Anna couldn’t find any words, so she shook her head until she finally managed to speak. “Not opposed at all. But Charlie?”
He held her face between his hands and stroked one cheek with his thumb. “Mmm?”
“Kiss me again. Only you’d better hold me this time. I’m liable to faint again.”
Charlie happily obliged.
Click on the covers to visit Annette’s Amazon Author page:
Annette Lyon is the Whitney Award-winner author of Band of Sisters and a three-time recipient of Utah’s Best of State Medal for fiction, twice for novels, and a third time for her novellas. She has received many publication awards from the League of Utah Writers, including the Silver Quill for her first book in the Newport Ladies Book Club series, Paige. She’s published more than a dozen novels, even more novellas, several nonfiction books, and over 120 magazine articles, and she has a cum laude BA in English from BYU. When she’s not writing, knitting, or eating chocolate, she can be found mothering and avoiding the spots on the kitchen floor.
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Chapter One
France—October 31, 1838
“The babe is a girl child,” the midwife informed Monsieur Rudolph Belrose in a trembling voice. “She’s pink and healthy, sir, with a lusty cry.”
Belrose didn’t care if his daughter was pink and healthy. If she’d been a boy, he might have been able to forgive the fact that the child was born on the cursed All Hallows’ Eve. But, after the death of his beloved wife, there was no forgiveness in his grieving heart.
It seemed that Sophia’s curse was alive and well. When Belrose’s father was on his deathbed, a woman named Sophia Rousseau from a neighboring estate claimed that she had a secret marriage to Belrose Sr. and that she deserved to inherit his property. Sophia said that all of Belrose’s heirs from his “second marriage” were illegitimate. Yet, not even her own family would support her statements. She was turned away by the dying Belrose, and she cursed both families, saying that someone from one of the families, or connected to them, would die every five years on All Hallows’ Eve, until the estates were rightfully reunited in marriage.
It had been a bother to hire servants since.
And now, Rudolph Belrose would have to remarry in order to produce an heir. If there was an eligible female of the Rousseau family, Belrose might actually consider marrying her if only to break the curse. But Monsieur Rousseau and his wife had been killed five years before on All Hallows’ Eve, leaving only a young son. Belrose had to find another way to end the years of bad luck, no matter what it took. And that would begin by getting rid of this unholy child of his.
“Take her to the abbey,” Belrose told the quivering midwife.
“Sir, you have not yet laid eyes on the babe,” she said, her tone incredulous. “I am sorry for the loss of your wife, but her child is your child as well.”
“Silence,” he commanded. “Her birth on this day of all days surely caused my wife’s death. The child is ill luck indeed. I will not have the fates brought down upon my land by raising this imp.”
The midwife hung her head, her hands clenching until they were white. “What shall I tell the nuns when I deliver her to the abbey?”
“Tell them she was abandoned by a peasant on the side of the road.” Belrose could not look at the sniveling woman now, or else her weakness would become his weakness. He would grieve for his wife in private only.
“And her name?” The midwife’s voice was a whisper in the cold stone hallway.
Belrose’s throat went dry as he fought the rage and grief battling inside of him. “She has no name. For you see, the murderer of my wife deserves no honor.”
Chapter Two
Twenty Years Later
1858
Joan of Arc stood atop the crumbling stone ramparts, raised her sword, and looked over the vast field of dead enemy soldiers. “The Lord has avenged the people of Orléans! Enemies, return to England, or face the wrath of France!”
“Joan?” A woman’s voice cut through her speech. “You’re late milking the cows.”
Joan lowered her arm and sighed, then stepped down from the low stone wall that bordered a field beneath the warm October sun. There were no enemy soldiers lying dead in the field, and, although she was also nineteen years old, she was hardly the great warrior woman. But couldn’t she ever have more than an hour to herself?
Sister Eloise strode up to Joan. Sister Eloise was a tall, reedy woman, given to coughing fits at night. This Joan knew because her room was right next to Sister Eloise’s. The nun was of an indiscriminate age, and Joan had once asked her how old she was. The look she gave Joan was quite deadly.
“Is it that late?” Joan asked in a light, innocent voice.
The nun’s plain brown eyes narrowed. “You undoubtedly heard the bells chime four o’clock, and then five o’clock. Surely you didn’t miss both chimes?”
Joan bit her lower lip. “I am deeply sorry,” she said. “I won’t let it happen again.” Sister Eloise looked far from convinced. Both she and Joan knew that it would happen again, many times most likely.
As Joan neared the small barn that sat behind the Sisters of St. Joseph’s abbey, she could hear the two cows lowing. A twinge of guilt spread through her— the animals were unhappy, and it was her fault for getting caught up in daydreaming. She hurried inside and grabbed the milking stool and wooden bucket. She worked quickly, and soon both cows were sated. Then she carried the fresh milk to the back of the abbey to the kitchen.
As Joan entered the kitchen, Sister Laurette looked up from her place at the table, where she was chopping vegetables. She was as round as Sister Eloise was thin.
“About time,” Sister Laurette said, although there wasn’t a bit of malice in her tone. Her deep green eyes were full of amusement. “Did you fall asleep under the trees again? Or, perhaps, wander past the stream?”
“No,” Joan said, in a voice breathless from traipsing across the yard with two heavy buckets. She set them carefully next to the fireplace.
“Spying on the Rousseau boy again?” Sister Laurette asked.
Joan spun and stared at the nun. How could she have known? Joan had been so careful.
Sister Laurette laughed at Joan’s stunned expression. “Don’t think we don’t know everything that goes on here— because we do.”
“We? Everyone knows?”
Sister Laurette winked. “Of course. But we love you all the more for it. We all know you didn’t choose this life. Some of the sisters have even...” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “made wagers on how long you’ll remain unmarried. Especially if Simon Rousseau catches you spying upon him.”
Mortification shot through Joan at the thought of Simon actually discovering that she’d spied on him more than once. More than a dozen times. At first she told herself it was because of his horse— a magnificent black beast with muscles rippling all over its body. But the months had passed, and still Joan was drawn to the neighboring estate and the young man who relentlessly rode alone each afternoon.
She knew very little of the Rousseau family, except that their ancestors were known for horse breeding and that there had been a tragedy in Simon’s early years. His parents had been killed on All Hallows’ Eve, leaving Simon as their young heir. His uncle had come to run the estate until Simon was of age.
Joan had heard whispers about a decades-old curse on the Rousseau’s land and the estate just beyond, that of the Belrose family. Every five years, a member of the Belrose family or Rousseau family had died on All Hallows’ Eve. Two of the victims were Belrose’s own wife and child, who’d both died many years ago. It was said that Monsieur Belrose had gone mad and re
fused to leave his home. No one, other than his servants, had seen him for ages.
The entire village was waiting for him to die. For, with no heir, the lands would go to the church. But who had cursed the families and why? That’s what Joan wanted to know.
“You’re a young, pretty woman,” Sister Laurette said, capturing Joan’s attention again. “Simon Rousseau could do a lot worse.”
Joan’s face flamed hot. She was fair of skin and susceptible to blushing— and it happened at the most inconvenient times. That’s also why she kept her almost white blonde hair in a tight plait and wrapped it into a bun at the base of her neck, complete with a handkerchief tied about her hair to help keep the sun off— she burned frightfully easily.
“Simon Rousseau is a gentleman, and I am but an orphaned peasant,” she said.
Sister Laurette pursed her lips together, but Joan barely noticed. It was always like this. If she ever brought up her orphan status, the nuns would go silent. None of them could tell her about her parents, just that she’d been brought in by a woman who said that Joan had been abandoned at the side of the road.
Joan felt the familiar weight of her heart grow heavy. If her own mother hadn’t even wanted her, how did it make sense that someone like Simon Rousseau would want an orphaned peasant girl who’d been raised in an abbey? Still, the desire to watch him on his afternoon ride battled within her. She found that she depended on his predictability, and the days he didn’t come out riding were the days that she felt most out of sorts. Like today, knowing Simon was due for his ride, she could hardly stand being here in the abbey kitchen.
Sister Laurette was still speaking to Joan, telling her the story of how another village girl had married some wealthy man generations ago. Joan had heard it all before. But this was the year of 1858. Those romantic fantasies no longer existed.
Joan mumbled an excuse to leave the kitchen and slipped out the door, ignoring Sister Laurette’s knowing look. The yard behind the abbey was quiet, and Joan continued past the barn to where there was a perfect place to sit on the stone wall and watch the northern fields through a grove of trees. Only if Simon dismounted his horse and walked quite close to the trees would he be able to see Joan.
Sometimes she imagined he did just that— that he spotted her from afar and rode over the copse of trees. He would extend his hand without a word, and she would hurry forward and climb up on his horse. Then he would take her for a ride, far across the meadow and past the manor house of his estate, and they’d ride in the purple hills beyond until the day melted into night.
But that scenario was only her imagination, and Joan kept herself firmly wedged on her rocky seat as she waited for Simon to appear. She heard the sound of galloping before his horse came into view.
Thus, Joan’s heart was beating erratically in advance of actually seeing Simon’s tall form sitting astride his nearly black horse. Simon had grown taller this past year, his shoulders broader, and dare she notice it, his thighs more muscular. In fact, he was well-matched with the stallion he rode. Joan wasn’t quite sure of Simon’s eye color, but, from a distance, they seemed dark and deeply thoughtful.
She had even heard his voice a time or two as he called out to his horse, and it had only made Joan more curious.
The hoofbeats rumbled closer, and Joan both straightened and leaned behind the foliage in front of her. She wanted a good view, but she also didn’t want to be spotted.
“Whoa, boy,” Simon said, his voice cutting through the grove.
Joan stiffened. He sounded very close, yet she could no longer see his horse from her vantage point.
“There, there.” Simon’s voice came again, this time accompanied by his horse’s snort.
And then he came into view.
Joan’s mouth nearly fell open. Simon was walking, leading his horse by its reins. Joan’s first thought was that the horse had been injured. Her second thought was the realization that Simon’s eyes were not dark brown like she had first assumed, but a blue gray, the color of an impending rainstorm.
And those blue gray eyes were looking straight at her.
Chapter Three
Simon Rousseau wanted to smile, but he sensed the nervousness in the girl behind the tree. Their eyes locked, and Simon felt something hot fill his chest. She was older than he had first guessed— not a girl at all, but a young woman. Perhaps a handful of years younger than his own twenty-four.
And she was pretty. Not in the classic and coiffed way of the young women his aunt had insisted he meet in drawing room musicales. He refused to marry those young women anyway... for how could he subject an innocent woman to his family’s curse?
This young woman possessed a beauty unmarred by rouge or dark-lined brows or masses of ringlets. She wore a plain dress, and, for some reason, Simon was pleased to note that she wore neither the white wimple nor the black habit of an ordained nun. Her complexion was remarkably fair, nearly translucent, and her hair was so blonde that it was virtually silver in the dappled light coming through the trees.
He, of course, had heard stories about an orphaned girl that the nuns were raising. And now that he thought about it— she would have to be nearly his age. But for some reason, he’d always pictured a twelve- or thirteen-year-old, who hadn’t aged with the passing years.
That he’d lived next to her his entire life, yet had only caught a glimpse of her now, was strange indeed. Of course, Simon had been away to boarding school most of his growing up years and had only recently come into his inheritance, which required him to spend more time on the estate.
“Hello?” Simon spoke in a soft voice. The woman flinched, and drew even farther behind the tree, until he could no longer see her.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” He took a careful step forward, and his horse lumbered behind him. “I’m Simon Rousseau, and this abbey borders my land.”
“I know who you are,” the woman said, her voice surprisingly low and rich.
Simon took another step forward. “Have we met before?”
“No,” came the quick reply. “There has never been an occasion to meet.”
Again, Simon was struck with the richness of her voice. Her words did not indicate that she had a shy personality, although the fact that she still hid behind a tree told him she was feeling quite reluctant.
“I would not be opposed to an introduction then.” Simon took the reins of his horse and lashed them to the nearest tree. Then he turned back to look in the direction of the tree, where the woman’s dark blue dress peeked out.
“There is no one here to introduce us,” she said.
Simon chuckled, but stopped quickly, not sure if he could tease her. “Perhaps we can dispense with formalities seeing as how we’ve lived on bordering properties our entire lives.”
The woman emitted a small gasp. “What do you know about me?”
He smiled to himself. Did she not know they lived in a village where everyone knew many things about everyone else? “Just as you know my name, I know your name, but not much else.”
She was silent, and Simon waited.
Finally, she said, “I suppose everyone has heard my story, and I cannot very well avoid what people have said.” He heard a rustling sound, and then she stepped out from behind the tree. “My name is Joan,” she said, gazing at him.
No, she was not shy, Simon decided. In fact, she seemed a bit impetuous. Her blue eyes were sharp in color, like cold ice, but Simon sensed that this woman was far from cold.
“Pleased to meet you, Joan,” Simon said, trying to recover from his surprise at her appearance.
She tilted her head. “Monsieur Rousseau.”
“I’ve seen you here often,” he said and was rewarded with a complete transformation of her face— from the fairest cream to a rosy red in a matter of an instant. Her blush was another surprise, but he didn’t have time to dwell on its meaning quite yet.
“I— I prefer the outdoors,” she said with a charming stutter. “When I’m finished wi
th my chores, I like to sit awhile and listen to the birds.”
Except for the fact that the birds were quiet in the late afternoons, Simon might have been wholly convinced. Was she not supposed to be this far from the abbey?
“Surely there are birds closer to the abbey?” he teased.
Her face flamed again, and Simon found that he enjoyed her complexion changes. But now he was probably teasing too much.
“None so robust as the ones in these trees,” she said, looking as if she could see the birds, as well as hear them. “The starlings are particularly musical today.”
Simon realized she was teasing him back. He looked up, as if to study the branches for himself. “Ah, you are right. I’ve never heard such a twittering in all my life.” He was rewarded by her laughter, light and quick. Lowering his head, he caught her smile before it faded. And it was a beautiful smile.
“That is what birds do, after all,” Joan said with a sigh, leaning her shoulder against a tree. “Twitter all day long. How would it be to live as these birds?”
Simon took a few steps closer and leaned against a tree of his own. They were only a couple of paces apart now, and he found that his heart was hammering. Surely he wasn’t nervous. “It might be a bit cold at times and a bit wet when it rains.”
Joan’s mouth curved into a soft smile, her gaze not quite focusing on him. “But think of the flying and all that you could explore.”
“Have you never been outside of the village?” he asked.
Her eyes were less dreamy now. “I have not. A woman in my situation has limited options.” Her face pinked. “But I do not mean to sound ungrateful.”
“You didn’t sound ungrateful,” he said. “I’ve been fortunate enough to attend school in Paris and travel about. Though, it’s my honest opinion that we enjoy the most beauty right here in this countryside.”
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