Back cover blurb: An Ancient Curse, an abandoned abbey and the power of a kiss . . . Fleeing angry villagers who blame her for crime she did not commit, a young gypsy woman seeks refuge in an empty manor house. Zara hopes to remain hidden at Huntington Abbey through the winter months. When the owner of the old abbey returns unexpectedly, Zara appears to St. John in his room, pretending to be a ghost. Deep in his cups, he does not realize she’s quite alive and amusing herself at his expense. When her bold kiss unleashes a frightening transformation, changing the handsome, brooding widower into a creature of legend, she has but one option; run! Tortured by blackouts and nightmares that mirror newspaper reports of brutal murders in London, Stephan St. John returns to his country manor, the place he fled years earlier after his wife’s murder. Strange deaths occur in the region after his arrival, making him fear that his ancestral heritage is getting the better of him. A gypsy cursed his family years ago, and only another gypsy can free him from the wolf. When he finds a lovely raven haired gypsy pretending to be a foreigner on his land, he has one goal; keep her. Gothic romance is always dark, always twisted, and always fulfilling!
Excerpt from The Gypsy’s Curse, A Gothic Tale of Romantic Suspense by Lily Silver:
Bringing you up to speed: Zara the gypsy woman has been hiding in an abandoned abbey for weeks. She has discovered hidden passageways allowing her to move about within the mansion undetected and has been spying on Stephan St. John in the night. He noticed her lurking in the night before this but believes she is a ghost. Both are about to have a rude awakening as they share a kiss and St. John shifts into the wolf.
Zara hovered just beyond the curtain. She was trying to shore up her nerve and step out so St. John could see her again. She’d been waiting, watching him, measuring how many drinks he’d had before she made her entrance. He’d had three glasses of brandy.
He took to staring intently into the fire again, as if it held the answers to all his questions. His left leg was bent, his right extended in a lazy repose. His arm rested on the chair, elbow raised with his head supported in one hand.
The seconds slipped by, marked only by the crackling fire and the hard thumping of her heart. Seconds became minutes. Should she step closer?
It was folly, but for some reason she needed to see St. John’s face.
He seemed to be getting drowsy. Zara wanted to kiss him. She wanted to taste his full, sensual lips and feel the warmth of his skin. She waited, intending to approach him while he slept and steal a kiss before leaving his home.
Silent and still, that was the game. That was how Lothar taught her to hide in the woods, in the shadows, to evade discovery when they were lurking near the Gadje to steal a chicken in the night. Silent, still, and steady. Wait for the proper moment, that was the trick. Patience.
St. John appeared to be drifting into a comfortable sleep.
Zara emerged from behind the curtains and slowly approached his still form. He was breathing evenly. She crept closer on bare feet, step by step across the stone floor until she stood just to his left, on the other side of the small table holding his ablutions. A snore, yes, a faint nasal drone told her what she needed to know. He was asleep.
She edged closer to the sleeping man, holding her breath as if it would betray her presence. She touched his limp hand as it draped over his chair in slumber.
He started. And grabbed her wrist, imprisoning it within a strong cave of fingers.
Zara gasped.
Was he dreaming? Or had he been lying in wait for her?
Her instinct was to tug in order to free herself from his powerful grasp. Instead, she did the opposite, she went slack. If she tugged, she realized she would truly wake him and then there would be the devil to pay. She held her breath and waited, hoping he would not open his eyes.
The hand gripping her tightened about her slender wrist and she feared he might snap the bone. St. John moaned. His eyes remained closed. “Julia . . .”
He was dreaming about his dead wife.
Zara silently released her breath, lest she pass out from lack of air. His hand remained in firm possession of her wrist. She stood before him, chiding herself for her foolishness, for getting too close to the wolf.
Wolf. Odd that she should think of him as a wolf. The wolf was her protector, or so the old fortune teller claimed many years ago. It was foretold when she was a child that she was a member of the wolf tribe and that her spirit animal was the fierce guardian of the woodlands. She could easily imagine St. John had the power of the wolf within him.
The hand circling hers relaxed, and dropped to drape again on the chair arm.
Zara summoned all of her strength to remain calm and not flee.
Fleeing would cause a draft. Or she might make a careless noise to startle him awake. She did not want this man to be awake, not now, not when she stood so close to him.
His legs moved. Zara bit her lip. She was now imprisoned between his splayed thighs.
A soft moan emerged, almost a whimper as if his dream tormented him.
Zara longed to reach forward and soothe that thick, tangled mane of dark hair. She still longed to kiss him. Fool. Captivated by danger, and the raw beauty of a man trapped in grief.
She made a sign to ward off the evil eye and stepped backwards carefully. Her eyes were fixed on his face, waiting, watching, fearing the abrupt opening of his eyes and discovery.
He didn’t stir. It brought relief, followed swiftly by disappointment. The savage part of her longed to have him open his eyes and reach up to grab her and steal an earthy kiss.
One step back. And then another.
She edged slowly back, toward the curtain at the window and the hidden panel leading to the secret passage. She was halfway to her goal when those eyes fluttered open and the man straightened in his chair at the sight of her.
“Spirit, you come again?” his deep, rich voice had a pleasing resonance, even in its roughened form from slumber. “Are there no sane men to haunt? I’ve left the safe shores of lucidity long ago.”
Zara was more curious than afraid as she noted his wavering form. He was drunk, drugged or both. He sat up in the chair, alert, yet his body tipped and weaved as if he were at sea.
“Why do you torment me?” he persisted. “Why have you come? What price must I pay to send thee away from me, spirit?”
“A kiss, good sir,” Zara said, almost before she realized it. “I would ask thee for kiss, before I fade away.”
His reaction was a lazy, sensual grin. Pleasure. His low chuckle echoed with her breast, and lower still to the hungry place between her thighs. “Have you had no such caress in life, beautiful wraith? Is that why you torment the damned?”
“Kisses are my penance,” she replied. “Kisses from the living to pay for a life of wickedness.” Oh, heavens above, where was all this coming from? Too much of Master Shakespeare, she guessed. The Widow Kendall favored the old bard and preferred to read him aloud in the evenings. “A kiss, from an honest man, spirit to spirit, to atone for a life of dishonesty and sin.”
The man before her rose, wavered unsteadily and swaggered toward Zara with a meandering step. “Honest? You assume too much, little ghost.”
His quickness was deceiving. Zara was unprepared for his swift advance or for the abrupt embrace as he roughly drew her to him and captured her lips.
St. John inhaled her lips as if she were made of air instead of flesh and bone. And yet, Zara kissed him back with all of her being, exalting in his sweet, brutal possession. His hand went behind her neck, cradling her head while preventing her retreat from his devouring kiss.
The addition of his rough tongue inside her mouth brought her senses to dizzying heights as she struggled to keep her wits about her. This was no gentle, playful kiss as she imagined when she made the bold request of the obviously drunken man. This was the sultry embrace of a man on fire, a man possessed with the primal need to mate, a need denied him for too long.
Zara tried to be compliant in his arms, but his determination to possess her was growing by the second. Don’t struggle, don’t fight him. If she wrestled too much, he’d awaken fully. She wanted him to go back to being asleep so she could admire him, like a wolf in the woods.
His hardened manhood was pressing against her belly, just below her navel, intruding, promising further conquest as his tongue ravaged her mouth, bringing pleasure.
The hand on her backside, squeezing her behind brought Zara up short. She wore only her billowy shift, with nothing beneath it to shield her skin from his warm, seeking grip.
She gasped and drew her lips away. His response was to hug her to him, still clutching her bottom in one hand whilst kissing her neck and holding her fast against him with his other hand at the small of her back.
Instinct told her to surrender to him, the primal instinct of a woman intoxicated by a kiss.
Common sense told her to stop him. Zara shoved him hard.
St. John staggered, and reeled back on his heels. “You, m’dear, are no ghost!”
End of Excerpt, copyright Lily Silver, 2014
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Lily Silver
I live in the Northwoods of Wisconsin, on the shores of Green Bay. I share an old Victorian house with my darling husband, our three charming cats and a sassy little dog named Gizmo. With a degree in History and a lifelong love of historical romance stories, it’s only natural that I would blend the two together as a career choice.
When I’m not writing, I love to stalk the wild things through nature photography, paint birds and florals with watercolors and create surreal images using mixed media collage art. My husband and I take road trips throughout the summer and fall to enjoy the woods and waves in our backyard.
Gothic romances are so appealing. I loved the excerpt and the blurb. I see more great reading ahead.
I agree, Debra. I love Gothic romance.