Celeste threw her head forward and slammed it backward, taking him by surprise. He cried out with pain as she struck his face.
Celeste lifted her feet off the ground, forcing the attacker to hold her entire weight. He dropped her and she rolled, pushing away, gasping for air.
She screamed as she tumbled. From the corner of her eye, in the shadowy darkness, she saw something fly through the air and hit the attacker full in the chest.
Silver! It was Silver!
The shimmer of the steel blade the killer drew was unreal in the murky darkness.
"No!" Celeste screamed.
Silver gave a scream that was nearly human as the killer sank the knife into the dog's yellow chest.
Celeste scrambled to her feet. "Help!" she screamed. "Help!" Then she added what she knew would bring results. "Fire! Fire on Peach!"
Because the killer blocked the alley to Peach, Celeste turned on her heels to run the other way. She couldn't see or hear Silver. The bastard had killed her dog.
"Fire! Fire!" Celeste screamed.
"Bitch! Whoring bitch!" the killer shouted after her in an unearthly voice. "She who sins must die! You must all die!"
Celeste could hear the pounding footsteps behind her, but she didn't look back. No time.
Celeste had nearly reached the end of the alley and Cherry Street when she felt an iron hand fall on her shoulder.
"No!" Celeste screamed as she spun around. She was so angry, so damned angry!
She shoved the killer backward, hard against the sideboards of the building. She had no idea where her incredible strength came from.
The killer lashed at Celeste with his knife. She saw a slash of light and then felt an agonizing burning in her arm. The killer's limbs tangled with hers. Celeste kicked and swung her fists in rage.
"You won't do this to me!" she screamed.
She heard male voices approaching from down the alley in the direction of Peach Street.
"Help!" Celeste screamed. "Help. It's the killer! The killer!"
The sound of the running men startled the killer, and he released his hold on Celeste's hand, shoved her forward, and ran.
Someone seized Celeste's shoulder from behind and she screamed. How could the killer have gotten behind her, even in the darkness?
She screamed again and whipped around to face him.
The hands clamped down on both her forearms.
"Celeste?"
"Fox? Fox?"
"Celeste." He shook her.
For a moment her eyes were unseeing. She still thought the killer had come for her in his faceless cloak.
"Celeste, it's me. It's Fox, sweetheart."
"He . . . he . . . " She couldn't breathe. She couldn't speak. She pointed in the direction the killer had escaped.
Sheriff Tate and two deputies ran past them.
"That way!" Fox hollered. "Black cloak. Don't let him get away, boys."
"You all right?" Fox gripped her shoulders and forced her to focus on his face. "Celeste, are you all right? Are you hurt?"
She lifted her arm lamely. "A scratch, I think." Finally realizing that she was alive and unhurt, she threw her arms around Fox. "Oh, God. Fox. Fox."
He held her tightly. "It's all right," he crooned. "They're going to catch the bastard."
Gunshots cracked in the air, sounding almost unreal. One, two, three shots.
"We got him! We got him!" one of the deputies called.
Arm in arm, Fox and Celeste hurried out of the alley and on to the Cherry Street side.
In the center of the snowy street lay a black-cloaked figure, facedown and motionless.
"You stay here," Fox said. "I want to make sure he doesn't jump and run."
"No." Celeste grabbed his arm. "Don't leave me here. I want to see. I have to."
Sheriff Tate and the deputies surrounded the body and, weapons drawn, cautiously walked closer. Still the killer didn't move.
Tate gave the body a nudge with the toe of his boot. "I think he's dead, boys."
A butcher knife gleamed in the moonlight, still locked in the killer's hand.
Celeste stepped closer. "Who is it?" she whispered. She knew it was someone she knew well, but who? Ace? Titus?
Tate kept his pistol ready as he rolled the body over with his foot. Obviously the sheriff wasn't taking any chances. He stared at the killer. "Yeah, he's dead all right."
Tate reached down and drew back the hood of the black cloak. "I'll be damned," he murmured in obvious shock.
"Who?" The word was barely out of Celeste's mouth.
"The preacher's wife," Fox murmured.
"Mrs. Tuttle?" Celeste stared at the round German face and the tight curls that framed it. Her eyes were mercifully closed. Her cloak had fallen open to reveal a round red splotch of blood in the center of her chest.
Celeste couldn't believe it, and yet she had no choice. There was Mrs. Tuttle with the knife in her hand, Celeste's and Silver's blood on the knife. To add to the evidence was what the preacher's wife had shouted at her in the alley about sin. It had to be her. It was her all along . . .
"Silver!" Celeste looked suddenly at Fox. "She stabbed Silver. I think he's dead, but I'm not sure."
Fox grabbed her arm. "Show me."
Hours later, Celeste lay stretched out on her white iron bed and stared at the moon that shone through her window. Adam was asleep. The doc had taken Silver home with him to stitch him up, saying there was a good chance to save him. Joash was home in his musty parlor, where he wanted to be alone with his wife's body. Poor Joash; he was devastated.
Fox walked into the dark bedroom. "Adam's fine. Sound asleep."
She rolled onto her back and sat up as Fox sat down on the edge of the bed.
"I can't believe Mrs. Tuttle was capable of such a thing."
He lifted one shoulder as he reached around her and caressed her hip with his hand. "She was a big woman, so Tate thinks that's how she was able to physically subdue the women." He smiled grimly. "Apparently Sally put up a hell of fight, because Mrs. Tuttle was bruised and battered."
Celeste shook her head. "She told Joash she'd fallen and that was how she'd gotten the bruises."
"As for Mrs. Tuttle being mentally capable of such atrocities," Fox continued, "someone as sick in the mind as she was can find justification in anything."
Celeste arranged the folds of the flannel dressing robe she wore. "I'm tired." She rested her head on Fox's shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her waist.
"How's your arm?"
She rubbed the place where Doc Smite had bandaged it. "Aches a little, but it's all right."
"Well, you best get some sleep, then." He drew aside one edge of her dressing gown and kissed the swell of her bare breast. "Because you've a wedding to go to tomorrow, and you want to look your freshest."
"A wedding?" She was so exhausted by emotion that she couldn't think clearly. "Who's getting married?"
He gazed into her eyes. "You." Then he kissed her gently on the mouth, a kiss that would seal their love for all of eternity.
Epilogue
Napa Valley
California
Eight years later
"Maria, could you please ring the dinner bell again?" Celeste asked in exasperation. "I know they hear me; they just won't come. Your enchiladas and my corn bread will be ruined."
"Si, señora."
Celeste stood in the open-air archway of the kitchen and watched the servant walk to the black wrought-iron dinner bell and ring it enthusiastically. "Dinner, mi hijos, señor!" She rang the bell again, and Celeste smiled. Maria loved the power of the dinner bell.
Celeste walked out onto the Spanish-style courtyard on the stones that had lovingly been laid by Fox, Adam, and Maria's husband, Joaquin. The sun was just beginning to set over the hills, and it cast a red gold light over the rows of grapevines that fanned out from the home she and Fox had built.
This was Celeste's favorite time of day here in California, when the sun
was just setting and the wind held the scent of the grapevines. Here in the young vineyard, Colorado seemed a world away . . . a lifetime. Sometimes, Celeste even wondered if all that had happened there had been a dream.
She spotted Fox coming up the hill and laughed aloud. On each shoulder he balanced one of their twin daughters. Sally and Meg giggled uproariously at some nonsense their father had no doubt fed them.
Behind Fox walked Adam, no longer a boy, nearly a man. He was trailed by old Silver, whose gait was a little slow, but who could still keep up. Across Adam's strong shoulders, he bore a pole with a bucket on each end. Her men, inseparable, were dressed in grape-stained cotton workpants and shirts open at the chest. They wore identical beaten straw hats woven by Maria's capable hands.
Celeste lowered her hands to her hips, trying to look stern as they crested the hill and walked into the grass that led to the courtyard. "Maria's been ringing for you for ten minutes."
"Look what we've got, Mama!"
Fox lowered first the red-pigtailed Meg to the grass, and then her identical sister Sally.
"Grapes, Mama," five-year-old Sally piped in. "Peanut . . . Pinot Noirs!"
"Wait until you see them, Mother," Adam said, lowering the buckets to the ground. It had been two years and one young lady since Adam had called her Mama. He was growing up so fast. "I know the plants are young and the grapes will only get better as the vines mature, but Joaquin says the texture is nearly perfect."
As her family drew closer, Celeste realized that the girls were covered in splatters of dark purple . . . again. "Sally! Meg!" she admonished, but not too harshly. "You just dressed for supper! I told you to stay off the ground when you went with your father to check the vines."
The girls burst into laughter. "We stayed off the ground, Mama. It was Papa's fault!" Meg said.
"He threw the grapes at us, didn't you, Papa?" Sally added.
Celeste eyed Fox.
He tugged off his hat and whistled, glancing away to the amusement of his daughters and son.
"Told you," Meg laughed.
"Guilty," Sally accused.
"Fox MacPhearson!" Celeste lit into the expected litany. "How am I ever going to teach these girls to be young ladies if you're going to get into grape fights with them?"
The girls giggled behind their fingers, their cheeks rosy.
Adam laughed. "Come on, girls. Let's find Maria and get you cleaned up."
Celeste left her hands balanced on her hips. The children passed her and then she settled her attention on her dear husband, who looked like one of the workers they'd recently hired. Fox's skin was tanned a dark brown, and he'd probably not shaved in two days. His hair was too long and fell over his eyes when he pulled off his straw hat. He was as handsome, no, more handsome than the first day he'd walked into Carrington and her life.
"Suppose I need to change for supper, too?" he said sheepishly as he caught her around the waist with one arm.
She dropped her hands to his shoulders and let him twirl her around. She tipped back her head and the vineyard and the house whirled by. The air smelled of rain, of fresh grapes, and of her husband.
"I suppose you should."
Their gazes met.
"The harvest going to be as good as Adam says?"
"Better." Fox grinned. "Better than we imagined, Celeste, better than we dreamed."
She held his gaze with hers. "Nothing can be better than this."
"What, this?" He ran one hand over his dirty, purple-stained shirt.
"Yes, this." She tapped his chest. "And this." She gestured to the vineyard. "And this." She kissed his mouth.
"Told you we could do it, Celeste." He danced her in a circle, caught her hand, and let her twirl away from him.
Celeste released his hand and scooped some grapes out of the split oak basket. She rolled a black Pinot Noir grape between her fingers, and then crushed it to study the pulp.
They had come to this land knowing nothing of viticulture. She and Fox still had a great deal to learn, but with Joaquin and Maria's help, their vineyard was going to be successfully productive.
"Excellent color." She glanced up at Fox, who stood three feet away. On impulse, she tossed the squashed grape at him.
"Hey!" He threw up his hand, but it was too late. She struck him in the chest, making a dark purple splotch.
Fox dove for the basket. Celeste squealed, throwing grapes over her shoulder at him as she ran.
She felt the thump of grapes hitting her back, and laughed harder, running into the grass.
Fox pelted her with grapes and they split as they hit her, staining her sunshine yellow gown. "Fox!"
"You started it." He chased her.
She ran, but he caught up to her and wrestled her to the ground. Their laughter mingled as he lowered his mouth to hers.
He tasted of grapes.
"The children, Fox. Dinner."
"Yeah, yeah." He kissed her again and then lowered his head to her slightly rounded belly. "Hello in there? Can you hear me?"
She rolled her head in laughter, and threaded her fingers through his clean, silky black hair. "Fox!"
"Attention. Attention, this is your father. I just want you to know that your mother started that grape fight. Not me."
Still laughing, she gave him a push and he rolled over and pulled her on top of him.
Celeste's hair fell loose in a curtain of red-gold around their faces, and she stared into Fox's black eyes. "Thank you," she whispered.
"For what?"
"For saving me."
He stroked her forehead with his grape-stained hand. "Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For saving me."
Celeste closed her eyes and lowered her mouth to his. The sunshine was still warm on her back, and warm in her heart where she knew it always would be.
The End
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IN LOVE WITH THE KING'S SPY
Prologue
The Cliffs of Dover, England
September, 1660
Julia closed her eyes and felt the bitter wind against her face. It tore at her unbound hair and whipped at her new wool and ermine cloak, a costly gift from her betrothed.
She felt numb. Was it because of the teeth-chattering cold, or because, as she stood here on the precipice, she felt her hopes, her dreams, dying? All these years, through the wars, she had imagined that one day she would be rescued from her father's decaying house by a handsome lord. His lordship would marry her, take her away to a foreign land, and love her more than life. She knew it was just a dream, a girlhood fancy, but it was difficult to let go of that dream just the same.
Steadying herself with one hand on the crumbling wall, she hesitantly slid one foot, and then the other, forward, until the toes of her kidskin slippers hung off the edge of the tower floor. Chunks of deteriorated mortar fell and hit the rocks below. She did not hear them splash as they made their final descent into the ocean far below.
Julia held her breath and imagined that she was one of those ill-fated bits of mortar. She wondered how easy it would be to let go of the disintegrating wall and drop into the cold depths of the waves. Did the mortar feel terror—or dull acceptance? Was there, at the last moment, a certain sense of relief before death?
The ermine lining of her new cloak ruffled in the wind, brushing the sensitive flesh of her throat. Instead of feeling soft as it should have, it felt as abrasive as spun steel. She hated the cloak. She hated he who had sent it. She hated her mother for making her wear the cloak. She hated her mother for making her marry him.
"I would miss you if you went away to our Lord Jesus . . ."
The sound of her younger sister's voice startled Julia, and she gripped the wall tightly. Fearing she might lose her balance and plummet off the tower ruin, she took a step back and opened her eyes.
"Lizzy! What are you doing up here? You'll catch your death in this cold!"
Lizzy drew her patched brown woolen cloak tightly around her shoulders. "You wouldn't do it, would you, Sister? You wouldn't leave me."
Julia had always wondered how Lizzy had the innate ability to read others' thoughts. Her mind damaged since early childhood, she barely had the sense to get in out of a hailstorm, yet she was exceptionally sensitive to the feelings of others. Sometimes she seemed to understand Julia's thoughts better than Julia understood them herself.
Julia offered her sister her cold hand. "I just came up here to think . . . to say goodbye."
She narrowed her pretty eyes. "Not to jump into the ocean and go to Lord Jesus?"
Julia thought a long moment before she replied. Had she climbed the crumbling tower steps to contemplate suicide? Had she actually considered the choice of death over marriage to the Earl of St. Martin? Had she thought herself willing to abandon her sister and mother to the perils of poverty, rather than marry a man she did not like?
Julia lifted her lashes and gazed into Lizzy's blue eyes, eyes as blue as the heavens. "Silly chick." She squeezed her sister's petite hand in her own. "I wouldn't leave you."
"Not ever?"
"Not ever. I just came to say goodbye to the ocean. There's no ocean in London, you know."
"London? Is that the house?" Lizzy's yellow blond hair fluttered in the wind, framing her oval face.
How Julia envied her sister's perfect blond hair. Her own hair had too much red in it; her father had called it strawberry. "No. London is the place, the city. Bassett Hall is the house. That's where we'll be living, you and I."
Lizzy thrust out her lower lip. She was strikingly beautiful, even when she pouted. "But you'll no longer sleep with me. St. Martin will sleep in your bed, and I will have to sleep with Drusilla and her cold, bony feet."
Julia laughed and hugged her sister as she turned her around. "Better to sleep with Drusilla and her feet than Mother and her snoring."
The sisters laughed in unison, Lizzy's voice the higher pitched of the two.
"Race you down the steps," Julia dared.
"And ruin my slippers? I think not!"
Heaven in My Arms Page 28