Scandal: His Majesty's Love-Child. Annie West
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by her sisters, flashed a dimpled smile and threw both hands around Abigail’s neck.
They were hers now.
Three nights later, after the girls were asleep, Abigail carried a steaming mug of hot chocolate into her workshop at the rear of the house and went straight to her bench. During the summer months, she normally trekked across the backyard to her pottery shop, which faced the main business street. But with winter’s unrelenting cold and wind, she retreated to a workshop set up in her converted den, which also accessed the back porch. Cocooned from the cantankerous weather, she worked her magic.
After unwrapping the plastic sheet from a block of ironware-grade clay, she placed the slab on the potter’s wheel. After sluicing water over her hands, Abigail kneaded the clay, getting the feel of the formative powers of this particular lump. She closed her eyes and began to run her hands up and down the cool, moist material. Gradually she relaxed, the familiar tempo of molding the clay taking over all thought. Only instinct pulsed through her now.
The lump lifted, separated into three pieces. Experiencing only the sculpture, Abigail lost track of time. She scraped, she hollowed, she smoothed the pliable material. As she refined and refined again, her thoughts and prayers poured through her busy fingers into the clay.
Thoughts of love, prayers of hope, promises of forever—all worked into the core of the sculpture.
Finally Abigail stopped, spent, and wiped her clay-covered arm across her sleepy eyes. She dipped her aching hands into water, then wiped them with a towel. Biting her lower lip, she studied this newest piece of her heart.
From behind she heard a whispered exclamation of “Gosh!” She turned to find her nieces, dressed only in their pajamas, huddled together for warmth on the oak floor. The youngest, Eve, squirmed with excitement, restrained only by her sisters from getting up; the ethereal angel, Christina, glowed with inner fire as she studied the statuette. She looked at Abigail and said, “It’s so beautiful.”
Nora, the oldest one, solemnly studied the form without any visible reaction. She had been the last to eat, drink, bathe and go to bed each night. She’d always put her sisters first. To gain this trio’s trust, Abigail knew she needed to win Nora’s.
Rolling her head to relieve the kinks in her neck, Abigail smiled at the potential critic. “What do you think, Nora?”
The girl rose and walked to the wheel. Almost against her will, she reached out, then flushed red and stopped. “Whose hands are they?”
Abigail glanced at her work—three small hands, clasped together and raised, fragile fingers reaching toward the sky. She reached out and drew the child’s stiff, resisting body to her side and rested her chin on the black silky hair.
“They are your hands, Nora. Yours and your sisters’.”
“Why?” The child’s voice was gruff. “Why did you bother to make our hands?”
“To remind you that the three of you will be bound together forever.”
Suddenly the other sisters draped themselves over her knees. Christina’s blue eyes were dreamy with enchantment. “Will it have a name? Like the other stuff you did?”
Abigail ran her hand over the soft, short cap of platinum hair. “Yes, Christina. I’m going to call it Sisters Three.”
Eve pursed her lips, her brown eyes surprisingly calculating in her six-year-old face. “Aunt Abigail, do you make lots of money?”
“Eve!” Nora glared at her sister, who grinned back, unrepentant.
Aunt. The word pulsed, shimmered in the air. Abigail swallowed a lump of emotion. None of them had called her that before. They were hers now, to protect, to raise, to love. And she would, until her dying breath.
“It’s all right, Nora. We’re a family now.” She paused, spotting a brief flicker of hope in the oldest girl’s eyes. Abigail wished she could chase away Nora’s fears. She couldn’t, not now, but she could nurture that spark of belief until one day it would vanquish the terror in her eyes.
To Eve she said, “I do all right with my pottery. Good enough that tomorrow we’re going shopping to buy you proper winter coats.”
Christina beamed. “I want a purple coat.”
“I want blue.” Eve patted Abigail’s knee for attention.
Abigail laughed. “I’m sure we can find a blue coat for you. How about you, Nora? What color do you like?”
Her stormy eyes too dark to reveal her thoughts, Nora shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. My coat’s okay. Eve and Christina need coats more.”
Eve expectantly held up her arms. Abigail lifted the child onto her lap. The little girl leaned forward and whispered loudly, “Nora’s always wanted a red coat, but Mama never had the money.”
Abigail smiled. “Then red it is for Nora.” She stroked Eve’s cheek, marveling at the smooth, velvety texture. She noticed Nora studying the statue. “Well, sweetheart, do you like it or not?”
“It’s missing one thing, Aunt Abigail.” The girl turned toward them and held her hand palm up. Her sisters brought their hands up, leaving a space. Three expectant pairs of eyes stared at her. Her vision blurry, Abigail lifted her hand and completed the circle.
Chapter One
Arcadia Heights
The present
The clay figurine slipped from Nora McCall’s numb fingers and exploded into a million pieces across the bare oak floorboards, shattering with it twelve years of Nora’s carefully structured life. Her heart pounded with fear.
The tall man with eyes the color of a deep-blue sky entered the pottery shop. Only one male had that hell-bent-for-trouble walk, and that was Connor Devlin.
The very same man who was definitely heading her way.
Find Abby and hide, she thought as the blood roared in her ears. Instead, she stood, frozen by the man’s determined gaze.
Her fingers flexed as she nervously glanced down at the floor. As she realized what she’d done a sensation of horror seeped through her.
Oh, no, she thought frantically. Not Abby’s cat. Nora knelt and, heedless of the jagged edges, began scooping up the fragments. It was totaled. She’d never be able to glue it together again. Never.
Scuffed boot tips stopped before her.
Nora’s hands stilled. One more crime to lay at Connor Devlin’s feet—he’d destroyed her daughter’s Mother’s Day present.
“Hello, Nora.”
She looked up. The wild, reckless boy of her dreams had turned into the dark, dangerous man of her nightmares. But he still wore the same rebel’s uniform he had always worn: white T-shirt, second-skin blue jeans and trademark well-worn bomber jacket.
“What are you doing here?”
“You always could bring me to my knees, Nora McCall.” Before she could rise and protect the precious pieces of Abby’s cat, he crouched beside her, his hands brushing hers as he began picking up the broken pottery.
“Go away, Connor. I don’t need your help,” she snapped. She tried to nudge his hands aside, but he scooped up the last piece of clay. Frissons of awareness tingled along her arm, only to explode into raging resentment when he gripped her elbow and propelled her to her feet.
She broke free. Time had taken the boy’s youth and replaced it with a man’s face of sharp angles and planes. The once tall, rangy body had hardened into whipcord toughness. Windswept, sun-streaked chestnut hair fell over his brow and collar. Only his eyes were as she remembered—bold, piercing and purposeful.
He knew. He’d come for her.
“You look good. Just as I remembered you.”
And