Contents

Dark Prelude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Bonus Material: Excerpt from Whispers at Midnight

About the Author

Also by Andrea Parnell

Reviews

Title Page

Copyright

Worlds of Romance by Andrea Parnell . . .

DARK SPLENDOR

“This is an entertaining blend of eerie shadows and romantic interludes. An excellent gothic romance.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A beautifully written, lyrical—almost poetic in the narrative—book! . . . If you appreciate a great story and the true beauty of words that are put together the way they should be, you will love DARK SPLENDOR.

—Rendezvous

“The grand Gothic Romance could never be better represented than in DARK SPLENDOR.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“A tantalizing blend of suspense and sensuality, with all the thrills and chills that lovers of the Gothic enjoy.”

—Romantic Times Rave Reviews

WHISPERS AT MIDNIGHT

“The perfect blend of anticipation and apprehension . . . seductive tale by a superb writer of  romantic suspense.”

—Romantic Times

“Takes romance, mystery and intrigue and weaves them into a good story.”

—Rendezvous

DELILAH’S FLAME

“First-rate…a devilishly delicious heroine. Her exciting adventures glue you to the book’s pages.”

–Janelle Taylor

“Delilah is a delightful, charming heroine…in and intriguing story.”

–Patricia Matthews

“A delicious and titillating romance.”

–Romantic Times

Dark Prelude

A prequel to the novel Dark Splendor

Andrea Parnell

There is a serpent in thy smile, my dear,

And bitter poison within thy tear.

—Shelley, The Cenci

Chapter 1

London, 1751

Shivering miserably, Silvia Bradstreet, clutched her heavy woolen cloak against the wind, her gloomy thoughts little better than the weather. Had she come to this? That she would freeze to death on the London streets? Winter held a formidable grip on the city, shutting out the sun with murky, grey clouds and the bitter pelting of a late snow that fell to the streets like a shower of brimstone to become dingy slush mottled by tracks of those unfortunate enough to be about in the treacherous weather. The fierce wind bore a chilling moisture from the sea as it wailed between blackened buildings, sounding like the mournful cry of despairing souls. How foolish she had been not to defy Uncle Hollister. Lately he had grown impossible, his sober days largely outnumbered by the drunken ones. But to send her on a fool’s errand in such weather was demeaning and cruel.

Still, she had little choice.

At times her uncle flew into a scalding rage over the simplest matter and she had begun to fear for her safety. Today his attack of angry words had wounded her pride and brought a flood of tears to her eyes. “Curse me, Missy. I’ll be master of this house ‘til my dying day and I’ll not have you trying to run it for me,” he had shouted and kicked a chair across the kitchen. “Left to you we would eat nothing but soup and stew! Now get to the butcher and buy the chops and have a dinner on the table this night that’ll fill a man’s belly! And don’t be forgetting your place again!” With that he had taken the stewpot from the stove and tossed it into the street. She choked back a lump in her throat. No danger she would forget her place again. She had no place. Her once kindly uncle had turned caustic and she was little more than a maid to him.

She sighed ruefully, then set her jaw and trudged on. Lips, blue from the cold, curved into a deeper frown. She had a more immediate concern than Uncle Hollister’s abominable disposition—getting home before the cold claimed her. Because of her uncle’s poor credit, she had been forced to walk blocks farther to find a butcher they did not owe. Passing the docks, as she made her way home with the bundle, the wind roared colder and stronger, biting and stinging her face like a spray of icy needles.

Behind her a carriage rattled its way along the cobbled street, spinning dirty snow behind its wheels. Before she could jump aside, a splash of filthy wetness splattered her cloak. The carriage swept past while Silvia shook the snow from her garment. Almost instantly a stabbing cold pierced the damp fabric to sap the little remaining warmth in her body.

She could fight the chill no longer and drew into the narrow, secluded entry of a shipping company to escape the angry wind. A lantern mounted beside the door flickered haltingly in the dimness of the winter afternoon.

Silvia folded her arms across her chest. Still she shivered with cold. She thought dejectedly of her situation. There was no reasoning with Uncle Hollister. He would have his way and damn those who tried to deter him. She sighed dispiritedly, longing to reach the warmth of the kitchen. But the numbness of her feet and the thought of the rude welcome she would receive from Uncle Hollister kept her from hurrying back along the street.

Slumping against the wall in despair, Silvia brushed the snow from her lashes with the back of a dusky wool mitten. Her gaze lingered on a notice posted beside a window frame in the entryway. The lines blurred together until her eyes cleared.

Able bodied men and women wanted

Passage paid

Sailing date: the twentieth of March, in the year of our Lord, one thousand and fifty-one.

Indentured servants. She had read of them and many she knew had left England for a new life in the colonies. Perhaps she should inquire, since a dim future waited her in London. No more than a few shillings lined her pockets, and that not for long if Uncle Hollister found them. Her frown slipped away as she pictured herself sailing out of the harbor and for a moment the heaviness eased from her heart. Bond servants received a tract of land at the end of their term. At best, here she could expect to be a ladies maid, and even those positions were hard to find without the proper connections.

Behind her the heavy door creaked and swung open, trapping her against the wall. When it swung away she turned to face a bent figure swathed in a black topcoat and thickly furred cap. A pair of shriveled lips curled in the patch of face she could see. Silvia shivered, not against the cold but from an inner wariness.

“Come inside.” His gravelly voice whipped in the howling wind and reached her ears as a guttural plea.

She set her mind to refuse. Instead she stifled the impulse and followed him through the doorway. Perhaps it was madness, or the cold, or perhaps fate had intervened in her favor for once.

He led her through another door off the narrow hallway. In the small office Silvia stood motionless as the warmth from an iron stove melted the chill from her bones. The old gentleman removed his coat and cap and carefully, painstakingly, hung them on a polished walnut rack. Under the strong light, she discerned the fine worsted fabric and the wide beaver collar of the garment. The expensive quality painfully reminded Silvia of her threadbare cloak.

“What’s it to be, girl?” He lowered himself into a chair slowly, deliberately, as if the effort took all his strength. His skin held a grey pallor and stretched thinly over a bony frame. His hair, but a few dull strands, circled around his skull from temple to temple. A pair of gray eyes, small and beadlike, peered from behind his spectacles with a curious keenness that momentarily alarmed her. His teeth were yellowed as old tusks and his skin like crumpled parchment, his face cratered with ancient pockmarks a pair of wide mutton chop side whiskers would not cover.

Apprehension held her immobile for a moment. Her shoulders shook a bit though the stove had started to warm her chilled hands and feet. She acknowledged to herself that the old man’s appearance gave her pause until she chastised herself for her uncharitable thoughts. Had Uncle Hollister so embittered her that she was distrustful of everyone, even the compassionate old gent who had brought her in from the cold?

“Will you sign the paper now? I’ve waited the whole of the afternoon and you are the last of the lot,” he said patiently.

What was the accent? Germanic, perhaps. But what could he mean?

“I’m sorry, sir. I believe you have mistaken me for someone,” she said, lowering the scarf from her hair so that he could see her face clearly. She tried to smile and the attempt seemed as difficult as moving features of stone.

Her braided hair fell across her shoulder as she pulled her scarf loose. She quickly lifted her arms to anchor the braid in a twist at the back of her neck. Her hair was dark, a glossy black, and her skin fair and smooth as cream. Cheeks, too bright from the cold, were softly rounded and her lips bore the natural pout of a little girl. Wide, honey brown eyes with black curling lashes dominated her face. When her hair slipped from its confines as it had in the wind, it curled about her temples, and she looked like an innocent, lost waif.

Silvia met his eyes as he lifted his head to look at her sharply, absorbingly. He stared, his small eyes now keenly alive. A slight flush tinged his lined skin. An expression of excitement replaced the look of hollow disappointment on his dour face.

“Why you are a mere child, my dear.” Surprise now tempered his countenance and the accent was far heavier than she had realized. An odd, slightly eager look lit slits of light in his eyes.

Silvia responded quickly and crossly giving her chin an annoyed tilt. “No sir, I am not. I have seen twenty and two years and long since left childhood.” She frowned, wishing she had spoken in a less bitter tone. Her misfortune was in no part due to this old man. And even if offered by mistake, he had let her dry her cloak by his stove and warm her limbs enough to complete her journey without feeling so dreadfully the bite of the cold.

The gentleman rubbed his boney chin thoughtfully. This girl would suit his needs far better than the one his clerk had found. He noted the fine lines of her face and the worn state of her clothes. The dark hair, the look of innocence ignited his thoughts. She was just what he had been searching for, just the right one to deliver to his employer. And here she had walked right in his door when he had been about to settle for a lass who was in no way her equal.

“Sit down, miss. Perhaps good fortune has brought us together.” A labored kindness sounded in his voice and why it should cause her to shiver, she could not discern. “If I had a pot of tea . . . but it is not a custom I have adopted from you British.”

She arched a dark brow. “Oh no, sir. I see your mistake and mine and must be on my way home.”

“You have a family, Miss . . . ?”

“Miss Bradstreet. Silvia Bradstreet. Only my uncle, I keep house for him,” she answered with a touch of resignation to her tone.

She was beginning to think it had been wrong to come in. The old fellow seemed too intent on her. She had thought he might be able to tell her about the notice. But the idea of traveling to the colonies as a bond servant had left her mind as the chill had left her body. Uncle Hollister would give no quarter to having his dinner late. She would scarcely have time to roast the lamb for him even if she hurried home.

“Your pardon, Miss Bradstreet, he said after a moment. “You are right. I did mistake you for another, but perhaps fate has intervened,” he paused, letting his eyes sweep over the papers spread before him. “You see, had you come an hour later, the quota would have been filled. But as you are here now, I am quite willing to reward your endeavor on this cold day. There is one berth left and it is yours.” He paused, waiting her reply, his eyes now alight and seemingly larger.

Her brows arched. She felt a rise of unease. “Sir, you speak of dealings that are unknown to me. I merely stopped to take shelter from the cold. The notice aroused my curiosity, nothing more. I believed you had taken pity on my plight and invited me in to warm myself.”

He stirred a gnarled hand on the desk top, pulled out a sheet of paper and removed the cap from an inkwell. With a shaky hand he dipped in a pen and wrote a few lines.

Looking up he said in a low voice, “Again I am mistaken and I beg your indulgence. My name is Weber.” His hands wove together momentarily as if he needed to control them. “I am in the employ of Wilhelm Schlange, owner of this shipping company.”

He paused and stared at Miss Bradstreet. If his instinct for judging people did not fail him, this young woman told him a little less than the truth. She had been interested in the notice, anxious for a chance to run away from someone or something. The look had been there in her face. He could not have been wrong. She was hesitant, unsure, but not lost to him yet. There was something she wanted to get away from, or someone. He knew most of those who entered willingly into bond service were not so much seeking a new life as fleeing the old one.

“I thought you sought passage to the colonies.” He continued. “A Schlange ship, the Eastwind, sails in two weeks and the position is one of importance on Mr. Schlange’s estate. And a fairer agreement than most. If you should change your mind, you can notify my man Wickes here to make the arrangements.” He paused and Silvia thought how penetrating and unusual his eyes were as they searched her face. “There is good opportunity in the colonies for a young, healthy woman. And when your time of service ends, you would have a share of property with what wages you earn.”

“Sir, I thank you but I have no wish to leave England.”

He seemed not to hear as he opened an embossed leather box on his desk. From within he lifted a block of black sealing wax and a gold signet. His feeble hands scrawled a few words with pen and ink then folded the paper. With more sureness he struck a flame to life and dropped a glossy spot of wax on the fold of the paper. The heavy scent of the melted wax reached her nostrils as he pressed the seal into it.

“Take this.” He stood and handed her the letter. “It bears the Schlange seal. If you change your mind, give it to Wickes here.” He indicated a man in a distant shadowed corner whose back was to the two of them. “I bid you a good evening, Miss Bradstreet.”

She took the paper and tucked it into her pocket thinking it might be best to humor the old man. “Good evening, Mr. Weber. I thank you for your kindness.”

Her first intake of breath outside came in a rush that filled her lungs with such freezing air it yanked her back to reality. For that very few moments in the warm shipping office she had glimpsed a chance to be someone else, to start a new life. But now on the familiar dismal street she remembered the task before her.

Lifting her skirt to avoid the muddy slush, she ran as best she could in the wet snow and reached the row of plain, dark houses where she had resided since the age of fourteen. Inside, all was quiet. She went straight to the kitchen, thankful Uncle Hollister was not home. A disquieting excitement lodged in the back of her mind as she thought of the strange events and her conversation with Mr. Weber. But then she shook off the thought. It was out of the question. Uncle Hollister would never consent.

Tension tightened her shoulders as she went about her work. Apprehension swept through her head with a depressing thought. He would arrive half drunk at the dinner hour, for he never missed it. Food and drink were the only events for which Uncle Hollister observed punctuality.

At seven the chops were roasted and the vegetables boiled. Silvia set the table with two pottery plates as she heard a rattling at the door and the thump of a cane in the hall. Fear and anger knotted inside her as she quickly stoked the fire in a blackened grate and set the kettle on. Two rough wooden chairs at a table covered by a muslin cloth filled the dim kitchen. Uncle Hollister had sold what good furniture they had until the house was barely furnished and the only decent pieces remaining were the small cherry dresser and wash stand in her bedroom.

She flinched but forced a smile as he burst into the kitchen like a burly hound eager for his supper. The red veins in his face prominently lined a bulbous nose and flabby cheeks. As he loosened a waistcoat splattered with ale, he grunted a greeting. She detected the aroma of his breath, rancid with the foul staleness of drink. Silvia shivered in spite of herself as she watched in disgust while he settled his heavy frame in the kitchen chair. A pity. Since Aunt Agatha died, he had sunk deeper and deeper toward the gutter until his business was ruined and what little money he made, he lost in gambling.

The meal passed with not a word uttered until he had finished the chops. “That’s a good girl, Missy.” He wiped his greasy mouth on a sleeve and leaned back in the chair. “Now you mark it down to consult me before you set dinner on the table. Never could abide a stew, more broth than anything else. A man needs meat and that’s a matter you should take note of if you want to catch a husband.” He paused a moment to light his pipe and puff until the acrid smoke filled the kitchen. “Past time you found a man, Missy. Too choosy I say. There’s room in the house and a pretty girl’ll have no trouble gettin’ a young gent to say the words.”

Silvia’s cheeks reddened a little and her eyes flashed with anger. He rankled her with his talk of husbands. She suspected his interest in her state of matrimony was solely aimed at finding a new provider for the household. They had come to harsh words many an evening after he had brought home one swain after another for her consideration. Finally she had stamped her foot and refused to come down from her room if he paraded another “gent” through the house.

“I dare say I don’t want to catch one. The last thing I want is another man to be cooking and cleaning for. I’ll marry when I find a man who will give me love and a good life. Be assured he will not be one of your unsavory blokes who waste his wages and his wit in a tavern,” she retorted hotly, holding the edge of the table with fair, slender hands. “And as for your fine appetite, I know we haven’t a shilling to pay the butcher. Perhaps you should look for meat in your tankard.”

Uncle Hollister’s face reddened and his black eyes, like stones, lost any trace of warmness. “You forget I took you in when you had nowhere else to go.”

“I know who took me in and who spent the little inheritance Mama and Papa left. And who sold all of Aunt Agatha’s things after she died.” She lifted her chin proudly and her nostrils flared angrily. “Until we are reduced to living in squalor and shrinking from the door lest the knock be from a creditor or another of your gambling gentlemen here to threaten.”

His bushy brows twitched angrily and then he dropped his head and covered his face with fleshy hands. “You do me ill, Missy, to remind me of Aggie and the sorry state I’ve made of things.” Tears welled in his reddened eyes and he drew a soiled handkerchief from a coat pocket and snorted into it. “She managed it all and when she was gone the life was gone from me.”

He snorted again and Silvia gave up the cause. Every attempt to jolt some sense into Uncle Hollister ended with him in a breakdown of self pity. She would have to take in more sewing. Her skill with the needle was gaining her a fine reputation as a dressmaker and she hoped someday to be able to open a shop. But if Uncle Hollister did not end his gambling, she would never be able to save the money.

He broke into a fit of coughing and wheezing and roughly shoved his chair back as he rose. Without another word he put on his topcoat and hat and left the house. Silvia had no doubt his destination was the Hare and Hound and it would be far into the night before he returned. With a heavy heart, she cleared the table, covered a loaf of bread with a napkin and stored it in a cupboard. Tomorrow morning it would be as if the quarrel had never occurred, and in a few days the same one would erupt again.

Lighting the stub of a candle, she started up the gloomy, creaking stairwell that led to her room. Such a shame. Uncle Hollister had been a fine enough man while Aunt Aggie lived, but he had gone completely soft in the head the four years since he lost her. Perhaps she had been wrong to stay, but he had been a pathetic case at the funeral and had begged her not to leave him alone. Silvia shut her eyes tightly just a moment to rid herself of the thought. No use thinking about it anymore tonight.

She closed the door behind her. The candle on her dresser gave a soft glow of prettiness to her small room as she slipped into her warm flannel gown. At night she could not see the faded, peeling wallpaper nor the cracks in the neglected floor. Sitting at her dresser she could dream of being in a fine house as she brushed her long sable hair. She could look at the tiny portrait of Mama and Papa and remember the happy evenings of childhood when Papa would read fairy tales and Mama would tuck her in with a kiss.

Her face paled. It was gone! Frantically she opened the dresser drawer, praying her fears would not be realized. Her heart seemed to sink a little in her chest. The remains of the miniature portrait of her parents lay beneath a pair of stockings, ripped asunder when it had been roughly removed from the small silver frame.

Frantically, she searched the drawer. The frame was not to be found. With a sob and trembling fingers, she took the shreds of canvas, torn so that the precious faces were visible no more, and gently touched each piece. He knew how much the portrait meant to her but it had not stopped him. She glanced at her trembling fingers. She still had her mother’s wedding ring and wore it proudly on her right hand. But the portrait had been her greatest comfort and now it was destroyed.

There was only silence in the house and in the void Silvia could hear the thunder of her heart. Oh, Uncle Hollister! How cruel! He had pawned the frame. He must have. And he had destroyed her most precious possession.

Aching as if part of her heart had been plucked out, Silvia climbed in bed. Fitfully, she turned and twisted and cried until a troubled weariness overcame her and she slept.

But at some point in the night she awoke, terrified. Her eyes opened but she dared not move. Blackness shrouded a hulking figure, yet she could feel the threatening presence, hear the guarded breathing. Her muscles quaked with fear as the ominous sound of padded footsteps, ever nearer, sliced into the silence like a knife blade in soft flesh. Someone crept stealthily across the floor. Inside her fear she knew it, saw the black shape of him coming closer. Yet she could not flee. Her arms weighed heavily against her sides like wooden limbs she could not move.

The seconds were leaden, time hanging frozen with terror until she felt a horrifying grasp draw her arm from beneath the covers. For a moment longer her lungs were paralyzed and she thought her heart would burst with fear. Then a sudden pain as if her finger was being wrung off spurred her to life and she screamed.

The black shape stumbled back, tottering to stay upright. “Hush, Missy. It’s me. It’s your uncle.” His voice was thick and the stench of his sour breath sickening.

She felt suffocated by his nearness, her breath a ragged catch in her throat as she massaged her sore hand. “What do you want, Uncle Hollister? Why are you waking me at this hour?” Her voice trembled with fright and anger. Presenting a boldness she did not feel, she flung the covers aside and hurried to the dresser to light a candle. “What is it?”

He put a hand to his brow, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness. “Be calm, Missy. I only came to see if you were sleeping soundly. Just looking in on my little girl.” She turned to see him in the light. Above his round face his hair was disheveled and his eyes puffy with drunkenness.

“No you weren’t. You were taking my ring. Taking it off my hand while I slept.” She tucked her arms behind her and backed away from him, repulsed and feeling as if her last link with humanity had been stripped away. “You took the frame and you destroyed the portrait. The last thing I had from Mama and Papa. You took it to feed your drunkenness.” Her reproachful gaze turned full upon him and she sobbed. “You have no heart left, Uncle Hollister. In another month you’ll be wandering the streets not remembering where your own house is.”

“Hush girl!” His black stare came from a livid face Silvia had never seen. And then he lifted a stocky arm and swung at her. His blow missed, thanks to the work of the ale. But she fell against the dresser dodging him, knocking the candle to the floor and shutting out the light.

In the darkness Uncle Hollister staggered out.

Momentarily, she heard the vicious slam of his door. Her cheeks burned with fright and a bruise throbbed on her thigh where the sharp edge of the dresser had struck. A gasp of breath came out in a panicky rush and her muscles tightened in outrage. Hurriedly, she propped a chair beneath the doorknob. A brief flash of anger gave way to a calm resolve. Tomorrow she would visit Wickes.

Her eyes did not close all night. At the light of daybreak she arose but stayed in her room until midmorning when she heard her uncle go out.

In her pocket she found the paper Mr. Weber had given her. Turning it carefully in her hands, she examined the seal. Odd she had not noticed yesterday how unusual the design was. She touched a finger to the dark wax imprint of a serpent, an evil looking creature, forked tongue flashing from an open mouth, its body entwined ominously about the trunk of a sapling. A shiver of revulsion pulled her fingers away and she dropped the letter to her purse. She could only hope Mr. Weber would be true to his word.

As she approached the shipping office, her mind raged a tempest of doubts and questions. Could she do it? Could she brave an ocean voyage, a new land? Would she find the better life she sought? Or a worse one? She stopped in the street in front of the weathered building to read the sign lettered on a plank above the door: Schlange Shipping & Trade Company.

Through the window she could see a rather round man wearing a brown waistcoat. Wickes, she hoped. His head was bent over his desk, not the one Mr. Weber had used, but a smaller desk across the room. Silvia entered, shutting the street door quietly behind her, her heart pounding rapidly against her chest. With her hand to the knob of the office door, she paused and closed her eyes, whispering a little prayer that she was right to do this thing. Then with a surge of courage, she stepped inside.

The man did not see her at first; he worked so intently at his ledger. “I wish to see Mr. Weber,” she muttered hastily. Silvia had worn her best dress, a grey wool, piped in black and cut in a plain but flattering style. Her hair was arranged and pinned high on her head to make her look her years. Anxiously, she awaited a reply.

The clerk lifted his face, plump and owl-like, a tuft of spiky whiskers rounding out his chin, and when he spoke his head seemed to bob on a fat neck. His eyes lingered appraisingly on her face and a pleasant smile formed on his full lips.

“Mr. Weber is not in the office, miss. He had business elsewhere this morning. Had to see a ship off.”

The color drained from her face and the hope from her heart. “But he told me the ship sailed in two weeks,” she insisted anxiously. Her alarm seemed to startle the man and he lowered his pen from a black ledger. She couldn’t have misunderstood. And there was the letter. Silvia barely heard the man speaking as she rummaged in her purse for the letter.

“Yes, the Eastwind sails the twentieth. But Mr. Weber saw off the Anne Marie this morning. Mr. Wilhelm himself was on board. He is not well and wished to leave this cold climate as soon as possible. If you had some business with Mr. Weber, perhaps I can be of help.” He smiled again, his round eyes wide with curiosity and an obvious appreciation for a pretty distressed woman.

She opened her purse and withdrew the sealed paper. “My name is Silvia Bradstreet. Mr. Weber instructed me to give this letter to a Mr. Wickes.”

He stood at once. Suddenly his eyes registered surprise and his face a quick nervousness. “Why Miss Bradstreet! Why didn’t you say so straight away? I’m Wickes. At your service, miss.” He took the paper in the short stubby fingers of a pudgy hand. “Mr. Weber left specific instructions if you were to come.” Wickes broke the seal and read the message from his employer to confirm she was who she said. When he was done he stroked his whiskers fussily.

Somehow she contrived to keep her composure. How thankful she was. Indeed she had given Mr. Weber no real indication she would return. Yet it seemed he had expected it.

“I wish to contract as a bond servant. Mr. Weber said you would attend to the matter.” Saying the words gave her a sense of freedom, a strange feeling for one agreeing to a term of indenture. If she could keep her plans secret from Uncle Hollister for two weeks, she thought derisively, she would be on her way to a new life.

Wickes expelled a fluttering breath and scurried from behind his desk. “I’ll send for the carriage, Miss Bradstreet and drive you to Mr. Schlange’s solicitor. Those were Mr. Weber’s instructions.” He hurried through the office door, leaving Silvia to wonder at her good fortune. She had never heard of a bond servant being treated so well. Perhaps Mr. Schlange had a weakness for the unfortunate. Perhaps her luck had changed. And she would be glad of it.

***

Silvia had not ridden in a fine carriage since she was a child. She settled against the leather cushion and closed her eyes momentarily.

“Are you quite comfortable, Miss Bradstreet?” Wickes sat across from her, his plump cheeks jiggling with the motion of the coach. “We’ll reach Mr. Leeds office shortly. Mr. Weber made the arrangements hoping you would return. The documents will be ready.”

Puzzled, Silvia opened her eyes. “But how could he? I only met Mr. Weber yesterday. Not a full day ago. How could he have known to have the documents ready? Or for that matter, how could he have known I would come at all?” Silvia stiffened. Had she been hasty? She had heard of young women disappearing from the London streets never to be seen again. What did she know of Mr. Schlange? Or of Weber, or Mr. Wickes?

Her face must have revealed her doubts for Wickes immediately patted the air with his hands and began to reassure her. “Now, now, Miss Bradstreet. I didn’t mean to alarm you. Mr. Schlange made the arrangements for another young lady, but she sent word she had changed her mind. Got a proposal of marriage from her young man.” Wickes stroked his whiskers nervously until he saw the alarm leave her eyes. “‘Tis just a matter of the signature. The agreement will be the same. And of course, if the terms don’t suit . . . ’Tis your choice to sign or not.”

Silvia nodded her consent and settled back to the cushion. She was entirely too nervous to think clearly. The excitement churned in her stomach, a tingling mix of dread and delighted anticipation. She must calm herself before the carriage reached the solicitor’s office.

Wickes breathed a sigh of relief as well. It would have been his duty to find Miss Bradstreet and persuade her by other means had she not come in. She had saved him the trouble and risk of displeasing his employer had he been unsuccessful.

Mr. Leeds was in a building only a few streets away, but in a far more fashionable district than Silvia was accustomed to. An engraved brass nameplate marked his door and the elegance of the furnishings inside astonished her. The walls were paneled in rubbed mahogany and in front of his desk, a plush Turkish rug stretched across the polished hardwood floor.

Wickes introduced her and Mr. Leeds quickly came around his desk to take her hand. With a flourish, Leeds directed her to a sitting area in one corner of the room where high backed chairs done in crimson velvet were grouped around a teak table. Sparkling decanters and glasses covered the surface of the table. Sunlight filtered through the window and broke into the colors of the rainbow as it shone through the bottles to spread a fan of light on the wall.

“Will you have a glass of sherry, Miss Bradstreet, while I read the agreement to you?” Leeds was a tall slender man, graying and with a long nose that had a hump in the middle. His chin was clean shaven and pointed.

“A glass of sherry would be delightful, Mr. Leeds,” she said lifting her eyes to meet his. “And I can read the document myself as I both read and write,” she responded warmly, taking a seat in one of the tall chairs. Behind her Leeds stiffened and licked his thin lips nervously while he shot a cautious look at Wickes’ gaping face.

“Of course, Miss Bradstreet. Forgive my presumption,” he admonished smoothly. “Mr. Schlange is fortunate to indenture such a refined and educated young woman.”

He treated Silvia like a lady, pouring her a second glass of sherry, politely asking about her family and childhood and expressing his sympathy that she had been orphaned. He brought her the documents and inquired if the light was sufficient for her to read. Silvia smiled politely. She liked Mr. Leeds and was favorably impressed though it did disturb her a bit that his eyes darted all about when he talked.

While she read Leeds returned to the desk and busily looked through his papers. Wickes restlessly paced the length of the carpet, his lips pulled into a cynical smile.

“This is far better than I expected,” she commented pleasantly when she had read the document. The agreement was largely in her favor. A term of five years rather than seven. She would have a day off each week, to be decided mutually. But grandest of all, the wages were far above her expectation and Mr. Schlange would give her fifty acres from his estate at the end of her term.

Wickes and Leeds exchanged a knowing glance. “Then you will sign the agreement, Miss Bradstreet?” Leeds asked, a faint smile twisting his mouth.

“Yes, of course. I am anxious to do so,” she exclaimed gratefully. She had been right about Mr. Schlange. He was a fine, generous man. Leeds led her to his desk and dipped a pen in the inkwell. “I’ll just enter the dates, March, seventeen hundred and fifty-one ‘til March seventeen hundred and fifty-six. The time will pass quickly, Miss Bradstreet, and you will find Mr. Schlange a just man.” He handed her the pen. “If you will be so kind as to sign several copies, Miss Bradstreet. Mr. Schlange always insists on multiple copies of all documents. An exacting man in business, Mr. Schlange.” Leeds shoved a stack of documents toward her, quickly removing each as she affixed her signature.

Silvia could scarcely focus on the lines, the potency of the sherry had gone to her head when she stood. Nor could she detect the malevolent gleam in Leeds eyes as she swirled her name in glistening black ink forming letters that seemed to wiggle lifelike on the paper.

When the last copy was signed, he took the quill and instructed Wickes to pour Silvia another glass of sherry. She sipped delicately the warming liquid that made her feel a joyful giddiness. Blinking her eyes, she smiled weakly as Mr. Leeds’ features seemed to fade from her vision.

Leeds watched approvingly, then added his signature and had Wickes sign as witness. With a sigh of satisfaction, he blotted the documents and tore one sheet in half. That portion he slipped into a binder and presented to Silvia.

“Your copy of the agreement, Miss Bradstreet. Mr. Schlange will have the other half and the copies save one which remains here.” Leeds smiled openly as he folded the other papers and placed them in a leather pouch.

“Thank you Mr. Leeds. You have made this a pleasant occasion,” she said in a wobbly voice that sounded to her own ears as if it came from far away.

Leeds nodded. “Wickes will drive you to your house and answer all the questions you are likely to have about your departure. Good day, Miss Bradstreet.”

“Good day, Mr. Leeds,” she responded softly.

In the carriage Silvia listened diligently as Wickes told her Mr. Schlange had built a castle on his island estate off the coast of the Georgia colony. He told her proudly that Wilhelm Schlange was sole owner of a shipping company and had a large tract of property in one of the German states as well.

“Generous to a fault, he is.” Wickes said beaming a gratuitous smile. “Looks after those who work for him and are loyal.

Silvia returned his smile. The giddiness was subsiding, though now her stomach felt weak. “I dare say he is and I’ll do a fair job for him,” she said quietly, gently massaging her forehead.

It was done. Her torment at the hands of Uncle Hollister’s tyranny was soon to end. She would surely labor no harder for Wilhelm Schlange than she did for her uncle. In truth, she was little more than a bondservant to her uncle. Every day in his house took more and more from her heart and brought less and less promise to her future. Now she had a chance, a way to build a life, a way to have a future that was not all bleakness and hopelessness. Her uncle’s harsh treatment would soon be but a memory. She would be free.

Though it was just a hint, the smile formed on Silvia’s lips was the first in many months. It lasted but a moment before the dark reality returned. There was fortnight of his domination to endure. She steeled herself with the thought that it was but a moment, hardly any time at all. She would have to be cautious as a mouse on prowl, she could not give a clue of her plans. A shudder, which had nothing to do with the cold, shook her. What dread trouble would it bring if Uncle Hollister grew suspicious?

Wickes informed her the ship sailed at noon on the twentieth and the captain would have her name on the roster. Wickes insisted she take two crowns to purchase whatever items she would need for the journey. Mr. Schlange would not have his people traveling in discomfort.

Silvia tucked the crowns deep into her pocket and tried to tuck the lingering thoughts of Uncle Hollister to the back of her mind. Her exhaustion had caught up with her. She could have closed her eyes and fallen asleep listening to the steady whir of the carriage wheels. Instead she concentrated on staying awake and instructed Wickes to take her back to the shipping office.

She would walk from there. She must bide her time with care. Should Uncle Hollister discover her plans, he would surely vent his rage.

Chapter 2

The remains of a broken chair lay atop the wood box, one of several made into kindling by the worst fray ever to occur at the Red Feather Inn. Yet in early morning, the instigators of the ruckus sat at the same table sharing bread and cheese and drinking tankards of ale.

They sat quietly, bathed in rubescent light from a crackling fire that splayed gawky dancing shadows across the stone walls and rough timbers of the hall. Around the room the din of conversation echoed with a tattling buzz as other early risers enjoyed strong cups of tea and welcomed a change in the weather.

“Uncle is up to old tricks, I’ll wager.” Roman scrubbed the bottom of his tankard on the scarred table. “This summons back the island is proof of that.”  He paused and drank deeply. “I don’t like turning my vessel over to Carver for a season, though he is a fine enough captain.” He glanced at his companion who sat quietly and appeared deep in thought. “What do you make of it Morgan?”

His companion furrowed his brow thoughtfully. Before answering, he lifted his tankard and slowly drained it dry.

Watching them, a stout barmaid propped grubby elbows on a keg while her lazy eyes sauntered from one man to the other. A pair of dandies they were. Looking so much alike they might be twins but for a certain ruthlessness in the expression of the one who spoke. And his hair a shade lighter than the other, fair as wheat in the field at harvest. Rowdy gents despite the fine clothes.

Had emptied a keg of rum and spent the night in the inn with two girls she found for ‘em. Gentleman! Humph! Had broke up the place fightin’ over who would have the redhead. And paid a tidy sum for it too. In the end, ‘twas the fair haired one had tipped her a crown and gone off up the stairs with the redhead. And the other had closed his door with the little twit what came with her. But this mornin’ when she woke ‘em as directed, ‘twas the other one in bed with the redhead. And drinkin’ ale so early in the day. Gentlemen! Humph!

Morgan Toller wiped the foam from his lips and smiled. “I think, my dear brother, when Wilhelm Schlange makes plans, someone should be wary.” He cocked his tawny head to one side. “What did you think of the redhead?”

“A disappointment. All the flame was in her hair.” His eyes sparked and he had a devilish smile as he recalled how he had enticed his brother to make an exchange. “The mousy one was by far the better woman.”

“For once we agree.” Morgan’s laugh had a raucous ring. “Now what shall we do about this trip to the colonies?” he asked as he motioned the barmaid with a sweep of his arm and followed by pointing to his empty tankard.

The woman shrugged, wiped her hands on a soiled apron and waddled across the room like a fat duck headed for a pond. “Ye gentlemen enjoy yer evenin’? she asked with a broad grin showing the ragged gap of one missing front tooth.

“Ahh. We did indeed, Sallie.” Roman smiled and winked, his face and inventive mask of masculine charm that set women in a dither. “But I’m sure it would have been a far better evening if I could have persuaded you to share it with me.”

“Posh! Be off with ye sir! The thought of it!” Sallie blushed and wrung her apron in a pair of plump hands, but her grin grew even wider.

“Can’t you leave the ladies alone for a minute, brother?” Morgan rolled his eyes upward, then wrapped his hands about the tankard and looked impatiently at Roman. “Before the Eastwind sails, tell me what you intend doing. Do we go or not?”

Morgan could not suppress another chuckle. At thirty-two, Roman was a year his senior but hardly more a ladies’ man than himself.

“I believe we have run dry every diversion on this side of the Atlantic and I’ve a hankering for a warmer place myself. And I must admit my curiosity is aroused when Uncle says he requires us for a matter of extreme importance.” Roman reared back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. One brow arched up. “He’s not well, from the look of him.”

“You don’t think the old tyrant’s about to die, do you?”

Morgan halted his drinking long enough for the concern to show on his face.

“No. The rogue is mean as a snake. He may never die.”

Roman let out an audible breath. Fond as he was of the old gentleman, he knew Wilhelm’s calculating shrewdness and attitude of invulnerability must eventually succumb to age. “But he is old and it seems to have occurred to him for the first time that he must attend to the future of the Schlange estate. Could be he wants us to take over more of the shipping business.”

Roman clenched and unclenched his fist. “He has relinquished management of the estate to that blustery Eric. A move I thought never to see. Still the man has a way with crops.”

Morgan stroked his chin, still showing a bit of red from a morning shave with a razor not quite stropped enough. “And when have you heard from Eric and dear lovely Martha? I’m sure she’s kept you bombarded with letters. One would think she has her eye on you and an ear tuned for wedding bells.”

Morgan could not hide the start of a smile. Mention of Martha never failed to prompt a testy reply. The affections of Martha for his brother were a source of amusement for him. He knew for a fact Roman had only a brotherly affection for Martha and would never marry her, if he ever wed at all.

“Blast you, Morgan!” He shoved his near full tankard aside. “You know full well no letters have followed us.” He glared suspiciously at his brother. “What pot have you stirred?”

Morgan chuckled. “Have you not learned, brother, that if you do not want a pot to boil, you must not light a fire?”

“I’ve lit nothing but I do not trust your mischief.” He scowled and came halfway out of his chair before tamping down his anger. He did not need to start another ruckus. They had done enough damage last night. Another brawl might land them in shackles. Still there was simmering anger when he continued. “Whatever you have done, I warn you, Morgan, you are the one playing with fire if you think I will not even any score of yours.”

Morgan laughed heartily. “I am quaking in my boots, brother.”

Roman released his clenched teeth and snarled a reply, “I advise you not to rest easy, Morgan. I’ll . . . ” He tapered off, the sting gone out of his wrath. He had no way of knowing if Morgan had truly unleashed some roguery his on him or was merely deviling him with talk. Looking away, he drew a stern, deep breath, then looking back at Morgan with resignation, swigged of his ale.

Morgan noted his brother’s concession, knowing that soon enough Roman would devise some sport to even the score. Theirs was a lifetime of trying to outdo one another with pranks and he could not have said who had the lead.

“If we are sailing with Captain Langham today, we’d best notify him we’ll require our cabins.” Morgan’s teasing expression turned serious. “It’s a long ride to the harbor. I prefer to arrive in time to stow our gear on board and to find an inn near the docks where we can dine before we sail.” He rubbed his flat, hard belly and grinned. “I for one do not relish galley food for the next few months. Nor the bleakness of an ocean voyage when I am not in charge.”

Roman threw his head back and laughed. “With ale this early and a night such as ours, I would have thought your appetite sated.”

Chuckling again, he watched Morgan shake his head no. Meaningless liaisons like the one last night, were becoming unrequietingly boring to Roman. Unlike Morgan, he welcomed the long voyage as a respite from months filled with too much folly. Perhaps Langham would let him take some time at the wheel.

His brows drew together in contemplative thought. A man ought to occupy his time with tasks that proved his worth. Wilhelm had preached hard work to them since boyhood. The lessons had sunk in; both had taken to hard work. Only to Wilhelm’s dismay, they showed no signs of relenting from equally hard play.

Roman slowly stood and stretched his limbs. He was over six feet tall, as was his brother, and hard muscled from his days as a mate on Wilhelm’s ships. While he waited for Morgan to finish his drink, he strolled nonchalantly around the table to stand near the fireplace.

“Aye. And Roman, a dual purpose.” Morgan looked over his shoulder at his brother and continued jovially, “I wanted to give you opportunity to find a gift for Martha. You surely would not disappoint the lass by arriving empty-handed.” His hearty laughter rocked the room and turned a number of heads their way. “Perhaps a ring.” Morgan sloshed his cup and lifted it to his mouth to empty the last of the brew.

Roman stood back a pace, but his cheeks burned with a flush of red. For a long moment he stared at Morgan’s back and then a blacker mood took him. A wicked smile curled his lips as he drew back his arm and slapped Morgan squarely between the shoulders.

“Let’s be off, man!”

Morgan fell forward from the blow, choking on a swallow of ale and splashing the rest across the table. “What the devil, Roman! A word would have sufficed!” he snapped, and angrily blotted his coat front with a napkin.

Perhaps he had gone a bit far with his mischief. But then with a sly grin replacing his scowl, he decided the result had been worth it. Roman was glowering again. Still, it might be wise if he did not turn his back on his brother again for a while.

***

Across London, dawn heralded a brief promise of spring as soft pink rays filtered through the window to surrender a rosy warmth to Silvia’s room. Sleepily rubbing her eyes, she slipped silently from beneath the covers, but any vestige of drowsiness left as her feet touched the cold floor.

In the corner a sturdy old carpet bag bulged with the belongings she had packed last evening. Carting a trunk to the docks without alerting Uncle Hollister to her departure would be impossible. But then she hardly had enough to fill a trunk and Mr. Wickes had said her wool clothes would be too hot for the climate on Schlange Island. He had assured her that once on the estate, fabric would be available to sew a few dresses.

Could it be true? She would leave without a confrontation? An uncomfortable impulse made her press her ear to the door. Guttural snores sounded through the house like the grating croak of a dozen bullfrogs. To date she had managed to keep her plans a secret, not daring to tell a soul lest Uncle Hollister hear of it.

The two weeks had passed with creeping slowness while Silvia counted days as anxiously as a child awaiting a visit from St. Nick. Now the day had arrived but with no joyous celebration. Instead only the ceremony of sorting through her things and discarding youthful dreams along with items she could not carry.

Tiptoeing cautiously around the room, she gathered the last of her dresses and folded them into the bag. Then with a doleful sigh slipping from her lips, she walked to the window and peered out. Her mind whirled in a maelstrom of emotions, for a moment spinning sadness, then excitement, then sorrow that she had no one to bid her goodbye.

Outside, the beginning of a fog floated in close to the ground, blanketing the streets with a thin ghostly mist and choking out the rays of sunshine with its dulling grayness. All the better, she thought pensively as she trailed a finger along the glass pane. In the cover of the fog she would be able to walk to the harbor unseen.

Her uncle had taken to leaving the house early and having his breakfast at the tavern where he no doubt washed it down with ale. When he left she could be on her way.

Since the night he had frightened Silvia in her room, she had struggled with an unnamable fear and avoided her uncle as much as possible. Doubts about leaving him, or of leaving London, had vanished during the strained days since that evening. But for having the sailing date in her mind, she could not have tolerated her plight at all.

Silvia pushed the bag beneath the bed and held her breath when she heard shuffling footsteps in the hall. Today he must not stop. She could not face him today. Surely if he saw her he would know, he would see her nervousness and know. She quickly climbed back in bed and pulled the heavy covers to her chin, hoping he would pass.

Quivering beneath the covers, her breath a mere whisper of sound, she waited to hear him leave. But the footsteps stopped and there was a thundering knock on her door.

“Missy. I heard you up.”

Her face whitened as his rough voice started a surge of panic in her veins. The door creaked open slightly as Silvia watched from half closed eyes. He poked his head inside but stood behind the threshold. There was an apologetic look in his red-veined eyes.

“Missy, don’t hold it hard against me. I meant no harm.

Was the liquor leadin’ me to do the wrongs I’ve done. An’ I’ve had the last of it. I won’t be liftin’ the cup again. Rest easy on it.” He paused and lowered his head. “You hear me, Missy?”

Silvia bit her lower lip to stop the erratic pounding of her heart. How many times had she heard him say there would be no more drinking? As many times as he had come in drunk again.

He sniffed. “You hear me, Missy?”

Silvia sighed deeply and mumbled, “I hear you Uncle Hollister. I’m glad. No more lifting the cup.”

His eyes swept to the foot of the bed where the carpet bag had been hastily stashed. Momentarily his expression hardened and he glanced at her sharply.

“I’ll be going out now. Business you know,” he declared with an ineffectual ring of kindness to his voice.

“Goodbye, Uncle Hollister,” she said gently as he closed the door and trudged nosily down the stairs.

When the front door closed, Silvia hastily pulled her bag from beneath the bed. She penned a brief message to her uncle telling him goodbye and asking that he not be concerned for her welfare.

With trembling fingers and eyes brimming full of warm tears, she propped the note on her dresser, knowing it would be evening before it was read.

A little gasp of sorrow sounded in her throat as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Then with a determined toss of her chin, Silvia reached for the doorknob.

Locked! He had locked her in! Her blood pounded in her temples. She was a prisoner. She pulled at the knob and pounded the door until her hands were sore then cried out in despair. The ship would sail without her.

Slumping to the floor, she smothered a sob. The windows on the street floor were barred. Tears welled in her eyes. All was lost. She had not been stealthy enough. He had guessed her plans to leave and proved it in the cruelest way. She felt a wrenching emptiness in her heart as she stood and twisted the knob again with all her might. But there was no use. There was no way out.

She gave a desperate little laugh, then swallowed hard and grabbed her bag. She would not be caught like a mouse in a trap. With energy born of defiance she climbed the stairs and quickly stripped the sheets from his mattress and hers. Knotting them together, she tied one end to her bag and the other to her bed frame.

A bump of the bag hitting the ground assured her the makeshift rope stretched far enough for climbing down. She started out the window, then stopped with a jolt at the click of a door opening and pounding footsteps on the stairs. A hard knot formed in her stomach; still she turned and raced to the bedroom door and jammed a chair against it. She felt her breath catch in her throat as the door was secured, then she shook herself into action once more and clambered out the window.

Silvia’s lips thinned with anger as she swung past the sill, half falling, half climbing to the alley below. Her breath gushed out as she dropped the last five feet, bruising her backside and not worrying about the noise. Above, the splintering sound of the door crashing in hurried Silvia to her feet.

“You’ve nowhere to go Missy! You’ll be back!” Uncle Hollister yelled contemptuously from the window.

Silvia turned and hurried away in the cover of the fog, following streets she knew as well as the back of her hand. Each footstep loosened a painful memory that burned like a scorching, silver flash in her mind. But with a spurring determination, she plunged on.

Soon the penetrating dampness came to her aid. Before walking far she was shivering with chill and concentrating on reaching her destination as quickly as possible with lessening fear her uncle could overtake her. As she approached the docks, where the activity of loading cargo had slowed or stopped as the fog grew denser, she thought only of Wilhelm Schlange and what awaited her in the colonies.

In the distance she could faintly distinguish the imposing lines of the Eastwind, a larger craft than those about her. A yellow flag emblazoned with an ogresish red serpent flapped a beckoning signal as it trailed from the main mast. Silvia sighted it through a thinning patch of fog and hastened along thankful for the foresight to have located the ship days before.

She could see the decks crowded with cargo. The hold had been left partially empty to accommodate a dozen bondservants bound for Schlange Island, she among them. The large overflow of barrels and crates were lashed topside, filling every available spot. Silvia breathed a sigh of relief to be so close, for moments earlier she had been startled by the whispered murmur of voices not far behind her.

Knowing the danger on the docks, her heels now clicked rapidly on the rough cobblestones as she hurried to board the Eastwind. Still there were bales and boxes of cargo to weave her way through before she could reach the ship.

“Do you see her?” a shrill, youthful voice pierced the fog no more than four paces back.

Silvia drew a sharp breath and fear stabbed at her chest in a dozen places.

“Ahead by the bale!” another voice, a raspy one, answered from beyond the boxes.

Was it only her qualmish imagination or did they pursue her? Silvia darted forward, her eyes wild with fright. A sudden flux of sounds, the scrape of a box being moved, the clank of a chain against the side of a ship, joined the pounding of hurried footsteps behind her. A bitter taste of fear filled her mouth and her heart seemed to leap to her throat.

Just ahead she could make out the gangplank to the Eastwind. Safety was within sight. Shaking with fright, she thought of dropping her bag—the weight slowed her—but all she owned was within, even the crowns Mr. Wickes had advanced her. And then there was no time to think, no time to sound an alarm. Hands lurched out from the fog and caught her cloak on either side.

“Got her!” the raspy voice said and followed with a grating laugh that chilled Silvia’s blood. She screamed once and stumbled but got her footing and whirled away from the dark, angular shape at her right.

“Caught!” the shrill voice rang out at her left and echoed the harsh laughter.

Silvia knew in an instant of terror she had been stalked and hunted like a deer in the forest. In that same instant the assailants flipped the cloak over her head in a practiced move that covered her face and made her frenetic scream a muffled sound no louder than the groan of a tired dock hand. Fear flooded her brain as her breath was cut off by the suffocating cloak as they twisted it tightly, spinning her round and round until she lost her footing and crashed to the planking.

Her hands were useless, entangled helplessly in the garment. With a savage snarl, one of youths was upon her, running his hands over her body, searching for pockets and taking his pleasure in the touch as he went. She kicked and thrashed vehemently with her feet even as her strength faded, until one wild kick struck him in the groin.

“Help! ‘enry! She’s kilt me!” With a cry of pain the man fell away and began to writhe on the pavement beside her.

Silvia rolled to her knees and tried vainly to stand, but her feet were as entangled in her skirt as her arms were in the cloak. Unable to see, she scrambled away as best she could hoping to hide herself behind a box.

Henry dropped her bag and cursed as he watched her squirm for a few feet before he caught the hem of her skirt and yanked with all his might.

“She’s a live one, ain’t she,” he bellowed and then howled in laughter at the plight of his cohort. “Got you in the jewels, did she?” But he got no reply for Silvia had planted her foot soundly and it would be some time before the youth would want to molest a lady again.

Wiser than his crony, Henry knew a better way to search a flailing victim. He pressed her belly to the pavement and pinned her legs with his knees as he checked her pockets for coins or valuables. Finding none he cursed again and took a swipe at her head.

Silvia struggled, panic tearing at her insides. But with the youth resting his weight on her thighs the effort gained her little. She gasped in pain as he snatched her arms free of the cloak and twisted them behind her back. There he held them in the clamp of one hand while he ran the other up her back to claw at her neck and ears. Finding no jewelry, he turned his attention to her hands. He was not long in discovering the gold band on her hand and began wrenching it roughly from her finger.

She had used the small supply of air within the enveloping cloak with muffled screams and shouts for help and now the smothering blackness enveloped her brain like the lowering of an ebony curtain. In her fading thoughts she feared they meant to kill her. Her limbs went limp and yet she clenched her hand into a fist. She would as soon die as part with the ring. If he wanted it, he must cut it from her lifeless form.

A sudden easing of the weight on her back brought a welcome breath of air as she was able to roll to her side and brace with numb hands. She tried to rise to a sitting position but her quaking limbs would not support her. Instead she drew her arms and legs into a tight ball as she heard a new voice, one strong and angry as it uttered a violent curse.

“Up! Mangy cur!” Even in her terrified state Silvia knew the sound of flesh striking flesh and recognized that of bone crunching.

With her eyes still shielded by the soiled, damp cloak she heard the drama around her, agonizing cries of pain, the thump of bodies hitting the dock and then the scraping footsteps of men running and dragging away.

“Bloody bandits!” a voice not far from her bellowed to the departing youths and then followed the shout with a caustic curse.

Silvia gasped as another voice, very like the other, though calm and mellow, rang out. “And what have we here, Roman? Some elfin creature with legs and no head?” He spoke with a teasing rail but there was an underlying kindness in the tone.

“Aye. And shapely ones at that,” the other responded. His voice was soothing and without the anger, rich and deep and sweet to her ears. Even in her agitated state she envisioned a face to match the voice, one strong and handsome and certainly with kindness in the eyes.

A gentle movement lifted the cloak from her head and she parted the hair fallen over her eyes. Her combs had been lost in the struggle and her dark hair fell in a snarl of tangles above a face smeared with dirt and grime from the dock. Beside her knelt a man dressed in dove gray trousers and waistcoat beneath a heavy cloak of a charcoal color. A diamond pin set in gold sparkled in the white silk jabot at his throat.

Silvia’s lower lip trembled as she looked into the face that regarded her curiously. His eyes were like blue flames and the kindness was only a flicker subject to come and go at will. His flaxen hair was long and tied at the back of his neck with a black ribbon. The face was fetchingly handsome, the nose straight with nostrils still wide from anger, the cheekbones high and the chin squared and strong. He had a sensuous twist to his mouth and there she could detect a small vestige of arrogance.

“Are you hurt?” he asked softly, a frown creasing his brow. His fingers gently caressed a bruise on her chin. In a moment she could have melted into the fire in his eyes, forgotten why he was there, how they had come to be so close she could feel his breath brushing her cheek. A half smile crossed his lips, then changed to a brooding scowl. “Madame, you should choose your customers with more care,” he said curtly, taking her arms and helping her to her feet. “That one could do with better manners.”

Silvia’s jaw dropped. She jerked her arms free. “I beg your pardon, sir!” she sputtered with churning anger. Shaking out her cloak with a haughty flourish, she swung it about her shoulders. “The swains set on me to rob and kill.” Her eyes blazed with fury. She might have stung his handsome face with a slap, but her strength was spent. “Grateful as I am for your intervention, I’ll thank you not to tarnish my good name.” With an angry stamp of her foot, she continued indignantly, “Good sir, a lady might land on her back and not make a living that way.”

“Forgive my brother, Madame. ‘Tis the company he keeps. Doesn’t know a ‘lady’ when he sees one.”

There was a bandinage of laughter in the face Silvia saw when she whirled to confront the man behind her, but the jesting look was directed at his companion. The man was about the same height and build as the other and for a moment she thought she was seeing double. But he was dressed in brown, in garments as rich as those worn by the other. His cream shirt was trimmed with lacy ruffles at the sleeves and at his neck. His cloak was a dark shade of brown and fastened with a leather tie. The greatest difference in the two was in the eyes; his were a milder blue, that of a summer sky, softer and less serious, less mocking.

He smiled and made a slight bow. “My brother has not learned his manners.” His eyes were consoling and she blushed faintly as Morgan Toller took her smudged hand and raised it to his lips.

“I apologize, miss. One doesn’t expect to find a ‘lady’on the docks.” Her first rescuer’s derisive tone seared her nerves as he made a gallantly mocking bow. Kneeling again, he retrieved his hat from the pavement and collected her bag from where it had fallen a few feet away. “Allow us to escort you to your destination. A ‘lady’ isn’t safe alone.”

Silvia whirled and jauntily placed her hands on her hips. She knew she did not appear the least bit ladylike. Her hair still streamed over her dirt stained face. Her skirts and cloak, she could see, were covered in filth from the docks and reeked of something foul she dared not think about. Still, the man before her in all his finery, was insufferable and persisted in adding one insult to another.

With a temperate smile hiding her anger, she replied coolly, “Sir, you have most kindly rescued me but I will trouble you no further. I have only a little way to go and I am certain those two will not return.” A kick to her rescuers shin would have satisfied her better, but she deliberately held her tone soft, as she added, “In truth sir, I fear I would be no safer in your company.”

“A pity, Miss.” He tilted his head to one side and his blazing eyes seemed to strip her garments away. “I thought perhaps we might share a few pleasant hours.” The low chuckle of his laughter stung her ears as she hoisted her bag and spun away.

Was this side of the ocean filled with boors and villains? She could not remember a single man since her father who had shown her lasting kindness and consideration. All others had wanted something they were not entitled to in return. Her frown did her face no favors but she did not care for her appearance or how it was received. She had but a few feet and a few hours to put an ocean between her and those who had roughly used her in this land, her uncle, those ruffians, and the two men with their costly clothes and pretentious manner.

“Good riddance,’ she whispered to them all. She could at least content herself she would see none of them again.

Chapter 3

As if he read her mind, Captain Langham greeted Silvia with a warmth that should have quickly set her at ease. He was a stalwart fellow, with bowed legs and large meaty hands. His walk had the smooth rolling gait of a man who had spent his life at sea. With welcome civility, Langham refrained from mentioning her unsightly appearance and spoke as if her comfort were his primary concern.

A black tricorn partially obscured his weathered, though affable face. Silvia strained to her tiptoes to see better. Something about him disturbed her. Yet at a glance his expression was full of reassurance as he insisted Mr. Schlange had given orders for her to occupy a small cabin usually reserved for paying passengers. Only a dull light in his steely eyes indicated all was not as it seemed with the master of the vessel.

Issuing a harsh shout that rang his authority, Langham hailed a deck hand to carry her bag below. Silvia quivered at the loudness of his voice. Turning, she saw no one, but heard the approach of the man from a distant part of the ship. Fitfully her eyes searched the fog, grown heavy again with a shift of the wind, but she could not determine the direction of the sound.

The attack on the dock had left her skittish and frightened and her heart beat wildly in her chest. She edged closer to the captain but just as she took the first step a thick hand reached out of the mist to close tightly over her wrist. A scream froze in her throat. The grizzled stump of two missing fingers bit into her flesh, but the other two fingers and a gnarled thumb tugged strongly, halting her movement.

The man’s face was shielded from her view, but from the place where it should have been she heard a scabrous grunt.

“You musn’t mind Eli,” Langham’s craggy voice rumbled from behind her. “Poor bloke’s dumb. Got his tongue cut out in the West Indies. An able seaman though. Worth two men any day and never a complaint from the dolt.” He laughed hoarsely. “He’ll take your bag, Miss Bradstreet.”

Silvia breathed heavily. Unknowingly her fingers clenched so tightly about the wooden handles that the knuckles were whitened and aching. Having suffered much to retain her meager possessions, she could not easily part with them. As Eli moved closer, his bulk and scraggly hair reminded her of a large black bear she had seen once in a circus. Yet there was a gentle nature in his rough features and his face held no threat. With a sense of relief she relinquished her burden.

Eli’s brawny figure disappeared as he brusquely walked off, effortlessly swinging her satchel and leaving her once again alone with the captain. Apprehension nagged like a little speck of doubt set in her mind and even Langham’s trustworthy appearance failed to completely rid her of it. The entire morning had been a frightening ordeal and she longed to reach the sanctuary of the cabin.

Like a plague of darkness, the fog was all around them now, until the air at her face felt congealed with the density of it. Her throat tightened. She could scarcely see the captain’s back as he threaded his way along the crowded deck. Following, she gasped and trembled when the hem of her skirt brushed against objects hidden by the oppressive thickness of the cloying haze.

With wide eyes, she imagined icy fingers clutching at her from the gloomy mist. Suffering a disquieting shiver, Silvia hastened to Langham’s side until they reached the passageway that led below.

“It’s small, but a sight more comfortable and private than the hold, Miss Bradstreet,” he announced heartily and with a nod of his head indicated the berth which nearly filled the dim cabin. As Silvia stood inside, weary and disheveled, scarcely able to keep to her feet, he pointed out a cupboard where her bag had been placed.

A sympathetic smile gave her a tiny bit of strength and she responded weakly as he lit a small oil lamp and anchored it in a rack set to the wall.

“Thank you, Captain. I’m sure the voyage will be a pleasant one,” she said hopefully. His words and the soothing flicker of the lamplight had begun to settle her nerves and now she sunk limply into a chair, drained of energy.

Langham took a long but polite look at her. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, Miss Bradstreet, you look a bit worse for the wear. Perhaps you’d like to wash and rest a while. We’ll not sail until this blasted fog lifts.”

Somehow when he said her name there seemed a bit of a sneer in his voice. Though before she could be put off by it, he turned, smiling fervently, to open a cupboard and show her a bowl and a pitcher of water.

“I’ll send a tray from the galley, then sleep if you like. Someone will wake you for the evening meal.”

Silvia accepted his suggestion and thanked him further. She was too tired to think clearly or to care about anything but resting. Her misfortune had left her sore and exhausted and even sitting in the hard wooden chair proved painful.

She stared blankly at the uneven planks of the door for a few minutes after he left. How she yearned to climb into the bunk and sleep. With a grimace of pain, she leaned over to unlace her boots thinking that she must be certain to express her gratitude to Mr. Schlange. Wickes had told her of the arrangements for bondservants, makeshift compartments in the hold separated by blankets strung on ropes. He had said only one other woman would be aboard and she with her husband, a smith Mr. Schlange had bought out of prison.

That being the case, Mr. Schlange must have decided she should not travel alone with the dozen or so men he had indentured. Though she had not expected preferential treatment, she wholeheartedly appreciated it and determined she would see that Mr. Schlange did not regret his kindness to her. Slipping free of the boots, she twisted slightly in the chair and placed them beside the bed.

Before she stirred again there was a light knock at the door.

“Miss,” a youthful voice rang out, and for a moment Silvia stiffened in alarm. “Your tray, miss.”

“Come in,” she said feebly, smoothing her hair and covering her stockinged feet with the folds of her skirt.

A boy of no more than fourteen shuffled into the room bearing a covered tray. He deposited it clumsily on the tiny table beside her and backed away looking baffled that a lady’s face should be smeared with so much dirt. At the door he paused and smiled awkwardly.

“I’m Wesley, miss. The cabin boy.” His lanky limbs seemed too long for his slender body and gave him the reedy look of a crane about to take flight. A ragged thatch of brown hair topped his head and a flock of light freckles spotted his cheeks and nose.

“Pleased to meet you, Wesley. Silvia Bradstreet.” She extended a hand and he eagerly stepped forward to grasp it.

His was the friendliest face she had seen today and his sunny smile lit her heart. His cheeks reddened as he wiped his hand on a trouser leg before accepting her hand. A pair of bright eyes beamed his pleasure and Silvia thought how young he was to be out on his own.

“Yes’m I know. Cap’n Langham told me. Said I’m to see to what you need,” he responded happily. “You just let me know, miss.”

“Thank you, Wesley,” Silvia said and exhaled a gentle sigh of contentment. How comforting to know she had a friend on board. Finally she was among people who treated her with kindness and respect. She returned Wesley’s smile and felt a consoling glow of happiness course through her.

“Anything you need, you call. I’ll be here in a snap,” he said in a voice not yet fully deepened. With a jerk, he spun around to leave and smacked right into the door.

“Sorry, miss,” he squeaked, embarrassment staining his thin face as he stumbled out.

Silvia enjoyed the first laugh she had known in ages. Her unease nearly completely gone, she uncovered the tray and realized the extent of her hanger. Rising by degrees to her feet, each movement causing her to wince, she eased to the washstand and poured water in the small tin bowl. When her hands were washed and her smudged face cleaned and her hair smoothed out as best she could manage, she returned to the chair to enjoy a bit of bread and cheese and the small flask of wine Wesley had brought.

Having eaten, Silvia poured the wine into a cup and sipped the sweet red liquid as she removed her clothes. The effect of the wine soon made her drowsily lightheaded. She stumbled lethargically toward the bed. At last she was alone and safe. And she was so very tired. Unsteadily she reached for the clothing she had dropped on the covers.

Silvia held out the dress and examined the skirt. It was soiled and wrinkled and needed attention. She sighed and hung the garment on a peg with her cloak. The cleaning would have to wait until she rested. Her body and brain were numb with fatigue and she wanted nothing more than to lie beneath the welcoming blankets on the bunk.

***

“I tell you sirs, it was Mr. Schlange’s order to berth another passenger in one of the cabins,” Langham’s voice dipped in agitation as the Toller brothers loomed angrily in front of him. They were gathered in the captain’s own quarters.

“And I tell you Langham, he sent word for us to sail on the Eastwind, and he meant us to have the cabins.” Roman spoke with menacing intensity. His chest swelled threateningly and he pounded a fist into the palm of his other hand.

“Well Roman,” Morgan raised a sardonic brow and glanced at his brother. “We can share the other cabin. One of us can sleep while the other stands.”

Roman shot him a look of contempt. “I can scarcely bear to hear you talk, let alone snore. I’ll string a hammock on the deck before I’ll bunk with you,” he jeered.

“Mr. Toller,” Langham said in a carefully controlled voice. The last time the Toller’s sailed with him he had been certain one of them would throw the other overboard before they reached the colonies. His eyes shone with unmasked irony. “Mr. Schlange anticipated the problem. He assured me that though the additional passenger might be a surprise, the two of you would find a satisfactory solution to any problems that ensued,” Langham finished resolutely and rose to leave. “If you gentlemen require me, I’ll be on the quarter deck.” He nodded perfunctorily before departing.

When Langham had shut the door behind him, Roman exploded, his ire only fueled by Morgan’s jocular expression. “Bloody hell, Morgan! Wilhelm told us there were only bondservants on this ship.” He paced a short path across the floor. “I’ve never known him to quarter a bondservant in a cabin. These games of uncle’s are getting tiresome. He treats us as if we were . . . ”

Roman stopped his pacing as he momentarily remembered how he had treated the wench on the docks. A spark of regret showed in his eyes. A waif, a doxy, he didn’t know which. He hadn’t been able to make out her features through all the grime but her eyes had burned brightly and looked at him with a hopeful gaze that had stirred a strange awakening within him. He had been about to take her reverently in his arms and comfort her when he had caught his wits and turned his unwarranted wrath on her instead.

“Well, I’m to the deck,” said Morgan, giving Roman a sound thump on the shoulder as he pushed past. “If I’m to spend this voyage enduring your close company, I’d best take the air when I can.”

Roman ignored the gibe but followed Morgan aloft. The air was sharp and cold. Through the growing breaks in the fog he could see that the sea was calming. Ahead the sun rose high and would soon mark an endless expanse of blue. Roman took a turn about the deck to clear his head, giving a nod here and there to the crewmen who were checking lines and securing crates and barrels.

The night at the Red Feather had not brought him a complete hour of sleep, nor for that matter had the entire week before. Since his ship had docked for repairs after months at sea, and he had met Morgan in London, theirs had been a life of constant revelry. He sighed wearily. Not in a fit of madness would he admit to Morqan that he longed for a night of rest. No matter if bone tired, if a challenge arose he must best his brother in drinking the most ale or bedding the prettiest wench.

He found Morgan leaning against a starboard rail, looking out to sea. “I have it, Morgan” Roman gave his brother’s shoulder a stronger than needed shake.

“If you mean the worst temper in this port, that I know,” Morgan retorted, turning about and scowling at Roman as he set right his tricorn which had been knocked askew by Roman’s impudence.

Roman smiled. “I mean a solution to our problem of the cabins.”

“How’s that?”

Roman pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and let them clink about in his palm before he gave his brother a more than playful shove back the way they had come a short while before. “Don’t know why I didn’t think of it from the first.”

“Thinking is never what you do first,” Morgan said more jovially.

Roman ignored the barb. “We’ll pay the bloke off,” he said. “Offer him enough coin that he will gladly string a hammock in the hold.”

Morgan smiled. “And I will be shed of you and your foul moods.” He put a sharp elbow to Roman’s ribs. “Sometimes, brother, you do have a good thought.”

***

The gentle roll of the ship counteracted the exhaustion that had gripped Silvia as she curled beneath the light blanket in the narrow bunk. Her eyelids were shut fast before she had taken more than a single breath.

Within moments she slept so heavily that she was wholly lost in the musing deepness of dreams of that took her to green lands with warm breezes and genteel people who treated one another with kindness and concern. She allowed herself to drift into the pleasantness and peace and bright hopefulness of the place until somewhere around the edges of her dream a darkness slithered inside. With it, a noise too rude for that perfect place intruded on the quiet of her mind. She pushed both disturbances away and, with a sigh, returned to her paradise. She was safe there—Was she not?

Thank you for reading Dark Prelude.

Silvia’s story continues in the novel Dark Splendor. . .

An excerpt from

Whispers at Midnight

by

Andrea Parnell

One moment in annihilation’s waste,

One moment, of the well of life to taste —

The stars are setting and the caravan

Starts for the dawn of nothing — oh, make haste!

— The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, XXXVIII

Prologue

Virginia

July 1730

The night was hot and still. More so than any Evelyn Wicklow could ever remember. She held tightly to her husband’s arm, so that her steps would not falter and reveal the tug of fear at her heart. Not a sound rose up in the cloying heat, not the chirp of a cricket, not the song of a bird. It seemed both time and the movement of the elements had come to a halt as an omen of the evil she sensed.

“He’s a heartless man, Jubal,” her lovely, sad voice petitioned Jubal Wicklow. “If only there were another way.” Her soft gray eyes, rimmed with worry, pleaded silently with him. At sunrise Jubal would fight a duel on the riverbank near Wicklow House. Knowing he had been one of the best shots in England failed to ease Evelyn’s mind, for deep in her soul she already knew the outcome of this senseless contest.

A dark wave of apprehension swept through her as hazy images clouded her thoughts. Her head ached violently, yet her hands clung lovingly to those of her husband. Since childhood she had borne the peculiar gift of foretelling the future. Evelyn had often thought that ability was more of a burden than an advantage. Sometimes, as now, when the vision involved those to whom she was closest, what would happen could only be viewed through a deep, murky mist and not clearly enough to see one’s way. And yet she had read disaster in the dark warning clouds long before she knew John Mott had come to Virginia.

“Aye, but there will be no reasoning with John,” Jubal Wicklow responded calmly as he clasped Evelyn’s hands between his own. “Four years at sea with the man and I learned to know him well.” He did not try to make light of her words; instead he marked the depth of anguish in her voice and eyes. She was so lovely to him, with her fair hair and eyes which at times were as luminous and mysterious as silver moonlight. He never tired of looking at her, his Evelyn, the sweetest treasure a man could ever possess.

Jubal Wicklow smiled reassuringly. As always, Evelyn aroused his protective instinct. He did not ask what she saw. He knew the effort would only heighten her pain. He understood his wife’s power and the toll it required of her delicate body. For even though she possessed great spiritual strength, she was as fragile and beautiful as an orchid. Above all things in life, he swore to himself, he loved Evelyn and their young daughter, Elise. Nay, more than that, he loved nothing or no one else on earth.

Evelyn lifted her pretty chin. “I prayed, Jubal, you could settle this debt with John Mott without bloodshed.” Still, she did not believe prayers could help and would send Elise to a trusted friend in Williamsburg.

Jubal led his wife into the newly finished maze of hedges, her single request for the grounds of Wicklow.

“Bloody bastard,” he said, and nodded. “Begging your pardon, my love, but it boils my blood that he should come here making his challenge after a full decade. As for the debt he claims, there is but what he invents. John holds no right to the gold or the ruby. The full bounty we took on our last voyage we divided before returning to England. I take no blame that John Mott’s share rests on the ocean floor. He sailed into weather no sane man would have faced.” Jubal halted his steps at a turn in the hedges and glanced about until his puzzlement brought the wanted smile from Evelyn. She pointed out the correct path. “The blighter lost his crew to the last man,” he said. “It should be enough he has his life.”

“It is more than gold and jewels he has come for,” Evelyn said softly. She had not thought John would follow them to the colonies. With an ocean and the passage of time between them it seemed that her dreadful destiny with the man could be overcome.

Once she had been betrothed to John, a prosperous sea captain and a widower with a young child. As a girl of seventeen she might have been enthralled with the handsome Mott and even delighted in accepting the marriage her parents arranged. But there was always something about the man that his smooth words and elegant manners could not overcome. He frightened her.

A fortnight before the date of the wedding, John Mott introduced her to a seafaring companion, the exuberant and red-haired Jubal Wicklow. One week later Evelyn and Jubal eloped and in so doing made a fierce enemy of John Mott. Having seen in her vision what John meant to do, Evelyn convinced Jubal that they should leave immediately for the colonies. A month following their departure, John wed another young woman.

For once Evelyn believed the visions had been wrong. John had forgotten them. But now, on the tenth anniversary of her marriage to Jubal Wicklow, a duel would be fought. She did not enjoy seeing John Mott’s face so plainly in her mind. Indeed she could not shut it out as she prayed that once again what was destined would be postponed.

Jubal Wicklow embraced her. “You must not worry, love. No harm will come to me. Not to any of us. I promise you.”

“Jubal, my darling,” she whispered, wishing she could be reassured. “If it should, you must remember this: we will find one another again. That I can promise you.” Her soft, liquid eyes gazed deeply into his and then she kissed him long and lovingly. “For time, my darling, is only a moment after death.” Her voice softened. “I will wait for you, Jubal.”

Hours later Evelyn sat quietly in the master bedchamber, having sent for young Jedaiah Long, the stable boy, to take Elise to the house in Williamsburg. She wore the ruby necklace Jubal had fastened around her neck. Heart-shaped, the deep pink stone bore an intricately carved peacock in the center. John had wanted the stone but accepted grudgingly that Jubal found it first. Called the Heart of Happiness, the ruby was stolen from the treasure stores of a Persian shah and was valued at many times the rest of her husband’s wealth.

The jewel, Jubal’s wedding gift to her, had been their enchantment, the symbol of their happiness. At sunrise Evelyn held the glowing ruby against her breast, knowing that through all time its beauty would remain to attest the love she had shared with her husband. She did not go to the window to watch what would happen by the river. There was no need. She could see it all in the shadowy depths of her mind. She could hear the voices.

“John Mott, the devil take you!” Jubal Wicklow shouted.

“Not before he welcomes a thief, man.” The early morning fog spewed up from the river and wrapped around his legs.

“You have no claim to the gold or the jewel.”

“I claim it all. And Evelyn,” John answered. “You stole her from me.”

“Are you a madman? You have a wife.”

“Dead a year ago. Now I’ve come for what is rightfully mine — Evelyn.”

No more words were spoken. As the rising sun appeared and spread crimson rays across the James River, the men paced apart and turned. Evelyn felt an eerie shiver run along her spine as the first shot was fired.

Jubal Wicklow staggered back as the bullet tore through his side. He was wounded but not downed. Razed with pain, he aimed his pistol and fired. His shot struck John Mott in the chest, knocking him to the ground.

Weak from his own injury, Jubal muttered a curse and turned away. He was glad the deed was done and anxious to get back to Evelyn. He did not have the chance to wonder that John Mott was still alive. If he had, he might have realized his aim was less true due to his injury. But before Jubal Wicklow had walked ten paces, the other man slid a hidden pistol from his pocket and fired a shot at the back of his enemy. Jubal Wicklow crumpled to the ground.

John pulled loose his cravat and packed the silk cloth against the hole in his chest. Minutes later he found Evelyn in her sitting room, hands folded and eyes closed, her face blanched white as paper. With Jubal dead and her heart broken she no longer cared what would happen.

“Now, my love,” John told her as he drew her from the chair, “you see that no man cheats John Mott — and lives.”

Evelyn neither spoke nor offered resistance as he led her down the stone stairs to the cellars where he was certain Jubal Wicklow had hidden the gold.

John Mott gloated and felt a sudden surge of overpowering excitement despite his pain. He had the ruby and he had Evelyn. He wanted the gold as badly. In ten years he had not rested knowing Jubal Wicklow had taken what was his. After his second wife died — a pity he had needed to help her along in that — he determined to reclaim Evelyn and to take all Jubal Wicklow owned.

John moaned as he reached the bottom of the stairs. His wound throbbed and his head was growing dizzy, his thoughts wandering. But the bleeding had stopped and he was determined to search the cellars. Somewhat weakly, he leaned his weight against the heavy stone door of a secret cellar room and pushed it open. Gently he thrust Evelyn inside.

“You’ll keep here, my love, until I’ve found the gold.” Evelyn did not answer but he did not mind. Soon she would welcome him into her arms.

For hours John wandered the black, cavernous rooms and tunnels beneath Wicklow, making his search. Increasingly he felt a strange lightness in his body but was drawn on by his mania and the belief that with the next step he would find the gold.

With his guttering torch John stumbled along in a stupor into the last of the tunnels. Behind him a stone door ground shut. Eyes dulled, feet dragging in the dirt, John was not really conscious of dropping his torch or of sliding to the floor, just as he had not been conscious that the hours of exertion had opened his wound and that for a long time blood had dripped down his arm and off his fingers.

A coolness moved suddenly through his body. Ahead he saw a bright golden glow through half-open eyes, and crawled toward it.

“At last,” he whispered, believing he had found the gold as he reached into the torch flame. But John Mott did not feel the searing heat on his hand. He was dead.

* * *

Evelyn Wicklow walked to one corner of the damp, dark cell where John Mott had imprisoned her. She pressed the ruby heart to her lips, then let it fall softly against her breast. Calmly she sank to the cold stone floor. She did not know or care if the passing moments grew into hours or days. In time, Jubal would find her. But she had no wish to live any longer while she tarried.

“I will wait for you, Jubal,” she whispered as her spirit gathered itself for flight. A moment later a pale shadow passed through the door of darkness and Evelyn Wicklow died.

Chapter 1

July 1770

The darkness was damp and oppressive and hung round the neglected grounds of Wicklow House like a shroud. Only a few beams of moonlight illuminated the path as Amanda Fairfax jumped down from the mud-spattered carriage that had brought her and her companion on the twelve-mile trek from Williamsburg, Virginia. The heavy blackness gave her the feeling of being at the bottom of a dark pool with all the world up above. Nevertheless, in an odd way it seemed exciting to arrive at this old house in the dead of night when its bleak, wet surroundings seemed so unnatural.

Was it her imagination that a nebulous glow momentarily shone from the spires of the twin towers of Wicklow as she turned about? If so, then there was no accounting for the nervous movements of the horses, which by right should have been too tired for the restlessness they suddenly displayed.

The house was no ordinary one, to be sure, not stately, and lacking the grace of many of the homes she had seen in Virginia since the vessel Devon Gate brought them up the James River. Wicklow had a style that drew threads of terror through the mind, the way it sprawled possessively over the hilltop and sometimes looked as if it would swallow up any who came near. Perhaps it was exactly that which made Wicklow repellent — that it looked as if it were a house that owned its inhabitants rather than the other way around.

Amanda’s lids fluttered over her green eyes for a moment. Rumors abounded concerning Wicklow, and seeing it at night — unlit and untended — she did not wonder at them. One claimed a treasure of gold and other riches had been hidden and lost nearly half a century ago when the first owner had been killed in a duel. Another claimed Jubal Wicklow’s ghost haunted the house, guarding the gold and warning away any who sought it. Others said the house bore a curse and that no owner would live out a full life. That was the rumor Amanda most wished she had not heard, for she sensed there was some truth to it.

Jubal Wicklow, thin and tall, treads the shadows of Wicklow’s halls. The words brought her a degree of apprehension and she wished the silly rhyme would not stick in her mind like a tiny thorn. She hadn’t been able to forget the ditty since a fellow traveler on the ship from England had recited it to her. She laughed lightly. Jubal Wicklow must have been a frightful character to have inspired such remembrances.

Pressing her lips together so that she wouldn’t speak the rhyme aloud, Amanda lifted her skirts to avoid a puddle and turned to help Elizabeth Slater from the carriage. She knew from the expression on Elizabeth’s face that the rhyme was running through her head as well.

The old woman sat placidly as her eyes darted over the front of Wicklow, finally fastening on the big oaken front doors crossed by black iron bands and with sharp studs protruding from the heavy wood.

“It’s ugly and it’s evil.” Elizabeth’s wrinkled old face bent into a frown. Reluctantly she allowed herself to be helped down. Once out of the carriage, she shuddered and drew a heavy shawl over her stooped shoulders. “Amanda, we can’t stay here.” Her faded gray eyes looked pleadingly at the bright-faced young woman standing impatiently beside her.

“Nonsense, Elizabeth, it’s my home now,” Amanda said somewhat sharply, surprised that Elizabeth’s words had suddenly stirred her sense of pride. And yet she was pleased that they had, for despite the house’s look of inelegance, from the moment she had set her feet to the ground she had become a part of Wicklow and it of her. The feeling was a good one, and new. She found herself growing anxious to step through the front doors and into the shelter of her home.

* * *

“You won’t leave me alone, will you, Amanda?” Elizabeth, in her nightclothes, climbed into the four-poster bed hung with rich rose-silk curtains. She had grown calmer once inside the lovely bedroom that had belonged to Aunt Elise. Here there was none of the Eastern influence that disturbed Elizabeth. It was a lady’s room, done in rose satins and brocades with yards and yards of lace and ribbon trimmings on the bed curtains and draperies. A little cluttered perhaps, for Aunt Elise had been a collector like Jubal Wicklow.

Amanda glanced around. The room wasn’t exactly as she remembered. There were new things and more things, but it was lovely nonetheless.

A candle’s soft illumination lit the room: the pale rose-patterned wallpaper, the fat sofa with layers of embroidered cushions, an oil painting of Aunt Elise mounted in a heavy gilt frame, a row of delicate little china figures on the pink marble mantel, more peacock feathers in a vase by the door, the low dressing table with a wide silver-wrapped mirror. Once Amanda had pulled the remaining dustcovers from the furniture, Elizabeth looked around and acknowledged that the room was as elegant a bedroom as Sarah Fairfax had occupied in her rented town house in London.

The rose scent Aunt Elise had worn still clung faintly in the air. Perhaps it always would, having over decades permeated the walls and the fabrics. But it was a comforting smell and made it seem as if at any moment Aunt Elise, with her white hair and clear blue eyes, might come sweeping into her old bedroom. How nice that would be, but how impossible, unless there really were ghosts.

“I’ll leave a candle burning.” Amanda tucked the covers about Elizabeth’s shoulders and bade her good night. “I’m going to bathe and get to bed myself.”

Wearily Elizabeth mumbled a reply. Before Amanda had closed the bedroom door, the old woman’s thin lashes floated down like tea leaves settling to the bottom of a cup and she was asleep. Amanda hurried away. She had found another habitable bedroom, a plain one at the far end of the hall. She couldn’t remember to whom it had belonged — it had been so long ago, and details of the house were fragmented memories from a young girl’s mind. But it didn’t really matter. The house had been closed for months and she could take her time about selecting a room that suited her after she had looked through the whole place. Tonight she was so tired that any bed would be wonderful, once she had bathed.

Crossing the narrow bedroom, Amanda began quickly removing the blue serge traveling dress she wore. She was glad the bedclothes here were fresh and she wouldn’t have to remake the bed. The hem of her skirt was wet, and her petticoats, too, had absorbed enough water to require hours to dry.

She slipped out of her chemise and carefully spread all her garments over a chair. She had brought only a small traveling bag upstairs. Her trunk still sat outside on the sheltered entry of the house, and she hadn’t the fortitude to try to bring it up herself. A blanket would serve well enough as a dressing gown until tomorrow, when she could unpack. She stripped one from the bed and wrapped herself in its soft, warm folds. Gathering up her bag, Amanda pattered barefoot to the bath.

Jubal Wicklow had installed a large marble tub in the house, the “Roman bath” as Aunt Elise had called it. The room was a work of art and, Amanda imagined, patterned after one he must have seen in some Eastern palace. It had a magnificent carved cinnabar screen for dressing. One wall was entirely covered in tiny mosaic tiles that pictured a midnight garden where cherry trees bloomed and lilacs lined a little path. The path led to a turquoise fountain with a silver spray of water which tumbled into a pool filled with floating pink water lilies. To enter the room was like being transported to a world of springtime, a world that excluded disharmony of thought, a world where peace and beauty prevailed.

In the dusky lamplight, Amanda ran water from the two large urns beside the bath and heated a good supply on a small stove in the rear of the room. She had thought of this bath for days of travel and washing from a basin, and now, even though the hour was late, she didn’t think she could sleep until she had submerged her tired limbs beneath the shining mirrored surface of the water.

The experience was worth the wait. The warm, scented bath relaxed her. Languidly Amanda scrubbed her skin with a bar of rose-scented soap she had found in a box, washing away the travel dust and much of her weariness and replacing it with mollified contentment. She splashed the thick, creamy lather away with clear water and stretched her slender arms and legs out in the luxuriously large bath. A rolled-up bath sheet that had been packed away with a fragrant sachet made a soft pillow for her head. Soon she was resting in more comfort than she had known for many months.

A relaxed smile quivered on Amanda’s lips. Like a flower closing soft petals for the night, her lids slowly slipped down over misty green eyes, shutting out the mellow light of the lamp. Yes, she thought dreamily, snuggling in the cozy warmth of the water, she would be happy at Wicklow. She would cherish every part. She would polish and shine the house and all its contents back to full glory.

Softly Amanda sighed, her gentle breath making tiny rings on the surface of the water. Everything in the house seemed to be under a layer of dust. Perhaps Gussie was too old to keep the house clean and in order by herself. Aunt Elise hadn’t left enough money for the staff of servants a house this size generally required. But Amanda had no aversion to hard work. She loved Wicklow, really loved it.

The house was a repository for relics Jubal Wicklow had collected from all over the world: odd little statues, carvings, and some beautifully made chests and boxes. Albeit most of them had no monetary value, according to Aunt Elise, she had kept them because they had belonged to her father. Most of those oddities Elise had stored out of sight and replaced with more modern gewgaws of her own choosing: a few miniatures, some good silver and porcelain, but mostly bric-a-brac. Though Amanda had found some items she could sell for a bit of extra cash, most she would cherish just as Jubal Wicklow and Aunt Elise had done.

The hour was late when Amanda awoke, cold, her limbs cramped and aching. How long had she slept? The heated water had been like a sleeping draught. Now it was icy and she was shivering, but it was not that which had awakened her. She heard voices and laughter. Sitting up quickly, Amanda stifled a frightened cry. One rancorous voice echoed loudly through the hall, the deep-timbered voice of a man. She was suddenly, horribly aware of her nakedness and vulnerability. Cringing, she crossed her trembling arms over her breasts and tried to think.

A moment later she rose slowly, deliberately, so as not to make a sound. She stepped over the marble rim of the bath. Rivulets of water streamed from her legs and left a trail of wet footprints on the floor. Her heart sank as she remembered leaving her damp dress spread over a chair in the bedroom. She had brought nothing with her to the bath but a bag of toiletries and the blanket she had used as a wrap. Feeling her lungs tighten in fear, Amanda threw the blanket around her and crept guardedly across the floor to reach her bag.

“Take it off, my pretty.” The words were uttered with a drunken twist. Amanda froze even though she knew the words were not meant for her. She found herself in another muddle of confusion and wondered what she should do, even as her fingers were tearing open the drawstrings of her small bag and pulling out the black leather case.

The gleaming silver handle of the small Belgian flintlock pistol that had belonged to Sarah Fairfax felt cold to her hands. It had seemed prudent to keep the weapon. One never knew what dangers a sea journey or life in the colonies might bring. Quaking like a leaf in a storm, she loaded the pistol and hid it beneath a fold of the blanket. Then, moving with trepidation, Amanda eased the door open and glided like a shadow in the direction of the sounds.

A woman’s voice and flirtatious laughter rose shrilly from the bedroom Amanda had prepared for herself. Who could it be? Thieves? Drifters who thought the house empty and had broken in for shelter? They seemed totally unconcerned about the noise of their revelry. Amanda crept nearer the door, pausing a moment to cock the pistol and to brace herself for an encounter she meant to win.

Hazy candlelight spilled out through a crack in the door and lit a patch of floor in the hall. Amanda’s heart pounded like a heavy rock smashing against her chest as she surged forward and pushed the door open. It crashed heavily against the wall. The splintering noise startled the people wrapped together just inside.

Amanda’s first glimpse was of a man’s broad bare back. She saw muscles tense and coil under tanned skin. Like a wild animal, the man snarled and spun around. Hot, black fury twisted his scowling face. But as soon as he saw her, his mouth went slack in surprise. He stared unbelieving at the absurd sight Amanda presented, wrapped in a blanket and brazenly wielding a pistol. She looked no more than a child or a sprite of a woman.

“Hold still!” Amanda shouted, clutching the blanket with one hand and waving the pistol threateningly with the other. “Who are you?”

The fair-haired woman’s face drained of color beneath her heavily rouged cheeks. She crushed a dove-gray velvet bonnet in one white-knuckled hand as the other flew to her heaving bosom that bulged like great white melons from the open bodice of her gown.

Amanda stared back at the couple and chewed her lip painfully. She had interrupted a cozy little rendezvous. But who were they and what gave them the audacity to use Wicklow for their assignation? Her small hand grew numb around the handle of the pistol. The fury in the dark-haired man’s lean, sardonic face yielded to a look of taunting humor. The corners of his mouth twitched as he gazed knowingly at her from behind lowered eyelids.

“Why, it’s dear Cousin Amanda,” he said smoothly. “Welcome to Wicklow.” A devilish smile framed a flash of white teeth. The man took a step toward Amanda, a cautious one.

Amanda gasped and colored fiercely. Her whole body shook at the sound of his voice speaking her name.

“Ryne?” she asked weakly. His face was shadowed in the dim light, but as he drew near, Amanda could see the piercing blue eyes and the handsome features of his face. It was most certainly Ryne. His hair was jet black and arrow straight. Black breeches fitted tightly on his thighs and loins. With them he wore high black boots, nothing more. His muscular chest had a mat of crisp black hair that narrowed and trailed downward like a dark shadow slipping over his gleaming skin.

The sight of him, head thrown proudly back, arms crossed imperiously over his chest, and only half-dressed, made Amanda critically aware she wore nothing beneath the blanket.

“Ryne Sullivan! You beast!” The blond woman came to life with a burst of wrath. She struck Ryne on the back and shoulders with her rumpled velvet bonnet. “How dare you trick me into coming here!” Her high voice shook with feigned indignation and her large bosom heaved with the labor of heavy breathing as she made fumbling attempts to fasten the bodice of her gown. “If I’d known what you intended, I’d have never set foot in this house.”

Ryne’s piercing blue eyes went to the blond woman. He had forgotten she was there.

“Be calm, Maggie.” Ryne’s voice came softly, but a hard, cold look stole into his eyes. His lips lifted swiftly into a cynical smile. “My intentions were the same as the last time we came here.”

Maggie’s eyes dropped in defeat. “You are a beast, Ryne.” She pronounced the words tightly and followed them with a coy smile. “I’ll wait downstairs,” she added, fluffing out her bonnet and giving Ryne a wink as she edged past him. Maggie nodded knowingly to Amanda as she eased by her in the doorway. She could be heard breathing a deep sigh as she trotted hastily down the hall.

Ryne’s probing eyes assessed Amanda. A hint of challenge hovered in the burning look he gave her. He had seen only the green fire in her eyes at first glance. Now he was evaluating the delicate lines of her face. A lovely fawnlike creature she was, too. She had her mother’s beauty, the high cheekbones and straight nose and the perfect little mouth that had been Sarah Fairfax’s trademark.

What a faultless package for a schemer, someone cunning enough to hoodwink an old woman into leaving her an inheritance. He could imagine how she used that guileless face and sweet voice to play on his mother’s maternal nature.

The tips of his nostrils flared as he breathed out a sigh. He found himself wishing her character matched her elfin beauty. She had the deceptive fragility of a newborn fawn. Her green eyes glowed gold in the candlelight and a cascade of honey-brown hair fell like morning sunshine around her shoulders. With his blood already hot, Ryne would have liked nothing better than to pull that offending blanket from her grasp and to see the treasures hidden underneath.

Instead he took a slow, deep breath and noted that the look of panic had not left her face.

“We didn’t expect you so soon, Amanda,” Ryne said calmly, bending to the floor to retrieve a shirt of black silk that lay like a pool of ink at his feet.

“So it seems.” Amanda watched him pull the garment over his head and then carelessly tuck it into his trousers. She had seen men dress before. She had seen many sights a young lady should never have known about. Her experiences in the frivolous and fast-paced world of the theater had hardened her to the wiles of men. Why a flush of heat should rise to her cheeks at the sight of Ryne posturing about and adjusting his clothes was a mystery. It occurred to her in turn that he would have been no less uncomfortable under her gaze had she found him completely disrobed.

“You might put the gun away.”

She frowned. The gun was heavy and her outstretched arm ached under the weight of it. Gasping, she dropped the barrel toward the floor and gently lowered the hammer in place.

“You had it cocked?” Ryne’s eyes widened in astonishment. He could imagine her inexperience with a gun. This little sprite, this little usurper, might have ended his escapades with a nervous clench of her fingers.

“I find it fires best that way,” Amanda said flatly. “I had no idea you used the house as a bordello.”

Ryne’s brows flickered up a little. “I have yet to adjust to the fact that Wicklow no longer belongs to my family.”

“But it does,” Amanda countered quickly. “At least Aunt Elise considered me family.”

Ryne smirked. “Then it’s ‘family’ we are, my sweet.”

He shook his head and ran his fingers through the tousled black hair, fighting the temptation to accept the gentle innocence in her voice. Amanda Fairfax had inherited not only her mother’s beauty but her skills as an actress as well. He shrugged and went on in a lowered voice.

“I’m at a disadvantage to give you the greeting you deserve, dear cousin, but I promise to make it up to you.” A step brought him very near. He took the pistol she held limply, his fingers rough-edged and warm on hers, his large hand dwarfing her small, delicate one. “Let’s put this somewhere safe. We don’t want to add a new ghost to Wicklow.” Ryne laughed softly as his devilish gaze ran harrowingly over Amanda.

She swallowed hard and trembled inside the blanket. So Ryne had grown up to be a rogue — an arrogant, confident one who resented her having Wicklow. What would his brother Gardner be like? Still a gentleman, she hoped. Two like Ryne would be hard to contend with.

“Hadn’t you better take your friend somewhere?” Amanda asked, a sly smile breaking out on her face. “She’ll grow tired of waiting for you.” For all her bravado, Amanda had taken a cautious step away from Ryne and now stood squarely in the doorway, one arm tightly holding the blanket together. Ryne, however, made the step with her as if they were engaged in a kind of mental dance that coordinated their movements. Too aware of his closeness, she took another step back, and once again he followed her lead.

A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Never let it be said I kept a woman waiting,” he whispered. He stood so close she could smell the scent of brandy that clung to his lips. She could feel the moist warmth of his breath on her face, see the invitation in his eyes. “You’re blocking the door, m’lady.” A long, slender finger caught her under the chin and lifted her face to his. A shiver ran through her flesh as he caught a lock of her hair in his hand and brushed the fragrant curl against his lips.

Amanda caught her breath quickly. Ryne was practicing his debauchery on her. He was evidently a man who knew and enjoyed the magnetism he had for women. No doubt they flocked to him like hens to a wriggling worm. She had seen such performances played out around her mother, both on the stage and off. She had no intention of preening her feathers for Ryne Sullivan. With a sudden jerk Amanda stepped out of the doorway and out of reach of Ryne’s gentle touch.

A sound that was both a gasp and a shriek escaped her. Ryne had his foot planted firmly on the trailing edge of her blanket. It peeled quickly from her shoulders and dropped to the floor, leaving her naked as a new moon to his searching eyes.

A smile played lightly upon Ryne’s lips as Amanda covered her breasts awkwardly with her arms and whirled to shield herself from his view. A moment later she felt the soft fleece of the blanket floating over her bare shoulders, and Ryne’s soft laughter feathered her ears.

“Lost your wrap, m’lady,” he crooned, letting his lips brush against the fragrant curls at her nape.

Burning with embarrassment and anger, Amanda bit back words a lady shouldn’t utter. Had he deliberately...? No, surely not. Surely even Ryne Sullivan could not be that much a rogue. She gathered her courage and turned to face those mocking blue eyes. Instead she met emptiness and silence.

A moment later she heard his light laughter and the clack of his footsteps on the stairs. Maggie’s shrill voice joined the deep, mellow tones of Ryne’s. Amanda heard him say a few words of appeasement and heard them both laughing until their voices faded away. Then abruptly they were gone, and an odd emptiness descended with the heavy silence that once again filled Wicklow.

Amanda went quietly to the hall window when she heard a loose shutter rattle and pound against the outer brick wall of the house. She welcomed the disturbance; it brought back a sound of life to the house. From below, the anxious neighing of a horse joined the sudden howling of the wind as heavy drops of rain began to fall.

She peered out in time to see Ryne hook a lantern to the side of his carriage. He had tied his team close to the house rather than sheltering them in the stable, making it clear his visit to Wicklow was not meant to be a long one.

Ryne, a dark, lean figure in his black garb, took a moment to stroke the arched neck of each horse before he sprang into the carriage and took up the reins of the handsome pair of dappled grays. Amanda saw Maggie’s pale arm slip from beneath her cloak and wrap familiarly about Ryne’s thigh. She looked away as he snapped the reins, and without cracking his whip over the horses’ backs, started the team down the sloping lane that led to the main road.

The carriage was out of sight when Amanda looked out again, a bit sadly. She had hoped they could all be friends, but that seemed an impossibility with Ryne. Perhaps Gardner would be more civil.

She left the window as the drops grew heavier. All day the rain had been threatening and now that the downpour had come, her elation vanished. But no, that had happened when she saw Ryne. What a joke he would be sharing with that Maggie at her expense. Why had the scoundrel come along to spoil her mood? Amanda held the blanket firmly around her shoulders. She could still feel those dark, flaming eyes skimming her body.

Nerves stretched beyond endurance, Amanda returned to the bedroom and drew back the covers on the narrow bed. Ryne’s bed, she thought, discarding her blanket and climbing between the crisp linen sheets. She couldn’t fault him for coming here. He must have expected the house to be his. Or his to share with Gardner. And she had come much earlier than she had told them she would.

Her letter to Gardner had said she would arrive in September, but it had taken only a few months to settle her mother’s estate. She gave a brittle laugh that sounded lost in the darkness. Settling the estate amounted to selling everything she could find to cover bills and debts. Her mother’s extravagance had been her greatest fault.

Not so with Aunt Elise; she had no such faults, unless one could count generosity. Perhaps her mother had known about Elise’s will, but Amanda had known nothing of her inheritance until sometime after the funerals, when she had received a letter from Aunt Elise’s solicitor. Perhaps Aunt Elise had experienced a premonition of death and that was why she had come to London for that last visit. But who could know? In any event she had endeared herself to Amanda long years ago. Consequently Amanda had lost in a single tragedy the two people who meant most to her.

Aunt Elise had been in London less than a fortnight when both she and Sarah were killed when their carriage overturned. Witnesses to the tragedy had reported the carriage was involved in a race with another to prove who had the better team. Had the women not attended the house party at Lord Connington’s estate, they might both be alive. Instead they had died on a dusty road outside London. Elise’s body had been sent to Ireland for burial. Sarah’s funeral had been a public affair in London. She had been popular with theatergoers and most of the city.

Since then Sarah’s friends had dwindled away and Amanda and Elizabeth had been left with barely enough money to book two passages to Virginia. Thankfully Elizabeth had a sister in Philadelphia who would welcome her.

Of course Amanda could have become a mistress to one of the suitors who hounded her mother. There had been those offers, even a few of marriage. But she had seen too much of the unfaithfulness of husbands and the fickleness of wedlock to settle for that. Her romantic dreams had fled like summer butterflies years ago. She did not long for marriage. Wicklow would be all she needed for happiness.

Closing her eyes, Amanda pushed the reflections from her mind and sought the peace of sleep. She slept, though restlessly, making a tangle of the covers and casting one pillow from the bed. She dreamed she was being chased through the dim oppressive halls of Wicklow, anxiously pursued by someone who stayed always just far enough back that in frightful glances over her shoulder she could not tell who sought her.

The halls were endless, lengthening, it seemed, with each step, and the house filled with steep winding staircases that led nowhere. Amanda, a shimmer of perspiration on her skin, her heart thumping with trepidation, climbed and descended those phantom stairs at a frantic pace. Seeking escape, she ran through the rooms, finding them dark and filled with great black pools of shadows. Around her the air quivered and bore a strangely tainted smell. Just behind were the pursuing footsteps.

On and on she ran in a kind of madness to know who was there at Wicklow with her. At last, breathless, she turned into the main hallway, knowing with certainty she could not run another step and would be overtaken. But the threatening sound of the footsteps stopped. Her eyes went up to meet the relentless glass eyes of the Turkish King. She felt a strange emptiness.

It seemed then that she dragged her weary body up the slate stairs and back to her bed and had only a moment of respite before the footsteps started again. She sighed deeply in her sleep. But of course, the footsteps belonged to Jubal Wicklow. She thought it the moment she saw the figure, moving in a faint gray light, come quietly into her room.

The shadowy man whispered a woman’s name, not hers, and chanted a warning she couldn’t quite understand. She turned her head away from him, perhaps intuitively, because even in sleep she knew he did not truly exist. But the old patriarch of Wicklow would have none of her evasion and floated around her bed as if he were seeking to see her features.

She glimpsed his face as he looked down. It had an unreal quality and yet a disturbing familiarity that made her once again toss upon her pillow. The hair was red and he wore an odd cap that partially shielded his eyes from her. Amanda was instantly troubled that she had been wrong thinking him Jubal Wicklow, that he was indeed someone she knew and not someone conjured up from the depths of her imagination. She found that she desperately wanted to see his face clearly. Her eyes darted about anxiously beneath her closed lids. She tried to speak but only succeeded in uttering a few muted sounds.

Above her the man’s head dropped sadly, as if he had absorbed a portion of her distress. From the darkness his hand stretched out and touched her bare shoulder. The sensation was that of something cold and dry against her skin, but most remarkably comforting.

He spoke her name again and whispered a warning, quite softly but quite clearly. What a melodious voice he had, almost like a lullaby, but with the peculiar quality of waking one rather than lulling one to sleep.

She opened her eyes but the voice had separated itself from her dreams. Reluctantly she stirred and raised up on her elbows to listen. There was a thump from the hall, that loose shutter, and perhaps the wind making the queer sound that was amazingly like her name.

“Amandaaaa...” The low, calling whisper drifted again through the air, so faintly she couldn’t be sure if sound were real or imagined.

Thinking at last, as the fog of sleep cleared from her head, that Elizabeth had been awakened by the storm, Amanda rose quickly and flung the blanket around her. The windows were only slightly less dark than the rest of room. She found the candle at her bedside and lit it. Behind its trembling light, Amanda rushed to the front bedroom where Elizabeth slept.

Her hand was on the porcelain knob when she saw a dark stain on the white-painted door. It drew her eyes for no other reason than that she did not remember its having been there when she shut the door earlier in the night. She touched the spot.

“Oh, dear God,” Amanda cried out, frantically twisting the knob and flinging the door open. “Elizabeth, what’s happened to you?”

She blundered across the room to where Elizabeth’s still form lay beneath the covers. Amanda gasped, the raw taste of fear filling her mouth.

She looked at her hand and saw the stain on her fingers. Caught for a moment in fascinated horror, she could not move. At last the candle in her grasp began to shake. Its wild flame splayed an unsteady light on the bedroom door. The mark she had seen had been the print of a hand smeared in blood, still warm and dripping on the white panel of the door.

It was gone!

Whispers at Midnight is available now in the Amazon Kindle Store.

About the Author

Andrea Parnell is the award-winning author of ten novels, short fiction and articles, with more than one million copies of her books in print. Her works include Gothic, Western, and other historical and contemporary romances. Several of her books have been set in her home state of Georgia. Andrea has received both the Maggie and Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice awards for her writing, and is a member of Novelists, Inc. (NINC) and past president of the Georgia Authors Network. She is fond of cats, travel, overgrown gardens, and old houses with lots of crooks, crannies, and interesting shadows. Please visit her website at AndreaParnell.com.

Twitter: @andreahparnell

Facebook: Andrea Parnell Facebook Page

Also by Andrea Parnell

From Trove Books

Dark Splendor

Lovely young Silvia Bradstreet comes from London to an isolated estate off the coast of colonial Georgia to be an indentured servant. But a far different fate awaits her. Clothed in finery and pampered like a queen, she finds herself a pawn in the devious schemes of Wilhelm Schlange, master of Serpent Tree Hall, as he manipulates the family members who hope to inherit his vast fortune. Haunted by ghostly dreams and threatened by the island's deadly secrets, Silvia cannot trust her own senses, much less anyone around her. Most of all, she dare not trust her growing passion for Schlange's nephew, handsome sea captain Roman Toller. His lips move like a hot flame over her flesh and draw the very breath from her body. Can Roman offer Silvia an escape from her dark fate--or is he leading her closer to destruction?

Whispers at Midnight

If only his kiss had been hard, brief and demanding, but it was not. It was gentle and probing, possessing, and took her breath away . . .Amanda Fairfax met Ryne Sullivan when she came to take possession of the colonial Virginia plantation that was her legacy. She could see resentment burning in his dark blue eyes, yet once in his arms she could feel how fiercely he hungered for her, and how little she could resist his desires or her own. In a place where terror ruled the night and mystery cloaked each move, Amanda could not fully trust her lover or her love, for she sensed every moment of ecstasy might be her last.

Delilah’s Flame

Demure society beauty Lilah Damon is secretly Delilah, Flame of the West, a notorious saloon singer with fire red hair who inflames men's passions with her sultry stage show while pursing a personal mission of vengeance. When handsome cowboy Tabor Stanton, fleeing his own troubled past, threatens to expose her double life, Delilah must submit to his every desire to protect her secrets.

Copyright

Dark Prelude

Copyright 2011 Andrea Parnell. All rights reserved.

Published 2011 by Trove Books

TroveBooks.com

Amazon Kindle edition 2.0, December 2011

Publisher’s Note

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Frauke Spanuth, Croco Designs www.crocodesigns.com

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