The Legend of Nimway Hall: 1794 - Charlotte E-Book

Karen Hawkins

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 294

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

New York Times bestselling author Karen Hawkins writes a ravishing addition to an exciting series of romances touched by magic as old as time. A properly raised young lady rebels against the restrictions of both society and family when she meets a dark, dangerous, and wildly passionate man as they both fight to resist their forbidden love ... and the seductive pull of an ancient magic. Miss Charlotte Harrington knows what's expected of her. Properly raised and newly reminded of her duties after the unexpected death of her far-more-perfect twin sister, Charlotte is resigned to wedding the son of a near neighboring land owner and live a sedate and proper, respectable life. But Charlotte's high spirits will not be contained and she yearns deeply for a life of adventure, excitement, and love. When wild and untamed Marco di Rossi arrives at Nimway Hall, commissioned to carve a masterpiece for the family home, he finds himself instantly drawn to the far-from-subdued Charlotte. Despite the potential ruin to his own brilliant career, he cannot resist her spirit and beauty, nor the call of the deep, wild magic that resides within a mysterious and magical orb hidden deep in the walls of the ancient house of Nimway… A historical novel of 57,000 words interweaving romance, mystery, and magic. Praise for the works of Karen Hawkins "Sparkling, witty repartee and heart-tugging emotions…pure, unadulterated Hawkins." RT Book Reviews, 4 ½ star TOP PICK "Completely captivating, wonderfully written, and ripe with romance with a legend so captivating you'll believe every word!" Romance Junkies "Karen Hawkins delivers warmth, humor, romance, and a touch of heartache…A great story to curl up with on cold winter's eve." Joyfully Reviewed

Leseprobe

THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1794 – CHARLOTTE

Karen Hawkins

Copyright

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Legend of Nimway Hall: 1974 - Charlotte

Copyright © 2018 by Karen Hawkins

Ebook ISBN: 9781641970136

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

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http://www.nyliterary.com

Contents

About This Book

THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Discover More in the Nimway Hall Series

Discover More by Karen Hawkins

About the Author

About This Book

1794: CHARLOTTE

New York Times bestselling author Karen Hawkins writes a ravishing addition to an exciting series of romances touched by magic as old as time.

A properly raised young lady rebels against the restrictions of both society and family when she meets a dark, dangerous, and wildly passionate man as they both fight to resist their forbidden love ... and the seductive pull of an ancient magic.

Miss Charlotte Harrington knows what’s expected of her. Properly raised and newly reminded of her duties after the unexpected death of her far-more-perfect twin sister, Charlotte is resigned to wedding the son of a near neighboring land owner and live a sedate and proper, respectable life. But Charlotte’s high spirits will not be contained and she yearns deeply for a life of adventure, excitement, and love.

When wild and untamed Marco di Rossi arrives at Nimway Hall, commissioned to carve a masterpiece for the family home, he finds himself instantly drawn to the far-from-subdued Charlotte. Despite the potential ruin to his own brilliant career, he cannot resist her spirit and beauty, nor the call of the deep, wild magic that resides within a mysterious and magical orb hidden deep in the walls of the ancient house of Nimway…

THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL

A love invested with mystery and magic sends ripples through the ages.

Long ago in a cave obscured by the mists of time, Nimue, a powerful sorceress and Merlin’s beloved, took the energy of their passion and wove it into a potent love spell. Intending the spell to honor their love and enshrine it in immortality, she merged the spell into the large moonstone in the headpiece of Merlin’s staff. Thus, when Merlin was far from her, he still carried the aura of their love with him and, so they both believed, the moonstone would act as a catalyst for true love, inciting and encouraging love to blossom in the hearts of those frequently in the presence of the stone.

Sadly, neither Merlin nor Nimue, despite all their power, foresaw the heart of Lancelot. A minor adept, he sensed both the presence of the spell in the moonstone and also the spell’s immense power. Driven by his own desires, Lancelot stole the headpiece and used the moonstone’s power to sway Guinevere to his side.

Furious that the spell crafted from the pure love of his and his beloved’s hearts had been misused, Merlin smote Lancelot and seized back the headpiece. To protect it forevermore, Merlin laid upon the stone a web of control that restricted its power. Henceforth, it could act only in response to a genuine need for true love, and only when that need impacted one of his and Nimue’s blood, no matter how distant.

Ultimately, Merlin sent the headpiece back to Nimue for safe keeping. As the Lady of the Lake, at that time, she lived in a cottage on an island surrounded by swiftly flowing streams, and it was in her power to see and watch over their now-dispersed offspring.

Time passed, and even those of near-immortality faded and vanished.

The land about Nimue’s cottage drained, and the region eventually became known as Somerset.

Generations came and went, but crafted of spelled gold, the headpiece endured and continued to hold and protect the timeless moonstone imbued with Nimue’s and Merlin’s spells…

Over time, a house, crafted of sound local stone and timbers from the surrounding Balesboro Wood, was built on the site of Nimue’s cottage. The house became known as Nimway Hall. From the first, the house remained in the hands and in the care of a female descendant of Nimue, on whom devolved the responsibilities of guardian of Nimway Hall. As decades and then centuries passed, the tradition was established that in each generation, the title of and responsibility for the house and associated estate passed to the eldest living and willing daughter of the previous female holder of the property, giving rise to the line of the Guardians of Nimway Hall.

THE GUARDIANS OF NIMWAY HALL

Nimue - Merlin.

through the mists of time

.

Moira Elizabeth O’Shannessy b. 1692

m. 1720 Phillip Tregarth

.

Jacqueline Vivienne Tregarth b. 1726

m. 1750 Lord Richard Devries

.

Olivia Heather Devries b. 1751

m. 1771 John “Jack” Harrington

.

Charlotte Anne Harrington b. 1776

m. 1794 Marco de Rossi

.

Isabel Jacqueline de Rossi b. 1797

m. 1818 Adam Driscoll

.

Miranda Rose Driscoll b. 1819

m. 1839 Michael Eades

.

Georgia Isabel Eades b. 1841

m. 1862 Frederick Hayden

.

Alexandra Edith Hayden b. 1864

m. 1888 Robert Curtis, Viscount Brynmore

.

Fredericka “Freddy” Viviane Curtis b. 1890

m. 1912 Anthony Marshall

.

Maddie Rose Devries b. 1904

m. 1926 Declan Maclean

.

Jocelyn Regina Stirling b. 1918

m.1940 Lt. Col. Gideon Fletcher

Chapter 1

“Lady Barton, are we there yet?”

Reclining on the coach seat, Verity kept her eyes closed. She was trying her best to nap and the last thing she wanted was to be drawn into conversation.

Sadly, her maid, the tall and angular Lucy Mull, had other ideas. She repeated herself in a louder voice and added, “I vow, but we’ve been in this coffin of a coach for nigh on ten hours now! We must be close.”

That was too much, even for Verity, who prized her naps almost as much as she did her morning cup of hot chocolate. She opened her eyes and favored her maid with an angry glare. “Is the coach still moving?”

“It is, my lady.” Lucy sniffed. “As you well know.”

“Then we are not yet at Nimway Hall! Now hush, you pestilent maid, and let me sleep.” Lady Verity tugged her feathered hat further down so that it shaded her eyes and then snuggled deeper into the puffy squabs.

Lucy gave an irritated sniff. “If you ask me, we will never get there what with the rain that poured down early this morning, and on roads so poor it’s a disgrace to even call them such, while this box sways and swerves as if it’s missing a wheel, and—”

“For the love of—” Verity shoved her hat from her eyes and sat upright. “Stop this caterwauling at once! I cannot sleep for the noise.”

Lucy folded her thin lips. “I was not caterwauling. I was just saying—”

“Lud, don’t repeat it! We will arrive when we arrive. And you have not been in this ‘box,’ as you call my lovely coach, for ten hours. We didn’t leave the inn until well after eleven this morning and it’s barely three now, plus we stopped for over an hour for lunch.”

Lucy said in a grumpy tone, “It feels as if we’ve been in here for ten hours.” The whip-thin maid with her tight brown curls and permanent scowl was as cantankerous as a recovering drunk, but she was also as loyal as the day was long, and possessed an uncanny genius for repairing gowns and designing coifs. For those reasons, and because Verity shuddered to think of the effort she’d have to expend to train a new maid, Lucy’s complaining was tolerated. Verity loved many things but expending herself was not one of them.

She wilted back into her corner of the coach and delicately covered her yawn with her plump hand. “I wish you hadn’t awoken me. I was having a lovely dream involving lemon cake and Lord Rackingham.”

Lucy’s irritation vanished and she leaned forward eagerly. “Was it a naughty dream, my lady? Lord Rackingham is as handsome as they come.”

“Lud, no!” Verity patted her mussed curls. “Not this time, anyway.” More’s the pity.

Lucy looked as disappointed as Verity felt. The maid said in a wistful tone, “I had a dream about Lord Rackingham once. He was naked, he was, and bold as a pirate, too.”

“I’m sure he was, for he seems to have tendencies in that direction. But please, do not say another word. I have to meet that man in public and I’ve no wish to think of— “

“There I was, in a stone tower, locked behind a huge door, and reclining on a divan like a princess in a cream silk gown that was open from my chin to my ankles. Wide open it was, too.”

“I daresay you were chilly.”

“I think I was, now that you mention it,” Lucy admitted. “And then Lord Rackingham arrived. He kicked down the door and, sword drawn, burst into my room naked as the day he was born—”

“Wait. He was already naked? Before he even entered the room?”

“He was.”

“And yet he broke down a heavy door? With his bare hands?”

“Aye, so he did.”

“Was he bleeding, then? I can’t imagine he could break down a door whilst naked and not bruise or at least scratch himself. And why was his sword drawn? Did he expect to fight you? I vow, Lucy, but that dream makes no sense. At least my dreams make sense.”

Lucy sputtered. “You dreamt last week that you owned a tiny elephant that fit in your teacup!”

“A tiny elephant. Which is why it fit. I didn’t, however, dream about a naked man knocking down a heavy wooden door without marring his skin, and running in with a drawn sword for no reason at all. I mean, how did he knock down the door if he wasn’t even wearing stiff boots in order to kick—” The coach slowed, and then turned. Verity brightened. “Ah, we must be on the drive to Nimway Hall.” She held back a corner of the curtain to expose a beautiful forest. “Balesboro Wood, so we’re close. We shall be having tea soon, which is good, for I’m famished.”

The maid peered out the window, her eyebrows lowered. “There’s a darkness in these woods.”

“Of course there is.” Verity dropped the curtain back into place. “Woods are notoriously unfriendly places. They’re damp, and dirty, and contain all sorts of creatures, some of whom bite. But we shall only see it when we come and go, and then from the safety of a coach. Meanwhile, the house itself is quite lovely, and I hear my sister-in-law Olivia, who is the guardian of Nimway, has been redecorating it, so it’s vastly improved from the last time I was here.”

The maid frowned. “Mrs. Harrington is the guardian and not your brother?”

“Yes. The whole thing’s quite complicated, and I won’t pretend I understand, but Nimway Hall is always held by a female. Something to do with the entail or – Lud, I’ve no idea. Anyway, it’s Olivia’s, and one day I suppose it will belong to Charlotte now that her sister Caroline is—” Verity closed her lips over the rest of her sentence, unable to say the words even after eleven long months.

“Now that Miss Caroline is no longer with the living,” Lucy offered helpfully.

Tears burned Verity’s eyes, and she nodded.

“That’s an odd thing, to leave the house to the female line rather than the male.”

Grateful for a distraction, Verity agreed. “Indeed. From what Olivia has said, Nimway’s line of succession was determined in ancient times. In fact – and do not ask me if this is true, for I’ve no idea – but some of the villagers say the house and lands have something to do with Merlin.”

“The sorcerer?” Lucy gawped. “You cannot mean it!”

“Oh yes. Local lore says that the love of his life was a witch named Nimway, so the house must have been hers, although I don’t think it’s that old, so perhaps she owned the land or—or—Well, I’ve no idea. It’s all rumor, of course, but a fun one.”

“You don’t know it’s a rumor.” Lucy cocked her eye at her employer. “You said yesterday that you’d visited the Hall many times. Have you seen any magic whilst staying here?”

“Lud, no. I never saw anything untoward. Well, except—” Verity wondered if she should mention that day, for it had been long, long ago and, to be honest, over time she’d come to wonder if her memory hadn’t been compromised by wine or—or—well, she wouldn’t say ‘age’ as that would be too much, and she was only 30ish.

Lucy’s eyes widened. “What did you see?”

“Nothing. At one time, I thought—” A strand of light broke through the crack in the curtain, so Verity slid it all of the way open. “There is Nimway Hall now!”

Lucy peered at the house sitting on a rise before them. “It’s nowhere near as large as Chatsworth.”

“Few houses are,” Verity returned sharply. “Nimway Hall is not as large, but it’s still quite pretty.” Her family pride roused, she added, “In fact, I would say it’s prettier than Chatsworth.”

Lucy wrinkled her nose, and then muttered something under her breath that sounded like “I can’t imagine that!” but must have been something far less impudent.

“You obviously aren’t trying,” Verity said. Her beloved brother and his dear wife had found their happiness within the walls of Nimway. Besides, who wouldn’t adore such an old, stately house? The real problem was that Lucy had no appreciation for architectural majesty.

Verity looked up at the house and admired its position upon a wide bluff, a silvered pool of mist swirling at its feet. Nimway Hall was built of local stone that shimmered under the wan sun. It was three stories high with an expanse of jewel green lawn that rolled gently down to the wood that encircled it. But as beautiful as the front lawn was, Verity knew the back lawn was even more beckoning with its beautifully cultivated gardens that framed sparkling Lake Myrrdin. Ah, how she looked forward to seeing it all from the comfort of a settee near a large, open window.

The coach continued to the house, the familiar scent of lavender rising from the bushes that lined the drive. As they approached the forecourt, the mist curled away as if making a path for them. It was enough to give one the shivers, if one believed in such nonsense, which Verity most certainly didn’t. Besides, her real concern wasn’t with the house or the silly rumors one heard about it, but with the person waiting on them. Oh Charlotte, my favorite and now only niece, I wonder how these past months have changed you?

“My lady, you look sad. Missing Miss Caroline, are you?”

“It is odd, being here without her. But as difficult as it is for me and the rest of the family, I’m convinced it has been a hundred times harder for Charlotte. They were twins and no two sisters were closer.”

“I didn’t know they were twins. It’s tragic when someone dies so young, but that makes it even worse.” Lucy hesitated, and then said, “If you don’t mind me asking, how did Miss Caroline die?”

“She was out riding in the woods late at night. Something must have startled her horse, for she fell and hit her head upon a rock.”

“Riding after dark?” Lucy shook her head. “Young people can be so foolish.”

“‘Foolish’ is not a word I ever thought to use to describe Caroline. The child never broke a rule, nor said a cross word, nor did anything other than what was expected. My brother always said she was born a lady.”

“Then why was she out riding in the middle of the night?”

“No one knows. It was so unlike her. A thorough investigation was done, but nothing was determined. We’d hoped the answer would be found in Caroline’s diary, for the child wrote in one every day, but no one could find it.”

Lucy gasped. “It disappeared?”

“No, no. We just couldn’t find it. It must be somewhere, for who would take it?”

“Someone with an eye to murder, that’s who,” Lucy said grimly.

“Well, it wasn’t a murder, so you can keep those thoughts to yourself,” Verity replied testily. “The family was traumatized enough without such nonsense. I’m just hoping things are better now. Which is why we’re here. My brother and his wife are in London visiting their son John, who is a captain in the Navy and has been temporarily brought to dock while awaiting repairs on his ship. So I’m to chaperone Charlotte until their return.”

“It’s quite kind of you to do so, my lady, but I still think—”

“Then stop. We are here to help, not make things worse by blathering about murders and what not, and all with no proof, mind you. No one would have wished harm upon Caroline. Everyone loved her.”

“She seems a paragon. Does Miss Charlotte look like her sister?”

“Oh no, not at all. Although they are twins, they are as—I’m sorry—they were as different as day and night. Caroline looked just like my sister-in-law Olivia, blonde with silver gray eyes, and just as lovely and proper. Meanwhile, Charlotte has my brother Jack’s coloring, auburn hair and deep blue eyes. She has . . .” Verity pursed her lips thoughtfully, searching for the right word. “Charlotte has character.”

“Character?” Lucy looked unconvinced. “What does that mean?”

“It means she has a great deal of spirit and far too much intelligence for a girl her age.” Verity hesitated, and then added, “She’s not perfect, of course. There are . . . things that aren’t quite as they should be with Charlotte.”

“What do you mean by that?” The maid leaned closer. “My lady, is something wrong with Miss Charlotte?”

“No, of course not! There’s nothing wrong with Charlotte! She just fine as she is. It’s just that Caroline was always so perfect, at least by society’s standards, that poor Charlotte was forever being compared to her sister, which was massively unfair.”

“By society’s standards, eh?” Lucy’s thick brows rose. “But not by yours, my lady?”

“Never by mine. Charlotte was always my favorite. She has a restless soul, never lets her problems keep her from accomplishing things, and is always searching for . . . well, I don’t know what, but something. Of course, that was before her sister passed.” Verity stared out the window at the approaching house, a weight on her heart. “Her mother says Charlotte is quite different now. She’s settled down and is even engaged to be married.”

“That’s good news, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” Verity said without conviction. “She’s marrying a viscount. He’s been a friend of the family for quite some time. He’s the grandson of a local landowner, and is quite handsome, well bred, and very plump in the pocket.”

Lucy nodded her approval. “A love match, then.”

Verity didn’t answer. To be honest, the engagement was the reason she’d accepted Olivia’s request for assistance. Verity usually found the responsibilities of serving as chaperone too taxing and would make excuses to avoid the task. But the news of Charlotte’s engagement within months of her sister’s death had been unsettling.

Verity rarely questioned her brother’s and sister-in-law’s judgement, for they were loving and kind parents. But she feared Olivia and Jack were too bruised from Caroline’s death to see what was occurring with their remaining daughter. Charlotte had experienced more than enough pain as it was, and Verity wasn’t about to let her favorite niece make a mistake that might bring her yet more grief.

The coach rolled to a stop in front of the Hall. A footman leapt down to open the door and put the stepstool in place. Verity adjusted her hat, drew her cloak closer, turned her panniers so that they would fit through the door, and then stepped down onto the drive. A faint wind fluffed her skirts while her boots crunched upon the gravel. Behind her, Lucy gave instructions to the footmen about the many trunks tied to the back of the coach.

Verity eyed the house before her. The mist, oddly enough much thicker now even with the sun well overhead, rolled over their boots like waves, breaking against Nimway’s silvered walls and then dissipating into the damp air.

Lucy came to stand beside Verity, her thin nose almost quivering as she looked around. “There’s an odd feeling to this place,” she announced. “I can see why the locals tell tales. It feels enchanted.”

“La, how you go on! It’s not enchanted, and you’d be wise to remember that. Now come, let’s find my niece and—"

The door to the great house opened.

Verity stepped forward in expectation, but no auburn-haired young lady came flying out to greet her. Instead, a tall, pinch-faced butler padded into the courtyard. He bowed as soon as he reached them. “Lady Barton, how are you? We’ve been expecting you.”

“Thank you, Simmons.” She looked over his shoulder at the open, empty doorway. “Where’s Miss Charlotte?”

His thin lips folded in displeasure. “I fear she is out riding. She’s been gone a few hours now and I’m not certain when she’ll return.”

“Heavens! Should we send someone to look for her?”

“I’m sure she’s fine. She rides every morning and mentioned she might stop by the vicar’s house and leave some flowers. I daresay the vicar’s wife invited her to stay for lunch.”

“Playing Lady of the Manor while her mother’s gone, is she? Well, good for her.”

Simmons didn’t look as if he agreed. Indeed, he looked more as if he’d just swallowed a lemon, but after a moment of pained-faced struggle, he gave a short, polite nod.

Verity laughed. “Enough of your doom and gloom, Simmons! I’ve just spent hours in a coach and I haven’t the stomach for it.”

Simmons’s mouth twitched, and a faint smile slipped out. “Yes, my lady. May I say that it will do Miss Charlotte good to have a visitor? It will do us all good.”

“It will do me some good, too, for I’m quite fagged to death from attending balls and dinners and soirees. If I do not see another glass of orgeat until next year, it would please me greatly. I—Oh dear. I haven’t yet introduced you to my new maid. Simmons, this is Lucy Hull. She’ll need to know which rooms is mine, so she can direct the delivery of the luggage.”

“Of course, my lady. Miss Hull, welcome to Nimway Hall.” He gestured to a nearby footman, who dashed up and, bowing, escorted Lucy toward the growing pile of luggage. Simmons turned back to Verity. “Lady Barton, I hope you don’t mind, but when I saw your coach pulling up, I took the liberty to have a tea tray prepared and delivered to your bed chamber. I assume you still take a daily nap?”

“Why yes, I do. Thank you for remembering. You know how I enjoy my naps.”

The butler’s smile softened. “That I do, my lady.”

“Good. Now come, let’s get out of this damp air. It’s making my curls sag, and that I cannot stand. Besides, I should at least find a comfortable chair while I’m waiting on Charlotte’s return.”

Still smiling, Simmons bowed and led the way inside.

Chapter 2

“Mannaggia la miseria! We are lost.” The servant, an elderly man with a shock of white hair and sun-browned skin, eyed the surrounding trees as if offended by their very existence.

“I said as much an hour ago,” Marco di Rossi answered shortly. “But you’d hear none of it. In fact, we’ve passed that tree three times now.”

“Three times?” Pietro Luca, a master stonemason and an impossible assistant, cocked a disbelieving eye at the tree. “Impossibile!”

Marco’s black gelding snorted his disgust. Marco patted the horse’s neck and murmured, “You are right, Diavolo. He is stubborn like an old mule and will not listen to anyone.”

“I should have ridden with the cart to Nimway Hall,” Pietro muttered.

“I suggested that, too, but again you would have none of it,” Marco said shortly. As irked as it made him, he never took Pietro’s grumbling to heart. The stonemason was an old man, his hair so white it gleamed even in the shadow of the trees. No one knew his real age, including Pietro, although he claimed to be over ninety. Marco, having witnessed the old man’s strength and his indefatigable love of women, thought it closer to sixty.

However old he was, Pietro had one allegiance and that was to the di Rossi family, which had rescued the Luca family from poverty and then given them decades of employment in a variety of tasks. Pietro, who’d been just a youth when his grandfather had become head groom for the famous di Rossi stables, had been taught the valuable art of stonemasonry and had shown such a talent for selecting quality blocks of Carrara marble that by the time he was thirty, he’d become the master stonemason for the house.

From a young age, Marco had taken Pietro’s knowledge of stone and turned it into art. Thus, the perfect partnership had been born.

Pietro sniffed loudly. “The post boy at the inn lied. There is no shortcut. He’s probably even now laughing at me. Why I should hunt him down like the dog he is and slit his throat for—”

“Boh! You waste your time with that halfwit. We must find Nimway Hall. The cart will already be there, and those fools cannot set up my workshop without instruction.” Two of Pietro’s assistants had driven the cart to the Hall, brawny lads trained to handle the marble slabs they’d brought from Italy. As soon as the marble was unloaded, they’d return home and leave him and Pietro to finish the assignment.

Assignment. Curse is more like. He hadn’t wanted to accept the overly generous offer from Mrs. Harrington to carve a ‘unique to my home’ marble fireplace to serve as a centerpiece for her dining room. But Marco’s father, who’d once been a famous painter in his own right, had pointed out that the English market was ready for a favorite Italian sculptor and it would be foolish to turn down an assignment from someone so well connected. Marco couldn’t disagree, especially after Mrs. Harrington casually mentioned that she couldn’t wait to share her new treasure with the Queen, with whom she had more than a passing acquaintance.

It was one thing to sell one’s work for mere money. But a recommendation to royalty? Ah . . . that was something else. And as the family fortune now rested solely on Marco’s shoulders, he found he couldn’t say no.

He stifled a sigh and looked at the sun where it shone through the trees. At least the heavy mist was gone. That was helpful as it made the wood seem less . . . active. Marco grimaced at his own imagination. It was a normal wood, this. Slightly confusing, true, with its inclines and rambling pathways that all looked alike, but it was nothing more than that.

An owl hooted as if in defiance of his thoughts.

Pietro started, and his horse pranced nervously. The horse, a fat but small piebald the stonecutter fondly called ‘Goliath’ after the animal’s unusually huge appetite, looked ready to bolt.

So did his rider. “Why is that owl awake at this time of the day?” Pietro asked loudly, suspicion in his voice.

“Perhaps we woke him, tromping under his perch over and over.” Marco stared at the tree from where the hooting had come. Odd, he remembered all of the trees in this clearing except that gnarled oak. The tree was twisted and turned as if it had fought untold elements, its leaves fluttering in the wind as if trying to shake off a bad thought. On impulse, Marco turned Diavolo toward the crooked tree and rode past it, the owl hooting softly as they went. “Come, Pietro.”

Grumbling, the stonemason followed, Goliath snorting nervously. They pushed through some shrubs and the path appeared before them.

Marco pulled up Diavolo and grinned. “Look! We’ve found the path again.”

“We found a path,” Pietro said in a flat tone. “I can only hope it’s the right one.”

“It is. I recognize that boulder.”

Pietro looked at the large rock. His eyes widened and he made the sign of the cross. “That looks like a screaming spirit!”

“It does not,” Marco said sharply, although privately he thought Pietro was right; the boulder did look a little like a screaming face. But only a little.

Still, it was more than enough for Pietro, who said in a dark tone, “There’s evil at work here.”

Marco chuckled. “You are ridiculous. What do you think will happen? The angel of death will jump out of the woods and eat you—”

A white mare burst onto the path before them, scattering leaves and twigs. A girl – for she could be no more than sixteen, if that – sat astride the huge horse, the voluminous skirts of her sapphire blue habit flowing about her.

Diavolo shied wildly. Marco held the animal in check, but somehow that damned knobby tree, which he had thought well behind him, got in the way. His cloak tangled with some low hung branches and ensnared him.

He was more than a match for one or the other – the bolting horse or tangling with the low branches – but not both. The horse reared and, caught by the tree, Marco was thrown to the ground, his cloak ripping on a limb.

He landed on his back with a hard thud. Moments passed and all he could do was stare up at the flecks of sky visible between knotted branches while he fought for breath.

It was then it happened – an apparition blocked his view of the tree tops, one as vivid as it was surprising, a heart-shaped face surrounded by tousled dark red hair, and freshly pinkened cheeks that contrasted with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

She was older than he’d thought, although not by much. If she was over twenty years of age, he’d have been surprised, and she was every bit as taking up close as she had been from a distance. The woman obviously didn’t fear the sun, which became her greatly and added a faintly exotic air to what was already a fascinating collection of features. She reminded him of a painting he’d once seen in Naples of Venus arising from the sea, her long auburn tresses entwined with seaweed.

“Are you injured?” Her voice was low and musical, as comely as the rest of her.

Am I injured? He couldn’t breathe well, and now he was seeing visions in blue.

“I should call for help.” She started to rise.

He caught her wrist.

The second his fingers touched her bare skin, a surge of pure, blazing fire ripped through him. His senses roared to life and all the air he’d thought he’d lost came racing back, filling his lungs and making him gasp at the shock.

She must have felt something as well, for she flushed and then yanked her wrist free, cradling it as if it were burned, her eyes wide, her lips parted.

He sat upright, his next action already determined as though someone had whispered it into his ear. He leaned forward at the same time she did, and their lips met.

It was almost as if someone had placed a hand on the back of each of their heads and gently led them together.

They kissed, meeting with a furiously hot-blooded passion that roared like a wild fire racing through a too-dry forest. There was none of the awkwardness of a first kiss. Instead, they kissed deeply as though they’d kissed a million times before, his hands buried in her silky hair as she clutched his coat, straining toward each other, desperate for more even as they consumed one another.

Her mount snorted noisily, and the moment was broken. They pulled apart, their gazes locked as they stared at one another, startled and shocked.

The woman gasped, her breath sweet on his lips before she scrambled to her feet. “We—I—" Hand pressed to her mouth, she whirled around and went to her horse, lurching a bit in her hurry. Once there, she clung to the saddle as if it was the only thing holding her upright. “We—That was—” She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts.

She looked as bemused as he felt. She had a fascinating face, this bewildering woman who’d kissed him with such burning passion but now wouldn’t even meet his gaze. His first impression had been right; she was beautiful, although not in the traditional sense of bland symmetry. Her beauty was more piquant, and less classical in natural. Her face was heart-shaped, but her nose was bold and her jaw firm. An intriguing scatter of freckles marked her sun-kissed skin, while thick lashes fringed her deep blue eyes in a way that gave her a decidedly impish look.

Marco climbed to his feet, stung by his bruised pride. It had been years – almost decades – since he’d been thrown from a horse in such a humiliating manner. Although, truth be told, that damned kiss had offset him far more than being thrown to the ground. Dio, what a kiss. He was still dizzy from it, which was incomprehensible. What in the hell just happened?

Overhead, as if in approval, the owl hooted, and drew the woman’s bemused glance.

Marco read her curious expression and explained, “We woke him when we rode under his tree.”

The woman’s gaze flickered to the woods behind him, her brows arching. “We?”

Marco glanced around but saw only Diavolo standing a few yards away, stomping the ground to express his displeasure. Pietro and his grumpy mount were gone. That fool. Marco bit back an irritated sigh. “My assistant was here. He seems to have left in the madness.” It was more likely that Goliath had left, and had taken Pietro with him, but Marco didn’t feel like explaining.

He turned back to the woman and allowed himself a smile. “Of course, were he here, then that kiss wouldn’t have—”

“There was no kiss,” she said sharply.

His smile slipped. “What?”

“There was no kiss.” Her gaze pinned him in place, not giving an inch.