The Marriage Coin Boxed Set

By Cara Marsi

“Flowers make the perfume of love stronger.”

A mysterious coin is passed down through the centuries to those deserving of Luck and Love. Five couples in different eras each come into possession of the coin and enter into a marriage-of-convenience. Will the coin lead them to love as well as luck?

Five original novelettes by three award-winning authors and two talented debut authors.

Violet-Any Earl Will Do by Gwendolyn Schuler
Lilly-The Bronze Talisman by Martha Schroeder
Rose-The Power of Hope by Kate Welsh
Poppy-Her Forever Husband by Cara Marsi
Dahlia-A Gypsy’s Flower by Daria Grady

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cara Marsi
• Release date: Jun 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310928567

Cara Marsi

An award-winning and eclectic author, Cara Marsi is published in romantic suspense, paranormal romance, and contemporary romance. She loves a good love story, and believes that everyone deserves a second chance at love. Sexy, sweet, thrilling, or magical, Cara’s stories are first and foremost about the love. Treat yourself today, with a taste of romance. When not traveling or dreaming of traveling, Cara and her husband live on the East Coast in a house ruled by two spoiled cats who compete for attention. Read excerpts of all Cara's books and sign up for her newsletter at www.caramarsi.com

Book preview

THE MARRIAGE COIN

BY

GWENDOLYN SCHULER

MARTHA SCHROEDER

KATE WELSH

CARA MARSI

DARIA GRADY

Flowers make the perfume of love stronger.

A mysterious coin is passed down through the centuries to those deserving of Luck and Love. Five couples in different eras each come into possession of the coin and enter into a marriage-of-convenience. Will the coin lead them to love as well as luck?

THE MARRIAGE COIN

Copyright 2014 Daria Grady, Cara Marsi, Martha Schroeder O' Connor, Gwendolyn Schuler, Kate Welsh All works in this collection remain the sole and separate property of their respective authors.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from Gwendolyn Schuler.

Published by The Painted Lady Press

United States of America

Electronic Edition: April, 2014

This book is a work of fiction and all characters exist solely in the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any references to places, events or locales are used in a fictitious manner.

Any Earl Will Do

Any Earl Will Do

Copyright © 2014 Gwendolyn Schuler

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from Gwendolyn Schuler.

Published by The Painted Lady Press

United States of America

Electronic Edition: April, 2014

This book is a work of fiction and all characters exist solely in the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any references to places, events or locales are used in a fictitious manner.

Any Earl Will Do

Condemned to hang in the morning, Declan Mulholland, the fiery Earl of Leith is resigned to his fate and determined to face his end with all the bravery and dignity befitting his family’s legacy.

Violet Doyle has decided otherwise, risking her life to free the doomed earl hours before his sentence is to be carried out. She has her own sentence to pronounce – marriage.

Weakened and without options, a skeptical Declan agrees to Violet’s offer, not realizing the fearsome danger his decision has put her and her family in. A cruel and ruthless search for the escaped Earl of Leith puts Violet’s and Declan’s lives in the balance between the freedom they can gain and the lives they could lose.

Set against Ireland’s struggles for independence from English rule in the 1790’s, Violet and Declan’s commitments to Ireland and each other are tested as they plant the first fragile seeds that will grow and flower into a love that will bind them to each other as together, they fight for Ireland and their love.

CHAPTER ONE

Ireland 1790’s

He’d be dead on the morrow – hanged for treason. Fatal justice dispensed through England’s king and Ireland’s Parliament. A fitting enough end for an upstart Irish earl bent on fairness for his people. True justice was not to be. His grim smile held irony and regret.

At least now, he knew he would be calm when the time came. The fear of disgracing himself on the scaffold had taken root immediately upon hearing his sentence. But, of late, a certain numbness had taken hold. Offering a prayer of thanks, he rubbed his hands together slowly seeking a bit of warmth to ease the ache in his fingers from the relentless cold of his cell. It mattered little. He wanted it over, supposing he’d come to acceptance.

The knowledge was a comfort. He stopped his pacing and stood in the center of his cell to stare up through the slit of a window into a tiny slice of star-studded sky, the last night sky he would ever see.

So be it.

The cell held its deathly chill, a chill that had permeated through to his bones months ago. Another irony, he thought, sighing as he wrapped his arms around his torso, drawing his tattered shirt tight and lowering himself, cross-legged, to the stone floor. It would make no difference in a few hours. Pulling his legs to his chest, he dropped his head onto his knees, too defeated to avert his head from the vile smell of his own unwashed body. All his work had been for nothing.

Funny, he’d not really considered such an end as this. Through all the planning and actions taken, he’d not thought of getting caught, being tried and found guilty, let alone sentenced to hang. A long shiver ripped through him. His lips curved in a rueful smile. There were regrets for the future he would never experience, no wife, no children. He’d always hoped for those. Perhaps, he should have given his actions more consideration.

A sound roused him. Was he dozing? That’s quite a sorry waste of time. He mumbled in a hoarse whisper just to hear the sound of his voice, no one answered. Yet, he’d heard something deep in the bowels of this God-forsaken place.

He sat, stiff and cold, straining to identify the sounds he was sure he’d heard.

Someone was coming. He rose quickly, back-stepping until he felt the rough, cold stone against his back, exposed through the long rents in his shirt, where the linen had separated months ago. High up, through the slit, there were stars and darkness. It was still night. He rubbed at his gritty eyes, fixing his gaze on the door of his cell as the sounds grew closer.

Were they coming for him early?

He pressed himself against the chill stone wall. No. No. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. His heart hammered in his chest.

He heard low murmuring and movement in the corridor outside his cell. The lock turned and the heavy wooden door swung open.

A giant of a guard with a grizzled beard strode inside holding a flickering candle. Are you Declan Mulholland, Earl of Leith?

The pounding in his chest weakened his knees. I am, the earl answered, noticing the guard was alone and held no writ.

You’ll come with me, sir, ordered the older man in a voice like doom as he waved toward the open cell door.

Declan hesitated, eyeing the dark space beyond the open door, tamping down the urge to run. What was this?

You’d best move, your lordship, lest you prefer to meet the hangman come morning.

The voice was female. Declan squinted toward the doorway.

The woman had thrown back her hood as she marched into the cell. Declan’s breath caught. His heart turned over at the sight of her and he blinked. An apparition, surely, he told himself. She was indeed breathtaking, with curling, bright copper hair that brightened even the dark of the cell.

Move, man, she directed with a jerk of her head, eyeing him as she swept forward. We’ve no time for niceties. Let’s go. The woman snatched his hand while using the other to pull her hood up to cover the top half of her face.

Who are you? Declan obeyed, moving as fast as his stiff legs would allow.

Your savior, she said, slowing to take him under the arm.

She was strong, he realized, as he shuffled on unsteady legs, feeling her propel him quicker toward the opened cell door.

In the corridor Declan stumbled, his mind whirling, searching for purchase, when the bearded guard came up aside and lifted him off the ground. Unprepared to find himself carried like a recalcitrant child, the twists and turns of the prison corridors sped by in a darkened blur too fast for his thoughts to catch up, much less offer any comment. Before he could make sense of any of it, they had reached the outside. Despite being bracketed by the prison walls, Declan breathed deep of the fresh night air and thanked God and all the blessed saints.

This late, the streets were deserted. Declan glanced around and recognized nothing of where he was, somewhere outside the prison obviously. What now?

The carriage is late. The woman dropped his arm before she spun on her heels, looking first one way and then the other.

It’s coming, miss, the guard whispered. Listen, his voice rose as he pointed down the cobbled street. "I hear the wheels, just there.

Declan looked and heard nothing for seconds until, with a low rumble, a closed carriage rolled around the corner into view.

What is this? Declan tugged at her arm.

Shush, she responded with a hard set of her jaw and barely a glance.

His protest died as the coach clattered to a stop beside them. Before a thought could form, the guard had yanked open the carriage door with one hand while holding him upright with the other. Get into the carriage now, sir, he commanded with a nudge none too gentle.

Wait! Declan braced a hand on the edge of the open door and planted his feet. Where are we going? I demand an answer.

In due time, your lordship, in due time. Hurry! The woman urged.

Declan jerked at the heat of her hand against his bare back through the jagged tears in his shirt.

Worry etched her features when he turned to look at her. So close was she, he was immediately ashamed of his own foulness and turned his head away.

She had leaned in to assist and he felt her distress in the urgent pressure of her hand around his arm. But so close, even in the dim light, it was her eyes, bright green and serious, that moved him. His hand closed over the edge of the carriage door but he found himself without strength enough to lift his body. The long months had taken their toll. Stunned, he stood paralyzed.

Help him, Rob, we need to go. Her voice veered to a higher pitch.

Declan drew in a breath and tightened his muscles to no response when he heard a grunt behind him before he felt a purposeful shove send him headlong across the carriage floor. Another hard shove sent his legs and feet in after him.

I’m quite sorry, sir, growled the giant called Rob.

I thank you, good sir, the woman whispered.

Godspeed, Rob’s muffled response came over the slam of the carriage door.

Declan felt the carriage lurch forward with a harsh shudder that had him clutching the seat as he struggled to his knees. He held on, finally getting his feet under him enough to pull himself onto the tufted leather seat. He mumbled either a curse or a prayer under his breath and heard soft laughter in answer. Struggling until he was thankfully upright, he leaned against the backrest and stifled a moan. That would have been most unmanly of him, he thought, as his gaze met the clear- eyed stare of the ethereal woman sitting across from him. She’d pushed back her hood. Her hair had escaped its pins during his rescue and now lay in a tumble of curling auburn across her shoulders. The first purple streaks of dawn through the carriage windows lit her face to a pearly glow. She smiled, whether at him or what she’d accomplished, he couldn’t have said.

He could only drink in the sight of her as the feeling settled numbly that he’d been too weak to pull himself into the carriage. His weakness humbled him. Expression set, Declan turned away from her to fix his gaze on the charcoal shadows of newly sown fields and the darker woods beyond. He’d thought to never see their like again.

An intense weariness threatened to take him. He closed his eyes.

I was told you were dead, she said in a musical lilt. I didn’t believe them.

I’m grateful, he answered without opening his eyes.

Humph, she sputtered. You’ve a rather arrogant way of showing your appreciation.

A vein in his temple throbbed.

Aye, she continued. Here you sit at ease on your backside, as though there’s no need for you to look your liberator in the eye. I’d expected the Earl of Leith to demonstrate better manners.

Declan opened his eyes to meet hers. You’ve a point there, I’m sure. But, you cut it rather close, wouldn’t you say? Or was that your plan? He hardly recognized the keen, sharp edge to his voice.

She stared straight at him. I had no plan. I was told the Earl of Leith needed rescuing. I was not alone in my belief that you were still alive. Folding her gloved hands on her knees, she leaned across the space between them. You’re not as grateful as I’d have thought. I think you’d have rather hanged. She gave a sly smile. I’d be willing to take you back.

Declan’s stomach tightened on a curl of dread. He shook his head.

Well then, she said, we agree on something.

Who are you that you would come to my aid?

Her look suggested he should know the answer. She said nothing.

He frowned, knowing he was missing something important. Where are we going? And, once again, who are you?

I am Violet Doyle of Morrow, your savior. I am taking you home.

Her gaze locked with his, powerful and startling. Declan had a sense of everything in his life had been leading to this moment.

Home, he repeated with no sense of her meaning. Her name meant nothing to him. He pushed away a vague disappointment at that. You should know I have no home.

Aye, you do, sir, with me. She gave him a deliberate, lazy smile overflowing with glib assurance.

Frowning, he struggled to form a response. What are you proposing, Miss Doyle?

I propose nothing, your lordship.

He studied her, striving to understand. I say again to you, I have no home. If you are offering me sanctuary with any mealy-mouthed priests, I decline your offer.

No priests, she shook her head. Though I hadn’t thought of that possibility. As I said, I had no plan. The faintest of smiles touched her lips as she settled back against the seat offering nothing more.

Not much for chatter, are you? he challenged.

No, not much, she answered, glancing away.

Frustrated, uncertain where to steer their conversation, he sat silent as the carriage rumbled on beneath him.

<><><>

We’re nearly there, she declared. I need to stretch my legs and you need a bath. You do stink, you know.

Declan jerked awake. His jaw tightened. He had barely opened one eye and here was Miss Doyle of Morrow giving orders and passing judgment. She was right, of course, but he’d not give her the satisfaction of agreeing. He felt achy and disgruntled. He still did not know who she was.

He’d slept to his dismay, awakening to a stunning sunset with no idea how far they’d traveled. A glance out the carriage window had them bowling fast up a winding drive. Nothing at all looked familiar.

Where are we? he ventured.

At my home.

He pinched his mouth into a tight line. Where else? he countered with undisguised sarcasm.

She opened her mouth, ready to challenge.

Ah yes, he continued, you did say as much earlier but failed to mention where your home is located. Or perhaps l didn’t hear the name? He smiled at her offering a concession of sorts.

She raised a brow and allowed the slightest smile to touch her lips. Feeling better after our nap, are we?

Declan felt his emotions unraveling. He wanted to hurt somebody for all he’d endured. I don’t understand any of this. His voice cracked. I don’t know who you are or where I am or what you want from me. He slumped back against the seat.

She leaned toward him across the seat, her expression deadly serious What I want from you, sir, is simple enough. I want you for my husband. Her smile was direct and devastating.

Words failed him while his heart pounded loud enough to echo in his ears. Marriage. He stared at her. She was serious. His mind rejected the thought. Exchanging one prison for another was not his plan. Yet, to look into Miss Doyle’s eyes, he couldn’t suppress a stirring and the odd possibility of accommodation.

Her smile lingered despite his non-response. He’d managed to keep his expression unreadable though his mind spun in circles. He had offered her nothing, yet a small smile played upon her lips as if the matter was settled. They stepped down from the coach and entered the sprawling manse, Miss Doyle in the lead.

Thoughts of Violet Doyle’s beguiling smile propelled him through the next hours without resistance. For the moment, he’d decided not to think at all. He’d believed he’d be dead by now. He’d given no thought to another sunrise – to another day. Weak as he was, any plan he might have devised to escape would have been futile. He hadn’t the strength. So he gave himself up to the restorative powers of a bath.

Alone, he’d stripped off what remained of his clothing and stepped into the luxury of hot water and a simple ball of soap. In minutes, Declan’s aches subsided as the heat soothed his muscles. He ran the soap across his chest, over his neck and into his filthy hair while he assessed his circumstances.

He had no need of a wife. There was much unfinished business he needed to get back to. But, he would be pragmatic, considering that a marriage might, in the short term, offer advantages, unknown possibilities that would reveal themselves in the days and weeks ahead. Declan sank down beneath the water feeling both clean and renewed. He’d justified his choice. But, deep down, he knew his decision was made the minute he’d laid eyes on Violet Doyle.

He stood up, feeling decidedly stronger and poured a bucket of clean water over his head. Blinking, Declan snatched up a towel, spying the bundle of clean clothes left upon a stool set beneath a well-cut black jacket hanging from a wooden hook, a hand’s reach away. A slight smile of anticipation curved his mouth as he reached for the clothing. Decision made, he shook out the snowy linen shirt and made himself ready to marry the enigmatic Miss Violet Doyle of Morrow, whoever she was.

CHAPTER TWO

Declan’s mouth went dry at the sight of her. Wearing a gown of the palest green silk, Violet Doyle waited inside the manse’s chapel, standing in silhouette by a full window of stained glass. She’d left her hair undone and the gleaming Titian lengths of it fell, curling over her shoulders and down her back.

She stood in profile, held in the myriad shafts of colored light like a saint in God’s good grace. He had the urge to genuflect. As when she’d entered his cell, she quite took his breath.

Miss Doyle turned to look at him. He had the absurd thought that he hoped his appearance pleased her. He knew the jacket was a good fit. He saw her eyes brighten and she smiled and put out her hand. Transfixed, he walked toward her, reaching out, already anticipating the feel of her hand in his.

Wait, Violet, wait! An authoritative voice rang out.

They turned together as an old woman, thick through the body and dressed in black silk bustled forward, clutching something to her breast. Inside the chapel she paused. Declan felt her steady gaze as she eyed him up and down.

This is the earl. It was a statement, not a question.

Declan winced at the raspy sound of her voice, like a rusty hinge.

It is, said Miss Doyle.

He’s a bit puny for my taste. He’s too pale as well. I’ve seen shinier pins in paper than this one appears to be. You’ll need to see that he eats, eh?

His intended gave him a scrutinizing look and laughed, making him decidedly uncomfortable. He pressed his lips together to hold his tongue. These circumstances were unfathomable; he could be back in prison by morning.

He’d made another rash decision.

Declan straightened his shoulders and stared both women down. The old woman’s gaze shifted to Miss Doyle as he felt Miss Doyle slip her hand into his.

He’s not as puny as all that, Maeve. And he’s as sharp as any pins you’re likely to have. He’s been through an ordeal.

The old woman called Maeve shook her head. You’re sure he’s the earl?

I’m sure, she said.

All right, then. Put out your hand, girl.

Miss Doyle kept her hand in his and offered her other one, palm up.

Maeve closed her eyes and whispered words Declan could not decipher. The words could have been Gaelic or even French, though they sounded like neither. Miss Doyle listened intently as though she understood it all. Declan glanced around the chapel feeling frustrated at the unreality of it all.

The incantation went on until Maeve’s voice dropped to a whisper and the whisper became a song. What ritual was this? Interested now, Declan swung his gaze to the old woman as she leaned over her unclenched hand and blew twice on a