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Scheherazade Tales Romance E-Novels
scheherazadetales.com
Copyright ©2004 by Suzanne Marie Calvin
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BEWITCHING THE BACHELOR
by
Suzanne Marie Calvin
Copyright 2004 Suzanne Marie Calvin
Scheherazade Tales Romance E-Novels
scheherazadetales.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information and storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
First publication by Scheherazade Tales 2004
scheherazadetales.com
BEWITCHING THE BACHELOR
THE PAST
The New World—1695
The rope that dangled from the hanging tree was fastened with rough, unforgiving hands around Celia Honeywell's neck. Almost the entire population of the colony had gathered to witness and rejoice in the thirteenth witch's execution. Some of the townsfolk looked sad and ashamed. Some cheered. Wasn't thirteen an unlucky number? Unlucky for the thirteenth witch to be executed, at any rate.
The previous twelve had been innocents, caught in the crossfire of an angry, God-fearing preacher and the sheep that followed him blindly. Celia wept for the innocents who had not deserved to die—not because she believed she did, but because, after living piously, they had still suffered the same fate as the guilty. The same fate Celia would suffer.
The witch-hunt frenzy was so pervasive it meant that no one was safe against accusation. The reality was, though, that all of the women who had so far been executed as a result of this madness were innocent. They were not witches, not in the strictest meaning of the word. Celia knew she was the first of her kind to be hung. The first witch. Like her mother and the Honeywell women before them, she was magic-maker, healer, and midwife.
As the coarse rope scratched at her neck and she gazed out over the faces of the gathered crowd, the thought occurred to her that, with the death of a real witch, perhaps the witch-hunt could now cease. No more innocents need lose their lives, if the sacrifice of one true witch could stop the madness.
Celia Honeywell was no martyr. She loved life as well as anyone possibly could. And she would have done anything, anything to escape her own execution. But the harsh reality of the rope around her neck forced her to resign herself to fate.
The bitter irony was that her fate was sealed by the man who had been her lover.
Liam, the man she loved, the man who betrayed that love, stood quietly amongst the crowd. His wife, who knew nothing of the two years her husband had spent in the bed of a witch, stood beside him. The woman knew nothing of the passion Celia had shared with her husband Liam, of the words he'd whispered to her during their lovemaking, or the promises made.
Nor did she know of the child they shared, for that was the deepest secret of all. Liam would never confess it because it meant admitting his infidelity, and adultery was a sin punishable by public lashings and the stockade.
Celia herself would never confess it because it would mean death for the child. Her daughter, her precious babe just a few weeks old, was now safe in the care of a coven of witches far from this New England colony that had taken to witch-hunting when crops and cattle failed to thrive.
Liam himself had turned her over to the crazed mob. They had tossed her into the river, a heavy rock tied to each ankle, to see whether she would float. The near-drowning had not done her in, but then stripping her of her garments and poking and prodding her on the town square as if she were a cow to be bartered had almost broken her spirit.
But nothing had broken, battered or bruised her more than being separated from her daughter. Her heart was empty, her breasts full. She had birthed Lydia alone, nursed her, loved her. It was love that had moved Celia to give her up, though the parting had nearly killed her.
Yet, she lived. Lived to see the hanging tree, which loomed like impending disaster over her kind.
Celia came from a long line of witches, descended from a time when women who practiced magic were revered, not hated. Because of the hatred she was forced to endure, hatred inside of her was born, and nourished by both strength and weakness. It festered and bubbled like meat left out to rot in the sun. It grew. It consumed her.
As she was forced to step up onto the cart which would soon be jerked away by a horse whipped into sprinting, Celia sought and found the eyes of her lover. He watched her, perhaps in horror, likely in guilt, but masked by stony, cold indifference that glazed his eyes and set his mouth in a thin line. She hardly recognized him.
His wife stared down at her own clasped hands and fervently murmured prayers to God. Begging that the Almighty let sickness, death, disease, and other harmful, horrible afflictions die along with the witch. Pleading that all witches be found and executed, because true salvation would surely only come whereupon evil had been ridden from the colony.
Celia ignored the wife. It was to her lover that she spoke. And as she watched him, studied the face for which she had once held complete love and devotion, Celia knew he understood. He feared. Regretted. Loathed.
Nonetheless, he was powerless to stop her words.
"As thee has turned me toward this tree,
This curse shall live with yours times three.
For your sons, then theirs to come,
Every descendent, every one,
Shall also love one of my kind.
Protected are those who share your blood with mine.
Love will they be powerless to fight,
But this love shall be their plight.
For each witch will turn on he,
Bring him hell on earth will she.
When love blinds him, death he'll see.
As I say, so mote it be."
The executioner bellowed his command and the driver's whip cracked the stillness. Celia's world blackened in a rush of air, a stab of pain, then deafening silence.
THE PRESENT
Chapter One
The men in Luke Hale's family dropped like flies.
"The Honeywell curse,” he muttered derisively under his breath, shaking his head in frustration, as he shoved the history books aside. Propping his elbows on the hard oak library table, he raked fingers through his hair.
He needed a story. Desperately. Obviously. Otherwise why was he entertaining the idea of writing about the curse—his very last resort?
The story of Celia Honeywell had been passed down from generation to generation, beginning a century after the untimely deaths of every man in the Halestrom family. Luke had heard horror stories of men kicked in the head by docile horses that suddenly went wild. Men tumbling off rooftops, drowning at sea, choking on chicken bones, or simply dying in their sleep. Decades of deaths that apparently were as unexpected as they were mysteriously unexplained.
Luke Hale was a smart man. An intelligent man. He'd graduated top of his class at Dartmouth, had worked for The New York Times, and now wrote for The World Today magazine, an award-winning pu
blication reporting on current events and issues. Middle-Eastern Wars. Political corruption. Social injustice. Moments in time that stood out, made an impact, and sparked awareness.
The Honeywell curse was weak by comparison.
Occasionally The World Today covered personal interest stories, and a story about a hanged witch's three hundred year old curse on a family where men dropped like flies could tease the curiosity of the magazine's readership.
Then again, maybe he was kidding himself.
Perhaps, as Luke approached the turning point age of thirty, he was beginning to wonder why his father had died in a freak car wreck twenty years ago. Or why his grandfather had fallen from a ladder to his death at the age of forty. Not to mention his great-grandfather, who had suffered a bite from an unidentified insect, dying just days later.
Luke didn't believe in curses. Or witches, for that matter. Still, it was curious how the women long outlived the men in his family. That alone might make for an interesting story. Especially when, at present, Luke had absolutely nothing in his mental storage bank of great ideas to write about.
Celia Honeywell's story was mentioned in three of the library's history books. Evidently one of Luke's ancestors from centuries past, a Liam Halestrom, had been Celia's lover. Liam, already married, must have panicked and turned Celia over to the authorities, who performed the usual “sink or swim” torture method of witch-hunting, followed by public stripping and humiliation, after which she was hanged.
One year later, Liam Halestrom went insane, claiming that prior to the moment Celia died, he'd heard her voice in his head, chanting a curse she placed on his family, sentencing every Halestrom man to fall in love with a witch, then die by that love. Liam had thrown himself from a cliff.
It was rumored that Celia and Liam had conceived a child, but that was never confirmed, as no child was ever discovered. However, Liam had left behind two sons with his wife Rebecca.
Luke rubbed his temples. It was all very fascinating. Almost romantic in its poignancy. But was it The World Today worthy? Probably not.
The library was quiet, the silence almost deafening. The librarian, a round, perspiring woman with her hair drawn back in a salt-and-pepper braid and glasses that were too big and too crooked for her face, watched Luke. Occasionally she smiled, but mostly she occupied herself by stamping dates into books, filing cards into a catalogue, and watching him.
Because she kept a close eye, Luke decided to put every history book back on the shelf where it belonged, something he had little patience for, but did anyway, just to avoid reproach. Damn it. He needed to find another story. And soon.
For weeks his imaginative thoughts had run dry. The only thing that kept popping up in his mind was the Honeywell curse and Luke knew it was because of his fast-approaching thirtieth birthday.
The youngest of his ancestors, at least in the last century, had died at thirty. Mark Halestrom, Luke's great-uncle, was killed the night before his wedding. No one in the family had ever discussed it. The only sketchy details Luke had about the murder came from dusty old newspapers and a vague police report.
The woman to whom Mark was to be married, purported to be a Honeywell, had vanished, but the dagger pulled from his chest had been hers. An “athame,” a witch's blade. The small town of Clover Falls, Connecticut still talked about it around campfires and on Halloween nights.
Luke slipped the last book into its slot and meandered toward the librarian's desk. She smiled at him. “You must be from out of town."
He smiled back and nodded. “New York."
"You're a long way from home, Mr. New York.” She stamped a book with black-inked words that read “Bristol Public Library—Bristol, Connecticut."
"Just passing through. Have a nice day.” He fished keys out of the front pocket of his blue jeans and headed for the door.
"Don't leave Connecticut without stopping by the Honeywell place."
He froze, turned on his heels, and then fixed a stare on her, heart pounding against his ribcage. He heard his pulse thrum in his ears, the way it did when he hugged a corner going too fast on his motorcycle. Or when the telephone rang at two in the morning, interrupting a sound sleep. “Pardon me?"
The librarian looked up at him, her brows knit together over those hideous glasses. “I'm sorry?"
"What did you just say?"
"I said when you leave Connecticut you're leaving a honey of a place.” She angled her head to one side and lifted her hefty shoulders in a shrug. “Something my grandmother used to say. She thought people appreciated Connecticut more once they'd left it. You know, like not realizing what you've got until it's gone."
He shook his head. Laughed. “I'm sorry. I thought you said something else.” He lifted the hand clutching his keys in a half wave. “Thanks again."
Luke thrust open the door, leaving the air-conditioned building for the heavy, humid heat of a ninety-five degree East coast summer day. The oven-like temperature nearly sucked the breath from his lungs. Dead air. No breeze whatsoever. Tomorrow was July 4th, traditionally a day for being outdoors. It was going to be a scorcher.
He stood there, shoving hands through his tousled hair, already damp with perspiration. “I'm in hell."
A few brave folks strolled along the otherwise empty streets. Two elderly women toting umbrellas to save their skin from the sun's rays walked side by side, their faces pink, their appearances wilted. Across the way, two children sat on a bench outside of an ice cream shop licking cones that melted faster than they could eat them. A Golden Retriever tethered to a fire hydrant lay panting in the shade of a television repair shop. One man in a business suit, leaving the dry cleaners with a collection of pressed shirts dangling from hangers, muttered curses under his breath as he unlocked the door to his Mercedes Benz, heedlessly tossed in his clothes and slammed the door, safe back inside the cool interior.
If ever there was a time to be an automobile owner rather than a motorcyclist, this would be the day, Luke realized, arching a rueful brow at his sleek ebony and chrome bike parked at the curb in front of the library. Appearance-wise, it was a work of art. Practicality-wise, it had no air conditioning. Unless, of course, he rode it naked at ninety miles an hour.
With a sigh he lifted a leg over the seat, slapped on his helmet, and started up the motorcycle, whose engine rumbled like distant thunder that grew ever nearer and louder with a simple twist of his wrist. His booted foot worked the kickstand and just as he was about to go into motion, he watched in awe as the air suddenly kicked up.
The stiff breeze came out of nowhere, knocking three potted plants from the ledge outside of a curio shop. It rustled up dust devils and the hair of the two boys licking ice cream cones. The umbrellas in the ladies’ hands were nearly snatched away. The Golden Retriever's ears lifted and the dog howled at the wind. Papers scattered everywhere, one of them affixing to his windshield. Luke yanked it off and was about to crumple it.
The words on the page had him stopping mid-crumple.
His heart beat wildly and his fingertips tingled. Tiny pinpricks of electricity nipped at his scalp. Even as he read the words, he could hardly believe them. He flipped the paper over, front to back, back to front. Twice. As if it would read differently when he looked at it again. But nothing changed. It read the same.
Annual Fourth of July
Ice Cream Social
Free of Charge
All Clover Falls Residents Invited
Join us at the Honeywell place!
Fate was definitely wielding a heavy hand in his affairs, and, being a sensible, practical, intelligent man, he wasn't sure he quite appreciated the effort.
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Bianca Honeywell hummed to herself as she paced the garden. Three positively scrumptious men, each with bulging arms, tight pants, and boyish smiles, were setting up long tables and folding chairs in the center of her garden. The “power of three” had suddenly taken on a whole different meaning. She licked her lips, appreciating the view.
The ice cream social was being held in the garden of the Honeywell place late that afternoon, followed by the Parks and Recreation Department's fireworks display which would be visible from the garden. It was an annual Fourth of July event in Clover Falls and had been for decades. Bianca's mother and her mother before had hosted the celebration each year. Not continuing the tradition was unthinkable. It was tantamount to changing history forever.
Bianca knew, from experience, that history simply couldn't be changed. Only learned from. Or endured.
For instance, the curse Celia Honeywell had put on the Halestrom family men. Because of that curse, whether they were Halestroms or not, any man who'd ever even heard of the Honeywell curse wouldn't come within a fifty-mile radius of a Honeywell woman for fear of dying an inexplicable death.
But they were forgetting two very important details. The first was that the curse had been placed only on full-blooded Halestrom descendents. The second detail was that, although Celia Honeywell had placed the curse centuries ago, the Halestrom men didn't die just by the hands of Honeywell women. Some who'd since passed had fallen in love with witches elsewhere. The curse was aimed to punish Halestrom men who fell in love with a witch. Any witch. Not just a Honeywell witch.
Celia was a smart woman. She'd covered the bases well. But Bianca had spent most of her adult life trying to find a way to undo the spell. Reversing a three hundred year old curse, however, proved no easy task.
Nevertheless, fear of the curse was so powerful, any man with testosterone and half a brain chose to steer clear of all Honeywell women. And that made for a rather lonely romantic life.
"Are you paying in cash?” hunky bachelor number one asked, wiping his forehead with a dingy old kerchief which he then stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans. He had a handsome lopsided grin and a twinkle in his blue eyes.
Bianca matched his smile. “Just tell Bernie to charge it to my account.” Lifting a brow, she offered, “Iced tea?"
He shook his head adamantly. “No thanks. We've got another run to make.” His two helpers had already climbed into the delivery truck, anxious to be away now that their job here was done.
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