Worlds in progress. Coming soon to an agent near you.

“In the Middle Ages they burned redheads at the stake for witches,” Baron said as he casually pulled a tucking comb out of my hair. He’d picked an idyllic day and place for a picnic or a proposal. Sunlight knifed through the trees and dappled the ground around us with golden lace. Our hobbled horses eagerly cropped lush green grass nearby. Further out, mares and their new foals dotted the rolling pasture. It was private and peaceful and perfect.

My eyebrow quirked at his odd declaration. He lay half reclining beside me propped up on one elbow, his long legs stretched out with those highly polished knee-high boots he favored. I turned toward him, knowing I should object to him pulling my hair down. “I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t have red hair then,” I replied and smiled gently, looking into eyes so blue they could pierce your spine and unmoor your heart with surgical precision. Mine had been untethered long ago.

“I would move the moon and storm hell for that smile.” He slipped the other comb out and ran his fingers through my unbound hair, letting it waterfall over my shoulders. The bright yellow jessamine he’d pushed over my ear fell, joining the rest of his bouquet on the quilt. “I disagree, Miss McKenzie. If you were a horse, you’d be a blood bay. You’re hair’s the most beautiful mahogany red and right now it’s on fire.” He lay down and pulled me to him. “It’s not the only thing on fire. Promise you’ll always be mine.”

The fire was contagious. I pushed the highly polished brass button with the “US” through his uniform jacket, loosening it further and slid my hand in to caress his chest. “You know I am, but are you not afraid of dallying with a witch? Playing with fire?”

A slight frown creased his brow as if he were pondering this. “No, I don’t believe so. I pledged my body long ago. You’ve already stolen my heart. Our souls are intertwined. I fear I’m lost.”

He reached over to snag a spiced peach a slice and held it to my lips. “I’ve been warned about the famous tempers of redhaired women also, not that I haven’t already noticed, but I shall feed you tasties and keep you in good humors.”

I scowled at him, but he ignored it and fed me another peach slice.

“Redheads are a favorite of Satan due to their wicked natures,” he continued. “The hair is God’s way of warning men of danger.” He grinned and waggled a blond brow at me.

Irked, I sat up, recalling my hand from his jacket. “And who’s been telling you all this poppycock?”

“Oh, that’s not the worst of it,” he declared gravely. “When redheads die, they turn into vampyres to come back to steal a man’s soul.”


He nodded. “My sergeant was trying to save me when I told him I was going to propose to you as soon as I got home.”

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