Welcome to The Hummingbird Heart chapter one reveal + giveaway!
If you found your way from USA Today's Happy Ever After Blog, you've already seen the beautiful cover by Nathalia Suellen. If you haven't, here's a sneak peek:
Hop over to the USA Today HEA post to see the cover in its entirety, along with a prologue that leads into the chapter I'm revealing today.
For anyone unfamiliar with my new-adult titles, The Hummingbird Heart is book two in my Haunted Hearts Legacy series -- a four book historical Gothic saga following the generations of one family as, haunted by both literal and figurative ghosts, they search for self-acceptance, love, and happiness. Recommended for ages 16+.
Here's a look at book one (click image to enlarge):
For more info on The Architect of Song, follow this link. And to give you an idea of book two's story-line, here's The Hummingbird Heart's back cover:
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| Hits shelves August 15, 2017 |
Now, onto the chapter reveal (be sure to read the prologue first on USA HEA)! And don't forget to enter the rafflecopter provided at the end of this post for some awesome prizes! The giveaway is INTL, so everyone has a shot. :)
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The Hummingbird Heart
Part I
Not all those who wander are lost.
~J.R.R. Tolkien
Chapter One
Diurnal assignments for Friday, April 15,
1904:
1. Oil the carousel’s cranking rods and ring
gear; 2. Complete design for new ride; 3. Present Lord Desmond with a written
request for funds; 4. Buy a birthday gift for Emilia in Worthington.
Julian Thornton ceased writing on
the assignment page in his log and resituated the pocket-sized leather-bound book
in his lap. Leaning his head against the tree trunk behind him, he flipped to
the back pages reserved for his inner musings. Fountain pen to paper, he opened
his mind, giving voice to the ink.
Emilia is sixteen today. My sister—who still
occupies my memories as a fine-boned, pink babe swaddled in blankets—is a lady.
And I have ne’er felt more inept in our relations. She has sprouted wings and
eaten her way out of her cocoon. Now she flies above me, leaving me a mere
shadow on the ground. I am an echo fluttering beneath, always a few steps
behind or ahead—never in sync.
I can no longer talk to her. She’s too high
to hear me. The only secrets we share are those bequeathed us through our
lineage; we were both born of a ghost story, after all. And though most people
would consider that impossible, to me, the chance of death crossing over into
life is more fathomable than the quirks of the fairer sex.
After nineteen years of living alongside ladies,
I find that there is an inexplicable pull between the antipoles—male and
female—a negative and positive charge that when left uncontained leads to an
explosive combustion … an electron-spin so effulgent it renders anyone in its
path blinded by the resulting holocaust.
“Hmm … so that’s how you plan to
defeat us, aye?”
The same instant
the familiar voice broke into Julian’s concentration, two tell-tale drizzles of
red syrup oozed down from the branches overhead, landing soundly upon his log’s
opened pages. The ink melted into sticky purple-black puddles.
Damn. Inhaling the magnolia-spiced
morning air, Julian managed to keep the oath beneath his breath. He’d always
been taught one shouldn’t curse in the presence of a lady … he supposed it
applied even if said lady was in a tree, cozied up in the branches like a
narcoleptic monkey.
He drew out his
handkerchief and snapped it open to dab the sickly-sweet pools of raspberry ice
from his journal’s page, hoping to salvage the folded parchment beneath,
whereupon he had drawn the designs for his newest amusement ride. “Defeat whom, Willow?” He set his book aside
along with his pen, regretting the invitation to talk the moment he’d offered
it.
“Your mortal
enemy, of course. Women. You plan on
incinerating us with your electron-spin.”
Julian’s back
tensed at her successive snort and his ears grew hot. After eleven years of
growing up alongside one another, Willow knew how he abhorred anyone reading over
his shoulder. He flashed a glare up at her.
“Say, where are
your spectacles?” she asked.
Two more sticky
droplets fell, this time landing on a snowy magnolia, one of thousands upon the
shrubs that surrounded his oak tree like castle walls. Over the past year,
Julian had always found solace here in the mornings, but for the last few weeks
his placid kingdom had been stormed by this most formidable foe—quiet as a
lizard and clandestine as a cat.
“I’ve misplaced them,”
he grumbled in reference to his missing spectacles, turning his head away. He
only required them for reading, but often wore them to help people
differentiate between himself and his twin brother. “They’ve been absent for
days. Hadn’t you noticed?” Hearing a slurp from the leafy canopy which shaded
him from the sun, he waited for his intruder’s reply.
“Naturalmente. I knew something was
different. Assumed your head was shrinking or some such. Back to the subject …
best stop your wool gathering. At this rate, you’ll never get your finance
request ready in time. You have to pitch it this morning so you may leave for
Worthington before noon. Emilia will never forgive you if you’re not back in
time for her birthday dinner tonight.”
Julian folded his
stained handkerchief and tucked it in his vest pocket. “And pray tell, how am I
to make progress with you blotting out my notes like the wrath of God on
judgment day, Willomena?”
A distinctive plop
parted the ankle-high grass beside him where Willow tossed down her raspberry
ice from above. Julian winced; he’d not meant to spout off her full name. Although
it always snapped her to attention, it also sometimes had the strangest impact
on her mood—a saddening effect. As beautiful as the name was, he had no idea
why it would sadden her. Just one of Willow’s many quirks.
Gnats started to
gather on the ice’s slushy remains beside him. Julian grinned. Eighteen years
old, yet still the woman wouldn’t breakfast on a kidney omelet or seed biscuit
like the rest of the cultured world. And damned if he didn’t find it downright
charming.
A rustle of fabric
stirred overhead. Even without looking up, he could see her in his mind’s eye—a
dizzying sequence of grace and agility despite her inelegant pose.
She would be
hanging upside down now, her skirts an inverted tumble of plain cotton that
mushroomed her upper torso and head. Her chemise would come untucked
enough to reveal the prismatic hummingbird tattoo at the small of her lower
back—the mysterious marking which she’d never explained—and her lacy pantalets
would serve as the only pretense of modesty or whimsy she’d allow herself.
A gust from her
movements raked his plaited hair so the shoulder length braid struggled to
wrestle free of its leather tie. Still no need to look.
The branches creaked.
She was swinging. Back and forth, gaining momentum until her hands could
find purchase on a branch sturdy enough to support her slight weight. She
grunted, and a sympathetic vibration shuddered in his throat.
He rubbed his
fresh-shaved chin. Eyes closed, he pictured her knees releasing, her body a
fluid sweep of olive-gold Italian skin as her bare feet drifted to the ground
with all the poise of apple blossoms riding a breezy downdraft.
Just as he
envisioned her dropping, he felt her upright next to him, radiating warmth from
the thrill of descent.
He looked up to
meet her gaze and she frowned, the excess of her skirts folded over one arm.
Her dark auburn hair draped to her waist, still holding the ravaged crimp of
braids not fully brushed out. Tremors skipped through Julian’s fingers—a
repressed desire to tame the tousled mess and return it to some semblance of
order.
“I know”—he
strummed his pen against his leg—“you don’t like me using your full name. I will
try to respect that. But you must respect my wishes, as well. No more reading
over my shoulder.”
She bowed to him
then—an acrobat acknowledging her captive audience—and the little toe of her
right foot wriggled within inches of the collapsed mound of her raspberry ice.
He applauded and
at last she smiled. He responded with a grin of his own. An effortless response,
partly due to the jagged, crimson stain streaked across her lips and the slight
gap between her central incisors—the one endearing flaw in her straight white
teeth. But the ease with which she made him smile was more than her smudged
appearance.
Julian couldn’t keep
company with any other woman—save his sister, mother, or Aunt Enya—without
breaking into an arctic sweat and losing all function of his tongue. Willomena, however, was different.
Whatever a lady might do in any given situation, he could rest assured she
would do the complete opposite. Which put her, in his mind, in the league of a
man. And men he understood.
Willow trounced
onto her posterior without any pretense of straightening her skirt. “You’ve
been careless today.” Her slender ankles poked out from the billows of dusty fabric
and crossed casually. “You missed a cranking gear. And you failed to oil the
center beam.”
Considering her
statement, he noted the oily splotches at her wrists and on her gathered cuffs.
“I was in a hurry. Desmond and his wife are to leave sometime this afternoon. Thank
you for double-checking the rides.”
She shrugged. “I
had nothing better to do. You might wish to talk to your brother, though. One
of the unicorns is in need of a tail replacement before the guests arrive in
June. A squirrel must have nested in it over the winter. I would tell Nick
myself, but Lord only knows where he’s about this morning.”
“A nest, you say?”
Julian wasn’t surprised. It was the biggest drawback to using real horse hair
on the carousel. He scooted over to share the trunk’s support with Willow. She
propped her back close enough that their shoulders brushed. His nostrils detected
raspberries mingled with her unique fragrance—as exotic and intoxicating as
jasmine and black opium—and a sudden and sharp pang crimped his gut. His mouth watered.
Hunger, he assured himself. He’d eaten very little breakfast. “So, my brother’s
missing again?” Julian noted the quiver
of her black coppery-tipped lashes upon his query.
“I had such a
magnificent prank planned for today, what with the maids cleaning the townhouse
for Emilia’s celebration. Now I’ve no one to help me execute it.” Her frown
transformed to a grin of wicked delight that brought to mind a deranged fairy.
“It has to do with a box of snails and old Miss Abbot’s obsession with clean
ceilings. It’s a simple enough ruse. I merely need someone tall to boost me up
on their shoulders so the snails can suction in place. You could help me…”
Julian had his journal
on his lap, the parchment with his design and monetary calculations spread out
over it, fountain pen in hand. “One might argue that by now we’ve outgrown such
pranks. Besides, I’ve already too much to do if I’m to make that trip today.”
“Well, perhaps I
might go along with you to Worthington. My lady’s maid is always willing to
take a jaunt into town. I could help you choose something for Emilia.”
Julian tilted his
head in thought. “I’ve decided to buy her some of that French stationary she
likes to write her poetry upon. Besides, I thought you were chained to the
Manor for your banishment from finishing school last month. I don’t think
you’re allowed such an outing at this juncture.”
“I suppose.” She
grimaced, making the dimple in her chin more prominent. “I had to run away. I
missed you and Emilia and Nick, and all our jollies. Liverpool gave me the
collywobbles.”
“The collywobbles?
A rather childish locution from a woman so sophisticated she was caught smoking
in the school’s library on four separate occasions.”
“I wasn’t actually
smoking.”
Julian smirked.
“So you say.”
“Truly. I don’t
even know how to smoke a cheroot. I was pretending
to inhale. Besides, it never worked. Headmistress Gribbles kept insisting there
was a refined lady hidden within me. She was determined to redeem my thwarted
soul.”
“Ah. So to punish
her for her unwavering faith, you snuck into her chamber wearing a man's top hat
and vest, face painted like a clown, and hid within her window seat to give her
a righteous scare before you
absconded and found your way back to us.”
Willow snorted—a
most unladylike sound, yet somehow dainty when matched with her delicate
profile. “You’re forgetting; I had on my corset and bloomers. Least I was
half-trying to be refined. I’m sure she still wonders to this day how I fit
into such a tiny space.”
“Yes. Perhaps I
should send her an article on hyperlaxity.” With a sidelong glance, Julian
studied Willow’s fine-boned double-jointed frame. That she could bend and knot
her body in such pagan poses offered no riddle for a scientific mind. Yet still
he’d lain awake more nights than he could count, mystified to physical
discomfort by the thought of her lengthy, entangled limbs. “Just six more months.”
Julian wiped his brow with a sleeve cuff, decidedly too warm in the unseasonal
humidity. “Half a year and you could have graduated.”
“I would never
have survived even another week of fan-flapping and dance lessons. I don’t know
why Uncle Owen suddenly opted to send me there in the first place. He had no
right to expect me to go on his command. It’s not as if he’s my fath—” her
voice cracked on the last word.
Julian nudged her,
sensing a pain she would never allow anyone to share. “He only wants what’s
best for you. You’re blessed to have him. And Aunt Enya.”
Silent, she
stretched her arms behind her head, the fabric molding around her nubile curves
as her eyes drifted closed. She’d managed to skip out of the townhouse without
a corset again. Julian’s mother encouraged such independence, but Aunt Enya was
a different story. When Willow had fallen into Enya and Uncle Owen’s keep years
ago, Enya regressed to the strict sartorial mode of ‘loose stays mean loose
morals’. It was an argument his mother and aunt often broached but would never
quell.
Noticing Willow’s sensual shape beneath the fabric, Julian swallowed against a swelling
throat. He glanced at the magnolia shrubs for a distraction. “Of a truth,
Willow.” He resituated his collar in an effort to steady his scratchy voice.
“Where would you be had they not taken you in?”
“Always brimming
with hypothetical questions aren’t you,il mio piccolo cavolo?”
Julian smirked.
She’d called him her ‘little cabbage’ since they first met—mostly to annoy him.
Over time, it had evolved to a term of endearment. Though English had become
Willow’s primary language, she still used her native tongue for affect. In
fact, she’d taught Julian to decipher and speak Italian so fluently they could
have secret conversations around other people. It was the one advantage he had
over his brother, Nick. Something she shared only with Julian, and he relished
it.
Keeping her eyes
shut, Willow returned his smile. “Without my
guardians, I would be … well … most probably off with the circus having an
adventure sublime.” She smacked her tinted lips for effect. “But I am indebted
to their generosity, and I do hold great affection for them. No doubt they
saved me from myself, if nothing else.”
Opening her eyes,
she dropped her arms to pick up a twig. Mesmerized, she held it straight while
a lady bug trailed the bumps of wood. In gentle puffs, she blew on the bug,
coaxing it to open its wings and flitter away. Her dark eyebrows crimped as she
watched its flight, and Julian knew she envied the insect’s ability to fly.
He’d spoken to her
of the orphanage at times, yet still he knew so little. Anytime he broached why
she’d ended up there after the circus, in hopes to understand why her parents chose
to abandon her, she grew quiet and pensive, claiming to have no memory of it.
She’d never even shown an interest in finding her family again. So everyone
avoided the subject of her past to keep her smiling in the present. Still, he
assumed a part of her missed her earliest childhood. Being raised as a
performer—her mother a trapeze aerialist and contortionist, her father a prop
man—a common life must seem very trite.
He suspected
that’s the reason she left the orphanage yet was happy enough to call the manor
home. There was nothing common about a life lived where shops, cafés, billiard
halls, ballrooms, and lodging were all at hand within one milieu.
Just as his father had
hoped, their home had become a holiday resort as well-renowned as Bath. There
was a sense of grandeur and liberation in every vine-covered arbor, hot spring, and grassy
slope. He supposed no one could feel ordinary in such a majestic
setting.
Silently, he
regarded his companion—so still in her repose. Her lower lip was so full and plump,
the upper one seemed thin in comparison. The resulting imbalance formed a
perpetual pout. Such a suggestive, sullen frown would appeal to any man, if
said man could see past her hoydenish behavior long enough to notice.
Shaking his head,
Julian returned to scribbling equations, jaw clamped tight. He’d lied to her
earlier, about being too busy to aid in her prank. He always bowed out when she
asked him to partake in anything daring or frolicsome.
In all honesty,
he’d often imagined what it would be like to tag along as her accomplice. To
stand on the brink of her contagious laughter—to feel it rush through his
veins. But he feared he could never measure up to his brother for such
excursions. Nick had been her consort in pranks and piracy since the day she’d
arrived at the Manor of Diversions. They’d run wild like apes from the time she
was eight and he was nine—notorious to even the guests for their devilish
capers.
Resigned to their
differences, Julian touched the nib of his pen to his tongue and tasted ink as
he ciphered some figures in his head. With a nod, he jotted down the proper
sum. He noticed the absence of warmth on his right side before realizing Willow
had stood.
She shook grass
from her skirt. “I suppose I’ll go visit Leander at the stables since I’m to be
imprisoned on the grounds. Perchance he’ll let me help carriage train your
father’s blue roan mare.”
“I doubt Leander’s
at the stables today. This is his honeymoon week, lest you forget.”
As Uncle Owen and
Aunt Enya’s only child, and being only a few months older than Willow, Leander
was the closest thing to a brother Willow had. She’d been a part of his wedding
three days earlier. But Willow tended to misplace her short-term memory anytime
it conflicted with her spontaneity.
Twisting her crimped
hair into a knot at her nape and securing it with the ladybug’s twig, she
scowled. “Honeymoon, bah. What a ridiculous term. At least in Italy, we give it
sparkle.” She spread out her arms like a butterfly waiting to launch. “Luna di miele.”
Her words didn’t
register. Julian was too busy admiring the graceful turn of her slim, bared
neck. With her nape exposed, she looked elegant and refined. Though he’d not
dare admit it for fear she’d never wear her hair that way again.
“And on that
note”—Willow coiled a loose lock around her finger—“whomever said it had to
last more than one night? Consummate the marriage then be done with it.
Honeymoon’s over. What more is there left to do after that?”
Forcing his
attention back to his calculations, Julian mumbled absently while biting on the
tip of his pen. “Consummate it again and again … until you learn every precept
and secret of one another’s bodies. Until your differences become a natural and
necessary extension of your likenesses. Least, that’s what I intend to do.” A
fountain of heat spread through his earlobes upon realization that he’d spoken
aloud.
Their gazes met.
Willow’s eyes sliced through him. The bright, greenish-yellow irises were two
toned like stained glass, and with her olive skin deepened to a blush as it was,
they stood out even more—appearing to ignite as if the sun streamed from behind
them.
“Forgive me,” he
stammered. “I-I forget sometimes that you’re a gir—”
“Oh, that’s a fine
thing.” She cut him off with a mock snarl. “Kick a lady when she’s down and out
without her partner in crime, why don’t you?” Shifting her attention to the
magnolia shrubs, she lifted on tiptoe to see over the clusters of snowy white
flowers. “I do hope you have that request ready for Desmond. He’s on his way
over. He seems to be in a hurry … or a fury. He’s beating his fists on his
thighs. Have you done something to ruffle him?”
“Not that I could
even conceive. I bow to his every whim.” Julian scrambled to finish the final equations,
smearing ink with the side of his palm. No sooner had he rose than Lord Desmond
flapped his way into the shrubs, oblivious to the opening on the other side of
the tree. By the time he’d made a hole big enough to climb through, leaves,
twigs, and magnolias clung to his clothes and top hat as if he’d sprouted into
full bloom.
“You…” Standing a
full head shorter, he pointed a gloved finger at Julian and several petals
skittered on his sleeve with the breeze. The other hand was bared of any
covering and showcased a legion of age spots. “After all these years. I never
thought you were capable of such … such treachery.”
Willow stepped
back to allow the wrinkled, red-faced investor fully within their circle. Her
attention alternated between Julian and Desmond.
“Pardon, my lord?”
Julian looked down on the little man covered in flowers, feeling a bit like
Goliath about to be pummeled by a wood nymph. “To what do you refer?”
“Consider this
your reckoning, two-faced knave!”
Willow yelped as
Lord Desmond reached up to spank Julian’s cheek with the back of his empty
glove then tossed the leather to the ground. A hot, stinging swell raced from
the point of impact to Julian’s neck and ears, ripening to a full-fledged
blush. The ride designs fluttered from his fingers to his feet, covering the investor’s
glove.
“Julian …?”
Willow’s fingertip trailed what must have been a flaring red splotch on his
face, but he brushed her aside. Stunned, he faced the old man, every muscle
tensed, poised to react but loathe to lose the funding he so desperately
needed. He couldn’t afford to be rash. Lord Desmond had been the park’s only
investor over the past five years.
Willow ran her
palm between Julian’s shoulder blades. He relaxed at her touch, bit by bit. The
contempt and betrayal on the old man’s face was genuine enough. He obviously
believed he’d been wronged in some way.
“I demand
satisfaction. A pistol duel at sunset.” Lord Desmond’s voice cracked, as if
standing face to face with Julian’s chest rattled him. “To think, you with your
hand in my pocket, all the while shoving the other one up my wife’s skirts!”
From the depths of his jacket, he withdrew a pair of spectacles and flung them
over Julian’s head into the tree’s canopy. Leaves rattled on the wired frame’s
descent until it landed squarely within the melted raspberry puddle next to
Willow’s foot.
Willow gasped and
stared blankly up at Julian, an odd expression on her face, as if she were the
one without spectacles … as if he were blurred and she couldn’t quite bring him
into focus.
Julian struggled
with Lord Desmond’s accusation. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the investor’s
lovely wife in all of her voluptuous glory. She was the same age as Julian and
his brother. Nick had often joked about Lady Mina and her decrepit viscount;
everyone knew she’d been forced by her parents to marry the old codger for his
wealth. Remembering such conversations, a sickening theory took form.
Surely his brother
hadn’t…
Julian loosened
the cravat at his neck. “Sir, there’s been some misunderstanding, to be sure.”
“My bride admitted
everything when I found your spectacles tucked within her décolleté. She’s been
infatuated by your bookishness since our arrival. Wasn’t enough for you to bed
her … now you’re calling her a liar?” The old man’s face flared to the color of
a cranberry. He looked at Willow then back at Julian. “Oh, I see. You don’t
wish to discourage your newest conquest.” He appraised Willow’s bared feet,
rumpled dress, and smeared lips. “Though it looks like you’ve already managed
to deflower this one, here out in the open under God’s own eye.”
The rush of heat
in Julian’s head drained into his chest, hot as flame for the attack on his
friend’s honor. Her bottom lip had disappeared between her teeth, a sure sign
she wrestled a retort of her own. Or worse, she was debating whether or not to physically
accost the old man.
Before Julian
could stop her, she poked her finger into Lord Desmond’s shirt. “Now see here,
you pigeon-chested little molligrub!”
Easing her behind
him, Julian swept up the old man’s glove along with his design and held them
out to the investor, jaw clenched. “You will apologize to the lady.”
“Lady?” His
rival’s face crinkled like a dried grape. “I’ve ne’er heard a lady speak with such rancor. Nor have I
seen one so proud of her unshod feet. Let her apologize.”
Still holding out the design, Julian kept his body planted firmly in front of Willow. “You brought her into this. The apology rests on your shoulders. Then you and I will have a seat beside the tree and get to the bottom of these accusations rationally. We yet have business to discuss.”
“Our business is heretofore terminated.” Lord Desmond jerked away the paper along with his glove and cast them again to the grass. “The only thing left twixt us is a duel. Sunset. In the courtyard.” Running a malevolent gaze over Julian, he dusted petals and twigs from his clothes. “Best find yourself a second. Make certain it’s someone with a constitution for blood, as I’ve no intention of missing my mark.” Then he retreated through the jagged opening he’d made, leaving Julian sweltering beneath Willow’s bewildered stare and the mid-morning sun.
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They are the light against the darkness. 
The walls of Ninurta keep its citizens safe.