The Winds of Fate Read Online Free Page A

supposed to?”
    He laughed in a rich baritone she would always remember. Her hand lay trustingly on his, like a baby bird solaced by the nest. She marveled at this strange new feeling. A warm glow flowed through her. Her hand felt at home in his, like it should be, meant for all eternity. She studied his well-shaped fingers, filthy yet unlike the ill-born that had warped, claw-like talons. His hand was strong with fingers long and supple as a swordsman’s. Although chained, she sensed he wore his chains with solid indifference, his fearlessness allowing him to escape any tragedy. He was gallant for sure, for he had come to her rescue.
    He turned her hand over, drawing a trail from her wrist, across the palm to the tip of the longest finger. Her fingers fluttered then curled inward. She smiled. Tenderly he folded her hand into a fist then stroked the crown of her knuckles. At once the palm uncurled, an intimation of trust as unconscious as her shiver of sensation.
    He recited his name. Devon Blackmon. Strong and daring. It suited him. Claire followed with her own name. Oblivious to the interchange between them, the parson finished. After having them sign marriagedocuments, he made his excuses and departed. She had done it. She had married a felon. Before God she had sworn to be his wife.
    He took her hand again, brushed it with his lips, and murmured a soft, “Madame Blackmon.” It was too swift a gesture to give her any warning. She had felt a curious streak of tremors at his touch and a hint of sentimentality. Heat rose to her face.
    “Would it allay your fears if I told you, I was as frightened as you?” he asked.
    “You?” It was an accusation. “You seem so…so self-assured.”
    “You believe it to be impossible? Is this not my wedding day too? Well, you’re stuck with me, and you’ll eventually learn to accept defeat graciously.” He laughed. “But with visions of the gallows beyond, you do not have to worry long. Do you think I, a condemned man, would have any requests?”
    She tugged her hand away, wary. “I’ll leave you a basket of pastries and meats to supplement your remaining time.” A thought occurred to her. “Are there loved ones who need to be,” she coughed, “need to be contacted?”
    He snapped out a cold expletive. “I am alone in this world.”
    Claire’s heart thumped. “Pray tell, what do you require?”
    “One night of conjugal rights with my bride.”
    She drew a deep breath, and then let it out, her words uttered in one long staccato. “I−I−had–had not been prepared for this eventuality.”
    “Answer me. Would you deny me if our circumstances were different?”
    Claire thought it an absurd question and felt safe in her answer. It was a request from a desperate and condemned man. Whatever she answered made no difference. His fate was sealed as much as hers. “No, I would not.”
    “Is that a promise?”
    She hesitated. Her mind spun with the importance of making such a promise. What if this man broke free? She had no doubt he was the kind of man who would hunt her down to claim what was due him. Yet his execution remained certain.
    Claire held an incredible sympathy for him. A little white lie she reasoned would be a kindness to him. Besides, her nerves were overwrought. She did not have the fortitude to tell him any different. He had married her. He enabled her freedom. He had none. She owed him at least that. If mere words gave him comfort in his last hour, so be it. A twinge of guilt pawed at her breast from her insincerity. At the same time, something intangible nagged at her, warned her of the future, the price of a lie. She shook that feeling aside. This time she grasped his hand.
    “A promise.”

S ir Edmund Jarvis sat in his library. Where was the little twit? Gone for hours with that goose-eyed cousin of hers and no one knew where they were. Never did he expect the damned duke to appear and demand to see his prospective bride. A growing stack of bills from