Spirit of the Mist (41 page)

The mare halted. Terri looked up through the haze of her thoughts. She found herself in the shadows at the foot of the highest hill, from the very top of which a thin black column of smoke rose into a twilight sky.

She quickly forgot her worries. They were here!

For a moment she hesitated—the sun had set and the light was beginning to fade—but the top of the hill and that mysterious fire drew her like a magnet.

The chance to see this place might never come again. She leaned forward and touched her heels to Firelair’s sides, and the mare instantly launched herself into a canter up the grassy side of the hill.

The powerful mare took only a few moments to reach the top. Terri halted her to let her catch her breath—and to try to catch her own at the sights that lay before them.

Crowning the hill beneath the pale white half-moon was a huge, circular, crumbling earthen wall. The rain and winds of many centuries had worn it down and even collapsed it in spots, leaving it towering ten feet tall in some places and dipping to only a foot or two in others. The whole thing enclosed an area at least two hundred yards across. And in the very center of that vast circle, beside a tall and timeworn tree, was a smoking, snapping bonfire.

Terri rode straight to the wall and began to walk the mare around it. She was so close that she could reach out and touch the ancient structure with her left hand. The wall seemed to have been made of dirt and small stones heaped over a framework of heavy timbers, most of which were now broken and rotted and sticking out through the old earth and stone. Bright tufts of grass grew all over the earthen heap, as if trying to cover and heal the damage done by the relentless years.

She continued to circle, the horse walking the first time around, trotting the next, and then cantering the next. Terri caught tantalizing glimpses of the bonfire inside as she rode past the low spots in the wall. Finally she found just the right place and turned Firelair away, moved off several feet, turned her around again, and aimed her straight at a two-foot-high section of the crumbling wall.

The mare cleared it with a small hop, and cantered over the lush grass within the ancient circle. Terri slowed her to a walk and approached the bonfire.

Within the crackling red and orange flames she could see precisely stacked wood. Surrounding the pyre was a wide area of ash and bare soil ringed with heavy stones. Clearly, this fire had been carefully built and deliberately set.

How strange it was to find a man-made blaze in this utterly deserted place! Yet it seemed to Terri entirely right that these flames should burn, no matter who had set them. This fire was an offering, a reflection of heat and light to the very powers that kindled and fed every fire—the winds and the trees and the ever-burning sun.

If ever there was a place of magic, of power, where great and wonderful things had happened in ages past, this walled enclosure was that place.

She started to turn away, but a sudden bright gleam in the grass caught her eye. Curious, Terri dismounted and led Firelair toward the flames.

Yes, there was something there, lying almost hidden in the long lush grass near the firestones: a bit of metal, bright and softly glinting in the fading evening light. She reached for it and picked it up.

A ring. A lovely gold ring, looking clean and new as though someone had dropped it there only moments before.

She examined it closely. It was heavy and wide, but small in size, as if made to fit a woman’s hand rather than a man’s. Yet she could see that this was no store-bought bit of costume jewelry. It had an old-fashioned, handmade look, and its surface was covered with the most delicately carved designs—beautiful designs like nothing she had ever seen before. She had to hold the ring up to make out what they were, turning it in the last light of the sun.

Flames. The gold ring was covered with engraved flames, an unbroken circle of them.

As far as she could tell, there were no initials or inscriptions on the ring’s inner surface that might identify it. She would just have to take it back with her to the inn and leave it with the staff; no doubt whoever had lost it would be very happy to regain such a beautiful piece.

Terri started to tuck the ring in her shirt pocket—but found she simply couldn’t resist. She slipped it on her right finger, and it rested there as though it had been made for her.

So much for Sean’s insistence that no one ever comes up here!
Terri set her foot in the stirrup and swung back up on the mare. As she settled herself in the saddle, she found herself hoping that no one would claim the ring. A lovelier remembrance of her trip to Ireland would be hard to imagine.

A safe distance from the bonfire stood a solitary tree. She turned away from the blaze and walked the mare to the tree, wondering how it had come to be the only growing thing on this hill besides the grass.

The tree was huge. It towered over her head and over the ancient walls. Terri guessed that it must be forty feet tall. The light gray bark was cracked with age, yet the tree was still covered with fresh new leaves of dark green. Its lacy white flowers gave off a strong perfume in the warm evening breeze.

Far in the distance, against the blue-black sky, she could just see the striking white cliffs of the hill beside the inn. A few signs of modern civilization were readily apparent—the twinkling lights of the inn, the tiny moving headlights of a car on a distant winding road. Yet they hardly seemed real, hardly a part of this strange and wonderful place that she had found.

In the limestone rocks at the foot of the tree was a spring of clear water, just a small pool a few feet across. As the mare lowered her head to drink, Terri’s thoughts drifted back to old Sean and his warnings about this particular hilltop.

Why had Sean seemed so convinced that this was a dangerous place? It was so peaceful, so unimaginably beautiful. Surely, Terri thought, if there was anything threatening or dangerous here, the horse would be the first to sense it. But Firelair stood calmly by the tree and drank from the pool, her only movement an occasional swish of her tail.

Terri felt as though she were standing at the center of the universe. All around her was the great circle of the horizon, the twilight sky a deepening blue that became a red glow where the sun was setting.

At last she looked up into the sky. The stars had begun to appear. There, not far above the setting sun, hung a group of three stars—one red, one silver, and one gold.

She caught her breath. The planets had come together this night in a rare and special way. Now, what could be more appropriate to such a place than this beautiful conjunction gleaming far above it? She could only wonder how long it had been since the world had last seen this particular grouping of planets—a hundred years, five hundred, a thousand?

Terri sighed. Probably as long as it had been since the men she dreamed of walked these lands—the powerful, noble men who once climbed these very hills and looked at these same stars.

Men had not always been the tame, drab, work-obsessed creatures of the city that she dealt with in the present. In another age, another time, things had been very different. Men had been as wild and as strong and as full of life as this land they had once commanded, willing to lay down their lives for the women they loved.

Money makes the world go ’round, but love makes life worth living.

Stolen Spring

© 2013 Louisa Rawlings

France, 1700

Forced into spying to save her father from debtor’s prison, Marie-Rouge runs away from her lecherous suitor at the glittering court of Versailles, and finds refuge in the simple cottage of a country miller, Pierre—a strong, seductive man who sets her heart to racing wildly.

Her stolen interlude, filled with laughter and warmth, ripens into intoxicating love. Pierre is everything she has ever wanted in a man—passionate, devoted, matching her desire with his own. But her need to save her father from his overwhelming debt means she can never have a future with her beloved Pierre.
 

The lies she has been forced to tell create a gulf between her and Pierre that seems all but impossible to bridge. And with mysterious suitors and a forced marriage in the offing, will learning the truth be enough to save their love?

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Stolen Spring:

The doors were flung open and Louis strode into the Hall of Mirrors. This was the first time Rouge had seen him at close range. He was not a particularly tall man, but he was such an imposing figure, even at the age of sixty-two, that he seemed to tower over the men who surrounded him. His eyes were clear and wide-set; his nose was somewhat long and sharp; his mouth, though bracketed with lines of age, was firm-lipped and determined. His suit of brown brocade was wonderfully cut, and his black, full-bottomed wig curled to his shoulders beneath a plumed tricorn.
 

The two dozen or so courtiers, jostling and whispering, who crowded through the door after their king were familiar by sight to Rouge. She had been at the palace long enough to recognize most of them, including the solemn seventeen-year-old Duc d’Anjou, the king’s second grandson, the Duc du Maine, Louis’s favorite bastard, and the Duc de Chartres, who was the king’s nephew as well as his son-in-law. There were several ministers in the entourage, and quite a few of those “calf-eyed courtiers” that Clarisse had teased her about. They were watching her now, she knew, as she sank into her deep curtsy. Not that she really minded. She’d been accustomed to stares from men,
nom de Dieu
, since she’d been fifteen!
 

The king stopped in front of her. “Rise, mademoiselle. I would see your face, not the top of that ridiculous cap!”
 

Rouge straightened and smiled, bringing dimples to her cheeks. “Forgive me, Sire, but you have only yourself to blame for the fashion. Mademoiselle de Fontanges…”
 

Louis laughed delightedly. “You have a bold and saucy tongue! But had I known that Fontanges—or at least her foolish headdress—would continue to dominate this court long after she had lost her hold on my heart, I should have exiled her at the very moment I first clapped eyes upon her!”
 

“You have only to decree, Sire, and your loyal subjects will dress to suit your pleasure.”
 

“Indeed. And my pleasure is to see my courtiers—and their ladies—dressed well.”
 

One of the king’s ministers stepped forward and bowed deferentially. “Sire, I have already informed the court of your pleasure regarding the festivities surrounding the return to health of your son, Monseigneur,
Le Grand Dauphin
.”
 

Louis nodded. “Yes. It was a bad winter. But spring is here, my son has been restored, and I wish to be surrounded by beauty. I trust, Torcy, that you have made it quite clear—quite clear!—that I expect all in attendance at the festivities to furnish themselves with new clothes.” Louis reached out and fingered the pale blond curl on Rouge’s shoulder. “Although,” he said softly, “if all the women looked like you, I should not care if they wore rags! What is your name?”
 

“Mademoiselle Marie-Rouge de Tournières, Sire.”
 

“And your family? Is your mother as charming as you are?”
 

“My mother is dead. She was a Desportes, on her father’s side. My father is Chrétien Louis, Marquis de Tournières.”
 

“Ah yes. Desportes, your cousin, spoke to me on his behalf. I’m pleased that we were able at last to find room for you here at Versailles, rather than in the town. Is that why we have not seen you often in our presence until now?”
 

“No, Sire. I’ve spent most of my time at Sans-Souci, our estate in Orléanais, near Montoire. Since my mother’s death, three years ago, the burden of running the château has fallen on my shoulders.”
 

“
Hélas!
But they are such lovely shoulders… Were I younger, mademoiselle…” Louis’s dark eyes sparkled. “Well, now that you’re here, I look forward to your continuing presence at court. A little supper, perhaps, at Monseigneur’s party? The charm of young women brings an old man joy.”
 

Rouge curtsied again. “There is so much to do at home, Sire. I had hoped to have your leave to retire from Versailles within the week. Indeed, my visit here was only to remind my father of his obligations to his tenants, and to urge him to follow my example.”
 

The king’s brow darkened. “I should find it
fort mauvais
, very bad, mademoiselle, were you to quit the court before Monseigneur’s festivities! I am an old man, God knows”—he brushed aside the bleats of protest from several courtiers—“an old man, who may not live much longer. Monseigneur, my son, will be your king! Is this how you honor him?
Fort mauvais
, mademoiselle!” Eyes flashing in anger, he turned to one of his ministers. “Come, Torcy! I faint with hunger!”
 

“Sire.” Trembling at his majestic presence, Rouge sank into an obedient curtsy, her gray eyes cast down, as the king and his entourage swept from the
galerie.
She dared not rise until she had heard the closing of the heavy doors at the end of the long room.
 

There was a low laugh. “
Fort mauvais
, mademoiselle. You’ve angered the king. But at least he was able to use his favorite turn of phrase!”