He came down on top of her back, and she could feel the warmth of his blood soaking into her shirt. She swung back with the dagger, her arm twisted so awkwardly it was painful. The blade sank into his side, and when he jerked instinctively away from the pain, she wrenched herself out from beneath him, scrambling to her feet.
Horror like nothing she'd ever known surrounded her, pummeling her senses, and hysteria tried to take over. She fought it, taking a step back, waiting for a chance. Her stomach lurched as he made it up to his knees, reached down and jerked the blood-slick dagger from his side. He looked down at the blade, then his eyes rolled and he fell forward.
She screamed and jerked away still farther, but her back met the wall. Her teeth clattered against each other. The hairs on her nape tingled with static electricity and fear. Her knees vibrated and kept threatening to give out.
But Radley didn't move. He lay motionless, blood steadily seeping into the carpet beneath him. Trembling so violently her muscles felt as if they'd tear free of the bone, Joey bent low, reached out. Slowly, slowly, her hand inched toward the still bloody one that held the dagger. She touched its slippery tip, gripped its blade and pulled it from its owner's grasp.
He didn't move. He was dead. She'd killed him. He wasn't moving. Why was she still so terrified?
She lifted one foot to step past him, to move toward the door. Then she lifted the other. One more step and she would be beyond his reach. She made her legs move. He was behind her now. The door was only a few feet away.
A warm, sticky hand closed around her ankle with crushing force. She fell forward at the sudden tug on her ankle, cracking her head on the corner of a table before she hit the floor, facedown. She felt the knife fly from her hand, saw it land on the carpet, leaving the outline of its shape, drawn in blood, on the pile.
He was getting up on all fours. He was dragging himself forward. She had to move! She lifted her head, though it screamed in agony when she moved it. The blade lay on the floor ahead of her, and she stretched her arm to reach for it. But her fingers fell short of their goal, and then her mind slowly sank into the depths of a black quagmire.
#
Through the sliding-glass door, Ash witnessed a nightmare. Joey was lying on the floor, facedown. Her back was covered in blood. A dagger lay near her still hand and it, too, was coated in sticky red moistness. She wasn't moving.
Rad stood, hunched over, a grotesque image with smeared makeup and bloody hands and hairy arms extending from the sleeves of a dress. As he straightened, the blond wig toppled to the floor. He stared at Joey and took a step forward.
Ash leapt for the door, knowing it would be locked, intending to kick it in if necessary. But when he jerked on the handle, it slid open. He hurled himself at Radley, smashing him in the face twice, before the big man tottered backward and crashed to the floor like a felled redwood.
Ash dropped to his knees beside him, noticing for the first time the blood pulsing from his side and wondering if it had been his punches or this wound that had brought the man down. The flow of blood slowed. Ash frowned and reached for Rad's neck. There was no pulse.
Agony twisting inside him, he whirled toward Joey, and it hit him that what he was seeing was precisely the image she'd described to him. Except that she'd thought the woman on the floor, her back coated in blood, was Caroline. The truth was too much to take. She had foreseen her own murder. Not her sister's.
"God, Joey, don't die on me. Not now."
He bent to lift the T-shirt away from her back, hoping he could stop the bleeding and keep her alive until help arrived. Already he heard the sirens in the distance. He bent low, squinting in the poor light to see how bad her injuries were, but he saw only a coating of blood. No cuts. No slashes. No punctures. Not even a scratch.
Frowning hard, he caught her shoulders and gently rolled her onto her back. "Joey? Joey, baby, can you hear me?" His eyes scanned her throat and found it smooth and untouched. Her forehead was gashed open and blood trickled over one side of her face, but it wasn't a mortal wound.
The sirens grew piercing, and then the flashing lights came through the still-open glass door, bathing Joey in color. "Joey?"
Her eyes opened. She blinked. "Ash?"
"You're okay..."
"He didn't kill you," she muttered. "He didn't kill you." Tears coursed down her face as he gathered her to him. Her arms tightened around his neck and she clung to him, sobbing softly, words tumbling from her lips the way the tears fell from her eyes. Rapidly. Without order or will. "I would have died if you had. I love you, Ash. I do. I don't care about my parents or the lies we've told each other or anything else. Just you. I'll never lie to you again, Ash. It tore me apart to lie to you. I hated it. But you're alive. You're alive and I love you. I love you."
Her tears made it tough to understand all the words, but Ash knew exactly what she was saying. He still couldn't believe she was all right. He'd thought her dead when he'd first seen her lying there, so still. He stood, scooping her up into his arms as the room filled with cops and an ambulance pulled into the driveway. He ignored the shouted questions, the restraining hands on his arm, and carried her outside, toward the rescue vehicle and the paramedics spilling out of it.
He bent over her, kissing her again and again as he carried her to the ambulance. Then he lowered her to the stretcher the men had just pulled from the back of it and fell to his knees beside it.
"You'll have to get out of the way, sir," one of the medics tol him.
"I'm not going anywhere except with my wife." He saw her eyes widen at his words, and he reached into his pocket, pulling out the ring she'd thrown at him before. He caught her left hand in his and slipped it onto her finger. "I want you to keep wearing this, Joey."
She frowned at him, ignoring the hands that fastened safety straps across her waist and took her pulse and probed at her injured forehead. "Ash?"
"Just until I have a chance to buy you a real one." He pushed her hair off her face and kissed her lips softly. "I love you, you know. I'm not letting you go. You said you were my wife, and I'm holding you to it, lady."
Another vehicle came bounding up the driveway and skidded to a stop. Matthew Bradshaw, looking frantic, leapt out and ran toward the ambulance. "What's happened? Where's Joey? What's—? My God!" He spotted her, and raced toward her, stopping across from Ash, on her opposite side. Ash had never seen anyone so pale, or terrified.
"She's all right, Matt. Just a bump on the head," Ash assured him. "She's gonna be fine."
Matthew leaned over her. ''Are you?"
She nodded, lifted a hand and closed it around her father's. "I am," she told him firmly. With her other hand she clasped Ash's, her eyes brimming with love as she stared into his. "I am, Dad. We all are. We’re going to be from now on.”
“Damn straight we are,” Ash told her. “This frog prince is ready for his happily ever after.”
She smiled, as he bent to press his lips to hers, and she knew that happily ever after, was exactly what they would have.
Sometimes, ESP was an awfully good thing to have.
Dear Reader,
Of the 50+ novels I've written, this one still stands out as one of my all-time favorites. Forgotten Vows was my third book for Silhouette’s Intimate Moments line, and my very first Serial Killer story. Believe it or not, it began as a writing exercise I developed for my local chapter of Romance Writers of America. Using a simple premise, each writer was asked to create a first page guaranteed to grab a reader's attention. The premise was, "If he discovers her true identity, she will be unable to achieve her goal." Sounds pretty uncomplicated, right? Once we started, though, many of the writers in the group couldn't stop, and three of us wound up finishing and later publishing our projects. I guess you never know when inspiration will strike! I ended up with a hero pretending to have amnesia, and a heroine pretending to be his wife. He has to pretend to believe her, or she'll know the amnesia is fake. She has to be convincing, because both their lives
depend on it
A slightly psychic, Harley-Davidson-riding heroine with a passion for exploring dark caves, and a slightly claustrophobic hero searching for Suzy Homemaker never made my editors the least bit nervous. And nothing is more pleasing to a writer than being allowed to push the envelope with her work.
I hope you enjoy Forgotten Vows whether you're reading it again, or for the first time. It's a wild, exhilarating ride, either way.
Best,
Maggie Shayne
Miranda's Viking
The house seemed abandoned, not the same one she'd left some sixteen hours ago. Her car's headlights moved over the brick exterior like trespassers violating some sacred spot. No welcoming light shone from the windows.
She turned off the ignition, killed the headlights, then murmured meaningless greetings to the two officers who stood outside the house as she went in. Apparently Professor Saunders had convinced Lieutenant Hanlon that the find needed guarding before he'd gone home.
She unlocked the house and went inside, flicking on lights as she went. Emptiness met her everywhere she looked. It was almost too much to bear. What if Russell didn't recover? What would her life be without him? There was very little to it, besides her work and her father, and the two had always gone hand in hand. They'd worked and lived together, except for that brief rebellious period, when she'd accepted Jeff Morsi's proposal of marriage just to prove to her father and herself that she could be a "normal" woman. Instead she'd only proven she couldn't be. Losing Jeff had been a narrow escape from a nightmare. Losing Russell would leave her bereft... utterly alone.
She pushed the thought aside, tossed her purse on the sofa, and walked down the basement stairs and into the control room. Russell wouldn't die, not yet. It was too soon, and he was too stubborn to go in the midst of his greatest discovery. And when he came back home, his first concern would be for that discovery. So, she would care for it diligently. If anything happened to the find, it would kill her father faster than any heart attack ever could.
At first glance everything seemed just as she'd left it. Files on the floor and a small bloodstain where her father had fallen. She shivered and gave the monitors a cursory glance...then sucked in her breath.
The digital temperature panel read ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Panic knocked the wind out of her as surely as a fist to the stomach would have done. The climate-control panel must have been knocked askew in the struggle. A quick glimpse at the setting confirmed her guess. Why hadn't she checked it before? Why had she satisfied herself with a glance at the readings, and not checked the settings? God, everything her father had worked for could be ruined!
She punched numbers rapidly into the panel to release the lock, threw the door open wide, and hurried inside. Only the soft glow of the minimal lighting in the windowless room guided her. The stifling heat slammed into her like a living thing. But the Viking lay as he had before. His skin seemed less chalky, but it might be the lighting or her fear making it seem so. Maybe it wasn't too late.
She turned to go back to the control panel and readjust the climate control to lower the temperature as rapidly as possible. She froze in the doorway when her gaze locked on the monitor directly opposite. The wavering white line across the screen sent her blood to her feet. She blinked and double-checked the label on the monitor. EEG. Electroencephalogram. The meter of brain-wave activity, a formality, nothing that was ever expected to register a reading. But it had to be malfunctioning. It couldn't be reading what was there. It wasn't possible for there to be—
The sudden, strangled gasp was drawn with harsh desperation, and it came from behind her. Then silence.
She whirled and saw the body on the table begin to shake. The huge arms and legs trembled convulsively. The broad chest vibrated. The corded neck was arched and quivering.
In that moment, Miranda stopped seeing a specimen. What she saw was a man on the brink of suffocation. A man straining to breathe, but unable to do so. A man about to die...again.
Her reaction was purely instinctive. Taking no time to dwell on the unthinkable thing that was happening, she was beside the table before she knew she'd moved. She gripped the solid shoulders, fighting to hold him still as she pressed her ear to his chest. Nothing. Clasping her hands together in one balled fist, she brought them down hard on his sternum. He flinched.
Frantically she caught his whiskered face between her palms and tipped up his chin. She pinched his nose and covered his mouth with her own, breathing life into him, once, twice, again. She blew hard to fill his massive lungs, then returned to the chest, positioning her hands over his sternum to massage a long-silent heart.
A rapid thud tapped against her palm, and it seemed her own heart rate sped up until it echoed his. The fit of convulsions slowed and died. She watched in utter awe as the huge chest rose and fell, far too quickly, but regularly. Beneath her hands, now-supple flesh gradually warmed.
He was breathing.
His heart was beating.
His brain was functioning.
She stepped backward, away from him and turned in the doorway to scan the monitors. They confirmed the impossible. Not one flat line among them. Not one.
An agonized moan, so hoarse it hurt her ears, brought her around once more. His eyes were blue...the pale, silvery blue of an icy sea, and they were staring right into hers. She saw many things in those piercing blue eyes—confusion, pain and an unfocused quality that told her he wasn't seeing clearly. He remained on his back, just staring at her, silently asking her a thousand questions, most of which she was certain she couldn't answer.
She was in awe, in shock. Life's blood pulsed through the formerly dormant body, giving color to his skin. She took a step toward him, then another. Slowly, tentatively, she approached him. He moved only his eyes, keeping them locked with hers. Beside the table she stopped. In wonder, she lifted a trembling hand and placed it with tender reverence upon his face. Her fingertips brushed over the small expanse of his cheek uncovered by beard. "You're alive." It was no more than a whisper.
His response was to slowly lift one of his large hands and thread his fingers through her hair, pulling what few strands had remained pinned in place down to join the rest in what she knew must resemble a pumpkin orange disarray. "Valkyrie." The word came in a voice hoarse from disuse.
Her words, she knew, were foreign to him. She understood his, though. It was almost laughable. If he thought her one of the legendary demigoddesses, the Valkyries, who in Norse mythology were said to greet fallen warriors at their deaths and lead them to Valhalla, he must be incredibly disappointed. Valkyries were supposed to be beautiful, strong, sensual creatures. She saw herself as none of the above.
She stifled her amused grin and met his wonder-filled gaze. "No." She shook her head. "Not Valkyrie. Miranda." She frowned hard, searching her memory for the Islensk words. "Eg heiti Miranda."
She wished she had a more thorough knowledge of the language. Not that it mattered. She wouldn't be able to tell him anything, anyway. She had no idea how this had happened, but she was absurdly glad it had. Her eyes burned and she had the urge to laugh out loud. "You're alive."
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About the Author
New York Times bestselling author Maggie Shayne has published more than 50 novels and 23 novellas. She has written for 7 publishers and 2 soap operas, has racked up 15 Rita Award nominations and actually, finally, won the damn thing in 2005.
Maggie lives in a beautiful, century old, happily haunted farmhouse named “Serenity” in the wildest wilds of Cortland County, NY, with her soul-mate, Lance. They share a pair of English Mastiffs, Dozer & Daisy, and a little English Bulldog, Niblet, and the wise guardian and guru of them all, the feline Glory, who keeps the dogs firmly in their places. Maggie’s a Wiccan high priestess (legal clergy even) and an avid follower of the Law of Attraction
Connect with Maggie
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henanigans
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Also Available:
Fairytale
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Forever Enchanted
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Annie's Hero
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Witch Moon
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Dr. Duffy's Close Encounter
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Miranda's Viking
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And Maggie's Non-fiction advice book
Shayne on You
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
FORGOTTEN VOWS Page 21