© 2007 Elaine Corvidae
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover art by Elaine Corvidae, © 2012
Model photograph: ©iStockphoto.com/Anna Furman
Anne winced as the coach jolted into yet another pothole. After five days of having her teeth rattled and her bones jarred, she was heartily sick of travel, to the point where she almost wished for the journey to end. At the very least, she longed to reach the next hostel, where she could get a few hours of sleep on a stationary surface.
As if reading her mind, her cousin Edward said, “I’m beginning to think that there aren’t any inns in this God-forsaken wasteland.” He leaned over and peered out the window, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of lights in the darkness that had fallen over the countryside some hours before. But a fog had blown in from the sea, shrouding the wild, rough coast in a thick miasma that that coach’s lamps did little to penetrate.
“I’m sorry that my future home is not more convenient,” she responded, not bothering to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
Edward’s round face flushed sharply. “I’m sorry, Annie. I’m sure that Greymuir is a perfectly lovely place.”
Aside from the damp, and the wind, and the fog, and the fact that we haven’t seen a tree in hours. But it wasn’t Edward’s fault that she was being banished to the far corner of the kingdom, to wed a man she had never met.