by
- Daughter of Mystery (Alpennia #1)
- The Mystic Marriage (Alpennia #2)
- Mother of Souls (Alpennia #3)
- Floodtide (Alpennia #4)
Pages: 384
Size: 5.00 x 8.00 in
Pages: 384
Margerit Sovitre did not expect to inherit Baron Saveze's fortunes—even less his bodyguard, a ruthlessly efficient swordswoman known only as Barbara. Wealth suddenly makes Margerit a highly eligible heiress and buys her the enmity of the new Baron. He had expected to inherit all, and now eyes her fortune with open envy.
Barbara proudly served as the old Baron's duelist, but she had expected his death to make her a free woman. Bitterness turns to determination when she finds herself the only force that stands between Margerit and the new Baron's greed.
At first Margerit protests the need for Barbara's services, but soon she cannot imagine sending Barbara away. And Barbara's duty has become something far more hazardous to her heart than the point of a sword. But greater dangers loom than one man's hatred—the Prince of Alpennia is ill. Deadly intrigue surrounds the succession and the rituals of divine power known as The Mysteries of the Saints.
Publisher: Bella Books
Genres:
Word Count: 138000
Languages Available: English, French
Series Type: Continuous / Same Characters
Word Count: 138000
Languages Available: English, French
Series Type: Continuous / Same Characters
Barbara knew the game they played and maintained her stance of attentive but disinterested readiness as the baron turned more substantially toward her and said, “I should like you to wear the bottle-green satin tonight. My goddaughter is being introduced to society and I must make an appearance. I should like to make a good show.”
“As you wish,” she responded, in a tone that acknowledged that no reply had been needed.
He finally completed the path of the capon to his mouth and chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. “I do hope she’s grown more personable since I spoke with her last. She insisted on conversing with me in Latin! Said she needed the practice. But what does a fashionable young lady need with Latin conversation, I ask you?”
READ MOREWhen his grumbling had died into silence, Barbara murmured, “May I speak?” in a tone slightly less formal than before. It had the light fluidity of a polite formula and she didn’t continue until a raised hand gestured his assent.
“What need, after all, has an armin for Latin conversation? Or for Italian? Or—”
“But that was different. Back when I set you to studying, I had no notion what use I might want to make of you. Margerit’s path has been fixed since the day she first set foot on it. A pleasant face, the usual social graces, a brilliant season and the best marriage her dowry can buy. A pity her father had the poor taste to follow his wife to the grave or she might have a bit more to bargain with.”
Again, the pause. Again, “May I speak?” Again, the nod. “You are a wealthy man and her godfather. Might you not—”
“Oh, certainly, certainly. Why else did they offer me that honor except in the hope of some return on the investment? And every penny I spend on her escapes the grasp of that nephew of mine. At least he hasn’t followed us out to this godforsaken town yet or he’d be tying bells on my purse strings to know every coin that slips out of his expectations.”
Barbara watched in concern as he took a second bite of the capon then sighed and pushed the plate away. The nearest footman whisked it back to the kitchen, following the path previously traveled by the trout and the galantine de veau. “Nothing tastes right any more.” He sighed again. “What’s the point of hiring a cook all the way from Paris if everything I put in my mouth tastes like pap?” From the aroma as each cover was lifted, Barbara knew the dinner had been among Guillaumin’s best. He shifted in his seat to rise and a second footman appeared to draw back the chair—pausing just in time when he sat back heavily with a hand pressed to his chest.
Barbara took a quick step forward in alarm. “Mesner, you’re ill. Don’t go to this ball; you should rest.”
The baron’s head snapped up. “You forget your place!”
She dropped to one knee beside him as if felled by an ax. There were no murmured politenesses this time.
COLLAPSE
