A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) by Mary Campisi

pinks, yellows, and reds. Something struck Alexander as odd, and it took him a moment to realize the flowers were lying on the ground or dangling mid-air from half-cut stalks, as though they’d been hacked away without a care for beauty or preservation.
    The look of horror on Bernard and Francie’s faces told him something was indeed wrong.
    “Eleanor,” Bernard breathed as the carriage slowed. “I’ve got to find her.”
    Francie turned to Alexander. “It was him,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “He was here.” She scampered after her uncle, leaving Alexander to follow behind. He’d seen the fear in her eyes, heard it in her voice. Could the threat of Jared Crayton be real? Could he have misjudged Francie Jordan? The truth lay somewhere between the Jordan home and the mangled fields.
    He was about to enter the cottage when Francie flung open the door and ran outside. “She’s not inside,” she said, her voice quivering. “We’ve got to find her.”
    “We’ll find her, child,” Bernard vowed.
    Alexander followed behind as Francie raced toward the fields, her movements swift and graceful as she called out her aunt’s name. His chest tightened. He knew pain. He knew despair. And he had a terrible feeling Francie was about to become acquainted with both of these quite intimately. Someone had ravaged these fields, carved them up with hatred and vengeance, until each stalk lay decimated, the very life ripped out of it. Had Francie’s aunt suffered the same fate?
    He wasn’t a man of prayer, held little stock in it, believing each man created his own destiny. Now, as he traveled row after row of deliberate destruction, he prayed the woman had been spared.
    Minutes later, Francie’s blood-curdling scream told him his prayers were useless. Alexander ran toward her, the sound of her screams pounding through him like heartbeats. Bernard was several yards behind, walking with a quick shuffle gait, his arms swinging side to side as though that would get him to Francie faster.
    Alexander spotted her through a clump of green stalks. She knelt on the ground, huddled over a body, her red hair draping the other person’s chest. Her shoulders shook, her arms clutching the lifeless form of a woman whose face was beaten to a swollen, purplish blue. The left side of her jaw bore marks resembling someone’s knuckles—a man’s, judging from the size. Her lips were cut and covered with dried blood.
    “Oh no,” a voice moaned from behind him. “Dear God, not my Eleanor.” Bernard pushed past him, falling to the ground to kneel over his wife. He ran his thin, bony fingers over her face in a soft caress.
    Alexander looked away. Too much pain, too much gut-wrenching emotion turning him inside out, making him feel things he did not want to feel.
    A low moan slid from the prone form on the ground. His gaze whipped back to the old woman. She was alive! One eye opened to little more than a slit. Her breathing came in shallow puffs. When she tried to open her mouth to speak, a whimper of pain escaped.
    “Don’t speak, Aunt Eleanor.” Francie smoothed wisps of gray hair from her aunt’s face. “It’s all right now. You’re safe.”
    The woman’s eyes inched open. Her swollen lips moved a fraction, but no sound came out.
    Alexander’s gut twisted again. “Who, in God’s name, would do such a thing?” To a woman, no less?
    “Who did this, Eleanor?” Bernard clutched his wife’s hand, his voice trembling.
    Francie cast Alexander a quick glance. “It was him,” she breathed. “I know it.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then she turned to her aunt and spoke in soft, soothing tones. “Aunt Eleanor, the person who did this, was he a tall, blond-haired man? Well-dressed, like a nobleman?” The old woman’s eyes grew large.
    “If the answer is yes, you need only blink,” Bernard murmured.
    They watched as Eleanor Jordan met her husband’s gaze. And blinked.
    Francie looked up at