The Forbidden, page 21
Now that we’re in the open, have declared deep feelings and have some family approval, I just want to spend all my time with her. If I had my way, I’d give her a job as my secretary, just so she could sit outside my office and I could stare at her all day long, but I realize that’s a ridiculous fancy. Besides, I could never take away her work because she loves it so much and it just so happens my girl is a hard worker.
We’ve settled into a routine where we take the time given us, mostly in the evenings where I’ll stay at her apartment or she’ll come to my house. We’ve not yet ventured into a family dinner at the Blackburns, although in fairness, Fi has invited me. But Trey is still being a bit of an ass to Kat, insisting she’s making a mistake and of course, I think he’s a moron.
“He needs to let it go,” Kat muttered last night as we lay in bed.
“Well, it’s like a hundred and seventy years of hate between the families,” I pointed out, feeling the need to give her brother some leeway. He’s only protecting her after all.
She scoffed at the notion. “It’s got nothing to do with the original feud. He’s pissed about us seeing each other in college and the way we split apart then.”
“Oh,” I murmured, because that’s a bit harder to overcome. I hurt his sister back then—I’d want to kick my ass too. “Maybe he and I should just go at it. Let him get it out of his system.”
Kat sat up in bed, the sheet falling to her waist, and I had a hard time focusing with her glorious nakedness shining back at me. Her hand on my chin, forcing my gaze to her face, did the trick. She was smirking but I could also see a hint of worry. “I saw the way you destroyed that asshole who hit me week before last. You beat him to a pulp and I’m sure my brother would come out on the losing end.”
“I’d let him win so he feels better about it.”
Kat’s eyes softened at the gesture—which I was very serious about—and kissed me gently. Then deeply, then the conversation was forgotten.
Sylvie’s excited voice from the other side of the room pulls me back to present. “Gabe, come look at this!”
I set aside the bin I’d just opened and walk over to the table where she’s camped out. Our goal for today is just to catalog all the historical journals and other documents that have been kept in climate-proof boxes. I figured it was a good way to give Sylvie some of her heritage so she doesn’t forget the good part of her Mardraggon blood.
Her eyes are wide, finger pointing at a page filled with tight, looping script that at first glance looks impossible to read it’s so small.
“Listen to this entry,” she says, her voice trembling with anticipation. She clears her throat and reads aloud.
June 15, 1852
It is with a heavy heart and a burdened soul that I commit these words to paper, for I am compelled by a force stronger than my own will. My affection for Elizabeth Blackburn, a jewel amongst the common stones of our town, has driven me to actions unbecoming of a gentleman. Yet, what choice have I when faced with the prospect of her union to Henry Mardraggon, a man unworthy of her grace and beauty?
This evening, under the shroud of twilight, I found myself at the old tavern where whispers travel faster than the wind. There, amidst the shadows, I let slip a tale most foul, yet necessary. I spoke not with malice but out of a desperate desire to sway her heart toward mine. The rumors of her alleged indiscretions—an invention of my own making—are designed to cast doubt where there should be none. With doubt, surely Henry will call off the impending nuptials.
As I lay these words down, I am tormented by the dual nature of my actions. Is it not a man’s right to fight for his heart’s desire? Yet, how can one justify the tarnishing of an innocent’s reputation in pursuit of personal happiness? The very ink that stains this page is a testament to the conflict that wages within me.
I pray that the morrow brings clarity and, with God’s grace, forgiveness for my transgressions. My only solace is the hope that once free of her ties to Henry, Elizabeth will turn her affections toward a man who loves her truly and deeply.
May time prove me a fool for my actions and restore the honor of the lady I hold in such high esteem.
I frown as Sylvie looks up at me. “Who wrote that?”
Holding her place on the page she just read, she closes the journal to show the name Tommen Mardraggon embossed on the front. “I don’t know who that is,” she says, “but he’s confessing to starting the rumors about Elizabeth Blackburn.”
“You know the backstory?” I ask.
Sylvie nods, eyes still pinned to the confession. “Papa told me.”
The name Tommen Mardraggon isn’t familiar to me, but I know where I can find the answer. I move to a bookshelf that has an old family bible where our family tree had been filled in by some distant relative.
I open it up and adjust slightly as Sylvie sidles up next to me. The lines of lineage take up two pages and I find Henry Mardraggon’s parents and start skimming from there down, following branches as they extend outward.
“Here it is.” I tap on Tommen Mardraggon’s name. “He was a third cousin to Henry.”
“And apparently in love with Elizabeth. Does that entry mean he did that on purpose to break up Henry and Elizabeth?”
“It seems that way,” I muse, moving back to the journal. I open it to the front and see many entries dating back a few years from Tommen Mardraggon. He worked in our distilling business as a manager of sorts and mostly liked to write short poems and fiction. But I found several odes to Elizabeth who apparently only had eyes for Henry.
Jesus… he didn’t just ruin Elizabeth’s reputation, he put into action the feud between the families, causing the accidental death of Henry and inciting Elizabeth to take her own life.
I flip past the entry Sylvie just read and there are a few more. She and I read them, basically an accounting of the gossip that started to spread through the town and Tommen’s plan to step in to restore Elizabeth’s honor when she was ready. But then the entries stop abruptly and while I don’t know the exact date Henry was killed, I’m guessing that’s when Tommen stopped writing. I would have expected someone callous enough to come up with this lie so he could get the girl to take advantage of Henry’s death, but maybe he had an attack of conscience.
I’m not sure we’ll ever know.
“That’s good though,” Sylvie says, and I look down at her in question. “I mean… we know that Elizabeth wasn’t unfaithful and that someone set her and Henry up.”
“A Mardraggon set them up,” I reply, struggling to keep my tone unaffected, although I can almost taste the bitterness. Just one more strike against my family and now I have to wonder if this will reignite the feud.
“What’s with the long faces?”
A thrill zips through my body at Kat’s voice and Sylvie and I both turn to find her walking into the vault. She’s wearing a pair of faded jeans, muck boots and a T-shirt. The least fancy outfit one could put together, but she looks like a million bucks. Her long black hair is tied in a loose braid that hangs over her shoulder with tendrils of hair that have come loose.
I move to her, put a hand to one hip and give her a light kiss. “What are you doing here?”
“Thought I’d come see if my two favorite people wanted to get lunch. Just so happens… I brought a picnic and thought we’d eat down by the stream.”
My eyes cut to Sylvie whose face lights up with joy. That was a thing with her mom and now it’s going to be a thing with us. “Awesome. What did you bring to eat?”
Kat shakes her head. “Nope. Not another word until you tell me why both of you looked sad and pensive when I walked in.”
Sylvie and I exchange a glance before I take Kat’s hand and lead her to the table. Sylvie moves to the side and I point at it. “Your niece found a journal written by a Mardraggon cousin back in 1852. He is the one who started the rumors about Elizabeth because he apparently wanted her all to himself. He intended to break up the wedding with Henry and was going to swoop in to claim her.”
“Really?” Kat says, eyebrows shooting high with interest.
“Right here,” Sylvie says, pointing to the entry.
Kat bends over the book and runs her finger above each line as she reads it. When she’s finished, she straightens and shrugs. “He sounds like a total idiot. Okay, so I brought fried chicken and potato salad, hot from Miranda’s miraculous hands.”
“Yum,” Sylvie exclaims. She has acclimated very well to southern food.
“Wait a minute.” I’m so perplexed, I find myself actually scratching my head. “That’s it? He sounds like an idiot?”
Kat frowns at me. “What did you want me to say? He’s an asshole?” Her gaze cuts to Sylvie. “Sorry for the language.” Then back to me. “Because yeah… sounds like an asshole.”
I shake my head, befuddled. “Kat, you get that this places the blame for all of it solely on a Mardraggon. Before, it’s just been a lot of finger-pointing but this is proof that Elizabeth and Henry would most likely have married. None of this feud would’ve ever occurred if not for my family.”
She shrugs again. “I guess… but what does it matter? It’s stupid. That happened so long ago, Elizabeth’s and Henry’s bones are probably dust by now. The idiotic thing was for subsequent generations to carry that bitterness forward. I mean… look at us. We were taught to hate each other and we both did, without there even being a good reason for it. It’s ridiculous if you ask me.”
“You might feel that way, but others won’t,” I point out. “Once this becomes common knowledge—”
Kat takes the book, closes it and hands it to me. “My suggestion is you put this back where you found it and forget about it.” She turns to Sylvie. “What do you think?”
Sylvie also shrugs. “Think about what? No idea what you’re talking about.”
Kat laughs and pulls Sylvie in for a one-armed hug. “That’s my girl. Now let’s go eat. I’m starved and I have to get back to the barn soon.”
Giving her niece a push toward the vault door, Kat says, “Grab the basket sitting out there and we’ll meet you at the stream.”
“Okay,” Sylvie chirps, waving as she leaves.
I’m still reeling from the discovery and from Kat’s blasé attitude, but I really am dizzy when she steps into my arms and presses her mouth against mine.
Not just her mouth but her entire body, which causes mine to react. I savor her kiss for a moment, her soft curves, before I break away. Christ, she turns me on with the simplest of touches. “Need to save that for tonight,” I chastise.
Kat grins at me, eyes sparkling. “Only because Sylvie’s expecting us. But if she weren’t here, you best believe we’d be closing that vault door and handling business.”
Laughing, I take her by the hand and we head out to join Sylvie. “I love that about you. And you’re sure we should keep this new knowledge from the rest of your family?”
Kat loops her arm through mine as we walk along the rows of aging barrels. “I don’t think it’s relevant. It certainly won’t do anything to pave a smoother road between you and the rest of my family.”
“No, it won’t,” I muse before turning toward her, stopping us just before we reach the door that leads out. A few workers mill about, but no one’s paying us attention. “You’re being very protective of me and what we’re building.”
“Of course I am,” she replies. “I want this to work.”
“It is going to work,” I growl, leaning in to steal a kiss. “I’m not letting anything stand in our way.”
“I love that about you. Your commitment.”
“Took a while to get there,” I mutter, touching my forehead to hers. “But I’m here… with you… all the way.”
Kat tilts her head, our lips in contact again, but it’s only a soft brush of our mouths against each other. “All the way,” she whispers her agreement. “All the damn way.”
READ chapter one of THE TRYST below!
CHAPTER 1
Trey
The late morning July sun blazes through the front windows of Rosie’s Diner, dulling the neon sign just inside the door that reads, “Open 24 Hours.” Rosie’s could have been plucked straight out of an old movie, the kind of place where everyone knows everyone and the coffee never stops pouring. With its shiny, silver exterior and neon lights, it reminds me of those classic roadside diners that promise a good meal and a slice of nostalgia. The chrome lined counters and red-vinyl covered swivel stools is where I like to sit because you get served faster and the hustle and bustle of the kitchen is fun to watch.
The walls of the diner are adorned with a variety of horse-themed memorabilia—a nod to the local culture deeply entrenched in both the saddlebred and thoroughbred horse industry. Framed black-and-white photos of famous racehorses from nearby tracks, their jockeys clad in colorful silks, line the walls alongside old horseshoes and ribbons from horse shows. Fancy saddlebreds, high stepping in show rings and if I look around long enough, I can find pictures of me and my siblings up there. On each table and dotted along the counter are baskets containing horse shaped salt and pepper shakers and horseshoe shaped napkin holders. The air is filled with the comforting aromas of coffee brewing, bacon sizzling, and sweet maple syrup, and it’s no wonder this place is always packed. It’s why Wade and I only come here very early to beat the normal rush of breakfast patrons.
The customers here are as varied as the menu. On any given morning, you might find elderly couples sharing pancakes and memories, young families with children giggling over large plates of scrambled eggs, or local workers grabbing a quick bite before heading to the farms or markets. Many of the regular locals have their own unofficial assigned seats where they discuss everything from crop yields to local gossip.
At the counter sitting next to my younger brother Wade, both of us enjoy a strong cup of coffee while our breakfast is being made. Our spot gives us a full view of the hustle and bustle, waitresses moving quickly from customer to customer but always willing to stop and have a brief, friendly chat. Through the service window, Sam Parnes mans the grill, his face ruddy from the rising steam.
Wade eyeballs the community bulletin board to the left of the service window. It’s a central place to post flyers for upcoming horse auctions, local markets or other county events. “Look at that… the Whiskey River Gang is going to be playing at the fairgrounds this weekend. Want to go?”
“Maybe.” I take a sip of my coffee. They’re a decent regional country music band and it could be a good time.
“Let’s invite the guys and do some camping down near the lake after.”
“Pass,” I drawl, setting my cup down.
“Why not?” Wade asks, looking offended.
“Because you get all those guys together and you turn into a bunch of morons. Last time we did that, Bruce thought it would be a good idea to catch a copperhead snake and landed in the hospital for two days.”
“Yeah,” Wade muses with a grin. “He was an idiot.” He then punches my shoulder. “But it won’t be like that this time.”
“So you say,” I laugh, shaking my head. “I’ll go to the concert but I’ll pass on the camping trip.”
“When did you get to be so old and lame?” Wade teases.
I’m only four years older than Wade but sometimes it seems like our age difference is more. I’m at the point in my life I don’t need to go chasing around a perpetual party buzz, chasing girls and hanging with my buds.
But I merely say, “Bite me.”
“More coffee, boys?” Doris, the diner’s forever waitress, saunters over with the pot in hand. She’s about sixty, with hair as silver as the trays she carries and a wit sharper than Sam’s knives. “Or are you just here to grace me with your charming company?”
“Always for your company, Doris,” Wade quips, flashing her a charming smile. “When are you going to leave Wendell and marry me?”
She rolls her eyes as she tops off our mugs. “Oh, honey, the day I marry you is the day they stop making bourbon in Kentucky. And we both know that’s never gonna happen! Besides, Wendell might be a grump, but he’s my grump and he makes the best burgoo in the county and I’m not ready to give that up.”
I nod my head sagely. “He does make a fine burgoo. Give up, Wade. She’s smitten.”
Doris shoots me a wink. “Your order is almost ready. Be up in a jiff.”
When she’s out of earshot, Wade turns his head to smirk at me. “So, who was the lucky lady last night? Becca Caudill? She was quite the screamer.”
That’s the truth. I ended up having to put a hand over her mouth. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
Wade and I have been sharing a house in Shelbyville for six years, eschewing one of the many smaller abodes on the farm that have been built to house some of the higher level, permanent workers. While it’s safe to say we both love the family farm and the work we do, we definitely like leaving at the end of each day and having our own place.
Of course, that means sometimes if one of us has a woman stay the night, there’s a good chance the other knows about it. The walls on our little house are thin.
“So, was it Becca?” Wade prods.
“Nah. We haven’t seen each other since the Spirits and Saddles Gala in June.”
“Then who was it?”
I twist my neck, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Don’t be such a gossiping girl.”
Wade snorts. “Not gossiping. Just trying to figure out which local beauty is off the list, so I don’t get your sloppy seconds.”
Chuckling, I turn back to my coffee. “Not everyone keeps a scorecard, dude.” But he’s got a point. Brothers don’t infringe in each other’s territory, even if the women that Wade and I date are casual with no hard commitments. We’re both far too busy and happy in our bachelorhood to get weighed down with serious relationships. “But it was Kelly Myers.”
