In My Wildest Fantasies
Copyright © 2020 Julianne MacLean Publishing Inc.
Print edition ISBN: 978-1-927675-72-4
Ebook edition ISBN: 978-1-927675-71-7
First edition published by Avon/Harper Collins
© 2007 Julianne MacLean
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce or transmit this book, or a portion thereof, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover and Interior Design: The Killion Group, Inc.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Excerpt from The Mistress Diaries
Prologue
Chapter 1
Author’s Note
Books by Julianne MacLean
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Michelle Killen and to Deborah Hale, for your friendship and support, helpful brainstorming sessions, and invaluable critiques.
Chapter 1
Oxfordshire
August, 1870
A thick, gray mist moved through the darkening forest, creeping along the ground like a phantom. Rebecca Newland, dressed in black and seated beside her sleeping father in the dark confines of his carriage, was in a place somewhere between dreams and reality, her head tipped back upon the deeply buttoned leather upholstery, her eyelids falling closed briefly, then fluttering open again as the coach rumbled and bumped along the narrow, winding road.
They were on their way home from her uncle’s funeral in London. Regrettably, he was an uncle she had never met, but that was the story of her quiet life, she supposed. She knew very few people, cloistered away as she was in her father’s secluded country house, built of old stone and cloaked in thick, leafy ivy, which hindered even the company of the sunlight.
The only thing that kept her from going completely mad in her isolation was the fact that she was seventeen now, and her first London Season was drawing near—next year perhaps? If she closed her eyes, she could see the glitter and gowns she read about in books, the sparkling jewels and hair combs; she could anticipate the balls and stimulating conversations. She longed for all of it, everything she had been missing in her father’s somber home for as long as she could remember.
Oh, she prayed he would let her go next year. Surely he would say yes. It was not as if he relished her presence at home. They were hardly close. And her aunt had offered at least a dozen times to introduce her to society...
Rebecca was just beginning to imagine herself curtseying to a handsome duke, when suddenly, the coach swerved, and her belly lurched with panic. She sat forward, gripped the windowsill, then heard a heavy thump.
“Father, wake up,” she said, sweeping her idle daydreams aside.
He stirred groggily, sat up and looked around, as if he weren’t quite sure where he was. “What is it?”
“Did you hear that noise?” she asked. “The coach swerved, and there was a thump.”
They were rolling along quite smoothly now, however, and her father sat back, unalarmed but annoyed with the interruption. “One of the bags probably tipped over on the roof.” He folded his arms and closed his eyes again.
Rebecca touched her forehead to the cool windowpane and tried to peer down at the ground passing beneath them, wondering if one of the bags might have fallen off when they’d swerved. Then slowly, the coach began to decrease speed, slower and slower until they were traveling at a snail’s pace, then they stopped completely, and the horses whinnied and jangled the harness.
Her father opened his eyes and sat forward again. “Have we arrived?”
Rebecca was still peering out the window. “No, Father. We’re surrounded by sycamores.”
He frowned and leaned closer to the window on his own side. “Why the blazes are we stopped here? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“I think you were right. We might have lost a bag.”
Growing impatient, he reached for his walking stick and folded his gnarled, rheumatic fingers over the ivory knob, while waiting for the driver to appear at the door and inform them of the problem.
But there was not even the sound of movement from outside the coach.
“Maybe he’s already gone back along the road to retrieve it,” Rebecca said.
“Well, he could have told us, instead of leaving us to sit here like a couple of ducks, wondering what the devil is going on.”
Rebecca peered out the window again, glanced up at the sky under the mist-shrouded canopy of leaves, and took note of the fading light. “I hope he is quick about it,” she said, “or he won’t be able to find it—or us again—in the dark.”
They continued to sit and wait in silence for something to happen, but nothing did. Rebecca watched the mist blow past the window and felt rather uneasy. “May I get out to see what is going on?” she asked.
Her father grunted his displeasure and reached for the door handle on his own side, while she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and did the same. The step had not been lowered, so she hopped the distance to the ground. She landed with a thud and turned to lower the step.
As she did so, a chill enveloped her and seeped like icy water through the sleeves of her black serge gown. She looked around. The forest was as silent and still as the grave, except for the mist drifting between the trees. She smelled dampness and moss and tree bark but heard nothing. No wind, no birds. Nothing.
She shivered, then one of the horses whinnied and shook the harness again. Turning and gathering her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, she looked up. The coachman’s seat was empty. It was as if he had simply vanished into thin air.
Was this a haunted forest? she wondered ridiculously. Was there a troll who plucked coachmen from their seats and feasted on their tasty bones?
Her father came around the back of the coach and stopped to stare down the road they’d already traveled. “I’ll have his hide.”
Rebecca sighed, wishing her father’s nap had not been interrupted. Now he would be irritable the rest of the night, and she would be the one to bear the brunt of it inside the coach.
“Smith!” he shouted, his voice swallowed instantly by the thick chill in the forest. “Did we lose something?”
No reply. Not even an echo.
Rebecca moved closer to him. “Should we go and
search for him?”
Her father leaned his frail form upon his cane, but before he could answer, a noise from somewhere ahead caused them both to turn. It was the heavy, thunderous rumble of hoofbeats.
Rebecca’s heart began to tremble. Someone was coming.
With her imagination getting the better of her in these eerie, deserted woods—were they about to have their cold bones feasted upon, too?—she slipped her arm around her father’s as her heart clattered in her chest.
A second later, an enormous black horse and rider emerged from around the bend, galloping toward them, hooves pounding hard and fast upon the ground. The man, like a dark phantom in the mist, was as dark and mesmerizing as the horse, broad-shouldered and cloaked in a black overcoat, a top hat perched at a rakish angle upon his head.
The instant he spotted the coach and team blocking the road, he pulled his great steed to a skidding halt. The horse reared up in protest, its hooves clawing at the air, its enormous muscles straining and flexing while it let out a sharp, angry whinny. The man shouted and fought to regain control, while the beast reared up a second time and turned on its hind legs in a complete circle.
“Whoa!”
His voice was deep and commanding, arresting Rebecca on the spot. For a brief second, she feared the man would be thrown to the ground, but he held firm, soon bringing the wild creature under control.
“Easy now, Asher,” he commanded. “Easy...”
While the animal huffed and stomped around on heavy hooves, Rebecca noted the luxurious quality of the man’s overcoat. The collar and lapels were lined in chocolate-brown fur, all the way to the hem.
He sat back in the saddle and turned his striking gaze to Rebecca and her father. His eyes were pale blue like the dawn sky, penetrating like an arrow pointed directly at one’s heart. His lips were full, his nose straight and aristocratic. It was a magnificent face with strong lines and masculine splendor, and Rebecca was both captivated by his beauty and intimidated by his authoritative presence, high upon the massive horse.
“What’s happened here?” he asked impatiently, glancing at the empty driver’s seat, then back at Rebecca and her father, who were, she suddenly realized, staring up at him as if they had just encountered Lucifer himself.
The stranger urged his horse forward along the side of the road, approaching even closer until he was directly in front of them.
They backed up, and her father spoke harshly. “Get in the coach, Rebecca.”
“But...”
“Do as I say, gel.”
She supposed he was wise to be cautious. They knew nothing about this man or his intentions, so she dutifully stepped back into the coach, boldly meeting the stranger’s gaze as she climbed inside.
She perched herself on the edge of the seat, leaning forward where she could at least peer out the open door and witness the conversation. But because the man’s horse was adjacent to the door, she could see him only from the chest down. The top of the door was blocking his head and shoulders.
Consequently, knowing that he couldn’t see her either, she let her gaze wander down the length of his muscular leg. She felt a strange, quivering curiosity in her belly as her eyes traveled over his thick thigh and strong knee, then down to the toe of his expensive black riding boot, polished to a flawless sheen. Even the stirrups were gleaming.
“Do you require assistance?” he asked her father.
Assistance... That at least sounded promising.
Her father leaned upon his cane. “We are quite all right, thank you.”
“But father...” she protested, inching forward on the seat.
He gave her a stern look, which told her to keep quiet.
The stranger bent forward over the horse’s well-groomed mane to peer inside at her. Her heart began to race again as she noted for the second time the striking color of his blue eyes, which seemed to see straight through her. She felt naked and exposed, and her blood seemed to burn with a rather frightening excitement.
Heaven help her, she had never in her life encountered such a striking man. He took her breath away. She could not move.
Suddenly, a crazed black raven swooped down from the trees, screeched and flapped its wings in front of the horses. The coach jerked under her, and she was thrown back against the seat, smacking her head against the leather upholstery. The horses took off like a shot, and before she knew what was afoot, the trees outside were whizzing by the open door in a dizzying blur.
Sheer fright blazed through her. She clutched at the side of the coach, which continued to gain speed and bounced out of control over the bumps in the road.
“Stop!” she shouted, knowing it would do no good.
The coach swerved around a sharp bend, and she was tossed to the side. She hit her head again, winced and shut her eyes at the pain, and when she opened them, she found herself gazing out the door at another blur of movement.
Something passed her by—a flash of black. It was the man on the horse, galloping even faster than the out-of-control coach. The heavy hooves thundered over the ground as he disappeared in front, and she heard the sound of his deep voice shouting, “Hold up! Steady now!”
The horses whinnied, the coach rocked and swayed, then the noise and commotion died away as they pulled to a gradual halt.
Overcome with panic, Rebecca scrambled across the seat to the open door, looked out at the gentleman who was still on his horse up front holding onto the harness, and said, “Thank you, sir!”
She threw a foot out to climb down.
“But miss,” he quickly replied, glancing over his shoulder. “Please don’t—”
She didn’t even have a chance to comprehend the warning before—kersplash!—she was hip-deep in a cold bog, her breath coming short from the shock of the chill.
“Oh, bollocks!” she cried, as the cold water seeped into her drawers and numbed her skin. “This is freezing!” She flapped her hands through the air, flicking glistening droplets of water in all directions.
The man quickly brought his horse around. “Give me your hand.”
The plain words and firm voice of command moved her to action, and she reached out. Without delay he pulled her up out of the water, which was no easy task with her skirts dripping and heavy as a dead elephant. He set her sideways in front of him, then smoothly walked his horse out of the bog.
As soon as they were on dry ground, he dismounted, and she found herself looking down at those mesmerizing blue eyes again while he reached his arms up to her.
“Down you come, darling,” he said. “Just slide yourself into my arms.”
Darling.
Dear Lord... A runaway coach and a darkly handsome stranger who wanted her to slide into his arms. This was more than any socially sheltered seventeen-year-old could take. It was the stuff of fantasies and fairy tales.
Flustered and befuddled, she placed her hands on his broad shoulders and felt the soft fur of his wide lapels through her wet gloves as she slid down from the saddle into his solid male frame. She had never touched a man like this before, had never been so close.
He began to lower her down, and the whole front of her body pressed tightly against his firm chest. Her heart was pounding so fast it was making her lightheaded, and she wasn’t sure if it was the lingering terror from being whisked away inside a runaway coach, or if it was the fact that she was being held by this man—with shoulders as broad and solid as an oak, and eyes that made her shiver inwardly with a strange curiosity she couldn’t even begin to understand. She had never experienced anything as exciting as this. It felt wild and wicked and shamefully titillating.
When her toes finally touched the ground, neither she, nor he, made a move to step apart. He continued to hold her steady, his big hands gripping her corseted waist while he looked down at her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“That’s a relief,” he replied, the corner of his mouth turning up in a sweltering grin that turned her brain to clotted cream. “For a minute there, I thought you were done for.”
Despite the overwhelming shock of what had just occurred, and the fact that she was freezing cold from the waist down and still being held in his arms, Rebecca found herself letting out a nervous little chuckle.
His blue eyes warmed at her response, and he stepped back, appearing comfortable with the fact that she was indeed all right and would be able to stand on her own two feet without swooning.
But it was only early yet, she supposed. There was still plenty of time for swooning.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
This time, she actually thought about it, and felt a pain at the back of her head. She reached up to touch the sore spot. “I was knocked around a bit, I’m afraid.”
“Let me see.” He was a full twelve inches taller than she, so it was nothing for him to lean over her and examine the back of her head. His fingers slid into the loose knots of her thick, red hair and gently massaged her scalp, searching...touching... Then he stroked downward to the back of her neck and massaged the sensitive tendons there.
Every nerve in her body quivered and pulsed with a thrilling awareness and a hot jolt of pleasure. She drew in a slow, languid breath and held onto it.
“No blood. I believe you’ll live,” he said, lowering his hands to his sides and stepping back again. “But you’ll have a bump or two.”
“A bump,” she replied, before she let out that long held breath and marveled at the indulgent wish to be pressed up against his hard body again and feel that strange, amorous pleasure inside her.
“Yes, a bump,” he said. “Any other injuries?”
Still recovering from the exquisite heat of his touch, she considered it. “My elbow, I think.”
He grinned cheekily at her, as if he were catching her at some sort of game. But she really had whacked it against the side of the coach when they’d taken off and wanted only for him to touch it and rub it and stroke it with those magical hands of his. Oh, and of course make sure it was sound.
In My Wildest Fantasies (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 1) Page 1