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A Season of Miracles
Heather Graham
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
PROLOGUE
The Burning
He had never ridden harder in his life. Desperate as he was, he became aware of each slight sound and scent, every sensation. The day was cold, crisp. The sky was blue. His horse’s hooves made thunder, striking again and again upon the ground. Distant thunder, muffled by the thickness of the snow. The cold seeped into him, though he was sweating as he rode.
His horse’s hooves seem to beat out words. We will not make it. We will not make it.
But they had to try. He had sworn that he would allow no evil to happen. He had sworn to love, to honor, to protect. He had done so in secret. What had seemed logic had been cowardice. And now…
Now they would pay.
“Hey-yah!” he shouted, heels digging into the sides of a fine animal already doing its best to travel the slick, snow-covered roads.
“Sweet Jesu, Michael, you’ll be the death of us all,” Justin called, riding hard behind him with the others.
“There is no time!” he roared. “No time!”
“We’ll be no good to the lass with broken necks,” Justin said.
“Worry about your own, then, because I will trust my neck to God.”
“Aye, God be with us.”
The snow flew. The ground trembled.
They rode. Harder, harder.
God was with them.
How had he underestimated the evil of his enemies? Michael wondered bleakly. It was incredible, chilling beyond death, the lengths to which men would go out of jealousy, bitterness and greed.
“Faster,” he insisted, fear bringing out the sharp command in his voice.
Again he felt the sweat that trickled down his chest despite the whipping wind and the harsh chill. The air was fresh, as fresh as the scent of her, clean, enticing, invigorating. How her scent seemed to haunt him now, despite the mad rush of their reckless ride, the whistle and groan of the wind whipping in a tempest around them. Snow flew, great chunks of it, filthy with dirt and grass, as their horses tore up clods of it under their racing hooves. His heart hammered in time, thudded, thundered, and still the words rang in his head. We will not make it, we will not make it, we must make it, at all costs, for if we don’t…
If we don’t…
The fear that seized him was unbearable.
“We’re nearly upon the valley,” Raynor, another of his men, riding at Justin’s side, called out. “It’s over that hill. We’ve nearly made it.”
Nearly. They were so close.
The sun.
How glorious, she thought, feeling it on her cheeks.
The day was cold and she so barely clad that she shivered, yet still she felt the kiss of the sun on her cheeks. What a wondrous feeling. Something that heated, warmed, giving her the illusion, if only for precious moments, of a deep, encompassing warmth of bliss and well-being; the illusion of being cherished, secure…
As she had felt with him.
But it was but an illusion, for the day was cold, bitterly cold.
And she would feel real warmth soon enough.
Her arms ached from the ties. She had not felt them so much at first. Now, they ached with a vengeance.
“You have not as yet begun to know pain.”
Her enemy stood before her again, watching her eyes, seeking her panic, her pleading. How he longed for it. And God knew, if it would bring her release, she would promise him anything, swear to anything. God help her, indeed, she would do anything.
But she knew, meeting his eyes, that no plea, no “confession,” nothing whatsoever on her part, would change things.
“You know I won’t beg,” she said simply.
“Aye, you’re too stupid.”
“You’d accuse me now of stupidity? I thought you considered me far too clever for my own good.”
“Not so clever. You are about to die hideously. Or do you believe in miracles?”
Her eyes fell from his. God, how she wanted to believe in miracles!
“I would never beg you, because I know that it would change nothing, that you’ve no intention of sparing me, that any plea on my part would be nothing but sheer entertainment to you.”
“So you stand calmly, thinking aye, there might be a miracle. Salvation might come.”
“It’s the Christmas season, is it not?”
“For some, dear lass. For you…I think not.”
He wanted her to break. To burst into tears. To confess, to plead, to throw herself in abject humility at his feet. Well, she couldn’t quite do that. Not bound as she was.
But she would not cry or break or give a confession.
Her tormentor leaned against the stake. “He will not come, you know.”
“If he can, he will.”
“There are no miracles. Ask me, and God, for forgiveness.”
“God knows my soul. And you should be asking my forgiveness.”
“I do what I must to preserve what is right.”
