Once Upon a Pillow Read online

  Once Upon a Pillow

  by

  Christina Dodd and Connie Brockway

  Published by Amber House Books

  Smashwords Edition

  This Edition Copyright 2014 by Christina Dodd and Connie Brockway

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover design by Control Freak Productions

  Cover Photo Copyright by Romance Novel Covers

  Published by Amber House Books, LLC

  http://www.amberhousebooks.com

  For more information, contact [email protected]

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other readers. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you so much for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Table of Contents

  Once Upon a Pillow Blurb

  Praise for Once Upon a Pillow

  Dear Reader

  First Knight by Connie Brockway

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Kidnapped by Christina Dodd

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Her Captive by Connie Brockway

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Last Night by Christina Dodd

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author Christina Dodd

  About the Author Connie Brockway

  Sneak Peek at Just the Way You Are

  Sneak Peek at No Place for a Dame

  Other Amber House Romances

  Once Upon a Pillow

  One bewitching bed…four captivating couples…two enthralling authors…

  Once Upon a Pillow tells the story of the magnificent Masterson bed and the passionate couples who share it through the ages. This sparkling quartet of tales by two of historical romances brightest stars—Christina Dodd and Connie Brockway—is set during four of England’s most enthralling eras and proves that true love—and sizzling desire—are truly timeless.

  First Knight by Connie Brockway

  In medieval England, a battle weary knight returns from the crusades searching for peace and finds instead the feisty—and bloodthirsty—wife-by-proxy he’d forgotten he even had.

  Kidnapped by Christina Dodd

  A poverty-stricken lord concocts the perfect plan to win a fortune by abducting and marrying an heiress, but finds his own heart stolen when he snatches the wrong girl.

  Her Captive by Connie Brockway

  During George’s III reign, a highwayman’s beautiful sister will do anything to protect her brother from the bold kingsman set on his trail, even if it means chaining the fierce and furious man to her bed.

  Last Night by Christina Dodd

  The man in her house is a stranger to her, a danger to her, and the one man she should never love…and can’t resist.

  Praise for Once Upon a Pillow

  “Four delightfully humorous and delectably sexy romances that exemplify Brockway and Dodd’s witty writing and talent for creating compelling characters.”—Booklist

  “Witty, sensual, delightful and pure fun! A perfect anthology that allows Ms. Brockway and Ms. Dodd to showcase their talents for storytelling. Each tale is unique, lovingly crafted and peopled with such likable characters that I wished for more of their stories and so will you. This is a shining example of what a team of talented authors can do with an idea—and what an idea it is!”—Romantic Times

  Dear Reader,

  Even though our husbands have never met and live almost two thousand miles apart, we were amazed to discover that they are constantly asking the same question: “What can you two possibly have to say to each other and for so long?” (Before the advent of e-mail and cell phones, they used to say this while waving around the latest phone bill.)

  We always answer, “We’re talking about writing. Yeah, uh…writing.”

  Because neither one of us is a liar, merely a tale-spinner, you hold in your hands the proof that we really do talk about writing. In a fit of creativity, we conceived the idea of writing Once Upon a Pillow—a series of romances centered on a bed constructed in medieval times and treasured by generation after generation of the Masterson family until it is finally retired (ha!) into a modern-day museum.

  So it is our pleasure to present you with four luscious tales in one wonderful story. We had a fabulous time writing Once Upon a Pillow together and we hope you have just as much fun reading it!

  Love,

  Connie Brockway and Christina Dodd

  First Knight

  by

  Connie Brockway

  In which the Bed is made…

  Prologue

  In the beginning…

  Marking the border of Cornwall and Devon, a small, inconsequential river runs out of the moors. Like a royal courier on a vital mission, the river Cabot gains impetus as it goes, ultimately flying past the tiny village of Trecombe before plummeting over the steep cliffs into the sea. Of late, the banks of the river have yielded an unforeseen boon in the form of a particularly fine clay which has, in turn, given rise to Trecombe’s new cottage industry.

  Most people would concede it is a long overdue reward for the faithful Trecombians who have long lived in this grand, often austere, but always beautiful land. Indeed, there are families who claim they are descendants of the town’s founding father, a knight who, on his mandatory quest to find the Holy Grail, fell asleep beside the river and was awakened by a tall, green-eyed maiden who bade him stay…along with a number of interesting things which in no way affect this story.

  Needless to say, stay he did and whether the tale is true or not, the fact remains that even today Trecombe boasts a greater number of green-eyed residents per capita than any other place in England. It was one of the few things that German bombing runs and severe economic depression failed to destroy. In fact, few of the neat, picturesque cottages here are over a hundred years old and the town, pretty though it is, would seem to have little to recommend itself to an archeologist or social historian.

  However, a small way out of Trecombe, as if distancing themselves from the town’s pedestrian concerns, stand two ancient buildings. Roosting atop the cliffs is St. Albion’s chapel, complacent at having escaped the dissolution that claimed its adjacent
abbey. The other structure, a short distance inland, is Masterson Manor, once the home of the town’s first—and as far as anyone knows, only crusader, Sir Nicholas.

  From behind the manor’s stalwart walls, Sir Nicholas had directed the fortification of Trecombe against brigands. In its high-ceilinged rooms he had sired eight sons, all of whom had lived to adulthood. From its graceful mullioned windows he had watched his castle being built atop the cliff walls. And while that castle, emblem of his might and power, has been reduced to a few ruins, the manor still stands, noble and handsome in its antiquity.

  In its current incarnation, Masterson Manor is a private museum. Regrettably, the house isn’t the stuff from which successful private museums are made. It is small as house museums go, having only twenty rooms, and set in a wildly beautiful, untamed landscape, not the manicured Disney gardens day-trippers with kiddies prefer. And while the assortment of Masterson heirlooms the current curator has so lovingly and painstakingly collected is impressive, there is only one item unique to Masterson Manor, one item which draws the specialist and historian along the twisted lanes and remote byways that lead to Trecombe: The Masterson Bed.

  But even this gem has not been able to generate enough money to keep the doors open, the taxes paid, and the current owners in treacle pudding. And so, the Masterson Museum is closing. Indeed, it has already been sold. And this is the last tour of the last day…

  Laurel Whitney, the museum’s curator, house sitter, and social historian, closed her eyes briefly as the group she was leading murmured appreciatively over the contents of the dining room. She would have few opportunities left in which to soak up the atmosphere of the place, an atmosphere she was in great part responsible for creating. For it had been Laurel had found the Chippendale dining table that exactly fit an earlier Masterson lady’s description of the one her family had owned. Just as Laurel had painstakingly hunted down the complete silver service placed on that table, located and hung the exact pattern William Morris paper she’d seen gracing these walls in nineteenth-century daguerreotypes and, through sheer perseverance, had bullied a local family into relinquishing the original Tabriz carpet that lay on the floor.

  She adored Masterson Manor.

  It was the stuff of dreams for a doctoral candidate in Social History because manor houses of this vintage were much harder to come by than castles. In fact, she couldn’t remember being happier than since she’d come here… Well, in point of fact, she could. But that hadn’t been real happiness; it had been sex. This was happiness with staying power: The happiness that comes only with the Acquisition of Knowledge.

  In the library she’d found a sixteenth-century diary and a pair of black candlesticks that a good cleaning had revealed to be a fourteenth-century silver candelabra. In the bedroom, she’d discovered a secret drawer containing a fan written over in a tiny delicate scrawl with the names of Regency gentleman. And in a rosewood chest she’d found artifacts from the long gone abbey, including a ninth-century cross and a gold paten.

  She’d identified at least eighteen clothing eras from examples pulled from the attic’s mothball-cushioned trunks and had begun to sift through a cache of ledgers she’d found in the basement when the current owners had announced that they had sold the manor to a private party who intended to make it his summer home and that all the contents were being auctioned off.

  Laurel had been aghast. Was aghast. She’d spent the month since the announcement frantically trying to complete a rough transcription of the ledgers she’d found before the new owner arrived. If only there had been more time. But there wasn’t. There wouldn’t be.

  She glanced briefly out the window to the west where the sun made a spectacular orchid and magenta display behind the tumbled castle walls. An hour at most before the tour ended and then what did the future hold for her? Would she go back to America? Move to London? Maybe Glastonbury?

  The thought caused her stomach to twist in knots. She belonged here. Knowing she drank from the same gilt and rose-patterned Wedgewood teacups as Lady Meredith Masterson gave her a sense of continuity. When she took the footpath to the castle ruins and stared out across the sea as the wind rushed up from the breakers and whipped her dark hair, she felt an exhilaration no place on earth had ever engendered in her. And sometimes late at night, when the house was closed and the owners gone, and she’d wrapped herself in a cashmere shawl and was toasting her toes at the hearth, she could almost hear the sounds of those earlier Mastersons moving about on upper floors, quiet of foot, deliberate in movement. She would miss those discreet ghosts.

  Unconsciously she straightened. She couldn’t think of the future. She wouldn’t. It was too hard. Just as the past had been too hard to contemplate when she’d first arrived here under the excuse of researching her doctoral thesis: “The Medieval Bed, A Study of Matrimonial and Social Obligation.” It was too hard, just like the presence of that…that handyman was too hard to think about.

  If it had been her decision, Max Ashton wouldn’t have spent ten minutes in this house. But it wasn’t her decision. The new owners had hired him to “make the place halfway habitable” before their arrival. Habitable. They’d probably tear up the ancient flagstones in the kitchen and install no-wax tiles. She quelled the urge to shudder and fixed a smile on her face as she turned back to the tour group.

  “If no one has any other questions for me regarding the dining room, we’ll proceed upstairs,” she said.

  The little group, a trio of American women including one lady’s teenage son and a honeymooning couple, shook their heads in the negative as Laurel ushered them into the hall. She stopped at the foot of the staircase and gestured around.

  “As I pointed out earlier, Masterson Manor is built in the traditional hall style, with family area distinctly separate from public rooms. But over the centuries, the house has been renovated and altered. The barrel vaulting overhead, however, contains the original three load-bearing beams, each cut from a single piece of wood and weighing over half a ton.”

  The young husband, John, looked suitably impressed while the bride, Meghan, appeared anxious. Tenderly, he pulled her against his side. “It’s stood nine hundred years, pet. I don’t think she’s about to come down now.”

  His bride laughed at herself and shook her head and Laurel felt a pang of envy for them. Once she’d felt like Meghan… “If you’ll follow me?” she said briskly, moving up the staircase.

  She pointed out the Chinese vases in the niches at the top of the stairs, pristine and gleaming red and cobalt. She was not the only one who took pride in her work here. The housekeeper, Grace, could easily have let these small things go untended but didn’t, unlike the butler, Kenneth, who should have retired years ago but couldn’t because of an unfortunate predilection for the racetrack. As Laurel started down the gallery, she heard the sound of pounding behind the door at the very end. Blast. He was still working.

  “When are we going to see this bed you’ve all been talking about?” the teenage boy, Brian, suddenly asked.

  “Shh,” his mother, Mrs. Plante, said.

  Laurel turned, smiling. “It’s all right. Everyone wants to see the Masterson bed. I was hoping the handyman would finish before we got to it, but time is flying and I should hate for you to be rushed through. It is the highlight of the tour.”

  And you wouldn’t mind seeing him again, either, would you, Laurel? she asked herself derisively.

  The group assured her they did indeed want to see the bed, settling the matter. She led them to the master bedchamber and stopped in front of the door. “Very well. Here she is, live for your entertainment and edification, the one, the only…” She paused dramatically, her eyes twinkling. She always loved the look on the faces of the tourists when they got their first glimpse of The Bed. “The Masterson Bed.”

  She pushed open the door and stood back. Inside, Max Ashton stood up, wiping dusty hands on his jeans. Without a glance at him, Laurel ushered her group into the room. The onetime solar was a large
chamber, the walls covered with Masterson family portraits, furnished in authentic Regency era artifacts, a painted screen and cherry tallboy, a carved bombe chest and black japaned inlaid desk, twin settees covered in cream and green print, drapes of heavy green damask. Still, all the sumptuous furnishings paled before the overpowering presence of the room’s centerpiece: the Masterson bed.

  Eight feet tall by eight feet wide by eight feet in length, the ancient walnut beauty presided over the room with the contented, slightly disreputable air of one who has weathered any number of pretenders to its crown as the oldest surviving bed in England. The deeply carved posts rising from the corners were as thick as her waist—indeed, one legend had it that they were actually dryads, transformed and hewn while in their wooden state—while the rails and canopy frame glowed darkly, polished by thousands of hands over eight hundred years. Sumptuous, detailed, and faintly exotic, the carvings covering it had provoked centuries of debate over the bed’s origins.

  Whatever its beginnings, the sheer weight of the thing had obviously been instrumental in its continued existence. Simply put, no one could get it out of the bedroom. Centuries had pretty much petrified the wood into something closer resembling stone than fiber. It certainly weighed as much as stone. Laurel could attest. She and Kenneth and Grace had once tried to shove it to the back wall in an attempt to get to the floorboards beneath. They had not been successful.