The Enchanted One (A Witches' Ball Novel)

By Jerrica Knight-Catania

Sacha Morgan has always known she was different, and at the advanced age of five-and-twenty, she’s come to accept that she is not meant for a normal life, and certainly not meant for love. She has her coven sisters and a peaceful little cottage by the sea, and though she longs for the loved ones she’s lost, she has found contentment in the quiet life she leads.

In his search for meaning in his life, Benedict Bryant found it in an unlikely place: within a society of witch hunters. But he carries a secret that, if found out, could likely get him killed.
He risks it all when he crosses paths with a headstrong and captivating young witch.

Can love truly conquer all, or will they fall victim to Sacha’s dark past?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jerrica Knight-Catania
• Release date: Oct 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215523308

Jerrica Knight-Catania

Jerrica Knight-Catania knew from an early age that she was destined for romance. She would spend hours as a young girl sitting in a chair by an open window, listening to the rain, and dreaming of the day Prince Charming would burst in and declare his undying love for her. But it wasn't until she was 28-years-old, tired of her life in the theater, that she turned her focus toward writing Regency Romance novels. All her dreaming paid off, and she now gets to relive those romantic scenes she'd dreamt up as a child as she commits them to paper. She lives in sunny Palm Beach with her real life Prince Charming, their Princess-in-training and their aristocat, Dr. Snuggle.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

MERCY & THE DUKE

Barbados, 1779

On the island of Barbados, there sat a large plantation house, big and white, with sleek black shutters and a double stone staircase that led to a massive porch, which circled all the way around the entire house. The porch alone, Mercy often noted, could fit at least fifty of the little hovels in which her family lived. Although, she was reluctant to call this existence living. Dying was more apt, and she wouldn’t mind if it happened to her sooner than later.

Mercy stood on that big porch, her eyes straining to see the workers in the sugar cane fields. Her people. Her friends. Part of her ached to be out there with them in the burning sun, doing the back-breaking work they’d been brought here to do two generations ago.

But another part of her was glad she wasn’t. Not because life in the house was so comfortable, but because it wasn’t. What she suffered inside was far worse than what she’d endured outside, and she wouldn’t wish it on anyone, least of all the people she loved.

Mercy…

The voice from behind made her entire body go stiff and cold. The way he said her name, slowly, and in a sing-song tone that sent a chill down her spine every time. She’d been working in the big house for months now, and his voice still had the power to inflict terror in her heart.

Yes, master, Mercy choked out as his hands came to her shoulders, big, warm, and with just enough pressure to remind her what he was capable of.

We have visitors coming today, he said, his lips too close to her ear. Mercy resisted the urge to flinch at the tickling sensation. It would please him too much. Friends of mine, he went on. I do think they will like you. Such a good little servant you are.

Servants are paid, she wanted to point out. That much she had learned since moving to the big house. She was no servant. But saying as much would earn her a backhanded slap…or worse.

Most of them have never enjoyed a woman of color. His hands trailed down her arms now, stroking her dark skin that he claimed to be so fond of. I hate to share, but it would be inhospitable of me not to.

A bead of sweat dripped from Mercy’s hair, down her forehead, and into her eye. It burned, but she didn’t blink, didn’t move. She barely even breathed. She only stood there, trying desperately to control her temper, praying for something to make him stop.

A sharp hiss sounded in her ear, and the next moment, his hands were gone. She turned to find the earl wringing his hands, his face contorted in pain.

Fear gripped at Mercy, a different fear than before. There was the fear she felt at other people’s hands, and then the fear she felt when she contemplated her own strength. Her mother had warned her one last time before she’d died:

Don’t let anyone know about your gifts. Keep them hidden. Terrible things happen to people like us when common folk figure us out.

Mercy had done all she could to keep her promise.

She’d heard tales of drownings and burnings; stories passed down for generations. They were enough to keep Mercy from even testing what she was capable of. But occasionally, when her temper got the better of her, she made things happen. Like now.

Master? she asked as he stared at his left hand, stretching it and then balling it into a fist, then stretching it again.

He looked at her, his ice-blue eyes cold and terrifying. She saw those eyes in her nightmares. I’m fine, he bit out. Back to work. My friends arrive this afternoon.

The friends arrived as promised, a collection of aristocrats from England, there for an extended stay in the islands, guests of the Earl of Bruton. Among them, a duke, two viscounts and a baron. Not that those terms meant much to Mercy. To her, they were simply men who had enough money and power to think that gave them leave to treat her and her people however they wanted. And usually they wanted to treat them with cruelty. To them, the slaves were ranked even lower than wild dogs. Barely human, and certainly not worthy of anything more than what they got: hard labor, beatings, scraps for food, and infested living quarters.

Mercy had been chosen from the fields months ago, the master having noticed her during a surveillance walk with his land steward. He’d noted that her breasts didn’t hang like the others. That her skin was silky and not ashen. And her face…

She’d been given a room in the servants’ quarters inside the house. Simple, but clean. A bed with white linens, a washstand and basin, and a mirror. A mirror she refused to look in. A mirror she had broken accidentally without even touching it after he’d come to her room the first time. If it was her beauty that led to this fate, she didn’t want to be reminded of it.

Now, clothed in the white dress he’d had made for her, Mercy entered the parlor with the coffee and rum cake they’d requested. The five men laughed and talked as if she wasn’t there, but Mercy was acutely aware of their eyes on her as she moved about the room. She couldn’t distinguish the rankings among them – they all wore fine clothing and the same sort of boots. They were all of a similar age – forties or fifties, perhaps. There was only one thing she was certain of: that they’d all have a turn with her eventually. More than once, most likely.

She attempted to steady her hand as she served the last cup of coffee, but the cup rattled loudly in its saucer anyway, drawing all eyes to her. Mercy looked to her master. His jaw was tight with disapproval, eyes like daggers, warning her. She bowed her head to the gentleman who took the saucer from her, and when she looked up, she met with a pair of warm, brown eyes. They reminded her of the melted chocolate she’d served to the earl’s niece once. An innocent young lady, none the wiser to her uncle’s unsavory behavior with his slaves.

Mercy stayed there, trapped in his gaze for a long moment, before someone spoke again, breaking the spell. If she’d been flustered before, Mercy could hardly maintain her composure now. Of course, her very life depended on remaining composed, so she took three long, deep breaths before she plated and served the cake.

While the men ate, she stood to the side, waiting. She knew what was to come, just not when. It could be as soon as the cake was finished; it could be late tonight after she’d already fallen asleep. She was at the mercy of the earl’s whims, and now those of his friends, too.

It wasn’t until later that afternoon, as she helped to wring out the laundry, that she was summoned to one of the visitor’s chambers. Her heart no longer raced wildly like it used to when she would make this journey. There was no mystery in what would happen, and truly, if one of them meant to kill her, she would welcome it gladly.

Of course, such thoughts brought on an unwelcome wave of guilt. If she was gone, who would they pluck from the fields to replace her? The thought of one of her sisters or cousins suffering the same fate was unfathomable. She would sacrifice herself over and over to protect them.

She stood before the door of the chambers the duke was occupying, forced the nausea away, and then knocked lightly.

Enter, came a rich baritone from the other side, and Mercy pushed through into the room.

Waiting for her there was the man with the chocolate brown eyes. She’d been deceived by looks before – after all, the earl was quite handsome – and yet, relief flooded through her at the sight of him. Something about this man told her he wasn’t like the others. There was kindness in him. She could read it on his face, feel it in the aura that surrounded him.

Hello, Mercy, he said, not moving from his spot in the middle of the room.

Your Grace, she replied, inclining her head.

Please, call me Harry.

She nodded but didn’t speak.

Come. He waved her toward the sitting area.

Mercy swallowed, acidic bile burning her throat as it reversed its course.

When she didn’t move, he moved closer, and Mercy braced herself for whatever was to come. It could be a slap for not moving quickly enough, or a forceful shove toward where he wanted her to go. So, when he stopped just short of her and gently took her hand in his, Mercy’s breath stopped coming all together. No one had ever shown her any sort of gentleness.

You needn’t be afraid, the duke said, bending slightly to try and meet her eyes. I’m not going to hurt you.

Mercy had never put her trust in a white man – they’d never given her reason to – but the duke was different. Harry.

They spent that afternoon on the little sofa in the duke’s chambers engaging in nothing more than rigorous conversation. Harry wanted to know everything there was to know about her. Mercy, of course, kept some things to herself. And when she was done, the duke told her about himself. He had a wife and a son, nearly three-years-old, in England. His parents were gone, but he was very close to his younger brother. He had resented his role as a duke for many years, having come to the title too young, but over the years had come to see the advantages it gave him. He didn’t take those for granted.

A flood of sunlight filled the room suddenly, heralding the sun’s descent. How long had she been here? Fear welled up inside of her as she imagined the earl waiting for her, furious.

What is it? Harry asked, following her gaze to the window.

I have to go, Mercy replied. The master will not like that I’ve been gone so long.

She stood. The duke didn’t stop her, but she could feel his eyes on her as she stumbled over the furniture to get to the door.

Before she could reach the handle, Harry’s hand grabbed hers and pulled her back. The force caused her to slam into him, but he caught her easily, his arms wrapping around her in a tender embrace.

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