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Synopsis
Bestselling author Suzanne Robinson weaves a dazzling tale of danger and shimmering passion set on a storm-swept island off England's coast.
“For historical romance intrigue at its best, nobody can deliver quite as well as Suzanne Robinson. . . . Feast and enjoy!”—Affaire de Coeur
Women had always been passing fancies to Morgan St. John, the masterful, merciless agent to the queen of England . . . until he found himself lying in Penelope's bedchamber. Without bitter memories to torture him, Morgan became another man, one drawn to a changeable imp whose golden eyes and enticing voice became his anchors in a sea of emptiness. But all too soon Morgan's identity would be revealed, and he'd find himself thrown into a raging torrent of treachery—where even love may not be enough to save him . . .
Release date: August 24, 2011
Publisher: Bantam
Print pages: 336
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Lord of Enchantment
Suzanne Robinson
TANSY
An egg dish mid-way between an omelette and a pancake.
… for making the best tansy, you shall take a certain number of eggs, according to the bigness of your frying pan, and break them into a dish, abating ever the white of every third egg; then with a spoon you shall cleanse away the little white chicken knots which stick unto the yolks; then with a little cream beat them exceedingly together; then take of green wheat blades, violet leaves, strawberry leaves, spinach, and succory, of each a like quantity, and a few walnut tree buds; chop and beat all these very well, and then strain out the juice, and mixing it with a little more cream, put it to the eggs, and stir all well together; then put in a few crumbs of bread, fine grated bread, cinnamon, nutmeg and salt, then put some sweet butter into the frying pan, and so soon as it is dissolved or melted, put in the tansy, and fry it brown without burning, and with a dish turn it in the pan as occasion shall serve; then serve it up, having strewed good store of sugar upon it, for to put in sugar before will make it heavy. Some use to put of the herb tansy into it, but the walnut tree buds do give the better taste or relish; and therefore when you please for to use the one, do not use the other.
CHAPTER I
Isle of Penance, 1565
Pen Fairfax leaned out over the battlements of Highcliffe Castle and felt her skin prickle as if she wore a hair shirt next to her flesh. She had no cause to feel so skittish, and yet she’d left her tansy, bread, and ale to climb to the top of the Saint’s Tower and scour the horizon.
Agitation tingled in her bones as she looked out at the sea. League after league of azure met her gaze, topped by a sky without clouds and riffled by a teasing breeze that burned her cheeks crimson. The glare of the sun, the sea’s moisture, and the icy breeze combined to turn the air almost silver. Far below the steep cliffs upon which the tower sat, the surf foamed and crashed into the jagged black giant’s teeth that were all the island could claim as a beach.
Again, the flesh on the backs of her arms prickled. Shading her eyes with one hand, Pen studied the sea. She didn’t turn when Nany Boggs labored up the last stair and puffed her way across the tower roof carrying a cup of ale. Nany’s generous chest heaved under the strain of hauling her bulk up the winding staircase. Teetering to a halt, she steadied her precious cargo and took a long sip. Then she wiped her face with her apron and tucked a strand of silver hair beneath her cap.
Before Nany could scold, Pen lifted a hand and pointed out to sea. “There’s going to be a storm.”
Nany Boggs looked up at the unblemished sky, at the calm sea, at Pen.
“Prithee, how do you know it?”
“We’ll have to get the grain inside, and the hay, and the animals. No threshing this morn.”
Pen avoided her old nurse’s stare. She breathed in the fragrance of crisp sea air. The breeze caught a strand of her hair and played with it as she surveyed the blue plain of water that stretched from the island to the horizon. She shivered abruptly and rubbed her upper arms.
“Aha!”
Pen tossed her head and scowled at Nany, but the nurse only planted a fist on her hip and glared back at her.
“I knew it,” Nany said. “I saw you go still in the hall and bolt like a frightened hedgehog. Left that tansy dish I made specially for you, you did. You’re going all fantastical again, aren’t you? Listening to spirits and fell creatures of magic.”
Pen sighed. “Not spirits and creatures—”
“Hearken you to me, Penelope Grace Fairfax. If you rush about like a demented harpy, your secret will be out and we’re all o’rthrown.”
Pen took a deep breath of cold air, spread her arms wide, and lifted her face to the sun. “God’s patience, Nany, I but warned of a storm.”
“Under a cloudless sky, mistress.”
“You’re always complaining that I abandon sense too often by taking in unfortunates, yet when I give cautious warnings and thought to the protection of those under my care, you complain of that as well.”
Never one to let logic impede her way, Nany drained her cup and then shook a thick finger at Pen. “You’re going all fantastical again.”
Pen gave Nany pained smile and touched the end of her nurse’s red nose with the tip of her finger. Nany swiped at her hand, but Pen danced away from her grasp. She left the embrasure, but paused to glance out at the tranquil water.
As she gazed at the sea, her uneasiness grew. Needles of apprehension pricked her palms. Suddenly she recognized the feeling. She’d had it before, upon the approach of danger—danger of a particular and most menacing sort. If she was right, she would need ward herself as never before. She would have to prepare herself for calamity.
Nany was still muttering. “Not a cloud.”
Setting her jaw, Pen went to the old nurse and patted her shoulder as she headed for the stairs.
“There will be a storm,” she said calmly, “a storm nonpareil, with waves as high as towers and sideways rain and sleet. A storm of trouble and wonder, Nany. A storm of trouble and wonder.”
Out of sight of Penance Isle, a carrack chased a swift pinnace westward from the coast of England. On the prow of the carrack, Morgan St. John strained to keep sight of the pinnace while sailors shouted and scurried around him. He’d pursued the spy-priest Jean-Paul from England to Scotland and back again and wasn’t about to give up because of a few clouds.
He glanced over his shoulder at the threatening clouds, then turned his gaze back to his quarry. As he stared at the retreating sails, he began to hear a faint hissing. He looked around, but no one was near him. He resumed his relentless vigil only to glance around again as he heard that same low, rhythmic whispering.
No, the sound seemed to come from somewhere ahead. But that was nonsensical, for there was nothing but sea ahead. Morgan gripped the gunwale and leaned out over the waves, straining as the whispers seemed to call to him. A tremor passed through his body even though he was wrapped in his warmest cloak—a tremor of expectation. What was this feeling of exhilaration? He hadn’t caught the priest yet. He’d almost decided that the past few weeks’ chase had played tricks on his hearing, when he felt the ship slow.
Whirling around, Morgan forgot the mysterious hissing as he raced across the deck toward the stern, his arm clamping his sword to his side. He veered around a coiled rope and swooped down upon the ship’s master. Before he could speak, the master nodded to the boatswain, who began to shout.
“Stand by your lines!”
Morgan turned and gazed past the prow and the rapidly vanishing pinnace on the horizon. He rounded on the master. “You’re not coming about.”
Sunlight disappeared as he spoke, and the sea and wind picked up. The master pointed to the sky behind them.
“That be a black squall, my lord.”
Morgan gazed up at a line of ebony clouds that seemed to fly across the sky, swallowing all light. The leading edge was as straight as a sword blade. Several men scurried past them and climbed up to loosen the topsails.
“You know nothing of the sea, my lord. A storm like that can slap my ship to the bottom of the sea. I know you want to catch that pinnace, but the squall will reach her before we can.” When Morgan remained silent, the master pressed his lips together and continued. “After all, I got a wife to think of, and my men—”
“Mean you that you’re turning this ship around because of a woman?” Morgan’s eyes rounded and widened. “God’s blood, man, that pinnace carries a French spy. If I don’t catch the bastard, he’s going to cause the death of more than just a few English sailors. A pestilence take you, man, that priest serves the Cardinal of Lorraine and the Queen of Scots, and you prate to me of a stupid woman? I’m trying to prevent a war!”
As Morgan finished, the wind hit them, and the boatswain began to yell again.
“Lower and reef the main course. Lower the mizzen course.”
A driving rain mixed with sleet pelted them as the master’s gaze darted from the topsails to the mizzen course and spritsail.
“Boatswain,” the master yelled. “It’s too late. Trim the spritsail.”
A heavy swell pitched the ship, and Morgan gripped the gunwale. His feet began to slide out from under him, and he tasted rain and saltwater. Now the swells blocked out the sky. The ship ascended the next wave, and he caught a glimpse of the horizon before the deck rolled and pitched beneath him. Cursing, he got his feet back beneath him. Across the deck, sailors had uncoiled ropes and strung them down the length of the ship.
An egg dish mid-way between an omelette and a pancake.
… for making the best tansy, you shall take a certain number of eggs, according to the bigness of your frying pan, and break them into a dish, abating ever the white of every third egg; then with a spoon you shall cleanse away the little white chicken knots which stick unto the yolks; then with a little cream beat them exceedingly together; then take of green wheat blades, violet leaves, strawberry leaves, spinach, and succory, of each a like quantity, and a few walnut tree buds; chop and beat all these very well, and then strain out the juice, and mixing it with a little more cream, put it to the eggs, and stir all well together; then put in a few crumbs of bread, fine grated bread, cinnamon, nutmeg and salt, then put some sweet butter into the frying pan, and so soon as it is dissolved or melted, put in the tansy, and fry it brown without burning, and with a dish turn it in the pan as occasion shall serve; then serve it up, having strewed good store of sugar upon it, for to put in sugar before will make it heavy. Some use to put of the herb tansy into it, but the walnut tree buds do give the better taste or relish; and therefore when you please for to use the one, do not use the other.
CHAPTER I
Isle of Penance, 1565
Pen Fairfax leaned out over the battlements of Highcliffe Castle and felt her skin prickle as if she wore a hair shirt next to her flesh. She had no cause to feel so skittish, and yet she’d left her tansy, bread, and ale to climb to the top of the Saint’s Tower and scour the horizon.
Agitation tingled in her bones as she looked out at the sea. League after league of azure met her gaze, topped by a sky without clouds and riffled by a teasing breeze that burned her cheeks crimson. The glare of the sun, the sea’s moisture, and the icy breeze combined to turn the air almost silver. Far below the steep cliffs upon which the tower sat, the surf foamed and crashed into the jagged black giant’s teeth that were all the island could claim as a beach.
Again, the flesh on the backs of her arms prickled. Shading her eyes with one hand, Pen studied the sea. She didn’t turn when Nany Boggs labored up the last stair and puffed her way across the tower roof carrying a cup of ale. Nany’s generous chest heaved under the strain of hauling her bulk up the winding staircase. Teetering to a halt, she steadied her precious cargo and took a long sip. Then she wiped her face with her apron and tucked a strand of silver hair beneath her cap.
Before Nany could scold, Pen lifted a hand and pointed out to sea. “There’s going to be a storm.”
Nany Boggs looked up at the unblemished sky, at the calm sea, at Pen.
“Prithee, how do you know it?”
“We’ll have to get the grain inside, and the hay, and the animals. No threshing this morn.”
Pen avoided her old nurse’s stare. She breathed in the fragrance of crisp sea air. The breeze caught a strand of her hair and played with it as she surveyed the blue plain of water that stretched from the island to the horizon. She shivered abruptly and rubbed her upper arms.
“Aha!”
Pen tossed her head and scowled at Nany, but the nurse only planted a fist on her hip and glared back at her.
“I knew it,” Nany said. “I saw you go still in the hall and bolt like a frightened hedgehog. Left that tansy dish I made specially for you, you did. You’re going all fantastical again, aren’t you? Listening to spirits and fell creatures of magic.”
Pen sighed. “Not spirits and creatures—”
“Hearken you to me, Penelope Grace Fairfax. If you rush about like a demented harpy, your secret will be out and we’re all o’rthrown.”
Pen took a deep breath of cold air, spread her arms wide, and lifted her face to the sun. “God’s patience, Nany, I but warned of a storm.”
“Under a cloudless sky, mistress.”
“You’re always complaining that I abandon sense too often by taking in unfortunates, yet when I give cautious warnings and thought to the protection of those under my care, you complain of that as well.”
Never one to let logic impede her way, Nany drained her cup and then shook a thick finger at Pen. “You’re going all fantastical again.”
Pen gave Nany pained smile and touched the end of her nurse’s red nose with the tip of her finger. Nany swiped at her hand, but Pen danced away from her grasp. She left the embrasure, but paused to glance out at the tranquil water.
As she gazed at the sea, her uneasiness grew. Needles of apprehension pricked her palms. Suddenly she recognized the feeling. She’d had it before, upon the approach of danger—danger of a particular and most menacing sort. If she was right, she would need ward herself as never before. She would have to prepare herself for calamity.
Nany was still muttering. “Not a cloud.”
Setting her jaw, Pen went to the old nurse and patted her shoulder as she headed for the stairs.
“There will be a storm,” she said calmly, “a storm nonpareil, with waves as high as towers and sideways rain and sleet. A storm of trouble and wonder, Nany. A storm of trouble and wonder.”
Out of sight of Penance Isle, a carrack chased a swift pinnace westward from the coast of England. On the prow of the carrack, Morgan St. John strained to keep sight of the pinnace while sailors shouted and scurried around him. He’d pursued the spy-priest Jean-Paul from England to Scotland and back again and wasn’t about to give up because of a few clouds.
He glanced over his shoulder at the threatening clouds, then turned his gaze back to his quarry. As he stared at the retreating sails, he began to hear a faint hissing. He looked around, but no one was near him. He resumed his relentless vigil only to glance around again as he heard that same low, rhythmic whispering.
No, the sound seemed to come from somewhere ahead. But that was nonsensical, for there was nothing but sea ahead. Morgan gripped the gunwale and leaned out over the waves, straining as the whispers seemed to call to him. A tremor passed through his body even though he was wrapped in his warmest cloak—a tremor of expectation. What was this feeling of exhilaration? He hadn’t caught the priest yet. He’d almost decided that the past few weeks’ chase had played tricks on his hearing, when he felt the ship slow.
Whirling around, Morgan forgot the mysterious hissing as he raced across the deck toward the stern, his arm clamping his sword to his side. He veered around a coiled rope and swooped down upon the ship’s master. Before he could speak, the master nodded to the boatswain, who began to shout.
“Stand by your lines!”
Morgan turned and gazed past the prow and the rapidly vanishing pinnace on the horizon. He rounded on the master. “You’re not coming about.”
Sunlight disappeared as he spoke, and the sea and wind picked up. The master pointed to the sky behind them.
“That be a black squall, my lord.”
Morgan gazed up at a line of ebony clouds that seemed to fly across the sky, swallowing all light. The leading edge was as straight as a sword blade. Several men scurried past them and climbed up to loosen the topsails.
“You know nothing of the sea, my lord. A storm like that can slap my ship to the bottom of the sea. I know you want to catch that pinnace, but the squall will reach her before we can.” When Morgan remained silent, the master pressed his lips together and continued. “After all, I got a wife to think of, and my men—”
“Mean you that you’re turning this ship around because of a woman?” Morgan’s eyes rounded and widened. “God’s blood, man, that pinnace carries a French spy. If I don’t catch the bastard, he’s going to cause the death of more than just a few English sailors. A pestilence take you, man, that priest serves the Cardinal of Lorraine and the Queen of Scots, and you prate to me of a stupid woman? I’m trying to prevent a war!”
As Morgan finished, the wind hit them, and the boatswain began to yell again.
“Lower and reef the main course. Lower the mizzen course.”
A driving rain mixed with sleet pelted them as the master’s gaze darted from the topsails to the mizzen course and spritsail.
“Boatswain,” the master yelled. “It’s too late. Trim the spritsail.”
A heavy swell pitched the ship, and Morgan gripped the gunwale. His feet began to slide out from under him, and he tasted rain and saltwater. Now the swells blocked out the sky. The ship ascended the next wave, and he caught a glimpse of the horizon before the deck rolled and pitched beneath him. Cursing, he got his feet back beneath him. Across the deck, sailors had uncoiled ropes and strung them down the length of the ship.
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