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Showing posts with label free romance read. Show all posts
Showing posts with label free romance read. Show all posts

Friday, October 3, 2014

Miss Danvers Decides

by Christy Carlyle


(Miss Danvers Decides is a continuation of an earlier free short read, Lord Pennington's Proposal. If you wish, you can read that first part of the story here.)

London, 1867

“Marry me, Bella.”

Lord Jonathan Pennington’s words, spoken in his smooth baritone, echoed in Isabella Danvers’ mind as she stood in the cozy comfort of his study. Though a fire in the grate still gave off a bit of warmth, Bella pulled her shawl up around her shoulders to stifle the shivers that had begun to rattle her body.

Jack’s handsome face was as familiar to Bella as her own, but the words coming out of his mouth were strange as a foreign language. The eagerness in his tone and raw excitement in his gaze set her heart racing, while the three words shattered her composure. For a woman with a secret writing life, relying on words to write stories under a nom de plume, Bella could not rally a single phrase in response to Jack’s unimaginable proposal.

In the tangled jumble of her thoughts, she could only hear an echo of his words. "Marry me, Bella."

Marry Jack Pennington. It was a notion—an impossible dream—she had kept hidden within her heart and mind for more years than she could count. Her secret had been kept so close that even Father had been unaware of the feelings she harbored for the aristocrat who had been her childhood friend. When her father named Jack as her guardian in his will, he had bound them together but given the duty of finding a husband to the only man she had ever mused about marrying.

“Bella?” His tone had lost its exuberance and concern for her etched creases of worry across his forehead, just under the errant lock of black hair that dipped down toward his brow, always refusing to behave. “I’ve shocked you.”

Shocked, yes. That was it. Shock, fear, and a slice of unreasonable hope were among the riot of emotions making her tremble. Though she had suggested marriage to Jack moments before, she never imagined he might take the tease seriously.

The whole idea was ridiculous. Impossible. Jack might be the same man who had encouraged her strident opinions as a girl and derided her love of Gothic novels as a young woman, but he was, above all things, the Earl of Pennington.

He had never wanted the title; he’d made that clear. But she never doubted he would do his duty—to his father and the family name. Marrying the daughter of the Pennington’s longtime butler was out of the question. In fact, it would spark gossip and scandalize the society misses and mothers who would surely consider the Earl of Pennington a prime catch in the coming season.

From the moment he had inherited his father’s titles and estates, Jack had been the soul of propriety. He had always been a clever man, and as a child Bella adored his sense of adventure. But there had been little adventure since he’d assumed his father’s title, and she sympathized for the rounds of inane social visits and dusty estate ledgers with which he spent his time. Jack needed a bit of adventure, truth be told, but this—marriage to a completely unacceptable young woman­­­­­­—was precisely the kind of adventure he did not need.

“I am going to take a turn in the park.”

After finally finding her voice, Bella offered Jack a reassuring grin, but he seemed anything but reassured. When she stood, he shot up too and reached a hand toward her.

“Let me accompany you.”

“No.”

Harsher than she intended, her tone wounded him. She could see it in the flicker of disappointment that shadowed his green eyes.

“I promise I won’t be long.” She smiled up at him again, but turned toward the door, not waiting to see if he returned her expression. Though she spent a portion of nearly every day in his company, looking at the beautiful planes and angles of his face was suddenly painful.

“You heard my question, did you not?”

That tone was familiar and a grin tugged at her mouth at the sound of it. It was Jack’s I-am-six-years-your-senior-and-not-at-all-pleased tone.

“Was it a question? I thought perhaps you were teasing me, in return for my making such an outrageous suggestion.”

Bella still couldn’t look him in the eye, but she turned her head in his direction. They might tease each other, but there had never been a moment of rudeness between them.

He stalked toward her, boot heels clicking on the polished wooden floor. Bella did not move, and she dared not meet his gaze. He came close, just behind her, close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath against her neck.

When he spoke, his voice was low, quiet, and bone-meltingly tender.

“It was a question. Perhaps the most important of my life.”

Bella swayed toward him, and he placed a firm, warm hand on her upper back to steady her. Such sweet pleasure emanated from his touch that she felt the word bubbling up. Yes. The answer she wished she could give him, ached to say again and again.

“You will give me an answer, won’t you, Bella?”

A flutter in her chest blossomed into an ache as she walked away from him, still unable to meet his gaze. She stopped at the door of the study and turned back.

He had honored her with his question and she owed him an answer. But not yet. She could not bring herself to shut out the possibilities just yet. “After my walk, Jack. I promise you an answer after my walk.”

“Then I hope it’s a pleasant walk.”

Hearing the humor in his voice, Bella finally turned to look at him. She relished the moment as the tension between them ebbed. The moment made it easier for her to walk away.

Once she’d wrapped herself in her cloak and faced the chilly October morning, she longed for the comfort of sitting with Jack beside the fireplace. But she couldn’t face Jack without giving him an answer, and before her answer, there was someone she wished to see.

She met no one as she made her way along Brook Street toward Grosvenor Square. Bella knew it was early for visiting hours, but she hoped Emily would make an exception for her.

Bella did not mind the brief wait in the Earl and Countess of Wharton’s drawing room. Emily’s Grosvenor Square townhouse was always filled with hothouse flowers and, perhaps because of its lavender wallpaper, the drawing room was usually dotted with bowls overflowing with violets. Their sweet, vibrant scent reminded Bella of Eastleigh, the Pennington estate in Hampshire where she and Jack had grown up.

“Bella, my dear, I did not expect you today. Have you brought me another?” The countess clasped her hands together like a child eager for her first gift on Christmas morning. “I read the last one in single sitting. I could not put it down. Charles actually scolded me for spending too much time reading.”

Thrilled to hear her story had so enthralled her friend, Bella giggled. “I am afraid I haven’t brought you another story. I’ve come to ask you a question. And to tell you of a question Jack has put to me.”

“How intriguing. It sounds as if tea is in order.”

After ringing for refreshment and settling themselves on the settee, Emily looked at Bella expectantly. Though their stations were as different as Bella’s from Jack, Emily had always treated Bella like a sister, an honorary member of her large, wealthy family. Nothing had changed when she'd married the Earl of Wharton, and Charles and his family had embraced her as readily as Emily had.

“So tell me of Jack's question.”

“First tell me what it’s like to be a countess.”

Emily laughed, a rich, throaty sound that made Bella smile.

“Are you considering becoming one yourself?”

Her question, asked with a smile and laughter lingering in her tone confirmed the foolishness of the very notion to Bella. How could she ever be Jack’s countess?

“Jack has asked me to marry him.”

For a moment Emily didn’t move, her bow-shaped mouth hanging open in a most unladylike manner, but then Bella's words seemed to ignite her. She shot up from her spot on the settee and clasped her hands to her mouth, stared back at Bella wide eyed, and then sat next to her again. When she reached for her hands, Bella noticed tears in Emily’s eyes.

“Darling Bella, what happy news. I am bursting with happiness for you.” She did cry then, tears slipping down her cheeks as she clasped Bella in an embrace.

Bella hugged her friend back, and felt tears well in her own eyes. “I have not given him an answer.”

“What? Why ever not? My dear, you must. You simply must.”

Pulling back, Bella swiped at her cheek. “I cannot marry him, Em. It’s impossible.”

Emily stared at her as if she’d gone mad. “I don’t understand.”

“I am a butler’s daughter. Butlers’ daughters don’t become countesses.”

“Apparently they do. You will. Bella, you and Jack… Well, it has always been clear to me. You’re meant for each other.”

“He does not know about my writing.”

“Then you must tell him.”

“He loathes Mrs. Radcliffe and all Gothic novels.”

Emily shook her head as if Bella spoke nonsense.

“He’s never read one of yours, Bella dear. You’ve never given him the chance.”

“What will people say? I couldn’t bear to bring him shame.”

Bella continued on, voicing her fears and anxiety, her belief that she might tarnish the Pennington name by marrying Jack.

Emily listened patiently, holding her hand through much of the tirade, offering her a reassuring squeeze now and then.

“Are you quite finished?”

Surprised by her friend’s tone, Bella looked up into the young countess’s clear blue eyes. Her face was set in a firm yet benevolent expression.

“Yes, I’m finished.”

“I have only one question for you.”

Bella nodded her head and took a deep breath. No question the countess might ask could be more daunting than Jack’s.

“Do you love him?”

The question was ridiculous, perhaps as ridiculous as Jack’s. Of course she loved him. She had always loved him. Bella could barely recall a day of her life before she loved Jack Pennington.

Though Bella had not said a word, Emily beamed.

“Well, that’s that.” The countess lifted a gold fob watch pinned to one of the many folds of her elaborate skirt. “You mustn’t keep him waiting. He is an earl, after all. If he’s anything like Charles, he will detest waiting.”

“But—“

“Give him the answer of your heart, my dear. Do not allow fears to steal your happiness.”

Emily led Bella to the foyer, helped settle her cloak around her, and kissed her on the cheek before giving her a gentle nudge out the door.

As Bella descended the stairs, her friend called to her.

“Bella?”

She turned back to Emily.

“I think you will be a magnificent Lady Pennington.”


***

He rubbed his hands together as he watched her. It was a gesture that indicated Jack was nervous, worried, and Bella instantly felt a pang of guilt for keeping him waiting so long.

“Come sit by the fire.” He gestured toward her favorite chair and Bella was relieved to sink into it again.

“Your walk. Was it pleasant?”

“It was short. I didn’t go to the park as I’d intended. I went to visit Lady Wharton.”

He edged back, sitting stiffly in his chair, but he rested his hands on the chair's arms. For some reason, hearing of her visit to Emily’s seemed to ease his anxiety.

“Did you indeed?”

“Yes. I suspect I will be visiting her quite often. Perhaps she can give me lessons.”

Jack opened his mouth as if he meant to speak but then closed it again. He eased forward in his chair, leaning toward her.

“Lessons?”

She smiled at him, willing him to read her meaning, eager to banish the anxiousness she could still read in his gaze.

“You see, I know nothing at all about being a countess.”

He ducked his head, his shoulders sagging as if a great weight had lifted.

“Bella, I am a simple man. Tell me simply.”

He was anything but a simple man, and if the moment had not been so full of joyful anticipation she would have told him so. Instead she spoke one simple word as simply as she was able.

“Yes.”

“Yes? Is this the yes?"

Since the word seemed inadequate on its own, she nodded her head before repeating it. “Yes.”

He reached for her hand as he had a hundred times before, with a warm, easy familiarity. But when he pulled her close and pressed his mouth to hers, everything was new. Heart bursting with bliss and relief, Bella knew theirs would be a wonderful adventure.            

Friday, August 22, 2014

Never Trust a Man with Little Ears (A Bellham Romance) - Part Four of Four

“Justin, what are you and your lady friend doing sneaking up on us?” Tanner asked, his voice gravelly now, accusing.
He knows Justin, Mia thought. He’s got to be the cowboy they planned to fix me up with, doesn’t he?
“Just seeing how you two are getting along.” Justin said, tilting his shaggy blond head and shrugging as though he were filled with innocence.
“Ah, I see. This was a set up then, was it?” Tanner arched a brow and glanced from Justin to Skye to Mia.
Mia’s heart fell and the heat spread over her ears and traveled down her neck. Didn’t Skye say Tanner/Hunter/Trapper wanted to meet her, too? Maybe Skye said he was willing to meet her. Mia supposed there could be a big difference between the two.
She was confused again. Was this the right guy? And, if so, had he wanted to meet her? Mia gazed once more at her new boots, dismayed to notice a thin layer of rodeo dust already coated the deep-pink leather.
“He treating you okay?” Justin asked Mia.
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Heated blood jetted back to Mia’s face to fully concentrate on her cheeks. My face must be the color of my boots. Maybe it will pass for heat flush. I hope so. But even with her cheeks flaming, Mia still breathed relief. Justin wouldn’t ask if Tanner was treating me okay, and he wouldn’t check on how we were getting along unless Tanner really is the guy I was supposed to meet, right?
Tanner ran a thumb lazily over the back of Mia’s hand. Tingling goose bumps pebbled up her arm. It felt good, felt right, her hand in his. A slight breeze swirled by, and Mia caught a whiff of Tanner’s spicy-citrus aftershave. The scent combined with the dust and horse sweat in a powerful way.
A powerfully-good way
“You let me know if he doesn’t treat you right, and I’ll take care of him for you,” Justin said, a teasing tone to his voice, but a stern look in his eyes as he scanned Tanner’s face. Justin’s gaze traveled lower to settle on Tanner and Mia’s clasped hands. His eyes brightened. “You two lovebirds want to go to Sticks’ barbeque with us after the rodeo?” 
Mia breathed easier. Yes! Justin would not be inviting Tanner and me to a party unless Tanner was definitely the one he and Skye intended me to meet.
“Come on, Mia,” Skye said, leaning forward in earnestness, her hair, the same shiny brown-black as Mia’s, cascading from under her cowboy hat and falling over one shoulder. “Say yes. You know Sticks throws the best barbeques in Bellham.”
Always go on a first date in a public place. Be sure to take a chaperone.
Yes, Papa Pete.
Tanner aimed those golden-brown eyes at Mia. “I’m game, if you are.” He gave her hand a slight squeeze.
“Sure,” she said, the hand and arm tingles returning in full force. “Sounds fun.”  
Skye beamed a smile at Mia and Tanner, and then turned to plant a noisy kiss full on Justin’s mouth.
Mia glanced away, wishing those two would refrain from such blatant public displays of affection. It was embarrassing. Probably one of the reasons they did it. Skye and Justin knew how easy it was to embarrass her, and seemed to enjoy doing so.
Mia looked down at her hand enveloped in Tanner’s. Going on a double date to the barbeque did sound fun. It wouldn’t be dangerous like going off alone into the boonies on a first date – Skye, Justin, and other friends would be at Sticks’ party, too.
Good, safe fun.
“Why don’t we walk you ladies to your seats?” Justin said.  
“Yep, it’s about time to get ready for our rides,” Tanner said. “The performance starts soon. Want to make sure you get good spots.”
Justin and Skye led the way to the grandstand, their arms slung around each other, their footfalls sending up puffs of dust, like smoke-signal shorthand. The puffs lifted and dissipated at intervals as regular as a beating heart.    
Tanner and Mia followed, still holding hands. Again she caught the citrus-spice, horse-sweat fragrance of him. She closed her eyes and drew it in. Mmmmm. 
Tanner angled his head so his lips were close to Mia’s ear. “I’ll look forward to spending time with you after my ride.” Quietly he said it, so only she could hear.
Her heart sprouted feathers and fluttered inside her chest.
As they strolled past the bucking chutes and roping chutes, past other cowboys and cowgirls, Mia once more inspected the plump earlobes protruding from beneath Tanner’s hat. The big ears and good-guy white hat made her smile. If Papa Pete were still around, this cowboy would definitely meet with his approval.  

~Author Bio~
Danita Cahill is an award-winning freelance writer and photographer. She’s written and published over 2,100 newspaper articles and columns for 11 different Northwest newspapers, and dozens of magazine stories and photo layouts for six different magazines. She has five stories and a photo in two of HCI’s anthologies and has self-published five books – two non-fiction and three fiction titles. Danita lives in the Pacific NW on a small Oregon farm with her family and animals, including a herd of 10 alpacas. Besides running children to and fro and caring for her gardens, critters and family, Danita stays busy working on magazine assignments and her next book projects.
Visit Danita’s author page:
Follow Danita on Twitter: @DanitaCahill

If you’d like to subscribe to Danita Cahill’s newsletter and receive information about book signings, appearances, and new book releases, please send an email to: danita@centurylink.net and put “newsletter” in the subject line. 

Friday, August 15, 2014

Never Trust a Man with Little Ears (A Bellham Romance) - Part Three of Four

“My name’s Tanner. Tanner Michaels.” He swept off his cowboy hat and held it over his heart, as if paying her homage. “What’s yours?”
A gentleman removes his hat when greeting a lady. It shows respect.
Not Hunter or Trapper, but Tanner. Close. Similar. Oh, I do hope this is the right guy.
“Mia Young,” she said, glad to be distracted from the image of him flying off a wild bronc. She was relieved to note his ears – which she could see clearly now with his hat removed – were larger than average. “Nice to meet you.” She smiled shyly and stuck out her hand.
In quick, fluid motions he dropped his hat back on his head, and grasped her hand as though to shake it. But instead of pumping it in greeting he brought the back of it up to his lips.
When meeting for the first time, a gentleman always kisses a lady’s hand.
His lips were moist, warm, and firmly masculine. A tiny, electrical charge started at the spot his lips touched and tingled up to her elbow. She’d seen men kiss women’s hands in the old movies she used to watch with Papa Pete. But she’d never had her hand kissed before. Not like this. It made her feel silly yet mature all at once.
Tanner’s golden-brown eyes met hers straight on, peering steadily at her as his face hovered over her hand.
Trust only a man who looks you square in the eye.  
Mia silently thanked Papa Pete – more father than grandfather. Although he was gone, his “wisdoms” would always live within her and guide her.
Mia met Tanner’s frank gaze before quickly casting her eyes to her rose-colored boots. She’d bought the boots special for rodeo weekend. Special for this precise moment – to give this cowboy a good first impression. (She was still holding onto hope that this was the correct cowboy. And that hope was growing stronger by the minute).
“Nice to meet you, Mia.” The low, rumbling way he said her name – the same way he’d uttered “uh-huh” earlier – made her suck in a quick breath. Her eyes darted back to his. Her heart beat quickened. Heat flooded her face.
The sound of throat clearing and giggling whipped Mia and Tanner’s heads around to check who was behind them.  
Her friends Justin and Skye stood there, holding hands, big grins on their faces. They joined Tanner and Mia at the rails of the horse corral.
When Mia realized Tanner was still holding her hand she felt like a child caught with her fingers in the candy dish. Embarrassed, she started to yank free. But Tanner tightened his grip, just enough to let her know she was welcome to keep her hand right where it was. As soon as she relaxed her fingers, he reciprocated, cupping his big hand sweetly, protectively around her much smaller one.

~Author Bio~
Danita Cahill is an award-winning freelance writer and photographer. She’s written and published over 2,100 newspaper articles and columns for 11 different Northwest newspapers, and dozens of magazine stories and photo layouts for six different magazines. She has five stories and a photo in two of HCI’s anthologies and has self-published five books – two non-fiction and three fiction titles. Danita lives in the Pacific NW on a small Oregon farm with her family and animals, including a herd of 10 alpacas. Besides running children to and fro and caring for her gardens, critters and family, Danita stays busy working on magazine assignments and her next book projects.
Visit Danita’s author page:
Follow Danita on Twitter: @DanitaCahill

If you’d like to subscribe to Danita Cahill’s newsletter and receive information about book signings, appearances, and new book releases, please send an email to: danita@centurylink.net and put “newsletter” in the subject line. 

Friday, August 8, 2014

Never Trust a Man with Little Ears (A Bellham Romance) - Part Two of Four

So here she was, shy as ever, but trying to act bold, approaching and standing beside a hot stranger in a red shirt and snug-fitting jeans. All the while hoping and praying he was the correct cowboy – the one her best friend had told her about.
Mia snuck a peek at the cowboy out of the corner of her eye. If this was the right guy – Hunter or Trapper or whatever the heck his name was, Skye was definitely right about the hot part. A hard-bodied, good-looking guy from boots to hat – dark hair, sun-browned skin, big, strong-boned hands, and the casual, confident grace particular to active, physically-fit young men. Mia, who was nineteen, guessed him to be a couple years older.
For several minutes she continued to stare into the pen of horses. She wanted to bolt in self-conscious panic from the cowboy’s good looks, confident air, and uncertain identity. But she held her ground, waiting for him to say something.
Anything.
Moment after long moment drug by.
Please, say something.
She’d about given up on him ever speaking, and was preparing to leave the wafting dust, and the silent cowboy to seek refuge with Skye and Justin, when suddenly he spoke, startling her.
“What do you think?” his voice was pitched in an impossibly low octave.
“Oh,” Mia said, turning to face him. “Were you talking to me?”
“Uh-huh,” he said, drawing out the two syllables, making them sound way sexier than necessary – not that Mia minded. “What do you think of the horses?”
His voice was deep, raw, amber honey. She could listen to it for hours.
Bet it would sound amazing with my head pressed against his chest.  
But she couldn’t just stand there daydreaming. He’d asked her a question – it was her turn to speak. If I don’t answer he’ll probably think I’m either stuck up, simple minded, or both. Although her tongue felt tangled and knotted and dry, she needed to form words. She willed her tongue to move, her lips to function. 
“Beautiful animals,” she finally managed. “But some look really wild.” Beautiful. Wild. Like you, maybe.  
“Yep,” he said with a slow, sultry grin. “Exactly.”
Goose bumps skittered along Mia’s arms and chest.
“I hope to draw one of the wild ones,” he said.
“Why?” A shudder of fear shot up her back. Whether it was fear of him, or fear for him, she wasn’t certain.
“Because I’d have a better chance of scoring a good ride, of course.”
“Oh.” Mia said, “I see.” But she didn’t want to see. Didn’t want the black-and-white shuttering image of a rogue horse launching this beautiful man through the air.

~Author Bio~
Danita Cahill is an award-winning freelance writer and photographer. She’s written and published over 2,100 newspaper articles and columns for 11 different Northwest newspapers, and dozens of magazine stories and photo layouts for six different magazines. She has five stories and a photo in two of HCI’s anthologies and has self-published five books – two non-fiction and three fiction titles. Danita lives in the Pacific NW on a small Oregon farm with her family and animals, including a herd of 10 alpacas. Besides running children to and fro and caring for her gardens, critters and family, Danita stays busy working on magazine assignments and her next book projects.
Visit Danita’s author page:
Find Danita on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DanitaCahill
Follow Danita on Twitter: @DanitaCahill

If you’d like to subscribe to Danita Cahill’s newsletter and receive information about book signings, appearances, and new book releases, please send an email to: danita@centurylink.net and put “newsletter” in the subject line. 

Friday, August 1, 2014

Never Trust a Man with Little Ears (A Bellham Romance) - Part One of Four

You can’t trust a man with little ears.
The idiosyncratic bit of advice was one of many that Mia’s late grandfather had left her with when he passed away eleven months ago. Like this one, most of Papa Pete’s sayings were endearing, if somewhat ridiculous. Funny one of his “wisdoms” should pop into Mia’s head during the Bellham, Oregon, Valley River Rodeo. At this very moment, too – the exact moment she spotted the cowboy.
He was the cowboy her best friend, Skye had told her about. Wasn’t he? Tall. Muscular. Red shirt. It had to be him!
His forearms were propped on the metal rail of a horse pen, one boot firmly planted behind him in the dust, the leg nearest the rail bent and relaxed.
Papa Pete’s advice might seem silly, but as Mia moved closer to the cowboy she couldn’t stop her gaze from sliding along his firm backside, gliding over the powerful round of his shoulder, and up his thick neck to land on his lobe – the only part of his ear she could see. His white straw cowboy hat covered the rest.
Good guys wear white hats.  
His earlobe was decidedly full and thick. Mia let out a small sigh of relief and forced her new boots to approach the rail and stand nearby. Bright August heat radiated off the metal stock panels. She leaned her arms on one of the rails anyway and fought the urge to jerk back from the scorch of hot steel against her bare skin.
The dense, sweet scent of horse sweat permeated the air, blending agreeably with her pineapple-scented sunscreen. Mia’s arms absorbed, and adjusted, to the heat from the rail.
Always let the man speak first.
As antiquated as that piece of Papa-Pete advice was, Mia took it anyway. She remained silent and assessed the ten broncs mulling about, scuffling and stirring up dust inside the pen. Some were sleek, regal creatures, with the appearance of tame, honest saddle horses – like Lady, the gentle palomino from her childhood. Others had scarred, rough coats, and a rogue glint in their eyes, as though they’d just as soon throw and stomp a rider as look at him. If the cowboy leaning on the rail beside her was a horse, Mia wondered which sort he’d be.
He was someone Justin, Skye’s bareback-bronc-riding boyfriend knew. Well, kinda, sorta knew through a friend of a friend.
“He’s a bronc rider, too, Justin’s met him before. Heard he’s a good guy, he just can’t for sure remember his name…Trapper…Hunter… something like that,” Skye had told Mia yesterday when trying, yet again, to talk her into going along to the rodeo today.
Mia hadn’t wanted to come, didn’t want to be a third wheel to Justin and Skye and their perpetual hand holding, kissing, and pet name calling. She loved Skye like a sister, but all the lovey-dovey stuff made Mia uncomfortable. And maybe just a teeny bit envious.  
When Mia mentioned her reluctance at being a tag along, Skye took it on as a challenge to find Mia a date. “He’s single. And he’s hot,” Skye had said about the bronc rider, trying to sway her.
So, after much coaxing and coercing, and with the promise of meeting a decent, attractive guy, Mia finally relented.
Justin and Skye were on the other side of the rodeo grounds trying to locate Hunter, or Trapper, or whatever this cowboy’s name happened to be. But it was Mia, by herself, who tracked him down first. She felt a glow of accomplishment. Although now that she’d found him standing in the dust-moated sunlight, she wasn’t exactly sure what to do, or what to say. Especially since she wasn’t one-hundred percent sure this was even the right cowboy.

~Author Bio~
Danita Cahill is an award-winning freelance writer and photographer. She’s written and published over 2,100 newspaper articles and columns for 11 different Northwest newspapers, and dozens of magazine stories and photo layouts for six different magazines. She has five stories and a photo in two of HCI’s anthologies and has self-published five books – two non-fiction and three fiction titles. Danita lives in the Pacific NW on a small Oregon farm with her family and animals, including a herd of 10 alpacas. Besides running children to and fro and caring for her gardens, critters and family, Danita stays busy working on magazine assignments and her next book projects.
Visit Danita’s author page:
Find Danita on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DanitaCahill
Follow Danita on Twitter: @DanitaCahill

If you’d like to subscribe to Danita Cahill’s newsletter and receive information about book signings, appearances, and new book releases, please send an email to: danita@centurylink.net and put “newsletter” in the subject line. 

Friday, November 2, 2012

The Devil of Dunmoor

by Christy Carlyle

“You cannae go there, lass! Not on All Hallow’s Eve of all nights.” Adelaide Morton heard the old woman’s voice tremble with fear as she spoke and the meager glow cast by the single candle made her familiar face appear drawn and eerie. Addy ignored the shiver that skittered across her skin and gave Senga a reassuring smile. She reached out to offer some comfort, but the cook grasped her hand with all the force her aged body could muster.
            “They say the devil lives there. The Evil One himself.” Senga’s voice was high and desperate as it echoed off the cold stone walls of the kitchen. Some hidden chink in the stones admitted a breeze to rustle the copper pots hanging from hooks above the oven. One pot scraped a grating path along the stone wall and Addy searched the darkness for the source of the noise. A gust of wind rapped at the window and they both jumped.
            Addy stood and turned toward the still warm oven, chafing her hands above the heat. She couldn’t allow superstitious fears to deter her. “Those are rumors, Senga. Legend. Superstition. I have been up to the stones before. Further than the stones. To the house itself.”
            Senga raised her hands to her mouth. “No, lass. You never.”  
“How do you think I healed him?” Adelaide had known Senga all of her life and yearned to tell her the truth. But it wasn’t her truth to tell. It was his secret and for what he gave her, she would pay him anything. Silence was the least of what she would give.
Addy could let Senga think that she met the devil at the ancient stone circle and made a deal for the health of her brother. She could even allow her to believe that Lucifer himself had lured her into his decrepit manor house that lay on the crag beyond. What she could not do was breach his trust.
There was no doubt Senga was trustworthy. The woman had been more than a family cook. Unlike the parade of nannies and governesses, she had been a constant. Whether Addy had needed a late night cup of warm milk to chase away bad dreams or a sympathetic ear to listen to her woes, Senga had been there where her mother could not be.
Addy had killed her own mother in childbirth. That was never how her father put it, of course, but his coldness towards her often made her wonder if that is how he felt about the whole dreadful matter.
Addy knew his old grief was compounded when her father had lost his second wife the previous autumn. Caroline had lived long enough to mother her own child, but only for five years. Now William, Addy’s little brother, lay weak and feverish in his bedroom above. He had been sick so many times in his short life that Addy had lost count. But this illness was different. It clung on with vicious tenacity, imprisoning him in a cycle of coughing and fever that racked his small body. He had shown such signs once before and Addy had found the answer. Now she had to seek out that answer again. She would see him again. The thought quickened her breath and stoked a heat in her chest. She grasped her abandoned cup of tepid tea and gulped down the liquid that Senga brewed dark enough to choke a weak man.
“I must go now. There is no time to dither. With this storm, you know he will worsen. I cannot allow that. I cannot lose him.” The thought of laying that precious little body in the earth next to his mother, next to her mother...no. Addy felt the hot sting of a tear at the corner of her eye and swiped it away before Senga could see.
“You’re a reckless girl, Adelaide Mary Morton.” Senga stood and crossed her arms across her chest as if she would stand sentry at the kitchen door and deny Addy the right to cross the threshold. “I’ll not allow you to go.”
Addy pulled her father’s tattered old overcoat from a hook near the oven and collected the scarf that she’d perched near the fire to absorb a bit of its warmth. She tied her bonnet quickly and approached Senga. She had intended to give her a peck on the cheek and head off to meet the devil, but the woman’s tired eyes held her fast.
“My dear, I am hardly a child anymore and I know what I am about. I told you, I have been there before and yet stand before you all in one piece. I will be fine, but Willy may die if I do not go.”
“There is evil in those stones. And God only knows what dwells in the house beyond. In the village, they say that bodies go missing from their graves...”
“Nonsense. They buried Mr. Cuthburt in the spring and I am certain he is still in the ground." Addy softened her tone. "You put flowers at his stone just last week.” Senga had been sweet on old man Cuthburt and it was clear the shopkeeper was smitten too, but he had been a quiet, shy sort. And he’d waited too long.
Addy put her hand on the door latch and looked back to give Senga one last smile before heading out into the blustery autumn night.
“Wait!” Senga rushed at her in the gloom and thrust an object into her hand. It appeared to be some kind of root, though dessicated and washed clean. “‘Tis a talisman. Henbane. I pray it will protect you. Now, get on with you, lass. I will wait up for your return.”
There was no use arguing with her. Addy had learned that lesson well. She leaned in to kiss the tissue-soft skin of Senga’s wrinkled cheek and heard her whisper, “God speed, my girl.”        
***       
           Halfway to the stone circle, Addy acknowledged to herself that Senga was right. She was reckless and a fool to boot. Making one’s way across the moor was difficult enough on such a stormy night, but the darkness and rain only added to the trial. She had rushed off without lighting a lantern and though the moon was full, fierce winds chased clouds across the sky, obscuring its glow.
            A crack of thunder shook the sky and a streak of lightning illuminated her path for a moment. She was close. The stone circle rose up before her, just ahead. It glistened from the drizzling rain. She thought she could see a wan yellow light flickering inside Dunmoor Manor. Or what was left of it. The townsfolk referred to it as a ruin. Burned by fire, they said, and rightly so. From her earliest memories, Addy could recall nothing but fear and loathing spoken about Dunmoor Manor. The master had been mad, they said, and evil. Most told the tale that he had taken the lives of his own family and lost the plot as a result. His madness had turned him into a ghoul who lured fools and children to their doom. At least that was the story that governesses told their charges to scare them into good behavior. Miss Gimley had tried the tale on her a time or two. Hateful woman.
But Addy knew the real story of Dunmoor Manor. It was darker than anyone could imagine, but it was also a tale of survival. And there, in the darkness, on All Hallow’s Eve, she was approaching the extraordinary creature who had survived.
Just as she reached the circle’s edge and saw the dark outline of the ruined manor ahead, Addy lost her footing and reached out for the nearest towering stone to steady her. Instead of touching slick rock, her hand encountered muscle and bone. She cried out and felt her feet skid on the muddy slope. Arms encircled her and she was yanked up against a wall of heat and rough, wet clothing.
“Calm yourself, Miss Morton.” His voice was the deepest she had ever heard, impossibly deep and dark, with a rasp that rumbled through her. From the first moment she had met him, his voice had haunted her dreams. If the devil was a seducer, he would have a voice like the heir of Dunmoor. But Adelaide knew he was no devil.
She also knew she should pull away from the man, but the heat emanating from his body was a delicious balm against the cold. She noticed that he had wrapped her in the folds of the cloak he wore, trapping the warmth between them. She opened her mouth to speak, but was pulled off her feet once again as he turned toward the manor and swept her along with him.
“Mr. Hewitt, I can find my own feet. Thank you.” He released her immediately, opening his cloak and freeing her from his embrace. When she wobbled, he grasped her upper arm to steady her. “Thank you, sir.”
He didn’t acknowledge her gratitude. “You’re soaked through, Miss Morton. We must get you inside.”
It wasn’t difficult to follow his footsteps toward the broken manor house. He kept her close, never loosening his grip on her arm. The guiding contact was welcome to Addy in the darkness, and she pushed away the notion that his touch was welcome for any other reason.
As she entered his room, the only of the manor’s chambers she had ever been allowed to see, he lit an oil lamp to shed some light on the crowded space. Books, papers, bottles, tubes, and bits of plants and trees covered every available surface. It was the laboratory from which he produced the medicine that had saved her brother before and she said a silent prayer that he could repeat the act.
He did not look at her as he moved to a mortar and pestle to grind away at the contents within. His deep voice sounded muffled in the crowded room. “Is it your brother again, Miss Morton? Is it William?”
“Yes, sir. His coughing improved with the syrup you sent last time. But he has a fever now. It went away two days ago, but returned this morning with the rains.” She realized she was beginning to shiver, fear and anxiety for Willy draining the remaining warmth from her body.
“Come.” He was looking at her, watching her, across the dim room and she saw him gesture toward an open flame that flickered from one of his strange tubed contraptions. It shot straight up in a long thin flame, and he turned a knob to make it reach higher. She crossed the space between them and stood at the table where the flame danced in shifting shades of blue and white. The air around it was warmer and as she watched it, he thrust a steaming cup under her nose. “Drink this.”
She searched for a glimpse of his face in the flame's glow, but he stood just outside the circle of light. When she didn’t take the cup, he spoke again.
“You trust me with your brother’s life, but not your own? Drink the tea. It is warm and you are cold. It will help.” Addy felt a blush rush up her cheeks at the memory of his cloak around her, his arms holding her close, and the indulgent heat of his body.
“Thank you, sir.” The tea was warm and had a pleasing, unusual flavor. She imagined a hint of orange on her tongue, though she had not eaten the fruit for years.
“Will you ever call me by my given name, Miss Morton?” She nearly dropped the cup. His voice was still deep but it held a hint of playfulness she had never heard, never expected, from him.
“I will call you whatever you wish, sir. But I do not know your given name.”
“Dorian. It was my father’s name and I have long wished for another, but I must claim it. No, I must reclaim it."
"Yes. Dorian." The name, his name, felt foreign and exotic on her tongue. She wanted to repeat it again and again. Instead, she smiled at him. She had never smiled at him before.  
"May I have the same privilege, Miss Morton? May I call you Adelaide?" She had no idea how he knew her name. She was certain she had never told him.
"You have saved my brother. You may call me what you like."
He turned from her and returned to the concoction he was grinding. Her words had angered him. She could read it in the stiffness of his stance and the ferocity with which he ground the powder.
He turned to her and held out a small bottle filled with the mixture from his mortar. "Mix a bit with water and give it to him morning and night for five days, even after the fever breaks."
She didn't move. The anger in his voice disturbed her and she was not certain what to say to calm him. She started with his name. "Dorian..."
"I am no savior, Miss Morton. Nor am I a sorcerer. I am a doctor. I was trained to heal the sick. There is no magic here."
"I know that, and I am most grateful for your skills." Addy reached into the deep pocket of her father's overcoat and pulled out a five pound note. "I brought you payment this time, though for Willy's sake we owe you more than we can ever repay."
"I don't want your money, Adelaide." A surge of pleasure came when she heard her name on his lips again, but his words confused her. She had to give him something.
"I have nothing else to offer." Her words seemed to clear the chill between them. He moved toward her and she finally saw him clearly in the light. She bit her lower lip to stifle the gasp she felt bubble up inside.
He was an extraordinary-looking man. His black hair was too long, too wild, but the color of it was the dark of a bird’s wing, seemingly plain but shimmering blue in the light. But that blue was nothing to the shade of his eyes. They were the clearest blue, like a crisp, cloudless sky in early spring. Like the dancing flame nearby, they seemed to glow with a light of their own.
"There is something I want." He towered over her now, and Addy felt her body sway toward his as if pulled by an invisible cord.
"Anything." He crooked a raven black brow at that.
"Come closer." She took a step, and her skirt brushed against his legs. “I want to kiss you, Adelaide.” Her lips tingled in anticipation at his words.
Quietly, with a tremor in her voice, she accepted what she had only imagined. “Yes.”
The first touch of his mouth on hers was the sweetest relief, a cure for her ills as surely as the medicine he offered. His lips were tender, hesitant, but when she slid her hand up to his neck, he grew bolder. He pressed into her, pulling her towards him with a hand at her back. Then, with a growl in the back of his throat, he pulled away, leaving her breathless. His breath came fast too, and he leaned his forehead against hers before he spoke.
“I must see William. It is time I tended to him in person.” The mention of her brother brought his small face vividly to Addy’s mind, and she felt the press of guilt for the pleasure she took lingering in Dorian Hewitt’s company. He seemed to read her thoughts. “Yes, we should go now.”
“Now? You will come tonight?”
“I think I must. I should speak to your father immediately.”
Addy looked into his eyes and prayed he could read the question in her heart. She could not ask, so she repeated his words. “You will speak to my father?”
“I have waited for you all of my days, Adelaide. I cannot bear more waiting. Will you have me? Can you love the devil of Dunmoor?” Before she answered, Addy lifted his fine, strong hand, ignoring the scars, and placed a kiss inside his palm.
            “You are no devil. And I will have no other.”