Copyright © 2016 Bureeda A. Bruner
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1530853137
Printed in the United States of America
Haunted Oak Publishing
For Meredith Gayle Shuttleworth –
you gave me my name, you gave me love,
and you still give me support.
Thank you for your dear friendship.
With long-overdue gratitude
to Tom Hay, without whom this
book just simply could not have been written
and, as always …
with love …
for Joshua
When we’ve been there ten thousand years …
bright shining as the sun
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
than when we’ve just begun.
- John Newton, Amazing Grace
Prologue
Williamsburg, Virginia—1746
At last, God’s vengeance had caught up with him.
The thought skittered through Grey’s mind as lightning struck an oak a dozen feet ahead. The black stallion cried out and reared, massive hooves pawing the air. Squinting through the storm, he yanked on the reins just as fire exploded in the old oak. With a ponderous groan, a massive branch crashed across the path. It was hopeless; the black was wild with fear, and the reins slipped through his hands. The horse bolted, tumbling him into the lane—leaving him muddied, bruised, but unsmitten.
So, vengeance must wait for another day. In the last seven years, Grey had come to believe God knew precisely what He was about. Waiting for retribution was hell itself.
The torchlight of Rosalie blazed in the distance, a beacon of promised heaven: Emily. It warmed him as he limped through the cold, bitterly black night. She was six years old now—he’d missed the celebration by just a few weeks.
Hellish weeks.
Forty-five had died on the Swallow, and it troubled him for the first time in years. On this last journey, he’d seen his daughter’s smile in those of his youngest passengers. Comely faces chosen for the winsome smiles that would serve them well as amusing curiosities for their mistresses. And that last child, in the village south of Sierra Leone …
She’d made the mistake of smiling at him, perhaps seeing him as her rescuer from her pathetic captivity. That spirit had been her destruction; he’d nodded to the agent, who grabbed the girl. Peculiar, how he heard, still, the hysterical screams of the child’s mother.
The girl’s smile had quickly vanished on board the Swallow, along with her spirit. She’d been buried two weeks later in the Gulf of Guinea. He oddly wished he had a name to assign her; they left the naming to the buyers, of course, but she’d had a name, at one time. Did her mother wonder about the life her daughter would lead in an unknown land? Did she dream foolish dreams of someday finding her?
And again he thought of Emily. His wife hadn’t blinked when Grey had taken her away. Relieved to be rid of the child, she’d doubtless found comfort in the arms of another lover.
Once he’d thought perhaps he could love Letitia; then he’d taken refuge in hating her; now, he only wished his promise meant as little to him as hers had. Twelve months at sea—three continents, two fierce tempests, a hurricane—and still no woman to warm his bed. And yet the thought of taking a lover repulsed him. He wanted more. He wanted…things he hadn’t wanted in years, things he no longer had the right to want. Someone who waited by the fireside on cold, black nights like tonight, laughing with relief when she knew he was safe. Someone who could somehow ease the hunger, the discontent that ate at his very soul. As he reached the house, he mused that perhaps God was merciful after all, for He’d blessed Grey with indifference. No woman had stirred his passion for years.
Rosalie’s staunch, steadfast familiarity welcomed him and gave him an odd twinge. How different from the hovel in Liverpool where he’d grown up; lavish and elegant, a tribute to his prosperity. And yet, but for Emily, it held no warmth. He found his way to his bedchamber, glad for the fire burning in the hearth for his return, and changed into a dressing gown. Then he ventured into Emily’s room. As he brushed back his sleeping daughter’s blonde curls, his heart swelled in contentment and dismay; she’d grown too much.
Restlessly, he went belowstairs, and as he arrived in the library, a crack of thunder ripped through the house. He stopped, hearing a ruckus in the rear entryway, as if someone had taken a tumble. He moved suspiciously through the halls and into the vestibule, then stopped. A woman lay near his feet.
For fully a minute he just stared, fascinated. The most peculiar thing, her lying there as if she’d hurried in from the storm and collapsed, too weary to take another step. Sudden desire surged through him, inevitably. She was quite beautiful, and quite naked.
Abundant, curly black hair wreathed her face; dark eyebrows arched over eyes with long, curling lashes, a straight, slim nose, and dusky rose lips that were parted slightly. Her wet hair spilled over her breasts, and he knelt beside her, his breath shallow as he let one finger draw the hair away. His gaze moved hungrily over her. Skin as white and flawless as fresh cream; full, sweet breasts, with crowns the color of her mouth; long, gracefully curving limbs. He touched her shoulder to rouse her, but the coldness of her skin alarmed him. In a moment, he lifted her in his arms and carried her toward his room.
Then he stopped, for she opened her eyes and spoke. Her voice was husky and soft, but he didn’t catch her words—he was captivated by those eyes, as warm and golden as the firelight that shone from his room. And then she touched him—slender, soft hands moving over his chest, resting in the open place against his skin. Her touch was cool—yet it set him afire. The arousal she stirred in him was hotter than anything he’d known in many years.
“I’ve gotten you wet,” she murmured, “and I’m heavy.”
He gave her some vague reassurance as he tried to dam his desire. What was it about her that twisted something within him? She seemed like a lost child, hoping for comfort. Yet comforting her was the farthest thing from his mind. His eyes moved ravenously over her until he could look no more. “Who are you?”
She whispered a name and collapsed against his chest wearily. Rachel.
In his room, he closed the door behind him. As he lay her within his bed, he thought perhaps he should summon Hastings, or a maid, or—someone. Yet he didn’t stir. He only gazed at her. He brushed her hair away from her face, wondering where she’d come from. Who she was. Why he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
A shiver wracked her, and like a fool he climbed into bed with her, curling his body around hers. Was she ill, or merely cold? He dwelt on those details, for it gave him something to think of beyond the overpowering temptation of her. He had been too long without a woman, and this one was beyond lovely, her soft curves nestling against him in provocative intimacy.
When her shivering passed and he sought to draw away, she gave a soft cry and turned in his arms, clutching at the robe and then burrowing within, against his bare chest. Her slender hands roved over his chest and his shoulders, and she gave a soft, delighted sigh. And then her limbs intertwined almost innocently with his, and he paused, waiting for her to still. He stroked her hair with faltering resolve, feeling it dry and grow warm. He soothed her, measuring her contented heartbeat with his own racing heart. And when she slept peacefully, he withdrew, pulled his robe around him, and watched her from a chair.
Again it haunted him: Who was she? What was she doing at Rosalie, utterly naked? And why did she stir him so? She had the kind of eyes that made a man
yearn for peaceful, firelit evenings. And as Grey nodded off in the chair, a peculiar thought came to him.
God’s vengeance perhaps took unusual forms.
Chapter One
On a winding, tree-shaded parkway in the tidewater of Virginia, a sleek silver car turned out of the twenty-first century and into the past.
Two women were inside the car. Rachel Sheppard, the passenger, replayed her boss’s briefing in her mind.
No confrontation.
In the world according to Roger, Kingsley’s theme park would be the best friend to American history since George Washington.
No competition.
“Kingsley’s in the same boat as existing Virginia tourism destinations,” Roger had said. “Kingsley’s Americana will make the water rise for everyone.”
And no conflict with Max Sheppard.
“Whatever you do, don’t agree to any photo-op where you’re up against your father. You’re good at PR,” Roger had told her, “but Sheppard’s the master. And he knows your weak spots.”
Boy did he. She sighed.
Camisha turned down the narrow road. “Looks like they sent the welcome wagon.”
Rachel groaned as she spotted the colorful crowd awaiting them. So much for no confrontation.
A sign went past her window. Kingsley go home.
Camisha chuckled, pulling down her sunglasses just enough to get a good look, then returning her attention to the road. Amusement flickered in her dark eyes. Tilting faintly at the corners, they always reminded Rachel of autumn—a color somewhere between caramel apples and November pecans. “Could be worse. Least they aren’t toting muskets.”
Keep Your Theme Parks Off Our Landmarks.
“Nice ’hood rhythm to it,” Camisha said.
This poster was shaken at them by a silver-haired woman in an ankle-length homespun dress. A bewigged gentleman resembling a stern Anglican minister hoisted a sign as the car rolled up. More to the point, his sign portrayed a roller coaster inside a red circle, bisected by a red slash.
Rachel felt fire and brimstone in his gaze—as if her soul were going to burn in a special room in hell reserved for defilers of history.
“What have they got against progress and prosperity? Kingsley’ll bring so many jobs, and tourist money—”
“Save the pitch for later. If you think you’re preaching to the choir, those folks with the signs are singing my Amazing Grace.”
“Of all the best friends in all the world, mine has to be a preservationist.”
Camisha turned the rental car into the blockaded semicircular drive at the Williamsburg Inn, but the protesters refused to budge. “They ain’t goin’ anywhere,” she murmured, amused.
Rachel pretended ignorance, smiling at the crowd. They were a dignified group, as protesters went. Half looked like bored housewives, for children clung to their skirts. The other half were perhaps retired men and women. It was a little concerning, how many seemed to have closets stocked with waistcoats and petticoats. One man was taping with his smartphone. Another had a minicam with the call letters of a local news station.
“Oh, great. A television crew. Well, just play dumb,” she said, rolling down the window. “Is the hotel closed?”
“Only if Kingsley has their way.” This woman, with a toddler in tow, also had a sign. Bull Run Was Not a Roller Coaster.
Two bellmen rushed past the crowd to the driver’s side of the car. “Miss Sheppard?”
Camisha’s eyes widened comically as she raised her hands in innocence. “No way.”
“I’m Rachel Sheppard. What’s the problem?”
“I think your arrival was leaked to the local press. We’ll park for you.”
When they managed their way out of the car, the reporter surged forward. “Miss Sheppard, isn’t it a bit crass to hold your press conference on the date Williamsburg celebrates three hundred years of American history?”
“We’re reserving our comments for the press conference day after tomorrow. Thank you for coming out to welcome us with your wonderful Southern hospitality!”
When in doubt, deny.
“It’s common knowledge that your own father is leading the nationwide opposition to Kingsley,” he went on. “How does it feel, knowing that you’ve taken on Max Sheppard, one of the most powerful men in corporate America today, as well as a great philanthropist for preservation?”
Just peachy.
Her smile continued as she ignored him, following the white-coated bellman. The elegant Williamsburg Inn was decorated in the sumptuous style of the thirties. But she scarcely noticed its opulent grace as the reporter’s question rang in her ears. And then the answer came.
Like watching an oncoming hurricane from a rowboat.
Although there had been rumors for decades, Kingsley’s final decision to build a theme park in northern Virginia had first made national headlines six months ago. The call from her father came the same day. Over the next few weeks, he had gone from mild discouragement, to open denouncement of her involvement in the project, to anger when he learned she was traveling to Williamsburg to do spin control.
“You work for a damn cartoon maker. Just stick with promoting the cartoons. I don’t like the attention this thing is getting, and I don’t like you in the middle of it. You’re in over your head. You don’t have any business in Virginia.”
Stirring up controversy, she thought. Bringing a blot on the spotless name he’d etched in the corporate world. A marketing genius himself, he’d established a computer components empire and made a fortune before he reached forty. Max Sheppard was a man of purpose and control. And he loathed the fact that she’d grown beyond his control.
When she had first taken an interest in the same marketing career that had distinguished him, Max had discouraged her. Most of his moneyed friends’ daughters sought degrees in art history or foreign languages or interior design, knowledge that would serve them well as ornaments to the moneyed men they would inevitably marry.
Not Rachel. She’d followed in her famous father’s footsteps, and she was beyond analyzing it. Had she been attempting a long-overdue bonding with the cold, wealthy man who’d adopted her but never found time for her? Seeking his approval?
If so, she’d gone about it the wrong way, finding employment with Kingsley the year before. Her first assignment was the theme park whose controversy would mushroom by the day.
Inside the suite, Camisha asked, “So how does it feel?”
“How does it feel having him on your side for a change?”
“If that man gives a damn about history, I’m Mary Todd Lincoln.”
“All he’s interested in is keeping me from disgracing him.”
Camisha stared at her for a long moment. She stared so long that Rachel felt odd—as if her friend’s mind were a million miles away. Then she sighed. “Rachel, what do you think about this theme park?”
She was giving Rachel the benefit of the doubt, which was a waste of doubt. “I’m paid to influence opinions, not hold them.”
Camisha pinned her with a knowing gaze. “One of these days, you’re gonna have to stand for something.”
“Well, principles aren’t on today’s itinerary.”
“My mama would tan your hide if she heard that trash. She loves Williamsburg.”
“Maybe. But she loves me more.”
Helen Carlyle’s approval had always meant more to Rachel than her own father’s, simply because Helen was the one who’d always been there. Max had paid Camisha’s mother to lend his home a woman’s touch, along with the ironing and mopping, but in the meanwhile, she’d raised Rachel.
They were interrupted by the other bellman’s arrival with their luggage, and his gaze lingered appreciatively on Camisha.
When Camisha would have tipped him, he shook his head. “My pleasure. Sorry about the crowd out front; people are pretty ticked off about that. Where’re you from?”
“Dallas. But my family’s from Virginia.”
“Oh? Wel
l, welcome home.”
As he reached for the door, Rachel blushed. He acted as if he were about to serve her a home-cooked meal.
“Oh, it’s good to be here,” she returned, closing the door very slowly, peering at him all the way.
Rachel folded her arms. “Well that was pathetic.”
Her head lolled, her eyes crossing. “He looked like—”
“It’s Bunker Hill we’re supposed to be thinking about, not Dulé Hill,” she said with a grin.
Camisha went sober, that fake anger that always made Rachel laugh. “Bunker Hill’s in freakin’ Massachusetts,” she said with a laugh as she entered the bathroom, “You colossal moron.”
Rachel loved that brash, exhilarating laughter, but there was little about Camisha that she didn’t love. In some ways, they were quite alike; both twenty-eight, both successful professionals, both raised in Dallas and educated at UT. Yet for all their similarities, they were from different worlds. Helen said that if they’d been old enough to know any better, they never would’ve even been friends.
“Put on some comfortable shoes,” Camisha called. “We’re going to be doing a lot of walking. No Manolo.”
Rachel followed her, finding her freshening her lipstick in the full-length bathroom mirror. “Walking? Can’t we take a cab?”
“Quit whining. Where we’re going, they don’t have roads.”
They exchanged impudent smirks in the mirror. The two women there invited comparison. Both tall and shapely; one with creamy skin, the other, coffee-and-cream; one with long, curly black hair swept up into its usual French twist, the other with shining black hair cropped short, enhancing high cheekbones. Rachel wore a khaki linen Balmain jacket and slacks and cool white shell; Camisha, a frilly, ultra-feminine blouse and jeans.
Camisha found a flaw in the image.
“Girl, do something with that hair.”
Rachel unwound her French twist, brushed out her hair, then wound it back up again while Camisha stared critically. “Seriously?”
Tender (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Time Travel Romance Book 1) Page 1