The Craghold Legacy by Michael Avallone & Edwina Noone

Author:Michael Avallone & Edwina Noone [Avallone, Michael & Noone, Edwina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Venture
Published: 2019-12-10T22:00:00+00:00

Anne Fenner had retired for the evening.

The pleasant gathering in the main room had broken up for the night; around eleven o’clock, everyone had repaired to their rooms, filled with friendship for each other, possibly romance, and a note of high anticipation over the outing to The Caves of Hex the next morning. Guy Warmsby had entered Number Twenty-Four, Peter Cowles had reeled in a rather tipsy fashion into Number Nineteen, and Katharine Cowles had majestically vanished behind the portal of Number Twenty. But before Guy Warmsby had popped into his own room, he had seen Anne Fenner to her door and, without even leading up to it, had quite suddenly folded her in his arms and kissed her very thoroughly. Then he had released her, turned, and gone on down the hall. Out of breath, momentarily thrilled and stunned, Anne Fenner had entered her room in a daze. But she did remember to lock the door of Number Seventeen. With Guy Warmsby’s touch still very hot and memorable on her lips, Anne had been further delighted to note, before she snapped the lights on, that there was nothing untoward about the appearance of the room. All things were as they should be—naturally dark and silhouetted from the brief light at the big window. There was no suggestion of the silvery, glazed and glittering phenomenon of the night before.

There was only the excitement of Guy Warmsby’s kiss.

And contemplating what it might mean.

And considering what it meant to herself.

And wondering if it was merely flirtation and another arrow into the heart of her new-found friend and confidante, Katharine Cowles. It was a bit too much. Like everything else at Craghold—too fast, too soon, too incredible to assimilate on such short notice.

As she prepared for bed, brushing her teeth absent-mindedly, laying out the Japanese robe and her pajamas—for it was cold—she was incapable of arriving at a sensible opinion or conclusion about anything. Boston had not prepared her for the onslaught and effect of a Guy Warmsby. The kiss had driven all fears and uneasiness from her mind.

The Warmsby charm had accomplished that much, at least.

Trembling with inner thoughts that had nothing to do with the proprieties of Nice Society, Anne Fenner turned out the room lights, crawled feverishly into the big four-postered bed, and hugged the crazy-quilt blanket to her chin, her mind alive and restless on the high cliffs of Romance—intoxicated by the rarified atmosphere.

She was too nervous and exhilarated to think of anything but Guy Warmsby. How he looked, how he talked, what he had said and done.

She was feeling far too womanly to have any thought of being afraid. To even consider legends, curses and hexes.

Not even a terrifying ghost can compete with the flesh-and-blood reality of a thoroughly attractive man. A veritable Prince Charming.

Number Seventeen lay in silence as she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. There was not even the sound of a breath of wind from outside. Nothing stirred. Nothing so much as whispered.

Save the beating of her own heart.

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