Synopsis:
Novice witch Miranda Rose’s
seventh and final task for the Supreme Witch’s Council is to find the legendary
Philosopher’s Stone. Once completed, she’ll reach her lifelong dream—High Witch
of Wysteria Hedge Haven. In a last ditch effort to locate the precious gem; she
travels through time to 1877. In a dilapidated castle a powerful wizard refuses
to relinquish the stone. In a fit of pique, the wizard, Balthazar, zaps her in
a field outside of Merry Olde London.
Sir Maxwell Chadwick is the
sole witness to a fiery ball of light streak across the midnight sky. Curious,
he investigates. Surprised to find a beautiful young woman among the smoldering
ashes, he cannot deny his instant attraction to the alluring stranger. While
Miranda appreciates the handsome duke’s assistance, she finds him annoying as
his well-intentioned interference delays her mission.
It doesn’t take Miranda
long to realize the handsome duke holds the key to her heart, as well as her
future. Fate, magic and the Seven-Year Witch disease takes the lovers on a
rollicking, star-crossed adventure!
Excerpt
Somewhere
in Merry Olde England
Chapter One
It’s
best to travel through time naked.
Miranda
Rose, novice witch of the Wysteria Hedge Haven Clan, was doing exactly that as
she vaulted through cumulus clouds into the nineteenth century. Her long golden hair whipped behind her like
a banner, and the skin on her face had become so taut, she feared her teeth
might pop out of her mouth.
The
reason for being naked was simple—travel went much faster. Also, clothes caught fire upon entering the
atmosphere whereas skin simply became hot.
Hot skin she could live with, incinerated clothing and torched hair no.
She
pulled up on her red broom handle, and braced for a hard impact. “Whoa Nellie!”
“Damn
it, Miranda, I’m…a broom …not a horse.” The Witchwright model squealed,
shuddered and bucked on air drafts.
Breaking
free of wispy white vapors, Miranda flew through the forest tree tops and landed
with a thud onto a mossy stream bank, dropping Nellie. She rolled across the rough surface, laid
still for a moment to catch her breath, then pushed to her feet. Intense heat rose from her bare skin, so she
hurried toward the water and splashed into the silvery depths. Every pore sizzled and popped with
relief.
On the bank she waved a hand
over her body and clothed herself in soft lavender robes. Loamy forest smells assaulted her nose as she
searched for Nellie. At last she found
the broom and grasped the handle.
“You
okay?”
“Sure,”
the broom said. “But that scared the
birch right out of my wood. By the way,
what are we doing here?”
The
broom had a memory like cheese cloth, but Miranda didn’t mind explaining things
a few extra times. “The Supreme Witch’s
Council assigned me to find Balthazar the wizard and the Philosopher’s Stone by
Halloween.”
“Halloween? That’s only a few months away. Tell me again, why are you doing this?”
Miranda
rolled her eyes. “This is my seventh and
final task. I succeed, and the old
biddies will make me a high witch. If I
don’t, I’ll remain a novice and the clan joke.
Never has it taken a Hedge Haven witch this long to be promoted.”
“And
I know you’re going to succeed.” Nellie swished the straw on her back end. “I can sense victory in my knot holes.”
“Sigillium magnifitum.” After intoning a spell to reveal anything
that had been rendered invisible, Miranda pivoted on one heel, scanning the
horizon. At last she spied what she’d
been searching several months for—a crumbling fortress, perched on a hill like
a dark sentinel.
“Son
of a monkey!” She pointed toward the
edifice, straddled Nellie, and flew toward the tower. Hopefully, dealing with the wizard wouldn’t
be too difficult. She wasn’t the most
proficient with her spells, even though she spent hours trying to perfect her
powers.
The errors she made weren’t
simple ones. For some reason, she had
trouble reading her witchcraft books clearly, yet she didn’t dare admit her
problem. She’d tried glasses and other
reading enhancements, but nothing worked.
Her parents, who were brilliant and traveled all over the world on
archaeological digs in order write history books, would think her a dimwit if
they ever learned the truth. Her six
older sisters, some of the smartest witches in the clan, would feel sorry for
her if they knew her secret shame.
She
didn’t want their sympathy. That would
be humiliating.
At
least she always found humor in her exceptional skills at messing things
up. Being able to laugh somehow lessened
the sting of failure.
Outside
the castle, Miranda and Nellie hovered near the wizard’s workroom. She peered through a window at the book-lined
shelves hugging the walls. Faint light
spilled across the area from a tall, wax-encrusted candelabrum. A black cauldron suspended over the fireplace
bubbled noisily. Nose twitching from the
noxious fumes, she glanced around, noticing the hollow-eyed skulls decorating
one wall.
Enemies?
Hopefully
she didn’t piss this guy off. His trophy
wall put Hannibal the Cannibal to shame.
Once
she’d glided inside, she landed on the stone floor and leaned on Nellie. The room appeared empty, but she sensed a
presence. Skin prickling with
trepidation, she spotted a caged owl studying her warily with large yellow
eyes. The bird tilted its head to the
side and blinked. Hoot, hoot.
“Crapola. Nellie, do you have any idea how to call out
a wizard?”
“Beats
me.”
She
chewed on her lower lip. “Uh, Mr.
Wizard? Are you in here? Yoo, hoo…”
A
whirlwind of sparks flashed, stinging her eyes.
After rubbing them, she glanced up to see a small figure.
It’s a bird, it’s a plane,
it’s…a midget wizard?
She
blinked several times, trying to determine if her vision was playing tricks on
her. Nope. Someone in a black, star-covered cloak and a
black pointed cap had appeared. His dark
tousled mop of hair fell into his eyes, and a pair of round, horn-rimmed
glasses rested crookedly across the bridge of his freckled nose.
“Holy
bat dung, you’re just a kid! How old are
you?”
He
lifted his chin haughtily. “Eleven.”
“Hard
to believe the fabled wizard who has awed generations is…” She trailed off, not wanting to insult him by
saying what she thought. A scrawny punk. “Well, um, so handsome.”
He
grinned like a kook. “How’d you like my
last trick? Did I scare you?”
She
gave him a thumbs-up. “Way
impressive.”
“Whoo,
hoo. I’m bad, I’m bad…” He started moon walking around the room.
Oh brother. “Balthazar, I need to ask you something.”
He
squinted at her, his eyes full of suspicion.
“What?”
“Do
you have the Philosopher’s Stone?”
He
plucked a shiny black obsidian-type rock, about the size of a baseball, from
the voluminous sleeve of his robe and held his prize up to the light. “Cool, huh?”
Her
eyes widened. “I’ll pay you any price.”
“The stone is not for
sale. See, my mom found this magic rock
in an antique shop a few years ago. I
rubbed it and spoke some magic words from this wizardology book. I finished with abracadabra, and I showed up
here. I don’t have a bed time and I can
conjure up whatever I want to eat. This
cool wizard called The Dark Lord comes every day to teach me more magic. Totally awesome.”
“Maybe
we can barter for the stone.” She held a
finger to her chin. “How about a
lifetime supply of Nerds? You know,
those little candy things—”
“Take
a hike, Ms. Witchy-poo. According to my
wizard books, you freaks are bad ju ju.
I’m gonna have to banish you to the Neverlands…” He whipped out a wand and waved it with a
flourish.
Desperate,
she began to ramble like a fool. “No,
don’t do that! Didn’t your books teach
you the difference between a white witch and a black witch? I’m one of the good guys—we’ve all sworn to
do no harm.”
Balthazar
hesitated, his wand wavering. “I don’t
know…”
Encouraged,
Miranda went on. “I’ve been assigned by
the Supreme Witch’s Council to fetch your stone so they can use it to help
mankind. If I don’t, I’ll fail my final
task. I’ll have to wait one hundred
years before I can take another exam. I’ll
be the oldest novice witch on the planet!”
Tossing
the stone up and down in his palm, Balthazar scrutinized her. “Like I care.”
“Please,
you’ve got to help me!” Her insides
knotted like shoelaces.
A
wave of his wand sent a bolt of lightning toward her. A powerful electric charge rocketed through
her body and she catapulted, head over heels, out of the window.
“You
little bra-a-a-t!”
For
the second time in a single day, her extremities began to sizzle like pork
chops on a hot grill. A scream ripped
from her throat as she shot through the starry sky. After what seemed like an eternity, she
landed with a painful thump.
Every
funny bone in her body cried out in anguish.
She didn’t bother to fight back against the black wave of
unconsciousness. She figured she was a
goner.
#
Sir
Maxwell Chadwick, the seventh Duke of Pellamshire, steered his carriage away
from the pub and allowed his horse to find its own way through the foggy,
torch-lit streets of London. After a
night on the town with a couple of his chums, Max leaned back against the plush
seat, happier than he had been in weeks.
He realized his good mood would fade once life fell back into its
familiar, mundane pattern.
These
days, he spent most of his time in business meetings or alone in his empty
mausoleum of a townhouse, battling bitter memories. Sometimes, like tonight, his friends managed
to drag him out, a welcome respite from lingering sadness that ate at him like
a sickness.
His
glum attitude stemmed from several events.
He’d suffered the first blow two years ago. He’d been courting a lovely young lady by the
name of Catherine Fettiplace, and he thought they got on quite famously. Then he made the foolish mistake of asking
her to marry him.
After
his proposal, she refused to see him again.
Several months later, his brother began courting her. Before Max knew it, they were betrothed, and
they married a short time after. Pride
wouldn’t allow him to show how much their betrayal affected him. Yet inside, he’d been seething with anger.
They’d
meant so much to each other; how could Catherine have thrown him over for
Marley? No doubt her parents had
reminded her Max’s older brother was in line to become the next Duke of
Pellamshire, and encouraged her to set her cap for him. Shallow, to say the least. Women.
He didn’t think a lot of the flighty creatures.
Attempting
to drown his frustration, he began dallying with a string of other women. Most of them made it clear since he happened
to be the second Chadwick son, he was not the type of man they would consider
marrying. Brutal, but honest.
He
tried not to let these things bother him.
Instead, he enjoyed the sex if they offered it. If they weren’t loose with their favors, he
moved on. He’d made up his mind that’s
all females were good for.
When
Catherine died in childbirth and his tiny nephew shortly afterward, it nearly
devastated him, but once again he dealt with the loss by exhibiting silent
stoicism. Propriety dictated that he
should feel nothing but sympathy for losing his sister-in-law. Love dictated that his heart be torn in
two. Despite his own torment, even
though he remained irritated at Marley for marrying the woman he loved; his
brother had lost his wife. He needed to
show respect.
Then,
while he was on a military excursion at sea a year ago, both his parents and
his brother contracted lingering fevers and passed away. Once again, his life turned upside down and
he nursed secret guilt for having survived.
His brother was the accomplished one who garnered everyone’s
respect. Why hadn’t God spared him, and
taken Max instead? And his parents—they’d
been good people who didn’t deserve such a terrible end. Max wasn’t religious, what faith he had in a
higher being had begun to dim.
Somehow
he managed to continue living, though the ache of his losses festered
inside. He knew he had to remain rock
solid, especially since Queen Victoria counted on him to assume the Duke of
Pellamshire’s title, preside over duties at court, and attend to the needs of
the people living on the Chadwick family’s ancestral lands. He wasn’t mucking anything up too badly,
considering he was learning on the job.
Growing
up, he was left to his own devices, and he found unique ways to occupy his
hours outside of school. No one thought
it necessary to train him about the inner workings of the dukedom and he never
worried about them. After college, he
became an officer in the Royal Navy and discovered his place in society—serving
in those elite ranks.
These
days, he sorely missed the camaraderie of his shipmates, the routine, and the
regimented activities. He’d give anything
to be back on high seas, commanding his ship, feeling the salty breeze on his
cheeks as he sailed to distant shores.
Unfortunately, his new duties consumed most of his time, so his military
service had been halted. Max found
himself land locked, and he didn’t much like it.
A
flash of light trailing through the dark sky drew his attention, and he turned
to watch. A comet? Totally absorbed, he studied the ribbon of
illumination making its way toward earth.
Ka-thunk!
An
object landed in a nearby field and his horse reared back and whinnied in
fright. His coach careened through a
puddle and sank in the mud, splashing cold, fetid water across his face and
evening clothes.
“Thundering
blazes, but this is rotten luck.” He
righted the carriage and patted the horse to calm it down. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he spat in a
ditch, ridding himself of the foul taste in his mouth. Curious about the bright entity he’d just seen
streaking to the ground, he walked into the field.
Searching
his grassy, moonlit surroundings, he headed toward a line of trees. He heard what sounded like a low moan; he
held very still and listened harder. For
a moment, he thought the few drinks he imbibed at the Golden Hound tonight were
creating a buzz in his brain, causing him to hear things. But he never had a problem handling a couple
of whiskies, so that shouldn’t be it.
More
than likely it was his imagination. He
spent so many hours cooped up alone in his library, poring over his father’s
account journals, that he began to worry his reclusive tendencies were addling
his senses.
He
would soon need to pay a visit to his family’s ironworks factory near Boston,
Massachusetts. Every summer, his father
or brother visited the manager, his father’s American friend and business
partner, John Weaver, in order to review the sales figures. In their absence, the task now fell to
Max. It was a task he didn’t much look
forward to.
“Ohhh,
owww…”
“Bloody
hell,” he muttered. “Either I’ve gone
daft in the head or some poor bloke’s out there.”
Following
the soft moans, it didn’t take him long to find a scorched area containing a
heap of smoldering rags. His nostrils
twitched from the smoky odor as he leaned over, determining the heap was in
fact a body.
Is this what crashed into the
field?
Couldn’t
be. Humans didn’t fall from the sky on a
beam of light. He must have seen a
shooting star. The unfortunate
individual lying at his feet had probably been caught in a fire, though he
wondered where it had occurred, since news of conflagrations in London spread
as fast as the flames. Whatever fate had
befallen this person, he needed to try and help. With the tip of his boot, he touched the
bundle tentatively.
Another
moan.
“By
Jove, what’s happened?” He hunkered down
beside the individual who wore a disheveled lavender robe. He pulled material away from a face, and was
struck by the sight of long, golden hair trailing over slender shoulders.
It’s
a woman.
He
studied her soot-covered face, and her small, upturned nose smudged with
black. Long dark lashes rested like
butterflies on her alabaster skin, marred by dirt stains. Strips of the robe clung enticingly to her
silhouette. Beneath her frayed bodice,
curves hinted at full breasts and material fluttered across her shapely
thighs.
His
vivid imagination provided the final detail, and he realized there was a
desirable female underneath all the burnt clothing. He resisted the urge to allow his gaze to
linger, as it appeared she was in need of assistance. He sat down and drew her against his chest,
enjoying the sensation of her soft form as a smoky scent drifted from her
curls.
Though
he was concerned about her stricken appearance, he still couldn’t shake off the
effects of her close proximity. It had
been a long time—too long—since he held a woman. Much to his consternation, he began to notice
familiar stirrings in his loin that had lain dormant for months.
It
occurred to him he hadn’t had been with a woman since his parents and brother
passed away because he’d been so preoccupied with taking care of family
responsibilities. The idea of satisfying
his sexual urges was the last thing on his mind.
This
is no time to be thinking of sex, my man.
Fighting
back inappropriate cravings that came from only God knows where, he cleared the
thickness in his throat. This woman
might be a prostitute or some other impoverished creature of the streets. Or she could have been the victim of a
terrible crime. Didn’t matter. She obviously needed aid, and he couldn’t
ignore her plight.
Patting
her cheeks, he tried to rouse her. She
shifted in his arms and nuzzled closer to his chest, making his heart
melt. Who would have hurt such a
stunning creature? He couldn’t fathom
who she was or what happened to her, yet he wanted to defend her honor against
the brute that would do something like this.
Why am I ready to defend her
when I don’t even know her?
Max
considered the idea this was a ruse.
Perhaps ruffians waited in the shadows to assail him and steal his
wallet. His gut wrenched and he narrowed
his gaze to peruse the area. He didn’t
spot anyone, but still he remained wary.
Considering
all his current responsibilities, he didn’t have time to pick up strangers from
the street, even though he hated to see anyone or anything suffer. Nevertheless, he couldn’t leave her
here. That would be cruel and
heartless.
“Miss,
you need to wake up,” he told her in an uneven voice, shaking her arm. “You’ve been in some sort of accident. I’d like to get you to a physician so you can
be examined.”
She
coughed, then her eyes opened, the white parts nearly glowing against her sooty
face. The vivid blue iris areas reminded
him of ocean swells on sunny days.
“Am
I in the…the Neverlands?” she asked in a hesitant voice.
“The
Neverlands?” He chuckled. “I’m afraid I don’t comprehend what you mean.
I can assure you you’re very much alive.
However, since I don’t know what happened to you, I can’t account for
whether or not you’re injured.”
With
jerky movements, she felt her arms and legs, and moved her hands over her body,
checking herself for cuts or bruises.
Max’s
mouth watered. He would have loved to
volunteer to perform the examination, but that would have been quite
unseemly. Nevertheless, he watched her,
mesmerized as her fingers roamed over areas he would gladly touch and massage
for her.
Good God, man. Have you lost your mind! Get a hold of yourself.
“Son
of a monkey, I don’t believe it,” she cried.
“The wizard didn’t blast me to smithereens.”
The wizard? Smithereens?
Narrowing
his gaze, Max wondered if she was in her right mind. Perhaps a few marbles had gone missing. The idea maybe she’d escaped from the insane
asylum occurred to him. Yes, by George,
that had to be it. He’d best take her
there back so they could lock her up again.
And
throw away the key.
The
idea didn’t sit well with him, however, and he clenched his jaw. He was determined to find out where she’d
come from. “Is everything in order,
Miss?”
She
sat up, leaving emptiness where her warmth had surrounded him like a billowy
cocoon. He missed holding her
already. Why, he couldn’t say. Only that she affected him in ways he
couldn’t explain. Dizziness gripped his
brain and his mouth went dry as a bone.
Again, he considered perhaps he’d imbibed too much at the pub, but
realized alcohol couldn’t be the cause of the strange feeling that had come
over him.
“I
guess so.”
He
pushed to his feet and held out his hand.
“May I help you?”
“Sure.”
She
placed her palm in his, sending a tingling sensation through his arm and
throughout his body as she stood up next to him. She swayed; he caught her and held her
against his chest, wishing he might keep her like this for a while longer. Shock rippled through him.
You have no idea who this woman
is, Max. Why are you acting so
protectively toward her? You must be
more cautious—she’s a stranger.
He
couldn’t explain his feelings. He knew
she needed help, and he wanted to be the one to give assistance to her, as outrageous
as it seemed. Even though his forehead
became overly warm and he wondered if he was taking ill, he asked her, “Are you
all right?”
“I’m
a little dizzy. I had quite a tumble.”
“Did
some ruffian accost you? If so, I’ll
find him and give him a taste of his own medicine. I was a champion wrestler at Oxford, so I can
easily give him a black eye for doing this to you. In fact, I’ll give him two.” His offer to defend her honor seemed a tad
inflated, but the words seemed to fly from his mouth. He couldn’t stop himself.
She
placed a hand on his sleeve. “No, no,
it’s nothing like that.”
“What
happened?” He lifted a curious brow,
trying to curtail his innate desire to scoop her into his arms. That was a completely irrational thought. There was no question, about it; something
must be wrong with him.
“It’s
difficult to explain. But I assure you,
I’ll be fine.”
“I
can’t imagine how. You look as though
you’ve been through hell, if you don’t mind my saying so.” He frowned, wondering about her peculiar
behavior. No woman he’d ever known would
take a beating like she had, and not be cowering in fear. Again, he wondered if this was some sort of
ruse to catch him off guard…
“I
appreciate your concern, Mr…”
He
cleared his throat, waiting for her to pour on the ridiculous female charm once
she realized who he was. These days,
he’d grown quite accustomed to women fawning over him and flirting. After his brother died, he became one of
London’s most eligible bachelors. Now
all the matchmaking mamas were in dogged pursuit of him, hoping to snap him up
for one of their daughters.
He
found the complete turnabout humorous, especially after all the years of
genteel society girls considering him beneath their delicate, spoiled
noses. Not in a lifetime would he forget
how they’d shunned him. It would take a
miracle for him to ever choose one of those featherheaded society chits for his
wife.
“My
name is Maxwell,” he finally said. “Sir
Maxwell, the Duke of Pellamshire.” He
waited for her reaction, but to his sheer amazement, her face didn’t register a
thing—except a beautiful smile.
“I’m
pleased to meet you.” She reached out
and shook his hand, giving it a good sturdy pumping, like that of a hardy
sailor.
He
blinked, bewildered. She spoke
strangely, behaved oddly and now she didn’t know who he was?
“I
say, you haven’t heard of me before?”
She
shrugged. “Sorry, but no.”
Surprise
washed over him. If she lived in London,
how could she not have heard of his
family? The gossips were having a
heyday, going on about the Chadwick’s recent tragedies. He’d become quite a famous topic of
discussion, much to his irritation.
He
cleared his throat. “I haven’t had the
pleasure of hearing your name, Miss.”
“Oh, it’s Miranda.”
“Just Miranda?”
“Yes.” She brushed twigs and dirt from her tattered
clothing, obviously wishing to change the subject. “How did you find me?”
“I
saw a streak of light in the sky and I thought something fell in this
field. I came out to investigate, and I
found you. I believe the glow was a shooting
star, or perhaps a comet.”
“Yes,
I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “Thank
you for stopping to help me.”
“I
couldn’t leave you lying in the middle of a field, now could I? It wouldn’t be gentlemanly. You were hurt.” He glanced at the street. “There’s all manner of foul individuals
roaming this part of town who might have taken advantage of you.”
She
chuckled. “Believe me; I’ll manage fine
if anyone tries anything funny with me.
I’ll karate-chop him right where it hurts.” She made sharp motions with her hands.
Max
shook his head, still wondering about her odd manner of speech, and her unusual
conduct. Perhaps her brain had been
addled during her mysterious accident.
He’d heard that often caused people to exhibit erratic mental
behavior.
“My
carriage is nearby. If you’d like, I’ll
take you to a physician so he can examine you.”
She
stared at him like he’d grown horns and a tail.
“I appreciate your consideration, but I’ll take it from here.”
“You
should come with me—you’re in no condition to be wandering about town on your
own.” She backed away, shaking her head,
so he tried a different approach. “If
you’d like, I can summon a night watchman and he can take you where you need to
go.”
“No. Absolutely not! Do not call anyone. No one can know I’m here—you shouldn’t even
know.” Her fiery blue glance pierced him
like an insect pinned to a scientists’ collection board.
He
shifted his weight from one foot to another, observing her frazzled hair and
clothing. “What are your plans, Miss? To wander through London looking like you
do? You’ll make a laughingstock of
yourself. Surely you have family
somewhere that will be looking for you.”
“Don’t
worry about me. I can take care of
myself. Please let me be.”
He
lifted a brow. “What?”
“I’m
certain nothing’s wrong with your hearing.
Let me be.”
“See
here now—”
“Look,
Sir Maxwell.” She flipped a soot-stained
hand at him. “Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate everything you’ve done. But you need to leave. The wizard could come after me again and you
might be hurt. I couldn’t live with that
on my conscience—and the council would have my head. So please, just leave me be. All right?”
Incredible! Max stared at her as though she’d swallowed
an entire roast suckling pig. The woman
was delusional. Stumped about what to
do, he scrutinized her closer. Should he
leave her as she requested?
I can’t. What if some scoundrel attacked her? He frowned and treated her to a stern
look—one he hoped portrayed his deep concern.
“I refuse to budge one iota until you agree to come with me.”
She stomped her foot. “Oooh!
You are impossible. Fine,
then. Stay and risk getting
shish-kebabbed by the punk in the tower.
It’s your funeral. I’m not
sticking around. Meanwhile, you can’t
remember me or what happened here tonight.”
She pointed at him and muttered, “Nexus praxtor belivius forgetfulness!”
Max
could hardly believe his eyes when she snapped her fingers, and a red-handled
broom appeared in her hands.
Where did the broom come
from? He blinked several times
to clear his vision, but it didn’t help.
To his complete amazement, she straddled the innocent household item.
“Come
on, Nellie,” she urged. “Let’s go back
to Wysteria. We’ve got to figure out a
new plan.”
Gadzooks! The woman has lost her mind; it appears she
believes herself to be a witch. Stunned, he observed as she waited for the
broom to whisk her away.
Nothing
happened.
He
folded his arms over his chest, considering hefting her over his shoulder and
hauling her to the booby hatch, kicking and screaming if necessary. Not now, but perhaps in a moment. This was jolly good fun, watching her cavort
around. In fact, he hadn’t enjoyed
himself this much in quite a long time.
She
rubbed the broom handle, and a worried expression creased her brow. “Don’t tell me that punk got to you! You’re better than this, Nellie. For Pete’s sake, you’re brand new! You should have been able to handle a little
fall.”
When
she couldn’t get the broom to do anything, she made her way over to a rise in the
ground, planted her feet, and said, “Okay, I’ve given you a slight advantage by
standing up here.” She pointed the broom
handle skyward. “This ought to do it. Come on now.
Be a good girl.”
Still
nothing happened.
She
stomped over to a boulder. Glaring at
him over her shoulder, she said, “What are you looking at?”
“You. You’re quite remarkable.”
She
rolled her eyes and concentrated her efforts on trying to make the broom fly.
Why
in the world didn’t he summon the authorities and let them haul her away? Why did he continue to watch her prance
around as though she’d lost her mind? It
was obvious that in her current state, the unstable woman might do harm to
herself or someone else.
Yet,
he hesitated, still in disbelief he was seeing this. It seemed likely if he left and returned with
a witness, she would be gone, and he’d be labeled the lunatic.
Still
talking to the broom, she climbed atop a boulder, steadied herself on the
handle and pointed it once again at the star-studded sky. “Shoot for the moon, Nellie!”
To
Max’s complete astonishment, the broom began to levitate and whooshed out of
sight. Staggering backward, he rubbed
his eyes. In all of his twenty-seven
years on this earth, he’d never seen such a strange sight. A numb feeling washed over him.
Good
Lord, had he lost his mind? Had he
witnessed that? Perhaps he ought to
admit himself to the insane asylum. He
couldn’t have seen that woman disappear into thin air.
Could he?
He
looked around the area, seeing no evidence she’d been there. She hadn’t left a single clue. Even the blackened, burned out area where
he’d found her now appeared normal.
“Bloody
hell,” he muttered, as he stormed back to his carriage. Swinging inside, he flicked the reins across
the horse’s back and the coach began to roll forward. He wanted nothing more than to leave the
scene of his outlandish hallucination.
He
turned the coach around and headed back to the Golden Hound for another
drink. He needed one badly. Deep in thought about what had just happened,
he focused on his horse clopping over the cobblestones.
“Ho
there, old mare. Did you witness what I
did? Or have I lost my wits?”
The
horse whinnied and shook its mane.
Whatever that meant.
About
the Author
Cindy lives in Cheyenne, Wyoming with her husband, Rich, and
her little dog, Ewok. 7 Year Witch is the first book in her Wysteria Hedge
Haven Clan series, published through Angelic Knight Press. You can contact her
through her website, www.cindykeenreynders.com. She
loves to hear from her readers!
Twitter: @littlewing1959
Cindy Keen Reynders
Angelic Knight Press: Wysteria Hedge Haven Clan Series
7
Year Witch, 2012
A
Witch at Midnight, 2013
Medallion Media Group: Saucy Lucy Series
The
Saucy Lucy Murders, 2007
Paws-itively
Guilty, 2008
A
Killer Slice, Amazon, 2011
