Margo Maguire Read Free Page A

dust and debris into their faces and rattling the trees around them. He was about Sam’s age, and just as tall, but more heavily built, with burnished red hair and freckles. “The cottage is just down this lane, past the bend.”
    Sam’s jacket flapped around him, and his hair whipped his neck and face. The dust made him sneeze suddenly, sending a sharp jab of pain through his newly healed ribs.
    A moment later, they rounded a curve and Ravenwell Cottage came into view.
    “Cottage” was a misnomer. The place looked like a country manor house, with a large front entrance and broad, sweeping wings on each side. As Sam took in the sight, a shard of lightning pierced the night, crashing down from the heavens straight through the roof of the inn.
    Fletcher pulled back on the horse’s reins and rose to his feet, just as everything became quiet again. The wind stopped as suddenly as it had arisen.
    “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.
    Sam felt the same. He was a man who studied nature and all its manifestations, yet he had never seen or heard of such odd weather. Perhaps it was a regional aberration. “This sort of thing happen often?”
    Fletcher remained standing for a moment, shaking his head slightly, frowning. “Midsummer is our best season. We’ll have the occasional rain, but I’ve…” He stabbed his fingers through his hair. “I’ve neverseen anything like this. I hope Charlotte—I hope everyone is all right.” He sat down again and drove the buggy quickly across the fine gravel of the drive.
    “It doesn’t appear to have done much damage,” Sam said, his gaze taking in all his surroundings. Other than a few branches scattered on the grounds, there did not seem to be anything amiss.
    The man did not reply, but continued to the front entrance, where he jumped down and hurried into the inn, leaving Sam to deal with his own luggage.
    Sam didn’t mind. He had his camera and plates, his microscopes and bottles. He wanted them handled carefully—certainly not in haste. He went around to the back of the buggy and shuffled his things in order to reach the crate with the most delicate instruments. Lifting it gently from the buggy, he turned and carried it through the front door.
    The large reception area reminded Sam of a medieval castle’s great hall. Here, though, there were wall sconces with gaslights, comfortable sofas and fresh cut flowers in vases. A crowd of people stood together in the center on a large, patterned rug. They were all speaking at once, carrying on in a distinctly atypical manner for the Brits Sam had come to know.
    They were puzzled and frightened, yet they seemed…invigorated.
    Sam looked for Fletcher, but didn’t spot him. Then he glanced around to see if there was anyone on hand to check him in and show him to his room. A large desk, illuminated by two gaslights, stood along the far wall. Sam made his way toward it and set his crate on the floor while the crowd continued to clamor.
    No doubt the sudden wind had everyone speculating about the weather, and what would happen next.
    Sam was curious, too, but he wanted to get his belongings out of that buggy and into his room before the storm broke. No telling what kind of weather a wind like that would bring. He was just about to ring the small bell on the desk when someone called his name.
    “Mr. Temple?” A feminine voice, low and sweet, spoke to him from behind. At the same time, Sam felt her touch, felt her hands sliding over his shoulders as clearly as the wind that had blown off his hat only a few minutes before.
    His knees went weak, and he felt his breath whoosh out of him as if he’d been punched. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead and the palms of his hands.
    No one touched him. Not after all that had happened in Sudan.
    “Mr. Temple?” she repeated. “I’m Miss Tearwater.”
    Feeling dazed and disoriented, Sam turned slowly and came face-to-face with an exotic gypsy with lustrous black hair. A pair of shell combs were