The Virgin at Goodrich Hall (9 page)

Gasping, she sat up, moving to uncover her eyes from behind the cloth which still hindered her vision. He was gone, but she knew it had not been a dream. Still, she scanned the woods around her, finding nothing but her mare, which stood watching her mistress with what Claire deemed a judgmental stare. She turned away in shame, although it was not as if her horse could relate the tale to her father.

A sigh escaped her lips and she looked at the cloth she held, only to discover it was not a cloth—instead, a man’s cravat. Deep blue, with tiny flecks of silver sewn though the delicate fabric. Claire realised he had been a man of means, if not nobility. Had he known who she was?

Scanning the woods a final time, she found no one and was disappointed, yet she accepted that he had fled. After dressing in a rather hasty manner, Claire was soon mounting her mare, conscious of the dampness between her thighs but uncertain whether it was from her swim or her folly. She clutched the cravat of the man she would dream about, then tucked it safely within the confines of her dress’ pocket. It was a token she planned to keep.

The ride home was not too long, but wearying nonetheless. Claire pined for the loss of a man she could not even name. The way he had called her his rose would be forever imprinted in her memory. His deep voice and the affection his tone had held brought a smile to her lips. None, not even her father, had blessed her with such affection. No, she was simply the older sister with little chance of securing a good marriage. Her sister had assured her it was only her fine dowry that would attract a husband at tomorrow’s ball. Claire feared she was correct. Her champion in the woods hadn’t cared enough to stay. Why would any other man?

Tears threatened as she entered the gates of Deonsay, but she would not allow them to fall. In his embrace today, she had felt cherished and cared for. It was a memory she would hold onto, no matter who she wed. She would always dream of the man she had never seen, of a voice which could awaken her desires from within.

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About the Author

Living in the remote part of Australia called the Northern Territory, Danielle conforms to the typical Aussie persona. That is, if you think the typical Aussie sits around the BBQ with a beer in hand, dressed in a singlet, shorts and “pluggers” (rubber thongs) thinking nothing of the thirty-five degree Celsius heat with one hundred per cent humidity and ignoring the snapping handbags (saltwater crocodiles) swimming nearby. Yep, Danielle is certainly that typical Aussie on weekends, but during the week, she is somewhat different.

Transporting herself to a place of history, intrigue and fornication, Danielle writes historicals laced in scandal, lust and desire, with no thought to propriety or what’s socially considered “proper”. She adores the handsome rogue or the wild rake that refuses to acknowledge to the possibility of love or monogamy. What woman doesn’t like the allure of the wonton tempter, with his tightly fitted breeches and devilish smile? *swoons!*

Danielle believes there is something hugely gratifying about taming that wild gentleman, and is kind enough to haul us along for the ride.

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Also by Danielle Lisle

Rogues of Deception: The Rose’s Bloom

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