Beyond Temptation

©2008 Kristina Dalton
CHAPTER ONE

Village of King’s Park Crossing
Outside Chelmsford, Essex
England
February 2008

Avery Fitz Gerald had never in her life felt so ready to get out of a car. The heater on the rented mini had given a wheezing sob three miles outside London, and totally quit. Only the passenger side windshield wiper cleared the glass. An unpleasant smell clung to the interior, something like stale cigarettes and wet dog. And, on top of freezing half to death, her belly had begun to growl.

She parked in the tiny gravel lot described in the accommodations packet as ’abundant and convenient’. The rain had intensified. It beat the car, blotted out the lights of the Hide and Harry Inn where she would stay for the next three weeks.

Her suitcase and carry-on sat in the wedge of a back seat. Twisting, she hauled them into the front, managed to hook the handles of her purse into her grip, and made a break for it.

Frigid wetness threatened to pound her into the ground. She slipped and stumbled up to the porch. It required three tries to open the door, and she practically fell into the warm common room.

“God’s mercy on ye, child!” A matronly woman with vivid red hair and gentle blue eyes rushed from behind a short bar. Scents of stewing meat, bread and a fireplace filled the air.

Avery could hardly see for the water and hair in her eyes. She’d knotted her curly hair up twice during the drive. But as always, the willful mass escaped constraint. The suitcase and carry-on pulled from her grip. She hung onto her purse, swiped hair and winter rain from her face.

She glanced around, taking in the rustic, much-polished wood, comfortable furniture, roaring hearth and bar with several taps. It looked better than the pictures she’d received.

“I’m afraid I’m dripping all over your floor,” Avery said. “And I’m late.”

“Don’t you worry ’bout it.” The woman’s voice reminded Avery of her grandfather. Same accent. “Carl, come take these bags up to Mary‘s Room.”

“How did you know who I am?” Avery asked, sniffing.

“You’re the only guest who hasn’t checked in,” explained the woman. She handed the luggage to a wiry dark little man about the same age. He’d come from the doorway to the right of the bar. Smiling, she added, “You’re also the only American in the lot.”

“Oh.” As a writer, Avery liked to think she’d have figured that out.

“I’m Mrs. Mims. We spoke on the tele earlier.”

Now she really felt dense. Avery offered her damp hand, “Sorry about the water.”

“You’re the first person in ages with the courtesy to ring when you knew you’d be late.” Mrs. Mims took Avery’s hand in both of hers. “Upstairs with you, into something dry, eh? Then come back down and I’ll have something hot to eat and a cuppa.”

The narrow stairs took a ninety degree turn three quarters of the way to the landing. The information she received in her packet from the agency had included some vital facts about the inn and area. The building dated to an original stone and timber structure built in 1683. It had suffered a fire in the late seventeen hundreds, then enjoyed a updated rebuild with wood structure added in what then was contemporary style.

Brass plaques on each side of the landing indicated the rooms occupying each wing. She turned right, continued down the narrow hall. The little man, Carl, opened the door as she reached for the old-fashioned knob.

“Fire’s started,” he announced.

“Thank you.” She reached into her pocket for tip money.

He waved his hand, shuffled out past her. “These parts consideration don’t cost ye.”

“Thank you,” she repeated, not certain if he’d insulted her or stated a fact.

The room stretched lengthways in the inn, maybe fifteen by twelve. An antique poster bed and matching armoire dominated one end of the space, a loveseat covered in well-preserved, silvery brocade the other. Two thick, blue-patterned Oriental carpets broke the cool continuity of wood floor. Painted pale cerulean, the walls rose seven feet to a wood ceiling. An indigo comforter draped the bed. Pillows in the same silvery brocade as the settee sat at the head.

Her suitcase sat on a folding stand, carryon on the floor nearby.

Avery didn’t feel like going down the wall to the community bathroom. So she stripped out of wet clothes in front of the fire. Her terry cloth robe served as an improvised towel. She dressed in jeans and a warm sweatshirt before going to the armoire in search of a mirror. The doors each had one.

She pulled the scrunchie from her hair, studied her reflection. Her hair and skin matched to the nth in the same creamy-tawny shade. So her unmanageable curls just blended right in with her flesh. Avery’s hair drove her crazy. If she put it up, it drooped and pulled free. Left down, it behaved the opposite. As if gravity didn’t apply, it floated weightless and buoyant around her face and shoulders. She squinted at her image. Eyes the same generic blue. Nose still too upturned, chin a little too pointed.

What had she expected? Changing continents would transform her into a raving beauty?

Avery dug out her wide-toothed comb, dragged it through her hair. Getting the damp mass into a ponytail nearly winded her. She wiped off her face with some herbal toner and a cotton ball, then went to downstairs.

Several guests sat in big chairs around the fire, glasses of dark bear in hand.

Mrs. Mims called to her first thing, “In here, love.”

Avery entered where she’d seen the man, Carl, exit from earlier. The room had a low timbered ceiling, a stone floor hosting age-worn tables and chairs. Avery followed her hostess to a table near the big stone hearth of the dining hall. The only light in there came from it.

“So far,” Avery commented, “my experience with English winter makes me think there’s no such thing as too many fireplaces.”

Mrs. Mims chuckled, “Sit. Eat.”

Gratefully, she slid into a sturdy chair. A dish sort of like a pie pan held chunks of what looked like beef in a thickened broth, a few small boiled potatoes, carrots and peas. A steaming cup of tea on a dainty saucer sat beside, accompanied by a miniature pitcher of cream and a sugar bowl.

Avery’s stomach growled loud enough for the other woman to hear. “Don’t be shy with a hole in yer belly like that. Dig in, child.”

She didn’t usually take cream or sugar in her tea, but tonight it appealed. The meat surprised her. She expected beef. Instead she discovered lamb stewed with a hint of curry. The potatoes tasted slightly of mint and the butter on the veggies had a little honey added.

Avery groaned in delight. “I’ve died and gone to Heaven.”

Mrs. Mims shifted in her chair. “What brings you to King’s Park Crossing?”

Avery sipped tea. “My paternal grandfather was born here. I’m working on a research project into my history and ancestors.”

“Fitz Gerald,” the woman said the name as if it meant more than a surname. “Nearly fell out of my chair when I heard your name. None left ‘round here anymore. But there’s plenty of history, all right.”

“What do you know?” She popped a chunk of meat in her mouth, chewed and swallowed.

“During the reign of the Plantagenets, Seymour Fitz Gerald owned Prayer Park.”

“Prayer Park?” She scooped a forkful of peas and carrots.

“Used be a monastery. A French noble converted it after the Norman Conquest. King Henry loved to come there to drink and carouse and hunt. That’s when the village became known as King’s Park. Wasn’t until the railroad came the Crossing bit was added”

A rush of writer’s delight swept Avery. “Do tell.”

Mrs. Mims grew very serious, lowered her voice. “In them early days, the name Fitz Gerald was a byword for sin.”

“No!” Total fascination made her set down her fork.

“Oh yes. Not just the men, mind ye.” She shook her head. “The women was worse!”

Avery practically went into spasms. Maybe she had it in her somewhere to break free of her shell. “Wantons?”

“Every last one. Seen a painting years back. Some of had hair like yours.”

“No one has hair like mine.”

“They did.”

Avery considered that for a moment. “What about later?”

“Around 1780 the road coming into the village passed through a wood. There was a highwayman who frequented the place.”

Better and better. “A Fitz Gerald?”

“Some say.” Mrs. Mims lowered her voice yet again. “He weren’t no ordinary thief. Rumors still pop up about him. Belief is he was after fleshly prizes.”

Avery felt her eyes widen. “You mean he … ravished the women?”

Mrs. Mims blushed beat red. “Ladies knew it. When they went that route at night, they were asking for it. He chose only the most beautiful. So only the most exquisite dared offer themselves.”

“Oh my God,” Avery breathed. The concept could hardly remain in her grasp.

“That’s where the inn takes its name. Highwaymen would hide, then harry travelers.”

“Is any of this documented?”

“Certainly. Rupert Sweeney’s who ye’ll want to see. He the unofficial historian. Knows about your people, Prayer Park.”

Avery swallowed tea. Too fast in her excitement, it burned all the way to her stomach. “Where can I find him?”

“He’ll hear about you by mid-morning. You won’t have to find him.”

Mrs. Mims had to excuse herself to see to evening duties. Avery sat sipping tea, staring into the fire. Her mind conjured images of highwaymen snatching amorous ladies from their carriages.

The deep male voice that spoke made her almost jump from her seat.

“Sounds like you have an interesting project ahead.” He sounded Scottish. The burr just curling around his words.

Avery stared into the shadows at the back of the room. After a moment turned from the flames, her vision adjusted. A big man sat in one of the only booths. She blushed.

“I,” she corrected, “we didn’t know anyone else was in here.”

“I suppose a true gentleman would have made his presence known.” His voice had a quality that made her think he smiled.

Mortified he’d overheard the conversation, she grabbed her plate, cup and saucer and stood. “Good night.”

Avery knew she looked a fool. But, she couldn’t bear seeing his face. She scurried out to the bar to return her dishes and bolted upstairs.

#

“Come back to bed, Malec.” Sophia’s throaty contralto purred from the direction of his bed.

“We’re getting lonely with only each other to pet,” Kara added.

He stood out on the balcony staring toward the village. Something beckoned. The rain had stopped, yet its scent still lingered in the air.

Malec realized the prospect of rejoining them held little appeal. Dual volleys of female protests continued as he dressed. He didn’t spare them a look. They made a few final entreaties as he pulled on his boots. Then, he stepped out onto the balcony, walked to the stone rail, and putting a hand upon it, vaulted over.

He dropped fifty feet to the ground.

A woman called to him. Roused a feeling he’d not experienced for centuries. And, he had never felt it this strong.

He meant to find her.



~ This is my current WIP. Feedbck is golden. KD