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Copyright Jude Pittman and Gail Roughton 2017
Cover Art Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book
To all Sisters of Prophecy, wherever they may be,
whether they be sisters by blood or sisters of the heart. . . .
Because the Sisters of Prophecy aren’t always connected by blood.
They’re connected by power, shared and used wisely.
~Mother Shipton~
Semi-tropical breezes and swaying palms danced with the moonbeams bouncing off white-caps. Katherine Shipton tilted her head and the scent of salt water tickled her nostrils.
“I could stay out here forever.” She shook her head and a mass of dark brown hair tumbled over her shoulders.
A pair of tanned arms tightened around her waist. “I hope I’m invited.”
“This place is like an ad copy for Paradise.”
“Paradise is anywhere as long as you’re there.”
“Hey, that’s my line!”
He pulled her closer.
Funny how life could change in the space of a heartbeat. Six months ago, she’d been in Tallahassee, engaged to another man. Now, here she was on the balcony of a Tampa Bay beach house in the arms of her dream lover—jet black hair, smoky blue eyes and a smile that would melt ice.
“Care to share the thoughts that are giving you that glow?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Let me show you.”
* * *
“If this is a dream, please let me sleep forever.” Parker wrapped his arms around Katherine’s back and rolled her on top of him. Her dark hair fell forward, framing her face and flowing across his white pillowcase. Her breasts heaved from their exertions and her brown eyes glinted golden.
“Mmmm!” She licked her lips.
Parker laughed. “I’ve got to leave early in the morning and we both need some sleep.”
She shivered.
“You can’t be cold.”
“No. Just—I hate you being gone for two weeks.”
“You could come with me, you know.”
“You’re going on a business trip. You and your dad are cramming meetings on top of meetings. You don’t need me along to worry about. Besides, I’ve got work to do myself.”
Katherine’s reputation as an up-and-coming artist had skyrocketed since her move to Tampa Bay, another sign she’d made the right decision. As if running straight into Parker Drayton’s arms wasn’t enough. Because that’s what she’d done, literally. They’d collided in the sliding glass doorway of Macy’s a month after her move, shopping bags flying everywhere. And the rest, as they say, was history and just went to prove the ironies of life. One of Katherine’s niggling concerns during her engagement to Tallahassee attorney Quentin Ashland was the horror of being thought a gold-digger—a starving artist marrying a successful lawyer from an old southern family for money. Maybe because in the back of her mind, she’d been afraid it was true.
So, what did she do? Without caring a damn what anyone thought, she’d tumbled head-over-heels in love with Parker Drayton, heir to Drayton International, a three generation Texas oil family.
“It’s not like you’d be in a hotel room or anything. It’s the family home in Houston. You could come out with me and set up a studio just the way you wanted it, God knows that house has plenty of unused rooms. So, you’d have one here and one there.”
Parker ran the Tampa Bay operations for Drayton International, specializing in the company’s Gulf oil projects. Justin Drayton, Parker’s father and patriarch of the family, stayed in Houston and ran central operations from there. A lot of their deals were the complicated kind, ones that required both of them to put it through. Parker traveled a great deal, Katherine knew that. It was a small price to pay for the gift of her perfect man. She’d go with him when she could, stay in place without complaint when she couldn’t.
“I’ll do that. But later. Right now, I’ve got a couple of canvases already in progress, one with a really tight deadline I’ll never meet if I let you whisk me off to Houston.”
“Maybe you could surprise me when I get back. Like maybe finish that painting you’ve kept under wraps ever since you set up your studio here and show it to me.”
“Or not.”
“Or not. Artistic temperament and all that, yeah, I get it. Let’s go to sleep.”
“Let’s.”
* * *
Katherine flew through darkness. Dream darkness. Toward something. Sound barely audible coalesced and rose in volume, forming words. Beneath these gray stone walls I stand, an ancient gypsy king… The darkness lightened into shades of gray and a tower loomed.
A boat approached the tower. Inside the vessel, a woman, in Katherine’s likeness. Not her, but near enough to be of her lineage. Floating over the woman, Katherine watched. A man, dressed as an ancient workman, secured boat against the steps leading up to the looming tower. Reaching down, he helped the woman from the boat and pulled her toward a dark stairwell.
Another, in uniform, nodded to the oarsman and took the woman’s hand. His flickering torch gave barely enough light for the woman to make her way up the stone steps as she groped along behind him. The steps crumbled, and twice the woman almost fell when her feet slipped on the damp stone.
A fierce roar sounded in the night and Katherine knew it as a lion. The guard stopped in front of a scarred wooden door and pushed it inward. The flicker from his torch revealed a small barren chamber, with scant furnishing and a stone floor. Against the wall stood a crude bed with a single bed covering. The guard motioned the woman inside. She stumbled across the room and sank onto the bed. The guard used his torch to light a single candle. Then without a word, turned and left the cell.
The woman curled into herself. Great sobs shook her body.
Katherine floated back out into the courtyard. Standing in the corner an old man, dressed in the garb of a medieval gypsy, chanted.
“With heavy heart I bear the words of cruelest Mary Queen…”
Mary Queen? Tower? The scene changed in an instant, dream-fashion. Now she floated back to the cell. The same rough cot and threadbare blanket covered a still figure.
“These words I take in sorrow drear unto a lady fair…”
On cue, the woman rose from the cot and entered Katherine’s dreams. Nobility for certain, possibly even royalty. Her time in the cell had dulled her eyes and matted her hair but yes, the chant was right. She’d been a lady fair. She would be so again, given fresh air and sunshine.
A lady who from birth was blest with visions strange but rare…
The door of the cell opened, and the old gypsy entered the cell.
“Tarot! My dear, dear friend! How good it is to see you!” The lady ran into his arms, and he held her to his breast.
“Milady.”
“My grandmother. My husband and son. Is there news?”
“Your grandmother is well and fights ceaselessly for your release. Your husband—there’s been no news from Russia. Except that he pleads for intercession from the Russian Court.”
She smiled sadly. “I can just imagine how much he pleads. He is afeard he’ll be tainted with the same brush that’s painted me.”
“No, Milady! He is doing all he can.”
“Tarot, dear friend, ‘tis a very bad liar you are, but I love you for it. Prince Frederick makes no effort on my behalf. He has abandoned me. As have all, in the face of the Queen’s disfavor. All but you and Grandmother. And I bear them no ill for such. ‘Tis asking too much to expect them to stand with me and risk a charge of witchcraft.” She shrugged. “And for the prince, a chance to rid himself of a disappointing wife who only bore him one son.”
“Oh, Milady! It hurts me so to hear you speak as though resigned to fate.”
“Dear friend. Do not despair. My heart has always belonged to another, that fate sealed from childhood. If only I’d been stronger, surer! If only I’d followed my heart and run away with my Toby when—”
She broke off, her face losing all expression.
“Milady? What—a vision! ‘Tis a vision you’re seeing. Cease fighting them! Use them! Use the power!”
“I—Tarot, someone’s watching us.”
“Watching? I bribed the guards well. They have no cause to—”
“No, not the guards! Someone from—someone not here. Someone who sees us, who knows me. Knows me in her soul. Someone who can—dare I say it? Someone who can help me! Help me change the start of this disastrous path!”
In her dream, Katherine tried to leave, to get away. Enough of this misery that wasn’t hers. Except it was. Somehow it was hers.
“Oh, please! Please don’t leave! Help me! Help us!”
“How?” The dream Katherine spoke. “How do I help you?”
“I cannot tell you!”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“The portrait! Yes, I see it. There’s a painting, a painting yet unfinished! ‘Twill show you the way! It must show you the way, or you will never be.”
“Milady? Your vision speaks to you?”
“The portrait! The portrait will know!”
The portrait will know…the portrait will know…the portrait will know…
The words followed Katherine back through the depths of the dream and echoed in her ears when she woke, gasping into wakefulness.
* * *
“Kati?”
“I’m okay. Just give me a minute.”
“You’re shaking.” Parker wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “Bad dream?”
“Horrible.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know. A lady in a tower. That painting I’ve never shown you. An old gypsy and a chant.” She shuddered.
“It’s just a dream. Try to relax, let yourself fall back to sleep. I’m sorry I ever mentioned that damn painting. Must have been what triggered this.”
Parker adjusted the cover over them and slept again within minutes. She didn’t. This dream… She’d never had one like it. Except once. Not the same dream, but the same sense of urgency, of hidden messages of great import. The dream that sent her flying from Tallahassee and Quentin Ashland. Well, not the dream itself; that wasn’t quite right. The dream coupled with the painting under the canvas Parker had never seen. The painting that seemed to—move. The painting that spoke.
* * *
Katherine stared at the wrapped canvas on the easel. She’d been staring at it for two hours, ever since Parker had left for the airport and Houston. It hadn’t moved, it hadn’t spoken. It was an abandoned work in progress and nothing to be scared of, just the painting she’d started as a special gift to Mimi, the grandmother who’d raised her. An artist’s recreation of the family legend passed down in her large and uniquely intertwined family. Mimi loved the story and repeated it at every opportunity.
Katherine had cut her teeth on that legend. Probably literally. She didn’t even remember the first time she’d heard it; that’s how long ago it had been.
Kitty-Kat, there’s a very special lady back in your family tree. A lady with the gift of prophecy. Her name was Ursula, but people called her Mother Shipton. She helped sick people and sad people. Legend says she foretold great wonders, lots of things that’ve come true.
Was she your grandmamma, Mimi?
Lord, no, child, she lived generations ago. Four hundred years ago, in a time when kings and queens ruled. And she’s actually on Poppy’s side of the family, not mine, but I’ve always loved the stories and I’ve always felt very close to her. And that gift of prophecy… it’s passed down through the years in the Shipton family, usually to the women, though not always. A gift from her, a legacy. A connection.
Katherine smiled at the memory. She’d never believed the stories, but she’d loved them. Katherine had researched her infamous ancestor just as soon as she’d been old enough to work her way around the internet, and it had been easy to confirm that though it might be debatable whether Mother Shipton and her prophecies had ever existed, the legend sure did. She’d waited for years to have the proper skill to do Mother Shipton justice and planned this portrait for her grandmother’s sixty-fifth birthday. As frequently happened though, plans changed. Sometimes for the damndest reasons. Hers certainly had, and that portrait never made it to Mimi’s sixty-fifth birthday bash.
She’d gotten the rough outline charcoaled in, Mother Shipton by her famous well in front of her famous cave. Then she’d picked up the paintbrush. And Quentin had chosen that exact moment to come up behind and wrap his arms around her.
“Damn, honey, what the hell made you think of that for a painting? Who’s going to want an ugly, wrinkled, old crone?”
First faint strike of dislike tingled. “Excuse me? Some of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known are old and wrinkled. There’s great beauty in age. Wisdom. A life well lived.”
“Well, you’re an artist, after all. Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder and all that.”
“You won’t want me when I’m old and wrinkled?”
“Hell, no. Goin’ to trade you in for a newer model.” He laughed. “Just jokin’. Of course, I’ll want you when you’re old and wrinkled.”
In that instant, she’d known. Known the truth. Liar. No, you’re not joking and yes, you’d trade me in. In a heartbeat. His touch suddenly felt slimy. Unclean. She’d shrugged off his arms.
“Don’t you have a trial to get ready for?”
“I don’t get ready for trials, sugar, I just make deals. It’s not how much law you know, it’s who you know. And what you know about the jury pool.”
“Well, I have a painting to work on. Mimi’s present, remember?”
“Who?”
He really doesn’t remember. Because he really doesn’t give a damn. About me or anything about me.
“My grandmother’s present. For her sixty-fifth birthday celebration back in Calgary. The one you can’t go to with me because of your trial schedule.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah, sorry about that sugar, but trials do pay the bills.”
“And painting pays my bills, so I need to finish this while I’m waiting for last session’s water color to dry on the Taylor commission.”
“And that’s called ‘go away and leave me alone for a while,’ huh?”
“Yeah. It is.”
“Okay, okay, no need to get bitchy about it.”
“And close the door, please.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
She’d stood for a moment after the click of the closing door, trying to re-center herself, to get rid of the sudden, intense dislike she felt for the man she was planning to marry, the man she’d lived with for the past year. And how? How had she been living with him for a year if his chance comment could trigger such a feeling of revulsion?
She squared her shoulders. Nobody liked everybody all the time. Of course, he hadn’t meant those cruel comments and certainly he hadn’t forgotten about Mimi and her birthday party; he’d just been so focused on the trial he hadn’t been thinking. And of course, he was a good lawyer who knew the law, he didn’t just rely on who he knew. Or what he knew about the prospective jurors. Did he?
She turned her attention back to the portrait. Mother Shipton’s hand moved and she wagged her finger at Katherine.
Well, my lassie, it’s a fine churl ye’ve taken into your bed this time, it is! Don’t you have even a wee bit of the sight in those eyes of yours? Ye’ve got not a drop from me at all?
Katherine dropped the brush and backed away from the canvas. Slowly. Very slowly. She walked over to her canvas coverings and grabbed one, never taking her eyes off the portrait. She approached the painting once again. Then she ducked around behind the easel and threw the draping over the portrait, pulled it tight, grabbed the butcher’s string she kept handy, and tied it up.
That night images from a Tarot deck flashed through her dreams. A rider on horseback who was Death. A woman on a throne, The High Priestess. An upside-down man suspended from a tree branch, The Hanged Man. And with every other card the same symbol appeared and re appeared. The horned goat man. The Devil.
Memories of Quentin’s touch filled her with revulsion. She’d awakened the next morning knowing she had to get out of there. She’d boxed up all her paintings and supplies, packed her suitcases and borrowed a friend’s van. She rented a storage unit and made trip after trip to the unit until all her belongings and all her work was out of Quentin’s house. Then she’d made a visit to Quentin’s office. She couldn’t tell him by phone or note that she was leaving him. It had to be face to face. It hadn’t been pleasant, but she’d never regretted what she’d done those last two days in Tallahassee.
That had been six months ago. She’d accepted an offer she’d been mulling over from a well respected Tampa Bay Gallery and fled Tallahassee and everything Quentin represented the minute she’d tied up details with her former Gallery.
She’d packed the portrait of Mother Shipton away in a closet of the Tampa Bay beach house. It was her home now. Any house was home with Parker.
She hadn’t thought about the portrait since she’d moved in, not until last night—that dream. So real, the lady in the tower. The portrait knows…the portrait knows… Right after Parker mentioned it, she’d changed the subject, but it must have stuck in her subconscious.
What was it about these dreams? The same theme. Danger. She knew that, somewhere deep in her soul. Mother Shipton’s blood? Oh, please. Of course not. Just primal instinct. But the first time the warning had been specific. Danger. From Quentin? She hadn’t understood it, but she’d known. What else would have made her bolt and run? This time, though—help us! You must, or you will never be… What the hell was that all about? Would Mother Shipton tell her? She sure as hell hadn’t been shy about telling her last time. Even though it hadn’t really been Mother Shipton at all, of course, just her subconscious beginning to knit together bits and pieces of this and that, weaving a pattern of reality into the pretty fantasies of Quentin and the man she pretended he was, when in fact, he wasn’t.
Well, only one way to find out.
She approached the portrait and reached for the scissors to cut the string. Her phone rang. And her heart clenched. Quentin’s ringtone. The one for his office number. She’d changed her number when she left Tallahassee, but she hadn’t taken him off her contact list, not his cell, not his office. Not because she hoped he’d call—no, that good-bye scene hadn’t been pretty at all—but because she wanted to know if he did call. If, in fact, he’d actually go to the trouble to find her new number. Which wouldn’t take a lot, of course. She was an artist, she had business cards and she had to distribute her contact number. Still, Tampa Bay was a good way from Tallahassee.
Answer it? Don’t answer it? Hell, this was Quentin. Might as well get it over with. Because if he wanted to talk to her, he wouldn’t stop calling until he did.
“Hello?”
“Well, well, she lives and breathes. Even if she hates the thought of talkin’ to me so bad she changed her number.”
“Didn’t take much for you to find it, though.”
“No, it didn’t, did it? The new little darlin’ of the Avant-garde art-fart circle.”
“You phoned to call me names?”
“No, I called to congratulate you. Nice move. A Drayton. You must’ve had him waiting in the wings. Why settle for a lawyer’s lifestyle when you can jet-set? Great pictures of you, by the way. The elegant artist and the rugged good-looking cowboy. The paparazzi have been busy. You two’ve been keeping them real happy.”
Damn. Of course, he knew. The Draytons were movers and shakers, no way news of her engagement hadn’t hit the social circles all over Florida and Texas and probably quite a few other places, too.
“I didn’t even know him when I left Tallahassee, Quentin, I’d never met him.”
“You are such a good liar. Always were.”
“Actually, I’m a very bad liar. Which is why I broke it off as soon as I realized we were making a mistake. So, if there’s nothing else, let’s say good-bye, okay?”
“Oh, darlin’. We’ll say good-bye for now. But I’m sure we’ll be running into each other. Frequently. I might not be in Drayton’s league but I ain’t bush league. I’m sure we’ll end up at some of the same parties. And don’t worry. I won’t tell anybody you’ve got a radar for money. Won’t tell Parker what a hot little whore you can be in bed either. ‘Cause I’m sure you don’t cut loose with him the way you did with me. Be too afraid of ruinin’ that image I’m sure you’re trying to maintain.”
“How very considerate of you. And don’t worry. I won’t tell any of your clients your secrets of practicing law. As in it doesn’t matter if a lawyer knows the law, just as long as he knows the right people. And some dirt on the jurors, of course. Good-bye, Quentin. Don’t call me again.”
Her finger was moving to the end button when his laughter chilled her bones. “That wouldn’t bother my clients much, darlin’. Not at all. Because a good lawyer also knows where the bodies are buried. You take care now, you hear?”
Katherine pocketed her phone and cut the string on the portrait. She yanked off the coverings.
“Okay, Mother Shipton. If you really talked to me before—now’s the time to talk again.”
Quentin Ashland slammed the receiver back down onto its cradle. Damn good thing he hadn’t used his cell phone, or he’d have broken it. Again. He had a lot of anger management issues and they took one hell of a toll on his cell phones. They used to be sturdier in the days before the supermodels of the pocketsize mini-computers came into vogue. And you just couldn’t do without one anymore, either.
Little bitch! No, not just a bitch. A witch-bitch. Something about her—that quality of otherworldliness she wore so naturally she didn’t even know she had it. That cloud of dark hair that floated around her slender shoulders, those dark eyes that lured a man into their depths, whispering of hidden passions, hidden secrets. He’d waited six months. Figured he’d let her get the independence out of her system. She’d be back. No way she’d want to give up everything they’d had together. Lifestyle, travel, parties, not to mention damn good sex. Then he’d turned on the news and there she was, his woman. And all he could see was Parker Drayton’s smarmy looking face as the announcer babbled on about the impending nuptials.
No damn way that bitch was going to shake him off like so much dirt and move on up to royalty. He’d gone completely nuts. Then he’d calmed down. If she thought he believed that bullshit about not meeting Drayton till she left Tallahassee—what kind of fool did she take him for? Of course, she left him because she smelled more money. Well, he wasn’t from the Drayton definition of money, but he was an Ashland of Savannah, by God. Southern gentility. The type of background money couldn’t buy, especially not lucky oil strikes back in the booming days of the Texas oil fields. Hell, they’d probably been sharecroppers. Probably why they’d struck out for Texas in the first place.
She wasn’t going to get away with this. No way, no how. He wasn’t just an Ashland. And he wasn’t just any attorney. He laughed and reached for the phone. No, he wasn’t just any attorney. He was an attorney who knew where bodies were buried. Lots of them. Time to remind some folks of that.
He punched in a number and waited for voice mail to wind down.
“We need to talk. Sandler’s Oyster Bar. Tonight. Nine o’clock.”
* * *
Katherine bit her lip. Moment of truth. Time to stop stalling. Of course, it had just been coincidence that the picture talked to her—scratch that. She’d thought the picture talked to her at the precise time she’d seen Quentin for who and what he really was. And it was just coincidence she’d had that damn dream again the night before Quentin’s surprise call out of the blue. Because that hadn’t been a real surprise; she’d always known deep down he’d call. He couldn’t just let go. It wasn’t in him. Still and all, her Quentin epiphany came right after the portrait’s ventriloquist act. The lady in the tower said the portrait had more to tell her. She had to give it a try.
She jerked the tarp off the portrait. And waited. Nothing. Of course, nothing. She picked up a brush and loaded the bristles with cobalt blue.
With the first stroke, roaring filled the studio. Katherine dropped her paintbrush, slapped both hands to her ears. Well, she’d asked for it. And she’d gotten it.
“And about time it is, my girl. ‘Tis stubborn you are.” The same bent crone she remembered stood in front of Katherine’s easel.
“Why are you here? Why did I see you before? And why am I seeing you now?”
“You know why, child. In your heart, you know.”
“What did you do to me last time? To make me cringe when Quentin touched me?”
“‘Twas nothing I did. You did it yourself. You opened yourself to what you already knew was true. ‘Tis in your blood, ye canna escape it. I just helped a wee bit with the seeing of it.”
“That had nothing to do with blood. I just finally started putting things together about Quentin.”
Mother Shipton shook her head. “Stubborn. But then all young folk be stubborn, can’t complain, I was meself. And that stubbornness almost cost this family its very existence. Still might, do ye not listen to me with your head and your heart.”
“Well, I’m not you. I’m me. And all I want to do is paint my pictures and marry the man I love.”
“That might be all you want, m’ dear, but ‘tis not likely to happen unless ye listen to your dreams.”
“My dreams haven’t been exactly instruction manuals. I have no idea what they’re telling me!”
“No, ‘tis not that ye don’t know what they’re telling ye, it’s that ye don’t want to listen. Ye know full well there’s something ye have to do, and now I’ll tell ye more. If ye fail to answer the call or fulfill the task then ye will neither marry the man ye love nor paint yer paintings. ‘Tis doubtful ye’ll live a’tall. There’s things need doing. Back in the past, or ye’ll ne’er be born. Dreamed of a lady in a tower asking for help, did ye? And if ye pay no heed, the lives of all between me and thee will be forfeit.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The lady in the tower. What’s her name?”
“I don’t know. I only heard her called Milady.”
“True enough. Well, I’ll give a bit of help with that. She was born Ursula Sontheil. And what’s your name, child?”
“Katherine Shipton.”
“Your whole name.”
“Ursula Katherine Shipton.”
“And why be that, do ye ken?”
“Because both those names have been in the family since the beginning of time and the back of beyond and—oh, shit!”
“Ah, so finally ye see a hint of sun over the horizon, do ye?”
“That’s the reason? The connection? She’s an ancestor?”
“Can’t be telling ye that. Ye must see it for yourself. Time for a journey, child. A journey ‘t’will help you understand. “
“I can’t go anywhere. I have commitments, deadlines.”
Mother Shipton cackled. “This journey—’t’won’t be like any ye’ve taken before. None will miss ye nor know you’re gone.”
“I’m having a mental breakdown. That’s it, isn’t it? I’m going crazy and you’re a figment of my imagination.”
“Kitty-Kat, please. Trust me, child. If I don’t exist, I can’t be after hurting ye, now can I?”
“Why’d you call me that? Nobody calls me that but Mimi!”
“Now what else would I be calling a girl named Katherine?” Mother Shipton moved to the sofa on the far wall. “Lie down, sweet girl. Let me soothe that wrinkled brow. And show ye—wonders. Wonders of the past.”
Katherine backed up to the couch and sat down slowly, eyes fixed on the solid apparition.
Mother Shipton cackled again. “Well, ‘tis a start. Ye don’t trust easily and I can’t be after expecting miracles. And a wee bit of caution and common sense bred into the bones over the years, that’s a good thing. Ye think for yourself, don’t take well to being told what to do. That lady in the tower, she could have done with a bit of it herself much sooner in her life, long afore she learned that lesson.”
Mother Shipton laid her wrinkled hand on Katherine’s forehead and rubbed lightly. “Close your eyes, girl. Lean back. And go visiting. To another time. Another place. Long ago. Very long ago. Float, Katherine. Float. None will see ye. None will know ye’re there.”
* * *
Katherine opened her eyes in an old barn, ripe with the good smell of animals. A girl, the mirror image of herself, lay sobbing into a pile of hay.
“How can I bear it?” the girl wailed. “How can I bear it?”
“Milady? What’s wrong?” A young man stepped into view.
“Oh Toby, Toby.” The girl flung herself off the hay and into the man’s arms.
“What is it, Lady Ursula, what is it?” An unruly lock of hair flopped into his eyes.
“King Henry! He’s wedding me to Prince Frederick of Russia. I’m ordered to court. And I’m to wed the prince as soon as he returns!”
She gripped the man’s neck and wept harder. “I must leave Gresham Manor in a fortnight and live at court.”
Frozen into silence, he stroked her hair.
Long moments later, she moved from his arms and straightened her skirts. “I’m sorry, Toby. ‘Tis wrong of me to burden you with my troubles.”
“Milady, I’d give my life to see you happy. And I’ve no right to be saying what I’m about to say, but I know you! You’ll wither and die at court. My family has a farm just across the border into Scotland. ‘Tis not what you’re used to but—”
She laid a finger across his lips. “Oh, Toby. Never could I do that. ‘T’would disgrace Papa and break his heart. And I’ve no right to say such either but I will always carry you with me in my heart, beloved. I’ll never forget you.”
* * *
Katherine jerked upright on the sofa and glared at the canvas lying face up on the floor.
No way that just happened! Schizophrenia? Multiple personality? Just crazy as bat-shit?
She picked up the portrait and placed it back on the easel. What time was it? She pulled out her phone and checked the time. Parker would be calling from the airport when he landed in Texas. No missed call, though. And she’d only lost a few minutes in that psychotic break she’d just had.
She started as Tibbins twined around her ankles, mewing. Katherine snatched the big white cat into her arms, hugging him so hard he growled. She laughed and loosened her grip. “Sorry, kitty. Getting hungry? Let’s head to the kitchen.” Tibbins didn’t need another invitation. He bounded down the stairs toward the kitchen.
Katherine picked up his bowl and opened a can of tuna. “How about it, Tibbs, do you ever feel like you’re going crazy?”
The cat kept his yellow gaze glued to the can in her hand. A cat on a mission.
“Guess not,” Katherine said. “When would you have time to go crazy, between eating six meals a day and sleeping the rest of the time? Lucky you. Sleep.” She paused with the spoon lodged in the can of tuna. Tibbs mewed impatiently. “Sleep, Tibbs. Is that it? I was asleep, you think? Narcolepsy? Could that be it?”
She emptied the can into Tibbins’ bowl and set it down. Then she sprinted into the living room and switched on her computer for a quick Google search.
The most prevalent symptom of narcolepsy is suddenly and unexpectedly falling asleep during the day. In fact, narcoleptic attacks often occur at inappropriate times with significant consequences for those who experience them. For example, patients with narcolepsy may fall asleep while driving, during a meeting, and even during sex.
Well, she hadn’t done that so far, but maybe it was a progressive disease.
Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Parker.
“Hello?”
“Hi! Is everything okay?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“You sounded strange when you answered. Scared even. Must be the connection. Just wanted to check in and say I love you.”
“I love you, too. And Parker?”
“Yes?”
“Oh, nothing. It’ll wait till you get home. Be careful and think about me.”
“How could I not? Bye.”
Katherine leaned back in the chair and bit at her nail, wondering how to tell him she was either bat-shit crazy or likely to start falling asleep while having sex.
Tibbins marched past her and sat down at the front door.
“I suppose you want to go out there and chase birds,” Katherine grumbled. “Let me get my shoes on, then. I definitely need a run this morning.”
* * *
The run helped. Not enough to send her back to the studio and the portrait, but it definitely helped. Besides, she had six weeks’ worth of waiting correspondence and email. And wedding invitations. They’d arrived from the printer last week and nagged at her from the corner of her desk ever since.
Formal weddings were such a pain. And she’d had to fall in love with probably the only man she’d ever known who didn’t think an elopement was a Godsend. He was right, though. A formal wedding was a great public relations opportunity for the Drayton Oil conglomerate.
Katherine sighed and shrugged. Might as well get to it.
She’d barely gotten settled when her cell phone rang. She’d have been grateful for any excuse not to address wedding invitations, but this call was welcome for other reasons. Katherine’s relationship with her grandparents was two-fold, they were both her grandparents and to all intents and purposes, her parents. Bill and Mina Shipton had married young and gotten an early start on raising a large family. Katherine’s father had been the oldest, and Katherine had been three months old when he and her mother had been killed in an auto accident. Bill and Mina’s youngest child Irene had been three, no way to explain to a toddler why they were her Mommy and Daddy, but the baby’s Grandma and Grandpa. They’d reinvented themselves and become Mimi and Poppy to both little girls, who were basically sisters rather than aunt and niece. The four of them were a specially blended family. Irene’s ringtone delighted Katherine’s ears. Exactly the person she needed to talk to at the moment, even though she hadn’t known it until right that second.
“Irene! I’m so glad—”
“Are you all right?”
“Well, hello to you, too!”
“Don’t get smart with me, little girl! I had the weirdest dream last night, you were all curled up in a ball and tarot cards—tarot cards, of all things—were just raining down all over you!”
Katherine winced, the memory of a dream six months in the past washing over her again. Sure, the Shiptons joked about reading each other’s minds, and Mimi always laughed and said Mother was at work, but this? Tarot cards? It had to be coincidence. She forced herself to laugh. “You and your dreams! They’re just dreams, you know. Of course, I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be?”
“Then why’d you hesitate before you answered?”
Damn it! “Because it was just such an off-the-wall dream! Even for you! Shouldn’t you be dreaming of wedding cakes and wedding gowns and bride’s maid dresses? I’m not the only one getting married this year, now am I?” Irene’s wedding was set for the month after her own.
“My wedding’s under control, you’re the procrastinator.”
“So true, I’m staring at a big pile of wedding invitations right now.”
“Stop staring and start doing. I’ve got to run or I’ll be late for work.”
“You’re still home? But it’s 11:00—oh. I always forget the time difference.”
“Well, don’t forget those invitations! Start addressing!” Katherine’s cell clicked, indicating Irene had ended the call.
Katherine looked over at Tibbins. “Well, that was a nice reprieve while it lasted. But I guess I don’t have any excuses left—” The doorbell chimed. “Wow! Saved by another bell, and aren’t we the popular pair this morning? But I’m not expecting anybody, are you?”
The cat yawned.
“I’ll take that as a no, then.” She pushed back the chair and peered through the peephole at her best friend and New York roommate during the starving artist years.
“Oh, my God! Sylvia!” She threw the door open and flung her arms around the elegant blonde on the doorstep.
“Hey! Watch the hair! We international models have an image to maintain! Now let’s get inside and you can tell me all about it.”
“About what?”
“About whatever the hell’s going on with you. ‘Cause something damn sure is.”
* * *
Parker Drayton frowned as he pocketed his phone. Something was up with Katherine. He didn’t know what but whatever it was, she was on edge. Unnerved. One thing was certain, though. No way she’d tell him about it till she was ready.
“Parker!”
He turned his head to the left and smiled. It never failed. His father had radar where his children were concerned. He’d never, yet, not spotted one of them in a crowd in under ten seconds flat, not even in a crowd as big as the one at Houston’s George Bush Intercontinental Airport.
“Dad! Hi!”
His father threw his arm around Parker’s shoulders and hugged him. Justin Drayton was big enough to fit Texas. Tall, big-boned, unabashedly unashamed to show affection in public.