Seacliff by Andrews Felicia

Author:Andrews, Felicia [Andrews, Felicia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance european
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2015-04-05T18:30:00+00:00

PART THREE

Captive

Seacliff, Wales, 1775-1776

21

Like the almighty fists of an enraged God rising out of the netherworld, storm clouds appeared over the horizon. They came as black, gray, vivid streaks of white, dull flashes of blue-white that struck like swords in manic fury, titanic monsters crying for prey. Soaring over the water that churned below, they dragged dark veils of rain beneath them, gusting wind that tore at the treetops, turned piles of dead leaves and fallen twigs into maelstroms of ghostlike creatures. The flocks headed instantly for their pens; the herds lumbered toward their barns. Horses reared in their stalls, pawing at the air, their eyes widened in fear; birds huddled in their nests, chickens and hogs scrambled for their shelters; and hearths throughout the valley steadily moaned as the wind took grip of even the chimney-tops.

Martin Randall reached through his casement windows and drew the heavy shutters closed. Locking them, he lowered the windows to cut off the drafts that stabbed ice at his bare arms. He was stripped to the waist in spite of the deadly cold, the fires of his forges giving him heat enough to withstand almost any freezing weather. His back muscles rippled as he bent over to lift an iron-banded chest from the floor, and as he turned to carry its dead weight into the back room, the firelight caught the shadow of a mark. It reached up over his waistband at his spine—a wing, an iridescent wing that his forges had scorched dark over the years since he’d had the figure tattooed in southern Spain. None in the village had ever heard of such bodily defilement before, and after his return he’d been castigated and made fun of until his great strength in wrestling had subdued most of his detractors.

The women, on the other hand, found the design intriguing, and more than once he’d been able to lure them into his bed on the promise that they’d see the image in all its wickedness. He grinned mirthlessly as he thought of the way Quinn Broary had traced its outline with her hands, then grinned more widely as he kicked open the door and saw her start from his pallet. He nodded toward the back, and holding a sheet to her naked figure she unlatched the door. Wind immediately invaded the cottage, but Randall ignored it. He had no idea if his contribution, and that of a few others, would be picked up on such a night; on the other hand, it was on just such nights that they came down from the mountains to replenish themselves. He knew it was a risk. Only last week a farmer who worked land at Falconrest had been flogged to death for spreading rumors that Griff Radnor had bested Flint in a fight somewhere in Seacliff.

No one cared if it was true or not; just the thought of Radnor strolling into the lion’s den, den of English thieves, was sufficient to bring a secret smile to most men’s lips.

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