Miracles in the Making Page 12

The following day, evidence of Christmas morning shimmered all around them. Candy and Noel sat before the beautiful her sisters had assembled sometime before. They held tightly to each other’s hands, determined never to leave. That had happened once already. To each side, Candy’s family encircled the magical display, the tree with its blue and white lights glowing, and topped by a harmonizing angel. At the base, countless presents lined its skirt. What more could a person want?

Her smile locked in place, Candy snatched up one of the gifts, tearing at the yellow paper. She swung over to Marie. “A set of sheets for my master bedroom. Thank you so much! The presents are all very exciting; but Marie, Lacy…” She paused, her expression almost lost. After a few seconds she told them, “I don’t know exactly how to go about this. Were it not for the both of you, I never would have straightened out this whole mess.” Her gaze drifted to Noel and she said, “This was the best unasked for Christmas present.” Her face warmed and she giggled. “Merry Christmas, darling. I love you I’ll always love you.” Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes—a few of them streaming down her cheeks.

About to reach for a present all his own, Noel drew up short and switched directions. One choice. Using two fingers to dust the dampness from her face, he slid his lips across her heated skin. “For more of an angel then I could have ever dream of being—I love you, Candy.”

That Christmas the snow fell heavily on the Frost mountain lodge, leaving the family locked inside. No one minded. Marie had her cooking to distract her, and Lacy had the songs she loved. The boys had their mischief, Candy had Noel had each other, and every one of them had received their Christmas wish.

About the Author:

As a novelist, I enjoy my work immensely. My first book, A Fairytale was written when I was eleven years old for an assignment I had in sixth grade. While the rest of the class was writing one or two pages, I created a book more than ten pages long. Seeing as I’ve loved to write since I was in first grade, it seemed the logical path to take.

Miracles in the Making is my first novella. Up to this point however I have published two other novels, Dishonorable Intentions and Stranger by Morning. Right now I am working on a fresh romance, Almost Wonderful, which should be released in the near future.

“May I offer you assistance, My Lady?” the young stable boy asked his mistress as she once again attempted to throw herself into the saddle of the giant black destrier she attempted to mount.

“No, Carrick. Thank you, but no. I tell you, I will conquer this beast if it is the last thing I do!” Jezebel, Countess of Kinley and Lady of Kinrara, stated with a boundless determination and spirit that completely parried her young age and diminutive height.

“As you wish, my Lady”, the young stable boy replied, still eyeing the dark horse with trepidation.

Gritting her teeth in determination, the stable hands lingering presence going unnoticed, Jezebel sucked in a breath and launched herself upward with all of her strength. After a small struggle, she gained the triumph of the horse’s saddle.

“Stubborn creature!” she grumbled low, knowing the fault of her difficulty did not fall on the animal. As if he heard her thoughts, Dark Storm nickered playfully. Jezebel knew he was laughing at her. Cursing vividly, calling the beast ten kinds of devil, she grasped the reins and kicked. Horse and rider raced out of the stable and through the gates of the keep, a whirlwind of fluent motion, sharing in the wild freedom they had delighted in time and again since his presentation to her, by her father on her fourteenth birthday. Closing her eyes, she remembered the moment in all its warm color.

“He has a wild spirit, Jezebel. Wilder even than your own. It is fitting two such like souls should find each other. Heed and trust him, and he will honor you much the same. I If you do this, I am certain, you will come to love each other as well.”

Her father, kind, wonderful, and loving, taught her everything about horses. He had been right on all accounts. She and Dark Storm came to trust and then love each other, with a fiery passion born of their wild hearts and shared lust for life. When her father and brother died three years earlier, leaving her the sole heir to Kinrara and all the responsibilities with it, Dark Storm had been her salvation. Not wishing to burden her friends with her worries, Dark Storm became her one true confidant and that love deepened tenfold.

Now galloping across meadow and moor, Jezebel, kept her eyes closed, leaning forward, and relaxing against the soft roughness of Dark Storm’s neck. Releasing the reins, she, with a confidence wrought of time and love, let the steed run roughshod. Which is why, galloping at an equally breakneck pace, Aiden Darlington found himself changing course to pursue the dangerous and feral animal, whose rider it seemed was an unfortunate match for his mount.

* * * *

He appeared to be on all accounts dead, not an unusual incident considering his locale. The wilds of Scotland were fraught with accidents. That said, Aiden could not figure out why, for the life of him he seemed intent on chasing the God-forsaken creature on which the dead man balanced, across the whole damn country when he came to Scotland for rest and relaxation, away from the prying eyes of England’s infamous haute ton. Nevertheless, that’s exactly what he found himself doing. With a heavy sigh, he gave his mount a hearty kick that sent him racing toward the horse and rider.

It didn’t take long for him to eradicate most of the distance between himself and the unfortunate lad. As he came closer, he inspected his quarry. The boy was noticeably young, the Duke pondered, much too young to die, by his guess no more than sixteen. He still reflected on the matter when he realized, with what little surprise he was capable of, there was no blood to be seen.

Well, that ruled out a gunshot, Aiden thought as he observed the young boy. He had probably been strangled. Upon closer inspection however, he could see no sign of that either. Falling in line with the huge creature, Aiden reached, grasping the horse’s reins, and with the ease of an expert horseman pulled the beast up short. As he reached over to examine the victim, three things hit him all at once, and in such rapid succession, they left his head reeling. First the boy was no boy at all, but a maid. Beautiful to be sure, every curve and crevice of her body outlined by the masculine apparel she was clad in. Second, she had the most amazing skein of tresses he had ever seen, he must have been outright mad to have missed it. While he was still contemplating this amazing fact, the third hit him right between the eyes. She was awake, and had a damn strong arm!

““Hell and damnation woman! What was that for?” He sputtered angrily, his face still stinging from her blow.

“That,” Jezebel fired back, “was for manhandling my horse and for trying to assault me in the process, you wretched, disgusting, venomous snake! God should never have let a sadistic, unprincipled bastard such as you walk the Earth, you…you pestilence upon man, you curse upon humanity, you…”

Recovering from his stunned stupor, the smile he gave her was roguish and self-assured.

“Are you done slighting my character and cataloging my faults?” he inquired.

“There aren’t enough words in the world to describe the sort of treacherous lout you are, you miserable…” Jezebel resumed, jerking her horse’s reins from his hand.

“You have made that more than clear enough,” the Duke responded, unperturbed by her incestuous fury, the rakish grin that threatened to reveal itself lingering on the edges of his smile.

“If you’ll but give me a chance to explain,” he continued. “I’m sure I could ease your venomous opinion of me, if only slightly.”

“With your evident confidence I bet you think you could charm a snake out of its poison,” Jezebel snapped back.

Beginning to enjoy himself, Aiden wondered at what a fascinating surprise this dead man had become, all the while listening to the fiery temptress beside him, tick off his faults and social infractions with pleasurable wrath emanating from her every beauteous curve. There were many to be sure, he mused, his predatory nature pressing him to act. What a lovely mistress she would make. She would never bore him in bed, or out as many of his prior mistresses had, even Lila―for all her talent and wit was beginning to become monotonous. She chattered incessantly when he wished silence, she was too quiet when he wished words, even the prospect of bedding her, as appealing as he found her, had become tedious, nothing pleased him anymore. Yes, he considered, annoyed with himself and the subject in general, he was going to discharge her once he returned to England. It was more than time. Returning to the subject at hand he realized the angry beauty next to him was still talking.

“What was that?” he asked idly, choosing to ignore her obvious impatience.

“I asked…” Jezebel snapped, “…are you listening?”

“Not in the least.”

Turning her horse, Jezebel kicked him into a flurry of motion and galloped away, leaving the Duke both stunned and determined. In all his thirty years, he had not known a woman with such a fiery spirit, or such a candid persona. She was rare, unique, and she was going to be his. It mattered not that he didn’t even know her name, he was going to find her, and then he was going to have her.

Since she was a young girl, impoverished Chicago resident Reese Donavon has known High born teen, Christian St. Lorraine. A friend of her cousin’s, Christian has always harbored a tendency for getting himself into trouble. Still, Reese can’t resist idolizing the handsome teenager. As she grows, so does her attraction for Christian.

Now a teenager herself, Reese’s attraction for Christian has blossomed into far more than petty infatuation. For a time the relationship shared between the pair is nothing short of fairytale material. Until one day, having just graduated from high school, Chris goes off to college leaving Reese alone and confused.

Years go by without any sign of him. Now a reporter for the Chicago Times, Reese has spent much of her career tracking a world renowned thief known only by the sinister title “The Dark Angel”.

Unaware of the criminal’s true identity, she soon finds herself on her way to India, once more tracking the felon’s activity.

A rich businessman by day, Chris has spent the past few years moonlighting as a bandit, working with the secret service in hopes of discovering the identity of the person who murdered his mother and sister. When he catches wind that the young reporter is on his trail he surprises her by sneaking into her hotel room late one night and demanding she help him in his endeavor. Now his partner in crime, she finds herself traveling from country to country by his side. She falls in love with the man who she had once sworn never to trust again.

What started out as an awkward business partnership has turned to a dangerous romance between two people who are only just learning to trust. When they come face to face with the people responsible for the murder of Chris’s relatives their already shaky trust is pushed to the limit.

Now, turn the page to read Chaper One from Stranger by Morning.

“Where the hell have you been?” Jonathon Saint Lorraine screamed nastily, following on his s
on’s heels as the tall chestnut-haired teenager strolled through the front door of the large house situated on North Howe Drive, a black evening jacket swung drunkenly over one shoulder. “It’s past twelve o’clock,” he raged. “I told you to be home three hours ago! You were off gallivanting around the city with some degenerate hooker no doubt.”

“I was out.” The fifteen-year-old continued across the wide foyer, his stride deceptively casual. “There’s no point in pretending like you care. We both know you don’t.”

“Don’t talk back to me, you ungrateful little bastard,” Jonathon snapped. About to continue, he stopped as if to collect himself. “Christian,” he stated, in a tone of one who had been pushed to the breaking point and was exerting every ounce of his effort to keep from exploding, “it strikes me that this discussion is both useless and unnecessary. Go to your room and stay there for the rest of the night.”

“Fuck you.”

As he reached the doorway dividing the large entrance from the rest of the house, Christian could almost hear his father’s teeth grinding. He was sorely tempted to glance over his shoulder, for the sole reason of seeing the full effect his words had on his sire. The pleading expression reflecting in his mother’s soft brown eyes, however, as he passed by her on his way into the hall, quickly doused the idea.

He hated his father. As a result, any chance to flout the son of a bitch’s command was worth whatever punishment would result. In recent weeks, however, Jonathon had begun to take his fury out on his timid wife instead of his rebellious son, a fact that infuriated Chris but one that—short of murdering the bastard—he was helpless to stop.

Jonathon enjoyed having control over people, in the workplace and at home—especially at home. Over the last year Chris had sat back, watching with gleeful satisfaction as, with each of his transgressions, that control slipped a little more. At first, his infractions were small—a fight outside a nightclub and arrests for underage drinking. When that had not been enough to unnerve Jonathan, however, he had resorted to crimes which were far more serious.

Six months ago, a strange man, whom he had never before encountered, caught him driving his neighbor’s car across state lines. As a result, the local courts charged him with grand theft auto. Luckily, due to the far-reaching influence possessed by his family as well as the help of a very expensive attorney, the judge lowered the charge to mere joyriding. Certain his father would be furious, Chris was surprised when he received only a slap on the wrist and a chilly order to cease his shenanigans. After that, his crimes became progressively worse until two months ago they had culminated in his first real offense.

That night he broke into his father’s business and stolen forty thousand dollars along with a large 14-karat gold Rolex valued at around eight thousand dollars. It took his father one month and another twenty thousand dollars to discover who stole the items.

When at last he did, he was both embarrassed and outraged. Instead of allowing Chris to go to prison, as by all rights he should have, Jonathon marched him out of the police station and into the waiting limo.

Once they reached the daunting brick structure where the family resided, he had hauled Chris from the car and into his study where, without one word, he had delivered his own brand of punishment in the form of a brutal beating that left Chris with two broken ribs and a black eye.

No one asked how he acquired the injuries. No one dared. Instead, they accepted the lukewarm explanation given to them by Jonathon that his son fell from a very high tree. After that it didn’t take his father long to discover his one weak spot—his mother and sister. As of late he used them against him, wielding his newfound power with all the harsh strength that a blacksmith wields a hammer, slamming it down whenever he got out of line.

One day, he pondered as he ascended the stairs, he would get them away from Jonathon, as far away as he could. He just needed to figure out how.

* * * *

“Daddy!” Reese exclaimed, sprinting towards the open door where her father, damp from the pounding rain outside, had entered.

Though exhausted from the long hours he spent at the foundry where he worked for most of the past forty-five years of his life, the sight of his daughter racing towards him at the end of a long day never failed to bring a glow to his heart and a smile to his weathered face.

“Have you been hiding from your mother again, sweetheart?”

Looking sly, Reese shifted her gaze a little to the side.

“So you have,” Patrick guessed, following her eyes across the scarred wooden floor to the ragged couch covered in a handmade patchwork quilt a few feet away.

Giggling, Reese swung her head around and stretched her arms skyward.

With a jovial chuckle, her father swept her up in his arms, giving her a tight squeeze.

“Guess what? Guess what?” the little girl expounded, staring up into her father’s expressive features.

“Well, let me see,” Mister Donavon joked. “You got an A on your history test this morning.”

“No, silly,” Reese replied, enjoying the lighthearted game. “Guess again.”

Affecting a pretense of ignorance, Patrick attempted, “You found a lost kitten on your way home from school and your mother said you could keep it.”

“Well, no,” Reese replied, taking a moment to give the matter further contemplation. “That would be nice, but it’s much better than that. Give up?”

“I can’t imagine what could be better than a kitten,” Patrick said. “I know,” he exclaimed as though he were experiencing a great revelation. “How could I have not guessed.”

Holding her breath, Reese waited, her excitement obvious, as he intentionally prolonged the moment.

“It wasn’t a kitten you found,” he announced after what felt to Reese like an eternity. “It was a puppy!”

“No!” Reese replied, shaking with gleeful mirth. “Much better—my birthday is only one day away. I’m going to be a whole year older. Isn’t that wonderful, Daddy, a whole year!”

Not proof against his daughter’s bright smile, Patrick threw her high in the air.

“That’s wonderful, darling,” he replied when he caught her. “You know, I never did forget.”

* * * *

He genuinely meant it, but along with his joy came a twinge of sadness, a whole year. She was growing up too fast, he pondered, his crystal blue eyes deepening to a dark navy.

Patrick was proud of all of his children. His three boys were becoming fine young men with a notion for hard work and a strong moral backbone. Sure, they all had a bit of fire in their blood, but they were young yet. They would mellow with age.

However, Reese—his youngest child and only daughter—held a special place in his heart. In that way he supposed he was much like every other father. He could not help it. Tomorrow she was going to be nine years old; it didn’t seem that old, really—except to him, it was. Before he knew it, she’d be ten and then sixteen and then, well, he’d just as soon not think about that, nine was old enough.

Setting his daughter back on her feet he watched as she ran to the bottom of the rickety staircase, where a tall lithe woman with fading blonde hair stood with open arms. Lifting her daughter off her feet, Katarina gave Reese a tight hug, sending her husband a warm smile over the top of her shoulder.

“Come, Reese,” she said, directing her attention to the little girl whose hair was much the same as hers had once been, “it’s almost dinner time. You’d better go wash up.”

Setting Reese back on her feet, she gave her a soft nudge. Her daughter raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the top, she swung around the banister and skidded into the upper hall, disappearing from sight. Nodding her satisfaction, Rena turned her attention away from the now empty staircase and started walking towards her husband, her steps slow and a weary smile set on her lips.

“I missed you today,” she said, her voice quiet as she wrapped her arms around his well-muscled neck.

“Ah and I you, Rena darling.”

Taking his wife in his arms, Patrick placed a hot kiss on her lips, drawing her ever nearer as he did. He pulled back as the front door burst open, emitting three rowdy boys, all of whom dripped with a liberal amount of mud.

* * * *

“I won!” the oldest of the three shouted over his shoulder, darting across the room and flopping down in front of the fireplace where a fire was burning on the grate.

“No way, Niki,” his younger brother retorted. Setting aside his ball and glove the boy went to join his sibling by the fireplace. “It was a tie. You didn’t even hit the base!”

“I did.” Nicoli shot his brother a cocky grin. “You just didn’t see it, Gabi. You were too busy making eyes at that redhead with the big eyes and the even bigger…”

Glancing at his mother, he observed her frown of disapproval and stopped short.

“Sorry, Mama,” he said. Determined to get in one last jibe he finished with staunch resolve, “He was though, you know.”

Both boys turned to their younger sibling for support.

With a wide spread of his hands the youngest of the three boys regarded the other two with a helpless frown, sat down on the hard floor, and without a word began removing his sneakers.

“Jason? Do stop ignoring me so.”

At his mistress’s request, the duke stepped away from the window where he lingered, glowering with fervent distaste at the stagnant city street located outside the translucent glass pane. Jason Rutherford, Viscount Ellis, Earl Hargrove, and third Duke Thornfield turned to acknowledge the provocative female propped on one elbow amongst the smooth silk sheets covering the bed behind him.

“It’s about time you learn a little patience,” he informed the slender redhead with a bite, already moving to resume his position.

Afraid she would lose her lover’s attention if she did not rush to speak, Lady Katrina Morton tripped over her own words. “If anyone lacks some type of serenity Your Grace, you are the guilty party, sorry as I am to admit such a great debacle.”

A half step from the window, Jason changed directions. His movements rapt, he strode to where his sizable bed was located at the center of the chamber. As normal, he employed noble care sinking down at the edge and observing his feminine quarry.

“If that were true,” he responded, “I would have demanded your services long before now. The way I see it, because I have done so at all, you should consider a veritable honor. The fact that I strained to employ any measure of civility speaks for itself. You have no room to complain, my angel.”

Not sure, whether to be more shocked or offended by the harsh remarks, Lady Morton leapt to her feet, her anxiety clear as she grasped for the green silken cover resting in a lifeless pile near her heels.

“I gather you would like for me to leave?” Katrina inquired of the Duke.

As Jason stood along with her, his face revealed no sign of emotion.

“Since there is other business which requires my attention,” he began, his voice edged with graceful sentiment that he didn’t in truth feel. “I see no reason for you to remain. Yes, Lady Morton, I must agree. Your departure would be a far better decision.”

As he reached the door connecting the bedchamber to the hallway Jason paused, his thoughts even now ruffled by images of the disturbing beauty who he had encountered on his recent visit to Ashford.

To the woman beside him he stated, “I will see that my servants attend you. Though be warned, you may consider this your last visit to this manor, especially if it is to be one of a personal nature. Good evening Lady Morton.”

Jason swung the door wide and strode into the townhouse’s hallway, coated on both sides by a dim, golden light. On the verge of slamming the door in his path, he gave his head a frustrated shake. With infinite determination, he forced from his mind visions of a young English beauty who continued to haunt him.

Satisfied with his temporary success, he started for his study, convinced he would complete the few minor pieces of business that awaited him there. Once finished, he could prepare for the events to take place later that night.

* * * *

Across the city, the townhouse located at 73 Grosvenor Street—home to Lord and Lady Blakely—shimmered furiously against the London night. It was ablaze with light flowing from its rich interior, alive with unique decorations. Every few seconds an individual hurried past one of the four windows, set into the gray stone of the townhouse’s main story.

“Lady Blakely,” one of the servants called, once again hurrying past the glass. “Please, excuse my interruption, but where was it you said you wanted these flowers? I do apologize, your ladyship.”

Lady Leticia Blakely, wife of Lord Markus Blakely exhaled. “Of course Martha,” she responded to the aged maid. “I requested they be placed here, in the ballroom—on the table near the main entrance. I would like my niece to see them as soon as she enters. The golden daffodils have always been one of Ariel’s favorites.”

“Aunt Leticia?” Approaching her aunt from behind, Ariel stretched up, giving the middle-aged woman’s right shoulder a light tap.

Leticia jumped at the unexpected contact. The gray-streaked, light brown hair that thickened her head shivered in alarm. Still, as her niece rounded to her front side, she acknowledged the girl with a short laugh.

“May I help you?” Her words on the tail end of the fond chuckle.

Ariel, who was apprehensive and wary, now relinquished some of her tension. More cheerful, she explained, “It’s only that I have, at last, completed my unpacking. I wondered if you might be able to tell me when the ball is to take place. That way I can be prepared. As I’m sure my father has long since told to you, I do have a tendency to wander.”

“Don’t worry darling,” Leticia informed her niece. “I will be sure to let you know when the time comes. I will send one of my servants to alert you.” With a sympathetic smile, Leticia patted the young girl on the head. “Ariel?” she inquired on the heels of her statement. “Don’t get too comfortable, my dear. After all, you are aware, are you not, that in two days we will travel to our estate in the country, and you will be required to at least partially repack.”

“Thank you, Aunt. Oh, the flowers are gorgeous.” Grateful for this fresh knowledge, which before that point she had been unaware of, Ariel gave Leticia a tight embrace, then swung away. Unsure where to go, she wandered towards the library, hoping that once there, she could discover a small measure of quiet.

“Lady Blakely.” Positioned a few inches inside the room, the Duke of Thornfield rested one shoulder against the thick mahogany molding that lined the sides of the doorway.

“Your Grace?” Clearly startled by her premature visitor, Lady Blakely shifted her attention to the duke. “Whatever brings you to this gathering at this early hour? My heavens, no other guests have even arrived yet. Please don’t take offense. I am, of course, pleased by your company.”

“As always,” Jason returned with a light laugh, “you are an extremely affable hostess. Might I ask, what has you acting so jittery at this time?”

Eased by his relaxed approach, Leticia strolled to where he stood, temporarily disregarding the room, she had entered only moments before. “More than one matter,” she admitted with a sigh. “It’s no wonder all the ladies love you as they do,” she informed Jason, shifting subjects abruptly. “You have an incredibly affluent way of dealing with them. If I were not a married woman—but you know what I am trying to say.”

The duke lifted her hand and then grazed her fingers with his lips. “Your husband is a lucky man. Which reminds me of the reason for my arriving at such an early hour—I wish to speak with him about one of the shipping companies in which we both hold a share. I gather he is available?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Leticia straightened and withdrew her hand.

Though he did possess a streak of genuine courtesy, Jason was, far more cynical and overbearing in nature than he was kind and compassionate. Though few were aware of the fact, to those individuals who socialized with the duke on a regular basis the point was easy enough to recognize.