Midnight Sins

By Kristina Cook

From Nationally bestselling author Kristina Cook (writing as Kristi Astor) comes this erotic historical/paranormal novella set in Edwardian-era England.

MADELINE: Imprisoned in a loveless marriage, Lady Briarton yearns for escape with a passionate stranger, but her unearthly lover is not who he claims to be. Can she risk her heart--and her very life--with the beautiful Scot who sets her blood and her body on fire, even as he claims the impossible?

SIMON: Forced to roam the earth for more than a century following the Battle of Culloden, Simon McKenzie is a hunter, and the sad, lonely woman walking the grounds of Hartsdale Castle on the Eve of Samhain is his prey...until she lays claim to his heart and shows him that there can be light in his life once more.

She only needs to invite him in...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristina Cook
• Release date: Sep 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005931544

Kristina Cook

Kristina Cook is the author of more than a dozen books for adults and teens, ranging from historical and NASCAR romance to paranormal and contemporary young adult fiction (also writing as Kristi Astor and Kristi Cook). Since the publication of her first novel in 2004, her books (with Kensington/Zebra Books, Harlequin Books, and Simon & Schuster) have hit national bestseller lists, landed on bookseller association lists, and won awards, including the National Reader's Choice Award.When she’s not writing a book or reading a book, she’s probably online somewhere, talking about a book. Kristina lives in New York City with her husband and two daughters, but in the summer months escapes with them to sunny Miami, where she lounges on the beach and teaches creative writing classes at Miami-Dade College.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Lake District, England, 1914

By Madeline’s estimation, the best part of traveling by motorcar was that it rendered conversation impossible—or nearly so, at least. She glanced over at Francis sitting beside her on the black tufted seat, the bracing autumn chill reddening his cheeks. The wind whipped the ginger hair that peeked out from his tweed motoring cap.

As if sensing her gaze, he turned toward her, his pale blue eyes narrowing a fraction. Don’t scowl, he shouted over the motorcar’s engine. It isn’t at all attractive.

She flicked her gaze back to the passing scenery, a blur of burnished reds and golds as they motored through the Cumberland countryside. The Lake District was beautiful this time of year, though that was little consolation as she faced the prospect of spending the next several days in her husband’s company.

For the most part, she and Francis led separate lives. She preferred their country estate in Herefordshire, while he preferred London and all its trappings. Francis was far too busy spending the fortune she’d brought to the marriage to care what anyone thought about their arrangement, least of all Madeline. But the truth was, Madeline was satisfied.

She appreciated the quiet solitude of the countryside, enjoyed the nearby village of Aylestone Hill and its people. After all, she’d grown up in Plymouth, the youngest of six. Her father had been a wealthy merchant, and their household had been a loud, raucous one. Though it had not been of her own choosing, marrying Francis and taking the title of Lady Briarton had decided advantages to the life she’d left behind, and she would not allow herself to regret it.

Hers was a leisurely life, one that left plenty of time for the things Madeline loved most—reading, drawing, playing her cello. Briarton Hall was peaceful and pleasant, and even more so whilst her husband remained in town.

Seldom was she called on to join Francis socially, but Lord and Lady Hartsdale’s annual autumn house party was one such exception. Lord Hartsdale had been Francis’s late father’s closest friend, and when the elder Briarton passed away, Hartsdale had taken Francis under his wing.

The Hartsdales’ party was always a pleasant enough affair, five nights rather than the usual two-night Saturday to Monday that was so popular with their peers. They were charming hosts with a spectacular home—a castle, no less. And then there were the owls, a variety of species populating the grounds. Madeline particularly loved the owls.

And so, each year she forced a smile and put on a show of marital bliss. Unfortunately, that meant that she and Francis were forced to share a room—a bed, even. And as he did every year, Francis would use it as an opportunity to try to conceive an heir.

A shiver worked its way down her spine at the thought. It wasn’t that she didn’t want children—she did, in theory. But the very idea of subjecting a poor, innocent child to Francis’s cruelty…well, she could hardly bear the thought.

Indeed, there was no denying that her husband was a cruel, hard man. She’d suspected as much when she’d married him, though he hid it well beneath a veneer of good breeding and false charm.

When sober, he was merely unpleasant. But when drunk—and he was often drunk—he became coarse and mean and sometimes violent. No woman was safe from Francis in one of his drunken rages. Everyone, from the elderly housekeeper down to the youngest, most timid housemaid, took care in such circumstances. On more than one occasion, Madeline herself had received a blackened eye or bruised skin at his hands. Why, he’d sprained her wrist just a week after their wedding, a result of twisting her arm behind her back as he’d punished her for some inconsequential infraction.

I’d mentioned one of his mistresses, she remembered suddenly, one who had dared to pull him aside and whisper in his ear at their wedding reception. How foolish she’d been then. How naive. She’d had no idea that the vows they’d spoken so solemnly before the vicar had been meaningless, nothing but empty words as far as Francis was concerned.

We’re almost there, Francis shouted, drawing Madeline from her dour thoughts. Try and look pleasant, if it’s not too much trouble.

Madeline clenched her hands into fists as they turned off the main road and began the uphill climb toward the Hartsdales’ estate. She held her breath as the magnificent house came into view, simply stunning this time of year. The late morning sun cast a glow against the gray stones, bathing them in soft yellow light. The grounds surrounding the house were a patchwork quilt of color—green lawn edged by the gold and ruby leaves of oak, birch, and larch. The heavily wooded fells rising behind the manicured grounds were velvety blankets of red, colored by the lush heather, bracken, and bilberry brush. Madeline sucked in her breath in admiration as the car motored around a still, dark lake that mirrored the kaleidoscope of color. Hartsdale Castle always managed to awe her with its savage grace and beauty.

She would make the best of the visit, she resolved, straightening her spine with determination. What choice had she, after all?

Ten minutes later, they’d pulled up under the port cochere and stood idly by as a team of servants rushed out to retrieve their luggage and escort them inside the massive, marble-floored front hall.

Welcome to Hartsdale Castle, trilled the housekeeper, her steel-gray hair pulled into a neat bun beneath her lace cap. I’m afraid Lady Hartsdale has been briefly detained, but if you’ll let me take your coats, you may wait in the front parlor. Edgar will be happy to pour you a drink, sir.

Madeline handed over her coat to the housekeeper as Francis continued on to the parlor, no doubt eager for the offered drink.

Francis, darling! pealed a feminine voice. I’m so glad you’ve come.

Ah, Lydia, came Francis’ booming voice. As lovely as a rose, as always. Have you met my wife?

Somewhat perplexed by the familiar nature of the greeting, Madeline stepped into the parlor just in time to see the unfamiliar woman’s smile disappear from her face, wiped entirely clean as her dark eyes widened with obvious surprise.

Surprise that Francis had a wife, or that he’d brought her to the Hartsdales’ party? Madeline wasn’t sure.

Whoever she was, she was lovely. Of course she was. All of Francis’s paramours were. There was no doubt in Madeline’s mind that this woman was one of her husband’s lovers.

The woman shook her head. I’m not…no, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, she stammered. Her hands were visibly trembling as she held them out to Madeline. I’m Mrs. Lydia Dawes, from Surrey. Oliver and I spent the summer in town, you see, and were lucky enough to make Lord Briarton’s acquaintance.

How lovely, Madeline murmured. So this was the infamous Mrs. Dawes. Madeline had heard of her—everyone had. When she’d married old Mr. Dawes five, maybe six years ago, the gossip had traveled all the way out to Hereford’s best parlors. Rumor had it that she had been a prostitute, working in an upscale brothel that served London’s most esteemed gentlemen until Dawes, not a day under eighty, had plucked her out and married her. His grown children had vehemently opposed the marriage, calling the new Mrs. Dawes a gold-digger, among other unfavorable names.