A note from the publisher
Dear Reader,
At Pantera Press we’re passionate about what we call good books doing good things™.
A big part is our joy in discovering and nurturing talented home-grown writers such as Wanda Wiltshire.
We are also focused on promoting literacy, quality writing, the joys of reading and fostering debate.
CAN YOU READ THIS?
Sure you can, but 60% in our community can’t. Shocking, isn’t it? That’s why Pantera Press is helping to close the literacy gap, by nurturing the next generation of readers as well as our writers. We’re thrilled to support Let’s Read. A wonderful program already helping over 100,000 pre-schoolers across Australia to develop the building blocks for literacy and learning, as well as a love for books.
We’re excited that Let’s Read operates right across Australia, in metropolitan, regional and also remote communities, including Indigenous communities in Far North Queensland, Cape York, and Torres Strait. Let’s Read was developed by the Centre for Community Child Health and is being implemented in partnership with The Smith Family.
Simply by enjoying our books, you will be contributing to our unique approach and helping these kids. So thank you.
If you want to do more, please visit www.PanteraPress.com/Donate where you can personally donate to help The Smith Family expand Let’s Read, and find out more about the great programs Pantera Press supports.
Please enjoy Betrothed.
For news about our other books, sample chapters, author interviews and much more, please visit our website: www.PanteraPress.com
Happy reading,
Alison Green
For Declan, Bridget, Patrick and Connor
In memory of Marla Daphne Maria
We love, we learn, we flit on by,
A light, a breath, a sigh.
PROLOGUE
Through narrowed eyes, the king beheld the woman kneeling before him. He stood tall despite his injured pride—shoulders squared belying the tangle within. His heart, once pulsing with love for her, was now nothing but an imitation of the real thing, a dried-up mockery re-plumped with rage. The air hummed with his fury. It sizzled and snapped around him, causing every living creature close by to flee. Even the leaves on the trees in the nearby forest trembled and shrivelled on their limbs before falling scorched to the ground.
He kept her still with his power, though there was no need—she dared not move. She’d never known such anger in him, never realised the possibility of it, let alone suspected that he could direct it at her. But she should have. Such anger is born of passion and she had inspired in him a passion of a different kind. At the recollection, a wave of longing swept through her, overcoming her fear of him for a moment. When she’d made her choice there had been a great physical distance between them but, in his presence, there was no one she wanted more.
‘Forgive me, my king,’ she whispered as she gazed up to him.
He looked deep into her eyes. They were mirrors of the heavens; many times he’d told her so as he’d kissed the corners of them. But the sight of her eyes now, the tears flowing freely, only angered him further. He raised one finger and, with the release of a minuscule portion of the power from within him, she crumbled to the ground.
‘Forgive you? Why would I? You have betrayed me. Worse, you have deceived me. I offered you everything.’ He paused and his next words were laced with bitterness. ‘I offered you myself.’
She gripped his ankles, pleading. ‘I love you, my king.’
‘And yet, you are married to another.’ His eyes were black and dangerous as they kept hers captive.
‘You know the connection I share with him,’ she whispered.
But her king did not know that connection—had no way to understand it, and was enraged anew that she would mention it. He shot a blast of temper from his hand that sent her hurtling across the courtyard, among flying stones and grasses torn from the ground. She whimpered as she landed in a heap, her hip connecting with one of the boulders in the circle surrounding them.
‘And what of the bond you both share with me?’ he raged. ‘Are you so foolish to believe I will allow either you or your husband to keep it?’
Her whole being clenched with terror. She could not have foreseen he would make such a threat. ‘No,’ she cried, and ignoring the jagged pain in her hip, she crawled back to him. She clutched at his ankles, finding that link with his eyes again, begging with her own. Then bending low, she pressed her lips to his bare feet, kissing and kissing, stroking his heels with gentle fingers. She prayed that the tenderness they’d once shared would be enough to save her life and that of her new husband.
Please, Majesty, I beg you not renounce us. She spoke to him only with her mind, a gift he’d given her, proof of his commitment. But he took it from her now. She felt a snap deep inside her head, something broken, and her telepathy with him was gone. ‘My king, I will give you anything if you allow us to keep our allegiance to you.’
‘What could you give me now that I would want?’ He stared down at her, his face free of emotion.
‘I would give you myself.’ Hope flared in her eyes as she slid soft hands up his thighs.
‘You would forsake him?’ he asked, allowing the caress, relishing her fingers as they brought fire to his heart.
‘Yes, my king, I would. I will. I made a mistake. Please, forgive me.’ And then, trembling at the liberty she was taking, she reached for his hand, took it into both of hers and brought it to her lips, waiting.
‘I am king. I can have whomever I wish. Do you suppose I would accept you as mine after you have been lover to him? You do not know me at all.’ He withdrew his hand from hers and with it went her hope. But he was quieter than before; her offer had gone some small way to appeasing him. ‘My subject, you may keep your husband and you may both keep your allegiance to me.’ He watched her for a moment and she realised that his face was too still, too calm; the heat in his eyes had grown cold. Deep in her belly a tremor began and a cry rose up inside of her. She swallowed hard. ‘But there will be a price for your treachery,’ he finished.
She was shaking now, her whole body vibrating with it and she thought she might collapse. ‘What price, my king?’ Her words were no more than thin whispers. She kept her eyes on her king and her hands pressed to her heart as she waited to know her fate.
CHAPTER ONE
I was lost in the dark again, captured in a shroud of silent black pressing close and stealing all my senses. There was only his voice—inside of me but distant and as deep and seductive as purple velvet. ‘Marla, where are you? It is Leif. Come to me.’
The voice wrapped around my mind and tugged at my soul. I wanted nothing but to know its owner. I stumbled through the dark, struggled to find a way through, but like every other time, it was impossible. So I stopped, relinquished the fight and became still. The blackness remained as I focused all of my attention on the voice.
‘Please, Marla, I know you are near. Come.’
For what might have been the hundredth time, I wondered who this Marla was, why she never answered. How could she possibly resist? I pushed my mind towards the voice, gave myself to it until it claimed me entirely. To my surprise, the darkness began to shift, to lighten; colours were breaking through. Sounds too: the rustle of leaves, birdsong, water tumbling over rocks. And there were scents—rich and earthy: moss and something sweet.
Then the darkness was gone and I found myself standing in a sparse patch of otherwise dense forest. Sunlight pierced the canopy, adding splashes of gold to the carpet of green and brown. My gaze ran up through the trees, tracing trunks and branches. The lush foliage gleamed like emerald and went on forever, the uppermost leaves brushing a sky the same blue as the lavender my
mother kept in little pots on our balcony.
I turned a slow circle. A river meandered throughout the trees. I wandered closer to get a better look, kneeling on one of the rocks peppered along the bank to peer into the water. I imagined if I jumped in, touched the bottom with my toes and stretched my arms above my head, the water would still be well above my fingers. Despite its depth, the river was so clear I could see the detail of the myriad stones at the bottom. Some were like pebbles, polished and smooth, in browns and mauves and dull yellows, others were like jewels and lay on the riverbed like upside-down stars. I wanted to dive in and grab a handful, so I dipped my toe in the water to test the temperature. It was cool and I’d just about made up my mind to jump in when the flowers that grew among the rocks captured my attention. They were so pretty, layers of crimson surrounding a deep blue bud. I picked one and examined it. The petals felt like silk and shone as though the sun was trapped inside. I poked the centre and at once the bud opened with a little popping sound and the most gorgeous scent wafted out. I dropped it immediately—the fragrance could only mean danger for me. At any moment I might start wheezing and break out in hives. But then it occurred to me that no matter how real this felt, I had to be dreaming. So I retrieved the flower and sniffed. It was summer in petals.
For the first time in forever nothing hurt and the prickle that called my skin home was gone. I examined my arms and legs, lifted my . . . What was this? A hospital gown? I lifted it to investigate the rest of me. There was not a rash or rough patch in sight and my whole body shone. I had to run and squeal. So I did, all through the forest, winding my arms around tree trunks and twirling, my hair flying out behind me like a pale cape. Then I stopped because he was calling again: Leif, his voice deep and rich and drifting through the forest towards me.
‘Marla, where are you?’
I knew it was me he called and I couldn’t believe I’d only just realised it. I turned and peered in the direction of his voice, noticing for the first time the splashes of light woven into the darkest parts of the forest. I saw movement in the trees.
He appeared.
A silver-gold aura came from him, lighting the shadows, fading and then vanishing entirely when he stepped into the sunlight. I stood silent and still, waiting. But when he was close, I couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped my lips. I’d never met him or even glimpsed him but I knew him. He came to me smiling, his arms stretched wide, palms up in welcome.
He wasn’t speaking English but somehow I understood him when he said, ‘Marla, beloved, you have come.’ I was utterly hypnotised, a girl confronted by her idol. I couldn’t have looked away if I wanted to. Nor could I move. He was magnificent: well over six feet, powerfully built and wearing nothing but faded jeans low on his hips. His dark brown hair swept around his face and neck, like he’d just been caught in a wind storm in the most luscious way possible. And his eyes, the exact same shade as his hair, remained locked to mine as he waited for me to speak.
A bunch of questions tumbled in my head but I couldn’t find my voice. I wanted to run to him, close the gap and throw my arms around him. I wanted to capture his hands in mine and bring them to my lips, cover them with kisses. Overwhelmed with the intensity of my feelings, I had to remind myself to breathe.
After a long moment of staring I managed to speak. I was startled when I heard the words leave my mouth. I was speaking his language. ‘Who are you?’ I asked.
‘I am Leif,’ he said, inclining his head. ‘I am yours.’ Then he looked up and smiled again, a sunburst on an already perfect day. ‘But you know this, Marla.’
He was mine. I did know it. I opened my mouth, but even if I could have found a word, I wouldn’t have been able to speak it, because I was waking and moaning and a whole different set of sensations and sounds were assaulting me: pain—my face felt like it had been stung by a swarm of bees; and crying—my own, my mother’s; and whispering.
‘Look, she’s waking. She’s going to be fine.’ I recognised the voice of my doctor.
‘Thank God,’ my father said, as always, calm and strong.
‘She’s a very lucky girl. Lucky her friend knew what to do.’
My friend—Jack.
Memories were returning—shopping, the make-up department, Jack and Hilary clutching my arms, trying to put a stop to my stupidity. Me assuring them I’d be okay, that I needed to test my allergies now and then. Jack holding up freshly painted fingernails: ‘Midnight Riot, do you like?’ Strawberry lip gloss scorching my lips, shimmery pink eye shadow setting fire to my eyes, the contents of my bag scattered on the floor, pain licking at my face. Hilary pressing my puffer to my lips. Terror as my throat sealed closed. And finally relief when Jack found my EpiPen and stabbed it into my thigh as I slipped into unconsciousness.
I opened my eyes. I was in hospital and my parents and doctor hovered around my bed. My attention settled on my mother. The tears in her eyes were rapidly turning to ice and I just managed to catch a glimpse of softness in her expression before it too vanished.
‘What happened?’ I asked, my voice a cross between a whisper and a croak.
‘What do you think happened, Amy? What do you think is bound to happen when you plaster your face with make-up? Stupid, stupid . . . ’ My mother’s fists were clenched at her sides.
‘Karen, come on now,’ my father soothed.
‘She might have died, Lewis!’ Mum’s eyebrows were drawn so close they almost crashed.
‘I know, love, but I think our girl might just get the message without that carry on.’ Dad reached out to stroke her arm and Mum clamped her lips shut.
‘I didn’t plaster my face. It was only a little bit.’ Self-pity meshed with pain causing tears to well in my eyes. My mother huffed but otherwise stayed silent as, arms crossed and face pinched, she stared in the direction of the window.
‘Amy, I know it’s tough for you, but you just can’t take risks like that,’ my father told me. He placed a big hand carefully on my face. It felt cool against the flames.
‘It’s not fair.’ I sounded seven instead of seventeen, but I didn’t care, I was just so fed up with being allergic to the whole world.
My father sighed and wiped a tear from my temple before leaning in to hug me.
I was grateful he didn’t continue. That was one of the great things about Dad—he knew when to shut up. He just held me carefully for a moment then dropped a kiss on my forehead.
‘How long have I been here?’ I asked.
‘Since yesterday afternoon.’
‘I’m starving.’
My father looked at my mother, who in turn looked at the doctor. ‘Is it all right if she has something to eat?’ she asked.
‘Of course, she’ll be fine now, just a matter of time for the swelling to go down.’ The doctor smiled and turned back to me before adding, ‘It really is a miracle how quickly you heal, Amy. Anyone else would be knocked out for weeks.’
Anyone else wouldn’t almost die just from trying on a little lipgloss. I frowned but kept my mouth closed. I’d learned years ago that the only thing to be gained from whinging about my condition was a headache and a bad mood.
My mother picked up a small cooler bag from the floor and cast me another frosty look. ‘What will it be?’
‘What have you got?’
‘Everything.’
I sighed. ‘Rice custard I suppose.’
Mum handed me a plastic container and I filled my stomach with zero pleasure.
After a few hours’ observation I was released, largely thanks to the ‘free up the hospital beds asap’ policy. When I got home I ate more rice, this time with stewed apples and a big drink of milk, then went to bed.
I was just drifting off when the phone roused me. I heard my sister answer and a moment later—in that little sweetie-pie voice she saved for cute boys—add, ‘Oh, Jack, hi.’
I could almost hear Ashleigh’s eyelashes flutter. Totally pointless—Jack liked to play along, but he wasn’t interested. Not that I co
uld blame her for trying. My friend was lovely, with his big milk-chocolate eyes and floppy honey-blond hair. He must have asked her to check on me because the next thing I knew she was at the bedroom door.
‘Oh, you are awake.’
‘In a dead kind of way,’ I replied as I forced myself out of bed. But her amber curls were already bouncing out the door.
‘Jack’s on the phone,’ she called back from the hallway.
I slid into the computer chair and picked up the phone, could hear the worry in Jack’s voice when he asked how I was. I ran a finger from my temple to my chin. ‘My face is throbbing,’ I told him. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been this swollen before.’
‘Well, we tried to stop you.’
I recalled Hilary and Jack tugging on my arm as I marched off to the make-up department. Convincing either of my friends to come shopping with me again was going to be a nightmare. ‘I know,’ I said and hurried on before he could slip a lecture in, ‘but, Jack, something amazing happened while I was in hospital.’
‘You realise you could have died, don’t you?’
‘Sorry . . . ’
‘Why did you do it?’
‘I don’t know . . . I just feel so . . . frustrated all the time—and tired. It’s that dream. Every time I have it I wake up more exhausted than when I went to bed.’
‘Weren’t you going to speak to your doctor about that?’
‘Didn’t think to—But, Jack, when I was in hospital, I met Leif.’
‘What?’
‘I was having that dream again but this time the darkness cleared, just like mist or fog or something and I was standing in this forest and he appeared. I was falling asleep when you called actually—hoping to meet up with him again. You ruined our reunion.’
‘Ungrateful wench, that’s the thanks I get for caring.’ Jack sounded wounded in a fake kind of way.
I laughed. ‘Sorry, Jack . . . but I met Leif!’ I wanted to reach through the phone and shake him.
‘Go on then, tell me all about it.’
Betrothed Page 1