Moonlight and Magic

by Rebecca Paisley

  US and Worldwide

  UK

  Australia

  A Prince to Call My Own (Formerly titled Midnight and Magnolias)

  US and Worldwide

  UK

  Australia

  A Prince to Call My Own by Rebecca Paisley

  Sneak Peek

  Once upon a time…

  Peachy McGee has always dreamed of finding her own Prince Charming and living happily ever after. When an unscrupulous doctor tells her she’s dying, she resolves to live the last of her life to the fullest—and sets sail for the tiny island kingdom of Aventine to marry herself a prince.

  But while Seneca, the heir to the Aventine throne, is wealthy and unbearably handsome, his aristocratic arrogance infuriates the flame-haired hellion. And Peachy is not about to let any domineering blue-blood have his royal way with her—not unless Seneca reveals the noble soul hidden beneath his guarded mask…and learns to love the charming country miss, outrageous quirks and all.

  Chapter One

  The cold North Sea breeze stinging her cheeks and whipping through her hair, Peachy climbed out of the small dinghy and bid good-bye to the Scottish sailors who’d rowed her ashore. Foamy waves lapping at her boots, she turned, took a few steps, then dropped her bag of belongings to the starry white sand. She shivered, not with cold but with deep excitement, and covering her mouth with her chapped hands, she squealed so loudly the vibration of her voice traveled up her arms.

  Here it was. Right before her eyes, beneath her feet, all around her, here it was.

  Aventine.

  Though it was nighttime, bright moonlight frosted her surroundings, enabling her to see a tree-lined path that led inland. Her squirrel scampering along beside her, she began to follow it. Her legs shook. Accustomed to the rock and sway of the ship, she wobbled, and before she could find her balance, she fell into a soft mound of sand.

  It glittered. “Sweet Lord o’ mercy, Thurlow Wadsworth McGee,” she whispered, “this here Aventine sand’s got diamond dust in it.”

  The woodsy path soon gave way to wide-open meadows. The brilliant moonlight made them seem like green velvet seeded with gleaming pearls. Large flocks of sheep milled about in the beautiful fields. Peachy burst into loud, joyful laughter and raced among them, slowing only when the moon slid behind a patch of clouds.

  Proceeding more cautiously in the midnight shadows, she walked for a long while before the clouds drifted away from the moon. As the pale light poured over the landscape, revealing what lay ahead, Peachy stopped abruptly.

  Nestled snugly among a cluster of emerald hills, a dazzling river flowing in front of it, was the palace. In all its glory. In all its grandeur. Spasms of pure astonishment rippled through Peachy’s entire frame, stealing her voice, her breath, and all rational thought.

  Once again, the moonlight performed its magic, painting the magnificent gray stone edifice with hues of shining silver. “God Almighty,” Peachy murmured. “Diamonds in the sand, pearls in the velvet grass, and a palace builded o’ pure silver. I ain’t never seed the beat of it!”

  Her mind a tangled mixture of excitement, hope, and happiness, she set forth toward the castle.

  Her prince, she thought blissfully, was waiting for her there.

  “I will speak to her father tomorrow.” King Zane turned from the tall velvet-draped windows toward his son. “I cannot think of a reason why he would object to the betrothal. You are, after all, heir to the throne.”

  Seneca showed no sign of his fury. After years of practice, he was a master at hiding his emotions. Tapping his fingers upon the arm of his blue satin chair, he cast a relaxed glance around the immaculate room, then motioned to a stone-faced footman. Immediately, the elegantly attired man poured him a snifter of brandy.

  “Callista Inger is a beautiful woman,” King Zane commented as he, too, accepted a brandy from the servant.

  “True.” Seneca finished his brandy in one swallow.

  “She’s young. Healthy. She is capable of giving you many children, one of which I hope will be a male heir.”

  “Then let’s toast her, shall we?” Seneca suggested, waiting for the servant to fill his glass again. “To Callista Inger.” Royal brood mare, he added silently.

  The king gave his son a long, thoughtful look. “It is my will that you wed her, Seneca. Therefore I shall let it be known that you are much pleased with the match.”

  Seneca gripped his glass tightly; the brandy sloshed up the sides. It was all he could do to continue sitting there with a nonchalant look on his face. Mute with anger, he watched his father limp across the spacious sitting room.

  His sire was showing serious signs of his seventy-eight years. With age, his gout had worsened, especially in his knees. Though a cane would help, his vanity wouldn’t allow him to accept one, and the pain he stubbornly suffered made him bitter and furious.

  Age, pain, bitterness, and vanity had turned his father into an unreasonable tyrant, Seneca mused, a ruthless dictator over not only his people but his own son as well. It was obvious to all that the king was becoming less and less fit to wear the crown.

  “My marriage with your mother was an arranged one, Seneca.”

  Seneca saw that his father had stopped in front of the elaborate portrait of Queen Arria. “I am aware of that, Father.”

  The king bent to rub his aching knees. “In fact, Callista reminds me of your mother. Surely you can see the resemblance. I never found anything about your mother to fault, and Callista is also a paragon.”

  Every memory Seneca had of his flawless mother came back to him. The recollections left him feeling nothing, nothing except a gnawing emptiness.

  “A man cannot ask for more than sheer perfection, Seneca,” the king continued. “You would do well to thank me for arranging your betrothal to such a woman. Had I left it up to you, you would have undoubtedly taken another ten years to find your bride.”

  Carefully, Seneca kept his features void of all emotion. He stood no chance of swaying his father’s decision. As a child, he’d learned that the man never cared a whit for any opinion other than his own. “I see no reason to continue with this discussion, Father. It is apparent that you have made up your mind.”

  “Indeed I have.”

  “Very well.” Seneca placed his glass on the marble table beside his chair and stood. “By your leave?”

  “You may go.”

  Seneca walked toward the mirrored doors, anxious to escape but keeping his pace dignified.

  The palace clocks struck midnight. “Seneca?”

  Seneca stiffened, angry that he hadn’t made good his escape. He turned, noticing his father’s smug smile and wondering what it meant.

  The king took his time swallowing a sip of brandy. “You do not want to wed Callista, am I correct?”

  Seneca felt a shred of hope. Did he dare believe that his father would change his mind?

  The king’s smile broadened. “Never let it be said that I did not give you every possible chance to find your own wife, Seneca. If it’s more time you want, I will grant it to you. I speak with Callista’s father tomorrow at nine. And so, my son, you have exactly nine hours in which to find a wife of your own choosing. Should you succeed in coming upon your princess before morning, I will honor your choice of brides.”

  Seneca didn’t miss the taunting gleam in his sire’s eyes. With all the regal bearing he possessed, he inclined his head. “Ah, then never let it be said that King Zane of Aventine is not a generous man. Thank you, Father.” His body rigid with contained fury, he arrived at the doors.

  There, the king’s personal attendant, Rupert Tiblock, bowed stiffly. “Please allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your betrothal, Your Royal Highness.”

  Seneca saw malicious amusement on the man’s bony features. He’d detested the haughty servant ever since Tiblock had joined the castle staff twenty-one years ago. Because Tiblock possessed the king’s special favor, he had the run of the palace and authority over all
its inhabitants, and he didn’t hesitate to take advantage of that authority.

  Seneca longed for the day when he would have the power to discharge the man. But that day would come only when he claimed the throne, a day that at times seemed centuries away.

  He didn’t deign to give Tiblock a reply, just left the room and proceeded down the long, lamplit corridor that led to the grand staircase.

  “Nine hours,” he muttered to the royal portraits lining the hall. He stormed up the spiral staircase and glared at the star-filled glass dome above. “Nine hours,” he flared at the gleaming suit of armor that stood guard at the upper landing of the staircase.

  Mumbling all the way, he stalked down another long hallway that led to his apartments. Upon entering his rooms, he dismissed his valet, Latimer, and disrobed beside the huge, ornate fireplace, leaving on only his white pants. Jerking his fingers through his thick, ebony hair, he kicked a piece of kindling into the fire and watched as the blaze quickly consumed it.

  “Callista.” He growled the name. It was true, he mused angrily. She was a paragon. Like an exquisitely carved ice statue. Perfectly beautiful to the eye, perfectly cold to the touch.

  Worst of all, she was his father’s choice. That rankled Seneca more than anything else. The man had ruled Seneca’s every action—indeed, his every thought—for over thirty years.

  Viciously, he kicked another piece of kindling into the fire. “Callista,” he seethed again.

  Unless some other woman materialized out of nowhere within nine hours, he would be bound to Callista forever.

  Nimbly, Peachy released the bowed oak branch and landed neatly on the stone balcony that surrounded the second floor of the castle, her squirrel following suit. Huffing both with exertion and aggravation, she looked over the ledge and spied the contingent of guards who had unceremoniously removed her from the palace grounds some time earlier. Dammit, because of them she’d had to swim across the river twice and was wetter than a widow’s handkerchief!

  “Yoo-hoo,” she called quietly to them, knowing her voice wouldn’t reach them. “Here I am, you gawdang sword-totin’, agger-pervokin’ varmints, you.”

  She stuck her tongue out at them, then smiled. The soldiers undoubtedly thought they’d effectively gotten rid of her. But what they hadn’t taken into account was the huge oak tree that grew beside the palace. She’d skinned her knee while climbing it, but what was a little scrape compared to spending the last of her life in this fairy-tale castle wrapped in the arms of her fairy-tale prince?

  She slipped her hat back on, retrieved her satchel from where she’d thrown it, and advanced toward a big wooden door. “Please God,” she whispered, “don’t let it be locked.”

  It wasn’t, and creaked loudly when she pushed it. It opened into closed damask draperies. Peachy moved them aside and peered into dim chambers. As her eyes adjusted to the softly moonlit room, she gasped in awe and struggled to take in air.

  Decorated in shades that ranged from vivid purple to lavender, it was the most gorgeous room she’d ever imagined could exist. Everything she saw glittered with the evidence of boundless wealth. There was only one thing wrong with it.

  Prince Seneca wasn’t in it.

  Her squirrel in her arms, she crossed to gilded double doors and proceeded down a brightly lit hallway. From either side of her, painted people, forever locked inside their golden frames, stared down at her. Unnerved by the feeling of being watched by so many eyes, she quickened her pace.

  She soon came to a huge spiral staircase with a crimson runner snaking down its marble steps. Looking up, she saw a glass dome directly overhead, and watched mesmerized as hundreds of stars sparkled down at her. “Wouldja look at that, Thurlow Wadsworth McGee? They got ’em a little piece o’ night right here inside the castle.”

  Before she realized it, she was climbing the winding staircase. It was a long, long way to the top. When she reached the upper landing, she saw she’d come to another endless corridor.

  She saw a man there. A big one. From head to toe, he was covered with steel. In one gloved hand he held a gleaming spear; in the other he brandished an ax.

  For a moment, Peachy couldn’t move. But as fear gushed through her, it lent strength and momentum to her body. Holding back a scream, she raced past the man of iron.

  But her skirt caught on the metal soldier’s leg. He tottered violently and with a nerve-shattering crash spilled to the floor. Peachy’s fear turned to terror when she saw that his fallen ax had nicked the toe of her boot. And when she watched his head roll down the hall and the rest of him clatter down the staircase, full-fledged hysteria exploded inside her. “Oh, God, he—He’s slashed plumb to pieces! I done kilt him!”

  Completely panicked, she turned and began to run, sure that every guard in the palace would soon be looking for the assailant who’d murdered their fellow soldier. Not knowing what else to do, she stopped at the first door she came to. Twisting the knob, she rammed her shoulder against the wood paneling.

  The door opened more easily than she’d expected and banged into the wall behind it. She fell to the polished marble floor and slid several feet along the slick tiles. She might have gone farther had she not crashed into a solid oak chest.

  “Dang it to hell!” she cursed, rubbing her throbbing head. With no time to waste, she scrambled up, raced back to the door, and slammed it closed. Her heartbeat hammering in her ears, she bolted the door and laid her forehead against it. Her breath came in ragged heaves.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” a deep voice demanded.

  Another scream filled her throat, but she was too startled to release it. Terrified to turn and see the man behind her, she stood as still as she was able. Hot tears flowed down her cheeks so quickly she felt her cold, wet blouse grow warm with them.

  “Who are you?” the voice demanded again.

  Peachy realized the voice came from a very big man. He was probably dressed in steel, like the one she’d killed. She swallowed—so hard her throat ached. She was going to have to face the man; if she tried to escape, he’d catch her.

  “I didn’t mean to,” she squeaked, her face still turned to the door. “He must’ve cut his own head offen. He—He landed on his ax. His head... It rolled down the hall! And the rest of him clanked down them stairs! Sweet Lord o’ mercy, it weren’t my f-fault!”

  Seneca frowned, confused by her tears, her story, her very presence in his chambers. “What are you talking about?”

  “The soldier a-wearin’ steel clothes,” she tried to explain. “He failed down and hacked hissef to bits!”

  From his spot by the fireplace, Seneca could barely see her, but he heard her clearly. Her unusual accent, one he’d never come across before, told him that not only didn’t she belong in the palace, she didn’t belong in Aventine. “Step out of those shadows.”

  His voice filled the room like a blast of cold wind. Preparing herself for the sight of his metal suit and sharp, wicked ax, she turned slowly, her eyes tightly closed. When her back was to the door, she clenched her fists, praying as she’d never prayed before, and opened her eyes.

  She gasped.

  The man wasn’t wearing iron clothes. He was barely dressed at all! Only a pair of snug white pants covered his tanned, lean form. The pants were the whitest things she’d ever seen, whiter even than the Appalachian snow. Gold braid was sewn down the sides of each pant leg, its shimmer drawing her eyes to the thick muscles in his thighs. Peachy felt her knees wobble.

  He stood beside a huge and elaborately molded fireplace. The mellow light of the fire flickered through his thick, wavy hair. His hair... was black. Black like charcoal. Like raven feathers. Like midnight.

  A thrilling thought clicked into her mind. Could this be Prince Seneca? “You—Is yore name...”

  Her voice fading, she cocked her head and examined him more intently. No, she decided, this wasn’t Seneca. This man wasn’t wearing a gold crown with jewels all over it. Everyone knew royal folks alw
ays wore their crowns. They even wore them to bed. And they certainly didn’t walk around with their chests naked like this man was doing. Royal people covered up with red velvet robes. “Who are you, mister?”

  Seneca couldn’t believe her nerve! “Who am I? The question, young lady, is who are you?”

  “I’m—I’m a killer,” she remembered, sniffling and blinking back more tears.

  “The soldier at the top of the staircase is a decoration,” Seneca explained impatiently. “An empty suit of armor.”

  It took Peachy a moment to understand. “Y’mean I didn’t kill nobody? That man weren’t—”

  “You didn’t, and he wasn’t. Now come out of those shadows so I can see you.”

  She wasn’t altogether sure she could trust him. “No.”

  “No?” he thundered. “What do you mean no?”

  Peachy let out a small shriek. “God Almighty! Y’ain’t gotta scream at me! I ain’t done nothin’ a’tall to you! Jest who the hell do y’think you are?”

  Seneca inhaled sharply. “Do you curse at me?” he asked incredulously.

  The unmitigated astonishment in his voice made her smile. “No, I’m a-whisperin’ sweet nothin’s.”

  Seneca’s first reaction to her sarcasm was disbelief. In the next moment, he felt his lips twitch. His near smile amazed, baffled, and angered him all at once. What did he think was so amusing? The girl was actually taunting him! Insulting him!

  His expression stern, he started for her but stopped suddenly when a tiny gray animal darted in front of his path. It sprang to a satinwood table near the fireplace, selected a shiny red apple from a fruit bowl, and commenced to eat.

  Peachy clapped twice, her action bringing the squirrel to her immediately. He leaped into her arms. “Yore a sorry rascal, Thurlow Wadsworth McGee. A-hepin’ yoresef to a apple when you ain’t been offered as much as one o’ them there grapes.”

  She looked back at the man, who now stood in the middle of the spacious and luxurious room. “Can I stay in here till them guards stop a-huntin’ fer me? Y’know, I’m mighty glad I didn’t kill nobody. I was a-wonderin’ how many years in Purgatory I’d git fer it. I’m Catholic, y’see. ’Course, I ain’t been to mass in a right long spell on account o’ Father Sullivan up and went back to Ireland. Now the nearest priest’s a whole lot further away than jest a look and a holler. Anyway, us Catholics? Well, we believe in Purgatory. I don’t know if folks who ain’t Catholic believe in it or not, but I can tell you right here and now in this day and time that it’s real.”