“No, dear, he won’t ruin it for Jane,” Imogen said, shooting a mock glare of warning at her husband. Dougal laughed.
“Now, if you excuse us, we have a honeymoon to attend to,” growled Dougal, grabbing his wife and fading with her into the air. The vicar blushed. Margaret gave the man’s transparent form a mock hug, lifting her arms wide and round before smacking a pretend kiss to his vanishing cheek.
Imogen’s lips met Dougal’s. And under the power of his will, he brought them to his bedchamber. The dust disappeared from his bed as he stopped next to it. Imogen glanced around. Raising an eyebrow at the unfamiliar room, she smiled in question.
With a growl, he said, “I’ll explain later. But for now, kiss me.”
And there were no more words between them. Nothing else mattered—not the past or future, for together, they would have eternity.
Epilogue
Dougal lifted his hand to Imogen, escorting her though the entryway into the front hall of Rothfield. Bowing politely at the Colonel and his wife, he smiled as the man uncomfortably tried to acknowledge him and not seem out of sorts to his living guests. Imogen, seeing her husband’s ploy, hit him merrily in the arm.
“Behave,” she scolded. “You promised Margaret.”
“No one saw me,” he answered innocently.
“That is exactly my point,” she said lovingly. “You’ll send the poor Colonel to an early grave and then I won’t be able to protect you from him.”
Dougal chuckled. He glanced around the front hall decorated with vases teeming with wildflowers, sweeping ribbons and giant bows. He hugged his wife closer to his side.
“You realize,” he began mischievously, “that no one can see us. We could dance naked if we wanted to.”
Dougal smirked as he longingly glanced over her body.
“Oh,” warned Imogen, feigning ire. Then, unable to resist his handsome face, she grinned. “Jane, Margaret and the Colonel can see us.”
“I keep forgetting,” he whispered in penitence. Imogen didn’t believe it for a second.
“Do hush,” ordered Imogen. “Where is our daughter? I can’t wait to see her in her new dress.”
“Patience.” He looked over the crowd of heads, past the good country folk of Haventon. His own anxiousness showed as he looked for Margaret in the crowd. Imogen smiled secretively up at him. The afterlife was good to them. She had never been happier, or more in love.
The first strains of a waltz began. The sweet melody fell over the hall as partners joined together. Imogen, catching her daughter’s flushed face amongst the crowd, stiffened.
“Is that,” she began, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.
Dougal followed her gaze. Margaret stood out from the crowd in a gown of shimmering white. Gemstones sparkled at her throat in gleaming perfection. But the stones paled next to her beauty as she gazed into the eyes of her dance partner.
“Josiah?” finished Imogen. “But how?”
Dougal, seeing the happiness on his daughter’s face only smiled. He had spoken with the man earlier in the day about his intentions towards his daughter. Josiah had been most polite. Dougal had completely forgotten to tell his wife about it, having seen her lying naked before his fireplace. Nodding, he said to his wife, “I think it has something to do with dark worshiper’s betrayal. They broke the demonic pact he made by killing him and his family. And do not discount his sacrifice that night in the forest. Not to mention your stipulation of Margaret’s deserved happiness.”
“How would you know that?”
“Do not question it,” said Dougal with a loving pull of her arm. “You will never understand my ways.”
“Quite so, husband,” Imogen whispered, tears of blissfulness sparkling in her eyes as she watched the girl. Her heart bubbled over with joy.
Dougal swept his arm before his waist, bowing low to his wife. Then, straightening, he offered her his arms to dance.
“My lady,” he murmured, “I believe the honor is mine.”
“Eternally,” Imogen whispered. She curtsied, taking his arm. As they waltzed, they spun through the room, unmindful of the other guests, unseen or felt by any but each other. Dougal swept her through and out of the crowd, past the front door, down the steps into the dimming evening. They danced all night until the gathering mists of early morning bid them to bed.
Dougal and Imogen lingered at the estate through the passing years. And, every so often, someone would swear they had seen their spirits beneath the stars of an endless night. They were said to be dancing in a tuneless breeze, through a mysterious fog that gathered and swept around the trees and flowers of Rothfield Park.
THE END
About the Author, Michelle M. Pillow
Michelle M. Pillow, Author of All Things Romance™, is a multi-published, award winning author writing in many romance fiction genres including futuristic, paranormal, historical, contemporary, fantasy and dark paranormal. Ever since she can remember, she has had a strange fascination with anything supernatural—ghosts, magical powers, and oh… vampires. What could be more alluring than being immortal, all-powerful, and eternally beautiful? After discovering historical romance novels, it was only natural that the supernatural and love/romance elements should someday meet in her wonderland of a brain. She’s glad they did for their children have been pouring onto the computer screen ever since.
She has been nominated for the Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award 2011, the winner of the 2006 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award, nominated for the 2007 RT Award, a Brava Novella Contest Finalist and a PAN member of RWA.
Michelle is a journalist for Paranormal Underground Magazine. She has a BGS in History/Business with an English Minor, and a Photography degree. In 2009 she and fellow author Mandy M. Roth started their own highly successful self-publishing endeavor named The Raven Books.
Michelle has titles published with The Raven Books, Pocket Books, Random House, Virgin Books, Adam’s Media, Samhain Publishing, Running Press, and more.
She loves to hear from readers. They can contact her through her website www.michellepillow.com.
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To learn more about Michelle M. Pillow please visit her website www.MichellePillow.com
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Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice by Michelle M. Pillow
Medieval Historical Romance
“She found herself unimpressed with him, having expected more of the legendary man—Brant. Lord Blackwell. Brant the Gladiator. Brant the Vigorous. Brant the Flame. Brant the Viking Hero. Della snorted in unladylike disgust. More like, Brant the Thorn in my Arse!”
Lady Della the Cold-Hearted
Lady Della despises all things Viking. They may rule the land, but they will never rule her. Unfortunately, her father doesn’t seem to agree. To prove his continued allegiance to the Viking king, the Ealdorman of Strathfeld betroths his only daughter to a respected Viking Lord—a warrior who’s legendary prowess isn’t reserved for the battlefield. Fighting the newfound craving in her body and the unwelcome fire in her heart, Della must choose between everything she knows to be true and the one thing she never expected…
Lord Brant of Blackwell, the Fiery One
Lord Blackwell is as fiery on the battlefield as he is in his passions. He has fought valiantly for King Guthrum and has earned the respect of the nobles. When his overlord offers the hand of his beautiful daughter and the right to inherit his lands, Blackwell can hardly refuse. However, he soon discovers that his noble bride is anything but the meek and mild woman he envisioned for his wife. One minute she’s kissing him back, the next she’s swearing to do whatever it takes to dissuaded him from their marriage. Can his lust for life and his new bride melt the ice that surrounds her heart? Or will Lady Della the Cold be this warrior’s undoing?
Lord of Fire, Lady
of Ice Excerpt
“Lord Strathfeld is a good man.” The Viking prevented her from asking more. There was a yielding respect in his voice as he spoke. “He has truly proved his worth in battle.”
“Yea, my father has fought in many battles,” Della said.
Those battles were the reason for her hasty marriage. He’d fought bravely several months ago at the Battle of Martin, where King Aethelred had been brought low, and had caught the notice of King Guthrum. Together they had formulated a plan to help ensure Strathfeld’s continued allegiance to the Viking clans. Their arrangement was simply to unite the prominent Strathfeld line in marriage to a Viking noble and have male heirs of mixed blood produced to join the people. Her father had readily offered her up to be a political sacrifice. Not only did he seek to assure peace with King Guthrum, but he also wanted to ensure continued loyalty between his manor and the neighboring Nordic manor of Blackwell. So it came to be that she was betrothed to Brant of Blackwell, Viking Barbarian.
A jarl, Lord Blackwell was one of the few nobles truly descended of pure Norse blood. Generations of raiding and pillaging the land had given way to Norsemen taking Saxon brides and the children of such matches were considered Viking by birth. If her father had been a pure or even half Viking, he would have been Blackwell’s better. Lord Strathfeld was richer and had more land. However, by Viking law, the circumstance of Blackwell’s birth made him more powerful than Della’s father.
While he is titled, it does not make him noble. He is still naught more than a Viking barbarian, a Viking barbarian who is soon to be my husband.
Della closed her eyes as a wave of disgust rose in her chest. Taking a deep breath, she steeled her nerves.
“M’lady has a look of distaste. Do you feel ill?”
She sensed the man kept his emotions well-guarded and couldn’t tell if he disapproved of her earlier remarks regarding her intended. His stony expression puzzled her. She could usually sense what others were thinking.
Mayhap he is as displeased by this match as I! It’s likely he does not care for the Saxons as much as I do not care for the Vikings. Mayhap I can convince him to persuade his friend to leave before the nuptial vows are spoken.
Della turned her most charming smile to her unknowing ally. She ignored his surprise at her sudden change in attitude toward him. “Methinks this marriage between our people is a mistake. Perchance, it is the same for you?”
The Viking’s eyes narrowed and shot flames in her direction, but he kept quiet.
Della took his silence as a fervent agreement. “I do not wish to marry Lord Blackwell and it’s obvious you dislike the match as well. Perchance you can whisper a few words of discouragement into my intended’s unsuspecting ears. It would be well worth your while to do so.”
“And what would these whispers say?” The Viking leaned closer, his face devoid of emotion as he scratched at his beard.
“They would say I love another, that I would not be faithful. They would say I carry the bastard child of Stuart of Grayson in my belly. They would say aught you would see fit.” Della’s tongue edged the line of her upper lip in nervous agitation. She barely believed the lies spilling from her mouth. But she didn’t care, for they could be disproved when it was discovered she carried no babe. “I care naught what the whispers say of me, only that they meet their purpose.”
“It would appear that m’lady has little care for her reputation, nor for the reputation of her betrothed, to speak thusly of herself.” The Viking’s lips pressed together into a thin line.
Was it possible she’d been mistaken in her assessment of him? He didn’t appear as daft as she first assumed and he didn’t seem pleased at her intention to overthrow the betrothment. Jutting her chin up in defiance, she said quietly, “I care naught of his lordship’s reputation. If you are a true and loyal friend to him, you will warn him against me. Do you understand my words?”
“Yea, I understand.” The Viking lowered his head and leaned his face into hers.
Anger glowed like embers of fire in his gaze. He didn’t take her veiled threat lightly. Narrowing her eyes, she returned his hard stare, not about to back down now that she’d stated her case. What did it matter if she got along with a barbarian who owed allegiance to her future husband? If this charade of a marriage took place, her first act would be to dismiss the knave at her side and turn him out of the castle. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears as she stared into his steely gaze. Even before the battle of wills had started, she somehow knew she was to be the loser.
Contemptuously, she withdrew her gaze from his and noticed his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Suddenly the size and power of the man before her grabbed hold of her senses and she knew she’d stepped too close to the flame. Taking a hesitant step back, she debated as to whether she should turn and run.
“Do you leave so quickly?” Brant asked in low, exact tones as his future wife backed away from him. He wanted nothing more than to wring the life’s breath from her traitorous, unfaithful throat. Her passionless face gave no emotion away.
No wonder you are called Della the Cold-Hearted. Methinks you lack all passions, even fear.
For a complete, up-to-date booklist, visit www.MichellePillow.com
Emerald Knight by Michelle M. Pillow
Medieval Historical Romance
Since birth Lady Ginevra has been betrothed to Lord Wolfram, second son to the Count of Whetshire. There was never any question as to whom she would marry or who she would be. Life has been mapped out for her and she's going to live happily ever after as a Countess. However, there is one complication to her plans. Her rogue of a future husband isn't taking to their life together with open arms. In fact, he seems to enjoy finding reasons to put the nuptials off.
Emerald Knight Prologue Excerpt
Whetshire Fortress, Wessex, 1171 A.D.
Baron Southaven raised his proud blue eyes from the sheepskin parchment. His quill dripped with ink as he set it aside. As he blew lightly over the bold flourish of his signature, a satisfied smile lined his mouth. Then, dripping wax onto the paper, he slipped his ring from his finger and pressed his seal onto the agreement. Next to him his wife, Lady Southaven, clapped happily. He placed the crest back onto his hand. It was done. The endless fortnights of negotiation since the birth of his daughter had finally ended to the satisfaction of both houses.
“It’s decided then,” the Earl of Whetshire announced with a solemn nod.
Wolfe’s head snapped up. In all his eight years he had never been so mortified. His father’s stern voice expressed neither anger nor pleasure at the decision. Though, by all indications, the man was pleased with the match. Turning to look down the floor of the main hall, the earl squinted in the dimmed torchlight. The hour was late and the fire had dwindled to a soft heat.
Wolfe stood dutifully with his two brothers awaiting his father’s command. Thomas, the oldest, held his head high and proud. Wolfe, standing next to him, swallowed nervously and kicked at the floor. William, the youngest, grinned sheepishly as if nothing concerned him. Their sister’s giggle broke the silence, as she sat on the lap of the baron’s only son. Robert’s gentle laugh followed hers.
The earl sighed as he watched his sons. Motioning to Wolfe, he commanded gruffly, “Wolfram, come kiss your betrothed’s lips and seal this match.”
Wrinkling his nose and stiffening his legs, his feet refused to move. His brothers chuckled mockingly behind the backs of their hands. Thomas knocked him forward with a swift punch to his back. Wolfe spun to his older brother with a fierce growl.
“I’ll get you fer that, Thomas!” Wolfe hissed, raising his fists in warning. “I’ll wallop you good!”
Thomas just laughed harder. Being the oldest and the heir, he wasn’t too concerned. Even though he was only two years older, he had grown well over Wolfe in size. He smiled confidently down from his impressive height. “Yea, Wolfe, go kiss your bride.”
“Wolfram?” Lady Isabella called when her son
hadn’t moved. The countess’ voice was loud and booming compared to the stern tone of her husband. She pushed her flaming red hair back from her forehead as she watched her children expectantly.
“Yea, you’d better hope she don’t spit up on you!” William chimed in. He too was rewarded with a dark scowl.
Slowly, Wolfe stepped forward. His dark brown hair fell in front of his eyes as he looked solemnly up at his parents. Both they, the baron and baroness watched him expectantly from across the hall. Before having taken two steps, a foot jutted in front of him. He tumbled to the ground. Glancing up from the straw rushes in anger, he glared at his snickering older brother.
“I warned you, Thomas!” Wolfe hollered. He forgot his father’s command as he glared at his attacker. Jumping to his feet, he charged Thomas in the waist. He rammed his head into his brother’s chest and knocked him to the ground with the unexpected force. Thomas slid across the straw rushes that lined the hall floor, as Wolfe howled atop him.
Wolfe swung for his brother’s jaw, his fist glancing off Thomas’ cheek with a reverberating smack. William shouted in pleasure. Thomas fought back. He rolled Wolfe amidst flying fists that quickly found their mark. Wolfe grunted as Thomas clapped the side of his head and Thomas protested loudly when Wolfe tried to bite his finger off. The digit had strayed too close to his younger brother’s opened mouth.
The battle ended as fast as it begun. Wolfe grunted in protest as he was lifted off of Thomas. His feet kicked in the air only to land with a heavy thud on the stone floor. Neither boy was badly bruised, only disheveled from the fray. Guiltily, Wolfe wiped his bloodied mouth and looked at his father, his eyes pleading for parental mercy. It was not to be.
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