TURNING

AND SO ANOTHER STORY BEGINS. COME AND JOIN THE SPARKLERS ON THEIR NEXT WRITING ENDEAVOR WITH A LITTLE PRESENT, A LITTLE PAST AND THE PERFECT TOUCH OF MAGIC. . .

Artic cold swirled through her. Layers of heavy, seemingly impossible-to-escape cloth imprisoned her in icy frigidness. A hard shiver hit her then, coursing the length of her body. She struggled to breathe, more squeak than actual movement of air. Implacable hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her forward, the force slamming her against rigid bone and muscle. A man’s chest imprinted against her front. Fabric ripped and separated down her back. The edge of cold metal slithered the length of her garment, and then as though steel bands had been instantly peeled apart, the tight constraints crushing her chest and midsection eased. Someone pounded mercilessly against her back. Tasha fought for and finally dragged in a real breath. A violent cough took her, then another, as she spat out water. The malevolent taste gagging her, she struggled to simply keep breathing.

“Bloody hell, she’s alive.” A deep voice barked close to her ear. “Get me that blanket. Now.”

Tasha fought to open her eyes. Hazy images rolled slowly into focus. An expanse of skin, tanned and burnished from the sun blinked before her gaze. Thick corded muscles of a firm masculine neck appeared right beyond the tip of her nose. She blinked. A dream, surely this. The wrap of thick fabric surrounded her, folding her into warmth and closer against the man’s insulating heat. Definitely a dream. She let her eyes drift closed. Another shiver caught her, this one less shocking, less invasive, but her blanket buddy shifted suddenly.

“Out of these clothes before she catches the ague.” Unyielding hands returned to search beneath the covers, pulling and tugging against the sopping fabric that still trapped her limbs. “What madman thought to truss women up in these corsets? And these damned petticoats. No wonder she sunk like a stone. Pure luck I reached her when I did.” He spoke without interruption, without need for anything but her compliance and she was more than happy to ease the testy fabric from her body. One sodden layer after another evaporated away until only the thinnest of cloth separated her from the man’s heat.

“Have you gone daft, Bracken? Even you can’t strip a lady in the middle of the drawing room.”

Floating between layers of warmth and the strength of the magical firm fingers as they rubbed circulation back into her glacier skin, Tasha lazily considered a drawing-room stripping perfectly acceptable. She pulled in another breath and tried to focus on more than the man’s scent, the subtle strength she detected in his muscles, the careful soothing of her skin.

“You’d rather she die?” His baritone voice was caressingly soft against her hair, but his words were stark, harsh even. “Despite stiff-necked standards, I’d choose the lady to live rather than pass away because a proper maid couldn’t be procured in time. If it’s a choice between modesty and life, Jacob, I think even that presumptuously arrogant excuse for her old man would prefer she be among the breathing.”

Twinges of reality smacked against Tasha’s sluggish brain. Puzzle pieces clinked against each other, but the effort to align her scattered senses seemed to take forever. The man’s words slowly played again and again . . . die, drawing room, corsets and petticoats, her old man.

Kaleidoscope images flashed through her mind. She remembered. Icy tendrils of water had snaked around her legs, dragging her, heavy gown and all, further from the fleeting surface. For a long instant, she had thrashed to kick free only to have her vision blur as her lungs refused to hold the tiny bubble of air and her head thundered with ferocious intent. Finally, there had been looming blackness, and then nothing. She had been drowning.

Tasha snapped to attention, pulling back, shifting until she could peer at the man she’d pressed against like a day-old corsage. Her focus finally sharpened on his face. And what a face it was. “Sweet heaven, no wonder I thought you were a dream. You could be an ice-cream sundae any day of the week.”

He grinned – almost. More subtle tightening of his lips than true smile. “I’m not sure of the compliment, but if it’s from you Lady Hatcher then I’ll consider the dip in the water worth my trouble.”

The effort to recall the name he spoke made her brain pound again. What she wouldn’t give for a super-sized bottle of pain reliever. “I don’t know this Lady Hatcher,” she corrected him with the tiniest shake of her head. “But if you’re the Good Samaritan who jumped in to keep me from swimming with the fishes, then you’re my new best friend.”

“Perhaps it’s the bump on her head, Bracken. She sounds odd. Completely unlike herself.”

Slowly, Tasha shifted her gaze to the other voice in the room. Dressed for a vintage remake of old English films, she took in the man’s shortened pants, snug around the hip and closed with a button flap. Wouldn’t that be just the ticket today? No more baggy pants and blazing boxers to contend with. A long, fitted coat covered his upper torso, along with a healthy supply of ruffles. She’d seen fewer frills on bad bridesmaid dresses. Back close at hand, she regarded her water rescuer. He was similar dressed, but without the ruffles and his jacket seemed to just barely span the width of his impressive line-backer shoulders. The man could be considered definitely yummy in any flavor.

Light shifted through one of the mammoth windows and the responding thump in her head magnified. The knock on her skull was probably more than an Excedrin moment; this pain felt like the edge of a concussion. She pushed at the damp mass of hair against her neck, her fingers tangling in the strands. With a tug, she pulled a long lank into view. Red? Okay, auburn, but when had she dyed her hair? A slow burn of suspicion snaked through her belly. Not again. Surely, it hadn't happened again. It was too soon. She was promised time -- more time. Clutching the flaming auburn mass in her hand, she fought for reasonableness. “You two are actors, right? All this set-up is for a movie you’re filming?”

“I know nothing of this . . . movie you speak of, Lady Hatcher.” The one called Bracken leaned closer, tilting her chin up and branding her with his silver stare. “I fear Jacob’s assessment may be accurate. You do seem to have forgotten a few things.” A butterfly brush against her cheek and he soothed a single strand into place. “Rather important ones, too. As of this morning when your father accepted the contract for our marriage, I became your fiancé.”

Harsh dread, then anger exploded in Tasha’s stomach. No actors. No period furniture. Real people and she had a real problem.

The outer door banged open and a well-rounded man, complete with proper English dress, rushed through the entrance. “Blue blazes, someone had better have an explanation over what happened to my daughter.”

“Holy Mary,” Tasha swore as she flopped back against the couch, exposing her limited apparel. “That bitch of a fairy godmother has really outdone herself this time.”