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An Excerpt From: THROWBACK
Copyright © ANNIE WINDSOR, 2005.
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing,
Inc.
“Oh, dear.” Jamie’s soft words cut through Gillian’s thoughts
and brought her attention back to the yard. It took her only moments to see
what had startled the housekeeper, and the sight gave her pause as well.
A man had ridden through the main gates, and even in the
moonlight, he cut a dashing and disturbing figure. The attitude, the
entitlement evident in his every move—there could be no doubt that this man
was Reggie’s estranged son.
“Indeed,” Oz confirmed. “That would be the younger Blackmoor, in the flesh.”
Astride a massive black stallion that might have been a
warhorse in eras gone by, the man’s size was no less impressive than his
mount’s powerful girth. He rode with ease and command, circling the
perimeter of the Wanderer’s camp like a king surveying his subjects.
Gillian could just make out the dark hair hanging nearly to his shoulders,
but his heavily muscled physique was impossible to miss.
She felt her heart beat faster with each of his graceful
movements.
This she hadn’t expected.
Reggie was a tall man, yes, but sharp-featured instead
of classically handsome. And the rude letter Hawkins Blackmoor
had sent after the release of Reggie’s will—well, it wasn’t the sort of
letter Gillian would have expected from a man so dashing and in control of
himself.
The younger Blackmoor had been
incensed to learn that Gillian had inherited his father’s fortune and the land of Blackmoor Downs.
Gillian, in turn, had been shocked to discover that Hawkins Blackmoor had been deeded the castle itself. It made no
sense. Reggie knew how much Gillian loved her home, how important it was to
her. The land and the money had no more meaning to her than hay in a field.
Reggie’s son, on the other hand, was in need of land and cash for his
displaced Renaissance troupe, or so Reggie’s lawyer had intimated.
From the moment Reggie’s will had been made public,
Gillian’s world had been turned upside-down. Nothing was certain or secure.
And Reggie had always seen to her security. It seemed so odd that he would
do anything less, even in death.
And then, a few weeks after Hawkins Blackmoor
received notice of his inheritance, he’d sent that letter to Gillian. The
tone was one of dispassionate disgust. He had done everything shy of
accusing her of gold-digging. Of having an unthinkable relationship with a
kind old gentleman she loved as her only family.
Gillian had been furious, which in itself was unusual.
She was not a woman prone to temper. In fact, she was not a woman prone to
feeling at all—not after the tragedy that forever changed her life. She had
torn up the letter from Hawkins Blackmoor and
burned the pieces in her bedroom fireplace.
After the hateful words charred to ash, Gillian had
amused herself by imaging the younger Blackmoor
to be scrawny and imperious, like a rodent or some anemic beaver. She had
relieved her terrible anxiety about losing her home and what little she had
left of Reggie by assuming she would easily best his rat of a son in a battle
of wills and intellect.
And so, at her lawyer’s recommendation, Gillian had
agreed to allow the Wanderers to come to John’s River and stay on her land
for the fall Fair season. In return, Hawkins Blackmoor
had agreed to allow Gillian to remain in the castle with Oz and Jamie until
the estate could be settled.
A compromise. And perhaps a way to avoid going to court
all together.
If they could reach some agreement, perhaps further
unpleasantness could be averted. Three meetings were scheduled more or less
in stone, for the fifteenth of September, the thirteenth of October and the
seventeenth of November. Private mediations, just Gillian and Hawkins Blackmoor, and whoever they chose to bring to support
them. No lawyers, no judges, and nothing binding.
A beginning to peace.
Or the full onset of disaster.
Whatever had been in Gillian’s mind when she made that
agreement, she hadn’t been prepared to confront a man who was more lion
than mouse. A man who was most certainly a throwback to King Arthur’s
court. In Gillian’s wildest imaginings, she hadn’t been prepared for
Hawkins Blackmoor to seem so…powerful.
As if he heard her thoughts, the striking man wheeled
his mount and reined the horse directly under Gillian’s window.
She startled.
Surely he couldn’t see her.
Of course not, yet she sensed the heat of his gaze.
For a few long moments, Gillian felt completely alone in
her room, in the castle, in the entire world. The moonlight might have been
playing tricks, but the man’s face seemed as flawless as the rest of him.
And if she wasn’t mistaken by the shadows and darkness, Hawkins Blackmoor looked very, very angry.
Gillian shivered at the sight. Her skin burned at the
thought of this furious knight snatching her up, riding away with her and
spending his anger in a long, rough night of passion. Maybe he would haul
her down to Reggie’s dungeon, tie her spread-eagle on one of those tables.
She would be at the mercy of the man’s expert lash…
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