Rare and Precious Things (33 page)

28th May, 1838

I have written of the weight of my guilt many times upon these pages. Moments when I was consumed so greatly, I could not see a future of any kind ever becoming a possibility. A heavy burden, carried for years until one person helped me to cast it away. I know there will be times I feel guilt still cloaking me, but for the first time, I have some clarity of forethought to understand how my burdens did nothing to help any of those who have been lost to me.

Darius saved me from myself.
Of this, I am very aware. Without his love, I am certain I would not breathe to this day, nor would my heart beat within my breast.

There is great
beauty in the simplicity of giving oneself to another in trust, and allowing them to hold you up. My Darius taught me this lesson. From the beginning, he could really see me. I believe he is the only person to ever see inside my soul. A rare gift, which has served to give back to me—my life.

He gave me our precious Jonathan
, and also the gift of serenity in letting my J. go. I now know J. is at a peaceful place, where what transpires in this earthly realm, is but a speck floating along in the oceans of time. In the hours of the darkest kind, Darius has ever been my light. My lover who saw inside my battered soul and freed me.

M R

I
set down the journal and looked over at the mermaid angel statue facing out to sea. Brynne loved it from the first time she saw it. The unusualness of the design was compelling, but now that we knew the story behind its creation, it was much more than an appealing piece of carved stone decorating the garden wall.

I’d read this particular passage many times. I probably had it close to
memorized by now. The private thoughts written by a woman who lived in this house nearly two hundred years ago. Found by Brynne in a secret drawer of an old desk. When she showed me the journals, I read them, of course. They were a novelty, a glimpse back in time of daily life in the same house we now lived. This one particular entry stuck with me though. It was relevant.

I’d figured out from the very first time I read it, the name
Darius
could be exchanged for
Brynne
, and it became my truth.

In the hours of the darkest kind, Brynne has ever been my light.
My lover who saw inside my battered soul and freed
m
e.

THE END

If
you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a
spoiler-free
review on Amazon. You have my grateful thanks and appreciation for your time.

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LINK for
Rare and Precious Things

It
wasn’t easy to write
THE END
on the previous page. In fact, I can’t even say that this is absolutely and finally the end for Ethan Blackstone and his American girl, because I never know the answer to that question, and I try very hard not to become a liar. I always say if I have more story for them, I will write it. But, for now, they should be left to their hard-earned HEA. They certainly deserve it after all they’ve been through. There will be more stories coming for some of the other characters you’ve met here, though. *winks* I bet you can guess. If you are interested, I have a discussion group on Facebook for people who have finished reading.

DISCUSS
Rare and Precious Things

For those of you who are curious about the journals of Marianne in this story, you can turn the page
, and read an excerpt from
The Passion of Darius
to see if my historical romance is to your liking. Darius and Marianne’s story was my first published book, and very special to me for many reasons. Tying their love story into
Rare and Precious Things
was a joy.

I’ve also added a taste of Neil and Elaina
from
Cherry Girl
, here for you to sample. Theirs is the beautiful story of two people who desperately needed a second chance to fight their way back to each other. I hope you will read and enjoy.

I
have endless thanks to my readers, who inspire me daily with good wishes and encouragement, or just to drop me a line and say how much they enjoyed a particular portion of a book. Your enthusiastic support inspires me with new stories to keep us all busy for a very long, time. I am indebted to you. Raine has the
BEST
fans on the planet. Truth!

To my dear hearts at
NS
and
SC
, I couldn’t do this without your friendship, love, and daily commiseration. Truly, I would be a blubbering, hot mess 24/7. Love you so much.

I wish for all of you,
a wealth of good stories, well told.

xxoo
Raine

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A word about PTSD and Combat Stress…

In my Blackstone Affair series, y
ou’ve read about Ethan and his struggles with flashbacks and night terrors resulting from PTSD, coming from his wartime trauma. These experiences can have a devastating effect on daily life and relationships, as they did for Ethan in my books. For many soldiers, their fight goes on, long after their military service ends, some, for the rest of their lives. Statistics show as high as twenty percent of enlisted personnel may suffer from PTSD. There is help.

USA

http://www.ptsd.va.gov/

http://ptsdhotline.com/

UK

http://www.combatstress.org.uk/

CHAPTER 1

The Declaration

Somerset Coast, 1837

DARIUS
chose his seat strategically every Sunday. Close enough to catch her scent just from sitting behind her in church. He waited for it, knowing what would come, for he was well familiar with her choice of perfume. The soft essence of violets floated to him, its delicate sweetness stirring and calming both at once. Savoring the instant when he could draw even the tiniest part of her into himself, Darius indulged in the simple pleasure of breathing her.

Her neck was his favorite. He loved to look at the place where her coffee-colored hair swept up with just a few strands escaping. Indulging in wild dreams about her, he imagined how she’d look with all those glorious waves spilling down over her pale, naked flesh. Of how he would brush it aside and put his lips to that spot he so desired to know. He thought of the triumph of possessing her totally. Of her soft, pliant body beneath his hard, commanding one, accepting him inside when he took her.

Wanting her so badly was nothing new. He’d known the feeling for a long time. Marianne was perfection in Darius’s opinion.

Marianne might be perfect, but her father was an idiot. Mr. George was a weak man. He had turned to drink after the death of his wife, bringing them to the brink of ruin with his drinking and gambling. At the pace he was going, Darius figured her father’s descent would sit well with his own plans regardless. Being a patient man, Darius didn’t think he would have to wait much longer. Her father would see to that for him.

THE hair on the back of her neck tingled and she knew. His eyes were on her. Again. Marianne looked around as soon as the service ended. Yes, indeed. He stood there staring—his dark eyes calling her to meet his gaze.

Her father nodded politely at him. “Mr. Rourke, good day.”

“Mr. George. Miss Marianne, you look well today.” Mr. Rourke greeted both of them warmly, but his eyes rested only on her.

“Yes, sir, my Marianne is very fine. She takes after her mother, God rest her soul.” He crossed himself. “I daresay there’s not any more beautiful to be found in all of Somerset,” he boasted.

Marianne wanted to crawl under a pew in mortification. Why did Papa say such things? His thinly disguised attempt to throw her into the path of a wealthy gentleman such as Darius Rourke was grossly inappropriate. She felt her neck flush with heat.

“Papa, please!” She pulled at her father’s arm to lead him away. Offering a sympathetic look to Mr. Rourke, she mouthed a silent, “I am sorry,” for her father’s boorishness before turning to leave.

“What? Can a father not want the best for his child? He admires you! It would serve you well to encourage him, lass!” He practically shouted his opinions at Marianne as she led him out to the churchyard. Mr. Rourke would have to be deaf not to have heard.

“Shhh, Papa!” She vowed silently to skip church next Sunday for she didn’t know how she could face Mr. Rourke after this horrifying display.

Something compelled her to turn around. And Marianne knew exactly what would be waiting when she did.

Still standing in the same spot, tracking her, Mr. Rourke smiled, his perception all-knowing, as if he’d been assured she’d turn back to him.

Oh, dear God! I must be in hell.

At least a decade older than her, Mr. Rourke was a quiet man, possessing an air of mystery that hinted at the level of intensity to his character, but remained properly veiled under the gentlemanly comportment of his station. He conveyed a subtle influence in most of his dealings with others, not entirely discernible in anything he said or did, but recognizable nonetheless. Marianne thought him handsome. With his noble features, he attracted the notice of many women. Tall and broad shouldered, he filled out his fine European suits brilliantly. His skin held a darker cast than was typical for an Englishman, a golden hue that complemented the dark hair and eyes perfectly. He was simply beautiful.

But male beauty aside, Darius Rourke wasn’t for her. No man was for her.

Marianne couldn’t fathom why he would even show an interest. Her upbringing had been respectable enough, a gentleman’s daughter, but their situation had declined perilously in recent years. Her dowry had long since gone by way of drink and cards. Papa had seen to that. Marianne shuddered, thinking about the debts Papa incurred on his forays into town.

Still, whenever their paths crossed, Mr. Rourke made a point to pay her specific courtesy and deference. He was never anything less than a gentleman in his behavior towards her, but Marianne detected an undercurrent. There was something about his attentions that unsettled her. Thoroughly. Like he could peer right inside her and know her every thought. When he cast those flashing dark eyes of his in her direction she felt exposed and vulnerable, on the verge of being devoured. By him.

He might even be more aware of her “need” than she thought, from the way his gaze could penetrate. After an encounter with him she always came away feeling a little shaken, breathless, and confounded.

IT took the passing of another month before Marianne’s father ruined them completely. This pleased Darius for it worked into his plans rather seamlessly.

Darius summoned father and daughter to his home under the guise of a summer picnic. With lunch
al fresco
, and then strawberry picking, he figured an opportunity would likely result. There would be others attending as well, of course, friends and neighbors, Mr. Jeremy Greymont, the Rothvales, the Bleddingtons, and the Carstones.

Darius felt himself harden just from the thought of spending so many hours with her so close. It was becoming a challenge for him to control the urges. Yes, Miss Marianne George would be here at his home this day, and he knew the time for waiting was over. She was coming for a picnic, true, but he had other plans in mind for his Marianne.

Yes, mine.

Darius could not help the sway of his heart. He wanted Marianne and only her, for he found her to be perfect, meant for him in a way that prevented him from considering any other but her. He dreamed about her constantly.
Dreamed of making her his, of claiming her, making love to her, envisioning his body all over her body, of being inside her. His dreams of Marianne were always erotic and very vivid. These and similar thoughts of Marianne George obsessed him.

He’d only come back to Somerset a mere six months ago, after being away for years. Darius had thought he might have put his infatuation for Marianne George aside during the long absence, but that’d proved false the second he’d laid eyes on her again.

Waiting for her had been a challenge while she grew up. And through the years he’d ever admired her, she was forever in his head, tempting him mercilessly. Now she had grown up a most beautiful woman, unattached to any man and ready to be plucked. He thought her silky, dark hair, blue eyes, and lush figure magnificent, but there were other reasons for the attraction.

She did not throw herself at him, as many other young ladies tried to do. Marianne George was a complex young woman, and Darius was sure he understood the reason. There was more to her than youthful beauty, much more.

She had fire in her waiting to be stoked. This he could tell. He also suspected that submitting to him, to his dominance, would appeal to her. He’d noticed that he could make her look at him when he stared at her, and that she definitely waited for his gaze. The looks she returned mesmerized him. Her eyes smoldered, like burning embers waiting for a rush of air to fan them into flame.

Darius was certain. The dominance would be lovingly bestowed of course. If Marianne craved it, then he needed to be the one to give it to her. He would offer to her that which she desired.

MARIANNE’S cheeks burned hot. She could only imagine the deep color of her blush. Sitting right next to her, she could sense Mr. Rourke’s eyes staring because her neck tingled. Nothing new there. This game they’d been playing had gone on for weeks and needed to cease. Today.

She braved a glance. His black eyes glittered at her. He smiled as if he’d expected her to look. She grasped at anything to say and came up with very little except, “The day is lovely. You picked a good one for your party, Mr. Rourke.”

“Yes…so lovely,” he answered, his eyes roaming over her.

She got the impression he wasn’t referring to the weather and felt supremely stupid. She would do better just to keep her mouth closed before more half-witted nonsense left it.

“I’m so happy you’re here, Miss Marianne. I hope today is just the first of many visits.”

She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t—”

“I say it’s time for the berry picking! They’re sweetest when the sun is high,” Miss Byrony Everley announced her opinion to the group.

Marianne thought her dear friend’s interruption especially timely.

“Byrony! It’s Mr. Rourke’s party and for him to say,” her mother admonished.

“No worries, Lady Rothvale,” he said, rising from the grass. “I am not in the least offended, and I venture that Miss Byrony’s suggestion is a good one.” His voice turned rich and his words slower. “I’d hate for the full sweetness of the strawberries to be missed.” And then he looked right at Marianne’s mouth.

Oh, dear God!
Marianne swallowed hard, thinking she was in very deep trouble.

“’Twould be a tragedy to pass up the sweet.” He held his hand down to her. “Shall we?”

She couldn’t refuse him. Not in front of everyone. Mr. Rourke was her host, and it would be rude not to defer to his desire to accompany her. Marianne put her hand out and felt it clasped in a warm grip. Maybe more than warm. His skin was hot—melting hot. He pulled her effortlessly up to standing, right at his chin.