Chosen: Gowns & Crowns, Book 7

by Jennifer Chance

  Win moved before she could talk her way out of her request. In two strides, he was at her side, grasping the hands that were now fluttering as if to disperse her own words into the close, humid air. He clasped her hands together and met her gaze over the steepled fingers. “It’s okay. It’s more than okay,” he murmured. “And it would be my pleasure to kiss you. Was this what you had in mind?”

  Still holding her gaze, he leaned forward only slightly, his lips brushing over Marguerite’s slender fingers. Those fingers trembled as he touched them with his mouth, then jerked with a violent twitch as he stroked the very tips of them with his tongue.

  But she hadn’t answered his question and he paused there, relishing the look of wonder on her face, the desperate, almost naked need. How long had it been since Marguerite Saleri had been properly kissed? From the expression on her face, far too long. Win dipped his mouth again and her gaze broke away from his to fix on his lips as they met her fingers. When he opened his clasped hands and turned hers toward him, she let him bare her palms to him, her breath hissing out when he pressed his lips into the soft, warm flesh. She tasted of salted honey and cream, and in his mind’s eye he suddenly pictured her arms free of the sensible long-sleeved shirt, her legs bare, her body—

  “Oh,” Marguerite’s strangled sigh was punctuated with a hiccup as he drew his mouth down to the base of her palm, lingering in the sensitive hollow of her wrist. “That’s, um, that’s not exactly what I had in mind, no, but—”

  Win lifted his head. Marguerite’s eyes were enormous, the pupils fully dilated in the dim, dappled light, and her lips had parted, her breath coming fitfully between them. Her hair had begun to curl in the humidity and it was slipping free from its sensible ponytail, falling around her face in slender wisps.

  When her gaze slid from his eyes to his mouth again, his body reacted with such abrupt urgency, Win’s first urge was to tackle her to the floor. But he couldn’t—he wouldn’t, dammit.

  But he could do this.

  “Let me try again,” he murmured. He stepped forward and Marguerite swayed back, but not before he reached out and caught her with one hand sliding to the base of her back. The other lifted until he captured her chin with it, his fingers feather light on her jaw. Marguerite’s eyes dropped to half-lidded slits, and his pulse—and everything else on his body—jerked again as she sighed and shifted toward him.

  Win leaned down to take her mouth with his.

  His hand at her back tightened reflexively as their lips touched, and suddenly all of Win’s careful plans were shattered, the need that jumped within him so desperate, so intense that he could no more stand against it than he could outrun a hurricane. Roughly, he pulled Marguerite against him with a speed that made her gasp, pressing her body fully along his. He bent into the kiss, tasting her lips, her cheeks, the achingly sweet arch of her neck. His hands were now in her hair and she arched beneath him, willingly going where he was taking her, the soft, inarticulate moan driving him to even greater heights. Then he felt her hands at his back, pressing him even closer, nearly shaking with the intensity of her desire. Suddenly, there was nothing else in the world but Marguerite, this woman he barely knew but who he’d been watching from afar for what seemed so very long—

  Win’s mouth trailed kisses up Marguerite’s jaw until he was just below her ear, and she shivered as he skated his tongue along the delicate lobe, then the soft curve of her neck. He folded back the collar of her shirt and her shoulder was open to his hungry gaze, his questing mouth, the skin so soft and smooth and bared yet further as Marguerite moaned softly, stretching her head to the side. He pulled away almost drunkenly, filled with the taste of her, and watched in almost a dream-like trance as she tugged one of his hands down away from her neck and further south, pulling it until his fingers held the soft swell of her breast. He felt its weight settle in his palm, the corresponding weight of his shaft now leaden and full, desperate for more.

  “Marguerite,” he managed, and his voice sounded strange and garbled to his own ears, like someone else’s voice entirely—

  Marguerite jerked, as if coming out of daze, and then color rushed to her face so quickly that Win was jolted back to his senses too.

  “Oh!” Her head dipped down.

  While he gaped at her, Marguerite took two—then three full strides back, her hands seeming to go everywhere at once. She smoothed her hair back into its ponytail, her shirt back into place, her collar flat against her neck. She blinked at him and tried to smile, but her mouth was too soft, her skin too flushed, and Win felt the need leap again within him. It was his turn to step back, and that movement seemed to be the wrong thing, too.

  Marguerite brought her hands to her face. “That was too much!” she said again, though what she was apologizing for, he couldn’t for the life of him guess. “You must—I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. It’s too soon! Truly too soon. I—”

  Too soon? “Marguerite, no,” Win said firmly, finally able to gather his wits enough to speak. “Juliet and I…it wasn’t like that, between us. We weren’t—”

  “Hellooo-ooo!”

  The voice that cut across their startled protestations was so unexpected that he and Marguerite wheeled around, searching through the underbrush—of course they couldn’t see anything at all outside the gazebo, but a second later the sound of crashing feet and more calling confirmed that they were definitely not alone. The voice was old, female, and high-pitched, almost like the cry of a bird. And it kept coming.

  “Hellooooo-ooo! I saw you by the dock and thought, well! Neighbors at last! Hello?”

  Marguerite swung her wide-eyed gaze to Win, all self-consciousness gone. “What should we do?” she whispered, her voice tinged with surprise and even laughter. “She can’t seriously think we’re her new neighbors.”

  “Probably the bravest of the local gossips. We could tell her the truth?”

  “That we’re lifting the curse?” Marguerite’s whisper was horrified. “No!”

  “No, that we’re here checking for trouble.” He waggled his brows. “And we found some.”

  “Stop!” she hissed, clapping her hand to her mouth as she started to giggle. “I can’t even imagine how—”

  “Just follow my lead.”

  Grateful that she’d already set her clothing to rights, Win turned and spoke loudly—very loudly. “I told you the place was an absolute ruin, just look at it! I think a family of groundhogs has taken up residence here. There’s no point in bothering with it.”

  The crashing outside had immediately stopped, and Marguerite’s wide eyes were now crinkled at the edges with barely-contained laughter as she dropped her own hands, then belted out her response.

  “I think you’re wrong! It’ll take some work but—look here!” She stomped back to the edge of the gazebo and down the steps, flailing through the underbrush.

  “That’s not the way out, this is!” Win announced, diving for another break in the wall, a heavy veil of foliage no match for his bluster. He burst through the vines with one heaving lurch, almost exploding onto the overgrown lawn.

  And came face to face with the last thing he ever expected to see.

  A llama.

  Chapter Eight

  “Beatrice! Give the nice man his space.”

  Marguerite’s babbling had cut off the moment she’d cleared the entryway to the gazebo and realized no one was standing there—and the woman’s strident call made even less sense. She hurried around the corner and stopped short, trying to process what she was seeing.

  Win stood there, leaning forward slightly, his face belying nothing but casual concern…while a llama licked his face.

  No, not a llama, Marguerite realized. An alpaca. The long-necked, furry four-legged animal was stretching up to its full height and only reached Win’s chin because Win was good enough to let it. Otherwise the creature would have been far too short.

  “Oh, hello!” Wearing a long-sleeved tee shirt, heavy pants and waterproof boots, the
old woman standing behind Beatrice the alpaca could have been anywhere from sixty-five to eighty years old. Tall, and stout, her face and hair half-hidden by a broad brimmed hat, she turned and fixed Marguerite with a broad smile. “Aren’t you the loveliest thing, almost as pretty as your husband, and he could charm the birds right out of the trees! Look at what he’s done to poor Beatrice! Sweet thing is about to swoon.”

  “I—”

  “You’ve come across the river.” Win recovered first, standing away from the alpaca who startled at the sound of his voice, turning tail immediately to trot back to her apparent owner.

  “I did, barge and all, since I had Beatrice here,” the woman flashed him another grin. “Saw you out at the dock—well, what’s left of the dock, sort of a sad little stumpy thing now, barely enough of a post to tie anything to. You should fix that. My own dock is up river, ‘round the bend. Figured I’d come over and say hello! Normally Mr. Holt’s workers don’t come all the way down like that and look around, so thought—well, how about that, perhaps the old coot finally sold. Shame to leave such a pretty house and grounds fall to wrack and ruin.”

  As she was speaking, Win removed a handkerchief from somewhere on his person and swiped his chin with it, then his hands. He strode forward and held out his hand to the woman, and Marguerite finally regained her wits and stepped up as well.

  “Win Masters,” Win said, amiably enough, then he gestured to her. “And Countess Marguerite Saleri.”

  Marguerite shot him a look. Really? He could skip the whole “Third” business but suddenly she was a countess?

  “Oh! A countess, well, my heavens!” The woman pulled her hand free of Win’s and thrust it toward Marguerite, shaking hers with vigor before reaching up to tilt back her hat. Now Marguerite could see white hair curling underneath the hat’s broad brim, and that the woman’s eyes were a beautiful soft green. “Never did meet a countess before. I’m simply Bess—Bess Hilty, and this here is Beatrice. She’s not so much part of the farm as family, aren’t you now sweetie.” She reached over and patted the alpaca fondly behind its ears, and it leaned into her, shaking softly. “Oh, sure, now that the handsome man has spoken, you remember your nerves. I see how it is.”

  “Do you know the Holts?” Marguerite asked, and both Bess and Beatrice seemed to make the same face.

  “Can’t say that I do. Old Mr. Holt has been gone for years, so far as I know. Don’t think he’s passed on or anything, though.” She paused, fixing Marguerite with a bemused look. “He hasn’t, has he?”

  “No! No,” Marguerite said, shaking her head. “He’s in good health.”

  “Good. My sister in the city, she keeps up with everyone who dies and lets me know. At our age, it’s almost a weekly update.” Bess grinned again. “But the old sir was nice enough from what I recall, if a bit fussy. He sends ‘round a crew about once a quarter to check on the place.”

  “How do you know that?” Win cut in, and Bess cackled.

  “This place isn’t a right neighborhood, but we still talk. The road up to Holt House is a quiet one, and folks out here don’t have much to do but watch who goes by. Still and all, you think he’d make the place a little tidier than he does. Even sitting back from the road like it is, it’s a shame, really.” Her eyes gleamed with interest as she took in them both. “So, you aren’t married, but are you going to be? Will you be taking over the house?”

  Win didn’t answer right away, and Marguerite blundered in, trying to cover her blush by shading her face from the sun—which had suddenly become far too hot. “Oh, no. We’re not married or engaged or…anything like that. We’re out here at Mr. Holt’s request to…well, to check on the house,” she ended lamely.

  “There’s been some weather recently,” Win put in smoothly, and Bess nodded.

  “That there has. Always seems to hit this place worse than those around it, poor thing can’t catch a break, what with the curse and all.”

  Marguerite pounced on the woman’s words almost before she’d finished. “So, you know about that!”

  “Oh, of course. It was back during the war—the second World War, I should say. You say war around here and there’s pretty much only the one, and you’ll get your ear talked off if you mention it,” she chuckled at her own joke, but Marguerite frowned. She knew about the American Civil War, of course, but—that was back in the 1860s and if she recalled correctly, it had only lasted four years. Could people truly still be affected by it?

  “Anyways,” Bess continued. “Story was that there was a big party in, oh, gosh, it’d been in the late 1930s, anyway. Maybe the early ‘40s. Before we started sending boys over in earnest to fight the Nazis, I’m almost sure…or right around there. Something happened at that party—some say in the gazebo, some say in the house, some say both, and there was a terrible row. Next morning, Mr. Holt’s eldest son shipped out to war, Old Mr. Holt himself disappeared, and Mrs. Holt—well, she died of a broken heart, they said. The house went to one of the nephews, I think, I never got that part quite straight, but it didn’t so much matter, since they’re all named Holt. All the beautiful gardens withered and died away, no matter how much they tried to save them. And they did try, for twenty—maybe thirty years. But the place just never could shake off its sadness. Nobody ever lived there for any length of time after that, and the house started to go, as all houses do. Now it’s—well, it’s like this. I don’t normally come over the river, of course, but since you were here…”

  “Of course,” murmured Marguerite. The story wasn’t at all like what they’d found online, except in one way: it remained frustratingly vague. “And no one knows exactly what happened?”

  “Not so far as I ever knew, and I grew up with that story fed to me breakfast, lunch and dinner most of my young life. My mama always thought it was the saddest story ever, and my father well, he just thought it was a waste of prime real estate.” She smiled, as if recalling a long-ago argument. “They never could see eye to eye on it.”

  “But they both agreed the house was cursed.” This question came from Win, who was looking at the house with renewed speculation.

  “Well, as good an excuse as any for why nothing ever grew and no one ever stayed,” Bess sighed. “But here I am talking your ear off, when all I wanted to know was whether you’d be here longer than a few hours. That’d been a coup at Tilda’s bridge social tomorrow, I’m not afraid to tell you.”

  She waved her hands as Marguerite tried to form an answer to that. “No, no, don’t answer me now, let me believe you’ll be back. I’ll give it a few days, and just tease them with news to come.” She peered at Win, then Marguerite. “Too bad you’re not engaged, though. The place suits you. Tell Mr. Holt I said hello, and that he’s welcome anytime at the farm. Alpacas are good for whatever ails you, and that’s the honest truth!”

  Marguerite blinked at the old woman’s back as she turned, her alpaca happily trotting with her toward the river once more. “The place is a ruin,” she said under her breath as Win stepped closer to her. “And it suits us?”

  “Well, there are resemblances.” He reached up and plucked something out of her hair, and Marguerite groaned. A long, clinging vine had somehow wound its way all the way down her shoulder.

  “I see your point,” she said, not bothering to hide her grin. She felt unreasonably relaxed around Win—a surprise since they’d practically just inhaled each other during that kiss…

  That kiss.

  Color flooded her face, and she groaned again, this time in earnest. “Win, I’m so sorry for what…for that,” she said, gesturing to the gazebo. “Even though you’ve broken things off with Juliet, it’s—it’s too soon. I got caught up in the moment. It won’t happen again.”

  “Of course it won’t,” he said, quickly and far too agreeably. In fact, his smile was easy, polite—and a million miles away. “But more to the point, what do you think of the story what the charming Ms. Hilty offered us, about how the curse got started?”

  Marguerite g
rimaced. “It’s certainly more colorful than what we read online. Who do you know who to believe?”

  He gestured toward the silent old house. “I think we have no choice, but to go back to the beginning.”

  Win was grateful for the wide wooden table separating him from Marguerite, more grateful than he’d been since he’d been reassigned classes in the sixth grade and no longer had to look directly at Suzanne Trembley. Like Suzanne, Marguerite was far more distraction than he could manage without physical distance between them.

  That kiss had one of the most idiotic things he’d done in the past five years. And because he was clearly a fool, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  But he knew he was walking a dangerous line, here. Though he’d dated with a vengeance in the years since the tragedy with Annelise, he’d never ever chosen a woman who’d made him feel the way Marguerite already did. Wild. A little unsteady. More than a little intense. If he kissed her again—and he fully intended to kiss her again—it would have to be on his terms. She’d have to understand that anything between them was temporary, even meaningless. She’d have to convince him she wouldn’t be hurt. If she couldn’t handle that, he’d back away…hell, he’d run away. Because the longer he stood next to Marguerite, the less he was willing to trust himself. And he’d already paid the price of his carelessness once.

  But at least for the moment, the history of Dawson Holt’s curse provided an adequate distraction. They pored over separate sources of information, first at the Summerland County Library and then at its Historical Records office, starting eighty years prior to the event in question, to ensure they covered anyone who could possibly be in play during whatever happened in the early 1940s. According to their research, the climactic event happened sometime after 1939, but South Carolina didn’t enter the war until 1941, and the son was definitely killed in action…so to be safe, Win focused their search window to anytime between 1939 and 1942. Marguerite was reviewing newspaper accounts from that time period. Win, taking on more of the historical question.