Windswept Read online

  Dear Reader,

  When Pocket Books brought three of the eight novels I’d penned under the name Deborah Martin back into print, I was ecstatic at the chance to revise and refresh my early works. I’m thrilled to now be adding Windswept to the list that includes By Love Unveiled, Silver Deceptions, and Stormswept. These early works set the stage for my career. First came the historical details, passionate action, and darker tones of my Deborah Martin novels. Then followed the sensual entanglements, witty repartee, and lighthearted spirits of my recent Regency series: The Sinful Suitors and The Hellions of Halstead Hall. Both romantic styles are infused with the sexy romantic liaisons my readers have come to expect in my works.

  And now, long out of print, a revised Windswept is available once more from Pocket Books! In this tale, Catrin Price is haunted by a death curse that already took the man she married. The only way to break the spell is to buy back a druid chalice and drink from it before her marriage. But when Catrin redeems the chalice, she leaves a dead man in her wake, and now must prove her innocence.

  Evan Newcome is on a mission to find the woman last seen with his dead friend. But once he meets Catrin, passion blazes hot between them. Can the magic of true love overcome Evan’s dark past and Catrin’s wall of mistrust? In this all-consuming, all-powerful, all-wonderful love story, I heightened the drama, enriched the story line, tightened the dialogue, and stoked the heart-pounding sexual tension between these two entangled characters. I hope you enjoy this reissue of Windswept, whether it’s one of your past favorites or a new adventure for you to relish.

  Happy reading!

  “ANYONE WHO LOVES ROMANCE MUST READ SABRINA JEFFRIES! ”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lisa Kleypas

  The Sinful Suitors

  Sabrina Jeffries’s delightful Regency series featuring the St. George’s Club, where watchful guardians conspire to keep their unattached sisters and wards out of the clutches of sinful suitors.

  THE STUDY OF SEDUCTION

  “Lovely, poignant, and powerful.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “[Sabrina Jeffries] knows what readers want and she delivers on every level, satisfying fans and garnering new readers.”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars, Top Pick)

  “Graced with pleasingly wrought characters who develop beautifully and a crafty villain you’ll love to hate, along with clever dialogue and rapier wit, this compelling, deliciously seductive story takes the classic marriage of convenience to a new level and sets the stage for the next in the series. A delectable and rewarding read.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  THE ART OF SINNING

  “With every book, Jeffries grows into an even more accomplished writer whose memorable characters and unforgettable stories speak to readers on many levels.”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars, Top Pick)

  “Veteran historical romance author Jeffries launches her Sinful Suitors Regency series with two effortlessly crafted charismatic protagonists.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The Art of Sinning is an endearing beginning to a new series, and showcases Jeffries’s talents in making the reader swoon in delight.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Also from New York Times and USA Today bestselling author

  STORMSWEPT

  “The depth of [Rhys and Juliana’s] emotions makes them believable characters, and their fast-paced story is intensely moving.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  The Duke’s Men

  They are an investigative agency born out of family pride and irresistible passion . . . and they risk their lives and hearts to unravel any shocking deception or scandalous transgression!

  IF THE VISCOUNT FALLS

  “A perfect conclusion to Jeffries’s addictive quartet.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  HOW THE SCOUNDREL SEDUCES

  “Scorching . . . From cover to cover, it sizzles.”

  —Reader to Reader

  “Marvelous storytelling . . . Memorable.”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars, Top Pick, K.I.S.S. Award)

  WHEN THE ROGUE RETURNS

  “Blends the pace of a thriller with the romance of the Regency era.”

  —Woman’s Day

  “Enthralling . . . rich in passion and danger.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  WHAT THE DUKE DESIRES

  “A totally engaging, adventurous love story with an oh-so-wonderful ending.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Full of all the intriguing characters, brisk plotting, and witty dialogue that Jeffries’s readers have come to expect.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  Thank you for downloading this Pocket Books eBook.

  * * *

  Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Pocket Books and Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  To my wonderful father, Jack Martin, whose love of history and mystery shaped my career. There’s a little of both in this one, Daddy!

  PROLOGUE

  London

  June 1802

  Catrin Price reread Lord Mansfield’s note yet again: Meet me at nine o’clock at the Green Goat. I shall reserve the private supper room at the back of the inn for you.

  But it was well after nine and he still wasn’t here. For the first time since she’d embarked on this scheme, she wondered how wise it was to meet an English stranger in an inn.

  Perhaps that explained the foreboding in her bones, poisoning her hopes for the evening. Ever since she’d left her lodgings, she’d had the uneasy sense of being watched. No doubt it was only her imagination, though. Her stalwart grandmother had always accused her of being scared of her own shadow.

  Still, had Lord Mansfield chosen this seedy inn for a reason? Had he lured her here to steal her virtue?

  Don’t be absurd. He doesn’t know what you look like, or if you’re young or old. Why would he plot against a stranger?

  Yet all her life, she’d heard terrifying stories of what could happen to a Welshwoman from the country traveling alone in a huge English city like London. Although she spoke English well, she could sense people assessing her accent, trying to decide if she were an easy mark or no.

  London oppressed her. It was too large, too crowded and noisy, and far too dirty. She missed the heather-­carpeted moors of Wales, the mountains swept by bracing winds, and the tangled bushes of wild roses. Here she felt like a scared creature caught in a pen with gaolers whom she neither understood nor liked.

  She fingered the sheaf of pound notes in her coat pocket. How she hated having to give it to some rich Englishman. She could use it for a thousand other things—new roofs for the tenants’ cottages, an addition to the servants’ cramped quarters, books for the charity school . . .

  Still, this was more important. It would buy her freedom from the curse. Hope. And a future for her and the people who depended on her. For that, she’d pay any amount.

  She drew out the diary that had brought her here, and the weight of the past settled on her like thunderclouds on Black Mountain. According to David Morys, the schoolmaster in Llanddeusant, it was over two hundred years old. Turning to the pages she’d practically memorized, she read again the ominous Welsh words:

  To all women with the blood of Morgana in their veins. This is the tale of your inheritance, passed down from mother to daughter for generations. Heed its warning well.

  On the wedding night of Morgana’s daughter, while the Saxon merchant and Gwyneth stood before the priest at Llanddeusant, Mo
rgana appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were glinting jewels and her hair a living flame as she called out her daughter’s name.

  Gwyneth was sorely tried, for she had run away with the Saxon in secret, hoping to keep her mother from learning of the wedding until it was too late.

  But Morgana, called the Priestess of the Mists ­because she followed the ways of the ancients, had seen in a vision what was to occur on that night and had come to prevent the marriage.

  Morgana stamped and swore. “Thou thinkst to marry this man, daughter? This abomination, this Saxon of low blood? Thou couldst have any Welsh prince of my choosing if marriage is thy desire!”

  “ ’Tis not a prince I wish!” Gwyneth cried. “I love my merchant, and I will marry him!”

  “He will take thee from the old ways!” the priestess protested. “He will corrupt thy mind and take thee from the truths I have shown thee!”

  “He will not, my mother. I promise to remain faithful to thy teachings.”

  Morgana brought forth from the mists a bronze chalice of nearly two hands’ breadth. Upon one side was a raven etched in bold detail, upon the other a warrior garbed for battle and a fair maiden arrayed in nothing but her own hair, which twined about her body like a snake.

  Morgana offered the chalice to her daughter. “Thou must seal thy promise. Drink from this to show thou art my true daughter.”

  The merchant begged Gwyneth not to drink, for he feared Morgana might poison her daughter to keep her from the marriage. But Gwyneth drank, for she loved her mother and wished to honor her.

  When every drop was drained, Morgana smiled. “Thou art my true daughter indeed. Thus I give thee this cup as a wedding gift to remind thee of thy promise. From this day forth, any woman of our lineage must drink from it on the night of her wedding to show that she honors the ways of her ancestors. It will give her the wisdom and beauty of the maiden and her husband the strength of the warrior, and her marriage will be blessed.”

  Her face grew dark as winter storms. “But be warned. If any woman of thy lineage doth not drink of the cup at her wedding, her husband shall die within three years of her wedding. Her sons shall be fruitless and her daughters as accursed as she until the day they marry and drink themselves of this cup.”

  The others gasped to hear the priestess’s curse, but her daughter smiled. “It shall ever be so, my mother. The women of my line shall always honor thee and the ways of our ancestors.”

  Chills snaked down Catrin’s spine. She wanted to believe that the curse was mere superstition. But after examining her family’s past, she’d been forced to recognize that their troubles had begun only after her great-great-­grandfather had sold the chalice in the seventeenth century.

  To Lord Mansfield’s family, from what she’d been able to learn. And Lord Mansfield’s description of the chalice he owned perfectly matched the diary’s. After years of searching, she felt sure she’d found the right one.

  Pray heaven she had, for otherwise she could never remarry and risk subjecting another man to poor Willie’s fate. Without it, she would have no heirs. She and her estate and all those who depended on them would have no future.

  And she couldn’t let that happen.

  1

  Carmarthen, Wales

  June 1802

  Evan Newcome read the inscription on his father’s gravestone: THOMAS NEWCOME. BORN JULY 3, 1741. DIED APRIL 25, 1802.

  Nothing. Shouldn’t he feel something besides a dull thud of hatred? Or the fear that clutched him in the dark?

  Gritting his teeth, he noted the lack of an epitaph calling Thomas Newcome a wonderful father and husband. That surprised him, given that his older sister, Mary, always kept up appearances. From the moment she’d married her tailor husband and escaped their father, she’d acted as if her childhood had never been. Evan had assumed she’d willfully forgotten the past. But perhaps not.

  Then again, perhaps she hadn’t chosen the words on the gravestone. Perhaps his older brother had done so—dull-witted, ham-fisted Goronwy, who wouldn’t have known what to write.

  “Evan?” came a voice behind him. “Is that you?”

  He turned to find Lady Juliana Vaughan standing there. She and her husband, Rhys, had rescued him from his abysmal home and sent him to Eton years ago. Just the sight of her banished his somber thoughts.

  “Good day, my lady,” he said with a smile.

  She looked as pretty as ever, her forty-odd years only enhancing her natural beauty. Glancing down at the grave, she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. “I’m sorry about your father. You have our deepest sympathies.”

  He bit back the urge to say he hoped the arse rotted in hell. “Thank you.”

  Juliana searched his face. “I was surprised you didn’t come home for the funeral, if only for your sister’s sake.”

  “Trust me, it would have been harder for Mary to endure my obvious lack of grief. At least without me there, she could tell people I was abroad or suddenly taken ill.” He paused. “What did she tell people?”

  Juliana gave a rueful smile. “That you were suddenly taken ill.”

  “You see? I’m sure she was relieved I wasn’t there to tell the truth about the bullying bastard.”

  She squeezed his arm. “Well, at least you’ve come now. You probably have matters you must discuss with your siblings.”

  “Yes.” Although he’d arrived several hours ago, he’d put off going to his sister’s. He dreaded the awkward task of explaining why he was staying at an inn instead of with her.

  The truth was, he felt ill at ease in her home. No matter how hard he tried to make her feel comfortable, she always seemed conscious of the differences between them now, and it pained him to watch her and her husband struggle for conversation.

  Staying with Goronwy was out of the question. It was too horribly familiar, watching Goronwy explode every time a meal was cooked wrong or one of the children crossed him.

  Evan couldn’t bear watching history repeat itself. Or being reminded that he, too, had a violent temper, that if matters were different and he had a helpless wife and children to lash out at . . .

  Blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh. You are like him.

  He shook off the bitter thought.

  “That old gossip, Mrs. Wynton, told me you were here.” Juliana shot him a sideways glance. “She said you were staying at her wretched inn. Surely you weren’t planning to pass through here without even paying us a visit.”

  He smiled. “You know I’d never do that. But I left London so suddenly, I didn’t have time to send a letter, and I didn’t want to inconvenience you by showing up on your doorstep without warning.”

  “Don’t be silly. You come here so seldom that it’s sheer delight to have you. Do tell me you’ll stay with us at Llynwydd. Rhys will be pleased to see you, as will the children.” With a conspiratorial air, she leaned up to add, “Mrs. Wynton keeps a sloppy house, you know.”

  “You don’t need to convince me.”

  “Good. Rhys is over at Morgan’s, but we’re having luncheon together at the Bull and Crown.” She glanced down at the grave. “Come away from this place and join us. Will you?”

  He nodded, letting her draw him from the cemetery. Perhaps being among friends would dispel his melancholy.

  They walked together in a companionable silence. It felt good to be back in Wales. He’d forgotten how friendly the people were, how brilliant a blue the sky, how vibrant a green the forests that lined the roads. The wild sweetness of his own country roused a long-buried ache in him, to be in a place where every blade of grass seemed familiar. Wales was still his home, and he was astonished at how glad he was to walk the streets of crotchety old Car­marthen once more.

  Soon they reached the tavern, where Rhys was waiting for Juliana, engrossed in reading a radical political pamphlet.

  “Good morning, darling,” Juliana said. “Look who I found wandering the streets.”

  Surprise lit the older man’s face as he rose
to clasp ­Evan’s shoulders. “You wily scoundrel! Why didn’t you tell us you were coming to town?”

  Juliana flashed Rhys a dark glance. “He was at the graveyard.”

  “Ah, yes,” Rhys said, sobering. “I’d forgotten about your father. I’m sorry.”

  “Actually,” Evan said, “I didn’t come because of that. I’m in search of the Lady of the Mists. I heard rumors of her as a child, so you two must know of her.”

  “Yes, but—” Rhys began.

  Juliana cut him off. “Of course we know of the old Lady of the Mists.” She shot Rhys a meaningful glance as she took a seat.

  Rhys called a maid over and ordered food for the three of them, then sat down himself as Evan settled in a chair.

  “How much do you know?” Evan grew sarcastic. “I’ve heard the legends, of course. She rides and shoots like a man, plays the harp like a goddess, and sings like an angel. It’s a wonder she bothers with us mortals.”

  Rhys stared at Juliana, one eyebrow arched. “Yes, love, do tell Evan what we know about the Lady of the Mists.”

  Evan sensed some secret between them, but that was no surprise. He envied how they could still be so much in love after all these years.

  “Why are you interested in the Lady of the Mists?” Juliana asked.

  He wondered how much to say. “I don’t know if you heard about the murder of my friend Justin.”

  “Yes, I remember reading about it in the Times.”

  Just then their food came, a substantial cawl, a roast leg of mutton, potatoes, and cabbage. Good Welsh fare that he couldn’t wait to tackle.

  Ever the hostess, Juliana dished the food onto plates and put one in front of him. “The Times said Lord Mansfield was robbed and killed by footpads. I’m sorry, Evan. It has been a year of losses for you, hasn’t it?”

  He nodded, though Justin’s death had cut far more deeply than his father’s. Years ago, Justin had braved the taunts of his classmates at Eton to befriend Evan. Justin had taught him how to defend himself from the snobbish young nobles and bullying merchants’ sons without getting caught by the headmaster.