FLYING 8 is a visual poem from “The Flying series”. The poetess’ main theme is based on the theory that every thesis clashes with an antithesis and a new synthesis is created. Two contrasting, converging energies unite and create a beautiful, new harmony. This is the basis of all expansion (Heraclitus). “And the river flows, the never ending flow…” Alexandra’s visual poem begins to unravel from this initial theme with escalating impetus and intense words, shapes and colours towards higher realms of spiritual flying, towards harmony within chaos, towards “Mystic Quality”. Alexandra’s visual poem and graphics take the reader on a superb inner flight. Graphic poetry, innovative, inspirational, like you have never seen before in a dynamic, leading edge, visionary series: THE FLYING SERIES, is the poetry of the future, making it accessible and appealing to a wide audience of all spectrums.

Targeted Age Group:: 20-60

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
THE FLYING SERIES

The Flying series, consists of 8 books, each one long poem with designs, all starting from one main theme, which creates its own harmonic ripples as it unravels. The initial theme, melodic and rhythmic, verse and visual, contains the sprouting buds of the entire work. Hence, the opening pages of each poem set forth a hypnotising, escalating momentum. The way in which the poetess' message expands in each book is similar to a harmonious musical synthesis with vibrant hues. The poem and graphics are amplified in an intensifying pattern and each crescendo culminates in an “inner flight”. Her poetic and illustrative patterns have many personal and universal values, which create the basic source of vibrations from which more vibrations are set in motion, like the butterfly effect in the theory of chaos. Graphic poetry, innovative, inspirational, like you have never seen before in a dynamic, leading edge, visionary series: This is the poetry of the future, making it accessible and appealing to a wide audience of all spectrums.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Flying 8 is from The Flying series which is 8 graphic poems inspired by my life.

Book Sample
"Releasing our spirits
into Mystic Quality….”
“And the river flows,
the never ending flow…”
(Flying 8)

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Selling options is the perfect business.

You can run it from anywhere in the world.

And every second that goes by, you are making money.

That is the secret to wealth: to have your money WORKING FOR YOU instead of YOU working for money.

Now, I sell options every month and I teach others to do the same.

I have a special place in my heart for the Iron Condor because it is the first strategy I really “mastered”. I’ve had several years where I have made gains of over 100% by simply trading Iron Condors. My goal on my Condors is 10-15% returns per month. I don’t always make that much, but I have consistently beaten the stock market averages with Condors. The best part is that it takes just a few minutes a day, and you never have to predict what the stock market is going to do. Up, down, sideways – doesn’t matter. The Condor can still be profitable.

That is what I’m going to share with you in this book, how you can be profitable using the Advanced Iron Condor Options Strategy without spending hours a day doing it.

Get How To Trade The Iron Condor Options Strategy today to learn exactly how I, Allen Sama, Head Trader, and owner of OptionGenius.com trade the Iron Condor with returns of 100% or more a year!

Targeted Age Group:: 40-65

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
After getting laid off from the only real job he ever had because of the Subprime Mortgage Crisis, Allen Sama was in dire straits. He was trying to learn to trade the markets to earn a living but it wasn't going so well. But thanks to a simple oversight, Allen stumbled upon a little known method of trading that changed his life. Since then, he has been improving his methods and spreading the word about trading options.

Allen now lives what he calls the Passive Trading Lifestyle: trading for a few minutes a day, and using the rest of his time as he chooses. He is the Head Trader at Option Genius LLC, and happily shares his trading knowledge with his members, students, and listeners of the Option Genius Podcast.

Allen lives just outside Houston, Texas with his wife and three young children. When he is not working, he enjoys traveling, playing with his children, eating out and chocolate.
He would love to hear from you at [email protected].

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This book is dedicated to my parents who made the utmost sacrifice and supported me in my journey to the United States at the age of 15. Without my two loving parents I would not be where I am today; a tenured High School History Teacher working in the most impoverished neighborhood in New York City, the South Bronx, where I help students that dropped out of high school achieve their goal and receive a high school diploma. The reason that I feel like I am in the right place for my job is because just like these “lost” students, I was going through a tough transition myself as I left my impoverished 3rd world country and decided to embark on a journey by myself across the ocean for a better opportunity. The toughest students are sometimes the best ones because they either have a goal in mind and they want to succeed, or they are not ready and are very honest with themselves and their teacher and decided that education is not in their cards at that moment of time. I feel that these students are marginalized from society because of their socioeconomic status and it is important that they realize that there is light at the end of tunnel, just like for me my parents decided to leave their pretty cushy jobs to try and support me and my brother in the United States. That is why I decided to publish this book, to show that in each of one there is hope for a better future and we must take in account that life will not always be easy and will throw unexpected moments our way.

Targeted Age Group:: 16+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
When I was 15, I faced my own Mount Everest when I was granted a visitor’s visa to play basketball at the National Basketball Youth Tournament in Chicago. I thought about the pros and cons many times, and I made the decision to embark on a new journey to a whole new country. Despite all the challenges that I faced, I never gave up and kept going. I am that person. Once I say I will do something, it will happen.

Back in 2001, I wrote an article in my junior year in high school and won 2nd place in the contest by the PAL, Police Athletic League, named Stories my Grandparents told me.

I was also featured in Who’s Who Among American High School Students and the National Dean’s List in college.

Now, I put that perseverance to work as a History Teacher in the poorest school district in New York State, South Bronx and have just published a book called Immigrant Life that details life prior to the United States and the years here.

Book Sample
Immigrant Life

I remember this one time in Geography class back in Albania. I had completely spaced out and started looking outside the window. At that moment of time, I thought of what life would be like in a new country with different people and traditions.
In 1996, my country started getting engulfed in what are known as pyramidal schemes. This was a simple transaction and it involved giving money to a person that represented the company and a month later you would get your money back with 50% interest. Practically all Albanians took their savings, and some sold their houses and put their money in these schemes. Even my parents did the same and lost quite a bit of money in these schemes. It took these folks many years to recover from this financial meltdown and some never regained their financial foothold in the economic system. I heard of horror stories of people committing suicide and jumping off balconies because they had lost everything and were going through these uncomfortable and uncertain times.
In 1998, there was a big contingent of religious people that came from Saudi Arabia. They were mostly Muslim missionaries that preached Islam. I suppose they chose Albania given how poor of a county it was. These folks were relentless, and they worked day and night to try to convince Albanians that they should all convert to Islam. However, they did not get the results that they wanted because Albania was secular for fifty years under the communist regime and its people were not entirely religious. I remember growing up we celebrated all the different religious holidays from Easter to Christmas and New Year’s. I was not brought up religious, so it did not occur to me that these folks were very serious about their mission.

My first encounter with them happened at my school lunch break where I was approached by three of them. They gave them two notebooks and a pen and told me that I would get more gifts if I joined their religion. I remember going home that day and leaving the gifts in the apartment. The next day they all approached me as I was leaving school and asked me where the gifts were. I told them I left them home because they were gifts. After inquiring whether I would join their religion, they started to threaten me because I told them I was not interested. A block away from my apartment building they finally caught up to me and started beating me with their fists. Thank goodness for my 5th floor neighbor who saw me and came to intervene because otherwise I would have ended up in the hospital.
A few days later, my dad woke up earlier than his routine and found an explosive right outside the door. He worked for the government so it was easy for him to dismantle the dynamite.
However, this was not the end of it. A week later we were away from the apartment and came home and found out that something had exploded by our doorstep. The neighbor said that he saw a bunch of bearded guys at our doorstep and when they left, a big blast was heard. He opened his door, and the material must have exploded leaving the front door in shambles. I remember dad spending a lot of money buying one of those heavy-duty security doors that had three heavy locks in them.
This was a harrowing event that shook me to the core. I was not sure I wanted to stay there anymore. Fearful for my life all I kept thinking about was how to escape my gloomy reality and leave everything behind. At school all I kept thinking was of a way to leave the country and my prayers were answered. My basketball team was invited to a basketball tournament in Chicago and all I had to do was pass the immigration interview at the US Embassy.
The date was July 3rd (if I am not mistaken). All ten of us went to the embassy to see if we could get visas to travel to the states. Out of ten players, only half the team had their visas approved. I was one of the lucky five! My father could not believe his eyes when I told him the news. He has tears in his eyes and choked up when I told him I was determined to go. All he kept saying was that I was too young for such a journey, but I did not budge. Three weeks later, I was on a plane to Chicago and never looked back ever since.

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In today’s uncertain times, career journeys are increasingly under pressure due to the changes in the talent demographics and delivery expectations from fast evolving organisations. People are finding themselves on the crossroads of a promising career wilting under the demands of business and a midlife stage with competing priorities where they need to keep everything going from children’s education to mortgages.

Breakthrough: The framework for an Inspired Career has become a bestselling bible on career success. It has helped readers make the much-needed shift from “making a living” career mindset to power highly successful careers, fuelled by true human potential.

With his unique framework, and various anecdotes and personal stories of individuals who “crossed the bridge”, the author attempts to unshackle you from limited thinking and propels you to make an inspired career move where you can be at your best.

Targeted Age Group:: 30-58

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Hi, I’m Ashutosh Sinha.

As a young executive, I had always dreamt of doing something big in my life, like many young people do. Obviously I had zero idea what that “big” was. When I graduated with an engineering degree followed by an MBA from a premier school, it seemed I had found my road to success and happiness.

At first, it was exciting, but it wasn’t what I had signed up for…

In the pursuit of making a good living, I lost sight of my dreams and don’t know when and how the years flew by. My career track gave me stature and money but was losing its zing – it seemed all uphill and tiresome. Life threw me a curveball when I lost my revered personal mentors, my grandfather and father, within a span of two years. It was a turning point that pushed me to pause and reflect on my journey.

Thus began my quest to search for my higher purpose. Through extensive research and conversations with numerous business executives and entrepreneurs, I learned how they not only defied their middle-age blues, but had also made their journey to the peak and were genuinely enjoying every moment of it. I discovered what distinguished the happy executives from the others was a fine line on how they approached their career.

This propelled me to distil all I had learned into a practical framework on how to energise a listless career into one which provides a deep sense of fulfilment while keeping the cash flow intact. I tried on myself at first – and IT WORKED!

I am deeply connected to my inner calling which I now refer to as the True North on the career compass. My framework has now been used by many senior and mid-level executives I mentor-partner with. I am on a personal mission to share this framework with other executives, entrepreneurs and homemakers on a sabbatical, to help them make a comeback to the rediscovered career destination, where they can be incredibly successful.

Book Sample
Chapter 1
SIXTY SECONDS WORTH OF DISTANCE RUN

“There are only two days in the year that nothing can be done.
One is called Yesterday and the other is called Tomorrow. Today is the right day …”
—Dalai Lama

If you are a mid-career or senior executive, who is very content and deeply engaged in your job, this book is probably not for you. If your work inspires
you enough to have that spring in your step every single morning, congratulations – because you are among three of ten executives who are living a career they love. However, if you are among the seven, just like I was, you possibly feel trapped in your work and are prone to stress and fatigue. You find your office bag feeling heavier by the day and your drive to work becoming increasingly monotonous. Numerous stud- ies and polls have shown that executives who do not find joy in their work are twice as likely to be diag- nosed with stress-related symptoms, such as high blood pressure and depression. At the very minimum, these are complemented by severe Monday allergies. Let me briefly relate my journey to unlock the hidden wealth of fusing the elusive happiness with work.

I am of the Generation Xers where post-school in India parents were under tremendous pressure to get their child into a career that would pay for his or her living. My social setup was no exception, and it was convenient to walk the same trodden path. I surely wasn’t a rock star, and I tried my luck at every entrance exam for admission into colleges in engineering, architecture, arts, and even the army, hoping to make a career by accident. My father was an accomplished professional from the IITs, the ivy league of engineering colleges in India, and that surely did not make it any easier for me to accept my rather limited success in the various admission tests. But finally, I did get into a state engi- neering college. I seemed to have found my trade and graduated as a silver medallist in metallurgical engineering, and four years later I found myself in a steel plant as a young hard hat engineer, managing workers twice or more my age producing pig iron. It was exciting at first, but it wasn’t what I had signed up for.

After all, I had topped material science to live my childhood dream to be a NASA engineer, sending spacecraft to planets. I threw my job and decided to pursue my mas- ters from Sheffield, UK, in material science – dream ahoy, I said! But before my spacecraft could even take off from India to United Kingdom, tragedy struck at home. I lost someone I loved dearly – my grandfather. And as if that wasn’t enough, my role model, my guru, my father passed away two days after I turned twenty- five. Fate had thrown a strange life statistic at me – two years and two men who held the beacon to my life ahead were gone, and here I was feeling all grown up. I was soon back at my old steel plant, making a living. In a few months, I moved to an automobile manufacturer closer home to be with my mother and grandmother. For fifteen months, as a quality control engineer, I would take a 7:00 a.m. bus ride to the plant, have six cups of tea and samosas sitting on a creaky wooden table waiting for the clock to chime every hour, and then check the quality of the gear castings on the shop floor – eight times a day; I noted the readings, deliv- ered them to the lab, and got back home on the same bus. I would crash into my room on my father’s arm- chair, very tired. My body wasn’t tired; it was my mind.

One weekend I could not take it anymore. Something was amiss. I was at home with a decent paying job, but every month I was becoming someone else. I pulled out my father’s car in pouring rain and drove to his old office, parked the car, and allowed the dam to break. Deluge of tears forced their way out, and I was shout- ing at myself or maybe talked to myself; it didn’t mat- ter. By the time I heard the sound of rain drumming the car roof, I had probably been with myself for a cou- ple of hours. This was it! I had to do something mean- ingful. It was not that the job was below my dignity, but it wasn’t me. My intuitive mother saw through my eyes when I reached home, and that night over dinner, she gave me a sealed postal envelope from my father, which had never got posted. It had a newspaper clip- ping of the last para of Rudyard Kipling’s poem “If” which ended with
“If you can fill the unforgiving minute, With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the earth and every-thing that is in it, And which is more – you will be a man, my son”.

In his handwritten letter, he had challenged me to find a “sense of purpose” in life and follow my dreams. It was surreal timing. Supported by my very courageous mother, as it was too late to get back to my NASA ambitions, I instead resolved to pursue a business degree from one of the reputed business schools in the country. In two years, I graduated and joined a reputed market research firm and was back on the road, this time in a suit and a tie and driving my new Korean Matiz car to different industrial clients on a polymer research project. Couple of years into the job, I felt I had arrived in life. On one such client trip, as I parked my car and looked into the rearview mirror to tighten my tie knot, my eyes looked back searchingly to ask me: have you found a sense of purpose? Here I was in my early thirties, a young executive thinking I was in the groove a moment back, and now the words from Kipling came ringing back. Was I living every single minute? Strange for it to come. By traditional wisdom it was all perfect. Another ten years on the road and I could be a senior business head, no complaints. Then in my forties, I could push myself to be a senior executive or, who knows, even a CEO maybe, and so on. Was I truly making a difference? Hard to answer, but it kept ringing like a hundred fire engines running around in my head on the way back from the business meeting. I woke up next morning with a clear thought – a resolve – I am not going to live to just make a living. I had to live for a purpose, one that would positively impact lives around me.
Providence plays an equal part in life when you resolve. A senior industry mentor of mine referred me to an interview with one of the top executive search firms of the world. It was unusual couple of decades back to move by choice from a fast-track business career into what the world referred to as head-hunting. But it was beautiful. I could never imagine that I would end up meeting so many CEOs, board members, and business owners at such an early stage in my career. It was a steep learning curve, but I relished every minute of it. Over the next few years, I observed and absorbed why CXOs across the world succeed or fail and how business owners think. Most importantly, I developed a net- work of nearly three hundred CXOs around the world. I attempted to decode the secret algorithms of successful senior executives. However, even as I observed many success stories, I soon realised that it came with a huge caveat to what I will now refer to, for the sake of analogy, as the Bermuda Triangle effect. Many cruising career planes hit a thunderstorm in their mid-forties to early-fifties, and their career trajectory went off the radar. I will delve into this topic at length in a later chapter in this book.

For nearly twenty years, I have been fortunate to have played the Head of Human Resources and Talent Acquisition role for some of the best organisations in the world across various industries: manufacturing, healthcare, tech, BPO, consulting, petrochemical, and retail. I have interviewed close to two thousand CXOs and hired over forty thousand people at various career levels across the world for nearly two decades now. In hindsight, every interview and every hire has been a learning. I have learnt that your career is like that young sapling that you can’t be reckless with; it needs careful nurturing and care, not by someone else but by you. In the absence of right nurturing, the roots do not go deep enough to hold against the gusty winds in later years.

Over the past decade, I have found myself on a mission to mentor senior executives. The focus of my work has been on the Bermuda Triangle Effect – the career midpoint where many lose their way. Many tend to mix this up with midlife crisis. With mortgages kick- ing in, growing children, higher education fees, age- ing parents, rising medical bills, and some bumps to the career, it seems like one giant crisis is taking shape. The trick is to decouple career and life. Yes, it is easier said than done, but there is a way and we will delve into it together later in the book. Eight out of ten senior executives in their mid-forties feel they are unable to balance the demands of personal life with a fast-peaking career graph.

During my conversations with fifty CEOs, over 78% confided that they started finding their jobs rather monotonous somewhere in their forties, which led to a growing sense of disengagement. The spring in their step was gone, and the disengagement led to disenchantment that effectively took the passion out of what they did. Many admitted that the magnified focus on what they did not like in their occupation made them dwell more and more on what was wrong with their careers till it became a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts. I counselled those who were willing to partner on this journey of resurrection to make a career transition to what inspired them most, their sweet spot, where they could play from a position of strength. Again, the transition wasn’t easy keeping in mind that the equation of career drives money, which in turn drives life, played the most on everyone’s minds. Monthly salary was like an addiction that inhibited any lateral thinking beyond the requirements of the job and survival against the politics of the organisation. After years of research and discussion with my network of CXOs, I have developed a framework that has produced sustained results. I am happy to report that many of the senior executives found their step and added another twenty years to their career trajectory. I do not claim to have any magic self-help mantra. I offer a serious partnership over the course of this book to navigate the career plane above the level where the thunder- storms are playing and rediscover your “future career”. It could be inside the same organisation or another career track. This framework empowers you to achieve a breakthrough.

I invite you to find your higher purpose to fuel some passion back in what you do tomorrow. It’s time to make that right next move!

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When creature-of-habit news editor Jenny McBeth is suddenly given a coveted promotion she is not qualified for, she finds herself thrust into a motley news crew and sent to an island off the coast of Australia. Her task: to hunt down the truth behind the British Royal family’s disappearance, whose plane lost contact over the uncharted territory. Shortly after arriving, the group realizes something is amiss, and soon it is they who become the hunted in a struggle of deception and survival.

Offshore, a group of thieves aboard a luxury cruise ship must escape to the island, unleashing unforeseen horrors; for what was once thought to be nothing more than fiction is very, very real as a well-intentioned medical experiment casts a novel virus upon the world, rapidly spreading among the island’s native tribe. A battle humankind has never known has begun, and a cure must be found before all succumb to the infected.

Targeted Age Group:: 18 & older

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I've been a fan of zombie genre since i was a kid. Recently i've been doing a research & found out that this kind of tale has never been told before. So i decided to created my own unique story with a different take on the zombie apocalypse.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The character Jenny were somehow the moder version of Jane in the classic tale of Tarzan. But she is more of a sweet & caring lady & innocent. It is hard to come up with different names because my book consist of a lot of characters. I tried really hard to make each of them as unique as possible. Only the few main characters have a background story.

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Through the story of a young woman’s transition into adulthood, the poetry of ANATOMY MUSEUM puts on display the hidden secrets of our past that both plague and define us. Erin Cisney’s debut chapbook reflects on the innocence of youth and the pain of losing it with simple, unflinching honesty and quiet introspection.

Targeted Age Group:: Adults

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Anatomy Museum was inspired by the experiences of my youth and coming to terms with my own identity.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
They're an amalgamation of all my selves and the people I've known, both real and unreal.

Book Sample
Electrical Storm

Night clots in blue-black and hums nostalgic,
telephone wires caught by wind snake on walls,
frantic, barely tethered. I’m obsessed with regrets.
Clouds collide and spark, trees ripple.
Our sheets thrash under a fan that spins so fast
it rocks back and forth in its plaster socket,
threatens to buck loose from the ceiling.
Is it raining where you are? I shake him awake.
My damp hair is cold, smooth like riverbed stone,
sprays in tentacles across his stomach.
In the faceless dark, I’m a chasm, bottomless,
the sky groans on in ominous minor key.
I want, want unspeakable things, floods, catastrophe.

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A children’s mystery adventure with a little bit of magic.

When police exhume the body in her grandfather’s coffin, 12-year-old Gia Lance already knows that it isn’t him. And given that her dad won’t believe her, what choice does she have but to enlist the help of her drama-king best friend?

Their search for her grandfather leads to the discovery of a secret riddle, a hidden plateau and an enchanted scroll steeped in mystery. It lures them by exposing visions – fragments of well-kept secrets.

Gia soon grapples with an eerie tale of a dungeon, an ill-fated ship, a missing child, and the legendary curse of the Seeing Scroll. But whose secrets are they? How does the scroll decide what she sees? Who can she trust? More importantly, what does it any of it have to do with her grandfather?

Time is running out. For Gia to connect the dots, she must confront the idea of her grandfather not being who she thought he was and acknowledge the possibility of him being cursed. But there are people after the scroll. Dangerous people! Clearly, they’ll do anything to ensure their secrets remain buried. Maybe even their crimes.

Can Gia evade them on her quest to solve the riddle and figure out how to save her grandfather without being duped by the scroll’s delicious secrets, or will he be forever lost?

Targeted Age Group:: 9+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
My husband brought home a book about things found along various coastlines. So I began wondering. What happens if you find something that doesn't belong to you – can you keep it?

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The two main characters are loosely based on the relationship that existed between my brother and I at that age.

Book Sample
Chapter 1:

Can you keep a secret?

Police exhumed the body in Oupie’s coffin, but Gia already knew that it wasn’t his.
If only her dad would believe her.
The fingernail wedged between her teeth tore, and she winced as it sliced into her skin. Tears splashed onto her chin, hot, then plopped onto the key she held. It was ancient, solid brass and fat with the promise of secrets. She stroked its back, pondering her hunch about who it came from.
The back door opened.
Gia ducked behind their Pepper tree, spying on her dad flicking his long fringe back. Slipping the key into her pocket, she dragged her forearm along her nose, creating yet another snotty streak.
He hopped around and pulled red gumboots over neon-green socks.
A muscle in Gia’s jaw twitched. Her plan was underhanded. Sneaky. She’d pay for it if caught, and for a nasty second, she speculated what her punishment would be. She owed it to Oupie, though. Didn’t matter what her dad believed.

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Who influences our children more, Jesus or Santa? Is shunning Santa the Christian thing to do? Is Jesus alone enough to save us from the lure of Christmas? In this edition of The Misunderstood Series, the author takes a closer look at the predicament Christian parents find themselves in each December, when, Jesus lying in a manger must compete with children lining up to sit on Santa’s lap. With a healthy dose of perspective for parents and self-help advice for people from all walks of life, use this fun book as an interactive way to jumpstart a discussion with your family or church group about the two Stars of Christmas, Jesus and Santa.

Targeted Age Group:: Parents

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
The idea for this book came to me about five years ago when I overheard our three year old praying to Santa Claus under the Christmas tree. That was enough to get me started researching and writing about the dilemma Christian parents face around Christmastime: How much Santa is enough?

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A Duke disguised as a Cook. A Lady disguised as a maid.

Dreading their impending marriages, they only have a few nights left in a creepy old manor. She thinks he hates her. He thinks she’s much too meek.

Insomnia and a food thief lead to secret midnight trysts, where they treat and test each other. They discover a ravenous connection between them at night. With little time left together, they need to reckon with the lies they tell themselves.

A Regency romance with honey and heat.

Targeted Age Group:: 20-40s

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
This started as a short story where I wanted to write steamy midnight regency interludes. When it clicked that what I really wanted to do was riff off of You've Got Mail within a regency setting, the story took on a life of its own. I wanted to tell a story about the joys of figuring out who you are by pretending to be someone else.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
After a few drafts, the characters started telling me that they were dreamers, who were so stuck in their own heads that they were missing out on the possibilities of the world around them. Madeline internalizes the negativity of the people around her, and Levi tries to run away from his responsibilities by escaping into cooking. Madeline discovers her own agency through Levi, and Levi finally fully sees the world around him with a push from Madeline.

Book Sample
Madeline couldn’t hear her grandmother, even in the claustrophobic space inside the carriage. Grandmother continued speaking, her eyes sharp on Madeline. But she spoke so quietly that Madeline had to lean far forward to get within range of her whisper.
“He will forget, Madeline. He will turn the corner too fast, send us right off the road. My neck will break,” Grandmother whispered.
“He’s been a driver for five years,” Madeline said. “You checked his references twice, did you not?” She refused to whisper in return and play Grandmother’s game.
“You shall be sorry when you’re crying over my grave, knowing full well that you could have prevented my death.”
“I’m sure the driver will be careful. I don’t need to tell him how to do his job.” Madeline’s voice wobbled. It was hopeless to try to reason with Grandmother. The Dowager Viscountess always got what she wanted.
Grandmother had refused to talk normally for the last week and a half. She had stated that she was unable to speak when her family’s reputation lay in such ruins. So she proceeded to converse with family in quiet raspy tones, adding an air of fragile menace to each interaction.
Grandmother had an incredible knack for acting theatrically, especially when it made other people’s lives more difficult. 
Madeline gritted her teeth, and leaned forward again to hear Grandmother’s response.
“No matter. It is imperative that he be watched. You must sit beside him, and insist,” Grandmother rasped. “Unclench your jaw, my dear. It is a most unattractive posture.”
Madeline nodded. She tried to let her jaw loosen, pressing on the bone near her ear. Her entire body seemed to shake with the rattle of the carriage on the road. Dratted hired carriage. Scratched wooden walls and a smell of must. Their old carriage had had glossy paint, scrollwork, and much more cushion.
The knot in Madeline’s jaw remained, a lump of stress to remind her how unattractive she was.
“Keep your head down out of the sun. Convey the importance of turning slowly. You have few skills. But you should be able to speak, correct?”
Madeline raised her head to meet the piercing blue gaze of her Grandmother. She had a precise beauty – skin pale as milk, and a stern set to her mouth.
Madeline nodded her head. Grandmother knocked her cane against the ceiling a dozen times. The noise seemed to rattle inside Madeline’s head. She was afraid that her skull would break open from the noise, shatter as easily as an eggshell.
After another minute of Grandmother’s cane threatening to blow a hole through the ceiling, the carriage finally slowed to a halt.
“Do remember your enunciation, my dear. Sit upright,” Grandmother called as Madeline slid out of the carriage.
Madeline explained the situation to the driver, and took her perch. It was a most improper position for a young lady. She sat next to a strange man, open to the elements for a long day’s journey. But her Grandmother’s will was not to be crossed.
The trip was as arduous as expected, Madeline’s backside was quickly sore from the flat hard seat. The bench seemed too small to hold a fully grown person. Madeline now longed for the slim cushions within the carriage.
The bright sky felt like a glare after the grey of London. Madeline’s hands rose several times to untie the ribbon holding her bonnet onto her head. She longed to feel the sun on her face, instead of hiding under the brim. But Grandmother would notice instantly if any ray of sun had touched Madeline’s cheek. She had few skills and fewer virtues. She must let her skin remain blemish-free.
Madeline let her bonnet remain.
She did let her posture lapse, and her shoulders curled slightly forward. It was a small sort of rebellion. But for the well-bred daughter of a Viscount, it felt momentous.
They passed fields and hills under an overwhelming sky. The trees all had trunks and leaves and similar features. They blurred together.
Hours passed before the driver told Madeline that they had arrived at the grounds of Arundel. Madeline had been kept in London for her education, so this was her premiere view of their country estate.
To her disappointment, Arundel looked like the rest of the country, with fields and trees and tidy dirt roads.
As the carriage approached a small copse of trees, the road turned.  The driver kept their speed up, and Madeline knew that Grandmother would complain that she was knocked about by the carriage’s movements.  However, Madeline didn't say anything to the driver.  She wanted to get to the estate faster, and perhaps put more distance between herself and her grandmother.  
Several events occurred in a quick succession.
A swarthy hog ran across the road, right in front of the horses, who reared up in alarm.
The carriage jolted to a halt, throwing Madeline off her seat.
She had a brief sensation of swimming through air. She saw a tall figure dart from the trees. The blurred shape of the hog returned.
Madeline hit something that was not the road. She tumbled over twice, a sensation of cloth and muscle mixed in with the gritty surface.
Someone was screaming. Madeline touched her face to make sure that she was not emitting the sound. The scream sounded like a mangled bird of prey.
Madeline’s cheek was pressed into the rough rocks and dirt of the road.
The carriage was still rocking back and forth, because the hog had decided to charge at the horses again. The hog seemed to be in sport, even as Grandmother’s shrieks resounded, and the driver clung to the seat with both arms, his face quite green.
"Bloody bollocks,” Madeline swore. “What is that hog playing at?  Infernal damn dickens.
"Bless you," a deep voice said, much too close to her.  Madeline froze.  
Very slowly, she turned to see her own situation.  She lay on the dirt road, her legs and skirts tangled in someone else's pants.  There were legs inside those pants.
Madeline turned to see a man, lying mere inches from her.  He was breathing heavily.  It might just be her imagination, but Madeline thought that she could feel the heat from his body.  His lips looked languid, curving at ease on stubbled cheeks.
Madeline could feel her own cheeks flushing in embarrassment.  Their position was quite uncouth. 
Madeline pushed herself up off the ground with one arm, to get better vantage on their situation. 
"Oof," the man said again. In her haste to get up, she had pressed on his torso.
Madeline snuck a look at the carriage, but Grandmother was still trapped inside.  
This was Madeline's chance, to break a rule of propriety.  She had always tried before, to attempt to feel like her own person.  But she was so closely watched that she could never get very far before she was caught out.  
Madeline couldn't quite think of what she could get away with. Her mind felt blank.  
So she paused there, sitting halfway up on the road, her hand still resting on the strange man's chest.  The span of his shoulders looked impossibly broad. She could feel the rise of his chest as he breathed. His wool coat was so well-worn that it was soft instead of scratchy. Now she could definitely feel the heat of his skin through the layers of his clothes.
Madeline was aware of her own breathing.  She could stay in this position for a few more seconds.  That would show society and all of their damned rules what she thought of them.
"Are you okay?" the strange man asked. His hair was in disarray.  His eyes looked worried, with his eyebrows creased together.  
Madeline reluctantly withdrew her hand and skimmed her own body to ensure that she was still intact.  
Her pelisse had unbuttoned, and her neckline was askew. She breathed heavily, trying to get in as much air as possible.  Her dress was too tight.  Her backside felt a bit bruised.  But she couldn't tell a strange man that.  Everything else seemed to be in order.  Her dress was filthy, and there were a few tears.  
"As wretched as ever," Madeline said.  She smiled at the man, to show that she was in jest. 
"Ah.  I see?" He still looked worried. He probably thought her a lunatic. She hadn't shown him any evidence to the contrary.
Madeline reached to untangle her skirts from their legs.  The green muslin fabric was torn and completely covered in dust. At the same time, the man reached over her.  
Madeline paused, their arms touching, his face close to hers. His eyes were friendly, laughing like they hid a really spectacular joke.
"Sir?" she asked.  There was too much to keep track of, and the racket coming from the carriage was muddling her head.  The horses whinnied, the hog squealed with glee.
"I'll just -" the man said, while continuing to move forward.  Madeline turned her head to see that his boot was lying on the other side of her.  He grabbed it, and took his arm back to his side of her body.  
It was highly improper for him to continue their contact with each other.  Madeline felt that when she wasn't watching the carriage, Grandmother would emerge, see their tumbled situation, and kill them both with an overdose of scolding.  
"You, you are no gentleman," Madeline said.  She had wanted his face to fall, for him to apologize for his behavior, and perhaps kiss her hand in retribution.  But he looked nonplussed, his strict eyebrows relaxing a bit. He withdrew his legs from her skirts, and started tying his boot back on.  
"Maybe not.  But from your colorful language, you're not one either.  We're in good company.  I am the absolute boor Levi Dunton. Please, pay me no mind.”  
He gave a nod of his head, and looked at Madeline for one second.  He surely didn’t expect her to introduce herself. She couldn’t.
Instead of responding, Madeline held her breath. After a strange pause, Levi continued tying his boot.  
She inspected him. He seemed to be about her age. His clothes were worn, with patches on the sleeves and legs of his britches.  Levi had that look of fresh air and sunshine about him.  He had the air of a farmer.
"I am sorry," Levi said.  "I had meant to catch you but that damn hog got underfoot.”   "He does seem to like being underfoot.  It is a troublesome trait,”  Madeline said.  Is that how one was supposed to talk about swine?  She didn't have much experience talking about livestock with the rest of the Ton.  
“Any more of this behavior and he'll be bacon," Levi said cheerfully.  
He stood up.  He seemed ludicrously tall.  Madeline just sat there, looking up at him like a dunce of a woman. 
Levi carried himself confidently, relaxed. He picked up his flat cap from the road, dusted it off, and placed it on his head.
"I really must go," Levi said. He wouldn’t show it, but he was likely thinking what a horrible woman she was. That’s what everyone thought about Madeline.
"I wouldn't want to lie on the road with a simpleton either," Madeline said.  Then she thought about her words, and they didn't quite hang together.  
The man, Levi, stopped walking away, but he didn't turn towards her.  
Madeline got up.  
"You're not a – I only meant to say, I'm a simple, no but I’m – "  Her words were cut off by an especially vibrant shriek from the carriage’s direction.  
“Maaeell —“ It might have been Madeline's name that was shouted, but the noise was garbled by the noise of the animals, and the grunts of the driver as he tried to get the rocking carriage door open, without letting the wheels roll over his feet.   "I should help her,” Madeline said, shrugging her shoulders.  
"Of course.  If you would excuse me, Miss Mellie," Levi said.  He whistled, and the hog trotted over to Levi's heels.  The hog looked back at the horses, like he'd rather be terrorizing them.  But the hog stayed at Levi's side as he strode back into the copse of trees.   Madeline didn’t want Levi to go. She gathered what was left of her courage. "Nice to meet your bacon," Madeline called after him.  She immediately winced.  Words were not her allies today.  
Levi waved, but continued walking away, like any sensible person would.
The carriage was finally settling down.  The driver stood in front of the horses, soothing them.  He had apparently given up on opening the door for Grandmother.  So Madeline wrenched the carriage door open.  
Grandmother crouched in the doorway, and swept up an errant piece of hair into place.  Then she fell dramatically into Madeline's arms.  
Madeline took several backwards steps to regain her balance.  
"I have broken my leg," Grandmother said in a whisper.  "I know it.  Our family’s curse has arrived.  First your father's bad luck, and now this travesty."  Her eyes took measure of the tears in Madeline's dress, and the dirt that has been ground into the fabric.  “You are a disgrace.”
Madeline strained to remain upright underneath the weight of Grandmother, who pressed into her shoulder with a hand so strong that it felt more like a claw.  
After the horses calmed down, Grandmother insisted that they get back in the carriage.  The driver looked like he was at the end of his rope. He refused to get close enough to Grandmother to hear her orders.
So Madeline translated Grandmother's wishes to the driver, to deposit them and their belongings at the front door, and make sure that the housekeeper knew they had arrived.  
While standing on the front steps, the manor looked cold and strange to Madeline.  It was an enormous building, with small windows and intricate gables that gave it a medieval feel. Most of the windows were dark. The front of the manor cast long shadows over the drive.  
Madeline searched for some detail she could hold onto, something that made this building personal. But all she saw was plain grey stone, ruthless in its pragmatism. These were functional walls that were meant to last, but they existed out of duty, nothing else. Large trees obscured either side of the building, but no vine dared to climb the walls. She could see patches in the roof, from where it had been repaired through the years.
Madeline should have a connection, a fondness for the place.  A family estate should be a source of pride and happy memories.  But she felt no attachment here.  It was a pile of stones, the only belonging that her father hadn't managed to gamble away.  
As soon as the driver had escorted Madeline, Grandmother, and the luggage out of the carriage, he bolted.  He drove the carriage away much too fast, the jangling bits clanging as he went.  
"You made it," a familiar voice said.  Madeline turned to see Levi and an older man in the doorway.  She felt a jolt, surprised to see him so quickly, at her manor. She felt tense at the prospect of more interactions with this man. She could make a fool of herself so many more times. It would be horrible.
"We sent fer Mrs. Grimette, she'll be here to meet you soon,” the old man said. “We didn’ know ye were arriving, or we would be more prepared.”
Grandmother barely looked at the men.  "I know where my room is," she whispered to Madeline.  “Send a broth up shortly."  She swept through the doorway.
The men turned to Madeline for translation.  They couldn't hear the whisper at all.  
"The Dowager would like some broth brought up," Madeline said.  She had meant to follow Grandmother through the doorway.  She felt she would be lost in such a big manor. This place felt like a stone monstrosity in comparison to their London townhouse.
The older man grunted as he bent over to pick up a suitcase.  Madeline hurried to pick it up for him.  
"Here, let me get that," she said.  The suitcase was heavier than it looked, and she quickly regretted her action.  But she had to carry it upstairs or she would look even more foolish.  Levi scooped up the other suitcases.
"I can show you the kitchen, and Harriet can get broth for your mistress," Levi said.  "This is Mr. Gerald Chawton, the gardener.  Mr. Chawton, this is Mellie, the Dowager's maid."  
Madeline looked up in surprise.  Hearing her name wrong was one thing – but a maid?  Did she look like a – she looked down at her dress again, which was dirty beyond recognition.  And he had seen Grandmother treat her with such disdain, of course he would assume she was a servant instead of a beloved granddaughter.
"I'm not a – " Madeline started to say, and then she stopped herself.  She had spoken in haste too many times today.  
For as long as Grandmother kept whispering, Madeline could present herself as whoever she wanted to be.  If she was a maid, she could perhaps explore the grounds on her own, or find out what the servants said when they weren't on their proper behavior.  It could be an adventure of sorts.  And Grandmother would definitely not approve, which made the scheme much more appealing.  
"That's correct," Madeline said.  "Pleased to meet you.”

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“M. Liz Boyle tackles the topic of showering difficult people with grace and forgiveness, making this a must-read for Christian teens. Adventure seekers who loved Avalanche and Chased will fall head-over-heels for the adventure that heats up in Ablaze!” – author Allyson Kennedy

This summer the Stanley sisters and the Miles boys are excited to hike together again, and now they have the unique opportunity to help two of their ranger friends with an outdoor program in the beautiful Montana mountains.
Marlee has always considered herself a willing follower. Give her a direction and she’s happy to help. Her older sister Ellie is a natural leader, and Marlee is content in her role as assistant.

Marlee and her sisters have been assigned to help with Ranger Rose’s team, and they are savoring the adventure.

But in a heartbeat while the group is divided by a few hundred feet, fire breaks out between Ranger Rose and Marlee’s group. In this enthralling finale to the Off the Itinerary series, Marlee must face her fears with courage that only God can provide.

Targeted Age Group:: 11-21

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
After sending my teenage characters through an avalanche and a flash flood, a wildfire seemed like the next disaster they should experience. Main character Marlee learns so much in this novel that it's a great parallel to a refiner's fire.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Marlee and her sisters are loosely based on a blend of two families I grew up with who both had all girls. Since Marlee is the middle child, she often is the mediator, although in Ablaze you'll find that she is the one needing encouragement more than giving it.

Marlee's family's friends Sawyer and Marshall have traits of a blend of guys I've known over the years. The interactions in a teenaged group are so fun to write, and watching the characters interact with a variety of other characters shows readers a well-rounded depiction.

Book Sample
Prologue

I yawned and shifted my parents’ SUV into Park. I cast an annoyed glance at the clock and muttered, “1:18.”
I waited about a minute, and then my long-time friend Braelynn Gunderson opened the passenger door, wordlessly sat down, and buckled the seatbelt with no ‘Thank you,’ or ‘I knew I could count on you, Marlee.’ Okay, so Braelynn and I had been really close ever since we were five and her mom unjammed the zipper on my snowsuit at the playground by our house for me. Braelynn asked to play with me, and we hit it off that day. Over the years we spent tons of time together – until six months ago.

We never exactly had a falling-out, but we had definitely drifted apart. My schedule got busier with training for the summer’s backpacking trip and hanging out with my younger sister Lydie. Braelynn found new kids to hang out with – mainly her boyfriend, Owen. I did not vote for Owen and Braelynn to get together. Lydie and I agree that he has shifty eyes and is conceited. Plus, anybody can see that he does not bring out the best in Braelynn. Since Owen takes up all Braelynn’s time these days, I feel like she doesn’t need my friendship anymore.

I was very surprised when she called me – at 1:00 am. It took me a few minutes to wake up and another few minutes to sneak outside and pray that my parents would sleep through the sound of the SUV’s engine starting. I don’t think Lydie heard me tiptoe down the stairs, and since my parents hadn’t called me yet, I doubted they had heard me leave either. This could be easy. I just needed to drop off Braelynn, go home and park my parents’ car, sneak back in, and return to the comfort of my bed. And try to forget about Braelynn – try to forget that my oldest friend ditched me for a drinking party and a boyfriend who engages in way too much PDA. Super gross.

Even though the situation irritated me like wet socks, I guess in a way I was glad she called me. Even if she wouldn’t say it, maybe it meant she knew she could count on me. I peeked at her as we turned onto the next street. She looked like she’d been crying. If it hadn’t been 1:21 a.m. I would have felt bad for her. I quietly asked if she was okay. She gave a half-shrug.

“So,” I wanted to break the weird silence. Over the years silence had been uncommon when Braelynn and I were together. “It’s good to see you again.” I tried not to sound cheesy.

Braelynn let out an angry huff and said, “My mom said to tell you hi.”

“Really?” I asked, aware of the hopeful surprise in my voice. I’ve always liked Mr. and Mrs. Gunderson. Once they let me tag along all the way to California for a week-long camp. Even though it was a lot of sitting in the minivan, I had good memories, mostly of making up goofy songs with Braelynn. The camp had been a blast, and we had shared it all together. That was six years ago, and now that I hadn’t seen her parents in months, I longed for the good old days. “That was sweet of her!”

Braelynn cut in, “Well it was like a month ago that she told me to tell you hi.”

“Oh.” I tried to hide the deflation in my voice, “Well maybe next month you can tell her I said hi back.”

Braelynn made another huff and said, “I don’t need a lecture right now, Marlee.” Ha, that was NOT a lecture, but whatever.

“Just drop me off at the corner of my street. And please don’t tell anyone about this.”

“Oh, I get it,” I said, anger rising, “We’re not friends anymore, but you can call me to sneak around and give you a ride when your jerk boyfriend gets drunk? Feel free to leave a tip in the cupholder. You’re welcome.”

“Marlee,” Braelynn hissed through gritted teeth, “I know you’re disappointed that I’ve made some mistakes lately. Just get me home, give me time to sort it out, and please don’t tell anyone about this. I’m not exactly proud of the way tonight went.”

I saw a pair of headlights approaching us in the other lane and vaguely wondered who else was out at 1:26 a.m. I wished I was still asleep. I knew my voice was snarky, but I couldn’t help it. “Not much to tell. You know you can count on me to keep this rendezvous a secret.” I was so mad that I meant it. I shouldn’t have answered her call. I wouldn't be sneaking around like an undercover taxi driver, and she could figure out her own mess.

“Marlee, STOP!” Braelynn shrieked. Wow, let’s not overreact. I wasn’t half as rude as you.

A car’s horn blared. My mind only saw fragments of what happened next. A blur of deer hide flew at us. Headlights careened through the dark. Tires squealed. My ears filled with crashing sounds. Airbags exploded. The deer crushed the hood of the SUV and shattered the windshield mere inches from our noses. The other car melded into ours. My head slammed into the headrest, and my hands flew up to shield my face. My breath was shallow and shaky, and I whispered, “Braelynn?”

The other driver climbed through the passenger door of his crumpled car and ran over to Braelynn and me. “Are you okay?” he shouted. “I’ll call 9-1-1!”

So much for keeping this a secret.

One

Mrs. Gunderson came to our house the next morning and hugged me. I was exhausted and overwhelmed with guilt that I only had a headache, but Braelynn was sitting in the hospital with a concussion and a broken arm. “You’ve been a good friend to Braelynn. I’m so sorry she pulled you into her mess. You’re a natural leader, and I’ve prayed so much that she would do her part to rekindle your friendship. She needs you. She acts mad, but please go visit her at the hospital.” Then she broke down in tears. Was it my turn to hug her?

Braelynn’s parents were disappointed in her and proud of me. Talk about an awkward predicament! My parents weren’t even too upset at me for sneaking out since I actually had a good reason. I think they were just glad that I was safe, and Braelynn’s injuries weren’t any worse. They wouldn’t say it in front of the Gundersons, but I knew they were relieved that I hadn’t been at the party. Even if I was cool enough to be invited, I wouldn’t have gone. It’s not a path I want to go down.

I didn’t want to face Braelynn, but since Mrs. Gunderson was so gracious, I visited her in the hospital later that day. I tried to be nice, but it spiraled into a Let’s Blame Marlee Campaign. In Braelynn’s eyes the car accident was totally my fault. Right, like I planned it all with the deer. Like I would've been driving then and there if not for her. Besides, accidents happen. But according to Braelynn, her parents found out that she was at a drinking party because I crashed that night. I decided that my headache was more from her meanness than from the accident itself.

I didn’t get a ‘thanks for saving me from my creepy boyfriend and his drunk friends,’ just “Marlee! Were you drinking too?! I needed you, and all you accomplished was getting us in an accident! So I made a mistake and went to that party. I was fixing my mess until you crashed. Then my parents got a call from the hospital, and the blabby newspaper people showed up, and now everyone knows I was at a drinking party. No way am I calling you again. Maybe you fit in with your hiking friends, but you do not fit in with me or my friends. You’re nothing but a big embarrassment. Some leader you turned out to be.” Ouch. Did she know Mrs. Gunderson called me a natural leader? Did Braelynn purposely say that to hurt me worse? Might as well give that dagger another twist in my heart.

She acted as if she thought her parents were so dense that they would not have figured it out on their own. Anyone who knew Braelynn at all could see she'd changed a ton over the past few months – and not for the better.
She yelled at me that I needed to leave her alone. A nurse hurried in, and I walked out, biting back tears. I knew a good friend would pray for her, but I was so exasperated and hurt as I left her hospital room that I just sighed, rode my bike home, and went to bed early. Actually I was so upset that out of habit I went to Lydie’s room. Lydie and I had shared the room for years, and even though I moved into Ellie’s room, Lydie’s still feels like mine. I curled up on her bed and took comfort in the familiar view from her window. I always liked listening to the silver maple’s leaves in the breeze with the window open. It felt like home and helped me calm down, and eventually I fell asleep.

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A bride is sent off into the unknown to marry a stranger on All Hallows Eve, October 31, 1749.
What she finds on her arrival is enough to make her skin crawl.
Limping footsteps, blood-curdling screams, smoking torches, and a house on a cliff… A man she only sees in the dark, his breathing labored behind a mask.
“A betrothal is as good as the wedding vows. You cannot leave.”
“Am I your prisoner?”
“You shall stay here until you bear me a child. Then you can stay or go, the choice shall be mine!”

Targeted Age Group:: 18+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I have always liked the damsel in distress at the mercy of a ruthless rogue trope, and I wanted to write my own. The Gothic elements add so much atmospherics, I just couldn't resist.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The heroine had to be very young and inexperienced, to offset the rogue – world-wize, cynical. The other characters popped into the story as they were needed to carry the story smoothly forward.

Book Sample
Chapter 1

It was a very dark night, the one before All Hallows’ Eve. Somewhere along the southeastern tip of Africa, at the edge of the Cape Colony, a carriage traveled along a lonely lane. It could barely be distinguished from the night, except when lightning snaked across the ebon dome. In the blinding light, the carriage shimmered in the torrential downpour; the four horses turned to silver.
The coachman had his hat pulled down low, and his coat collar turned up. The hands holding the reins were as wet as the horses. He let out a steady stream of whistling, often punctuated by curses too ribald for delicate ears. This was meant to reassure the horses—if they could hear it over the din. Their ears twitched as if they did.
The coachman was the only human being to be seen. There was no footman on the step behind the luggage rack, nor any outriders accompanying the carriage.
The single occupant of the vehicle was mercilessly tossed about. The road, barely more than a rutted track, led deeper into the unknown. Forests crowded closer around.
Lenora’s fingers ached from a combination of the damp seeping into the carriage and the effort of keeping her seat.
Neither the weather, nor the time of night, were conducive to safe and comfortable travel, but tomorrow was Halloween, the Year of Our Lord 1749.
Tomorrow, 31 October, was a wedding day, and the bride-to-be was still en route.
Rear wheels skidded around a bend, the vehicle lurching wildly. The tiny lantern, the only light inside the vehicle, was dashed against the wooden paneling for the umpteenth time. It seemed to be one time too many. The glass shattered, raining shards onto the floor. Plunged into deep darkness, Lenora’s heart contracted with fear. Her “Stanley, slow down!” was absorbed by another crash of thunder directly overhead and remained unheard by the one it was addressed to.
Darkness weighed down on her like a heavy cloak. Now only the lantern on the outside, made of sturdier stuff, provided meager light. She drew the curtain aside, but all she could see was rock no more than a hand-span from the window. Scooting along the seat to the opposite side, she whipped that curtain aside. There was nothing there but impenetrable blackness. The edge of the road dropped away sharply, barely containing the wheels. Dislodged stones and scree tumbled into the dark void.
Lenora screamed, she couldn’t help it. She was terrified. The carriage, horses and all, seemed to be about to plunge into the gaping maw.
As if he heard her, Stanley’s whip cracked. By sheer strength born from fear, the horses pulled the vehicle around the bend to safety.
Lenora’s heart hammered against her ribs as she tried in vain to swallow her terror, but when the rear of the coach swung out and crashed into the bank, she couldn’t even manage another cry. Again the whip cracked, extracting every last drop of speed the horses were capable of.
The next flash of lightning, almost instantly followed by an earsplitting rumble, showed the road easing away from the cliff. The almost palpable danger was over. The carriage imperceptibly slowed to continue rattling and creaking, jostling its solitary occupant, along the bumpy road.
Lenora heaved a shaky sigh of relief. She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket and flattened it on her thigh. It was too dark to read, but the comforting words were seared into her memory. They meant more to her in her moment of anguish than any other passage she might have recalled.
My dearest Miss Hastings,
It is with impatience I await the moment of meeting you in the flesh again. I wish you well until our wedding day on October 31 and I hope an All Souls’ celebration would augur many happy years with your presence gracing my humble home as my wife.
Forever yours,
Henry Du Pré
Your betrothed husband.
A sigh escaped her lips as she pressed the paper to her chest.
This journey should have ended long ago. Her nerves were shot, as much by the hazards of camping on the side of the road for the past nights and the packed food running out, as coming face to face with the stranger she was to marry.
Without warning, one of the horses reared, bringing the carriage to a sudden, jerking halt. Lenora was tossed from her seat and fell to her knees.
“Damn cat!” Stanley cussed over the din.
Lenora dusted herself off as she clambered back into her seat and returned the rug to her lap. She couldn’t get the window open fast enough. A cat? Out here, in the middle of nowhere?
Cold rain splashed her face. “Stanley! Go get it!” she demanded. “Poor darling must be cold and terrified.”
Her coachman leaned down from his perch, the lantern below him highlighting the creases of his face. He looked like a tokoloshe. “Now, madam?”
She tried to suppress a shiver. “Yes, now. Quickly, Stanley, before it disappears into the bush.” He didn’t really look like a short, hairy spirit, looking to make trouble.
Lenora strained to see out of the window when Stanley straightened, presumably to find where the feline had gone. Just then, something black, discernible only by its speed, streaked along the edge of the road past the horses. They screamed in fear, pulling away to the side. Only Stanley’s physical strength kept a wheel from going into a ditch. His whistles shrilled over the sounds of nature.
By the time he brought the horses under control, their muscles twitched. Snorting, they stomped in the mud. The cat was way ahead of the team now, and in the next flash of lightning, Lenora saw it dash into the undergrowth, and it was gone.
“Sorry, too late now, ma’am.” Stanley stood on the platform to bring the carriage back to the center of the lane. It rocked as each horse pulled against each other in a different direction. The whip cracked over their heads, again and again.
It took a while for order to be restored and the carriage to roll forward. As they passed the place the cat had disappeared, Lenora craned her neck. The light from the lantern caught something glittery, and just for a moment, yellow eyes met the green ones of the traveler before they were lost from sight.
“You did that on purpose!” Lenora snapped. Shoving the window closed with a crack, she flung herself back into her seat.
The forest closed in on the road from both sides until the branches met overhead. The rain became a soft hiss on the roof. It was eerily quiet and very dark, the only light cast by the swinging lantern and sporadic lightning filtering through the trees.
Lenora peered alternatively out the windows on either side, holding her breath. Ghostly fingers of mist hung between the trees, but when they emerged from the tunnel, the carriage was enveloped in white. Everything seemed brighter and lighter. It was as if they had emerged into a different world.
Lenora stared out of the window, even though there was nothing to see but white. When a shape appeared from the mist, she gasped, her hands clasped under her chin. It took a moment to recognize it as a horse, white as the mists. Its mane and tail flew as it kept pace with the coach.
The road leveled out, and the going became smoother. Stanley slowed the horses to a walk as they approached a fork in the road. The white horse reared, neighing, its hooves cutting through the white. The sound was amplified and distorted by the fog, leaving goosebumps all over her body.
As the carriage followed the road to the right, a house loomed out of the haze. When she looked for it again, the white horse was gone.
The house was unlike any she’d seen since leaving Cape Town. Double-storied, the gable facing them was as tall as the highest point of the peeked roof, a dormer window on either side. The windows on the ground floor jealously guarded their secrets. There was a round tower with a flat, crenelated roof at each end of the building.
Stanley stood on the brakes, his whoa distorted by the mist. The enormous vehicle rattled to a halt in front of double doors.
The journey was finally at an end.
Excitement, mingled with trepidation, filled Lenora. The moment of truth was finally upon her.
Unnoticed, her fist crumpled Henry’s letter, and she clutched it to her heart. The house was in complete darkness. Surely he was expecting her? Yet, there was no sign of life behind the windows.
Pushing the carriage window down a crack, she studied what she could see of the imposing facade. Lightning reflected off brass studs around the edges of the double doors. She’d never seen a door like that. The house had every appearance of belonging in a different era, a different country.
But where was everyone?
The coachman, the four big black horses stomping in the rain, and her might have been the only living creatures in this strange place. She felt utterly alone.
Stanley appeared beside the carriage and opened the door a crack. She closed the window and drew the woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders when wind whooshed into the conveyance, bringing with it a flurry of rain, and found its way under the rug over her knees; it even got inside her petticoats. She shivered again.
“I don’t think anyone is home, Miss Lenora.”
“Someone has to be here, Stanley. I am expected.”
“Of course, ma’am. I’ll knock on the door then, shall I?” He closed the carriage door, cutting off the wet cold, and turned to the steps. Runnels on the window distorted his diminishing shape.
Lenora wiped the condensation from the glass. It helped marginally to improve the vision of her coachman hammering a fist on the door. Even from her position in the carriage, she heard the hollow echo through the house.
Stanley gripped the latch and heaved his shoulder against the wood. The hinges creaked ominously as the door gave way, and Stanley stumbled into the hall. Dead leaves collected in the entrance, along with a blast of rain, was sucked in after him.
No one was in attendance. A fire should have been lit to welcome her, and every torch should have been ablaze. But there was no sign of life about the place.
Uncertain what to do next, Stanley turned back, keeping out of the rain as best he could. He hauled up his shoulders and half-raised his hands.
Lenora pushed the window down again. “Go in, Stanley, and see if you can find the kitchens. If anyone is home, there will be signs of it in the kitchens. Don’t mind me—I’ll be safe enough here. Quickly, now.” She closed the window, giving her servant no chance to object.
Leaving the door open behind him, Stanley was swallowed by the house. With nothing to do but wait, Lenora folded her hands under the rug, her eyes trained on the porch where the only other living being she knew of had disappeared.
The wind rocked the carriage and howled around the house. She studied the dark windows of the tower rooms under the fortifications, then the dormer windows. They all remained dark.
A shiver shook her shoulders.
With Stanley somewhere in the house, she was all alone.

Chapter 2

A horse approached at speed; the hoof beats coming closer and closer. It came out of the night like a specter. Lenora cringed into the farthest corner of the carriage, her eyes stiff in her head.
Lightning flashed just as the horse came to a skidding halt, and the rider slid from the saddle. A black cloak fluttered in the wind, intermittently revealing a red lining.
She only saw the woman on the back of the horse when the man lifted her down. He slapped the horse’s rump, sending it back into the mists. The man pushed the woman in the direction of the open doorway. She carried a woven basket in one hand.
“Send Agnes down. I’ll be up soon. Do what you can.” The words were torn away by the wind, but Lenora heard. The woman was about to head for the stairs when the man caught her arm. Her head snapped around. The one word had to be distorted by the weather because it sounded like he told her to…scream.
Scream? Why would he instruct her to scream?
The woman nodded once, then swept a glance over the conveyance in the driveway. Lightning raced across the sky when the woman’s eyes collided with Lenora’s.
She gasped.
Those eyes were colorless, like water, and ringed by black, spiky lashes. A tremor shook her shoulders. And when the woman smiled, her breath halted in her throat. Everything started going dark around her.
The woman turned away and scurried up the steps, and the moment passed. Her hood blew off her head, spilling silvery blonde hair to the whim of the wind, the mass of it instantly darkened by the rain.
Lenora clasped her hands under her chin. They trembled violently. When Stanley appeared in the doorway, she could have cried with relief. She had no idea why that woman had affected her like that, but for a moment, she had been terrified.
Stanley gaped after the woman like an idiot when she passed him in the doorway and disappeared inside, clutching her basket to her chest. Lenora’s breath returned to normal as soon as the woman was gone.
The man turned and, with hands on hips, surveyed the vehicle in the driveway. He seemed unconcerned, or unaware, of the rain plastering his hair to his head. Lightning was followed almost instantly by booming thunder. From the shadows of the carriage, Lenora watched him with fingers pressed to her lips. He clutched the flapping edges of his cloak in one hand to pull the carriage door open with the other.
She gulped audibly when he filled the space. His bulk blocked most of the wind and rain, his glance sweeping the interior. She cringed into her corner, hoping he wouldn’t notice her. But the next lightning streak turned night into day, and his face a waxy gray. His eyes fixed on her, huddled in the seat.
When the light faded, she only had the illumination of the lantern to go by. He swept the hair back from his face, his eyes deeply shadowed. The meager light created hollows in the sharply etched features.
He was terrifying.
Ignoring the rain running down his face, he held a gloved hand out to her. Clearly, he expected her to trust him.
“Henry?” she managed through uncooperative lips. “Henry Du Pré?”
Over the rain hammering on the roof of the carriage, he said, “You can’t stay out here.” He expected her to obey him, too. This was not a man she wanted to cross. She hesitated only a moment before her hand disappeared into his gloved palm. When he pulled her to her feet, the broken glass crunched under her shoes, a grim reminder of what it had cost her to get here.
He vacated the doorway to make space for her to alight. She gasped when the wind flung cold rain into her face. Without hesitation, he swept her up into his arms against a solid chest and pushed her face into his neck.
He shouldn’t do that, she should object to the intimacy, but then she smelled his skin—a clean, all-male smell, mingled with undertones of horse and tobacco. She swallowed the protest. This was Henry, her betrothed, and tomorrow they would speak the vows. He was only gallantly assisting his bride.
Splashing through the puddles, he leaped up the stairs. She turned her head to see where he was taking her. It was as he twisted his shoulders to enter the doorway with his burden that she saw the cat.
It stood with its tail straight up in the air, its hind feet clawing the wet stone as if marking his territory. It watched her with yellow eyes glowing in the dark, the black fur plastered to its body.
Might it be the same cat they had encountered on the road?
The man stepped over the threshold into the hall, ignoring the cat, before he allowed her feet to touch the stone floor. The moment she made contact, she felt it—something in the dark, something creepy. A vice closed around her heart. She was scared; she wasn’t going to lie.
A match flared, then a torch started to smoke in a sconce against the wall. Increasing light pushed the shadows into the corners. As if noticing him for the first time, the man turned to Stanley. The dark gentleman towered over the bedraggled, plump coachman. Wordlessly, the coachman held out an oilcloth-wrapped bundle. Henry took it and tucked it under his arm.
Lenora glanced from her servant to the cat. He’d slipped into the hall after them. She would address the subject of obedience with Stanley at a more appropriate time. He did manage to bring her to her new home under the most adverse conditions, and at the moment, he was the only familiar person in this strange and scary place.
The cat regally crossed the hall to the stairs, where he perched on the bottom step and started drying himself. Henry urged her across the hall with a hand on her back. She only had time for a swift glance about.
The entrance was stark in the shifting torchlight. It was bare of furniture except for a tall clock in the corner and dominated by a large, cold fireplace. Stairs curved into the darkness of the upper floor.
Henry opened a door just as the clock struck the midnight hour.
A tremor shook Lenora, and she closed her eyes to shut out the dark room she was being ushered into.
A black cat, a white horse, and a dark, fearsome gentleman on a stormy night…
The next moment, her eyes flew open when a scream vibrated the very air around her.
It was all she could do not to fling herself into the stranger’s arms. He glanced toward the upper landing, unceremoniously pushing her into the other room. The darkness in there was solid, possessively revealing nothing. He guided her to a padded seat she couldn’t see but felt when he pressed her down into it.
She sensed him moving away. A match flared, highlighting the hand holding the flame high. Dropping to a knee, the kindling caught as soon as he held the match to it. The growing flames displaced the darkness, yet, with his back to her, she couldn’t see the man’s face. His shoulders were set in forbidding lines. Dark, almost black hair fell over his collar and ears and dripped rainwater onto the floor.
He held his hands out to the brightening flames for a moment before he slipped the bundle from under his arm. He seemed to have forgotten her as he flipped through the sheets of paper. Eventually, he straightened and turned. With his back to the fire, his face was in the shadows.
“How long has it been since…?”
She waited for him to continue, but when he didn’t, she cleared her throat and completed the question for him. “Since we last saw each other? If you will recall, I was only a little girl, so it is many years since. I don’t remember you.”
With a frown, he opened a drawer and deposited the papers inside. That was when she noticed the impressively carved bureau under the window. It had a rolled top, which was closed now, and drawers all the way to the floor on either side of the enormous chair.
The fire finally lit his face when he turned back to her. A strong face, heavy brows pulled down over penetrating eyes, the lips compressed.
Still, she couldn’t be sure he was who she expected him to be. She had no point of reference to guide her. But, now that she could see his face, he wasn’t all that scary. She assigned her fear to the night and the unfamiliar place she found herself in.
In fact, he could be what every young girl wanted in marriage—not too old, stylish, and well-heeled. Her father had done better by her than she had given him credit for. This was a man she could love. For the first time in her young life, she was ready to fall in love.
The hardships of the past days paled. She was here now, and in the morning, she would become this man’s wife.
Some of what she was feeling had to show on her face, for he opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, a boy of about fifteen rushed into the room, a nightcap flopping over his eyes. He lit the candles placed around the room. All the while, she felt Henry’s regard on her, studying her closely in the strengthening light, until the boy’s task was done.
Hovering beside the door, the boy waited to be acknowledged. Henry eventually looked at him, the light catching different angles and planes of his face. His features looked chiseled from stone, so precisely even they were. Fine lines wrinkled the corners of his eyes.
“Auntie Agnes, she says, do you want ’freshments?” the boy stammered.
“Yes, please. Ask her to bring a tray.” His voice was rich and smooth, used to giving orders. The timbre touched her nerve endings, eliciting a tremor of a different kind.
Even though Lenora stared hard at the man, there was nothing familiar about his face. He was every bit as large as she’d first thought him to be. Under the cloak, his black leather doublet, worn over a white shirt with sleeves gathered at the wrists, was studded with silver. The breeches encased well-defined thighs.
When the boy was gone, and he turned his attention back to her, she noticed the white scar from his hairline across his left eye and cheek to his chin. It was accentuated by the growth of stubble on the lower part of his face.
Wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, she touched a finger to her own cheek. “What happened?”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “A little accident while cleaning my musket.”
Confused, she noticed the luminescent gray of his eyes, ringed by dark, wet lashes, topped by thick black brows, and she forgot he had looked amused by her question. She had never seen eyes like that. They seemed to register everything they beheld.
When he held a hand out to her, a frown pulled her brows together.
What did he want?
It took a finger pointing at the sheet of paper still clutched in her hand for understanding to dawn. He wanted his letter back? When she held it out to him, he smoothed the crumpled paper between his hands and read the words that had given her such courage on her way here.
Smiling shyly, she told him so. “Your letter was a comfort to me when I was scared and alone. Thank you for sending it to guide me to you.”
When he lifted his head, her smile dwindled. His full lips were tight, accentuating the brackets around them. He glared at her from eyes like flint. He looked absolutely furious.
Why?
Sounds of the carriage and horses interrupted, barely discernible over the howling of the wind and rain driven against the windows.
“I apologize for the house being in darkness when you arrived and no one here to see to your immediate needs. Why did your family send you off unchaperoned and unguarded?”
“I assure you, Stanley is quite up to the task of protecting me. He has the strength of three men.” Even though he suffered from selective disobedience, she grumbled to herself. But now wasn’t the time to mention the cat she’d wanted him to catch for her. The cat was here now, safe and sound.
“I wasn’t implying—” He dropped his chin, his eyes partially hidden. “It is a long journey from Cape Town for a young woman on her own. You should at least have waited for the weather to improve before setting out.”
Lenora folded her hands together in the volumes of her skirt. “Tomorrow is All Hallows’ Eve, our wedding day. I wanted to be here sooner, to get settled in, but the weather was only getting worse. I was concerned that I might not be able to get here on time if I delayed any longer.”
A fleeting frown creased his brow and was gone. “I see,” he muttered. “Quite eager to be wed, aren’t you?”
Lenora opened her mouth to defend her motivation when an older woman appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray with a carafe and two goblets. Lenora nearly sighed with relief. She’d been worried about being the only woman in a house full of men, with no one to talk to.
When Henry nodded, the woman placed her burden on the table in front of the fire. Only after she had straightened did she glance at Lenora. She clasped her hands in front of her, waiting for further instructions.
“Agnes, this is Miss Hastings. Please, light the fire in the front room and take a tray of victuals up.” He turned to Lenora. “Agnes Braun is the housekeeper and cook here at Ghost Horse Farm. She is the person to call on if you have need of anything.”
Lenora cleared her throat. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Braun. I’m sorry for the trouble at this late hour.”
“Please, it’s just Agnes, and it’s no trouble, ma’am. I fed your man in the kitchen. He will bed down in the stables. He wanted me to assure you he will rub the horses down well.”
“Thank you, Agnes,” Lenora smiled, very aware of gray eyes studying her.
When the woman was gone, Henry filled the goblets with red wine, handed her one, and almost drained the other in one gulp. He refilled it immediately. Shaking his cloak off his shoulders, he spread the soggy garment over a pair of chairs in front of the fire. He brooded into the flames for a while before turning back to her.
“Drink. It will warm your insides.”
Obediently, Lenora took a sip. She had never tasted wine before, but it was delicious. Her father hadn’t allowed alcohol in the house while she was growing up, but he wasn’t here now, and she was a soon-to-be-married woman. She took another sip.
The glass was empty too soon, but when she returned it to the tray, she had to use both hands for fear of dropping it. She felt decidedly wobbly. It had to be the insufficient nourishment since leaving Cape Town.
Henry took her elbow. “You must be exhausted. Let me show you to your room. We will talk in the morning.”
He led her back into the freezing hall. She didn’t miss the sidelong, brooding look he repeatedly sent her way as they climbed the stairs. The black cat streaked past them and disappeared into the dark above.
“Did you tell her to scream, the woman you brought on the horse?”
He looked down at her with a frown. “Of course not. Why would I do that?”
“Then who screamed just now?”
“Don’t trouble yourself. We have a bit of a crisis… The woman knows what to do.”
Her eyes felt heavy, and all she wanted was to get into a warm, comfortable bed. His crisis had nothing to do with her, as long as it didn’t interfere with the wedding tomorrow. After that, she’d assume her role as mistress of his house and take care of his problems.
The stairs ended on a landing, a passage leading off into the dark in both directions. Directly opposite was a single door. Tired as she was, she couldn’t have missed the gargoyles on either side of it because the moment she raised her eyes, lightning flashed through an oriel window high in the gable. She sucked her breath in sharply, pulling back.
He looked first at the gargoyles, then down at her. “They’re only stone figures.”
“Why are your gargoyles inside? They belong outside, don’t they?”
He looked up at the snarling faces again. “When the house was built, putting them here seemed like a good way of scaring innocent young girls.” Unsmiling, he looked inscrutable in the unforgiving light from outside. She gulped and dropped her eyes from his.
It was drafty and dark on the upper level. Their footsteps tapped hollowly against the floorboards when he led her down the passage on the left. Two doors opposite each other opened off it. The cat sat in front of the door on the left, its tail neatly tucked around its paws, waiting for the door to be opened. When Henry ushered her inside and left the door ajar behind them, the cat sedately followed as if he owned the place.
Lenora looked round. Flames in the fireplace cast shifting shadows on the walls. Although the fire was newly lit, already the chill was wearing off. Candles burned on every available surface. It looked warm and welcoming.
The four-poster against the opposite wall was hung with deep-green velvet, open on one side to allow the heat in. A red carpet covered the floor in front of the bed, which was invitingly turned down. There was a cushioned seat in the window.
Lenora slipped her shawl from her shoulders. Henry took it from her and spread it over the back of the couch. “Do you have something warmer than this?” he asked.
“My cloak got wet.”
A dresser with a looking glass on top occupied the corner under a narrow window beside the fireplace. There was a small bureau in front of the window on the other side, and a comfortable-looking couch faced the fireplace. The wind rattled the windows in their frames, but the drapes barely moved in the draft.
Smoke belched down the chimney into the room, only to be sucked out again. Lenora looked up at the man on whose goodwill she depended. The vows had not yet been spoken, and he could still send her back to her father for any reason he might devise.
He was a stranger to her—some people changed more over time than others. It could also be the scar on his face making him seem unfamiliar. She’d get used to the scar. It was a clean cut, with no jagged puckering, and would fade in time. It lent his face a ruggedness that went well with the intensity of the rest of him. At least he wasn’t as old as she’d anticipated him to be. On the contrary, he was a man she’d be proud to claim as her husband, even though he scared her a little, too. She’d get used to him.
He opened his mouth as he took a step toward her when a rap on the open door interrupted him. Agnes, bearing a tray with covered dishes on it, stood in the doorway. At his nod, she placed her burden on the bureau. When she straightened and spotted the cat on the foot of the bed, she shooed the feline out the door. The cat sneaked back in unnoticed a moment before the panel closed.
Determined little beggar, aren’t you. Lenora smiled.
A spine-chilling scream not even the weather could diminish filled the night. Lenora took an involuntary step closer to Henry, gripping her throat with both hands.
“There it is again. Who is that?”
“It’s nothing but the wind. Don’t let it distress you.” He turned away to follow the housekeeper from the room. “Lock the door behind me and don’t open it for anyone but me. You will be safe here. Enjoy your meal, then go to bed. Don’t worry about anything you might hear. The wind brings strange sounds, and things happen at All Hallows’ Tide.” He already had the door open when he added, “We will discuss what needs to be done in the morning.”
He had barely closed the door when another scream ripped through the sounds of the tempest outside.
Lenora clutched the nearest bedpost, the knuckles of one hand shoved into her mouth. The cat, in the process of making himself comfortable at the foot of the bed, arched his back, his tail puffed, his yellow eyes on the door. Lenora reached comforting fingers to him.
The scream went on and on, echoing through the house, making it difficult to determine where it was coming from. The tail end was swallowed by the storm.
In the relative silence, she waited for the next scream while the cat purred under her caress. When none came, she quickly locked the door as Henry had bidden her. With her back to the wood, she listened carefully, but now there were only the sounds from outside. The cat curled up on the bed and went to sleep.
Tantalizing aromas came from under the cloches on the tray. Her stomach rumbled. She was starving—her last meal had been breakfast, a hurried affair of the last of the porridge cooked on a smoking roadside fire in the rain, and a cup of water.
Crossing the room to the bureau, she tossed another log from the pile onto the fire on her way.
Under the covers were a steaming bowl of broth, bread and cheese, and a goblet of ruby red wine. She pulled the chair out and spread the napkin in her lap. The soup was as delicious as it smelled. She ate everything brought for her.
Her father had given her the barest of facts about the man she was to marry. All she knew was that Henry Du Pré was some sort of a business associate of her father’s. Father had said in so many words that he was pleased her husband was older, to curb her waywardness.
Waywardness? She had refrained from responding.
Her betrothed was supposed to be a wealthy landowner on the frontier, and what she had seen of his house so far, she could believe that. Her father had been specific to point out that Henry needed an obedient wife. She believed that, too.
As a girl nearing her nineteenth birthday, she’d dreamed about her wedding day for years. She’d imagined her husband to be a powerful man with a mansion and many servants. She’d pictured him as a handsome man with impeccable manners. They would fall deeply in love the very moment their eyes met for the first time.
That hadn’t happened.
Although she approved of his appearance, her wariness negated any romantic feelings she might have felt for him. She still had trouble thinking of him as her Henry. ‘Sir’ or ‘My Lord’ seemed more appropriate.
Given the news that she was a bride betrothed, she’d wanted to ask many questions, but her father had been too impatient to get her ready for the journey to allow her to voice any of her concerns. As his final obligation to her—after another man had accepted responsibility for her—he had shouted for a seamstress. The woman and her assistants had been charged with the making of a wedding gown, a few new day frocks, nightrail, and petticoats. A warm cloak had been added as an afterthought.
“Mr. Du Pré promised more clothes as part of your bride price.” As if her wedding had been a business transaction successfully concluded, her father had turned to the door.
“How much did he pay you for me, Father?” The sum would be an indication of how badly Henry Du Pré wanted her.
“A gentleman never reveals such details to the bride-to-be. Given women’s want to take exception, such knowledge could lead to marital discord from the beginning, and a man needs peace in his home.”
Where had Father gotten his information about women from? If her memory served, Mother had never been a nagging wife, and she herself had rarely made any demands on him.
“But what sort of a man is he?”
“A rich one. The rest you will find out for yourself soon enough. The wedding is arranged for the morning of All Hallows’ Eve, the 31st day of October.” The door had closed with a thump before she could voice another question.
Being wealthy didn’t mean he was of good character, but she knew she’d get no more out of her father. It would have been helpful to know what kind of business connected Henry Du Pré and her father.
Throughout the two weeks’ preparation for her departure, she’d desperately tried to glean more details about the house she would be the lady of, and where, exactly, she would be going, until, exasperated, her father had told her she would be going east and not to trouble her silly head about it. Stanley would have the exact directions to get her there in the shortest possible time. As to what Henry looked like, her father had huffed a single word. “Ginger.”
“Who are you sending with me as my chaperon, Father?” He would have turned away and left the room had she not gripped his sleeve. Her eyes had been insistent on the face she’d known all her life. “Mother would have wanted me to arrive at my husband’s door with dignity and the assurance of propriety.”
How she’d missed her mother then. She would have understood the anxiety of submitting to a man a few words would turn into her husband. What did Father know of the yearnings and fears of an eighteen-year-old girl?
The mention of her mother had given her father pause, and he had shaken her hand from his arm. “Must you make trouble over everything, Lenora? You are getting yourself a husband of means. Can’t you say thank you, Father, and be done?”
In the end, she’d left Cape Town before sun-up on a blustery, wet October 25th to face her destiny on her own, with only Stanley as her protector. A burly man gone a bit to seed, Stanley had been in her father’s employ since he had been but a lad. He was fiercely loyal to his employer, and by default, to his employer’s daughter.
Now here she was, and more questions popped into her head than answers. If the wedding had been arranged for tomorrow, she had seen no evidence of it. Where were all the servants Henry was supposed to have? It didn’t seem like a bride had been expected at all.
And Henry Du Pré himself worried her. For one thing, he didn’t seem to be old enough. She had expected a man at least twice her own age. This man certainly didn’t look close to forty. Another thing was her father’s one-word description of Henry. There was nothing ginger about the man in whose house she found herself.
But, over and above the discrepancies around Henry, there was one question uppermost in her mind—who had screamed like that? That blonde woman, as instructed by Henry?
Or was there something more sinister to the screaming?

Chapter 3

Stanley seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth, her luggage with him. It didn’t look as if the man of the house was going to remember the arrival of his bride again tonight, either. She might as well go to bed, as he had told her to. She didn’t feel like a bride after the decidedly cool reception she’d received.
She was going to have to sleep in her shift. No maid had been provided to help her undress, so she was going to have to manage on her own.
The buttons behind her back were nearly inaccessible, and it took all her ingenuity to pull the heavy velvet traveling robe up behind her head, bit by bit, until she had pried every button from its loop. At least the effort took her mind off the rumbling thunder and the wind howling around the house and down the chimney.
Her arms ached by the time she allowed the robe to slide to the floor. It caressed her hips and stroked her legs before it pooled by her feet. The chill bit into her skin through her petticoats. The room was getting warmer with the fire burning merrily in the grate, but it was still too cold for a body without the protection of proper clothes. After draping the gown over a chair, she wrapped her shawl about her shoulders over her undergarments as she stifled a yawn.
Mother would have told her that everything would look different in the morning through well-rested eyes. She could only hope Mother was right.
A deep sigh was cut off sharply when a different sound reached her over the storm. It sounded like shuffling footsteps in the passage outside her door. Straining to hear didn’t help, and she daren’t open the door for a peek—Henry had insisted it remained locked to everyone except himself. If only she knew what was going on.
Something crashed into the wall, making everything in her room rattle. She nearly jumped from her skin. What could that have been?
Silent on bare feet, her shawl trailing off her shoulder, she ran to the door to press her ear to the portal—more shuffling and a muffled curse, followed by silence. The minutes ticked by, but she didn’t hear any more. Her feet were like blocks of ice when she eventually made her way to the enormous bed.
The sheets were crisp and cold, and even though she kept her shawl firmly wrapped about herself, her teeth chattered, and she shivered uncontrollably. A bed warmer should have been brought up before attention had been given to lighting the fire.
The cat curled against her legs as soon as she settled against the pillows, as if he, too, felt the chill in the air and was looking for warmth.
Lightning flashed through gaps between the drapes. Lenora reached out to close the bed hangings, snatching her hand back as fast as she could. Shivering against the pillows, she listened to the sounds of the house. The hangings muffled the mournful sigh of the wind; the drumming of the rain driven against the windows seemed to come from far away.
As warmth seeped through her, combined with the effect of two glasses of unfamiliar wine inside her, her eyes grew heavy until sleep claimed her.
It seemed mere seconds later when she was startled awake. She shot upright in bed, clutching the bedding to her heaving chest as her glance darted about her. It was dark in the bed, as the glow of the fire didn’t reach behind the hangings.
Where was she?
She didn’t recognize the enormous bed. The hangings around her narrow cot were pink. These were nearly black.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, and a moment longer to remember that she had arrived at her destination, that in only a few hours, she’d be a bride, Henry’s wife.
What had woken her?
She remembered the formidable man with his hair swept back from a chiseled face, being shown to a bedroom, and abandoned. She couldn’t be sure if she were still asleep, and this was part of a bad dream. The cat was still curled up beside her, his purr soothing. It was good to know she wasn’t completely alone.
Then she heard it. The fine hairs on her arms were instantly erect.
Tap, thump…scrape, tap, thump…scrape, tap, thump…
Oh, God! It sounded like uneven footsteps on a hollow wooden floor.
Where was it coming from?
Tap, thump…scrape, tap, thump…scrape.
It was coming closer, but where was it going? The limping footsteps might be coming from the very walls of the house.
She didn’t see the cat lifted its head when she yanked the covers over her head. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her mouth too dry to swallow her fear. What was that? Was it even human?
Holding her breath, she waited for whatever was to come next. The halting footsteps had stopped, heaven only knew where. She pushed the blankets off one ear, better to hear.
A sudden draft stirred the edges of the bed hangings. Her fingers clutched the blankets until they cramped. She peered over the protective covering, her eyes stiff in her head.
And then her worst fears became reality.
Tap, thump…scrape, tap, thump…scrape…
It is inside my room!
How did it get in? She had locked the door, as Henry instructed her to do. She’d left the big brass key in the lock on the inside of the door.
The door hadn’t opened.
Tap, thump…scrape… It was close to the bed.
Tap, thump…scrape, tap, thump…scrape, tap, thump… Now it was passing the foot of the bed.
Lenora barely dared to breathe. Someone was in her room! Rain drummed against the window, but the drapes hung motionless around the bed again.
The silence, when it came, was deafening.
Oh. My. God.
She was locked in a room with…with… Who or what was in her bedroom?
Tap, thump…scrape, tap, thump…scrape…
Rustling reached her, and then a log was tossed into the grate—she heard the crackle and hiss as the wood caught fire. Slowly, Lenora pushed herself into a sitting position, her shawl clutched tightly around her. That was very much a human in the room if stoking the fire against the cold was anything to go by.
Breathing, the kind through a blocked nose, rose and fell.
Even though she strained her ears, she couldn’t hear anything other than the breathing over the storm outside. She imagined a shadow standing in front of the fire, waiting for eyes to adjust to the gloom. Maybe she was still dreaming, after all. Or, could the halting footsteps be a distortion of the noise outside? Either that or her imagination was running amok.
She was having none of it. There was a logical explanation for what she thought she heard. And there was only one way to find out.
Her heart still fluttering frantically in her chest, she made sure the shawl covered her sufficiently before she reached out to pull the drapes aside. She never made contact, for she froze.
Tap, thump…scrape, tap, thump…scrape…
That was not her imagination playing tricks on her!
And she wasn’t brave enough to peek through the hangings. There was no question where the footsteps would end this time. Scooting down under the blankets, she held her breath, trying to be as still as possible. In the dark, he might think the bed unoccupied.
But she knew he wouldn’t. Whoever was in her room couldn’t possibly have missed her gown left in plain sight over a chair in front of the fire. He was looking for her, and he knew exactly where to find her—ensconced in the big bed.
Tap, thump…scrape, tap, thump…scrape.
The footsteps stopped beside the bed. The breathing was loud enough to wake the chickens.
She was about to be discovered! And then what?
Her eyes, stiff in her head, pierced the gloom, waiting.
Henry! Henreeee! You are supposed to protect me. You told me I’d be safe in this room!
Long, white fingers curled around the edge of the drapes.
A scream that drowned out the horrible breathing hurt her ears.
It took a moment for her to realize the screaming was coming from her own throat.

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