by The Vow
He kissed her, brushing his mouth over her lips, his eyes half-veiled by a brush of his lashes that did not hide the sensual gleam. “But I weary of discussing rebel earls and clever kings. I prefer more pleasurable conversation. Tell me, my sweet, do you still make those breathless little sounds when I kiss you here … and here … or even—here?”
She gasped, her body arching when his roving mouth found a sensitive spot. Her skirts were up around her waist, his hands eliciting delicious shivers that went from her fingers to her toes, and she was only barely aware when she was as naked as he, lying in the warmth of his arms and the shelter of their bed, returning his caresses with an eagerness that betrayed her answering passion.
And when Luc slipped inside her, she rose to meet him, her arms around his neck and her love for him so great she thought she must shatter with it. Her hands tangled in his black hair, grown long again to cover his neck, and she held him still and kissed him with mounting need. Long had she yearned for him to be with her just like this, his hands on her breasts, her mouth, the fiery sweep of his tongue on flesh and quivering lips … it was over much too soon, but the tempest that swept over them left Luc resting against her with drowsy satisfaction. He lifted his head and kissed her mouth, then held her close to him as he slipped into weary slumber. Ceara smiled, content.
Later, when the excitement of his return had calmed and she had his full attention, she would tell him about the babe. It would be born before the calends of November, as she had been. And this child would be well loved, a child of parents who were not Saxon and Norman, but English. One country, one people. For all time, though it would not be easy. But one day, all would be bound together and there would be no more division.
Ceara thought that Balfour would be happy to know that Wulfridge would soon ring with the happy laughter of his heirs.
In the antechamber, Sheba lifted her head and howled, a warbling cry that reverberated through the chamber. A gift and a promise, Wulfric had told Ceara when he’d given her the wolf pup bought from Danish merchants. As long as Wulfridge was guarded by a wolf, it would be safe.
And then Ceara remembered the old crone down by the sea, and the words that had made no sense to a young, grieving girl:
“The wolf will bring great grief and strife to the land, but after there will come peace for a time, and with it—love. Great love, m’lady, and the lifelong loyalty of a wolf will be yours.…”
Yea, it was true. Wulfridge would be ever safe, for it offered a home for them all.
About the Author
JULIANA GARNETT is a bestselling author writing under a new name to indulge her passion for medieval history. Always fascinated by the romance of knights in shining armor, this Southern writer is now at liberty to focus on the pageantry and allure of days when chivalry was expected and there were plenty of damsels in distress.
Ms. Garnett has won numerous awards for her previous works, and hopes to entertain new readers who share her passion for valorous heroes and strong, beautiful heroines.
Read on for excerpts from more Loveswept classics …
Read on for an excerpt from Annette Reynolds’s Remember the Time
PROLOGUE
The front porch of the Victorian house provides the only relief from the afternoon sun. The threat of a thunderstorm will only make the heat worse, and the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia hunkers down to wait out the summer of 1977. Likewise, the three teenagers who sit sprawled on the porch in various states of heat prostration.
“Can it get any hotter?” Kate asks, her voice taking on just the slightest hint of a whine.
“Don’t say that.” Paul watches a fly take a desultory stroll across his forearm.
“Bet it’s hotter than this in Arizona,” Mike comments.
“But it’s a dry heat,” Paul and Kate say in unison. Paul looks down at Kate and they grin at each other.
No one on that porch doubts Paul Armstrong will be in Phoenix next summer. He is the golden boy of Staunton High School’s baseball team. Making it to the majors isn’t a pipe dream for Paul. His self-confidence will make it happen.
Kate groans as she raises her head from Paul’s lap.
“Where’re you going, Ms. Moran?” Paul asks, his fingers closing around her wrist.
“Get more tea.”
“Ya gotta kiss me first.”
“It’s too hot,” she moans, but they all know she doesn’t mean it.
Both boys watch Kate’s walk to the front door. Her cutoffs are short and her legs are long. Mike silently sings the praises of summer. The screen door slaps closed behind her and, for a few seconds, the relentless drone of the cicadas is silenced.
Mike feels a rivulet of sweat trickle down the nape of his neck. He looks over at his best friend. “How’d you get so lucky?” he asks.
Paul slouches lower in the porch swing, setting off a gentle rocking motion. “It’s that Armstrong charm.”
Mike snorts and shifts in the wicker armchair.
“Hey, we both had an equal shot at her.” Paul’s voice holds the hint of a shrug. “She picked me.”
Mike remembers it differently, but says, “Yeah. I guess she’s not as smart as she looks.”
“I heard that, Michael Fitzgerald,” Kate states, pushing open the screen door.
“Heard what?” Mike asks innocently.
Kate perches on the porch railing and rolls the cool glass across her forehead.
“You know I love you both. Just different.”
“Please don’t give me that ‘I love you like a brother’ routine. It wounds me,” Mike says in what he hopes passes for mock pain.
The glass at her lips, Kate rolls her eyes at him then closes them and tilts her head back to take a long drink.
Her thick auburn hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, but a few heat-damp strands cling to her neck. Mike wants to lift them, blow on her hot skin. He wants to put his mouth there and taste her. The thought brings on the beginning of an erection and he guiltily glances at Paul.
When Mike sees those amused hazel eyes looking back at him he knows he’s been caught.
CHAPTER ONE
The initial assault on his body knocked the wind out of him. Gasping for air, he was swept along in the tumult of the newly born river in the Arizona desert. Rocks pummeled him. One particularly jagged stone hit his leg with such force that it slashed his jeans and cut open his thigh. He could feel the warm blood swirling around him, contrasting sharply with the cold water. A small manzanita tree swept past him, caught his left arm, and pulled it back. He could hear the snap as a bone broke. The pain made him scream, and then there was nothing but numbness.
The thoughts that flashed through his mind were quicksilver and, in some ways, senseless. There goes the season. Followed by, Kate’s gonna be so pissed when she sees me. And then, I’m gonna have to buy Stu a new Jeep.
A lethargy had come over him and the idea of sleep floated around his mind like a pleasant daydream. But there was something he needed to do. What was it? God, he couldn’t think anymore.
Paul could hear something over the thunderous crashing of the water around him. It must’ve been Mitch. Mitch is gonna be late. I’ll have to explain it all to his wife … Opening his eyes, Paul caught sight of the Jeep and remembered the most important thing. The thing he’d forgotten.
It took all the concentration he had left for him to reach out his right hand and grasp the side mirror. His legs—his whole body—were whipped backward by the oncoming water, and he screamed again when something hit his lacerated leg with the force of a twenty-pound hammer.
There it was! He could see his wallet wedged between the dashboard and the windscreen. If he could just reach his wallet, open it up, look at that photograph—he’d be able to find the strength to get through this. The decision he’d made earlier was too important to be sidetracked by a few cuts and bruises, or a broken arm.
He was only thirty-four years old. He was healthy and strong. Dying was not on his
agenda. Not for a very long time. All his intensity—all the life he had left—went into pulling himself up to the open window.
But he never heard Mitchell’s terrified shout. He never saw the boulder that crashed through the flimsy canvas roof of the Jeep, shattering the windshield, and his skull. He never got to hold the photograph hidden in the recesses of his wallet.
The search for Paul Armstrong and Mitchell Browder began at one P.M., immediately after the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department received the call from Kate Armstrong. Kate made the call immediately after Browder’s wife phoned from the airport, complaining that her husband had failed to pick her up, and “I’m standing here with a cranky four-year-old and every damn toy she’s got and five suitcases.”
The search ended at 2:48 P.M. because Paul Armstrong and Mitchell Browder were just where they said they’d be.
The four-wheel-drive vehicle carrying a deputy and a member of the rescue squad sped along the dirt road. When they saw the unfamiliar sight of a river running through the desert, the deputy reverently whispered, “Flash flood,” and immediately put in a call for an emergency vehicle. The two men breathed a sigh of relief when they spotted a man sitting on a large boulder. Their relief would be short-lived.
He fit the description of Mitchell Browder, and the deputy was about to cancel the call for emergency services when the stillness of the figure struck him. The two men got out of the car, not bothering to close the doors, and walked toward the lone man. He didn’t move. He didn’t acknowledge their presence. When the deputy called out his name, he didn’t hear. He simply sat, staring at a point somewhere in the distance. When the man from the rescue squad drew closer he could see the mud caked on the man’s clothing. When he stepped in front of him and repeated his name, Mitchell Browder slowly moved his head upward, revealing a face streaked with dirt and tears.
“Mr. Browder, where is Paul Armstrong?”
“He’s gone,” Mitchell answered in a hollow voice.
“Gone where, Mr. Browder?” the deputy asked in a patient voice. “Which way did he go? My partner will go find him and I’ll stay with you.”
Mitchell shifted his eyes away from whatever he had been staring at and turned them on the man who stood before him. They seemed to burn with pain and fear, and the deputy took a step backward.
And then Mitchell Browder said the words that stunned first the men standing in front of him, and then the entire nation.
“He’s not far away. I watched Paul Armstrong die right over there.”
Mitchell lifted a hand that felt heavy with the weight of his words, pointing to the nearly unrecognizable Jeep that sat buried in the muddy rubble of the flash flood, and then silent tears coursed down his face once again.
“He didn’t stand a chance,” stated the sheriff, thinking she was out of earshot.
“It was over very quickly,” said a friend, who was also a doctor on call at the hospital, afterward.
“He didn’t feel any pain,” the coroner had pronounced, taking her hand.
Over and over again, the same meaningless phrases blew across her consciousness until she simply stopped hearing them. How the hell did they know? Although she had been spared the sight of his once beautiful now unrecognizable face, she had been forced to look at his battered body. A body that had been untouched by a surgeon’s knife, despite thirteen years in baseball. It seemed to her that he had hurt very much.
Paul had tried to convince her to go with them that morning. But Kate was sick to death of everything to do with Arizona. She’d been married to Paul Armstrong, and consequently baseball, for thirteen years. It wasn’t fun anymore. The constant moving, the road trips, the hundreds of hours spent alone, the limelight that Paul lived in as the Giants’ phenomenal second baseman—all these things had worn her down. She’d almost not come to spring training this year. Almost. But at the last moment she’d changed her mind, knowing that separation from Paul would be even more devastating to their marriage. This was his last chance to make it better. Kate had done all she could. She didn’t think she could live without him, but knew something had to give. And that “something” wasn’t going to be her any longer.
And as she sat, dry-eyed, on the couch in the living room of her parents’ Tempe home that night, surrounded by people who whispered and murmured and hovered, that was the one thought that assaulted her mind.
How am I supposed to go on without you?
It wasn’t until the next day that she cried.
Mitchell Browder stood in front of her while she sat on that same couch. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked at her forlornly—helplessly. He held a small plastic bag that he continually passed from one hand to the other. When he finally began speaking, his words came out in torrents of pain.
“I’m sorry, Kate. I’m so sorry! I don’t know what else …” He stopped and swallowed hard. “God, he was my best friend on the team. They just let me out of the hospital, and I wanted to come by and tell you how sorry … I don’t know what else to say. It doesn’t seem like enough. If there’s anything I can do to help you … anything.”
Kneeling in front of her, he held the bag out with both hands. When she didn’t take it from him, he gently placed it on her lap.
“These are some of Paul’s things. They forgot to give them to you at the hospital. They were going to send over some stranger to give them to you, but I wouldn’t let them.”
She tried to smile, but the effort it took was too great.
“He saved my life, Kate.” Mitchell’s voice broke. “He saved me and then he died. I’ll never be able to repay him. I don’t know what to do …”
And then this man, who had been through too many injuries to count, who was as tough as nails when it came to the vagaries of his career, began sobbing like a small child. His tears widened the crack in her heart, and she reached out for him.
They held each other for long minutes, and then she sent him away.
He was wiping his face with the back of his hand, standing in the archway that led to the hall, when he suddenly said, “The rose was for you. He wanted you to have it.” Kate’s grief-stricken eyes stared at him blankly, but he didn’t want to have to explain any more and he walked away.
The bag he’d given her had fallen to the floor. As she reached for it, she saw where his teardrops had landed on the tiles. Tangible evidence of pain. Her fingers closed around the bag and she stood, knowing she’d never look inside.
Kate’s mother found her in the guest room. There was a phone call for her. It was Mike Fitzgerald. Did she want to take it?
She hadn’t even heard the telephone ring, but, yes, she wanted to talk to Mike. She always wanted to talk to Mike. He was the best friend she’d ever had.
And when she picked up the receiver and heard him say “Katie? Darlin’?” her loss hit her fully, and the tears finally came.
Read on for an excerpt from Iris Johansen’s This Fierce Splendor
Prologue
Kantalan, Mexico
Summer, A.D. 1517
The Sun Child was trembling.
The motion beneath Sayan’s sandals was a mere quivering that vanished almost as it began. She would never have noticed it if her senses had not been tuned to exquisite sensitivity by the knowledge of what was to come.
Her hand tightened on the stem of the silver goblet. She was also trembling. She hadn’t expected to be this afraid. She had thought once she had accepted her fate, she would have the courage to meet it with dignity. After all, it would not be a cruel death. She would drift peacefully to sleep, never to awaken. At least, never to awaken on this plane. There had been something in the flames, a promise.…
She lifted the goblet to her lips and quickly swallowed a large draft of potent maize wine. It was strong and smooth as it slid down her throat, leaving warmth in its wake. She was not quite so cold now, and she would be able to meet her fate as a clairana should. She moved slowly to the polished brass mirror affixed to the far wall. The mell
ow golden circle reflected the scarlet blossoms in the white jade vase on the low table in front of the mirror and beyond it her own image. She had dressed very carefully tonight to forestall this very terror and give her confidence. She wore her favorite ceremonial robe, the cloak of sunrise. A sunburst of fine silk pleats fell from the shoulders of the garment in a cascade of gold and ivory and rose and was fastened at her throat with a large yellow-diamond clasp whose facets sparkled in the soft candlelight. The ivory silk gown beneath it was a mere slip of material, and it revealed the full thrust of her breasts and the clean line of her thighs. At least she looked like a clairana. She mustn’t have these doubts. When the time came she would have the courage she needed. Probably the isolation of the last few days had been more painful than her death would be.
The priests had been very wise in their punishment. They had snatched none of the riches that were the accoutrements of her position from her. They had taken away only their belief in her and the companionship to which a clairana was accustomed. She decided it was the terrible loneliness making her so cowardly. Everyone was alone within their soul, but a touch, a word, would have been a comfort as she released her essence to the—
“You look splendid.”
Sayan whirled to face the man standing in the doorway. “No!” she whispered. “I told you to leave. I begged you to leave and you promised you would. Why are you still here, Dalkar?”