In the
third in Katharine Ashe's Prince Catchers series, the eldest of three very
different sisters must fulfill a prophecy to discover their birthright. But if
Eleanor is destined to marry a prince, why can't she resist the scoundrel who
seduced her?
She can
pour tea, manage a household, and sew a modest gown. In short, Eleanor
Caulfield is the perfect vicar's daughter. Yet there was a time when she'd
risked everything for a black-eyed gypsy who left her brokenhearted. Now he
stands before her—dark, virile, and ready to escort her on a journey to find
the truth about her heritage.
Leaving
eleven years ago should have given Taliesin freedom. Instead he's returned to
Eleanor, determined to have her all to himself, tempting her with kisses and
promising her a passion she's so long denied herself. But if he was infatuated
before, he's utterly unprepared for what will happen when Eleanor decides to
abandon convention—and truly live . . .
Excerpt
Eleanor
held the porcelain cup to her lips and inhaled until she felt it in her toes.
Mrs.
Hodges plunked her hands on her hips. “Well, aren’t you going to drink it?”
“I am
reveling.” Her lips could nearly taste it. Nearly. Temptation.
The waiting teased. Deliciously.
“You’re
an odd duck, aren’t you, miss?”
“Not
usually.” She tilted the cup upward. “Usually I am entirely predictable.
Reserved. Modest.” Her words were muffled by the rich liquid so close, heating
her flesh. Heady sensation. “Usually
I am very”—she let the chocolate wash against her lips—“very”—and a ripple of
pleasure went through her—“good.” It stole around her tongue. Decadent. Sinful.
She
sighed.
Taliesin
appeared in the kitchen door.
She
choked.
“Well
now, sir,” Mrs. Hodges said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Miss was just
teaching me here how to make chocolate like they do at all the big houses.”
He
leaned a shoulder into the doorpost and crossed his arms. His shadowy eyes
scanned her from toe tips to brow, finally coming to rest on her lips. “Was
she?”
A thick
droplet of chocolate clung to her bottom lip. Eleanor felt it there like a
beacon. She should wipe it with her kerchief.
The tip
of her tongue stole between her lips and licked up the droplet. Another shiver
wiggled through her.
What
was she doing?
“Now
then, miss,” Mrs. Hodges said, “you’d best go and leave the kitchen to me, and
I’ll fix up a nice dinner for you.”
Clutching
the cup in both palms, Eleanor went to the door. Taliesin stepped back but with
so little space she had to shift sideways to move past him. She darted a glance
upward.
Immobility. His.
Hers. She could see every line, every whisker that had not been on his face
eleven years ago. Not the same boy she’d known. A man now.
Her pulse fluttered. Then it fluttered harder as his scent mingled with the
flavor of chocolate upon her tongue. Horse. Leather. Him. The
same. It tangled in her nose, in her head, a memory barreling
through her, while he watched her eyes from inches away.
She
slipped past him.
The
taproom was empty now. Mr. Treadwell was probably in the stable seeing to his
Arthurian characters and Betsy must be in their room seeing to mundane tasks
Eleanor was accustomed to seeing to herself.
“Chocolate?”
the incubus behind her said. “Missing the luxuries of the ducal mansion so
soon, are you?”
She
swung around to him and the chocolate sloshed in the cup. “Is that what you
think? That I have grown spoiled by my sisters’ good fortune?”
“No.”
His black eyes hooded.
“No? Is
that all you can say?” Her tongue, it seemed, was an unbridled thing. Too much
prison. Too much feeling to swallow again and again. “We’ve not
seen each other in eleven years, and now for four days you have said nothing to
me.”
Again
he leaned his shoulder against the doorpost in an attitude of sublime
nonchalance. “You made it clear you did not wish my escort. I am respecting
that.”
She
didn’t believe it. He had never respected her. He had teased her endlessly.
“You could at least speak to me.”
“What
would you have me say?”
“Anything.
How do you go along these days, Eleanor? How is the parish? Is it still the
same as eleven years ago when I departed so precipitously, without warning,
without word?”
His
face grew still, planes of dark beauty like hewn marble. “Ah,” he said in a low
voice. “You wish for empty pleasantries. Or perhaps an apology? I regret that
neither is in my lexicon.”
“I
don’t wish for pleasantries or apologies. I don’t care why you left as you did.
But you hurt Papa. Do you even know how deeply you hurt him?”
His
lips were an unbreakable line.
“He
wouldn’t even speak of you.” Locked behind bars for years, Eleanor’s words now
tumbled forth. “He said nothing except when Ravenna mentioned you. She did not
understand why you left either, but she accepted it in her way. She always
thought you would return. But Papa didn’t. And it wounded him.”
“I
wrote to him,” he said after a moment.
“Rarely.
So few letters that the pages grew thin from folding and unfolding. He never
said a word about them or read a line to us, but do you know where he kept
them? In his Bible, tucked in Luke, chapter fifteen. The story of the prodigal
son.”
His
eyes had become hard obsidian. But he remained silent.
Her
hands clenched around the cup. “Why won’t you speak?” she exclaimed.
“Seems
like you’re speaking enough for the both of us.” His perfect lips barely moved.
“Can’t
you even be civil? Or did you leave those lessons behind too when you left St.
Petroc?”
“Listen
to you. As righteous as you always were.”
She
threw the chocolate at him.
She didn’t
know quite how it happened. One moment strange, frantic panic coursed through
her, straight from her heels to her throat. The next moment a demon possessed
her, seizing her arm and forcing it to jut forward and disgorge the contents of
her cup at him. Chocolate spattered everywhere—on the wall, the doorpost, and
on the dark, handsome man from her past for whom she had wept months of tears.
“What
in the—” But he didn’t finish. Instead he came at her. Her foot dropped back
but he grabbed her wrist and jerked her hand with the cup up between them.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Chocolate dripped down her wrist and along
his cheeks and lips. He stared down at her in astonishment.
“Wasting
my chocolate.” She tugged. His grip tightened. Arm to arm, he held her close,
and he did not look into her eyes. He looked at her lips. The shadows in his
eyes were deeper, but now limned with fever brightness, so bright that she
could see the flecks of brown there that she had discovered as a girl.
“How do
you go along these days, Eleanor?” His voice was rough.
“Wh-what?”
“How is
the parish?” His gaze never left her lips, his fingers strong around her wrist.
“Is it still the same as eleven years ago when I departed?”
“Precipitously,”
she whispered. “Without warning. Without word.” The syllables trailed into the
silence of her raucous heartbeat.
“Precipitously.
Without warning.”
Through
his hand she felt him. Her skin, her bones, her blood felt him.
“You
are poking fun at me,” she said. “Don’t.”
“What
will it be, Eleanor? You demanded my attention. You have it now. Do you want it
or not?”
She
wanted to taste the chocolate on his lips. She wanted to remember the danger
and delirium she’d felt the last time she had been entirely alive. …
Author
Bio
Katharine Ashe is the award-winning author of historical
romances that reviewers call “intensely lush” and “sensationally intelligent,”
including How to Be a Proper Lady, an Amazon Editors’ Choice for the 10 Best
Romances of the Year, and How to Marry a Highlander, a 2014 RITA® Award
finalist. She lives in the wonderfully warm southeast with her beloved husband,
son, dog and a garden she likes to call romantic rather than unkempt. A
professor of History, she writes romance because she thinks modern readers
deserve grand adventures and breathtaking sensuality too. Please write to her
at PO Box 51702, Durham, NC 27717-1702 or visit www.katharineashe.com
https://www.facebook.com/KatharineAsheAuthor
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