I love Scottish historicals, especially those set in a castle, and Wolf’s Castle didn’t disappoint.
The chemistry between the intense hero, Galen, andI love Scottish historicals, especially those set in a castle, and Wolf’s Castle didn’t disappoint.
The chemistry between the intense hero, Galen, and the determined heroine, Vivian, moves the story along at a nice clip. The colorful secondary characters are a delightful addition too. I’m looking forward to more of Ms. Hill’s novels.
I was provided an ARC of the book for an honest review.
Merged review:
I love Scottish historicals, especially those set in a castle, and Wolf’s Castle didn’t disappoint.
The chemistry between the intense hero, Galen, and the determined heroine, Vivian, moves the story along at a nice clip. The colorful secondary characters are a delightful addition too. I’m looking forward to more of Ms. Hill’s novels.
I was provided an ARC of the book for an honest review....more
Adolphus glanced over to find Rémi staring at him now with a solemness better suited to a man of the cloth or a barrister.
“Do you have aCOMING 7/3/23
Adolphus glanced over to find Rémi staring at him now with a solemness better suited to a man of the cloth or a barrister.
“Do you have a wife, Mr. Westbrook?”
Another confoundingly direct Lemieux, it would seem.
“Rémi!” Aurelie gaped at her nephew, the color draining from her face before bright red streaks skated up her cheekbones. She shook her head. “Why would you ask such a forward thing?”
“Because you need a husband,” the lad said matter-of-factly and then, with a shrug, stuffed half a Shrewsbury biscuit in his mouth. “Papa said so many times.”
“It’s true.” Nathalie nodded. “You do.”
Adolphus choked on his tart, and Aurelie gave him three rapid slaps on his back.
Husband?
He’d been right.
This invitation was nothing more than a brazen attempt to find Aurelie Lemieux a husband. The winsome Miss Lemieux was on the matrimonial prowl and had decided to sink her claws into him—after only three brief encounters.
Did that make her desperate or just brazen?
“Please accept my apologies, Mr. Westbrook.” Chagrin and a hint of vexation tinged Aurelie’s pretty gray eyes, the color of the ocean after a storm. “I have no idea why the children have taken it upon themselves to be so impudent.”
Or so she claimed.
Quite convincingly too.
Nevertheless, Adolphus didn’t believe a word of it.
A woman holding a small oil lamp emerged from the shadows near the back of the cottage.
Ah, the mysterious Frenchwoman and–lucky me—delectable in her nightclothes too.
Not an unwelcome surprise at all.
Adolphus rested a forearm on the bricks, stroking the cat with his other hand. Wicked cad that he was, he leisurely looked his fill. Her white gown and robe, along with her unplaited halo of golden hair hanging around her shoulders and down her back, gave his lovely neighbor an ethereal, almost angelic appearance.
“Antoinette?” She slowly turned in a circle affording him a view of her nicely shaped bottom.
“Kitty, kitty. Are you out here?”
“Indeed, she is.”
“Oh!” A harsh exhalation met his pronouncement before the neighbor lifted the lamp higher and spotted him lounging against the top of the wall with her cat in his arms.
“It’s you,” she gasped.
Who had she expected?
He peered beyond her to the doorway cast in wavering shadows from the crabapple tree. No light illuminated the opening or the windows. The rest of the household must be fast asleep.
Including her husband?
That notion cooled Adolphus’s ungentlemanly musings swifter than a midnight dunk in yon harbor ever could have done.
Regardless, he couldn’t suppress a grin at her obvious discomfiture.
She was quite adorably flummoxed. To her credit, she recovered with admirable swiftness and aplomb. Head angled, she smiled, and the radiance of that simple upward sweep of her mouth lit the garden as if the moon had drifted to earth for a sacred, soul-penetrating moment.
Now it was his turn to be discomposed and confounded.
Waxing bloody poetic too.
What was it about this midnight nymph that beguiled him?
“Come down here this minute, Antoinette. You selfish beast. I am tired and must be out of bed by six. Zut. You can sleep all day, but I cannot. Do you know how late it is?”
Or early.
It must be close to one in the morning.
Fatigue even weighted Adolphus’s eyelids, and he smothered a yawn.
The woman changed her tone, weariness replacing her vexation.
“S'il te plait, Antoinette.”
What did she expect when she’d named the cat after a cossetted queen?
Pity for the fatigued woman stirred him, for surely it wasn’t her beguiling voice and seductive accent that caused the ripple of awareness thrumming through him.
Adolphus grabbed the rake before stealthily approaching the partition.
“I might be able to help.”
Absolute silence met his offer.
Craning his neck, he regarded the cat, still intent on grooming herself. In the moonlight, her white coat took on a silvery glow.
Were her eyes blue or green?
“Hello? Are you still there?” he asked.
“Oui,” came a tentative response.
“I cannot quite reach her and have nothing to stand on. I do have a rake. Do you think she’ll jump down if I gently nudge her?”
A low, derisive but very fetching chuckle met his inquiry.
“Oui, but she won’t like it and may never forgive you. Antoinette holds grudges. And I should warn you, she gets even.”
Excellent.
Mayhap the pampered puss would stay off the wall in the future.
“I’ll take that chance.”
However, before Adolphus could prod the cat, she turned, lifted her tail in a rude feline snub, and hopped down.
More rustling ensued, followed by a cat’s plaintive yowl.
“S' monsieur. I have her now. I am sorry to have inconvenienced you.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Adolphus propped the rake against the bricks before leaning a shoulder on the cold, hard surface and folding his arms. He’d never know what the devil prompted him to add, “Sleep well. Sweet dreams.”
Adolphus glanced over to find Rémi staring at him now with a solemness better suited to a man of the cloth or a barrister.
“Do you have a wife, Mr. Westbrook?”
Another confoundingly direct Lemieux, it would seem.
“Rémi!” Aurelie gaped at her nephew, the color draining from her face before bright red streaks skated up her cheekbones. She shook her head. “Why would you ask such a forward thing?”
“Because you need a husband,” the lad said matter-of-factly and then, with a shrug, stuffed half a Shrewsbury biscuit in his mouth. “Papa said so many times.”
“It’s true.” Nathalie nodded. “You do.”
Adolphus choked on his tart, and Aurelie gave him three rapid slaps on his back.
Husband?
He’d been right.
This invitation was nothing more than a brazen attempt to find Aurelie Lemieux a husband. The winsome Miss Lemieux was on the matrimonial prowl and had decided to sink her claws into him—after only three brief encounters.
Did that make her desperate or just brazen?
“Please accept my apologies, Mr. Westbrook.” Chagrin and a hint of vexation tinged Aurelie’s pretty gray eyes, the color of the ocean after a storm. “I have no idea why the children have taken it upon themselves to be so impudent.”
Or so she claimed.
Quite convincingly too.
Nevertheless, Adolphus didn’t believe a word of it.
A woman holding a small oil lamp emerged from the shadows near the back of the cottage.
Ah, the mysterious Frenchwoman and–lucky me—delectable in her nightclothes too.
Not an unwelcome surprise at all.
Adolphus rested a forearm on the bricks, stroking the cat with his other hand. Wicked cad that he was, he leisurely looked his fill. Her white gown and robe, along with her unplaited halo of golden hair hanging around her shoulders and down her back, gave his lovely neighbor an ethereal, almost angelic appearance.
“Antoinette?” She slowly turned in a circle affording him a view of her nicely shaped bottom.
“Kitty, kitty. Are you out here?”
“Indeed, she is.”
“Oh!” A harsh exhalation met his pronouncement before the neighbor lifted the lamp higher and spotted him lounging against the top of the wall with her cat in his arms.
“It’s you,” she gasped.
Who had she expected?
He peered beyond her to the doorway cast in wavering shadows from the crabapple tree. No light illuminated the opening or the windows. The rest of the household must be fast asleep.
Including her husband?
That notion cooled Adolphus’s ungentlemanly musings swifter than a midnight dunk in yon harbor ever could have done.
Regardless, he couldn’t suppress a grin at her obvious discomfiture.
She was quite adorably flummoxed. To her credit, she recovered with admirable swiftness and aplomb. Head angled, she smiled, and the radiance of that simple upward sweep of her mouth lit the garden as if the moon had drifted to earth for a sacred, soul-penetrating moment.
Now it was his turn to be discomposed and confounded.
Waxing bloody poetic too.
What was it about this midnight nymph that beguiled him?
“Come down here this minute, Antoinette. You selfish beast. I am tired and must be out of bed by six. Zut. You can sleep all day, but I cannot. Do you know how late it is?”
Or early.
It must be close to one in the morning.
Fatigue even weighted Adolphus’s eyelids, and he smothered a yawn.
The woman changed her tone, weariness replacing her vexation.
“S'il te plait, Antoinette.”
What did she expect when she’d named the cat after a cossetted queen?
Pity for the fatigued woman stirred him, for surely it wasn’t her beguiling voice and seductive accent that caused the ripple of awareness thrumming through him.
Adolphus grabbed the rake before stealthily approaching the partition.
“I might be able to help.”
Absolute silence met his offer.
Craning his neck, he regarded the cat, still intent on grooming herself. In the moonlight, her white coat took on a silvery glow.
Were her eyes blue or green?
“Hello? Are you still there?” he asked.
“Oui,” came a tentative response.
“I cannot quite reach her and have nothing to stand on. I do have a rake. Do you think she’ll jump down if I gently nudge her?”
A low, derisive but very fetching chuckle met his inquiry.
“Oui, but she won’t like it and may never forgive you. Antoinette holds grudges. And I should warn you, she gets even.”
Excellent.
Mayhap the pampered puss would stay off the wall in the future.
“I’ll take that chance.”
However, before Adolphus could prod the cat, she turned, lifted her tail in a rude feline snub, and hopped down.
More rustling ensued, followed by a cat’s plaintive yowl.
“S' monsieur. I have her now. I am sorry to have inconvenienced you.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Adolphus propped the rake against the bricks before leaning a shoulder on the cold, hard surface and folding his arms. He’d never know what the devil prompted him to add, “Sleep well. Sweet dreams.”
Perhaps it was a blessing that he could not recall his indignity of that wretched evening, for if others retelling the sordid tale causedComing 4/2/24
Perhaps it was a blessing that he could not recall his indignity of that wretched evening, for if others retelling the sordid tale caused him this much suffering, wouldn’t his own memories be impossibly more unbearable?
His imbecilic behavior had destroyed a decades-old friendship, scarred a young woman—Althelia had left England for two years afterward—and sent him spiraling downward into a perpetual inebriated haze.
He became everything he had despised.
When he had recovered enough from his nearly fatal fall to travel, he yearned to return to his familial home. Ironic in so many ways, since his disgrace had begun there. Yet the silent rooms, sprawling greens, rambling hedgerows, and majestic oaks he’d played beneath as a lad soothed his tormented spirit as nowhere else could. Except, perhaps, the woodland thicket partially between Landford Park and Hefferwickshire House.
How he craved solace and peace.
As Peter dismounted, he glanced around, half expecting a dozen footmen or stable hands to come charging toward him, prepared to physically and mayhap even violently escort him from the property.
Instead, a maid, her head lowered against the blustery wind and skin-soaking drizzle, hurried toward him. Her dark blue woolen cloak flapped about her slender ankles as she held her hood in place.
She glanced up, her vivid blue eyes widening upon seeing him.
Rather than alarm, inquisitiveness flitted across her pert features, partially concealed by the hood draped over her hair.
Peter did not recognize her, but then he hadn’t visited Hefferwickshire House in years. Servants came and went, though this one did not have a typical domestic’s subservient mien.
“May I help you?” She glanced at his horse, and appreciation lit her eyes.
Not only did she recognize superior horseflesh, but she possessed an odd accent that he couldn’t quite place.
“I have come to deliver an invitation,” he said by way of an explanation.
Something usually delegated to a servant or sent by post.
“To a masked ball,” he added.
“On New Year’s Eve. The invitation is extended to all the Westbrooks.”
Egads, man. Stop blathering.
Peter glanced toward the entrance, which remained firmly shut.
Had Simms recognized him and refused to open the door?
Did someone give the butler instructions of that nature?
“You do not look like a servant.”
The maid’s impertinent comment drew a reluctant chuckle from Peter.
The first in a very long while.
“I am not. I am Peter Hartigan.” He pointed his attention and a finger toward Landford Park’s chimneys, visible amidst the treetops on the horizon. “Hefferwickshire House’s nearest neighbor.” An odd sound, a mixture of a gasp, a wheeze, and choking, made him jerk his head toward the servant once more.
She’d pulled the hood lower over her face, no doubt against the wind and damp. Only her chin, jutted at a rather mulish angle, remained visible.
“I shall take it inside.” Distinct iciness leached into her voice as she extended her hand.
From her cool reception, Peter would be bound she knew who he was, even if he did not know her. That answered his question about whether the duke had advised his staff to rebuff him.
He had expected as much.
In point of fact, it was no more than he deserved.
He withdrew the thick invitation from his coat pocket.
The breeze buffeted his hat, compelling him to lift a black leather-gloved hand to keep it upon his head. “I had hoped to deliver it myself.”
“The family is not home at present.” The arctic wind held more warmth than the belligerent maid’s frigid tone. “They attended Sunday services in the village this morning.”
Rotten luck, that.
He should have expected their absence. The Westbrooks regularly attended services when in residence at Hefferwickshire House.
Peter hadn’t braved the parish yet, though he had ventured to the village several times.
How could he enter a church where the cleric frequently preached about forgiveness, when he could not even forgive himself, let alone expect such amnesty from anyone else?
“Very well.” He passed her the missive. “Would you also please convey my regards?”
She angled her head and gave the briefest nod. So brief in truth, her behavior bordered on insolent. Her impudence ought to annoy him, but Peter couldn’t begrudge her loyalty.
He’d have to wait and see if the duke and duchess responded to his invitation. In truth, he held little hope that they would.
There was no point in lingering and becoming further soaked.
“Thank you.” Peter swung back into the saddle, and with a finger to his hat, kicked Legend’s sides.
As he trotted down the drive, a whisper carried to him on the wind.
“Rotten lout.”
However, when he glanced over his shoulder, the maid had already disappeared into the house.
The interaction between Peter and the maid introduces a dynamic that's intriguing within the historical context. How does this meeting reflect the societal norms and class distinctions of the time? Consider the maid's behavior and Peter's reaction to it. What does this exchange tell us about their characters and the larger social structure they navigate?...more
“Dios mío! Have you considered, for a single moment, what consequences you’ll pay should I be proven right?”
He straightened and grazed twComing 5/1/23
“Dios mío! Have you considered, for a single moment, what consequences you’ll pay should I be proven right?”
He straightened and grazed two fingers over the puckered flesh on the right side of his face. “Good try, but your word is not proof of anything.”
“Sí, but the birthmark on my thigh is. It’s unique and supposedly has special significance. Even the priest who baptized me commented on it.” Or so Mama had told her.
The priest had also declared that God had a special purpose for Clodovea’s life.
The former Clodovea believed.
The latter, she did not.
At any other time, exposing her leg to a man—let alone a stranger holding her prisoner—would’ve mortified her. But this was no time for modesty. Yanking her chemise over her knee, she angled her left leg. A distinct heart-shaped, rose-toned birthmark lay midway up her thigh.
The heat of his blue gaze behind hooded eyelids scorched her from across the room.
She flung the fabric down.
“I dare you to contact any of my brothers and ask them if their sister has such a mark.”
She gave a caustic laugh, gratified to see the smallest flicker of uncertainty in Lucius’s gaze before he hid it behind a derisive mask again.
“Of course, explaining how you came by that knowledge might cost you your career—mistaking a consulate’s sister for a spy and abducting her. Tsk. Tsk. Very sloppy. I should imagine you can expect a severe reprimand.”
His scowl raised her nape hairs, and still, for whatever perverse reason, she persisted.
Clodovea picked up the piece of bread.
“I cannot imagine that will go well for you, Señor.”
She took a bite, nearly groaning as flavor burst inside her mouth.
Lucius crossed his arms, causing the fabric of his shirt to pull taut over his biceps and pectoral muscles. Not that she made a point of noting his muscular physique, but she wasn’t blind. Or dead. “You would have to explain why you picked the lock to the ambassador’s office. I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent reason.”
“Remove your gown and shoes.” She froze, her eyes wide and terrified. Slowly, she lowered the glass. Her gaze skidded to the bed as she swallowed. Oh, for God’s sake. “I’m not going to violate you.” The notion of bedding the notorious spy appealed as much as dropping hot coals in his drawers. “I simply want to ensure you don’t attempt to escape.”
His handkerchief muted her infuriated scream as he hoisted Astraea onto his shoulder. Kicking and squirming, she pounded his back with her bound hands while issuing dire threats around the cloth in her mouth.
The door opened, and Ian Hancock stepped out, wearing only his shirt and pantaloons. Yawing, he stretched his arms over his head, the golden glow of a lamp on the table inside illuminating him in the doorway.
He froze, bug-eyed and mouth gaping.
Not something that generally happened to the agent.
Astraea kicked and twisted.
“Stop it.” Lucius slapped her on the bottom. “Hold still.”
Exhausted, he was in no mood for her antics.
She wriggled all the harder, so he spanked her again.
A delighted grin replaced Hancock’s astonishment. Never taking his attention off Lucius and his burden, Hancock called over his shoulder.
She writhed and squirmed, and Lucius swatted.
“Uh, Philby. Bernard. You might want to see this.” He laughed, the sound echoing across the frosty courtyard. “Nay, you definitely want to see this.”
Clodovea was saved. This man was utterly, completely insane. He believed she was a covert agent—a…a dangerous and deadly spy. The situation would be laughable if the circumstances weren’t so terrifying and ludicrous. Maybe someday, Clodovea would laugh a little about this nightmare. If she lived to tell the incredulous tale.
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