Blackmailed Bride. Sylvie Kurtz

Her summers at Gram’s house had brought a measure of peace to her chaotic childhood, the stories of Aidan and Deirdre’s love, the magic of belonging. And with the sculpture she’d brighten her grandmother’s last days, see the light of recognition shine one more time in her eyes. She owed her at least that much.

      Two elderly ladies shuffling through the door blocked her exit from the room. Cathlynn stepped aside to let them pass.

      “Do you suppose he’ll show up?” asked the one leaning on a cane.

      “Who?” asked the one whose purple feather on her hat bobbed to a palsied rhythm.

      “Jonas Shades. Who else?”

      Jonas Shades. Why did the name seem so familiar? Where had she heard it before?

      Purple Feather cocked a hand on her hip. “Bertha, you’ve no intentions of buying anything, do you? You dragged me out in this weather just to add fodder to your gossip fuel. I’ve a good mind to drag you right back home.”

      “You’ll do no such thing!” Bertha pretended indignation, then leaned closer to her companion’s ear. “My David says he’s been impossible to work for since his wife disappeared, that he’s lost his edge. Hasn’t been able to do anything. The research; it’s stopped. David says the man spends most of his days pacing. And you know how it is.… Well, I had to see for myself.”

      Purple Feather’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Your grandson is as bad a gossip as you are.”

      Bertha picked up a trinket from the nearby table and replaced it with barely a look. “David says that’s why he’s having the auction. David says he desperately needs cash for his research. Think of how it would affect the village if he left.”

      “Someone else would come. Someone always does.” Purple Feather tried to pull Bertha along.

      “Yes, but at what price to us? Remember what happened when the family lost the monastery after Jeremy Shades died? The village almost disappeared.”

      “Come on.” The hat’s purple feather dipped wildly as the woman forcibly pulled her companion along. “The auction’s about to begin. Let’s go take our seats.”

      Cathlynn followed the old ladies out the door. Bertha stopped abruptly, and Cathlynn nearly crashed into her.

      “There he is,” Bertha whispered to her companion. “Oh my, he doesn’t look good at all, does he? I wonder if he’ll cancel the Christmas fete this year. What a disappointment that would be for everyone. But who could blame him with all this tragedy hanging over his head?”

      Despite herself, Cathlynn couldn’t help following the old lady’s gaze to the tall man standing in the corner. He leaned his long, athletic frame against the wall, studying the room with undisguised contempt. His dark brown hair looked as if it had recently been raked by fingers. Deep-set eyes the color of squally clouds hid beneath low eyebrows, giving him an appearance as frosty as the winter storm announcing itself outside. Prominent cheekbones and a square jaw negated the promise of sensuality offered by his full mouth.

      Not a man to tangle with, yet Cathlynn found herself drawn to the sheer power of his presence. Even when he tried to melt into the shadows, he filled the room.

      Their gazes met and held for longer than was comfortable. The intensity of his gray eyes traveled all the way to her soul, and buffeted her with feelings she didn’t dare name. She put down the exciting sensation thrilling through her to the prospect of owning the Aidan Heart, not to the brooding man who stood in the corner.

      Unexpectedly, the protection of her coat felt like candy glass, thin and transparent. She tightened it around her despite the insufferable warmth tingling her body. An echo of something she couldn’t quite put her finger on pinged deep inside.

      The illusion of warmth faded from his eyes. When she realized his stare had hardened into hate, she shivered and turned away.

      Why? She made her way back to her chair. What did I do? She removed her coat and self-consciously smoothed the skirt of her burgundy wool-blend shirt-dress, then picked up her brochure.

      Jonas Shades. Where had she heard the name? She read the brochure’s cover and found the auction sponsored by the Monastery Company. She searched through the catalog of her mind, but came up empty. She’d never met the man—would have remembered if she had. Power that potent wasn’t easily forgotten.

      She shrugged. It didn’t matter. She hadn’t driven all this way to solve the mystery behind the pained look in Mr. Jonas Shades’s eyes.

      Suddenly, the front door blew open. Wind whipped through the opening. It whistled and snarled down the makeshift aisle, snapping the folding chairs in the back row to the ground with its unexpected ferocity. The audience turned in one movement.

      “Do you suppose it’s her?” Bertha whispered to her companion.

      “Who? The monks’ virgin sacrifice?” Purple Feather scoffed.

      “Her. You know, his wife. The one who disappeared last month. I’ve heard people say they’ve seen her ghost about the place. Some even say he killed her himself in a fit of rage.”

      Purple Feather jabbed Bertha in the ribs with her elbow. “There you go again, gossiping. No one’s sure she’s even dead. You should know by now people love to exaggerate everything because nothing ever happens here. The monks’ legend is just that—a legend.”

      “Well, there’s always a grain of truth in every story. The monks do have a bloody history.”

      “It’s just a myth!”

      A heavy thump boomed and resounded down the corridor as a young man dressed in a suit too formal for the occasion closed the door, straightened the downed chairs, then took a seat in the back row.

      The auctioneer banged his hammer and got the sale under way. He proceeded at a fast pace, for which Cathlynn was thankful. Turning her gaze to the corner of the room, she found Jonas Shades’s icy stare on her once more. The faster she got her prize, the sooner she could escape and leave behind the uncomfortable feeling settling in her gut.

      “Now we have item number one hundred and thirteen. A piece of experimental Irish glass circa 1900 from the Summers Glasshouse. The artist is unknown, but the piece is often referred to as the Aidan Heart. Who will give me…”

      She knew the market value, but she also knew she wanted the piece no matter what it cost. And that put her at a disadvantage. Would puffers, seeking to inflate prices, prey on her vulnerability? Would the auctioneer call phantom bids when he sensed the intensity of her desire? She’d bid tentatively at first to feel out the opposition. If she simulated a lack of interest, she might get the piece for below its market value.

      Cathlynn waited patiently, breath held, while someone signaled to cut the opening bid in half.

      “Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer continued, “this is the finest example of Irish glass I’ve seen in a long time…”

      The bidding went fast and furious. As the price of the piece rose to its market value, Cathlynn tightened her hold on her bidding card and tried to remain calm.

      “This is no money for such a fine example of Irish glass…”

      Beads of moisture formed along her hairline. Cathlynn put up her card.

      “Remember, this is an original, ladies and gentlemen. You would pay more than this for a reproduction. Who will give me…”

      The bidding was too high. Cathlynn’s armpits prickled with sweat. She crossed and uncrossed her ankles. As she calculated her options, her mind whirled.

      I want it.

      I need it.

      No amount of cool reasoning could counter the irrational demand of her yearning.

      She had to have it.

      She put up her card.

      “This should