Cheryl Holt by Deeper than Desire

admonitions about red hair weren’t true, that it was indicative of an unrestrained character.
    As a juvenile rebellion, Penny liked to wear it down, but Margaret had forbidden her to leave her bedchamber with it hanging free.
    Her locks were fiery and arresting, and with the blossoming of her figure, she’d recognized the power she wielded with that hair. Men gazed at her, followed her, and wheedled for introductions, and she was thrilled by the control it gave her.
    Though Margaret had warned her about the perils of coquetry, she wouldn’t listen, and Margaret couldn’t make her appreciate the dangers she tempted by flaunting herself. Unfortunately, she’d inherited her father’s penchant for base amusement, as well as his demand for instantaneous gratification. Whatever she wanted, she wanted it at once, and at times, Margaret despaired for her.
    She’d developed a fancy for a lower sort of boy, the kind of rough, crude fellow who drove a delivery wagon or poured beer in a tavern, and Margaret had to constantly guard her to keep her from doing something reckless.
    Disgustingly, she had a fondness for stablehands and, on one astounding afternoon, Margaret had caught her kissing a hired man. She’d had him whipped, then fired, and had imprisoned Penny in her bedchamber for a week, with just bread and water to sustain her.
    When she’d been released, Margaret had barred her from sniffing around the horses.
    “You can’t tell me what to do,” Penny declared.
    “Watch me.” Margaret shot her a malevolent glare. “Go straight to your room and ring for a maid to pin up your hair. Don’t come out until you’ve had it fixed in a suitable style.”
    “Witch . . .” Penny muttered.
    Margaret slapped her as hard as she could. Though Penny’s cheek snapped to the side, the recalcitrant child exhibited no other evidence that the blow had affected her. Slyly, she smiled, making Margaret uneasy, and she wondered if Penny had intended to instigate the discord, if she’d deliberately goaded Margaret into expressing strong emotion.
    She didn’t understand her daughter and never had. If she hadn’t seen Penny slip from her body, she’d disavow the girl as being hers. Perhaps the old wives’ tales about changelings had some basis in fact!
    “Get out of my sight,” Margaret seethed.
    Penny strutted out, laughing as she sauntered down the hall.
    Penny strolled the corridor, peeking in doors to ascertain who was in their rooms and who wasn’t. She likedto know where people were. Over the years, she’d stumbled upon many interesting baubles in the chambers of others, so she was extra observant when walking about.
    At Olivia’s, she halted, surprised to find her present. Olivia thrived on arising at the crack of dawn, because she had so many inane projects to slave away on throughout the day.
    Though Olivia could be reserved and stern, Penny liked her well enough. She never tattled, no matter what Penny did. When they were younger, Olivia would refuse to spill the beans, even when Penny had acted outrageously and Olivia was punished for it.
    Penny admired her for that; she also judged her to be incredibly stupid. Who would take discipline for another? Especially when Margaret could be so viscious at dishing it out!
    “Hello, Penny,” Olivia welcomed as she did a final check in the mirror.
    “You’re off to a late start.”
    “I didn’t sleep very well. I guess I’m nervous.” She blushed and changed the subject. “You’re looking very fashionable. Are you going riding?”
    No one was aware of the incident in the Hopkinses’ stable, or of Margaret’s edict prohibiting Penny from approaching any building vaguely resembling a barn. Margaret had been too mortified to discuss Penny’s amorous adventure—even with her sainted cousin Winnie.
    “I might.”
    “It’s been a while,” Olivia pointed out. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”
    “I don’t really care if I ride or not, but one of the men who works