by Claudy Conn
She sighed and went to her own platter of sirloin and roast potatoes. He watched her pick at her meal and muttered something incoherent. Myriah laughed and brought her platter to the bed, whereupon the two shared the single meal. Each seemed quite pleased with the other, and Myriah left him resting peacefully, promising to return with tea and biscuits later in the day.
Below stairs, curiosity drew her to an open door just off the central hall, and she entered cautiously to find a well-stocked library. However, what captured her attention was the far wall, which was covered with portraits. They appeared to be family portraits. She lit a candle since the room was shrouded in the darkness of the day. It was drizzling outside, and although the library housed a wonderful panoramic window, there wasn’t much light to be had.
With the candle sconce in hand she went to the portraits and held it high to have a good look at one in particular of a young lad and a man. Here was William Wimborne and his lordship, and the painting must have been commissioned quite a few years ago.
Billy looked to be no more than fifteen or sixteen in the portrait, and his lordship looked fascinating and happier than when she had met him. She put a finger to her lips as she studied the painting. His lordship’s honey-colored hair had been very accurately captured … as had been the strong line of his jaw.
She heard someone behind her and spun around to stare up at Lord Kit Wimborne. The air she had been breathing suddenly burned in her throat. He was devastatingly handsome, and for a moment she felt like an awkward schoolgirl. He wore a riding jacket of dark blue, cream-colored breeches, and high black boots polished to a fine sheen. His honey-colored hair hung to his shoulders in waves of thick silk, and his gray eyes glittered and reminded her that she had been naked under his touch.
Her cheeks felt warm as she managed to say, “Oh … my lord.”
He smiled, and as though he had never treated her like a piece of fluff, had never touched her naked skin, he said, “I trust you slept well in your … er … dusty room?”
“I did … and it is dusty no longer. Spent a bit of time this morning and set it to rights.”
“Good. Now if you will, Miss …”
“White, Myriah White,” she offered hastily.
“Miss White … I have some questions.” He waved her to a brown leather winged chair and took one up opposite after she deposited the candleholder on a nearby table and sat. “I would like to know what you and your groom were doing on the Pike Road at such an hour.”
“We were on the way to my aunt’s in Dover. We lost our way … rested the horses and ourselves, and again became hopelessly lost. We hadn’t meant to travel so late, you see, and then I noticed a horse near the ditch and after investigating, found your brother, bleeding to death in the ditch.” There, she thought, that should silence him.
“I see. Then we have imposed on you long enough. Should you need help finding the correct road to Dover, I will be happy to take you there in the morning.”
“No.” Myriah frowned. She had quite convinced herself that she needed to stay for at least a week, thinking she was already in so much trouble, what was another week? In fact, perhaps her father would be so worried he would no longer be furious, only concerned and happy to have her back safe and sound.
“No?”
“What I mean to say … what I have to tell you … well, I suppose only the truth will do. My father wishes me to marry a man I do not love …”
“I see, and you … cannot like the match?”
“I do not wish to marry at all, but unfortunately my father discovered us … kissing … and believes that my honor is at stake, which of course it is not. For goodness sake, why should I be forced to marry someone over a kiss? ’Tis nonsense.”
“And you think to hide from him here? Eventually, you will need to go home.”
“Yes, but time … often fixes things … don’t you think?”
“Time can also work against you, my dear.”
“Please, my lord, just another week?” Myriah pleaded.
He frowned and then sighed. “I can’t very well throw you out. You have saved my brother’s life and have played nursemaid to him … right then, one week, Miss White.”
“Thank you,” Myriah said, feeling wicked about keeping her true identity from him while she remained in his home.
He got up. “I think I’ll visit that scamp brother of mine.” He inclined his head. “Till later then.”
She watched him go and sighed. It was time to go to the kitchen to visit with Cook and pick up some more information about Lord Wimborne!
*
The cook greeted her warmly and asked how the young master was. Myriah smiled. “I am sure he will be calling for a man’s dinner this evening. In the meantime, I thought I would fix some tea and biscuits and take it up to him in a bit.”
“How kind of you, Miss,” Cook said, beaming.
“Oh … and I have taken a guestroom and polished it up, but I need some fresh linens and another blanket for the bed. I looked everywhere but couldn’t find them.”
“Lord love ye,” clucked Cook, “that was a job for m’lads, that was. I’ll have them take up what ye need.”
“Thank you,” Myriah said over her shoulder as she put a kettle on the fire.
“Wasn’t expecting his lordship back so soon,” Cook said, obvious looking to gossip. She put a stack of sweet tarts on the tray Myriah had set on the table.
“Yes, Mr. Wimborne was surprised as well—oh, and those look good.”
“They be young Wimborne’s favorite.”
“Have you been with them at Wimborne long?” asked Myriah.
“M’mother was cook at Wimborne before me … ’tis a shame what hard times will do to a place.”
“And they have fallen onto hard times?” asked Myriah.
“That they ’ave … we used to have quite a staff running about … then something went wrong jest this past year—just after his lordship come home from fighting the Frenchies in Spain. All but me and my boys were let go.”
“How dreadful! Those poor people—did they find work?”
The cook cast her eyes away from Myriah’s face and suddenly busied herself again. “Oh, as to that … they make out all right.”
Odd, thought Myriah. Why had the woman become suddenly secretive? She took up the tray, marveling to herself at its weight, and made her way to young Wimborne’s room.
Without knocking at the open door, she sauntered in, placed the heavily laden tray on a stained wood table, and pulled it to the bed. Exclaiming disapprovingly, she made her way to the long window-hangings and opened them. “There, that’s better!” she said, hands on hips. There wasn’t much light from the dismal day, but it was better than total darkness.
“Oh God, she’s back!” groaned young Wimborne. Myriah said nothing to this but went to his water pitcher, poured some of the cool water into the basin, and brought it to the bed. Dipping a washcloth in the water she moved it over her patient’s face and neck, then left it in his free hand while she brought him a towel.
“There,” she exclaimed with approval. “Now don’t you feel better?”
“She-devil, move aside and let me eat!” retorted her patient.
She laughed, drew up a chair for herself, and placed a tray of delectables on his knees. “Eat, puppy. I am told the strawberry tart is your favorite.”
“Aye, so it is.” He smiled widely.
“Sip your tea first,” she said, placing them out of his reach.
“Fiend!” He snorted but took up the cup and did in fact sip with a sound of pleasure.
She sipped her own tea and slid his tart to him. Watching him eat with relish, she thought he was well on the mend. When he had finished, she poured him another cup and handed it over, spilling a bit as she did so.
“Careful, chit!” admonished Mr. Wimborne, grinning.
“Ungrateful scamp! Be satisfied it was not dropped on your head!”
“And is that how you treat your
benefactor, Billy my lad?” said a male voice from the doorway.
“Back, Kit? Have some tea and one of those tarts, and aye, ’tis only what she deserves. She is a fiend.”
“Would you like some tea, my lord? I’ve brought an extra cup,” Myriah said, feeling for no apparent reason a sensation very much like shyness.
“Thank you, Miss White,” his lordship replied quite formally. Myriah peered at him, wondering if this tall, honey-haired man was indeed the same one who had leaned over her last evening. He seemed so distant and … cold.
His imposing figure loomed above them as he came over for the teacup. He took up a chair and sat across from her with the small table between them, and Myriah decided to ignore him by sipping her tea.
“Drink up,” Myriah ordered, returning her attention to Billy, who was staring out the window, his cup in mid-air.
“Fire-breather … no need for you to order me about—I was just about to,” returned Mr. Wimborne, grinning.
Lord Wimborne laughed, sat back, and relaxed as he watched the lively exchange between the two. He wondered about Miss White, as she called herself. She looked and behaved every bit the spoiled lady—certainly her clothes had come from none other than Madame Bertin’s Salon.
Then, too, there was something in her self-assurance—something that spoke of breeding and exposure to a London Season. Yet he had never heard of the White family name. Then there was her story—it seemed odd and, though he believed it, something in her eyes had hinted of falsehoods.
It annoyed him and hovered about his thoughts like a fretful child. He watched her get up. Instinctively, his eyes meandered slowly over her body, but his eyelids quickly veiled his appreciation of her form. This was one pretty his instincts cautioned him to pass!
“If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I am sure you two have matters to discuss, and I would dearly love a quick visit to the stables to look in on my Silkie,” Myriah said, brushing a few crumbs into a napkin and leaving it on the table.
“But it is raining,” his lordship offered with a frown.
“Ha! As though that could stop the she-devil,” teased Billy, waving her off.
With her departure Kit relaxed and chuckled as he watched his brother devour another strawberry tart. “Billy, you and Miss White seem to have progressed into an extremely comfortable relationship,” he said, eying him speculatively.
“Hmmm … she is a top sawyer! Don’t let her bossiness fool you, Kit. She really is grand, you know!”
“And how came you to this profound conclusion about a young lady you hardly know?” his lordship asked drily.
“Kit!” Billy protested. “She saved my life! If Myriah had not found me and brought me home, I could have bled to death on the grass … or worse!”
“Very well, we will allow her that much. She did indeed deliver you into Fletcher’s hands instead of hauling you off to the doctor’s … which would have been the very devil to deal with.”
“Aye, but, Kit,” objected Billy once again, “she did far more than that! Lord—ain’t Fletcher told you? He told me … fastened some sort of thing … ah, a tourniquet that slowed my blood from spilling out altogether. And what’s more, she never asked how I came by my bullet! Not one question. Nor does she talk around it like some females do trying to get you to slip up and give over …”
Kit laughed and put up his hands. “That, of course makes her right ’un!”
“Yes, it does,” Billy said defensively. “She is plucky—for you must know her father has tried to bully her into marrying some chap she didn’t take to. Up she gets and runs away! How many females do you know have the backbone to take such a step?”
“She told you that, eh?” His lordship was mildly surprised and asked, “And that step meets with your approbation, Billy?”
“Now, Kit, come down a leg! Lord, it ain’t like you to get some preachy look over your face. ’Tis humbug you be pitching at me, and I want to know why!”
“Frankly, I don’t wish for you to become involved with a girl of her stamp—” started his lordship.
A gusty laugh drowned out Kit’s words. “Involved? Egad, Kit … Myriah is a dazzler! Lord don’t know when I’ve clapped eyes on a brighter flower. But she no more wants my name than she wants that fellow’s she is running away from!”
“But what do you want, my bucko?” Kit asked.
“I want a fairy queen with china-blue eyes, corn silk hair blowing soft in the breeze … and I want her ten years from now!” Billy grinned.
Kit smiled and stood up. “All right, lad. I’ll plague you no more—for the time being. Get some rest.”
“The devil I will!” retorted his brother. “’Tis your turn now, my brother.”
“My turn, brat?” Kit’s brow went up.
“Aye, what I want to know is why are you back … now?”
What happens when Claudy tells a paranormal romance
in a Regency setting? Find out in
Prince Prelude—Legend
Prologue
ACCORDING TO THE humans’ Encyclopedia Britannica, Fairy is a race of supernatural beings who have magic powers and sometimes meddle in human affairs.
(I must agree, and I meddle more than my brethren.)
It goes on to explain that we are well known in Ireland, Scotland, and Wales and that we are very powerful and sometimes dangerous beings who can be friendly, mischievous, or cruel, depending on our whim. Sadly, it is true.
The human reference advises that we occasionally take human lovers, as the Fae find human sexuality inviting and are drawn to the passion humans possess. However, it cautions, Fae, unlike humans, are immortal. True again.
History has called us the Tuatha Dé Danaan, and we’re also known as the Seelie Fae. I should like you to know more about who we are. You see, the truth is we came long before the written word put us in Ireland at 1000 BC, and we are so much greater than the written word can describe. We are, to a one, quite stunning—and I am even more captivating than my peers. In fact, let me describe myself. I am, Prince Breslyn, last male of the Dagda line, which is one of the four Royal Houses of the Seelie Fae.
If you have read the Legend books, or my first novella, then I need no introduction, but for those of you who haven’t yet read the series, I will give you a brief description of who and what I am.
As I mentioned, I am a Royal Fae Prince of the Tuatha Dé Danaan. I am a Council member (although I rarely attend the boring meetings). I am well over six feet six inches and taller than most male Fae, who are as a race quite unusually tall and warrior built.
My dark blonde hair is long, and I usually slick it back and keep it tethered at the back of my neck with leathers. My eyes are silver, my face chiseled, and I have been described by Fae and human alike as much more than handsome.
I wear a gold torque with the etchings of my Royal House—Dagda—and I like tattoos and wear a band of Celtic knots and ancient runes around my biceps.
What is really important is this: I adore humans, especially female humans.
That gets me into all kinds of trouble with my Queen Aaibhe, who feels that my interactions with humans are a break from our treaty and an infringement on the rules of Fate.
Five hundred years ago I fell in love for the first time with a human. Her name was Chartelle, and we were happy for a time.
When human life and immortal life meet, there is only one conclusion, and when it happens, the one left behind will find himself or herself heartbroken.
We Fae are rumored to lack the equivalent of a human heart. Untrue—I know, because my heart broke, and I grieved and went on missing my Chartelle for centuries.
Those centuries—just about five—were a blur, and had it not been for my young sister and charge, Aida, and her friend Ete, who in later years was appointed to sit on the Council, I think that first depression I felt would not have lifted.
A human friend, one of the MacCleans in fact, said something once to me about ‘time healing’. For me that i
s totally incorrect: time doesn’t heal per say, but it does dull the pain of loss, a pain that returns in quiet moments when one least expects it to. I was suffering just such a discomfort when visiting the MacCleans in the year 1814 in their home in Scotland. They were entertaining… hosting a thing they called a ‘cotillion’, and I looked across the room and saw her…
Her name, I was told, was Destinee, and she was exquisite.
In fact, I could not look away. Her long black hair, black as the velvet night sky, was piled in dangling curls around her angelic face. Stars twinkled through the curls. Her heart-shaped countenance was classically beautiful, her eyes almond-shaped and bright blue, her neck long. By Danu, I started walking in her direction, thinking that the silk of her form-fitting Regency gown of blue needed to come off—and I was just the one to accomplish the feat.
She looked up, and our eyes met. I can tell you that I saw her catch her breath; I know I was breathing in short spurts of desire. I bent and took her white-gloved hand and brought it up even as I opened the buttons of the glove, found her flesh, and pressed it to my lips.
She blushed, and her lashes lowered. “Sir! I must object…”
“Must you?” I quipped as I started to introduce myself. “My beauty…allow me to intro—”
She cut me off. “Oh, I know who you are, you are Lord Dagda…Breslyn, in fact. Lady MacClean spoke of you to me only this morning.”
“Did she?” I frowned, for although her ladyship and I have been friends for all her life (the MacCleans all know the truth of who I am), I was not sure just what she would tell her female acquaintances.
“Oh, yes…she says that you are the best of all good men.”
As one can imagine, I was much relieved, as I had decided that this beauty and I must get to know one another. “And you have the advantage of me—you know who I am, but I do not know who you are.”
“I am Destinee LaBlanc…”
I must have frowned, for she blushed. I realized she saw I had heard the gossip; I hurriedly tried to put her at ease. “That is a lovely name and suits you.”