Heaven in a Wildflower (53 page)
“Isn’t it like something from a fairy tale?” Arlene breathed in awe. “I’ve never been to a party so lavish.”
Erin felt a wave of pity, as well as guilt over having protested attending. The sad truth was that her mother had probably never been to a ball, or even a tea party, in her entire life. Oh, there’d been attempts to be accepted, always ending in heartache. She could remember the occasion of her tenth birthday, when her mother had planned a gala event, even engaged a traveling circus to perform on the lawn. Couriers were sent to hand-deliver invitations to every prominent family within a thirty-mile radius that had children in the household. But nobody came. So, for her mother’s sake, she made up her mind then and there to endure the evening and to pretend, at least, to have a good time, as long as she didn’t have to indulge in flirtatious contrivances, as she noted the other girls were doing.
Arlene was delighted as Erin easily became the center of attention. The unmarried men flocked about her, begging for introductions, the opportunity to bring her more champagne, asking for dances later on. She truly was a beauty.
Despite herself, Erin was starting to enjoy the ball. Thrilled by the contagious gaiety of her would-be swains, she couldn’t help but be dazzled by so much attention and beguiled by the romantic and lovely music, the wondrous ambience. Her emotions were displayed in her shining eyes and radiant smile.
Erin wasn’t aware of the tall, broad-shouldered man who stood watching her from the shadows of the side terrace.
What woman wouldn’t want to be worshipped like a goddess?
Lady of Fire
© 2012 Janeen O’Kerry
Bridget Christine Connelly visits a yard sale and finds a very unusual piece of jewelry—it is a torque, a horseshoe-shaped piece of twisted gold, with delicately worked women’s faces at either end. When she takes it home and slides it around her neck, it takes her back through time to the man who made it—the tall and handsome Celtic warrior named Ailin.
At first, the newly single Christine is happy to be worshipped as a goddess, for the torque had been made to adorn the neck of Brighid, the goddess of fire. But as her love for Ailin grows, she wishes to be desired for herself, not for the goddess he believes her to be. And as her hold on the past grows weaker and weaker, she must decide whether to risk death in the past or a return to the future…with or without Ailin.
Enjoy the following excerpt for
Lady of Fire:
Ireland, in a time long past, some two millenia ago
Beneath the cold clouds of a late winter dawn, accompanied by his father the king and a small army of swordsmen and chariots, Ailin of Eire stood outside the high earthen walls of Dun Orga and faced the woman he had been ordered to marry.
She, too, was surrounded by her family, a grim lot of warriors from the fortress of Dun Fada a few miles away. Theirs was the task of bringing the offered bride to the son of King Donaill and displaying her for approval—all in the hope of winning a much-needed ally for their clan.
She stood with downcast eyes, a small plain figure in a dark gray woolen gown and cloak, lost among the huge warriors. Her cloak was pulled up to cover her head, and Ailin could not see her face; not that he could have anyway, since she kept her gaze fixed firmly on the ground.
A huge red-bearded man clad in black wool trousers and a worn brown leather breastplate pushed his way through the crowd from behind the young woman. Ailin recognized Flann, the chief of Dun Fada and a distant cousin of King Donaill.
“Well, here she is,” growled Flann. “My oldest daughter, Mealla.” He gave her a little shove, and as she caught her balance she glanced quickly up at Ailin before staring down again.
Pity surged through him. She was so young! Just a girl—a child—and frightened to death. His resolve hardened.
“She’s just turned thirteen,” the old chief continued. “She’s kept the hearth and her young twin brothers since their mother died three years ago. There’s no better bread-maker or wool-spinner in all of Dun Fada than Mealla!”
Ailin tried to smile politely, but his pity for the girl and his growing anger at the whole situation made it impossible.
Flann’s eyes narrowed. He stared hard at Ailin and his family. “When next it is Lughnasa, her brothers will be old enough to be fostered out,” he said, his voice low and grating. “Mealla will be free to marry at that time—assuming she meets with your expectations.” His voice dropped dangerously and he glared at Ailin, clutching the hilt of the heavy broad-sword strapped around his ample waist.
Ailin felt the silence of his own family pressing him into some kind of response. “She is…quite beautiful. I’m sure she will make a very good wife.”
For someone else, and many years from now!
The chief apparently took Ailin’s words as acceptance, for he relaxed his hold on the sword hilt. “Of that I have no doubt,” he said. “She’s brought you a gift to prove it—go on, Mealla, give it to him!”
The pale creature walked forward a few hesitant steps, just close enough to place a small jug in the grass at Ailin’s feet. Then she hurried back to the shelter of her kin.
“Mead,” said Flann. “The best honey wine you’ve ever poured into your cup. Made it herself!” He stood waiting, the air heavy with expectation.
Ailin knew that they were waiting for his own gift to Mealla. As ordered, he had brought with him a golden ornament that he had made himself, many months ago. It was the most precious of all the fine things he had learned to make at the forge.
Flann cleared his throat and frowned. His grip tightened on his sword.
Ailin’s gift was tucked safely into his belt, beneath his red wool cloak where it didn’t show. But even as he began to reach for it, he looked at pale, frightened little Mealla—and knew that he simply could not.
He drew his sword from the black leather scabbard at his belt and walked straight over to the other clan, ignoring their sudden tensing. Poor Mealla nearly shrank away to nothing, but he knelt down and presented the sword to her hilt-first.
“Here is a gift for you, lady,” he said softly. “May it be to your liking.”
The girl peered up just enough to see the shining gold of the sword’s hilt. The likeness of a horse’s head capped the end. After hesitating for a moment she accepted the heavy sword with shaking hands, tucking it awkwardly beneath her cloak before resuming her study of the ground once again.
Ailin resisted the temptation to pat her on the shoulder, as he might with any upset child, and walked back to his place beside the king.
He could feel his father’s anger and disapproval. The tension was a wall between them. Across the expanse of new green grass, Flann and his warriors scowled and glared.
Ailin knew what all of them were thinking. A sword for a bride-gift! What sort of thing was that to give a lady? She should have gold jewelry, fine furs, a team of chariot horses—not a weapon! Did her husband mean to let her do his fighting for him?
But no one spoke. Ailin’s sword was no ordinary weapon; it contained enough artistry, and enough gold, to make it a fine and valuable offering. And Flann, who needed this alliance as much as Donaill did, was not about to jeopardize it over an unsuitable gift. Yet the damage had been done.
“The alliance is sealed,” the old chief growled. “We will bring her to you at summer’s end, at Lughnasa.”
King Donaill stepped forward. “Then if you will, bring your chariots into Dun Orga and celebrate the Imbolc feast with us tonight. We will honor both the Mother Goddess and the match between our two children.”
A betrothal was always sealed with a feast for both the families, but Flann only turned a cold glare on Donaill. “We will return to Dun Fada at once. It is a long enough journey in this winter dark.”
So, insult was to be returned with insult. Ailin saw his father redden at this rude rejection of his hospitality, but before he could say a word Flann’s men turned and swung Mealla up into one of the chariots. The entire party lumbered off into the cold morning to return to Dun Fada.
Heaven in a Wildflower
Patricia Hagan
Amongst the fires of war, Anjele discovers that love is truly blind.
Brett Cody was Anjele Sinclair’s first love. Under the hot Louisiana sun, they discovered each other, body and soul. Torn from his arms and sent to a boarding school in England, it is four long years before she returns to her beloved home. But when she discovers that Brett is fighting for the hated Yankees, Anjele believes their love can never be.
Then the unthinkable happens. Her father is murdered, and an injury from his attackers leaves Anjele blind. Struggling to save her beloved home and heritage, Anjele relies on the help and support of a stranger—a man she grows to love. But when she discovers that man is none other than Brett, Anjele must decide if she can accept the love of an enemy.
This Retro Romance reprint was originally published in March 1992 by HarperCollins.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
Heaven in a Wildflower
Copyright © 2013 by Patricia Hagan
ISBN: 978-1-61921-019-6
Edited by Heather Osborn
Cover by Valerie Tibbs
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Original Publication by HarperCollins: March 1992
First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: February 2013
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