Christmas At Thorncliff Towers by Marina Myles

PROLOGUE
    Carpathian Mountains, Romania
Christmas Eve, 1811
     
    A half mile from their Gypsy camp in the center of a snow-laden forest, a pair of friends found themselves in a predicament.
    “For God’s sake,” Constantin Stoica called to Karina Petri. “Jump!”
    Standing on a flimsy tree branch, Karina trembled. The adjacent trees were too far to jump to. And the ground below her waved in and out of focus.
    Her mouth went dry.
    “I’ll catch you,” Constantin called loudly.
    At thirteen, he was one year older and wiser. But he didn’t have to leap out of this pine from this terrifying height. “I’ll jump when I’m ready,” she shouted back with indignation.
    “How do you get yourself in these situations, Karina?”
    She shrugged. “I thought it would be fun to climb up here.”
    “And now it’s no fun climbing down, right?”
    She flashed him a dark look. Yet, secretly, she wasn’t mad at him at all. Have his eyes always been that green? Has he developed muscles in the past few months?
    He definitely seemed more grown up today. Her cheeks heated.
    “You’re twelve years old, Karina. Don’t be afraid.”
    “I am afraid.”
    “Well, my feet are frozen and I refuse to stand here all night.”
    When he began to walk away, Karina panicked. “All right! I’ll jump.”
    “Good,” Constantin said, resuming his pose. Outstretched arms. Feet far apart. Head tilted up. Face spread in an encouraging smile.
    “Promise you’ll catch me?”
    “You’re my best friend,” he replied. “I promise.”
    Hauling in a breath, Karina counted to three. Then, with every ounce of courage flying along with her, she fell into his strong arms.
    Constantin’s breath was sweet and warm on her face and his chest felt like steel against hers. But that was all she remembered in the split-second before they crashed to the ground. When she heard a loud crack, she realized that the impact shattered Constantin’s leg and split her thigh open.
    She lay sprawled on top of him as he managed to grind out, “Karina Petri. You will never be anything but trouble.”

1
    England
Christmas Eve, nine years later
     
    M uch had taken place since the accident at the tree. Constantin had grown into a conscientious man. Karina had blossomed into a curvaceous woman. And their Gypsy tribe had migrated from Romania to England, although Constantin no longer considered himself a member of it.
    The worst part was, he hadn’t had a choice in the matter.
    Fat snowflakes drifted from the sky and landed on his shoulders. As he stood on the edge of a cliff overlooking a village called Dunwich, loneliness—as thick as the fog rolling in—closed over him.
    Selfless. Charitable. Generous . Words used to describe him as a child could be used to describe him today. He was willing to go the extra mile for others. And because he always strived to make peace, he never did anything amoral.
    Today is Christmas Eve. He shuddered.
    Selfless, charitable, and generous were adjectives used to describe the spirit of the holiday, too. That’s why confusion filtered through him.
    Why do unfortunate things happen to me on Christmas Eve?
    Nine Christmas Eves ago, Karina had shattered his leg. Two Christmas Eves ago, his grandmother had passed away. And last Christmas Eve, his younger brother, Viktor, had been caught stealing food from Thorncliff Towers.
    Constantin turned and scowled at the very same manor looming on a nearby hill. As punishment for his crime, Viktor had been forced to leave their Gypsy tribe and work at Thorncliff Towers for the house’s owner, Lord Winthrop. In Constantin’s eyes, Lord Winthrop was a bastard—a man Constantin had no pity for, even though Winthrop suffered under a black magic curse. Ironically, the curse had been cast by Constantin’s own Gypsy clan. According to talk around the campfire, Winthrop transformed into a blood-lusting werewolf beneath every full moon. And since he’d had been vicious and half-mad before the spell