Adult(ish) Excerpt from The Dead of Haggard Hall by Marie Treanor
As I skirted the throng, which was broken into several smaller ones,
like satellites around my mother, I cautiously opened myself further to their
emotions. I felt my gaze tugged once more towards the open doorway to the hall.
And there he was, my sceptic, looking right at me.
Something jolted inside me. I had been right. Full-on, his face was
dramatic. Angular, almost bony, it was dominated by black, straight brows
over dark, harsh eyes that concealed layers of turbulence and profound,
conflicting emotions; a hard mouth with a sensual curve.
Tall, straight, and broad shouldered, his body gave the impression of being only
loosely flung together. His dress was respectable and yet hung on him with such
carelessness that it somehow suggested the entirely disreputable.
His unblinking regard washed over me in waves. Anger; constant anger. Curiosity
and annoyance. He didn’t want to be here and yet needed to know what would
happen. Contempt, disbelief. And a sudden surge of lust that made me gasp and
spin away from him in shock, for my own body flamed in wicked reply.
It was hardly the first time I had sensed such feelings directed at myself. It
was a normal part of life, usually distant, unthreatening, and easy to ignore.
But this man’s emotions ran deep.
Deep, damaged, dangerous, just the kind of man we didn’t need here. Just the
kind of man I should avoid. My entirely worldly, physical response to
him told me that. Even with my back to him, I could feel his eyes burning into
me like caressing hands. And I wanted those hands. I needed them—on my
breasts, between my thighs, everywhere—with a force that made me tremble. He
would be a fierce lover, strong and demanding and exciting… I longed to be
excited like that.
He wanted me. If I walked over to him now, I’d only need to smile and touch his
arm and he’d take me away, to his own rooms, wherever they were, or to some
anonymous, discreet hotel where we could spend all night in wild, sensual
delights. Forbidden, delicious, without inhibition
Maybe he’d exorcise the demon in me. Maybe I’d ease the demons in him.
But it would never happen. I needed my demons safely locked up, and I knew
instinctively that this man spelled danger for me.
But I’d watch him for my mother’s sake, for I sensed he meant us no good.
As I walked back, I glanced to either side. He moved with me, following me, not
just with his gaze but with his person, along the length of the wall, like a
large, predatory cat. Or a wolf, perhaps. His lust enfolded me, teasing my own.
But even over the space between us, interrupted by other guests who blocked my
view from time to time, I caught the hint of contempt, the tinge of anger amidst
the desire in his dark gaze.
Which made my temptation suddenly easy to resist. I halted and lifted one
haughty eyebrow, allowing my own disdain for his undeserved judgment to curl my
lip. I’d always found my stare and my eyebrow to be an infallible deterrent, but
this man didn’t hesitate. His lips curved upward, and as though he took my
attention for an invitation, he swerved suddenly in my direction.
My breath caught in uncharacteristic panic. A new, fierce tug of sensual
yearning told me I couldn’t be anywhere near this man, and yet I wouldn’t run. I
refused to be despised when I’d done nothing to deserve it.
“Shall we begin?” my mother said, shattering the strange illusory bubble which
seemed to have formed over myself and the sceptical stranger. “Those who would
like to join in, please sit down at the table. Everyone else, feel free to watch
and move around as you wish. All I ask is that you don’t interrupt. Sir, would
you mind closing the outer door?”
She looked directly at my sceptical stranger. She might have seen our little
byplay, or she might have sensed the same danger I did. On the other hand, he
was nearest the door. I wondered if he’d be rude enough to ignore her
request.
But my sceptic inclined his head. The gesture was somehow more mocking than
gracious, but he obediently walked back and closed the door as she asked. Then
he leaned one powerful shoulder against it and waited, apparently, to be
entertained.
I found my own refuge by the bedroom door for escape purposes, and waited with
resignation for the show. God knew there was enough emotion in that room to make
it a good one.
Spirit possession is easy to remedy. Possession of the heart is another
matter.
Darke of Night, Book 1
After vicar’s widow and natural medium Barbara Darke loses her respectable
teaching position, she reluctantly agrees to become companion to her former
pupil Emily, now the bride of young Sir Arthur Haggard.
Once settled at Haggard Hall, Barbara finds her friend is beset by ghostly
voices and unexplained deaths. In a maelstrom of dark spirits and wicked
emotions, Barbara battles to lay Emily’s ghosts to rest—both hampered and helped
by Arthur’s skeptical cousin Patrick, who provokes and attracts her in equal
measure.
It would be a mistake to trust a secretive, guilt-ridden man suspected of
driving his wife to suicide, if not outright murdering her. And it could well be
lethal to give in to her own desires, confused as they often are with the lusts
of the dead.
But Arthur and Emily are in genuine physical danger, and suspicion is falling
closer and closer to Patrick—the man who haunts Barbara’s sensual dreams. The
man who stands to inherit Haggard Hall.
Warning: Contains a medium whose body is open season for spirit
possession, and a scandal-ridden journalist who only believes what he can
see—and touch.
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