By Winter's Light: A Cynster Novel (Cynster Special Book 2) (30 page)

After a moment, Louisa hugged her knees more tightly and softly said, “I might face a battle, but I can’t see any other way it can be.” Her quiet words fell into the crystalline silence. “In order to live fully, I have to be me.”

* * *

Later that morning, Lucilla brought Artemis down for a run in the rear yard. Rugged up in her pelisse, her hands warm inside her fur-lined gloves, a thick shawl for extra warmth wrapped about her head and shoulders, and her thick riding boots on her feet, she followed the pup outside. Ambling in the questing pup’s wake, she walked out from the house into the silence of the Vale.

Despite the hour, few had yet stirred; most were still sunk in slumber, sleeping off the effects of the various beverages that had been in goodly supply the previous evening. Drinking was a serious part of the seeing out of the old year, an essential ritual of Hogmanay. Lips curving at the memory of some of the drink-fueled revelry she’d witnessed, Lucilla continued in Artemis’s wake.

Eventually, the staff would rise; later, a light luncheon would be served in the Great Hall. But until then, with even the younger members of the various families inclined to rest, the house would remain peaceful and quiet.

Letting the new year steal up on the occupants on silent feet.

Reaching the barred gate at the end of the yard, Artemis dove between the two lowest bars and loped on; opening the gate, leaving it wide, Lucilla followed.

There was, quite literally it seemed, no other person in the white world but her, no animal beyond the gamboling pup.

The silence was pervasive, but beneath it she could sense…something akin to a beating heart. A presence that, to her senses, was very real, tangible, although not in a way others could feel.

Closing her eyes, Lucilla opened her mind, her senses, her soul.

And communed with the world around her.

Uncounted minutes later, a sharp yip interrupted her meditation. Opening her eyes, she saw a second shaggy gray bundle tumble and stumble past, big paws slipping and sliding as Apollo rushed out in his sister’s wake.

Smiling, Lucilla glanced over her shoulder. She met her twin’s dark blue eyes as Marcus came to stand beside and a little behind her.

Marcus looked back at her, reading her eyes, then in their usual wordless accord, he and she looked out—at the pups now playing, mock-growling and leaping, then further, to the white fields that ultimately would be their domain, theirs to nurture and care for.

Then both lifted their gazes and looked further yet, to the hills beyond.

They rarely needed words, yet it wasn’t even thoughts that passed between them so much as
knowing
.

Lucilla couldn’t imagine not having Marcus there, knew without hearing it that he felt the same. But she didn’t know whether the link they shared was simply and solely because they were twins or whether it was more because they were both Lady-touched.

Regardless, he and she looked to the north, and knew. Knew that for each of them, their future was inextricably connected, not just with the manor, not just with the Vale, but also with what lay beyond.

Neither questioned that insight; neither denied it.

Even though neither fully understood exactly what was meant. What would come to be.

There was a sharing in that, too.

Lucilla found it hard to draw herself back in, to pull her wider awareness back from the distant hills; there was a part of her that was drawn to seek and find, to discover, learn, and truly know, even though their time, hers and Marcus’s, was not yet.

Eventually, Marcus stirred. Quietly, he called Apollo, and the pup came loping back, ears flapping, jaws parted, tongue madly lolling.

Marcus grinned. Raising his head, he looked out at the hills for one last, long moment…then he turned and headed back to the house.

Lucilla heard him go, yet she remained looking out, her gaze on the hills, wanting to know more, reluctant to leave without—

A whine jerked her back and had her glancing down. Artemis sat at her feet, looking up at her through strangely wise, pale amber eyes. The puppy raised a paw and lightly scratched the skirt of Lucilla’s pelisse.

She couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, you’re right. There’s no point, is there?”

Artemis cocked her head and looked earnestly back at her.

Lucilla chuckled softly. “All right. Let’s go back inside.”

She looked up at the hills—one last lingering look—then she turned and, with Artemis in the lead, followed Marcus back to the house.

* * *

High in the tower overlooking the rear yard, Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, sat in the window seat and looked down on her grandchildren—on Marcus’s black head, on Lucilla’s flame-colored mane—as they passed back into the house.

Many throughout the ton believed Helena to be uncannily perspicacious, yet her ability owed more to her habit of observing people carefully, and noting the little things others missed, than to any peculiar talent.

And when it came to her grandchildren, she was especially observant; there was little she allowed herself to miss.

As the pair below disappeared from her sight, she softly smiled.

“What is it?” Noticing Helena’s smile, Algaria came to the window to peer out.

Still smiling, Helena shrugged. “It was just Marcus and Lucilla—they’ve come inside now.”

Algaria regarded Helena, then arched a brow. “And?”

“And,” Helena responded, “it pleases me to see the young ones finding their way.”

Tightening her shawl about her shoulders, Algaria snorted. “If only they would simply follow their noses, their lives would be so much simpler—that ought to come naturally, after all.”

Helena’s smile deepened, serenely confident, unshakably assured. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that. For some, the worth of the prize is reflected in its price, in the battle to win it. And just think of what we have seen over this last week.” She spread her hands, inviting Algaria to consider the facts, then Helena’s gaze shifted to the window, to the landscape beyond, to the hills in the distance. “As we have seen,” she softly said, “for some it requires a sprig of mistletoe. For others…it’s a touch of magic.”

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COMING NEXT:

THE TEMPTING OF THOMAS CARRICK
February 24, 2015

#1
New York Times
bestselling author Stephanie Laurens returns to Scotland, where destiny and passion intertwine in

THE TEMPTING OF THOMAS CARRICK
Thomas Carrick is determined to make his own life in the bustling port city of Glasgow, far from the demands of the Carrick clan, eventually with an appropriate wife on his arm. But disturbing events on his family’s estate force Thomas to return to the Scottish countryside—where he is forced to ask for help from the last woman he wants to face. Thomas has never forgotten Lucilla Cynster and the connection that seethes between them, but to marry Lucilla would mean embracing a life he’s adamant is not for him.
Strong-willed and passionate, Lucilla knows Thomas is hers—her fated lover, husband, protector, mate. He is the
only
man for her, just as she is
his
one true love. How can he ignore a bond stronger than reason and choose a different path? She’s determined to fight for their future, and while she cannot command him, she has enticements of her own to wield when it comes to tempting Thomas Carrick.

PRE-ORDER/BUY THE TEMPTING OF THOMAS CARRICK

TO BE FOLLOWED BY:

A MATCH FOR MARCUS CYNSTER

May 25, 2015

AND TO RETURN TO WHERE IT ALL BEGAN…
Read the passionate tale that started The Cynster series, with Devil and Honoria’s romance in

DEVIL’S BRIDE

Volume 1 of the Cynster Novels.

When Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, rake extraordinaire and head of the powerful Cynster family, is caught in a compromising situation with intrepid governess Honoria Wetherby, he astonishes society by promptly offering marriage. While everyone knew he would have to marry sometime, no one expected him to acquiesce so tamely. And while society’s matrons gnash their teeth at the loss of England’s most eligible bachelor, Devil’s notorious Cynster cousins begin to place wagers on the wedding date.

But Honoria has her own ideas of the most appropriate way to deal with her now-questionable reputation, and it doesn’t include marrying a man—no, worse, a nobleman—simply to appease society and his notion of honor. She craves adventure, and while solving the murder that had thrown her and Devil together was the first item on her agenda, after that she intends to see the world…but the unexpected heat of unsated desire that Devil invokes is distracting. Mesmerizing. And ultimately Honora has to decide if the passion that flares between Devil and herself is worth the risk of embracing the perils of a livelong adventure of the heart.

Read a Short Excerpt from DEVIL’S BRIDE:

CHAPTER 1

Somersham, Cambridgeshire 
August 1818

“The duchess is so very... very... well, really, most charming. So....” With an angelic smile, Mr. Postlethwaite, the vicar of Somersham, gestured airily. “Continental, if you take my meaning.”

Standing by the vicarage gate while she waited for the gig to be brought around, Honoria Wetherby only wished she could.Wringing information from the local vicar was always one of her first actions on taking up a new position; unfortunately, while her need for information was more acute than usual, Mr. Postlethwaite’s comments were unhelpfully vague. She nodded encouragingly—and pounced on the one point which might conceivably mean something. “Is the duchess foreign-born?”

“Dowager duchess.” Mr. Postlethwaite beamed. “She likes to be called that now. But foreign?” Head to one side, he considered the point. “I suppose some might call her so—she was French-born and -bred. But she’s been amongst us so long, she seems a part of our landscape. Indeed-” his eyes brightened, “she’s something of a feature on our limited horizon.”

That much, Honoria had gleaned. It was one reason she needed to know more. “Does the dowager join the congregration here? I didn’t see any ducal arms about.” Glancing at the neat stone church beyond the vicarage, she recalled numerous commemorative inscriptions honoring the deceased from various lordly houses, including scions of the Claypoles, the family whose household she’d joined last Sunday. But no ducal plaques, helpfully inscribed with name and title, had she discovered anywhere.

“On occasion,” Mr. Postlethwaite replied. “But there’s a private church at the Place, quite beautifully appointed. Mr. Merryweather is chaplain there. The duchess is always reliable in her devotions.” He shook his head sadly. “Not, I’m afraid, a general characteristic of that family.”

Honoria resisted a strong urge to grind her teeth. Which family? She’d been chasing that information for the past three days. Given that her new employer, Lady Claypole, seemed convinced that her daughter Melissa, now Honoria’s charge, was destined to be the next duchess, it seemed the course of wisdom to learn what she could of the duke and his family. The family name would help.

By choice, she had spent little time amongst the haut ton but, thanks to her brother Michael’s long letters, she was reliably informed of the current status of the families who made up that gilded circle—the circle into which she’d been born. If she learned the name, or even the major title, she would know a great deal more.

However, despite spending an hour on Sunday explaining in excruciating detail just why Melissa was destined to be a duchess, Lady Claypole had not used the lucky duke’s title. Assuming she would learn it easily enough, Honoria had not specifically questioned her ladyship. She’d only just met the woman; advertising her ignorance had seemed unnecessary. After taking stock of Melissa and her younger sister Annabel, she’d vetoed any idea of asking them; showing ignorance to such was inviting trouble. The same reason had kept her from inquiring of the Claypole Hall staff. Sure that she would learn all she wished while being welcomed to the local Ladies Auxiliary, she’d arranged for her afternoon off to coincide with that most useful of village gatherings.

She’d forgotten that, within the local area, the duke and dowager duchess would always be referred to in purely generic terms. Their neighbors all knew to whom they referred—she still did not. Unfortunately, the patent scorn with which the other ladies viewed Lady Claypole’s ducal aspirations had made asking a simple question altogether too awkward. Undaunted, Honoria had endured a lengthy meeting over raising sufficient funds to replace the church’s ancient roof, then scoured the church, reading every plaque she could find. All to no avail.

Drawing a deep breath, she prepared to admit to ignorance. “To which—”

“There you are, Ralph!” Mrs. Postlethwaite came bustling down the path. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, my dear.” She smiled at Honoria, then looked at her spouse. “There’s a boy come from old Mrs. Mickleham—she’s asking for you urgently.”

“Here you are, miss.”

Honoria whirled—and saw the vicar’s gardener leading the bad-tempered gray the Claypole Hall groom had harnessed to the gig. Shutting her lips, she nodded graciously to Mrs. Postlethwaite, then sailed through the gate the vicar held wide. Taking the reins with a tight smile, she allowed the gardener to assist her to the seat.