Captain Stuart Monroe returns home from the Revolutionary War to find Thornton Hall threatened by a peacetime foe: debt. He knows the location of a treasure amassed to pay for the capture of Benedict Arnold that would restore his manor to its former glory. The catch, it's hidden in the graveyard, and coveted by old enemies.
Hettie Fairfax inherited the Sight from her Cherokee ancestors, and her otherworldly visitors warn her, and Stuart, away from the buried treasure. Half-dead from fever, she delivers a message: the treasure is cursed. But will he believe a girl half out of her mind with illness? Even when a very real enemy attempts to poison her? Stuart soon wants to marry Hettie, but she fears her "odd ways" will blemish his reputation. The spirits have their own agenda, however, and the battle against darkness tests everything the couple holds dear, including their love for each other.
“Turn back. A man watches you.”
Again, the warning carried from the unseen source.
What man, and how did she know Stuart was observed? He could barely discern anything.
“Who are you? Show yourself.” Uneasiness lent indignation to his demand.
Through the haze, he spotted the figure of a young female dressed all in white. A death shroud?
Pray God, it wasn’t. His gut knotted, and he stood staring at her.
Ethereal, ghostly, she seemed to float toward him, but must have walked.
A cold shiver stood the hair on the back of his neck on end. Was she flesh and blood, or spirit? Had she crossed the divide between the two worlds?
He scarcely dared to breathe.
Still, he stood rooted to the trail. And not only from fright. Fascination. Despite fear of being haunted, an aura about her drew him.
He waited, every muscle taut, poised betwixt heaven and earth, the scent of crumbling leaves in his nose. At least, that was real.
Whiteness swirling around her, she neared.
Then he spotted it, an ivory coverlet draped over her head and around her slender shoulders pinched together in front with pale fingers.
The blanket reached to her ankles and trailed behind along the ground. Mist muted the flowers stitched into the cloth. This accounted for him not spotting her sooner. She’d blended in with the vapor.
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Married to her high school sweetheart, Beth Trissel lives on a farm in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia surrounded by her children, grandbabies, and assorted animals. An avid gardener, her love of herbs and heirloom plants figures into her work. The rich history of Virginia, the Native Americans, and the people who journeyed here from far beyond her borders are at the heart of her inspiration. She’s especially drawn to colonial America and the drama of the American Revolution. In addition to historical romance, she also writes time travel, paranormal romance, YA fantasy, and nonfiction.
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