The Heart of the Phoenix
“I don’t believe you heard me, Sir Stephen.”
Evie’s words dripped honey. “I’m going home on orders of my brother. If the travelers Davy were to join haven’t appeared, then he can accompany me.” She shot a glance toward the youth, deep in conversation with the maid.
The back of Stephen’s neck tingled, and he clenched his hands. God’s blood, she made him so angry he longed to grab those soft arms and shake some sense into her.
“You are not remaining at the monastery, and you are not traveling to England.” The words came out in a growl. He stepped forward, and she tilted back her head to meet him eye to eye. “Must I tie you to that horse?”
She leaned in. “Just you try, Sir Stephen-the-Bully.”
He glared and crossed his arms against his chest, daring her to continue.
“Do as you think you must.” She echoed his stance, her crossed arms pushing her plump breasts higher.
Not that he noticed, blast her.
“I vow I will return the moment I’m free,” she added. “You have no authority over my movements, for you are no relative of mine.”
“And I thank God for it. How Henry has put up with you all these years I do not know. A more troublesome, contentious wi...woman I’ve never seen.”
“Did you call me a witch?”
SILVERHAWK
“...with wonderful writing and colorful characters the reader is sent down a twisty-turny road of treachery and betrayal offset by a love match that is doomed by circumstance. A truly sigh-worthy historical romance.”
~InD’tale Magazine
~*~
“This engrossing tale...is one that I will keep on my shelves to visit again. I highly recommend this moving story.”
~Romantic Historical Reviews
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“I can’t say how much I loved this book. There’s not enough room here...Ms. Bettis has a dry sense of humor that comes alive in her characters.”
~Jennifer Jakes, award-winning author
~*~*~
SILVERHAWK
won first place in
The Golden Pen Contest
~*~
THE HEART OF THE PHOENIX
won first place in
The Golden Gateway Contest
The Heart of the Phoenix
by
Barbara Bettis
Brotherhood of the Phoenix Series, Book 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 by Barbara Huddleston
Originally published by Wild Rose Press
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonEncore are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
eISBN: 9781503999220
This title was previously published by Wild Rose Press; this version has been reproduced from Wild Rose Press archive files.
Thanks:
~*~
To the wonderful Tuesday Writers:
Diana, Kaye, Cecily, Jean, and Ginny.
Your friendship and support are priceless.
To Diana, for hosting us every week;
to Kaye and Ginny, for the movie breaks;
to Jean, for the laughter;
to Cecily, for the energy and can-do spirit.
~*~
And to Tara, Kathleen, Ashlyn, Lane, Renee, Averil, Samanthya, Tess, and Ashley
for your insight and encouragement.
I’m blessed with your presence in my life.
~*~
Especially to my wonderful editor,
Allison Byers.
You are patient, supportive, (patient), and understanding.
Every author should have such a tremendous advocate.
~*~
And to Nelda:
I wish you could have been here for it all.
Prologue
Granville Castle, Lincolnshire
December 1197
“Go away, little shadow.” Sir Stephen’s words roared above the December wind that snapped across the castle tower’s roof.
Lady Evelynn shielded her eyes against the stinging bites of snow. She couldn’t make out his location. There. A flash of light from the huge bonfire in the bailey below illuminated his form, facing out into the night.
Arms braced, the tall figure leaned across the waist-high stone embrasure, as if he welcomed the wild winter gales.
How did he know who stood behind him? And why must he use that foolish childhood nickname? Her resolve wavered then flared once more. Let him ignore her. She would pay no heed to his indifference, just as she had as a child. He needed a friend right now.
He just didn’t realize it.
She clenched her hands, caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and stepped from the dim recesses of the doorway. Light from a lone torch inside the landing at the top of the stairs flickered across the whitened walkway.
“Are you well?” Evie shivered as she picked a path along the slick surface. She hadn’t brought a cloak. When he left the celebration with a bleak, dark look on his face, she followed without thinking.
He was in pain. She of all people could recognize the signs, could even understand a need for solitude. Yet the urge to comfort sent her after him.
A moment’s uncertainty made her pause, however. This hard Sir Stephen little resembled the young squire she once knew. But the memory of their long-ago friendship drove her on.
He did not turn as she eased forward in her soft slippers. What could he possibly see in the snow-flecked blackness? Perhaps he regretted releasing Lady Emelin so readily.
She raised her voice. “I thought when you left the hall—” She paused as his head turned slightly.
“That I could not bear to see my betrothed wed another man?” His voice mocked. “Did you feel sorry for me?”
The sharp words failed to wound. He wouldn’t drive her away so easily.
“It would be understandable,” she said, at last reaching his side.
Another frigid gust carried more sounds of merriment. Snow would never deter the villagers when they celebrated the marriage of their new lord.
“I’m happy to see her wed Sir Giles.” He turned to stare outward at nothing again. “I have no desire for a wife. Ever.”
Why would he not look at her? He was so maddening. She had known him for as long as she could recall.
But Stephen had changed since he returned from—the Lord knew where. He was no longer a laughing youth who liked to tease the nine-year-old he dubbed “shadow.”
Emptiness shadowed him since his return, brown eyes void of their old golden glow, cheeks dipped in hollow gauntness. His broad shoulders slumped now, and silver streaked his rich brown hair.
Evie swiped at the veil that whipped across her face and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. Still he did not move.
“Stop following me, little girl.” His voice rose as deep as the night. And as bleak. “You always trailed after me.”
True, foolish child that she’d been. She’d worshipped her brother’s friend, even though he was betrothed. Even though she saw him infrequently after he and Henry went off to foster with different lords. Yet those few times were enough to cherish a hopeless dream in her secret heart, untouched by reality.
He bid them all farewell seven years earlier, before he left on King Richard’s crusade. Before he disappeared in Outremer and his family mourned him for dead. All those years without a word. Then to appear three months ago at his father’s gate, alive but remote as a stranger.
Beneath the haunted exterior, the old Stephen lurked. She knew it. She couldn’t be so mistaken. A pulse leaped each time she caught sight of his lean darkness. It throbbed in her chest even now, in the midst of the storm.
He glanced over his shoulder to catch her by surprise. Although she couldn’t see his eyebrows clearly, she knew they arched in that old way. Challenging. Snowflakes brushed, then melted on the days-old growth of beard. A shame it obscured the cleft in his chin. One flake settled at the corner of his mouth. His tongue flicked out to capture it.
This time, her shiver owed nothing to the wind.
“I’m no longer a little girl, Stephen.” Had he spared her more than a blank glance this day, he might have noticed just how much she had grown. “I am seventeen now.”
At that he turned, arms crossed on his chest. “Such an ancient age.”
Her shoulders stiffened at his taunt. He needn’t poke fun at her. Seventeen was old. “All my friends are wed, and one is a mother already. I am not a child.”
He stepped forward, warmth from his body enveloping her. Rough, icy fingers curled around her neck. Moist heat of his breath touched her cheek.
“You’re not, are you?” he murmured.
Evie gasped as his mouth caught hers. Breath lodged against a lump in her throat. Her first kiss—from Stephen of Rively. He tasted of wine and old dreams.
His tongue thrust between her lips then, and he brushed a sensitive spot behind her teeth. A burst of shock tingled through her blood, triggered an alarm in the back of her mind, turned her knees to broth.
She grasped his upper arms but failed to summon the strength—the determination—to push away.
Beneath the frigid wool of his sleeves, corded muscles bunched as he moved the other hand. It closed around her ribs, traced upward to caress her breasts, and flicked her nipples that puckered beneath the wool gown.