The horses thundered out of the barn past her, terrified by the fire. She knew Jesse had released the horses from their stalls and he would be here in a moment to grab the pots of water. She pumped as hard as she could, filling up the two pails and then starting on the largest tub.
She realized that Jesse should have gotten one of the pails by now, and fear clutched at her heart. She straightened and looked toward the barn. There was no sign of Jesse. Her fear deepened. She picked up the pails and began to walk to the barn, expecting at any moment to see him come running toward her to take the pails.
He did not.
Amy’s heart began to thunder in her chest, and she set down the pails and ran to the barn. Just as she reached the barn door, a figure came out of the darkened corral, stretching out an arm toward her. Amy shrieked and jumped, startled.
“Shh… Don’t be afraid. It’s me.”
Amy stared through the darkness at the man, only a few feet away from her. “Charles?” she asked in astonishment. “What in the world are you doing here?” Then she shook her head; there was no time for explanations. “Come on and help me. Jesse’s still in the barn.”
She started forward again, and he grabbed her arm, pulling her to a halt and turning her around. “No, don’t!”
“What? Let go of me.” She twisted, but he clung to her tightly.
“Don’t go in there! You’ll ruin everything. Besides, you can’t save him. He’s out cold.”
“Out cold! Why? What do you mean?” Amy went icy inside, too scared to move.
“I hit him. I had to. He discovered me.”
Amy glanced toward the barn, now blazing brightly. She could feel the heat from its flames. “You mean you set this? And then you hit Jesse and left him to die in there?”
He nodded. “I had to. I told him I’d get back at him. No one can get away with treating Charles Whitaker like that.”
“Let go of me!” Amy began to struggle wildly, released from her momentary paralysis.
“No, wait!” He grabbed her with both hands, holding on tightly even though she kicked and swung and twisted, fighting to get away from him. “Don’t! Think— Once he’s gone, you won’t have a cowhand for a husband. You and I can be married. You wouldn’t have turned me down if you’d known that you’d have to marry your father’s horse trainer instead. You deserve better than that. Leave him alone, and we—”
“Are you insane!” Amy brought her heel down hard on his instep and twisted away with all the strength she possessed, driven by fear. At last she was able to tear free from him. She ran straight into the burning barn, screaming, “Jesse! Jesse!”
“Amy, no!” Whitaker came after her, trying to pull her back.
Amy grabbed the closest thing she could find, a shovel that was leaning against the barn wall, and she whirled around, slamming it into Whitaker. She connected solidly with his head and shoulders, and he crumpled to the floor. Amy dropped the shovel and ran deeper into the barn, calling Jesse’s name.
Smoke roiled through the barn, blinding her and making her cough. The heat was intense. High above her head, flames licked at the rafters of the barn. But Amy thought of none of it, only of Jesse and the fact that she could not let him die. She screamed his name over and over as she made her way toward the back of the barn, peering through the smoke.
Her foot hit something soft, and there was a groan. “Jesse!”
She sank down on her knees beside him, coughing from the smoke, and shook his arm. “Jesse! Jesse, wake up! We have to get out of here.”
He stirred and mumbled, coughing, but he didn’t open his eyes. Grimly Amy shoved her arms under his shoulders and locked them across his chest. She pulled and tugged frantically, but she could budge him only inches. Tears streamed down her face, and she repeated his name over and over, begging him to wake up, to help her. She pulled, straining every muscle, digging in her heels, and slowly she moved his body. Inch by precious inch they moved across the floor, and all the while the flames licked over the rafters, sending down sparks and waves of heat.
Finally Jesse groaned, and his eyes fluttered open.
“Jesse!” Amy exclaimed in relief and collapsed beside him. “Get up! Help me! Come on.”
His eyes rolled, and for an awful instant she thought he had lost consciousness again, but then he groaned and rolled over, coughing, and began to try to rise. Jesse made it up to his hands and knees, and Amy put her shoulder under his arm, lifting with all her strength.
He staggered to his feet and, with him leaning woozily against her, they stumbled and weaved toward the barn door. It was an agonizingly slow journey, and Amy’s heart was in her mouth with each step as the rafters groaned above them. Then, at last, they were free of the barn and sucking in the fresh air of the outdoors. They collapsed against the corral fence, coughing.
“What—what happened?” Jesse gasped.
“Charles Whitaker tried to kill you.” Quickly Amy related what had happened.
“You mean—” Jesse looked back at the barn. Flames licked across the roof and up the walls. A rafter crashed, engulfing the rear of the barn in flames. “You mean Whitaker’s in there?”
“Yes.” Amy, too, looked at the barn, frowning with worry. Charles was a low human being, but she hated to think of him burning to death in the inferno he had created.
Jesse sighed and started back to the barn.
“No! Jesse! You might get killed, too! He’s not worth it.”
He smiled at her, but shook off her restraining hand. “I can’t just let a man burn to death.”
Jesse loped into the barn, and Amy waited in breathless suspense. Moments later, Jesse reemerged, dragging Charles Whitaker. A great groan sounded from the barn, and the central beam broke and crashed in flames to the ground. The barn roof collapsed, sending flames leaping and sparks shooting out.
Jesse stood looking at the barn for a long moment, then sighed and turned away. “We better tie this fellow up. I’ll take him in to the sheriff tomorrow. This time I’m not letting him get away.”
As soon as they had tied Whitaker up, Jesse and Amy raced to water down the area around the barn. Although the barn itself was beyond help, they had to keep the fire from spreading to the corral and the grass beyond. They soaked the corral fences nearest the barn, as well as the ground around it for several feet.
By the time they finished, they were tired and sore, but they saw with satisfaction that the fire was not spreading. Amy turned from the grim sight of the barn burning to the ground and looked down at Jesse. He reached up and wiped a smudge of soot from her cheek, and then he smiled tenderly into her eyes.
“You saved my life.” His voice was soft, almost wondering.
“Of course. I love you. I couldn’t let you die.”
Any lingering doubts he had had about her love melted away. She had risked her own life to save his.
Amy looked back at the barn, and her eyes flooded with tears. “Oh, Jesse. I’m so sorry. All your hard work…”
Jesse glanced at the rubble of the barn, then turned back to Amy. “I can rebuild a barn. What’s important is that I have you. You’re my wife, in every way, and that’s all that matters to me. We can do anything together.”
Amy threw her arms around his neck and went up on tiptoe to brush her lips against his. “Oh, Jesse, I love you so.”
“And I love you, Mrs. Tyler.” His arms tightened around her, and he kissed her deeply. “I love you.”
SEDUCED BY STARLIGHT
Charlotte Featherstone
Acknowledgments
Special thanks for this incredible opportunity to be part of this anthology goes to Tara Parsons and Margo Lipschultz of the HQN Books team and also to Tracy Martin for editing this novella. And to Susan Swinwood, because she’s the best editor a neurotic writer could ever have! I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to make my debut with HQN Books with this anthology, and with these characters. Thank you.
Dedication
To all the read
ers who wrote asking for more of the Addicted world, I hope this satisfies, and gives you a glimpse of how passionate and happy Lindsay and Anais, and Jane and Wallingford’s lives are. It truly was so much fun to revisit their world and watch their children fall in love.
To the most excellent kitties at the Pussycat Parlor—Beth, Cyn, Amy, Stephanie, Holly, Kelly, Alycia, Cheryl, Cherra, Dhes, Rach, Maureen, Tracy and Heidi! Your friendship is everything, and your exuberance for life, passion and love most inspiring. I treasure the stories, the laughs and the support and all those naughty pictures in the Wet Man Thread—you really know how to get the muse moving! I dedicate this book to you!
PROLOGUE
March 1874
Bewdley, Worcestershire, England
THE LATE WINTER SNOWSTORM had come and gone, leaving the garden resembling an enchanted fairyland, glittering with crystal displays of frosted tree limbs and dagger-sharp icicles that shone like prisms, radiant and iridescent, almost blinding as they sparkled in the brilliant afternoon sun.
The grass, which in the summer resembled green velvet, was dusted with snow, reminding Blossom of icing sugar delicately sprinkled on sponge cake. There was beauty to the garden like this. Beneath snow and the crackling iced tree limbs there was simplicity. Crispness. She longed to end her walk and run to her studio to capture the brilliance of the day on canvas. It would be a challenge to turn this vista from cold, bleak slumber to a magical land of ice and snow, but she was up for it, if only this impromptu promenade would come to an end.
They had been walking for some time now, her gloved fingers lying delicately upon the arm of his wool great-coat. In silence they strolled, both lost in thoughts—and perhaps dreams of the future. Their future.
Beneath her fur-lined hood, Blossom stole a look at the man who walked silently beside her. Samuel Markham, the Marquis of Weatherby’s second son. And her fiancé. In three very short months he would be her husband.
Samuel was a handsome man, tall and dark-haired like his father, but he lacked the marquis’s curling hair and green eyes. His elder brother had inherited those—not that she cared, she quickly reminded herself. Jase, the eldest son and heir, was a renowned rake and shameless heartbreaker. She’d gotten the better of the two as far as she was concerned.
Betrothed since she was a child, they liked to joke between themselves. Blossom had even stole the opening line of Jane Austen’s famous work Pride and Prejudice and tailored it to her own. “It was a truth universally acknowledged that the beloved daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Torrington was going to marry the handsome second son of the Marquis and Marchioness of Weatherby—no other suitors need apply.” Samuel had laughed himself silly. So had she.
However, it was not so very far from the truth. From early childhood their mothers had plotted and planned, and here they were, three months from their wedding date, strolling among her parents’ beautiful gardens—unchaperoned.
There was no need for concern for her reputation. There really was little to cause anxiety. Everything was set. The wedding invitations had already been printed, the church reserved and the breakfast menu decided upon. If indeed something scandalous happened out here in the gardens, her name, and good reputation, were safe, for the wedding was nearly upon them. But Blossom was not worried, Samuel was nothing but a consummate gentleman. Only chaste kisses and handholding had ever passed between them.
Yes. She had gotten the better of the Markham boys. Samuel was safe, Jase was anything but. Samuel would make a very fine husband, and Jase… He would bring a wife nothing but grief and heartache. She’d known that for years, despite the fact she had once fancied herself enamored of Jase, and perhaps just a touch in love with him. But all that had changed during her first Season.
After discovering Jase’s true personality, Blossom had given a very hearty prayer of gratitude that her mother had chosen the right Markham son to marry her off to. Never let it be said that the spare was any less worthy than the heir.
“Are you cold?” Samuel asked after clearing his throat. “I felt you shiver.”
Strange, she hadn’t noticed. Had thoughts of Jase made her tremble? Impossible.
“We could go to the temple, if you like. The wind shouldn’t be too bad there.”
He was different somehow today. She hadn’t seen him in weeks. He’d been in the south, in Devon, painting a seascape which Lord Heversham had commissioned for his library. He’d only just returned, and immediately set out to see her. A young woman couldn’t ask for a more diligent and thoughtful suitor. Fiancé, she reminded herself as she stole a look at him once more. He was going to be her husband. They would share a future. A life. A bed.
“Blossom.”
Her name was whispered so softly, so painfully, that she stopped, reached for his gloved hand, halting him on the snow-dusted path. “What is it?”
He cast his gaze away, and she felt something dark and frightening curl deep in her belly. Something was wrong. This was not the Samuel she had known since childhood. The easy banter, the good humor that always flowed between them, had been replaced with an intensity and underlying current of…of… She could not name it. Only knew it wasn’t right.
“Oh, God, how do I tell you this?” he said to the ground as he raked his gloved hands through his hair. When he at last looked upon her, his expression was solemn, his eyes rimmed with dark circles that showed how tired he truly was.
“You’re frightening me,” she whispered. “Please, tell me. Whatever it is, I’m certain it is not as grievous as the expression you’re presently wearing.”
“Blossom.” He swallowed hard, and she felt her fingers curl tightly in her gloves, waiting for something terrible to be said. “I…I…” He blew out a breath, which turned to gray vapor in the chilly air. “I’ve fallen in love with someone else.”
Shocked. Stunned. Blossom could only blink. She was certain her mouth opened, then promptly shut, emitting no words, only a quiet little “Oh.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he rushed on, the words spilling from his mouth as he cupped her cheeks in his hands. “It…it just did. And I’m sorry. Oh, God, I’m so, so sorry.”
She wasn’t exactly certain what she felt. Surprise was an understatement. Alarm, perhaps. Astounded…most likely. Curiously, she did not feel pain. Perhaps she was in a state of shock, after all.
“You’re in love—with someone else?” she repeated as though she were a simpleton. He glanced away sheepishly, then turned to look at her. No, not merely gaze, but stare forthrightly into her eyes.
“Yes. Most ardently and passionately.”
Ardent. Passionate. He had not been that with her. Nor had she felt that way with him. She loved him, of course. But it was not that blind, all-consuming love and passion that books by the Brontë sisters wrote of. It was a quiet love. One of companionship, and familiarity. Rather the sort of love she held for her brother, Edward, without the desire to share a kiss, of course.
Oh, Lord, she was rambling.
“Say something,” Samuel entreated. “I cannot bear the look in your eyes.”
How did she appear to him? she wondered. Crushed? Heartbroken? Or was her expression blank? Masked by good breeding and ladylike decorum.
“Damn it,” he cursed. It was so strange to hear it from his lips—he was never anything but proper and controlled. “Please say something.”
Suddenly, “something” came to mind. Where the question sprung from, she had no idea; the words were out and spoken before she could think, or take them back.
“Do you love her so much that you would do anything to have her? Are your thoughts fixated by her? Are you even now thinking of her, and when you might see her again?”
“Blossom,” he chastised, “how could you—”
“We’ve always been honest with each other, Samuel. Now is not the time for half-truths. Our future is at stake here, and I believe that I am owed at least the truth. Tell me.”
Holding her gaze, he relucta
ntly nodded. “Yes. I’m consumed by her, and yes, God help me, I have thought of her while with you. Forgive me, Blossom.”
Something inside her broke and swelled, then flew free. “Then you must marry her, and love her long and well, Samuel Markham.”
He stared at her as if she were mad. As if he didn’t dare allow himself to believe what he’d just heard.
“We are both artists, both so passionate in our work, but we’ve never been passionate toward each other, have we? We are friends. As close as any friends could be. But we are not lovers. It would be a travesty to deny each other of that—passion and pleasure. Do we not owe it to ourselves to experience such bliss? To discover what it means to be someone’s lover?”
As if to test her words, Samuel, still cupping her cheeks in his palms, lowered his mouth to hers. Softly, he brushed his lips to her mouth, then again, then once more, widening her lips, pressing his tongue inside. He had never kissed her like this, this intimately, and the experience was pleasant. Nice.
When he pulled away, they both knew the truth. While they enjoyed each other’s company and shared many interests, the passion was only lukewarm. It was not the unbridled passion of their kind—poets, writers and artists.
“What does your heart tell you?” she whispered.
Closing his eyes, he held his breath, then released it in a long rush. “That you deserve much more than I can give you.”
“I wish you only the best, Samuel.”
Resting his forehead against hers, he murmured, “I never, ever wanted to hurt you. I was quite content to marry you and be your husband, but then—”
“You discovered what it was to truly, passionately love someone. I understand. And I’m not hurt. I’m glad that we shall remain friends. Marriage might have ruined that. I can tolerate the idea of not marrying you, but I cannot abide the thought of never having your friendship.”
The Wedding of the Century & Other Stories Page 21