The Sleeping Beauty Read online

  She knew that look

  She had once known the look of desire on a man’s face—on many men’s faces. But none of them had ever affected her like this.

  Deep inside, some nether region of her innards rattled. Humming, vibrating, rattling—she couldn’t tell which. It felt wonderful, like silver threads of pleasure were woven throughout her body and being plucked by some unseen hand like an angel playing a harp.

  She felt a bit dizzy all of a sudden. Her eyelids felt heavy.

  “It is less than a fortnight when we will be man and wife,” Adam said thickly. He kept looking at her mouth, studying it intensely. Without seeming to move an inch, he somehow was closer. “Not long…”

  “No. Soon.”

  He was going to kiss her, and she could do nothing but stand there, frozen on the spot, and wait for the touch of his mouth….

  The Sleeping Beauty

  Harlequin Historical #578

  Praise for Jacqueline Navin’s previous works

  The Viking’s Heart

  “THE VIKING’S HEART is a beautifully written medieval romance…an entertaining and emotional read.”

  —The Romance Reader

  A Rose at Midnight

  “Nothing can prepare you for the pure love that flows from Ms. Navin’s writing. She gives warmth, humor, tears of joy…her books are gifts to be treasured.”

  —Bell, Book and Candle

  The Flower and the Sword

  “…a touching tale of love’s ability to heal wounded souls.”

  —Romantic Times Magazine

  The Maiden and the Warrior

  “Ms. Navin has captured the essence of the time and created a beautiful love story.”

  —Rendezvous

  #575 SHOTGUN GROOMS

  Susan Mallery & Maureen Child

  #576 THE MACKINTOSH BRIDE

  Debra Lee Brown

  #577 THE GUNSLINGER’S BRIDE

  Cheryl St.John

  THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

  JACQUELINE NAVIN

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and

  JACQUELINE NAVIN

  The Maiden and the Warrior #403

  The Flower and the Sword #428

  A Rose at Midnight #447

  Strathmere’s Bride #479

  One Christmas Night #487

  “A Wife for Christmas”

  The Viking’s Heart #515

  The Sleeping Beauty #578

  To Kelly.

  The year this book was written was a tough one for you and yet you have emerged from it with amazing benefit. I admire your courage, your fortitude, your poise, your sense of justice—just about everything about you (except your hairstyle ). You have made your dad and me proud and so very happy each and every day.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Northumberland, England 1852

  Adam Mannion pulled his mount to a halt as the two of them rounded a bend in the packed-dirt road and stood staring at the sprawling mansion.

  This was Rathford Manor?

  His horse, a newly bought gelding with more spirit than sense, skittered sideways as if he, too, felt the sudden chill that seemed to hit once the house came into view. “Whoa, boy,” Adam muttered, controlling the steed with a skillful jerk of the reins. The horse stilled and twitched his ears nervously as they both regarded the house.

  Adam Mannion was nothing if not a practical man. In all of his thirty-two years, he had not seen anything to cause him to believe in anything outside the realm of the physical world other than a good, solid hunch one got at times when the turn of the cards was going one’s way. Nevertheless, in this case he had to sympathize with the horse’s skittishness. The place seemed…dead.

  It appeared deserted. Not a single soul wandered in the gardens snipping herbs. No one trotted from the stables to greet him. The shrubbery that might have once lent grace to the noble facade was overgrown, ill tended and wild looking. Lichens grew on the stones, flourishing in the neglect that hung about the place like a pall. Many of the windows were shuttered, a strange sight when the weather was so mild. He supposed it indicated those rooms were shut up and unused.

  “The Sleeping Beauty of Northumberland,” Adam muttered, and huffed a short sound of amusement. Well, he was hardly Prince Charming set on cutting down the fence of thorns to rescue the princess, that was certain.

  It was money that brought him to this godforsaken corner of England, up here where the wind came off the North Sea to blow across the lifeless moors. He would have preferred summering in Cornwall with his friends, or perhaps the south of France, or Italy as some of his more wealthy bows had. The difference was, he wasn’t wealthy. Which was why he was here. Money. Oh, yes. And a wife.

  The Sleeping Beauty of Northumberland, no less.

  The horse nickered, a sure sign of derision, as if he could read minds, and Adam nodded sagely. “I agree. Silly stuff and nonsense, all of it.” He shook his head and kicked his heels into the gelding’s flanks. “We shall have to debunk the air of sorcery around here. It is pickling my brain.”

  However, his thoughts remained dark as he headed through the high grass and weeds growing on the terraced lawns. It was like heading into a mist-shrouded graveyard at midnight. The hairs on his arms stood up as though lightning were preparing to snap at his feet.

  Dismounting, he brushed some of the dust off his trousers and smoothed his cravat, then laughed at his uncharacteristic fussiness. He supposed he was a bit nervous.

  Going up to the door, he raised the thick verdigris wreath protruding from the mouth of an iron grotesque, and let it fall. The sound echoed like the low rumble of thunder. Nothing happened for a long time. Knocking again, he waited. He frowned back at the unsightly sentry and thought about his predicament.

  Had his information been wrong? Or had he fallen victim to his friends’ savage humor? The idea struck him like a blow. His “bosom bows” were rakehells and scoundrels, and it wouldn’t be below them to play a cruel trick on one of their own. Maybe this was a prank, and they were right now gathered at White’s by the wide front window, laughing themselves senseless as they thought of him traveling all the way up here for…for a fairy tale.

  The Sleeping Beauty? He had been told fantastic tales of her beauty, of her charm and grace that had no equal, and—and this was the most important of all—of her fortune. A fortune he needed.

  Money, beauty, a country miss whose reclusive preferences would pose no strings to his fast-paced lifestyle in the City. She was perfect.

  How stupid of him. He was no green buck. Nothing was ever perfect. He sho
uld have known that by now.

  Sighing, he silently admitted he had been duped. Thinking that if he left now he could make the inn in the nearby village of Strathmere by nightfall, he took a step down off the marble stoop.

  He heard the door open behind him. Swinging around, he squinted. The figure inside was shrouded in deep shadows. He could only see it was a woman. A small, frail creature. Probably a servant girl. “What do you want?” she demanded.

  Her impudence combined with his less-than-sublime mood at the moment served to annoy him. He said with an air of command, “I wish to see the mistress of the house. Lady Helena Rathford, if you please.”

  There was a short silence. “Who are you—” She broke off. In a more docile tone, she amended, “I mean, who may I say is calling?”

  Her voice was cultured, not like a servant’s at all. Then again, he was unfamiliar with this corner of England. Maybe the dialect was not as pronounced among the common folk as in other regions.

  “Adam Mannion, Esquire.” He folded his arms across his chest and waited to be asked in.

  There was no response from the girl. “Go,” Adam demanded, “and fetch her. Do not keep me waiting.” He waved his hand at her in a shooing motion. Was she daft?

  Her demanding tone was anything but. “What is it you want with her?”

  “That is not your concern, girl.”

  “She doesn’t wish to be disturbed. Go away.”

  To his utter astonishment, the door began to close. Two things spurred him into action. The first was his irritation at this annoying slip of a girl and the second was her unwitting admission that there was a Lady Helena Rathford in residence. He had doubted it when he had seen the poor condition of the house. He leaped back up the step and wedged his polished Hessian in the door frame just as she slammed the heavy oak portal closed.

  “Lord, girl!” he cried, biting back some more vicious epithets he would have liked to employ as pain shot up his leg. “Are you trying to cripple me?”

  “Move your leg.”

  “You impertinent chit. Get your mistress. I have important business with her that she…” He stopped. His foot throbbed. The pain edged his temper up. Pushing with one of his broad shoulders, he knocked into the door. The girl stumbled back and the oak panel crashed against the inside wall.

  The intrepid servant was astonished, he saw. Her eyes were a startling blue—pale with a hint of green that made them almost turquoise. Grinning his most charming grin, he explained, “I’ve decided I’d prefer to wait inside.”

  She was taller that he had thought, probably because she had been hunched over before. Now she stood at her full height, looking brazen and outraged. Her hair was a mess, pulled back in a sloppy knot. Two hanks had worked out of the tether and shielded most of her features from view. Between those and the ubiquitous shadows clustering inside the house, he could barely discern what she looked like. All he could see was that she was thin, almost gaunt. A fine nose and a good chin impressed him as strong features in an otherwise frail mien.

  Almost grudgingly, he acknowledged she was attractive. He was a man who enjoyed women, and he knew quality when he saw it. His objective observation of her good features disturbed him, for it was followed with a jolt of lust he found inexplicable. This girl was a hellcat. As a rule, easygoing misses with big bosoms were his favorite bed-mates.

  The girl retreated, melting back into the shadows. She called, “Get out of here immediately before I call my…my master.”

  “Call him then, I welcome it.” Adam crept closer to the darkness. Really, the little idiot was a silly bit. He would have words with the Lady Helena when—or if—he was ever able to speak with her. “Where have you gone? Why are you hiding?”

  “I am not hiding, you jackanapes. Get out now, I say!”

  “Why, you imperious little snipe. How dare you refer so to your betters. Your behavior is reprehensible.”

  A snort was her response.

  He went after her. She had him incensed. He had no idea what he planned to do when he got her in hand. He didn’t strike women, nor did he shake or manhandle them in any way. But still he stalked the shadows like an impatient predator.

  “Where are you?” There was no answer. Perhaps she had grown frightened after realizing her wickedness, and fled. He straightened. He would just go and find her master himself, he decided.

  Taking a few steps, he stopped, just now registering his surroundings. His eyes traveled in a slow circle and his breath came out in an appreciative whistle. The hall was a rotunda capped with what appeared to be a domed ceiling. Around him was artwork of magnificent proportion, all relief work in the neoclassical style that had become popular of late. Marble and painted wood and pure, white alabaster were all around him in various fashions of interior decoration. He walked about slowly, touching this and that, astounded by all that he saw.

  He smiled. It was all he could do to keep from cackling and rubbing his hands together. The wealth displayed delighted him. He had come to the right place.

  “Are you still here?”

  He almost snarled. “I should say the same to you.” He whipped around, scanning the darkened corners for some sign of her. In this hollow place where their voices echoed, the disembodied voice seemed eerie.

  Another voice sounded. “My lady? What is it tha’s goin’ on? Who is come?”

  My lady? “Lady Helena!” Adam called. “Are you here?”

  Frantic whispers led him to the two figures huddled in the shadows. “Lady Helena?” he inquired, more urgently.

  A flare of light startled all three of them. A man had joined them, coming up behind Adam with an oil lamp held out before him in one huge, hamlike fist. He was large as a bear and featured in the same fashion, his great bushy brows drawn down in confusion. “Helena, what the devil is going on here?” he demanded.

  Adam turned back to the other two in front of him, which he could see now with the aid of illumination. The girl stared at him. Her features, bathed in the torchlight, were startling. She seemed afraid, he noted. Well she should, for this man who had just arrived was likely her master. No doubt her atrocious behavior would win her a sound reprimand. Adam gave her a smug look before turning to her companion, whom he expected to be the Lady Helena herself.

  A woman stared back at him, her full mouth pursed in irritation. She was at least two score and ten, her red hair caught under a mobcap, with frizzled strands sticking straight out from her head. Her face was lined, with a healthy spattering of freckles over every inch. Both her age and her obvious Irish heritage forbade her being the one he sought.

  Not Lady Helena.

  With dawning dread, he turned back to the other female. The servant who had taunted him. Lady Helena?

  Helena blanched to see the look come over his face when he realized who she was—a subtle blend of shock and wariness and…disgust?

  Why should it hurt? Vanity, she supposed. It hadn’t completely left her, despite the last five years.

  This was a handsome man, after all. Dark eyes, dark hair, well-dressed in expensive clothes straight from Savile Row…A London dandy, no doubt. Although she tried to strike a scornful pose, her insides were quivering too much to make it effective. From the moment she had peered at him through the slit in the door, there had been something about this man that had her stomach fluttering with a vague sense of apprehension.

  She could easily guess why he was here—that didn’t require any particular feat of brilliance. There was only one reason a man, any man, would travel to the northernmost regions of the country looking for her. A fortune hunter, then, ready with soft words and fawning praise. They had come before.

  This one was different, however. He didn’t seem the sly type who thought to win her with simpering compliments and false affections. This man had an edge to him, a hardness that wasn’t completely tamed by his impeccable manners. He had dark hair, and eyes dark as sin that pierced her with incredulity, betraying his less than complimentary thoughts.
His face was strong boned, with a square jaw and a straight, proud nose that gave him a certain presence. Not a pretty man, yet he exuded a virility that was indeed quite powerful.

  That sensuously curved mouth said nothing, but she knew what he thought. Self-consciously she touched her wildly tousled hair and wondered if she had dirt on her face. The sudden anxiety over her appearance jarred her. It had been a long time since she had cared about such things.

  Well, damn him! Dropping her hand, she told herself he was just a cheap swindler dressed in a nice coat.

  “Father?” She forced out the words through a throat suddenly gone dry. “Please do not permit this man inside our home.”

  George Rathford looked at her, puzzled. “But he’s already in, child. What are you about?”

  “You can see I am in no condition to receive anyone,” Helena protested. “Look at me! We were at work in the cellars.”

  The gentleman now turned to Lord Rathford and executed a correct bow. “My lord, I am honored to make your acquaintance. I am Adam Mannion, Esquire. At your service.”

  She narrowed her eyes critically as he paid respects to her father. Even as he bent at the waist in a cursory bow, he held his head at an arrogant angle. He had in him a reluctance to humble himself before a peer, as if there were a bit of a rebel residing behind those polite words.

  She triumphantly awaited her father’s response. If she had guessed this Adam Mannion’s game, surely her father would be quicker to know it. George Rathford did not suffer fools.

  “I have come to speak with your daughter—”

  Her father cut him off. “My daughter? Helena, do you know this man?”

  “No, Father. I was attempting to get him to leave when you came upon us.”

  Swinging around, the old man groused, “It’s too damned dark in here. Why are all the windows shuttered? I can’t see the fellow.”

  The Irishwoman spoke. “The sunshine makes dust motes, my lord. It is easier to keep the house this way.”

  “Damnation.” Rathford peered again at Adam. “Want to see my daughter, eh?”

  “If it is convenient,” came the bland reply.