wanted everything. Everything, including love, that Patrick could give her.

  When his head lowered, her heart started to race. She felt his hand at the small of her back tremble, and it astonished her to see a trace of uncertainty flash in his eyes, locked with hers. Surely this confident man who held her so boldly couldn’t be waiting for her permission.

  Still, she gave it, whispering his name. “Patrick …”

  An instant later, his lips seized hers.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d kissed her. Six years ago, saying goodbye, he’d held her hands and touched his lips to hers in a sweet parting. A gentle kiss. A passionless kiss. A kiss that was nothing at all like this.

  Before she knew what was happening, fire was raging between them. The joining of their lips contained an energy so intense she thought she would be consumed by it. It was an energy filled with longing. And desperation.

  All doubts sank to the recesses of her mind as the fire intensified, and a need she’d never known exploded into raw hunger. This was Patrick. He was kissing her as she’d dreamed he would for so very, very long. Until that moment, she’d never realized how much she’d feared for him, how much she’d needed him, how deeply her spirit had yearned for him.

  She knew it was madness to stay here, kissing Patrick, when the result could be his death. Yet she couldn’t push away, couldn’t forgo the shelter of his arms. Nor could she force herself to end the heated flow of desire between them.

  A deep growl rumbled in his chest. “Sweetness,” he whispered into her hair. “I dreamed of this.”

  SUZANNE ROBINSON

  In the style of her highly popular THE ENGAGEMENT,

  a sparkling romance bound to capture you in the first

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  THE RESCUE

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  THE STRUGGLING CEASED, but he counted to twenty before he opened his eyes. She was staring up at him with her eyes wide. That tight little bun she wore had come loose, and her hair had fallen about her shoulders and across her cheeks and temple. Some of the strands were pale gold, others a darker, old-wheat color, some light amber, and some the color of bleached almonds. He’d never seen so many colors in a person’s hair. When he found himself trying to count them, his anger returned. It didn’t help that she was breathing so hard that her chest kept pushing his. It was like being teased by an experienced and talented harlot. Nightshade kept his grip on the old maid’s wrists, but he shoved himself up on his elbows so that there was enough distance between them for him to keep his sanity.

  This measure gave him a chance to really look at her for the first time. Primrose Victoria Dane hardly resembled the sketch he’d been given. The sketch must have been taken from a portrait done about ten years ago, for her cheeks no longer puffed out from childish plumpness. No, the sketch had been bad. Beneath him lay a young woman who would never be called beautiful, but who with age had acquired a neatness of feature that pleased him. He liked her eyes, the rings of teal surrounding a burst of gray-green. He liked the way, if one looked closely, her nose seemed just a tiny bit off center. He especially liked her generous breasts. Too bad he didn’t like her.

  He growled at the cause of all his grievances. “Are you going to behave yourself, or shall I throw up your skirts and paddle your bottom till it’s as red as that lobster you threw at poor Badger?”

  “Infamous creature!”

  “That’s not a promise,” he said lightly as she began to fight him again. He let her struggle until she wore herself out and lay beneath him panting and defeated. “Now, do you admit defeasance?”

  She frowned at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “D’you admit defeat, defeasance?”

  “I shan’t throw anything at you if you will release me.”

  Nightshade got up, discovered that he wasn’t presentable, and turned away from her while he got himself under control. When he faced her again, she had put the collapsed bed between them and was gathering hairpins from the floor and blankets. She stopped when he moved.
Her hand clenched around the pins as if she might use them as a missle should he threaten her again.

  “Never heard of no lady who preferred the noisome stews and dens of the East End to a toff’s house.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, never mind, Miss Primrose blighted Dane. I don’t care why you’re here. You’re going home to Lady Fresh-well’s, so don’t throw nothing else at me.”

  Miss Dane’s tongue appeared at the corner of her mouth, and she appeared to be confused. Then her expression grew contemptuous. “I understand. That man Fleet has finally realized he must question me before he kills me. I did not credit him with the intelligence, but perhaps his master issued the decree.”

  “Fleet?”

  Nightshade’s thoughts went blank. The name meant more to him than she could know. Mortimer Fleet was as black a soul as the rookeries had ever produced, and Nightshade owed him much—curses, plagues, all manner of evil. He thrust aside his hatred as he realized something he’d have noted sooner if he hadn’t been distracted by a pink mouth and multicolored hair. And flying lobsters.

  “Choke me dead, Miss Primrose, you ain’t lost. You’re hiding. From Mortimer Fleet.”

  WHEN YOU WISH

  A Bantam Book/October 1997

  All rights reserved.

  Prologue, “Wishful Thinking,” and Epilogue copyright © 1997

  by Jane Feather.

  “The Blackmoor Devil” copyright © 1997 by Patricia Coughlin.

  “The Natural Child” copyright © 1997

  by Sharon and Tom Curtis.