Acknowledgments
Thank you to the family and friends who continue to support me through this incredible journey; Dale Miller, Rebecca Jones, Dan Edgren, Tom Miller, Tonya Edgren Bindas, Cindy Burt, John Burt, Megan Curtis and Francesca Miller. This story would be for the dust bunnies without you. My utmost gratitude to my editor, the exceptionally talented Kerri Buckley at Carina Press, and my agent, the ever patient Courtney Miller-Callihan at Sanford J. Greenburger Associates. Your guidance and advice keep the threads tight. Thank you to the remarkable ladies of the Savvy Seven for the laughter and much needed perspective. To Hailey Boren and Allie McKay for saving my sanity. And finally, a love-filled thank you to Grace, Ethan, Connor, Elsa, Caelen, Vigo and Gedde, all blessings and the joy in my life.
Chapter One
Mr. Chubais Pennsylvania, August 1730
The knife felt good in my hand. The smooth bone handle curved into my palm, covering the tang and separating my fingers from the long metal blade. Etched into the burnished steel were the Gaelic words Brigid Buadach.
Brigid Victorious. The smith god Goibniu had forged the knife for the high goddess Brigid on the eve of battle against the Fomorians. It was a formidable weapon, perfectly balanced and sharp enough to remove a man’s fingers in a single stroke. Or his head if need be. The enchanted steel served one purpose—to defeat the enemy.
I tightened my grip and pushed the knife into my own enemy, lying inert on the table in my apothecary. By no means a Fomorian warrior, the mound of feverfew leaves easily submitted to Goibniu’s steel. Each downward thrust bit deeper into the pile, smearing the wooden table with green blood and filling the air with a strong, bitter scent. Sweat beaded my forehead, both from the exertion and the fire that burned in the hearth at my back. The door, leading outside to the herb garden, had been left open for what little relief could be found on such a hot August day.
Though Brigid’s direct descendant and thus rightful heir to her knife, I was feeling far from victorious in my fight against the feverfew. A score of Fomorians would have been a welcome sight if it meant a reprieve from the seemingly endless piles of flora that had fallen beneath my blade these past few weeks. But that race had vanished from Ireland long ago, assuming they ever existed at all. No longer a child, I knew such tales of invading armies and ancient battles contained more fancy than fact, especially in light of the irrefutable evidence clenched in my right hand—in the past six years, I had nicked myself countless times with Brigid’s blade and had yet to lose a finger.
Since no Fomorians were forthcoming, I would have gladly settled for the magistrate who had sent Henry back to England without me. Lord Henry Goderic Fitzalan to be more accurate, the man I loved and planned to marry—the man who was halfway across the Atlantic by now while I was stuck in Pennsylvania chopping leaves.
Angered by these thoughts, I quickened my pace, decimating the feverfew as I reduced the pile to a fraction of its original size. Then wiping a finger along the side of the blade, I distributed the shredded pieces among a dozen glass jars, and filled each one to the top with whiskey. In a few weeks the tincture would be an effective remedy for headaches.
Late afternoon sun spilled into my apothecary, and I still needed to finish the various concoctions brewing in the hearth. No matter what the townsfolk might say about my sham marriage to Henry, they could never speak against my devotion as a healer. The room was scorching hot and my body ached from working non-stop since dawn. Reaching up, I used a sleeve to mop the sweat from my forehead.
In mid-motion, a sudden chill passed along my spine. My damp skin puckered in response, and I snapped my head up to find a man standing just inside the doorway, watching me. Sunlight haloed his long body, and a broad-brimmed hat cast deep shadows over his face. Peering closer, I glimpsed solid black eyes, so bulbous and misshapen they couldn’t possibly be human. With a gasp, I stepped back toward the fire.
The man said nothing, just continued to stare at me, his eyes glittering like an enormous beetle. A shower of white hair fell to his shoulders, framing his near-white skin and large pale mouth. He slanted forward and lifted his nose to sniff the air.
“Who are you?” I demanded. “What do you want?”
My questions went unanswered as he sniffed once more before moving farther into the room. Already backed against the fire, my only escape was through the door leading to the servants’ quarters.