Chapter 1
Cumberland, England, July 1795—twenty-years ago
The sweetly warm wind blew through young Mary Wright’s deep auburn locks as she ran hell-bent through the fields of bluebells. Her lungs laboured to drag in each gasping breath, her heart thundering mercilessly in her chest. With each leaping step, her dirt-stained skirts wrapped more tightly around her knees and calves, but she hardly took notice. She was being chased! Being pursued by…by…a dreadful pirate!
Mary released a shouted laugh of glee at her own genius and forced her legs faster.
Yes, the fearsome pirate White Beard. No. Not frightening enough.Murderous Jack! Yes, definitely the name of a dreaded pirate. He and his men knew that she, and only she, held the secret to the fair maiden’s magic and the counter-spell that would unlock the horrible curse that had been placed on said pirate. But Mary would never tell. Even were she to be captured and held prisoner on Murderous Jack’s ship, the…the…Squalling Angel,yes, and tortured daily, she would never tell.
She frantically glanced over her shoulder. The pirate captain and his band of thirty men…no…seventymen rose over the crest of the hill behind her.
There was no chance of escape.
She drew in a deep breath and let out a lilting scream, but a fresh gust of wind carried it away just as quickly as it was expelled. But screaming was of little use. No one would come to save her. The wicked serpent witch, Alexandra, had imprisoned her love, the devilishly handsome Prince Sebastian.
Mary sent another glance over her shoulder. A lock of hair caught at the dampness on her forehead, briefly obscuring her vision.My downfall at the hands of my own hair!
With her vision compromised, she failed to spot the rock imbedded in the ground before her. The large toe on her right foot connected painfully with the small, jagged stone, the material of her slippers scarcely providing any protection. The incident propelled Mary forward into the waist-high bluebells, her cry of shock and agony rolling over the hills around her.
* * *
Gabriel Ashley finally managed to escape his governess’ notice. She was advanced in age and rather fond of drink, so all that was required was patience, and he was able to slip away once she fell into a liquor-induced sleep.
He tossed his favourite conch shell up in the air and caught it in one hand with a grin. Father had brought it for him the last time he’d returned home. It wasn’t a tin soldier, but it was from father, so it was special.
Gabe strode past the estate gardens and began to wander through the tall grass, before he cringed at the throb of pain from the sore bruise on his rear. His older cousin, Fredrick, the nasty blighter, had delivered a punishing kick to Gabe’s bottom while calling himmixed bloodwith a nasty sneer. Gabe frowned. Everyone treated him poorly because he was half Scottish. His aunt and uncle jeered at him and called him “half-feral,” and he’d overheard his uncle’s acquaintances call him a “thing” while grimacing in disgust. Gabe could hardly change his blood,blast it.
He took a bite of the biscuit he had palmed from the kitchens before leaving his uncle’s estate, savouring the fluffy, buttery taste. He took solace in the familiar flavour. Mama made the best biscuits in the whole of the world.
Gabe kicked a tuft of long grass as he strode up a small hill. The sun shone gaily from its happy perch in the sky, the heat from it a comforting change from the coldness at home.
Swallowing another mouthful of biscuit, Gabe put his lips to the tip of his conch shell and blew, and a fainthonkmixed with his sputtered breath came from the wide opening on its side. Father said that when his lungs were stronger, he would be able to make a louder noise.
A light gust of warm wind blew, further mussing his mass of curling brown hair. He had wandered far from the estate, but had not yet reached his favourite, secret spot. He marched over the hills and through the reaching bluebells which nearly topped his thighs. His secret forest lay just over the crest of the last hill.
A muddy white spot in motion on the next hill caught Gabe’s attention. He squinted against the brightness of the sun. A girl…awaifof a girl, surely no more than four years of age, running headlong through the tall blue flowers. Her red-tinted brown hair glowed like fire in the sunlight. Gabe’s chest tightened at the fear on her features.
Gabe’s eyes darted over the vacant hills. The little waif appeared to be running from something or someone, but there was nothing in sight.
She swung her head around to glance over her shoulder. Her high-pitched scream carried to him on the wind and his heart dipped in his chest. Gabe’s feet began to move of their own volition in the direction of the running child. She seemed to push herself ever faster as she cut a hasty path through the fragrant flowers.
She darted her head around again, then made a misstep.No. Another scream split the air, the shrill sound piercing his ears, before she fell, disappearing into the bluebells.
Without conscious thought, Gabe broke into a run. The warm wind blew his blue coat open to flap behind him and ruffled the curling mop of brown hair atop his head. The song of the birds flying overhead, the rustle of leaves from the nearby trees, and thewhooshof wind past his person all faded from his consciousness as he ran toward the fallen girl.
He skidded to a stop as he saw the small thing lying flat on her back among the flowers. She gazed back up at him with wide, tear-filled, steel grey eyes. His heart gave another odd bump. She blinked those startling eyes, fresh tears skidding over her temples and into the hair above her impish ears.
Gabe tore his gaze from the small girl to glance around them, searching for whatever had frightened her and feeling an odd surge of protectiveness welling within him. Whoever had frightened her would have to facehimif they wanted to get anywhere near his waif.
He returned his gaze to her mud streaked and tearful form among the beautiful flowers. “Are ye well?” he asked in his faint Scottish brogue.
She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, more tears welling in her eyes as she valiantly nodded. Brave gel.
“Where are ye hurt?”
Lifting up on her elbows, the waif rose to a sitting position and wrapped her hands around her foot. Tears spilled over her eyelids, and she sniffled.
“May I have a look?” He raised his eyebrows in question.
