One More Time (45 page)
“What if I don’t feel like doing any laps right now?”
“Then when will you?”
“Some day.”
“Prove it,” her mother said, challenge bright in her eyes. “Bring a date to Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Mom! I can’t just order up a date, like you order a salad.”
“You don’t have to marry him, Jen. Just bring a date, a man who is reasonably presentable, to Thanksgiving dinner at your grandmother’s. That’s all.”
“No, that’s not all. I know you better than that.”
Her mother contrived to look innocent and failed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Bring a date or else what?”
Natalie grinned. “Or else I’ll start fixing you up myself.” Jen knew her horror at that prospect showed because her mother tapped the side of her mug with a fingertip. “There’s a very nice, if somewhat hirsute, young man working at the Birkenstock store, for example. I understand he writes poetry...”
“Nooooooooooo!” Jen shouted and flung herself out of the kitchen, only half-joking. She heard her mother laughing, but knew that this was a threat her mother would act upon. Jen made an escape to work as soon as was humanly possible, though her mother still got in one last shot.
“Remember that boy at the natural food store? He’s always asking after you...”
Oh no. Not the bass-player-whole-grain-aficionado who never cleaned his fingernails and wanted to walk to around the world to protest the living conditions...somewhere. No, no, no. Anyone had to be better than that. Anyone had to think more clearly than that.
Jen had to be able to find a date somewhere. She’d ask her older sister for help, just like she always did.
Cin would know what to do.
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Now available in a new edition.
Deborah also writes historical romance, time travel romance, and urban fantasy romance as Claire Delacroix.
Read on for an excerpt from
The Rogue
A Medieval Romance
by Claire Delacroix
Dear Reader: Seductive and mysterious, Merlyn was the laird of Ravensmuir—never had a man so stirred my body and soul. I gave myself to him—willingly, trustingly, passionately—and we soon wed. Then a horrible revelation emerged, shattering my innocence and my marriage...
Five years later, Merlyn returned to my doorstep, desperate for my help. The scoundrel swore he was haunted by memories of me, that a treasure locked in Ravensmuir could clear his name. Yet I could not surrender to his will again. Now he is said to be murdered and Ravensmuir has fallen into my hands.
But even as I cross the threshold of this cursed keep, I hear his whisper in the darkness, feel his caress in the night, and I know that Merlyn has told me but part of his tale. Should I do as is right and expose his lair? Or dare I trust my alluring but deceptive spouse—the rogue who destroyed my heart?—Ysabella
Chapter One
T
he raven came first.
It landed upon the window sill in the kitchen of the silversmith’s wife and croaked so loudly at me that I nearly dropped my ladle into the hot wort.
“Wretched bird! Shoo!” I waved my hand at it, but it merely tilted its head to regard me with bright eyes. “Fie! Away with you!”
I knew as well as any the repute of these birds, but had less desire than most souls to be in the company of a creature so associated with superstition.
I had sufficient trouble without being found in the company of drinkers of blood and harbingers of death. The silversmith’s wife would be rid of us for once and for all, if anyone in this village whispered that I kept a raven as a familiar. Such tales were all nonsense, of course, but I dared not risk an inopportune rumor.
“Shoo!” I flicked a cloth at the bird, which seemed untroubled and unimpressed by my antics. The creature bobbed its head and seemed to cackle at me, no doubt enjoying my discomfiture.
“Begone!” I picked up an onion, the bird watching me with knowing eyes all the time, then flung it across the kitchen with all my might.
I missed the raven by a good three hand-spans, though the onion splattered against the wall most impressively. The bird screamed and took flight, uninjured and apparently insulted, which suited me well enough.
I sighed and rubbed my brow as I eyed the mess. I not only had to clean the shattered onion but would have to explain to my patroness why I had seen fit to destroy her foodstuffs—without admitting to the presence of the raven, lest her superstitions be fed. How sweet it would be to have no need of Fiona, with her sharp face and sharper tongue!
I had learned long ago, though, that there was nothing to be gained in bemoaning one’s circumstance. I stirred the wort again and fought the urge to grumble.
My ale is fine, I dare say, the very finest. But with no kitchen, no pot, no spouse, the law decrees that I cannot be granted a license to brew. My ale has long provided what little coin my family had, so I am compelled to brew. What choice have I but to ally with this wife or another?
Fiona it was, for she would have me as her partner, if by her spouse’s command. It would take a more foolish woman than I to not perceive that though I did most of the work, Fiona kept most of the coin—and one less aware of nuance than I to not note that coin and spousal approval were not sufficient in Fiona’s view to suffer a witch in one’s kitchen.
We were convenient to the silversmith and his wife, and it was for this, not a matter of principle or Christian duty, that they tolerated us. I have learned not be surprised that charity is so circumscribed, nor that principles can be so readily forgotten.
Once this massive pot was strained and flavored with my particular combination of herbs, I hoped for brisk sales over the holiday season. The ale would spoil in several days and, as I worked, I worried anew that I had made too much.
I could not risk the loss of any of my investment in ingredients. Competition was fierce in Kinfairlie for ale-making, there being so few other sources of profit. I had a good repute, but the harvest had been mean and all the other brewsters would be making similarly large batches.
I frowned and stirred the wort while it came to the boil. Making ale is a tedious trade and one requiring much heavy labor. I am not afraid to work, indeed I welcome labor. A heavy day ensures a solid night’s sleep, at least, and a reprieve from the multitude of worries that plague me.
This day was the first day of the so-called Twelve Days of Christmas, though I should undoubtedly have to explain to young Tynan again and again why there were fourteen days in total so designated. The prospect made me smile.
The wort began to sputter and splash. It was a feat to move the cauldron from the fire myself, but I would have to do it again. I cursed Fiona, who contrived to be absent whenever her assistance might have been helpful. The pot was large enough and hot enough that even once it was away from the heat, it continued to chortle.
It was when I had wrestled it from the fire and halted to wipe my brow that I heard the hoof beats. I turned, eyes narrowed, and listened.
Three fleet steeds, their hooves shod with iron. Dread prickled down my spine. Not plough-horses, for they pranced too lightly. Palfreys lightly burdened, perhaps. And a fourth steed. Larger. Faster. I listened, wanting to be certain, my heart thumping with its own certitude.
The fourth beast was a destrier. There could be no doubt.
I closed my eyes, swallowed, and prayed that the beast’s rider was not who I feared it might be. There was no reason it should be him. After all, Kinfairlie’s meager tithes have been hotly contested since the liege lord and manor were lost. We were accustomed to various nobles assaulting the town in search of tribute.
Especially before a holy day.
The hoof beats came closer. When the raven cried, even at a distance, I knew.
The silversmith’s house faces the main square of Kinfairlie, where markets are held and criminals are hung, and it was here that the new arrivals came to a halt. I stiffened, but did not go to the door. The steeds’ hooves clattered to silence, the destrier neighed and no doubt tossed his head.
“I seek Ysabella of Kinfairlie!” roared a man, his voice achingly familiar.
Merlyn. My heart lunged for my throat.
For years, I had imagined how we might meet again, how I would scorn him with blistering wit, yet now I merely whispered his name beneath my breath like a besotted damsel. In truth, I did not know whether to be frightened or relieved, to be joyous or disappointed. He had come in pursuit of me, after all this time, a boon to my pride if not a good omen for my future.
“Ysabella!” he shouted anew and I wondered if he was drunk.
I glanced over myself and smiled wryly at the embellishment of fermented malt upon my skirts. No doubt the hair had escaped my braid, my face would be hot and nigh as red as my hair. It was a far cry from the reunions I had so oft envisioned, when I was garbed in richness and hauteur, my words as sharp as lances.
My appearance would do very well to show my spouse his importance—or lack of it—to me.
I crossed the kitchen and opened the heavy wood door. Even though I braced myself, my heart stopped. Merlyn was just as imposing as before, his two young squires fighting to control their palfreys. He was garbed in the black and silver he favored, the hues of his house, the hues that made him look more dangerous and dashing than even he was. I looked hastily at his companion. Stalwart Fitz was still with Merlyn, his face only slightly more lined than before.
“Good morning to you, Merlyn,” I said, feigning an indifference I hardly felt. “What brings you to Kinfairlie?”
He urged the steed closer, then dismounted, casting the reins aside. His smile was confident, roguish, and enough to set my very flesh to flame. His gaze swept over me, leaving a tingle in its wake and I gripped the door lest I cast myself at him like a harlot. His breath make a cloud against the sky that darkened too early in this season.
“Well met,
chère
,” he murmured, with the intimacy one reserves for lovers.
And I flushed scarlet, heating from nipples to hairline. Worse, I could not summon a sound to my lips.
Merlyn knew it, curse him, and grinned with wicked satisfaction as he closed the distance between us.
I could not draw a breath. I knew the dark truth of Merlyn, and yet, and yet despite all of that, despite my moral certainty that he would burn in hell, I still yearned to touch him again. He infuriated me, yet I had not felt so alive in all the years we had been apart as I did in this one moment, holding his gaze in winter’s cool air.
I had assured myself that my attraction to Merlyn had been born of my ignorance, but he approached with all his wretched surety and the loss of my ignorance did not keep his allure at bay. Far from it. If anything, I desired him more ardently than ever.
To think that I had long fancied myself a clever woman.
“I seek you,
chère
,” he said, his words husky.
I caught the scent of his flesh and lust unfurled within my gut, memories flooding my thoughts of nights—and days—spent entangled in each other. I squared my shoulders, determined to resist him and failing utterly.
“What else?”
He claimed my hand and bestowed a kiss upon my knuckles, his eyes filled with an answering heat that weakened my knees.
I snatched my hand away, hating that I so quickly fell beneath his spell once more. “And it has taken you five years to remember the way to Kinfairlie village? God in heaven, Merlyn, even the slowest child can walk to Ravensmuir in a day.”
I inclined my head curtly, excusing myself, and retreated into the kitchen. I knew full well that he would follow, though I bristled when he did so. I stirred the wort vigorously, showing a belated care that my investment did not burn.
“You might at least leave the door ajar,” I snapped. “But then, when have you had a care for my reputation?”
“Always, despite your conviction otherwise.” Merlyn’s words were more harsh than I expected. I pivoted and his gaze locked with mine as he flick the portal closed with his fingertips. He did not apologize, he did not so much as blink.
I raised a finger. “You...”
He interrupted me with resolve. “I am your legal spouse, and there is no law writ that says a man cannot be alone with his wife.”
I turned back to the brew and stirred it with an enthusiasm undeserved. “And you have developed a sudden interest in law?” I asked archly. “How strange. I was certain that your sole commitment to the law was to break it.”
Merlyn laughed. I felt him pause behind me and heard him doff his gloves. He cast them on the board beside me and I caught my breath when I glimpsed them from the corner of my eye. Had he chosen scarlet ones apurpose this day? Did he mean to prompt memory in me?
I knew him well enough to understand that nothing, but nothing, was accident with Merlyn Lammergeier.
Even knowing he approached, I still jumped when his warm fingertip landed on my bare nape. His gentleness always caught me unawares. I inhaled sharply, hoping my indication of disapproval would halt him.
