Then all fell silent and still once more, somnolent in the sunshine and shadows, as peace, deep and profound, settled over the graves.
THE END
Dear Reader,
The instant I imagined Niniver, I knew she would be the perfect match for Marcus. The challenge was to work out how to convince two stubbornly resistant hearts that that was so! I hope you enjoyed Niniver and Marcus’s tale—if you feel inclined to leave a review here, I would greatly appreciate it.
If you haven’t yet indulged in the preceding two Cynster novels which together lay the groundwork for this one, do check out BY WINTER’S LIGHT, the holiday special which introduces not just Lucilla, Thomas, and Marcus, but also the other Cynsters of their generation whose tales will soon follow, as well as the novel immediately preceding Marcus and Niniver’s tale, containing the fated romance of Marcus’s twin sister, Lucilla, and Niniver’s cousin, Thomas Carrick, in THE TEMPTING OF THOMAS CARRICK. Short descriptions of both novels are included below.
And if you’d like to go back and savor Lucilla and Marcus’s parents’ romance and learn more about the Vale of Casphairn, check out SCANDAL’S BRIDE. I’ve included a short excerpt following this letter. Enjoy!
Stephanie.
COMING NEXT:
THE ADVENTURERS QUARTET
For action, adventure, and romance on the high seas, keep your eyes peeled for my exciting new four-part series.
The voyage begins on December 29, 2015. Sail into excitement in the New Year with
Volume 1: THE LADY’S COMMAND.
For alerts as new books are released, plus information on upcoming books, exclusive sweepstakes and sneak peeks into upcoming novels, sign up for Stephanie’s Private Email Newsletter
The ultimate source for detailed information on all Stephanie’s published books, including covers, descriptions, and excerpts, is Stephanie’s Website
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BY WINTER’S LIGHT
A Cynster Special Novel
#1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens returns to romantic Scotland to usher in a new generation of Cynsters in an enchanting tale of mistletoe, magic, and love.
It’s December 1837 and the young adults of the Cynster clan have succeeded in having the family Christmas celebration held at snow-bound Casphairn Manor, Richard and Catriona Cynster’s home. Led by Sebastian, Marquess of Earith, and by Lucilla, future Lady of the Vale, and her twin brother, Marcus, the upcoming generation has their own plans for the holiday season.
Yet where Cynsters gather, love is never far behind—the festive occasion brings together Daniel Crosbie, tutor to Lucifer Cynster’s sons, and Claire Meadows, widow and governess to Gabriel Cynster’s daughter. Daniel and Claire have met before and the embers of an unexpected passion smolder between them, but once bitten, twice shy, Claire believes a second marriage is not in her stars. Daniel, however, is determined to press his suit. He’s seen the love the Cynsters share, and Claire is the lady with whom he dreams of sharing his life. Assisted by a bevy of Cynsters—innate matchmakers every one—Daniel strives to persuade Claire that trusting him with her hand and her heart is her right path to happiness.
Meanwhile, out riding on Christmas Eve, the young adults of the Cynster clan respond to a plea for help. Summoned to a humble dwelling in ruggedly forested mountains, Lucilla is called on to help with the difficult birth of a child, while the others rise to the challenge of helping her. With a violent storm closing in and severely limited options, the next generation of Cynsters face their first collective test—can they save this mother and child? And themselves, too?
Back at the manor, Claire is increasingly drawn to Daniel and despite her misgivings, against the backdrop of the ongoing festivities their relationship deepens. Yet she remains torn—until catastrophe strikes, and by winter’s light, she learns that love—true love—is worth any risk, any price.
A tale brimming with all the magical delights of a Scottish festive season.
A Cynster novel – a classic historical romance of 71,000 words.
BUY & READ BY WINTER’S LIGHT
THE TEMPTING OF THOMAS CARRICK
A Cynster Next Generation Novel
Do you believe in fate? Do you believe in passion? What happens when fate and passion collide?
Do you believe in love? What happens when fate, passion, and love combine?
This. This…
#1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens returns to Scotland with a tale of two lovers irrevocably linked by destiny and passion.
Thomas Carrick is a gentleman driven to control all aspects of his life. As the wealthy owner of Carrick Enterprises, located in bustling Glasgow, he is one of that city’s most eligible bachelors and fully intends to select an appropriate wife from the many young ladies paraded before him. He wants to take that necessary next step along his self-determined path, yet no young lady captures his eye, much less his attention...not in the way Lucilla Cynster had, and still did, even though she lives miles away.
For over two years, Thomas has avoided his clan’s estate because it borders Lucilla’s home, but disturbing reports from his clansmen force him to return to the countryside—only to discover that his uncle, the laird, is ailing, a clan family is desperately ill, and the clan-healer is unconscious and dying. Duty to the clan leaves Thomas no choice but to seek help from the last woman he wants to face.
Strong-willed and passionate, Lucilla has been waiting—increasingly impatiently—for Thomas to return and claim his rightful place by her side. She knows he is hers—her fated lover, husband, protector, and mate. He is the only man for her, just as she is his one true love. And, at last, he’s back. Even though his returning wasn’t on her account, Lucilla is willing to seize whatever chance Fate hands her.
Thomas can never forget Lucilla, much less the connection that seethes between them, but to marry her would mean embracing a life he's adamant he does not want.
Lucilla sees that Thomas has yet to accept the inevitability of their union and, despite all, he can refuse her and walk away. But how can he ignore a bond such as theirs—one so much stronger than reason? Despite several unnerving attacks mounted against them, despite the uncertainty racking his clan, Lucilla remains as determined as only a Cynster can be to fight for the future she knows can be theirs—and while she cannot command him, she has powerful enticements she’s willing to wield in the cause of tempting Thomas Carrick.
A neo-Gothic tale of passionate romance laced with mystery, set in the uplands of southwestern Scotland.
A Cynster Second Generation Novel – a classic historical romance of 122,000 words.
BUY & READ THE TEMPTING OF THOMAS CARRICK
FOR THE PASSIONATE ADVENTURE THAT STARTED THE SCOTTISH BRANCH OF THE CYNSTERS:
Read the romance that brought Richard Cynster and Catriona, Lady of the Vale, together in
SCANDAL’S BRIDE
Volume 3 of the Cynster Novels.
PROLOGUE
Casphairn Manor, the Vale of Casphairn
Galloway Hills, Scotland
December 1st, 1819
She'd never had a vision like it before.
Eyes—blue, blue—blue as the skies over Merrick's high head, blue as the cornflowers dotting the vale's fields. They were the eyes of a thinker, farsighted yet focused. Or the eyes of a warrior.
Catriona awoke, almost surprised to find herself alone. From the depths of her big bed, she scanned her familiar surrounds, the thick velvet curtains half shrouding the bed, their mates drawn tight across the windows beyond which the wind murmured, telling tales of the coming winter to any still awake. In the grate, embers gleamed, shedding a glow over polished wood, the soft sheen of the floor, the lighter hues of chair and dresser. It was deep night, the hour between one day an
d the next. All was reassuringly normal; nothing had changed.
Yet it had.
Her heart slowing, Catriona tugged the covers about her, and considered the vision that had visited her—the vision of a man's face. The details remained strongly etched in her mind. Along with the conviction that this man would mean something, impinge on her life in some vital way.
He might even be the one The Lady had chosen for her.
The thought was not unwelcome. She was, after all, twenty-two, long past the age when girls invited lovers to their beds, when she might have expected to play her part in that neverending rite. Not that she regretted that her life had been otherwise, which was just as well, for her path had been set from the instant of her birth. She was "the lady of the vale."
The title, one of local custom, was hers and hers alone; none other could claim it. As the only child of her parents, on their deaths, she'd inherited Casphairn Manor, along with the vale and its attendant responsibilities. Her mother had been the same, inheriting manor, lands and position from her mother before her. Each of her direct female ancestors had been "the lady of the vale."
Cocooned in warm down, Catriona smiled. Just what her title meant few outsiders understood. Some thought her a witch—she'd even used the fiction to scare away would-be suitors. Both church and state had little love of witches, but the vale's isolation kept her safe; there were few who knew of her existence, and none to question her authority or the doctrine from which it sprang.
All the inhabitants of the vale knew what she was, what her position entailed. With roots buried generations deep in the fertile soil, her tenants, all those who lived and worked in the vale, viewed "their lady" as the local representative of The Lady herself, older than time, spirit of the earth that supported them, guardian of their past and their future. They all, each in their own way, paid homage to The Lady, and, with absolute and unquestioning confidence, relied on her earthly representative to watch over them and the vale.
To guard, to protect, to nurture, nourish and heal—those were The Lady's tenets, the only directives Catriona followed and to which she'd unstintingly devoted her life. As had her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother before her. She lived life simply, in accordance with The Lady's dictates, which was usually an easy task.
Except in one arena.
Her gaze shifted to the parchment left unfolded on her dresser. A Perth solicitor had written to inform her of the death of her guardian, Seamus McEnery, and to bid her attend McEnery House for the reading of the will. McEnery House stood on a bleak hillside in The Trossachs, north and west of Perth; in her mind's eye, Catriona could see it clearly—it was the one place outside the vale in which she'd spent more than a day.
When, six years ago, her parents had died, Seamus, her father's cousin, had, by custom, become her legal guardian. A cold, hard man, he had insisted she take up residence at McEnery House, so he could better find a suitor for her hand—a man to take over her lands. With his rigid fist clamped on her purse strings, she'd been forced to obey; she'd left the vale and gone north to meet Seamus.
To do battle with Seamus—for her inheritance, her independence, her inalienable right to remain the lady of the vale, to reside at Casphairn Manor and care for her people. Three weeks of turmoil and drama later, she'd returned to the vale; Seamus had spoken no more of suitors, nor of her calling. And, Catriona was quite certain, he had never again taken The Lady's name in vain.
Now Seamus, the devil she'd conquered, was gone. His eldest son, Jamie, would succeed him. Catriona knew Jamie; like all Seamus's children, he was mild-mannered and weak-willed. Jamie was no Seamus. In considering how best to respond to the solicitor's request, she'd been much inclined to start as she meant to go on, and reply suggesting that, after the will was read and Jamie formally appointed as her guardian, Jamie should call on her here, at the manor. Although she foresaw no difficulty in handling Jamie, she preferred to deal from a position of strength. The vale was her home; within its arms, she reigned supreme. Yet...
She focused again on the parchment; after an instant, the outline blurred—once more the vision swam before her mind's eye. For a full minute, she studied it; she saw the face clearly—strong patriarchal nose, determindedly square chin, features chiselled from rock in their angularity and hardness. His brow was concealed by a lock of black hair; those piercing blue eyes were deep-set beneath arched black brows and framed by black lashes. His lips, held in a straight, uncompromising line, told her little—indeed, that was her summation of his face—one meant to conceal his thoughts, his emotions. From chance observers.
She wasn't a chance observer. Presentiment—nay, certainty—of future contact compelled her; she focused her mind and slid beneath his guard, behind his reserved facade, and tentatively opened her senses.
Hunger—hot, ravenous—a prowling, animalistic urge swept over her. It caressed her with fingers of heat; its tug was even more physical. Beyond it, in the deeper shadows, lay...restlessness. A soul-deep sense of drifting, rudderless, upon life's sea.
Catriona blinked, and drew back, into her familiar chamber. And saw the letter still lying on her desk. She grimaced. She was adept at interpreting The Lady's messages—this one was crystal clear. She should go to McEnery House and, at some point, she would meet the restless, hungry, reserved stranger with the granite face and warrior's eyes.
A lost warrior—a warrior without a cause.
Catriona frowned, and wriggled deeper under the covers. When she'd first seen that face, she'd felt, instinctively, deep inside, that, at long last, The Lady was sending her a consort—the one who would stand by her side, who would share the burden of the vale's protection—the man she would take to her bed. At last. Now, however...
"His face is too strong. Far too strong."
As the lady of the vale, it was imperative that she be the dominant partner in her marriage, as her mother had been in hers. It was written in stone that no man could rule her. Not for her an arrogant, domineering husband—that would never do. Which was, in this case, a pity. A real disappointment.
She'd immediately recognized the source of his restlessness, the restlessness of those without purpose, but she'd never met anything like the hunger that prowled within him. Alive, a tangible force, it had reached out and touched her, and she'd felt a compulsion to sate it. A reactive urge to soothe him, to bring him surcease. To...
Her frown deepened; she couldn't find the words, but there'd been a sense of excitement, of daring, of challenge. Not elements she generally met in her daily round of duties. Then again, perhaps it was simply her healer's instincts prodding her? Catriona humphed. "Whatever, he can't be the one The Lady means for me—not with a face like that."
Was The Lady sending her a wounded male, a lame duck for her to cure? His eyes, those hard-edged features, hadn't looked lame.
Not that it mattered; she had her instructions. She would go to the highlands, to McEnery House, and see what—or rather, who—came her way.
With another humph, Catriona slid deeper beneath the covers. Turning on her side, she closed her eyes—and willed her mind away from, once again, seeking the stranger's face.
CHAPTER ONE
Keltyburn, The Trossachs
Scottish Highlands
December 5th, 1819
"Will there be anything else, sir?"
An artful arrangement of sleek, nubile, naked female limbs sprang to Richard Cynster's mind. The innkeeper had finished clearing the remnants of his dinner—the feminine limbs would satisfy that appetite still unappeased. But...
Richard shook his head. Not that he feared shocking his studiously correct gentleman's gentleman, Worboys, standing poker-straight at his elbow. Having been in his employ for eight years, Worboys was past being shocked. He was, however, no magician, and Richard was of the firm opinion that it would take magical powers to find a satisfying armful in Keltyburn.
They'd arrived in the hamlet as the last light left the leaden sky; night had falle
n swiftly, a black shroud. The thick mist that had lowered over the mountains, hanging heavy across their path, obscuring the narrow, winding road leading up Keltyhead to their destination, had made passing the night in the dubious comfort of the Keltyburn Arms an attractive proposition.
Besides, he had a wish to have his first sight of his mother's last home in daylight, and before he left Keltyburn, there was one thing he wished to do.
Richard stirred. "I'll be retiring shortly. Go to bed—I won't need you further tonight." Worboys hesitated; Richard knew he was thinking of who would brush and hang his coat, who would take care of his boots. He sighed. "Go to bed, Worboys."
Worboys stiffened. "Very well, sir—but I do wish we'd pressed on to McEnery House. There, at least, I could have trusted the boot boys."
"Just be thankful we're here," Richard advised, "and not run off the road or stuck in a drift halfway up that damned mountain."
Worboys sniffed eloquently, his clear intimation being that being stuck in a snowdrift in weather cold enough to freeze the proverbial appendages off brass monkeys was preferable to bad blacking. But he obediently took his rotund self off, rolling away into the shadowy depths of the inn.
His lips twitching into a slight smile, Richard stretched his long legs to the fire roaring in the grate. Whatever the state of the inn's blacking, the landlord hadn't stinted in making them comfortable. Richard had seen no other guests, but in such a quiet backwater, that was unsurprising.
The flames flared; Richard fixed his gaze on them—and wondered, not for the first time, whether this expedition to the highlands, precipitated by boredom and a very specific fear, hadn't been a trifle rash. But London's entertainments had grown stale; the perfumed bodies so readily—too readily—offered him no longer held any allure. While desire and lust were still there, he'd become finicky, choosy, even more so than he'd already been. He wanted more from a woman than her body and a few moments of earthly bliss.