Dear Reader:
Seductive and mysterious, Merlyn was the laird of Ravensmuir—never had a man so stirred my body and soul. I gave myself to him—willingly, trustingly, passionately—and we soon wed. Then a horrible revelation emerged, shattering my innocence and my marriage…
Five years later, Merlyn returned to my doorstep, desperate for my help. The scoundrel swore he was haunted by memories of me, that a treasure locked in Ravensmuir could clear his name. Yet I could not surrender to his will again. Now he is said to be murdered and Ravensmuir has fallen into my hands.
But even as I cross the threshold of this cursed keep, I hear his whisper in the darkness, feel his caress in the night, and I know that Merlyn has told me but part of his tale. Should I do as is right and expose his lair? Or dare I trust my alluring but deceptive spouse—the rogue who destroyed my heart?
—Ysabella
"A beguiling medieval romance from Delacroix…readers will devour this rich and compulsively readable tale."—Publishers Weekly
Genre: FICTION / Romance / Historical / MedievalThis book is the first of my stories set in Ravensmuir and the first of a trilogy, The Rogues of Ravensmuir.
The raven came first.
It landed upon the window sill in the kitchen of the silversmith’s wife and croaked so loudly at me that I nearly dropped my ladle into the hot wort.
“Wretched bird! Shoo!” I waved my hand at it, but it merely tilted its head to regard me with bright eyes. “Fie! Away with you!”
I knew as well as any the repute of these birds, but had less desire than most souls to be in the company of a creature so associated with superstition.
I had sufficient trouble without being found in the company of drinkers of blood and harbingers of death. The silversmith’s wife would be rid of us for once and for all, if anyone in this village whispered that I kept a raven as a familiar. Such tales were all nonsense, of course, but I dared not risk an inopportune rumor.
“Shoo!” I flicked a cloth at the bird, which seemed untroubled and unimpressed by my antics. The creature bobbed its head and seemed to cackle at me, no doubt enjoying my discomfiture.
“Begone!” I picked up an onion, the bird watching me with knowing eyes all the time, then flung it across the kitchen with all my might.
I missed the raven by a good three hand-spans, though the onion splattered against the wall most impressively. The bird screamed and took flight, uninjured and apparently insulted, which suited me well enough.
I sighed and rubbed my brow as I eyed the mess. I not only had to clean the shattered onion but would have to explain to my patroness why I had seen fit to destroy her foodstuffs—without admitting to the presence of the raven, lest her superstitions be fed. How sweet it would be to have no need of Fiona, with her sharp face and sharper tongue!
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Italian
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Already translated.
Translated by Adele Contenti
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