Magical Weddings by Leigh Michaels, Aileen Harkwood, Eve Devon, Raine English, Tamara Ferguson, Lynda Haviland, Jody A. Kessler, Jane Lark, Bess McBride, L. L. Muir, Jennifer Gilby Roberts, Jan Romes, Heather Thurmeier, Elsa Winckler, Sarah Wynde Page B
Authors: Leigh Michaels, Aileen Harkwood, Eve Devon, Raine English, Tamara Ferguson, Lynda Haviland, Jody A. Kessler, Jane Lark, Bess McBride, L. L. Muir, Jennifer Gilby Roberts, Jan Romes, Heather Thurmeier, Elsa Winckler, Sarah Wynde
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have been finalists in the RITA contest sponsored by Romance Writers of America, and more than 35 million copies of her books are in print in 25 languages and more than 120 countries. Her books have been published by Harlequin Books, Sourcebooks, Montlake Romance, Writers Digest Books, and Arcadia Publishing. Her website is www.leighmichaels.com .
The Last Wedding at Drayhome
Aileen Harkwood
Copyright © 2015 by:
Aileen Harkwood
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief
quotes used in reviews.
This book was built at IndieWrites.com . Visit us on Facebook .
Chapter 1
When he became a warlock, no one warned Terry Paxton he would also be made into a flunky. Ax, as he was known to friends, stood looking up at the great pile of Oregon timber and stone that was Drayhome, frustrated by…no…
hating
what he’d been sent here to do.
I refuse. I won’t do it. They want it done, they need to send someone else.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t anyone else in Breens Mist to do it. Fortunately, however, he had time. He had other duties, other reasons for coming here, a wedding for which he was expected to help prepare. He could stall, wait until the ceremony was over and at the last second give Colleen the news.
Explosions and calamities to follow
.
He was not looking forward to it.
At the moment, his main task was finding the mistress caretaker of Drayhome. The house had a bad habit of hiding Colleen from him. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it hated him, but the house loathed everyone equally. Or was it because she hated intrusions of any sort that the estate took it upon itself to demonstrate its distaste for him and others who might impinge upon her privacy? Colleen might not see it this way, but in theory Drayhome belonged to everyone. Every witch and warlock in Breens, that was. No humans allowed.
And that, lay at the heart of what prompted his current mission.
Humans.
They irritated him to no end; though, he had to admit, no more so than the powers that be among his own kind who were forever telling him what to do. It hadn’t always been so, but witchkind in Breens were currently at the mercy of an emergency conclave. It grated that none currently at the top considered his gift to be valuable to the community and had relegated him to his current position based on his more mundane talents for sheer brute force. With the wedding coming up, this physicality translated to an even lower status as the sole provider of manual labor at Drayhome.
Three solid stories built more than a century ago, the house had every imposing architectural feature going for it but crenulated battlements, which would definitely have stood out in rural Oregon. North and south wings flanked a façade combining outsized lumberjack rusticity with the elegance of an Irish manor house. Bright green moss furred the lower walls of the bay windows where they canted inward toward the building in perpetual shade. More of the stuff clung to the roof shingles on the north tower, and the undersides of most second and third story transoms. He’d been lax in his duties. This should have been taken care of before it got out of hand.
He climbed the steps to the double entry doors, hewn from a single slab of old growth Douglas fir six feet wide that would give today’s tree huggers a heart attack, but at the time Drayhome had been erected, would have been viewed as a source of pride. They also contained deep
place magic
, the mysterious force that governed his kind in Breens Mist. Place magic gave each witch and warlock their power and unique gifts, while at the same time it controlled their fate absolutely. Not even the conclave could overrule place magic, any more than a volcanologist could plug a volcano, or a ship’s captain hold back a tsunami. He personally
The Last Wedding at Drayhome
Aileen Harkwood
Copyright © 2015 by:
Aileen Harkwood
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief
quotes used in reviews.
This book was built at IndieWrites.com . Visit us on Facebook .
Chapter 1
When he became a warlock, no one warned Terry Paxton he would also be made into a flunky. Ax, as he was known to friends, stood looking up at the great pile of Oregon timber and stone that was Drayhome, frustrated by…no…
hating
what he’d been sent here to do.
I refuse. I won’t do it. They want it done, they need to send someone else.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t anyone else in Breens Mist to do it. Fortunately, however, he had time. He had other duties, other reasons for coming here, a wedding for which he was expected to help prepare. He could stall, wait until the ceremony was over and at the last second give Colleen the news.
Explosions and calamities to follow
.
He was not looking forward to it.
At the moment, his main task was finding the mistress caretaker of Drayhome. The house had a bad habit of hiding Colleen from him. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it hated him, but the house loathed everyone equally. Or was it because she hated intrusions of any sort that the estate took it upon itself to demonstrate its distaste for him and others who might impinge upon her privacy? Colleen might not see it this way, but in theory Drayhome belonged to everyone. Every witch and warlock in Breens, that was. No humans allowed.
And that, lay at the heart of what prompted his current mission.
Humans.
They irritated him to no end; though, he had to admit, no more so than the powers that be among his own kind who were forever telling him what to do. It hadn’t always been so, but witchkind in Breens were currently at the mercy of an emergency conclave. It grated that none currently at the top considered his gift to be valuable to the community and had relegated him to his current position based on his more mundane talents for sheer brute force. With the wedding coming up, this physicality translated to an even lower status as the sole provider of manual labor at Drayhome.
Three solid stories built more than a century ago, the house had every imposing architectural feature going for it but crenulated battlements, which would definitely have stood out in rural Oregon. North and south wings flanked a façade combining outsized lumberjack rusticity with the elegance of an Irish manor house. Bright green moss furred the lower walls of the bay windows where they canted inward toward the building in perpetual shade. More of the stuff clung to the roof shingles on the north tower, and the undersides of most second and third story transoms. He’d been lax in his duties. This should have been taken care of before it got out of hand.
He climbed the steps to the double entry doors, hewn from a single slab of old growth Douglas fir six feet wide that would give today’s tree huggers a heart attack, but at the time Drayhome had been erected, would have been viewed as a source of pride. They also contained deep
place magic
, the mysterious force that governed his kind in Breens Mist. Place magic gave each witch and warlock their power and unique gifts, while at the same time it controlled their fate absolutely. Not even the conclave could overrule place magic, any more than a volcanologist could plug a volcano, or a ship’s captain hold back a tsunami. He personally
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