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Authors: Susan Sizemore
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about, you whore?”
By now a couple of maids had stuck their heads out of doorways. The cook stood in the hallway, frowning, her beefy arms crossed. The butler was coming up behind Lady Emmaline. He wasn’t moving all that quickly, obviously not looking forward to being involved.
“Whore? My people would consider an adulteress a whore.” Grace pried the woman’s hand from her. She held Emmaline’s wrist tightly and studied the woman’s palm. Grace traced lines on Emmaline’s hand. “There’s a man at home who loves you no matter how you hurt him. He won’t fight for you even though you want him to. Go home, woman, and save your marriage.”
The noblewoman sputtered. The butler stepped up to them. Grace let Emmaline go. Emmaline was crying. She ran off, her sobs echoing down the hall. Grace couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, even though every word she’d said was true. Well, who was she to judge anyone?
“It is time for you to leave McHeath Manor.”
The butler was absolutely right. Absolutely, totally right. She’d become so emotionally involved with Julien Weaver she’d forgotten her purpose in making love to a vampire. The sexual encounter was over. The spell would work or it would not, but Julien’s part in it was over. Her feelings—and his—made no difference. Her duty was to her family. So, it was time to find Uncle Mungo and be off.
----
Chapter Eleven
“You have been crying for three months,” Granny McCoy said. “All this moping must stop.”
“I’ve only been crying when no one’s looking,” Grace said. She didn’t see why her loneliness, and, yes, anguish, as melodramatic as that sounded, should matter to anyone but her. “And I smile all the time.” She smiled now, as falsely as usual, she supposed.
How long was this heartache going to last? Would she always be haunted by a smile, a face, a touch, a scent that were just out of reach? What had he done to her? What had she done to herself?
She took a sip of tea and a bite of biscuit. This made her stomach roil, but it proved she was taking care of herself. The woman seated across the small kitchen table from her nodded with satisfaction. The fire crackled in the stone hearth. Rain pattered against the small window. A deer hound snored, curled on the braided hearth rug. A cat purred on a bench under the window. It should have all been soothing, homey. Grace’s nerves stayed on edge. Which probably wasn’t good for the baby. They kept warning her about all the things that might be bad for the baby. Grace knew whatever might be good or bad for her didn’t matter. She loved this child.
But she also loved the child’s father, and couldn’t seem to get him out of her mind. Or the memory of his touch out of her skin. Sometimes she would wake at night thinking she heard him calling to her. But there were too many guard spells around her for that to possibly be true.
She’d been sent to the McCoy family property in Scotland, where Aunt Meg ruled the comings and goings of the various Travelers with a gentle hand. There was a huge old stone farm house, three cottages, all the farm outbuildings, and always a few caravans of relatives passing through camped in the meadows. Here, Grace was surrounded by loving family, and found no comfort in it. She’d moved into the smallest of the cottages and kept to herself as much as she could. McCoys were gregarious and tended to stop by at all hours for a cup of tea and to check on her well being. Even with all the company she was desperately lonely, and she wanted to be left alone.
“I don’t know why Aunt Meg called for you,” she said to Granny McCoy. “Everything is going well.”
“Why shouldn’t I visit you, child?”
“Don’t sound so concerned. I’ve done what you wanted. Don’t pretend you care.” Her own petulance made Grace laugh. “I’m sorry. It is just that there was no need for you to make the trip all the way from London.”
“I am not a frail old woman,
By now a couple of maids had stuck their heads out of doorways. The cook stood in the hallway, frowning, her beefy arms crossed. The butler was coming up behind Lady Emmaline. He wasn’t moving all that quickly, obviously not looking forward to being involved.
“Whore? My people would consider an adulteress a whore.” Grace pried the woman’s hand from her. She held Emmaline’s wrist tightly and studied the woman’s palm. Grace traced lines on Emmaline’s hand. “There’s a man at home who loves you no matter how you hurt him. He won’t fight for you even though you want him to. Go home, woman, and save your marriage.”
The noblewoman sputtered. The butler stepped up to them. Grace let Emmaline go. Emmaline was crying. She ran off, her sobs echoing down the hall. Grace couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, even though every word she’d said was true. Well, who was she to judge anyone?
“It is time for you to leave McHeath Manor.”
The butler was absolutely right. Absolutely, totally right. She’d become so emotionally involved with Julien Weaver she’d forgotten her purpose in making love to a vampire. The sexual encounter was over. The spell would work or it would not, but Julien’s part in it was over. Her feelings—and his—made no difference. Her duty was to her family. So, it was time to find Uncle Mungo and be off.
----
Chapter Eleven
“You have been crying for three months,” Granny McCoy said. “All this moping must stop.”
“I’ve only been crying when no one’s looking,” Grace said. She didn’t see why her loneliness, and, yes, anguish, as melodramatic as that sounded, should matter to anyone but her. “And I smile all the time.” She smiled now, as falsely as usual, she supposed.
How long was this heartache going to last? Would she always be haunted by a smile, a face, a touch, a scent that were just out of reach? What had he done to her? What had she done to herself?
She took a sip of tea and a bite of biscuit. This made her stomach roil, but it proved she was taking care of herself. The woman seated across the small kitchen table from her nodded with satisfaction. The fire crackled in the stone hearth. Rain pattered against the small window. A deer hound snored, curled on the braided hearth rug. A cat purred on a bench under the window. It should have all been soothing, homey. Grace’s nerves stayed on edge. Which probably wasn’t good for the baby. They kept warning her about all the things that might be bad for the baby. Grace knew whatever might be good or bad for her didn’t matter. She loved this child.
But she also loved the child’s father, and couldn’t seem to get him out of her mind. Or the memory of his touch out of her skin. Sometimes she would wake at night thinking she heard him calling to her. But there were too many guard spells around her for that to possibly be true.
She’d been sent to the McCoy family property in Scotland, where Aunt Meg ruled the comings and goings of the various Travelers with a gentle hand. There was a huge old stone farm house, three cottages, all the farm outbuildings, and always a few caravans of relatives passing through camped in the meadows. Here, Grace was surrounded by loving family, and found no comfort in it. She’d moved into the smallest of the cottages and kept to herself as much as she could. McCoys were gregarious and tended to stop by at all hours for a cup of tea and to check on her well being. Even with all the company she was desperately lonely, and she wanted to be left alone.
“I don’t know why Aunt Meg called for you,” she said to Granny McCoy. “Everything is going well.”
“Why shouldn’t I visit you, child?”
“Don’t sound so concerned. I’ve done what you wanted. Don’t pretend you care.” Her own petulance made Grace laugh. “I’m sorry. It is just that there was no need for you to make the trip all the way from London.”
“I am not a frail old woman,
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