A moment of silence fell. The thieves exchanged uneasy looks with each other. One made the sign of the cross and took a step back. Calder fought down a smile. He risked a glance to Annis. She watched him with wide eyes.
The leader looked to Sheila. “Does he speak true, lass? Is the old woman an enchantress?”
Sheila looked apprehensive. “There are rumors of that, aye, and she’s older than the hills. Only a witch can claim so many years.”
“I wouldn’t risk her wrath,” Calder advised. He motioned to the loot they had assembled, his family’s legacy heaped in a careless pile. “Tell you what. Take the book. With our blessing. The recipes in there do more than fill a man’s belly. May it bring you fortune as you begin your new lives in America. In exchange … leave all else behind.”
Fenella huffed.
The leader lowered his half-eaten goose leg and stepped closer for a better glimpse of the book, clearly intrigued.
His cohort tugged on his arm. “Ian, I dinna think we should…”
Ian reached for the book with one hand. Fenella squawked and batted him away.
“Come, Fenella,” Calder scolded. “Give it over with your blessing now.”
“Calder,” Annis whispered beside him. “What are you doing?”
He leaned in and murmured for her ears alone, “I’m getting rid of that accursed thing so you’ll know it’s you I want. I want you, Annis Ballister, and that’s the truth of it.”
“Fenella! Cease your caterwauling!” Angus suddenly pushed forward, plucking the leather-bound volume from her hands and shoving it at the thief.
Ian caressed the leather almost reverently.
“Ian… Ye dinna ken what that thing can do. Leave it,” one of his men advised.
“Nay.” Ian shook his head. “It will bring us good fortune. I can feel it. Just as the laird said. As long as the old woman gives it with her blessing. I’ll have no curse following me across the ocean.”
“She will as long as you leave everything else and harm no one else,” Calder countered.
Ian nodded. “Aye. We’ll not take anything else.” He stared at Fenella hopefully.
“Fenella,” Calder prompted.
“Aye, verra well. Take it with my blessing,” she grumbled.
“Thank ye.” Smiling and exposing stained, crooked teeth, Ian handed the volume to Sheila. “Keep it safe for us, lass.”
Sheila wrapped her slim arms around the book as though she would never let go.
Fenella made a strangling sound in her throat to see it go, but she did not make a move toward it.
“Now go. You’ve gotten everything you’ve come for,” Calder said.
“Right we have.” Ian lifted his fingers to his forehead in a casual salute. “Men, let’s ride. Laird, yer hospitality will no’ be forgotten. I’ll think of ye fondly as we make our way across the pond.”
With that, he and his men departed the keep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
This shouldn’t be happening. None of it. Her parents shouldn’t have forgotten her. At least one of her sisters should have stopped being selfish for a fraction of a moment to look up and realize that Annis wasn’t with them. She should never have crossed paths with the duke beyond that ignominious first interaction—much less ended up in his bed. This should not be her life, but it was. Here she was, thoroughly compromised, her heart fully and irrevocably engaged, her body longing for his.
Now she would be burdened with the memory of him. The memory of his kiss, his taste, his touch running through her mind nonstop. Perhaps even worse than all that was the memory of his words, repeating in her head: I’m getting rid of that accursed thing so you’ll know it’s you I want. I want you, Annis Ballister.
He couldn’t have meant it.
After the thieves absconded into the night, the staff busied themselves restoring the house to rights. She couldn’t quite fathom what had happened to Fenella’s recipe book. Calder had given it to the thieves. It was the only thing they’d taken . . . all because of his quick thinking.
The housekeeper ushered Annis upstairs with clucking words. She had one last glimpse of Calder talking with several of his staff. Their eyes connected for a brief moment before she was whisked away.
A hot shiver rolled through her as she remembered their bodies tangled together. It had been so intense. So incredible. Certainly it wasn’t like that for everyone, was it? She closed her eyes in a heavy blink. Drat. She was starting to think what they had was special.
Oh, Annis. You’re in trouble here . . .
She fell back on the bed, pulled a pillow over her head and groaned, the sound muffled in the plump softness. Immediately she was assailed by the scent of him on the pillowcase. Splendid. She lifted the pillow off her face and threw it across the room with all the strength she could muster.
“Impressive.”
She bolted upright at the deep voice.
The duke closed the door after him and stepped deeper inside the room. “You have quite an arm. Hopefully, you won’t toss anything more dangerous than a pillow at me.”
Where did all the air go in the room go? “What are you doing here?”
“Why wouldn’t I be here?” He advanced on her.
Her chest ached at the sight of him. She moistened her lips. “You gave away Fenella’s book.” The shortbread recipe . . . It was forever gone.
“I’ll hear no more of biscuits, of magic, of spells. The book is gone and good riddance to it. There are no biscuits. What was left of them was tossed in the scrap buckets for the pigs.” He stopped before her and trailed his thumb down her cheek. “The only spell I’m under is the one you’ve cast upon me. I want you to stay here, Annis Ballister. With me.”
She shook her head. “I—I can’t do that. I have to go back. The thieves are no longer a threat. It’s unseemly for me to stay—”
His hands came down on either side of her, forcing her to lean back on the bed. He followed, coming over her, his features stark and intent. “I’m asking you to stay. To admit that your goal in life isn’t being a nun . . . that it’s not solitude. Be with me.” The words dropped in the space between them like solid objects.
She blinked up at him. He didn’t. He couldn’t.
The moment stretched. Endless. She knew she already loved him, but . . . Could this happen?
She reminded herself that this wasn’t what she wanted. Romance. Love. Marriage. At least . . . she didn’t think so.
Staring at his face, so resolved, so heartbreakingly handsome, she thought of her boisterous family. She thought of all the days, all the Christmases. The loud revelry. The singing of carols. The tearing through food and presents as Mama smiled fondly, watching her children shriek and squabble with each other. It actually hadn’t been so very awful.
Annis actually missed it a little. Very well. More than a little.
Christmas was about love and family.
So why was she running away from it? Why was she fighting it?
Would it be so terrible to have those things with Calder? She envisioned little babies with Calder’s eyes. Future Christmases. Other holidays and harvests and christenings and birthdays. Her heart swelled. What was so wrong with having all of that? Especially if she could have it with this man? Was it so impossible that he could love her? That this could be real? Why couldn’t he love someone like her? He was not the standard duke. And she was not the standard heiress. Perhaps Fenella was right and they were suited.
She opened her mouth but only stammered.
He cupped her face in both hands. “Annis? Do you love me? That’s all that matters. The only thing.” His thumbs moved in small circles on her cheeks. “What are you really afraid of?”
“Loving you this quickly and this deeply,” she whispered. “And you not loving me back. You later realizing this is all a mistake and you don’t want me.”
“Too late. I already love you. That isn’t a mistake and it won’t be undone. You can stay here at Glencrainn.” He shr
ugged. “Or I’ll follow you. Either way you’re stuck with me, Annis Ballister. I would even follow you to England, if need be.”
She choked on a small sob. “Bold words indeed.”
“Indeed.” He nodded somberly. “I would do that for no one else.”
She released a short laugh. “You really must love me.”
He stared at her solemnly. “Marry me.”
A long breathless moment passed, and she flung her arms around him with a broken sound. Soon they were kissing between words of forever. Clothes were hastily shed as they came together.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” she asked, gasping as he bit down on her earlobe. “You get my family, too.”
She grinned at his muttered curse against her throat and merrily set about divesting him of his clothing.
ABOUT SOPHIE JORDAN
Sophie Jordan grew up in the Texas hill country where she wove fantasies of dragons, warriors, and princesses. A former high school English teacher, she’s also the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than thirty romances. She now lives in Houston with her family. When she’s not writing, she spends her time overloading on caffeine (iced coffee preferred), talking plotlines with anyone who will listen (including her kids), and cramming her DVR with true-crime and reality shows.
To receive updates on Sophie’s new and upcoming books, please sign up for her newsletter and visit her at her sophiejordan.net.
MORE HISTORICAL ROMANCE FROM SOPHIE JORDAN
The Rogue Files
While the Duke Was Sleeping
The Scandal of it All
The Duke Buys a Bride
This Scot of Mine (2019)
The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls
Sins of a Wicked Duke
In Scandal They Wed
Wicked Nights with a Lover
The Debutante Files
A Good Debutante’s Guide to Ruin
An Heiress for All Seasons (novella)
All the Ways to Ruin a Rogue
The Forgotten Princesses
Wicked in Your Arms
Lessons from a Scandalous Bride
The Earl in My Bed
How to Lose a Bride in One Night
Surrender to Me
One Night with You
Too Wicked to Tame
Once Upon a Wedding Night
AVAILABLE NOW FROM SOPHIE JORDAN
The Duke Buys A Bride
(The Rogue Files, Book 3)
A bride wasn’t in his plans . . .
The last thing Marcus, the Duke of Autenberry, expects to see after sleeping off a night’s drunken shenanigans is a woman being auctioned in the village square. Before he can think about the ramifications, he buys her, thinking he’s winning the girl her freedom. Instead, he discovers he’s bought a wife.
A duke wasn’t in hers . . .
Alyse Bell is almost rid of the shackles that bound her in a name-only marriage, but the day her friend promised to purchase her in a wife auction, he vanishes, leaving her to face a mob of unsavory bachelors intent on owning her body and soul. But the appearance of a wicked, wealthy stranger changes her path forever.
The road to ruin . . .
Marcus doesn’t know what to do with the impertinent chit who clearly isn’t duchess material! Insisting their marriage isn’t legitimate, they leave for his estate in Scotland, hoping to devise a plan to get rid of each other. However, on a journey fraught with misadventure, their attraction grows and Marcus realizes he’ll do anything to keep this fiery woman for his own.
COMING SOON FROM SOPHIE JORDAN
This Scot of Mine
(The Rogue Files, Book 4)
A daring deception…
Desperate to escape her vile fiancé, Lady Clara devises a bold lie—that she’s pregnant with another man’s child. With her reputation in tatters, Clara flees to Scotland to live out her days in disgrace, resigned to her fate as a spinster…until she claps eyes on the powerful and wickedly handsome Laird Hunt MacLarin.
She’s the answer to his curse…
Laird of an ancient clan, Hunt needs an heir, but he comes from a long line of men cursed to die before the birth of their firstborn. When the Duke of Autenberry approaches him with a proposition—marry his ruined sister—it seems the perfect solution. Even better, the defiant lass stirs him to his very soul.
No escaping the truth…
Except marriage cannot set them free. No matter how much Hunt desires her. No matter how much Clara burns for him. Soon she is falling for her husband, but is love enough to end the curse? Or is the tragic history of the MacLarin Clan doomed to repeat itself?
CHRISTMAS IN CENTRAL PARK
JOANNA SHUPE
CHAPTER ONE
Save the leaves of your tea for a few days, steep them for a half an hour, then strain them. Use the liquid to wash your varnished paint. It washes better than soap.
—Mrs. Walker’s Weekly
New York Daily Gazette, December 1889
Opinions, they said, were like elbows; everyone had one or two.
Miss Rose Walker was fortunate. Not only was she full of opinions, she was paid to give them out.
Rose stepped out of the elevator and into the noisy newspaper office located on Printer’s Row. Reporters dashed to and fro, the constant hum of typewriters serving as an undercurrent to the chaos. The men were writing stories and following leads, eagerly informing the public of corruption and wrongdoing. How she longed to join this frenetic club of male journalism.
Instead, she was the paper’s best-kept secret, Mrs. Walker. In her popular weekly newspaper column, the reclusive Mrs. Walker provided elegant recipes, cleaning tips, and relationship advice from her husband’s mansion in New York City.
Never mind that Rose was not married, could not boil water, and lived in a tiny room at a ladies’ boardinghouse.
However, no one cared what a single, twenty-one-year-old girl had to say. Lies, she had quickly learned, always sold better than the truth.
Head down, Rose hurried to her boss’s office, her latest column on spring gardening in her hand. She spoke to no one and not a soul recognized her. The editor in chief, Mr. Pike, was the only person on the Gazette staff who knew Mrs. Walker’s true identity.
It was a start. Some day, she would have a desk here in the newspaper office, where she would reign as the best-known writer in the country. Then, at the end of the day, she would go to her fancy home on Central Park, like the one in which her mother worked, and relax with her handsome husband.
Keep your feet firmly on the ground, her mother often said when Rose’s attention wandered. Yet Rose believed good things were ahead. There was more for her in this world than hiding behind a fictitious name.
Not that she was ungrateful for Mrs. Walker. Posing as the society matron had given Rose her first newspaper job and the column had developed a devoted following. Soon she’d work her way up, write other stories, and become a famous journalist recognized on the street.
Pike’s door was partially ajar. When she peeked inside, she saw the gray-haired man putting things from his desk into a small trunk. Was he…packing? “Mr. Pike.”
His head shot up. “Walker. Come in.” He hardly ever spoke in complete sentences, his speech as rapid-fire as the pace of the newsroom. It was one of the things she liked best about him.
“Are you moving offices?”
“No.” He straightened and put his hands on his hips. Bulky white sideburns could not hide his sullen expression. “Been fired.”
“Fired?” Hadn’t he been working here forever?
“Yes, fired. Sacked. Dismissed. Shown the door.”
“I know what fired means. Why on earth have you been let go?”
He looked at her as if she were cracked. “Haven’t you seen yesterday’s papers? Any of them?”
“No. I have been writing my column.” She held up the envelope containing her five hundred words. “I have it here.”
“Le
ave it and I’ll give it to another editor. Reese, maybe. I’m no longer on staff.”
“What?” She blinked and gaped at him. No longer on staff? Pike was her lifeline at the Gazette. She’d never dealt with anyone else. Who on earth was Reese?
Instead of answering, he picked up a newspaper and tossed it down on his desk. It was a copy of the New York World.
GAZETTE TAKES BRIBES IN BLACKOUT EXPOSÉ
EDITOR PAID BY ELECTRIC COMPANIES TO BLAME WORKERS
“Oh, no.” She glanced up at Pike. “This… This was not you, was it?”
“No, it was Frank MacHenry. But Havermeyer ousted me, too. Says it’s my staff, my responsibility.”
Duke Havermeyer III, the president of Havermeyer Publishing and publisher of the Gazette, was rumored to be ruthless and unforgiving. His great-grandfather had made a fortune in the copper mines of Montana before coming to New York City and buying a failing newspaper. Havermeyer Publishing Corporation currently owned ten newspapers around the country—ten newspapers that all published Mrs. Walker’s Weekly.
Havermeyer’s reputation aside, firing Pike hardly seemed fair.
“That is…absurd.”
“Havermeyer never goes back on a decision once it is made.” Pike continued throwing things into the small trunk on the floor. “And he’s the big boss. He wants me out, I am out.”
“You are a great editor. I’m sorry to see you go.”
He sighed. “Me, too. Spent forty-two years at this paper. Worked my way up under Havermeyer number two.”
“What will you do? Work for another paper?”
“Doubtful. I’m too old. Spend more time with my grandchildren, I suppose.”
Grandchildren? Rose had always been so focused on the work she had never inquired about his personal life. Some reporter you will make, Rose.
How the Dukes Stole Christmas Page 28