by Amy Harmon
Kellen shifted from one foot to the other and waited impatiently as Gillian went through one of her packs at the side of his bed. Their bed now. He smiled at the thought.
He glanced at the door he’d managed to bar against his men and considered that if he’d allowed them to strip them and place them naked in bed as was their plan, he would not now be wondering how to place his bride there himself. “Can this not wait?”
“Don’t you want to see what I bought for our wedding night?”
Kellen glanced at the bed. At the moment he really did not care what was in her pack, but could tell from Gillian’s quick glances and the quaver in her voice that she was a bit nervous, so feigned interest. “You’ve already shamed any dowry ever brought to man. There is more?”
Gillian shrugged. “I didn’t want you to feel you’d lost out by marrying me.”
Kellen shook his head at the worry. “I have never in my life seen jewels or gold so fine. If your goal was to produce a dower greater than the king could have provided, you succeeded.”
“I have other things, as well. Art supplies, sulfa drugs, band-aids, antibiotic ointment, a book on natural healing and—”
“Did you bring more chocolate?”
Gillian pulled the pack closed and glanced back at him. “No.”
His mouth curved. “You lie!”
“Hey. I bought you. I own you. I’m the one in charge here, and don’t you forget it.”
He rubbed his chin. “Mayhap I am not for purchase.”
“Oh really?” She pulled out a gold coin and to his amazement, peeled it like a piece of fruit.
“What is that?”
“A coin.” She pulled what looked to be a thin sliver of chocolate from the middle and popped it into her mouth. “Mmm, mmm, mmm.”
“Chocolate?”
“Say it. Say, Gillian owns me.” She pulled out another coin and peeled it.
Kellen looked at the coin, but in fact was simply relieved that Gillian seemed to be relaxing so continued to tease her. “You must wait while I consider the matter.”
Gillian popped the chocolate into her mouth. “Mmm. Yummy.”
“Just give me but a moment to consider. But do not eat all the coins in the meanwhile.”
She pulled out another coin and started to open it, and he lunged at her.
She screamed, then laughed as he took the thin sliver of chocolate between his teeth and ate it. He tossed the gold bits aside and picked her up in his arms and held her close.
Gillian lowered her gaze and, with her finger, traced a pattern on his shirt. “You didn’t let me find what I was looking for.” She parted the material enough to slide her hand onto his skin, making his heart speed. “I bought a nightgown for our wedding night. I think you might like me in it.”
“I am most certain I will.” His voice was low, gruff, and he could feel the shiver that moved through Gillian, engendering a matching response in himself. “Gillian what I was trying to say is that you cannot buy my love, because you already won my heart.”
She cupped his cheek and smiled, and it was all the encouragement he needed. He kissed her and carried her toward the bed, protectiveness, satisfaction, and longing enveloping him as he lay her onto the mattress and followed her down.
As he moved back far enough to gaze down at her, she clung, her arms around his neck, love and acceptance shining in her eyes as she looked at him.
She was everything he could want. She was everything.
And she was finally his.
She pushed back a strand of his hair with her fingers, tucking it behind his ear, making him shiver anew. “I love you,” she said.
His heart squeezed tight. “And I you.” He touched his mouth to hers and could not help but smile against her lips when her arms tightened ever more, as if afraid he would escape.
She was everything. She had brought him back to life and given meaning to his dreams. He must have accomplished a great feat, then forgotten it, because the very fates had intervened to gift her to him.
Someday he would find the words to explain that had she been the most impoverished lady in the kingdom, he would have paid his entire fortune to have her, and then counted himself prosperous.
She was his fortune. She was his destiny. Indeed, he held his very future in his arms.
Other Works by Diane Darcy
Beauty and the Beach
The Princess Problem
Steal His Heart
A Penny for Your Thoughts
The Christmas Star
Once in a Blue Moon
She’s Just Right
Serendipity
About Diane Darcy
Diane Darcy loves to read and write lighthearted and funny books. She’s a member of the Heart of the West, and RWA. She was a finalist for Romance Writers of America's Golden Heart® Award. She’s written romantic comedies in several different genres; some historical, some contemporary, all lighthearted and fun. She makes her home in Utah with her family and dogs, and is hard at work on her next book.
For previews of upcoming books by Diane Darcy, to sign up for the mailing list, or for more information about the author, please visit DianeDarcy.com.
Heart of the Ocean
by Heather B. Moore
Thus sing I to cragg’d clifts and hils,
To sighing winds, to murmuring rills,
To wasteful woods, to empty groves,
Such things as my dear mind most loves.
—Dr. Henry More, 1614–1687
Chapter One
September 1839
“Jump.”
Eliza swung around, searching for the source of the voice—a woman’s voice. Wind tugged at her wool coat, and streaks of rain pelted her face. Maybe it’s the wind. Again. It was the same voice she heard on her walk out to the cliffs. But that’s impossible. There’s no one here. She turned to face the sea and realized she was only two steps from the edge of the cliff where the jagged rocks sloped into the surf dozens of feet below.
“Jump now.”
Eliza backed away from the cliff’s edge, heart pounding as she peered into the gray drizzle for any sign of the woman. I’m imagining it… or it’s in my head. She shuddered and pulled the coat tighter around her body.
Shunning the treacherous drop-off a few steps away, Eliza closed her eyes against the incoming storm. Waves crashed below, sending vibrations through her body. The seagulls had long since abandoned their screeching cries and had found shelter among the jutted rocks. Am I losing my mind? With what she’d endured the past few months, it was entirely possible.
“Don’t be afraid.”
New cold shot through her at the sound of the woman’s voice. Eliza opened her eyes and stared at the furious foam dashing against the dark rocks below.
“Who are you?” she yelled into the wind.
No response.
What’s happening to me? “Now I’m talking to myself and hearing voices,” she muttered. Feeling a sudden dizziness, she took several more steps away from the edge, as the ocean surged and spat out sea spray. The menacing clouds compressed into a deeper gloom, and the wind picked up its pace, as a force outside her seemed to urge her forward.
Aunt Maeve had said the New England coast was not for the faint-hearted, and Eliza understood why. Not only was September the most active month for hurricanes, but apparently the ghost stories she’d heard in town had just proven themselves credible. Unless the voice is inside my head. Then I’ve truly lost my sanity.
She turned from the cliff’s edge and hurried to the lighthouse, clutching her coat and bending against the furious gale. Eliza had told her aunt she’d only wanted to see the incoming storm for a moment. But by the time she reached the crumbling lighthouse, she was panting, shivering, and thoroughly soaked.
“Come back,” the voice said, slicing through Eliza. As she increased her pace and focused on the lighthouse door, she tried to block out everything else. Just get there.
The splintered door s
wung wide before Eliza reached it, and the wind slammed it against the wall. Aunt Maeve stood in the entryway at the base of the stairs, bundled up in a thick cloak and heavy boots, lantern in hand.
Her aunt was here, real and solid. Relief surged through Eliza. She wasn’t in a horrible nightmare.
“’Bout time you came back.” Maeve glared at her. “I thought you’d decided to take a swim.” The woman’s white-streaked auburn hair had come loose from its customary bun, wispy across her shoulders. It looked almost pretty.
Eliza knew better than to believe her aunt was cross. “I’m ready to go back to the house.”
Maeve held the lantern high and narrowed her gaze, but through her stern Puritan demeanor, a twinkle showed in her eyes. “It’s a good thing, too. I almost had to come for you myself. There aren’t any men near enough to send on such an errand.” She tilted her head, motioning for her niece to follow.
No men indeed. Precisely why Eliza wanted to come to this Puritan farm in the first place. She’d had enough of men, and their deceitful ways, to last her a lifetime. Maeve gripped Eliza’s arm, bringing her thoughts back into focus. In the few seconds that Eliza had been inside the lighthouse, the wind had multiplied in strength. She clung to her aunt as they exited, and together they ran to the cottage, sodden skirts whipping their legs. The distance was not far, but with the wind slicing through their clothing, time seemed to slow, and it felt an eternity had passed by the time they reached the front door. Once inside, it took both of them to push it closed.
Maeve clasped her hands to her chest and fought for normal breath as she leaned against the wall. “On my life, it’s going to be a big ’un. Leave your wet things here. We’ll clean up later.”
Eliza stripped off her coat then removed the wool scarf covering her head. Her hair was plastered against her cold face.
Maeve chuckled. “You look like a wet dog.”
Eliza pulled her dark blonde hair free of her face, grateful to be inside the cottage—away from the cliff, away from the voice, and most importantly, away from the judgments of men.
“Aye, you’re shivering as a dog would,” Maeve began.
“And so are you,” Eliza countered with a smile.
“I’ll put the tea on.” Maeve left the entryway and hurried to the kitchen.
Eliza moved into the hearth room, knelt before the fireplace, and threw a thin log onto the starving glow. She settled onto her heels, trembling from getting soaked, and from hearing that strange woman’s voice. Her skin prickled as gooseflesh rose on her arms. Was it my imagination? Or was there someone out there?
Here, inside the humble, yet comfortable, cottage, it was hard to believe she’d heard a voice out on the cliffs that had commanded her to jump. It must be my imagination. That was it—the wind, the rain, the churning ocean—it had all combined to disorient her.
Eliza exhaled, feeling relieved as she looked around the room and let the familiar calm embrace her. Aunt Maeve’s cottage was plain, a welcome change from Eliza’s home in New York City. The whitewashed walls, a rocker, a pair of stout chairs positioned near the hearth, and a threadbare sofa against the wall made up the simple room.
Soon the warmth from the fire began to thaw her stiff fingers, and when they were nimble again, she combed them through her wet hair. A burst of wind blew down the chimney, making the fire waver. Eliza shuddered again, thinking about the woman’s voice. Jump… Don’t be afraid. What did it mean? Why did the voice want her to jump from the cliff?
Eliza leaned toward the fire, letting her hair fall over her face to dry in the heat. She’d been in Maybrook for nearly a month now. Everything about it was different than her high society life back in New York. No complaining mother, no docile father, no stab-you-in-the-back suitors. Even now, her stomach churned at the memory of her recent beau.
Mr. Thomas Bertram Beesley III. Even the name was repulsive. So proper; so arrogant. Plump was putting it nicely. Kind was overdoing it. And filthy rich, an understatement. He’d be mortified to see her in such modest surroundings now. Why couldn’t the wealthy men also be handsome, humble, and totally and completely in love with her?
Eliza smoothed her hair back and pulled her knees up to her chest. She gazed at the flames, relishing the peace and absolute quiet save for the crackling fire.
Her aunt lived a humble life, though it hadn’t always been that way. Maeve had once been a young debutante in New York, but she had fallen in love with a Puritan man and moved to Maybrook, where she had remained ever since. What would it be like to throw all conventions in society’s face? Live my own life, free from the shackles of high-brow culture? Sparks shot out from the fire, close to Eliza’s skirt, so she scooted back, shaking out the dancing sparks.
Maeve entered the room, two teacups in hand. “Here you are.”
Eliza turned and accepted a steaming cup. “Thank you.” Dry enough now to sit on the sofa, she sat as the wind howled its way around the house, sounding nothing like the voice on the cliff.
“There now, dear, you’ll grow used to ol’ Mr. Wind,” Maeve soothed. She retrieved a bit of mending from the nearby basket and settled into the rocking chair. After threading a needle, she began to sew even stitches along the torn hem of an apron.
Eliza brought the teacup close to her lips and inhaled the sweet fragrance. She sipped the liquid, relishing the warmth moving down her throat. The wind suddenly increased its tempo, sending rapid bursts through the chimney and into the hearth. Eliza shivered and looked at her aunt.“When you’re here alone, don’t you feel afraid?”
Glancing up from her sewing, Maeve said, “When my husband was alive, I never gave the storms a second thought. After he was gone, I found I didn’t mind the weather, even being alone. I believe this old house protects me.”
Eliza gazed about the room—the glow of fire reached to the far corners, making the place look cozy. She understood how her aunt felt secure. But what about the voice on the cliff? Had her aunt experienced something of that sort?
“What did your mother say in her letter?” Maeve asked. She set down the apron and reached for her cup of tea.
“She’d like to come and visit.” Looking again at her aunt, Eliza took in the woman’s now carefully arranged hair and twice-mended pinafore.
“That would be nice,” Maeve murmured, with a slight lift of her brow.
Eliza refrained from letting out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t want her to come. I don’t want to hear about the latest dance, or what everyone wore,” she said. “It’s hard enough to read her letters, but at least I can put them away and forget about the things that don’t truly matter. Having her here—that would be… it would be unbearable!”
Maeve nodded before taking another sip. “I had the same feelings once. Felt I was drowning in an ocean of greed.” She hesitated then leaned forward on the rocker. “When I met Edward, I saw my escape. It was probably an extreme choice to leave everything behind, but I loved him, and I’ve been happy here.”
The nostalgia in her aunt’s voice enveloped Eliza like a soft blanket, calming her spirit. “Maybrook is so unassuming,” Eliza said. “As long as you’re an upstanding citizen, no one cares which house in Paris made your dress, or how many people attend your coming-out party.”
“You’re guaranteed none of that here,” Maeve said.
But there were other things here, things Eliza hadn’t encountered in New York City—like a ghostly woman’s voice. “Do you believe in ghosts?” she blurted, immediately regretting such a foolish question.
Maeve’s forehead creased. “Have you been listening to the village stories?”
“No.” Eliza wished she could take back her question. Her parents had specifically told her to ignore the superstitious tales among the Puritans. It was one of the agreements Eliza had made before coming.
“It’s true that Maybrook is nothing like New York City.” Maeve lowered her gaze.“But things around here are not always what they may seem.”
“What
do you mean?” A slow chill crawled up Eliza’s neck. The same chill she’d felt at the edge of the cliff. She placed her tea cup and saucer on the floor beside her.
“As I said, in this house, I’m protected.” Maeve lifted her gaze.
Eliza nodded and folded her arms. The room remained cold in spite of the fireplace.
“But what I’m about to say… your parents would have me hanged for.”
Eliza inhaled. What could Maeve possibly tell her that would have her parents so upset? “I won’t say anything.”
“You are nineteen now, a grown woman, and it’s time you knew about such things,” Maeve said in a slow voice. “To answer your question, Eliza, yes, I do believe in ghosts.” Her eyes seemed to glow as she took up the mending again. “The woman who lived in this house watches over me.”
Flinching, Eliza clasped her hands together. “Oh… I…” Her aunt’s response did not bode well, not after the voice, not after the order she’d heard on the cliff less than an hour ago. She wanted to tell her aunt what had happened, but no words would come.
A smile tugged the corners of Maeve’s mouth. “You think I wouldn’t believe in ghosts?” She gave a long, slow look toward Eliza, then continued, “Everyone dies and leaves their body. We just don’t talk about what happens when a spirit refuses to leave our world.”
“Have you… seen or heard the ghost?” Eliza practically whispered.
“I didn’t say that.” Maeve tied a knot in her stitching.
Her aunt hadn’t actually seen or heard anything, so maybe it was Eliza’s imagination too? Relaxing her tightly gripped hands, the blood returned to Eliza’s fingers, creating a sharp needle-like pain. Just then, something banged on the window. Both Eliza and Maeve jumped.
“Only a falling branch.” Maeve tied a second knot and snipped the end of the thread.