Saphyre raised her head, closed her eyes, and listened. Sometimes, if she endeavored with great determination, she imagined she could almost hear her mother’s voice on the evening breeze—nearly feel the soothing touch of her gentle hand. Yet the caution-call of a black crow in a nearby tree startled Saphyre. There was not time to linger in recollection or regret, for an ominous evil yet pursued the princess Saphyre Snow—fairly nipped at her heels.
Leaping to her feet, Saphyre ran—fled further into the depths of the forest—for darkness was fast falling. Saphyre knew she could not endure another night in the frigid forest uncovered and unprotected from the elements—and anything else choosing to prey upon her. Autumn threatened to come early to the Kingdom of Graces and all the forest surrounding. Saphyre knew this night would be colder and crueler even than the night before. Nearly frantic, she looked about for a cave, a tree with a drooping branch, anything that might provide her shelter for the night. Yet there was nothing, and so she pushed onward—onward until she thought her feet could carry her no further—onward until she could see nothing through the dense forest now blocking the moon’s light. The night was cold—nearly frigid. Saphyre’s arms and legs burned with weariness borne of unfamiliar striving. Such a weariness was upon her as to cause her to wonder if she might not simply drop in her own footsteps.
Then, suddenly, a large and weathered structure—veiled in night’s shadows—loomed before her. It seemed a ruin of some sort—still, a ruin with remnant walls. And even remnant walls would provide some shelter. She wondered for a moment what other creatures had considered the same—perhaps taken up residence within. The ruin broke the canopy of tall trees, and by the moonlight, Saphyre could see it looked to be the vestige of an old castle keep. Saphyre then remembered. As a child, she had heard tales of a once-great castle of the Kingdom of Graces. It was said the castle was lost—destroyed by an ancient war battled generations before. She wondered whether this ruined keep was perhaps all that remained of the place—the legendary castle of which stories were now rarely told. Saphyre frowned as she gazed at the moss-covered stones and a weathered, yet quite solid, oaken door. She fancied the keep must once have been a great stronghold indeed, for anything that could cling so long to pure existence must surely have known strength beyond understanding. Reaching out, Saphyre placed a hand against its mossy outer wall. She was assured then—it was indeed real. She had not fallen asleep, exhausted from two days of running aimlessly, to find herself dreaming. The musty velvet moss grew thick on the outer wall, further testament of a vastly aged edifice.
Through an opening in one damaged stone wall, Saphyre tentatively entered the ancient keep. Without the forest of trees to impair, blessed moonlight beamed in through the nearly vanishing ceiling and roof. A ceiling there was, yet once massive beams were now rotted, and moonlight streamed through great holes and cracks. Saphyre closed her eyes, thankful for the full moon, for it gave her enough light to look about. Several doves startled as she stepped further into the keep. Saphyre gasped as they took flight, escaping through the damaged roof. She stood quite still as her gaze fell to a fire pit in the center of the room. Dying embers there breathed more warmth than Saphyre had felt in two days, and though the prickle of the hair at her neck, the whispered warning in her heart, admonished caution, she could not resist moving nearer, dropping to her knees, and rubbing her hands over the still-glowing cinders.
Saphyre glanced about her once more, wondering who had built the fire, knowing it must have burned hot and bright only hours before. Still, her overwhelming weariness and need for warmth numbed her sense of caution, and she remained kneeling before the fire, warming herself as best she could. She mused that whoever had built the fire had long since taken his leave. Surely it was safe to linger for a few moments more, to perhaps lie down on one of the nearby logs and rest a moment—only a moment. It was all she was in need of—only a few moments of respite. Would not it be safe to merely close her eyes—for just a moment?
No sooner had Saphyre closed her eyes, however, than she began to dream—to dream of the nightmare her life had become. Her dreams were disordered—lovely visions of her mother, followed closely by ghastly ones of her mother’s death—moments spent in the safety of her father’s arms, mingled with visions of her father, the king, battling perplexity, struggling to maintain the strength of his mind. Visions of her grandfather, King Jordan, were in her dreams—of the great man he had once been—of the love she had once known for him. Vile visions of her step-grandmother intruded—her step-grandmother, Queen Carmen—of her great beauty coupled with obsessive vanity. Even visions of Kornelius were somehow provoked—of handsome Prince Kornelius, the subject of every young woman’s dreams.
Every young woman in the kingdom would faint away with the bliss at having caught Kornelius’s eye. Yet not Saphyre. Kornelius was vastly handsome, strong, and perfect in manner—a bit too perfect in Saphyre’s opinion. There was nothing unique about his perfectly pressed, perfectly flawless attire, nothing overly masculine in his perfect posture and perfect behavior. Yes, he was perfectly comely—tall, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, with the lightest fair hair and darkest green eyes. Still, he did not appeal to Saphyre’s heart, and she was sickened as she wandered through her discomfited dreams that Kornelius should be the suitor her father had chosen for her.
Saphyre next dreamt she was standing in a forest, sunlight radiating warm and happy. Kornelius stood before her, beckoning her to come to him. But Saphyre did not wish to go to him and instead turned to find herself staring into the gaunt, angular face of the huntsman! He stood before her dressed in the green of a huntsman’s cloak, his eyes narrowed and his appearance being overall that of a roughened man to meddle not with. Oh, the expression he wore spoke of concern—guilt, fear, and self-loathing. But the knife in his hand—the knife stained and dripping with blood—told of his true intent. The fact he had released Saphyre—shouted at her to run, to run for her life and never to return to the kingdom and father she loved so—his freeing her did not atone for his initial intention.
In her dreams, Saphyre turned back toward Kornelius, but he was gone. In his place was only the darkness of the forest. The trees themselves seemed to threaten harm. Yet there was no choice given the princess Saphyre Snow—no choice but to run—to enfold herself in the uncaring embrace of wooded darkness.
In her dreams, the huntsman continued to shout at her as she ran—shout at her as he truly had. “Run, Princess! Run away!” he called. “Never to return! For returning will find you slaughtered like an unsuspecting deer, your heart cut out, and the beasts of the forests feasting on your flesh! Run!”
Saphyre gasped, her heart pounding with remembered fear. She sat up, screaming at the first sight her waking eyes beheld! At first she thought she was yet dreaming, still lost in the nightmare with the huntsman. Quickly, however, she realized she was fully awake—though another nightmare was upon her then. There, crouching before her, was a man—at least a thing that had once been a man. The beast before her glared at her through blue eyes—chilling blue eyes. Yet it was not his eyes that held captive Saphyre’s attention. It was not his eyes that caused her to cry out in terror. Rather it was the immense deformity on his face. The blue-eyed man glaring at her owned only hollows where his nose should have been…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marcia Lynn McClure’s intoxicating succession of novels, novellas, and e-books—including The Visions of Ransom Lake, A Crimson Frost, The Pirate Ruse, and most recently The Chimney Sweep Charm—has established her as one of the most favored and engaging authors of true romance. Her unprecedented forte in weaving captivating stories of western, medieval, regency, and contemporary amour void of brusque intimacy has earned her the title “The Queen of Kissing.”
Marcia, who was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico, has spent her life intrigued with people, history, love, and romance. A wife, mother, grandmother, family historian, poet, and author, Marcia Lynn McClure spins her tales of spl
endor for the sake of offering respite through the beauty, mirth, and delight of a worthwhile and wonderful story.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Beneath the Honeysuckle Vine
A Better Reason to Fall in Love
Born for Thorton’s Sake
The Chimney Sweep Charm
A Crimson Frost
Daydreams
Desert Fire
Divine Deception
Dusty Britches
The Fragrance of her Name
The Haunting of Autumn Lake
The Heavenly Surrender
The Highwayman of Tanglewood
Kiss in the Dark
Kissing Cousins
The Light of the Lovers’ Moon
Love Me
An Old-Fashioned Romance
The Pirate Ruse
The Prairie Prince
The Rogue Knight
Romantic Vignettes—The Anthology of Premiere Novellas
Saphyre Snow
Shackles of Honor
Sudden Storms
Sweet Cherry Ray
Take a Walk With Me
The Tide of the Mermaid Tears
The Time of Aspen Falls
To Echo the Past
The Touch of Sage
The Trove of the Passion Room
The Visions of Ransom Lake
Weathered Too Young
The Whispered Kiss
The Windswept Flame
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