Forbidden Kisses

by Laurel O'Donnell

  With an eager expression, Scarlett neared and sat across from her in a settee and clamped her hands together on her lap.

  “You will warm up quickly. The fire from the hearth is quite good. How is your father?” Lady Price asked.

  “Yes, thank you. I am perfectly comfortable now. I appreciate the loan of these clothes.” Immediately Scarlett’s expression changed. “Father is not well at all. No change actually. He lingers in bed. The doctor is unsure what else can be done.”

  “I will pray your father recovers quickly so he can see how well you are prepared for the next social event.”

  By Scarlett’s expression, she didn’t agree. But although she frowned, she remained silent.

  Lady Price motioned to her attire. “ You are welcome to keep the clothes. It was to be donated and now it’s yours.

  Scarlett nodded. “Thank you, I will then.”

  “Today we will discuss proper dining room etiquette,” Lady Price began. The lesson would be long as Scarlett had not been able to come the prior week due to her father’s illness.

  The young woman straightened. “I have to admit, this will all be for naught if father doesn’t recover. Besides, I doubt anyone will invite me to any events, being no one really knows me.”

  “Pick up your tea and sip like this.” Lady Price instructed watching Scarlett do as told. “It’s not like you to be down in spirits. I understand your father’s illness is worrisome, however, you must remain positive. It will help him to know you believe he will get better.”

  Scarlett’s hands trembled a bit as she attempted to place the cup down gently. Thankfully none of the tea spilled over the sides of the cup. “I have a confession.” She looked out the window seeming to consider what to say.

  “I don’t think my father will recover and it becomes more clear by the way the doctor only checks him and doesn’t prescribe more than medication to make him comfortable. I overheard my stepmother asked him bluntly the other day what the diagnosis was. The doctor said he fears the worst.”

  Scarlett let out a long breath looking to Lady Price. “Whatever will I do? I’ve only just recently moved here and began to know him.”

  Lady Price knew that Scarlett’s father was dying. It had been kept from the young woman by the stepmother who wished for her husband and newly found daughter to have time together without the burden of Scarlett having to fight against sadness.

  “You will continue on with the life your father wants for you. It was his idea that you come here and learn the proper ways of society. You will live with your stepmother until you marry and then you will have a family and a perfectly happy life.”

  A soft smile lingered on the edges of her lips as the young woman took a fortifying breath.

  Shoulders squared, Scarlett picked up the cup. “The garden is beautiful. I can’t help but admire the placement of flowering camellias. The colors compliment perfectly.” The young woman was a quick study, learning the subtleties of polite society conversation.

  Her beauty alone would garner attention from men. Her dowry although modest, would attract a husband, who would possibly not be wealthy, but of good social stature.

  Lady Price followed Scarlett’s line of sight to her blooming plants. “It’s taken me years to figure it out. Now tell me, what brings you to Philadelphia? I hear you lived in the south. It must be a culture shock for you.”

  Having to consider her reply, Scarlett did as instructed and looked down to her lap with a soft smile. “After my mother died, I moved here. Although I do adore the south, Philadelphia has so much to offer, I cannot wait to learn more about my new home. “

  “Very good. Keep the answers to the truth, but not divulging too much. They will not be asking much more as it will be impolite to do so. Although, I must warn you, they may fill in the blanks with assumptions.”

  Scarlett sighed, her gaze taking in the room. Lady Price knew what she saw. Wealth and opulence.

  Thick carpets on marble floors lavish ceiling to floor drapery and well-appointed handmade furnishings. Everything was imported from Lady Price’s home country England. She’d meticulously chosen each piece from the art to the china and silverware.

  The art on the walls had been purchased during travels she and her late husband had enjoyed. The oils, many of which were priceless, were all something they actually loved, not just purchased because of who the artist was.

  Funny how although beautiful, her home felt empty now, since losing her husband. Nonetheless, the constant charitable causes and now tutoring of Scarlett kept Lady Price busy so that she was able to function day to day.

  Then there was the Matrimonial Gazette, a mail order bride venture with a friend out west.

  “Scarlett, what exactly do you wish for?” Lady Price studied the forlorn young woman. “If you had your choice of a future husband, what would he be like?”

  Scarlett bit her lip in thought, something Lady Price had tried unsuccessfully to break her out of. “He would be strong and proud. He would also be a man who knows how to treat a woman without insult or harshness. I wish for a husband who wants children, a strong family man who works hard, but doesn't ignore his home life.”

  “In other words, the perfect man.” Lady Price chuckled.

  Scarlett shook her head. “Oh I know the perfect man doesn’t exist, but one can wish.”

  Her earnest expression made Lady Price laugh. “Yes I do believe in wishing and praying for exactly what you want.”

  ABOUT HILDIE McQUEEN

  Most days USA Today Bestseller Hildie McQueen can be found in her overly tight leggings and green hoodie, holding a cup of tea while stalking the lawn guy. In the afternoons she browses the Internet for semi-nude men to post on Facebook.

  Being a full-time writer is no joke, the co-workers are dogs, no one cleans the office and the only human contact is usually carrying a package and in a hurry to leave.

  Author Hildie McQueen loves unusual situations and getting into interesting adventures, which is what her characters do as well. She writes romance because she is in love with love! Author of historical and contemporary romances, she writes something every reader can enjoy.

  Hildie's favorite past-times are reader conventions, traveling, shopping and reading.

  She resides in beautiful small town Georgia with her super-hero husband Kurt and three doggies.

  Visit her website at: www.hildiemcqueen.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/HildieMcQueen

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/HildieMcQueen

  Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/hildiemcqueenwriter/

  A Knight Amid Thorns

  A Medieval Romance Novella

  Laurel O'Donnell

  Copyright

  A Knight Amid Thorns Copyright © 2018 Laurel O'Donnell

  All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its author, Laurel O’Donnell.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this ebook was purchased on any unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author's hard work.

  The characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  Prologue

  England

  1402

  Graden raced through the long halls of h
is home, Castle Dumount. His father was back from fighting the French! He was home! He hadn’t seen him for years. He skidded to a halt, looking into the Great Hall. Ceilings stretched far overhead, and the hearth crackled with a small fire. The long wooden tables were empty. No one was there.

  He raced up the stone stairs, taking them two at a time. Father must be in his solar, a room that had been strangely empty and quiet for almost three full years. He had been a boy when his father left. Since then, his mother had passed, leaving him alone and in command of the castle. But now all of that was going to change. His father was home! And he would be so proud of the man he had become. At twelve years, Graden had trained hard and learned everything, excelling at the skills he had been taught, so that when his father returned home he would be proud of him.

  He heard quiet talking coming from his father’s solar. As he approached the room, he saw two guards stationed outside of the room on either side of the door. They looked at him with sympathy as he hurried past, but Graden didn’t notice. He was too excited at his father’s return.

  Upon entering the room, the energy and happiness drained from him.

  His father sat near the hearth, his shoulders slumped, a blanket covering them. His hair was grey now. More grey than black. When he had left, there were a few strands of grey peppering his vibrant black locks, but nothing like this.

  Graden scowled. His gaze moved over the three men standing around his father. One, a tall, strong, balding man he knew as Captain Cairon, captain of the guard here at Castle Dumount. The other, a shorter, armored man, he didn’t recognize. The presence of the third man sent complete dread through him. He knew the thin man clad in a black robe. And he hated him. He was Halacre, the physician. He had attended Graden’s mother for months before she died. Graden’s scowl deepened. He had done nothing for her; she had died under his so-called expert care.

  Graden’s fists clenched. Why was Halacre here? He wanted to command him away from his father. Send him far away. But as Graden’s gaze turned to his father, all his anger drained. His father’s hand tightly held the arm of the chair. It wasn’t a hand Graden remembered. It was weathered, wrinkled and fragile, the fingers looking like mere strips of bone. Graden moved forward.

  Halacre looked up, pinning Graden with his dark eyes, but he stepped aside to allow the boy access to his father.

  “Father?” Graden called.

  The grey-haired head came up and swiveled to look at Graden. His blue eyes were ringed with dark shadows. His skin was grey and sickly. Graden could almost see the bones beneath his face. He reached out for his son. “Graden.”

  Horrified, Graden could only stare. The face that looked back at him was a ghost of his strong father. The image of his dying mother came to the forefront of his mind. His father was dying! Graden looked up at Halacre.

  Halacre shoved him toward the corpse-like countenance of his father.

  Thin, boney fingers wrapped around Graden, squeezing his wrist. His father only let go of him when a fit of coughing overcame him. Then another high cough issued from his father’s throat and his entire body shook with the spasm.

  Graden stepped back. The same cough! It was the same cough his mother had! He could still remember the horrible, thick sound that had wheezed out of his mother as she lay dying in her bed. He looked at Halacre. There was resignation and sadness in his cold eyes. Graden shoved him. “DO something!”

  Startled, Halacre stepped back. He spread his hands helplessly, looking at Graden’s father with an expression devoid of all hope.

  “Graden,” Captain Cairon said firmly and reached for him.

  Furious, desperate, Graden ducked out of the captain’s reach and raced toward the door. No, no, no. Not his father. Not his father. He ran as fast as he could through the corridors of the castle. His father was strong…had been strong. No! The stone walls and the occasional servant blurred by him as he dashed away. Graden burst from the castle into the inner ward, falling to his hands and knees in the dust.

  Above him, a spear of lightning cut through the darkening sky. His dark hair fell forward, shielding his face. Not his father. His lower lip trembled. Just like his mother! His chest constricted painfully. A drop of wetness hit his hand and he wasn’t certain whether it was rain or not.

  No. He would not lose his father! He would give anything to make him better. He shot to his feet and bolted toward the stables. He threw the doors open with a mighty push. The young stable boy jumped to his feet, obviously waking, startled by the loud noise.

  Graden moved past him to his black stallion. He opened the stalls and pulled the large horse outside.

  “I’ll have him saddled in no time, m’lord,” the stable boy said, wiping sleep from his eyes.

  Graden didn’t have the time. His father needed a cure now. He grabbed hold of his horse’s mane and pulled himself up onto his back. He kicked his side. With a slight whinny, the steed raced from the stables. Graden steered him out of the castle, charging beneath the inner ward and beneath the raised portcullis of the outer ward.

  Thunder rumbled around him as he steered his horse down the road, moving through the town and further beyond the town’s border. He was not going to let his father die. Not like his mother. He cursed himself every day for letting his mother go, for not trying everything he could think of to save her.

  Even seeking out Her.

  He had heard rumors, of course. But he had always dismissed them. He was rational, after all. He didn’t believe in superstition like the townspeople. But now, now he would try anything. He would not let his father die. Not like his mother! His vision blurred, and he swiped a hand across his eyes. His heart twisted, and he had to push his feelings aside to concentrate on his task.

  Lightning forked in the sky over his head, illuminating the road ahead of him. His fingers clutched the mane of his stallion as he dashed through the countryside.

  Although he had never been there, he knew where she lived. The old shack on the outskirts of town. Not much farther. He leaned forward over his steed’s neck, urging him faster. The townspeople avoided her, called her a witch, said she dealt with black magic.

  Graden didn’t care. He would not lose his father. He would not lose his only remaining relative! His fingers clenched in his horse’s mane. His body moved with the animal. The pounding of horse hooves rivaled the explosive thunder over his head. He turned the steed off the path toward the stream on the border of his lands. She lived there. The witch. He didn’t even know her name. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that she could save his father’s life.

  In a burst of light from above, he saw her small shack. It looked tiny and rundown. There was a small doorway in the front, but no windows. He reined his steed in, a flash of lightning streaking the sky. Graden stared at the shack, a trembling sense of foreboding creeping across the nape of his neck.

  Suddenly, a boom of thunder erupted, and his steed reared up onto two legs. Graden’s fingers slipped from the stallion’s mane and he tumbled backward from the animal. The horse fled into the darkness, whinnying with a terrified cry as it raced away.

  Graden lay on the ground for a long moment, staring up at the grey clouds churning in the night sky. When the first drop of rain splashed his cheek, he sat up. He rubbed his throbbing head to find a large lump at the crown. He slowly stood.

  The wind swirled about him, pushing him toward the shack. A torrential rain started, pelting the ground in sheets of water. Groggy, Graden stumbled toward the shack.

  He hesitated at the doorway. He saw a flickering light at the edges of the cover that protected the doorway. There was no wooden door barring entrance; a sheet of worn cotton served as the shack’s door. He glanced back toward the road. Was he doing the right thing? Was this the best way to save his father?

  “Where are your manners?” a voice called from inside.

  Graden straightened. He tried to peer inside, but the cover over the doorway made only glimpses possible. He could see sh
elves lined with jars. A table.

  “Come in!”

  A gust pushed Graden forward and he eased the cover aside, taking a deep breath before stepping into the shack. It was not what he expected. It was clean and comfortable. A hearth with a warm fire was tucked into the corner of the room. Two chairs with padded coverings were situated before it. Shelves filled with jars and containers lined the room. A simple, wood table was in the center of the room, a woman standing beside it. She was grinding something in a stone dish. Her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders, and her tan, flowing dress barely covered her thin body’s curves. For a boy of twelve, she was breathtaking.

  Graden’s mouth dropped open.

  “Do you always lurk around in front of homes?”

  Graden shook his head. “No. I’m sorry.”

  “What do you want?”

  Graden had expected a witch. A gnarled, old woman. Not this beautiful… “My father,” he whispered, the words coming out in a nervous croak.

  “He’s sick,” she said, finishing his words.

  Graden mentally shook himself. He stepped up to the table. He was here for his father. To make his father well. “Yes. Are you…?” His voice trailed off. Was she the witch? “…the one who lives here?”

  She stopped grinding the dark substance in the bowl and raised her eyes to him.

  Graden’s mouth opened in surprise. Her eyes were completely white. “Are you blind?”

  “I can see well enough. You are Lord Dumount’s son, are you not?”

  “Aye,” Graden said, his gaze unable to move away from her eyes. “My father is ill. He has the same sickness my mother died of. I want you to give me something to cure him.”

  Thunder shook the shack. Jars rattled on the shelves.

  The beautiful woman gazed at him for a long time until he grew uneasy. She wasn’t going to give him the cure. Maybe she didn’t have it. Doubt festered inside of Graden. He pushed the uncertainty from his mind. She was his only hope. Graden splayed his hands on the table and desperately leaned toward her. “I heard a powerful witch lived here. I heard there was nothing she couldn’t do.”