Jill Barnett - Wonderful

What happened? he asked her.

I hit you in the head with a pot.

He was not surprised. He heard the worried whispers of his men. The squires and many of his men-at-arms formed a ring around them.

Lady Clio was still searching his face for something while she chewed on her lower lip.

His gaze locked with hers. Was I good?

She frowned, clearly startled. Good at what?

Whatever it was that made you fling a pot at me.

He heard his men laugh. Yet she did not. She looked angry. She had hit him with a pot, and there was no contrition in her expression, nor in her manner.

He stared long and hard at her lips, for they were the only color on her face. They were stained red and looked sweet and inviting and as if she had reddened them to torture him.

The Novels of Jill Barnett

The Novels of Jill Barnett
Now Available Or Coming Soon In Ebook
From Bell Bridge Books:

JUST A KISS AWAY

BEWITCHING

DREAMING

IMAGINE

CARRIED AWAY

WONDERFUL

WILD

WICKED

THE HEART'S HAVEN

SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY

THE DAYS OF SUMMER

Visit Jill at www.jillbarnett.com
and www.bellbridgebooks.com

About Jill Barnett

Jill Barnett sold her first book to Simon and Schuster in 1988 and has gone on to write 19 novels and short stories. There are over 7 million of her books in print, and her work has been published worldwide in 21 languages, audio and large print editions, and has earned her a place on such national bestseller lists as the New York Times, USA Today, Washington Post, Publishers Weekly, Barnes and Noble and Waldenbooks who presented Jill with the National Waldenbook Award. She lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest.

Wonderful

By

Jill Barnett

Bell Bridge Books

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright 1997 by Jill Barnett

2010 Electronic publication - Bell Bridge Books
eISBN: 978-1-935661-66-5

Originally published 1997 by Pocket Books, mass market edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers. You can contact us at the address above or at BelleBooks@BelleBooks.com

Visit us at www.bellbridgebooks.com

Cover Design: Debra Dixon

Interior Design: Hank Smith

Artwork Credits:

Figure/florals - Jaguarwoman Designs
Alphabet for author name (manipulated) -@ Jaguarwoman Designs
Texture - Irinaqqq | Dreamstime.com
Hair - Debra Dixon from Laura Lane - Goldie Lox

:Mu:01:

Song of the Harper

I kiss her

With lips open

And I am drunk

Without a beer.

from the chapel of
King Inyotef, ancient Egypt

THE LEGEND LOST

A long, long time ago, before there was heraldry or chivalry, before there were knights and castles, crusades and jousts, there was an ancient brew, a special ale with strange and potent powers.

It was called heather ale.

The creators of the golden ale were wild pagan warriors who lived in the hills of Scotland and painted their naked bodies blue. These Pict warriors drank heather ale before they went to war and became so ferocious in battle that even Julius Caesar claimed he could not subdue them.

The recipe for the ale was a treasured secret, the powerful ingredients rumored to be everything from forest herbs to moonflowers, from magic crystals to a certain bloodred heather.

Some claimed the magic was not in the recipe, but in the brewersthe dwarves who lived in those wild hills. They said the power of the ale was linked to the mind of the brewer, to his thoughts or his dreams or his wishes.

No one knew how or why the ale had powers.

But it did.

The secret recipe died along with the ancient Picts. But for years and years afterward, many sought to duplicate the brew. Some dug deep into the hills looking for secret coffers that had once belonged to the tattooed dwarves. Others brewed strange green weeds in big black pots and chanted words no one could understand.

Alewives dropped sparkling crystal rocks into their brewing pots. They poured potions and elixirs into their vats of beer and pretended it was the legendary brew. Many were executed for poisoning an innocent ale-drinker.

For over eight hundred years no one had ever discovered the recipe. Skeptics said it was all only a wild tale. To them the ale never existed.

But many believed. Some even claimed to have tasted the magic ale on dark nights during a new moon when the little people were said to appearbrownies and fairies, even ghoulies and ghosts. The same kind of magical nights when cider turned into fine wine, when straw could be spun into gold, and when hearts were stolen. Those magical nights when love could be, oh, so wonderful.

Chapter 1

Camrose Castle,

1269

Lady Clios father claimed her pale silvery hair was her greatest asset or perhaps his greatest asset, considering he had the duty to see her wed to some poor unsuspecting fool.

To look at Lady Clio of Camrose, one would think she was the image of what every man, knight or king, peasant or merchant, wanted in a wifesomeone who was meek in spirit: to make a man feel braver and stronger. A wife who was docile enough to allow a man to be the king of his castle. A woman whose head was as light inside as outside, to assure him that he would be more intelligent and therefore superior.

According to the Church, the color of a womans hair bespoke her true nature. The men empowered by the Church based this theory on the conclusion that hair grew directly from the brain.

Fiery hair in a woman warned men of a womans devilish spirit. Since woodland covered two thirds of the English isle, hair the color of tree trunks was considered common and showed the woman had little imagination.

Hair the color of midnight, which everyone knew was the witching hour, crowned the heads of women all too clever and devious. Twas even said by those same men of the Church that Eve herself had hair as black as a womans sin.

But a woman with light hair was perfect.

Unfortunately, those men of the Church did not know Clio. Like a field of golden buttercups that hides a prickly hedgehog, Lady Clios hair hid her true nature.

She was headstrong and determined, traits admired in men but scoffed at in women. Her father swore she had been born with that stubbornness.

Before Clios birth, Clios mother had lost five babes. With Clio, as before, her mothers birthing pains had come before her time. So Clio came into the world two months early. When the priest tried to perform Last Rites over her puny blue body, she kicked his hand and, according to her father, opened her mouth and almost wailed the castle walls down.

To the utter amazement of everyone, Clio lived.

From the first moment of her life she had fought against the impossible. Lady Clio was born fighting to control her own destiny.

Of course, in her mind she wasnt stubborn. Persistent was what she was. Had she given up at birth where would she be?