“A reputation is such a delicate thing, you realize... and I must do what I can to save it...”
Peter swallowed as he listened to the woman he loved.
She was going to leave him now, he sensed it.
The drama was over, and Christopher was safe.
No reason for her to stay.
He’d been sitting here, trying to work up the courage to ask her once more to stay, to beg even if that was what it took. God, he loved her.
She was going to leave him.
He nodded, not quite able to face Sarah as she spoke. Staring at his papers, he tried not to choke on his grief over what she was about to do.
He wouldn’t stop her.
He had no right to.
“I think it’s only right you should marry me,” she blurted, and Peter lifted his gaze to her in stunned surprise.
Her chin lifted defiantly, and her expression was perfectly sober.
His brows twitched and he shook his head, not quite believing what had come from her lips.
It was the most arrogant proposal any man had ever imposed, and to hear it from the lips of a woman—not just any woman, but the woman he loved—made him grin.
“You think I should marry you?”
Her chin lifted higher. “I do!”
He threw his head back and laughed out loud, his heart bursting with joy. He rose from his chair at once and came around his desk.
“I don’t see what is so blessed funny!” Sarah exclaimed, quite in a huff at his reaction.
“You don’t?” he asked her, and pulled her into his arms.
“No, I bloody well don’t!” she exclaimed, and struggled against his embrace as he tried to hold her.
“I do,” he replied, laughing still. “You’re an arrogant, demanding woman, and I love you madly! Ask me again,” he demanded, “so there is no mistake.”
“Why are you laughing?” she asked quite indignantly, ignoring his request, but his joy must have been infectious because he felt her laughter as he tightened his embrace, wanting to draw her into his very soul.
He buried his face in the hair that spilled against her throat. “Ask me again,” he demanded of her once more.
“I will not!” she swore, and he drew back to watch the flush rise into her cheeks. God, but she was beautiful.
He kissed her on the bridge of her nose, a gentle peck. “Just once more, Sarah ... I love you.”
He gave her a nudge and she threw her arms about him, hugging his neck, smiling up at him. “Very well,” she relented, and dared to repeat, “Will you marry me, Peter Holland?”
“Only if you’ll return the favor,” he answered with a wink, and drew her into a more intimate embrace. She laughed and he kissed her lips and whispered, “I love you, Sarah Woodard... I love you with every beat of my heart.”
“And I love you, Peter Holland,” she whispered back, “And I’m going to love you the rest of my life!”
“Are you now?” he asked her, and deepened the kiss, teasing her with his tongue and his lips.
“Shall I prove it?” she returned softly, and moaned against his mouth.
The sound of it hardened him instantly and heated his blood; she never ceased to arouse him. “Certainly,” he replied. “Every day for the rest of our lives. Beginning now,” he murmured, and sealed the proposal with a kiss.
Epilogue
A glance inside the parlor window at University Place and Twelfth Street revealed a festive and familial air. An eleven-foot Christmas tree dominated one corner, its tip barely clearing the ceiling. The angel at its helm was bent forward, as though peering down at the scene below.
Christopher Holland sat with his two sisters, Melissa and Laura, at the foot of the newly decorated tree, Christopher with a Braille-embossed book in his lap. Laura lay on her belly listening to her brother read to them from The Christmas Story while she drew on paper. Three-year-old Melissa was much too engrossed with her brother’s tale to draw, though she had her own sheet laid out on the floor beside her.
“And while they were there, the days of her confinement were complete,” he read aloud, though he’d long ago memorized the tale, “and she gave birth to her firstborn son.” He paused in his reading and waited, listening to his father and Sarah. The two of them spoke in low tones, thinking probably that no one could hear them, but Christopher could.
“I think that was a hint,” his father said with a trace of laughter in his voice. “Too coincidental that he should stop there.”
Sarah laughed, and whispered, “He wants a baby brother something terrible, Peter.”
“I know, and it’s going to be a boy this time,” his father whispered in return, determined that it was to be so.
“You shouldn’t make promises we cannot keep,” Sarah chided him. “You said that very thing the last two times, and look!”
“I see a very happy boy who loves his two little sisters,” Peter countered. “He’ll love this child no matter what... just like his father will.”
Christopher could feel his mother’s smile where he sat. His father had been wrong all those years ago. Sarah had not been black... but yellow. She was that light Peter had spoken of. She had changed their lives forever the day she had come into their lives. His father no longer sat alone with his untouched glass of port in his office—a scent Christopher would always associate with unhappiness.
It was their sixth Christmas together, and he had never been happier in all his life. Merriment sang throughout the Holland house like joyful carolers.
“She wrapped him in swaddling clothes,” Christopher continued, “and laid him in a manger...” “What is swaddling clothes?” Laura asked her brother.
“Baby blankets,” Christopher told her.
“Whassa manger?” Melissa asked, scooting closer to him. She craned her neck to look into his face. Though Christopher couldn’t see her, he sensed her scrutiny nonetheless.
But it wasn’t his face she was preoccupied with...
“A manger is a trough where they put feed for animals to eat,” Christopher explained. Melissa snuck a cane from the tree beside his head, but Christopher smelled it and seized it from her.
Melissa giggled. “Whassa trough?” she asked, unfazed.
Christopher hung the cane once more upon the tree. “You’ll spoil your supper,” he chided her.
“A trough is like a dinner plate,” Peter interjected, grinning as he watched his children. He put his arms around his wife and drew her against him, rubbing her belly.
She was carrying his child, yet another—three children in six years, but they couldn’t seem to help it. He wanted her just as much today as he had that first night. He craved her more in fact, than ever, and if she weren’t so pregnant with his fourth child, he would carry her back to their room and make love to her once again. As it was, he was afraid she might not make it through the unwrapping of the gifts. She placed her hand over his on her belly, and he smiled and sighed contentedly.
“I love you, Sarah Holland,” he whispered, and kissed the back of her neck, relishing the feel of her in his arms. He hugged her gently.
She tilted her head just a little, enjoying his kisses. “And I love you,” she said in return.
And both of them settled back upon the divan to watch their children together ...
Preview The King’s Favorite
A Brand New Series
Coming June 26, 2018. The King's Favorite is a new, never-before published book-the first of a new series by New York Times Bestselling author, Tanya Anne Crosby.
Bartering a deal with their “witchy” mother, Stephen the Usurper intends to wed all five sisters to his "new men." Fearing her “gifts” will be used to defeat her sister Matilda, Elspeth escapes the Black Mountain priory that has sheltered them since their father's death, only to find herself indebted to, of all men, a Scotsman, whose loyalties are in question... Left to face the wrath of a new sovereign, Malcom Scott is forced to swear fealty to Stephen of Blois in order
to keep the demesne he won by slaying his own grandsire. But having done so, he’s pitted himself against Scotia, and even his own sire. Yet even as he realizes there is no turning back, the late King's favorite illegitimate daughter may offer him more than he ever anticipated.
Preorder The King’s Favorite
Tanya Anne Crosby pens a tale that touches your soul and lives forever in your heart.
Sherrilyn Kenyon#1 NYT Bestselling Author.
Watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you… the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.
Roald Dahl
Prologue
Aldergh Castle, England 1137
Built for defense, like York, Aldergh was a bulwark, with its soaring corner towers, and a massive twenty-foot thick curtain wall, built with old Roman ingenuity and stone. It was nearly impenetrable, built to withstand a siege, but Malcom hoped that wouldn’t be necessary today.
In answer to their presence, tiny black forms scurried between machicolations, their armor glinting under the sun as a single horn blast trumpeted across the landscape.
Strategically, the cavalcade was resting outside missile range, but close enough to make out standards. The infantry flew two this bright, sunshiny day: one white, one red.
Behind the lead riders, a sizable militia provided by David of Scotia stood at the ready to help defend Malcom’s bequest, their sigil being a red lion rampant on a yellow field and a motto that read: Nimo Me Impune Lacesssit.
At the front of the line, the dead-lord’s two-headed falcon soared across a blood-red field, with a motto that read: Altium, citius, fortius—this was Malcom’s sigil now, and he would lift it, so its maxim rang true, though at the moment, he couldn’t claim no more honor than the man who’d held the castle and sigil before him. He meant to change that with time.
Conspicuously absent, only by design, was his father’s banner, the intention being… to send a clear message—that Malcom Ceann Ràs had not arrived this day wearing his father’s colors, but rather, as the new lord of Aldergh, unfettered by the obligations of his kin. He was ready, willing and able to serve a new sovereign… if that’s what it took to keep his grandsire’s land. This, in truth, was a changing of the guard, and Malcom was eager to prove himself.
All that was, was, all that could be, lay ahead.
Henry of England was two-years dead and the king’s nephew, Stephen of Blois, dared to seize his throne. Now was the time for able men to take what they would and damn the rest.
He looked to his sire, seated atop his war horse, jaw taut and his eyes dark and brooding. The silver in his hair glinted more fiercely than the steel in his scabbard. He wondered if he was thinking about the last time the two of them had stood here together… on this field before FitzSimon’s castle, when Malcom was but six, and eager and unashamed to fly into his father’s arms. Thirteen years later, the rift was ever growing, larger now as he stood ready to embrace his future as a vassal to the English sovereign.
His mother had proposed this, and his father would have denied him, but Malcom was determined to make his own way.
Pensive, and full of purpose, there was no more of the boy left in him now. That day in the pinewoods near Chreagach Mhor, his innocence had withered and died. He was a man grown, fully prepared to fight for all that should be his.
His thick blond hair fluttered in the warm breeze, and the sensation brought back a sweet, but distant impression of his father’s hand rifling through his hair. Alas, the fire in his heart burned away the purity of the memory, and he reminded himself that no man could be a proper man till he quit his father’s house.
At long last, the heavy portcullis began to lift and the hairs on Malcom’s nape stood on end… After all the talk and all the planning, the moment of truth had arrived. The minute he walked through those gates, he would be subject to a new king, and no matter whether David expected fealty for his assistance, Malcom did not intend to serve two masters. He would be honor bound to keep his vows, no matter what his father believed—no matter how many enemies he made.
His mother sidled closer to her lord husband, and sat for an instant, the look on her face full of turmoil. Casting a glance at Malcom, she reached out to beg his father’s hand… and perhaps his forgiveness. The MacKinnon did not give it, but with a steely glint in his eyes, he turned to ask, “Art ready?”
She nodded, her expression crestfallen, and, just to be sure, Malcom sidled close to peer at her with the same burning question in his eyes. “Mother? Art certain?”
Page FitzSimon was the only woman who could twist his heart. In truth, she was the only mother Malcom had ever known, and if she had a mind to, now would be the time to change her mind. He would do it. He would walk away, if only for her. But after he took possession of Aldergh, nothing would be the same.
Her gaze softened as she met Malcom’s gaze. “Aye,” she said, and proceeded to tug the signet ring off her finger. Once removed, she placed the heirloom into the palm of her hand and offered it up for Malcom to willingly take. She would not hand it to him, but she would not prevent him from taking it. And this was the concession she’d made to his father—that Malcom must knowingly and wittingly accept all that came with her father’s baronetcy.
Embracing his new life, Malcom plucked up the ring from his step-mother’s palm, and she gave him a warm, reassuring smile. “Remember,” she said. “What happens from the moment you ride through those gates determines aught. You must remember, Malcom… you are Aldergh’s new lord, and you go to your new home with our blessings.”
Beside her, his father cast his eyes away, jaw taut, and he remained silent.
Although Page hadn’t any knowledge of their recent discussion, his sire had not offered Malcom any blessings at all. Rather, he’d beseeched him to stay and bide his time to take his place as leader of their clan. Malcom had refused, soured by the prospect of waiting for his sire to die before beginning a new life. Better to take what he had now, and pray his old man lived to see many more summers and sons. Even now, Page carried his babe, and the child could well be the heir his father craved. Without a word, Malcom slid the golden two-headed falcon onto his small finger, but then had a moment when he could not meet his step-mother’s gaze.
She must have misunderstood his reluctance, for she reassured him. “You have the writ from David and my father’s ring. Twill be enough. You are my son,” she told him.
She had faith in him—from the first. And she, as much as any, was a woman to be admired, for she had risen to her best, despite having suffered the worst. Malcom did not have the same faith in himself, but there was no doubt in his mind that he could rule this demesne.
“Mal?” his father said, and Malcom sensed much in the single word: Doubt. Hope. Fear. Regret.
Peering down at the sigil on his finger, he nodded, then gave his men a wave of his hand. Then, without another word, he spurred his mount forward… taking the lead—a boy become a man, hardening his heart.
Dressed in his grandfather’s cloak, and wearing a dead man’s sigil, he rode before them, looking like a king in his own right and carrying with him all the fury of the north.
Chapter 1
LLanthony Priory, Wales, August 1148
Married?
So, it seemed… for abetting a usurper, the prize should be an Earldom and King Henry’s favorite daughter… Elspeth.
Evidently, it wasn’t enough that Morwen had forsaken them, leaving them to fend for themselves all the while she weaseled her way back into courtly life. But now, offered a chance to profit through her daughters, she clearly meant to take it.
According to the missive, she would sacrifice her eldest to a feckless mercenary—and make no mistake, although she’d called it a wedding, Elspeth knew very well that she would be naught more than a prisoner changing hands.
The mood in the cottage was somber as her sisters allowed her a moment to scrutinize the letter as th
ere was much to be gleaned from the style of her mother’s script. It was incredibly demoralizing to consider that most of what they knew of their own mother was held in the formation of a letter, because since abandoning them here, they could easily count the number of times they’d considered her in person.
Worrying the parchment against her thigh, Elspeth studied her mother’s penmanship. But, alas, she seemed resolved... and this was most apparent by the weight of her letters—the deep, bold lines without pause. But she was also quite pleased with the arrangement, evidenced by the random, elaborate flourishes in each of her ending letters. The realization gave Elspeth a pang. And still, even mourning the impending loss of her own freedom, she worried more about her sisters, because the instant she was gone, this would become Rhiannon’s plight, then Seren’s and Rose’s and finally Arwyn’s… until one by one, each of the Ewyas sisters became pawns to unscrupulous men.
“Do you think he’ll be the one to fetch you?” asked Seren.
Nearing twenty, Seren was the middle child, possessed of their father’s rufous coloring, but with skin so pale and smooth it made the moon and stars weep with joy.
“Nay,” said Elspeth. “He knows me not at all. What should he care who transports me to Blackwood? For all he knows I could be a hideous little troll, and now that there is a lull in the war, Blackwood will be his primary concern. However… I am certain he’ll send his warden straightaway—particularly…” She met her sisters’ gazes. “… If he knows.”
Arwyn, the youngest, furrowed her brow. “But… how could he know? How could anyone know? None of us have ever given anyone cause to doubt we are aught but good little servants of the realm.”
“Because mother is too bold,” suggested Rhiannon. “Though at least she gives us fair warning.”
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