The Penwyth Bride (The Witch's Daughter Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

below us, foaming creamy whorls onto the rock, and the clean wind cleared my senses. Out in the middle of the cove, a spire of rock pointed skyward like an uplifted finger.
    I glanced over at Roger, who had drawn up the horses at my first exclamation. He, too, gazed out at the sea with pleasure; I thought I almost saw a smile pull at the corners of those sealed lips. He sighed and drank in the wind as I did.
    “How beautiful,” I said, meaning it. “It almost makes it worth putting up with the ugly mines scarring the moors to see this.”
    “I know. It takes one by surprise, every time. Even I. This little cove is difficult to get to except by boat, but the water’s as calm as a bath.”
    “Oh, have you swum here then?” I asked, emboldened by what I would term conversation, but for Roger must be a near-confidence.
    I immediately regretted the question. The pleasure ran away from his face, the shutter slammed in his eyes, and his hands tightened on the reins, causing the horses to toss their heads and champ.
    “The Hermitage is over that rise,” he said coldly, and we started down the path.
    I made myself small in the seat, wondering why I never failed to say the wrong thing.
    ###
    At the fork, the horses swung to the left, carrying us down a path leading to a cluster of shuddering larches. The scent of the sea followed us into the wood, blending with the moist decay of leaves. I breathed deep, relishing the smell. After a week upon the road I was already sick for the feel of loam under my nails, and the mineral scent of growing plants.
    Without warning the trees opened up into an unexpectedly wide expanse of emerald lawn, neatly scythed and rolling toward a manor house of good proportion.
    “The Hermitage,” Roger said, and clucked encouragement at the horses as if the sight of the house signaled the end of an unpleasant task.
    I studied the Hermitage with mingled trepidation and excitement. Graceful colonnades fronted the portico in a style of fifty years gone, and the two wings on either side of the main house were of more recent vintage, as befit a gentry family of improving circumstance.
    Roger guided the horses to the back of the house and into a cobbled courtyard hidden from the elegant front. A modern stable of enormous proportion lined one end of the courtyard, and my heart lifted when I saw the edge of a garden begin at the other.
    From the stable end of the courtyard, a woman on horseback caught sight of us, and urged her mount forward. It was a great brute of a chestnut, dancing impatiently under her with a ripple of muscle she effortlessly controlled. A veritable Diana, I thought. She wore a weather-stained riding habit of good quality, and russet hair straggled out from under a man’s tricorn hat. As she approached, almond-shaped eyes flicked me up and down appraisingly, and without volition I clutched my birdcage more tightly.
    “And so this is Damon’s . . . our visitor,” she murmured, drawing her mount beside the stilled waggon. The chestnut cast a shadow over me. “You are come late with her, Roger. Mama had been expecting her two hours ago.”
    “ She was late,” Roger said shortly. “Move your animal away, Susannah. You know better than to crowd my horses, especially Avallen.” He jerked his thumb toward his magnificent spotted mare.
    So this was Susannah Penwyth, the daughter of the family, someone whom Sarah Eames thought might extend me the hand of friendship. I looked up with a smile hovering around my lips, and there I let it die.
    Susannah stared down at me coldly from the back of her horse. A receding chin and too-small mouth rendered her features rather ferrety, and though the freckles of a true redhead spoiled her complexion, her brown eyes were large and beautiful. Her expression exhibited a barely concealed hostility.
    “I’m not in the habit of asking twice, cousin ,” Roger said.
    Susannah’s mouth pursed smaller in an unconscious stubbornness. Something flickered in