Undone - Softcover

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Virginia Henley is a New York Times bestselling author and the recipient of numerous awards, including the Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award. Her novels have been translated into fourteen languages. A grandmother of three, she lives in St. Petersburg, Florida, with her husband.

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Undone by Virginia Henley

Chapter One

County Roscommon,Ireland—1751

A brilliant beam of sunlight reflecting on the water momentarily blinded him, then, in the blink of an eye, a radiant vision appeared before him. Is she real, or is she a wood sprite? he mused. After all, this is Ireland.

The girl was slim and delicate, with an ethereal quality about her. As he stared, a sunbeam touched her, forming a glorious halo about her head, and her shining hair, falling in ringlets below her waist, turned the color of pure-spun gold. She stood amidst the tall grasses of the riverbank while dragonflies and tiny insects with transparent wings flitted about her, rising like motes of dust from the myriad wildflowers. He had the distinct impression that if he moved or spoke, he would break the magic spell and she would vanish into thin air.

John Campbell, unable to help himself, couldn’t resist quoting A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.”

The queen of fairies turned her head to gaze at him. “What, jealous Oberon?” She raised a dismissive hand to the dragonflies. “Fairies, skip hence.” She lifted a proud chin and glanced away from him with disdain. “I have forsworn his bed and company.”

The tall, dark young man took a step toward her and delivered Oberon’s line. “Tarry, rash wanton! Am not I thy lord?”

Titania smiled and sank into a curtsy. “Then I must be thy lady.”

He closed the distance between them in two strides and, laughing, took her hands and raised her. “What on earth is a beautiful English lady doing unattended in a meadow in the wilds of Ireland?”

He looked compellingly dark and dangerous, but her glance traveled over the fishing basket and the rod slung casually across his back. “I live here. I’ve come to the River Suck for salmon, just as you have, sir. Come, I’ll show you a good spot.”

He followed her as if mesmerized to a place where the willows hung low on the riverbank to dip their weeping branches into the water, then sat down beside her and cast his line. The enchanting creature was a mystery he could not fathom. Though barefoot and wearing a threadbare smock that shamelessly revealed her ankles, she spoke in a cultured English voice and was obviously well-read. “You have no trace of Irish dialect in your speech.”

Pretending a confidence she did not quite feel, she crossed her legs, cocked her head to one side and launched into a ditty:

“In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty,

I first set me eyes on sweet Molly Mallone;

Through streets broad an’ narrow, she wheeled her wheelbarrow,

Cryin’ cockles an’ muscles, alive, alive-o!”

Her Irish brogue was rich and authentic; her singing sweet and melodious. Her accent changed from Irish to Scots in a heartbeat as she decided to trust him. “I detect a wee burr in yer own speech, laddie. I’d guess ye’ve spent time in Scotland.”

It was an understatement. He’d spent time in Scotland all right. When the Jacobite rebellion broke out to overthrow the king, his father was appointed to command all the troops and garrisons in the west of Scotland. He’d fought alongside his father and the king’s son, the Duke of Cumberland, at Inveraray, then at Perth, and finally at the horrific Battle of Culloden where the uprising had been crushed once and for all.

John banished thoughts of war and smiled at her. “My mother is Scottish.”

She proceeded to tell him a joke about two Scotsmen concerning what they wore beneath their kilts. The subject matter was quite risqué, and John was almost overwhelmed by a powerful desire to take the delectable morsel in his arms and devour her whole.

She smiled at him; her golden lashes swept to her cheeks then lifted, and he received the full impact of violet eyes. “I’ve been trained for the stage.” When she immersed herself in a role, acting out a part, she was able to hide her acute shyness. “I’m going to be an actress!” she said importantly.

John Campbell’s breath came out in a rush of relief. Here was no lady, St. Patrick be praised, but an actress, which made her fair game for seduction. “How old are you?”

“I’m sixteen, almost seventeen—quite old enough,” she assured him. “How old are you, sir?”

The corners of his mouth lifted in amusement at the inappropriate question, asked so matter-of-factly. “I’m eight-and-twenty and have all my teeth.”

“Do you have a name, sir?” The fine English lady was back.

“My name is John.” He did not offer his family name. “As you guessed, I am in Ireland to fish...and hunt.” He stressed the last word, glancing at her breasts, then his gaze returned to her lips.

“How do you do, John? My name is Beth. These parts are renowned for fine game birds. We have snipe, quail, pheasant, goldcrests, and even partridge, though I’ve never tasted it.”

“Really? It just so happens I have a plump roast partridge and a bottle of wine in my basket. Why don’t you share them with me?”

“I’m not the least bit hungry, but since it would be impolite to refuse your hospitality, it would be my pleasure to taste the partridge, sir, though not the wine.”

“Why not the wine?” he asked, amused.

“’Tis rumored that it steals the senses. Would you like me to hold your rod, John?”

For a moment her words dizzied him, then he realized that she had stolen his senses—she was innocently offering to hold his fishing rod while he got the food. He handed it to her then opened the basket and extracted a large linen napkin that held the roasted fowl. He unwrapped it and broke the bird into pieces.

“Take it quickly.” She handed the rod back. “I believe you have a salmon on your line at this very moment.”

He reeled it in and with a swift motion dipped his net into the water and flipped the fish onto the riverbank. With any luck, I’ll lure another to take my bait. His dark brown eyes studied the lovely golden female at his side. “Tell me, Beth, how do you intend to catch a salmon without a rod?”

She picked up a leg of partridge with the thigh attached and bit down with relish. “A man needs fancy paraphernalia. A maid must manage without!”

John’s dark eyes widened. Had this enchantress made a racy observation regarding their anatomy to provoke his male lust? He watched her select a breast with its wing intact and saw her lick her lips in anticipation. She had denied that she was hungry, yet she was making short work of the partridge. When she set down the bones and licked her fingers, he felt his cock stir. He moved the napkin closer to her, and when he saw her look at the remaining pieces with longing, suddenly wished she’d look at him that way.

“You’re not hungry, John?”

He shook his head in denial. He was hungry, all right, but not for food. All he wanted at this moment was to watch her eat. With a feminine, feline grace, she quickly bit into the fowl with sharp, white teeth, closed her eyes with untold pleasure when she swallowed a morsel, then licked her fingers to savor the taste. He wondered if she would relish everything in life with such lusty enjoyment, and his imagination took erotic flight.

She devoured the last of the partridge and wiped her hands on the linen. Then she stretched out beside him, prone in the grass, and gazed down into the water’s depth. A shadow beneath the surface inched forward. She waited patiently until it edged closer, but the moment she slid her hand into the water, the salmon darted away....