A 3rd Time to Die Read online

  A 3rd Time to Die

  by

  George A. Bernstein

  Amazon Top 100 Author

  GnD Publishing

  copyright © 2013 by George A. Bernstein.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  G n D Publishing LLC

  72 Saint James Terrace

  Palm Beach Gardens, Florida 33418

  www.GnDpublishingllc.com

  [email protected]

  (561)386-7141

  FAX: (561)625-1265

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes and may have been altered to meet the demands of the story. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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  Ordering Information:

  Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the “Special Sales Department” at the address above.

  A 3rd TIME to DIE/George A Bernstein. – 2nd ed.

  ISBN 978-0-9894681-0-7

  AMAZON REVIEWS OF “A 3rd TIME TO DIE

  Dianne O'Keefe 5 Stars A thrilling ride - don't' miss it, 8/25/13

  Bearing in mind that I like paranormal romance novels, I was pretty convinced that I would like this novel, especially since I also like horse riding. The big surprise was that I never expected it to be comparable to great writers of this genre such as Dean Koontz or Stephen King.

  “A Third Time to Die” really delivered, providing an intriguing storyline and very believable characters. As I reached midway in the book, I was turning pages almost as fast as I could read to find out what would happen next. I enjoyed it immensely and am glad I tried it out. I look forward to more, and am delighted the author already has another book out. Time to download it to my Kindle!

  Fred - Another 5 Stars for the Author, August 4, 2013

  George Bernstein has written another 5 star novel. In his prior book, "Trapped," the author takes you inside the brain of a coma victim. A unique idea that he pulls off quite admirably. In his new book, he creates a shocking tale of a women who is caught in a series of prior lives, who learns of her fate through hypnotic regression…. The exciting and refreshingly new plot will keep you engrossed to the very end. Definitely, a "do not miss!"

  Gina 4 Stars paranormal & suspense combo, 8/11/13

  A bit of paranormal and a bit of suspense combine for one heck of a story. Past lives with visions of murder and a budding love story make for some sticky situations for Ashley and Craig, the two main characters.

  This was a very unique story with no angels, demons vamps or wolves involved. The suspense comes from something completely different. Quite refreshing for readers who are full up of those types of books.

  The plot is engrossing and will keep you up reading late into the night to find out what happens next.

  Margo Armstrong 5 Star I can’t put it down 8/27/13

  This is the first romantic novel that has ever kept me in total suspense. Although I like paranormal fiction (and nonfiction), romance is not my thing, but this is so well written that I can't put it down.

  His ability to draw you right into the scenes is amazing. Can't wait to read his first novel, Trapped.

  

  DEDICATION

  First, to my lovely wife, Dolores, whose passion for horses and Open Jumping provided the background and expertise for this novel. I learned a lot about the sport by watching her jump her horse, Redman at competitions… and filling our display cabinet with trophies. It’s a beautiful and exciting sport, and we take every chance available to watch these great animals and their fearless riders challenges difficult courses. And she’s become my toughest critic and an unrelenting editor.

  Secondly, I want to thank Dr. Brian Weiss, MD, for his great work in exploring Past Lives, and for Dr. John Cleveland (wherever you are) for guiding me through my own Regressions. I started them as research for this novel, finding nine previous visits to our World. Even if one does not embrace the concept, I found causes for personal skills of mine in this life that seemed to exist without reason… until those regressions! I, at least, am now a believer.

  And lastly, to the editors at GnD Publishing, who helped polish this work into something we all think is extraordinary and different. I hope you, the reader, think so, too.

  

  A 3rd Time to Die

  PROLOGUE

  The year 1695 AD

  "Sound the assembly! The Sun's up, and time's awasting."

  Charles Wallace stood in his stirrups, long, equestrian-hardened legs raising his tall frame high above the restless conglomeration of horses and riders, milling about the glade in front of the gray granite mansion-house.

  The Earl of Devonshire’s nostrils flared, savoring the pungent orders of trampled, dew-laden grass and fresh droppings. He tugged at the cuffs of his taupe doeskin riding gloves, massaging palms together, as a shiver tiptoed across his spine. Anticipation, not the chilled morn air, was its author.

  'Tis a glorious day, full of promise!

  Puffs of cottony clouds spilled across a rich, aquamarine sky. Flexing broad shoulders, Wallace twisted in his saddle, scanning the melee.

  What a bloody good turnout. Few local gentry dared miss the Earl's first spring foxhunt. Nobles and wealthy landowners converged from across southern England for this new, prestigious sporting event. Every guest room in his rambling country estate was filled, as were the stalls in his stables. Even George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham, who recently popularized this sport, was hard pressed to compete.

  Wallace’s topaz eyes raked the crowd, all mounted and eager to be off. Sixty horse at least, edgily mincing and prancing in place, awaiting the blare of the hunting horn. Still, he scoured the sea of bobbing black and tan caps and flowered bonnets.

  Ah! There—the copper-haired French seraph.

  He visualized her delectably curved long legs below full hips, cinched by a petite waist. Her heart-shaped face was illuminated by incandescent emerald eyes, hovering above a slender, tipped up nose. Arched cheeks bracketed Cupid’s-bow-shaped lips. So deceptively feminine, slender and delicate she seemed upon her muscular white gelding.

  Charles knew otherwise.

  Victoria Chevalier was a passionate, willful maid, plainly disenchanted with her marriage to an effeminate dandy twenty years her senior.

  When first he saw her, the young Countess du Beaujolais' sensuality swept over him, sucking away his breath and setting his heart thundering like the hooves of this very stallion he sat astride. Thick-limbed, masculine Clarice, his acidic, passionless wife, had never ignited lust in his heart… or his loins.

  But this nymph, Victoria, was God-sent. During the week as his guest, they were drawn together, as bees seek succulent clover. Sharp-witted and charged with life, she was full of sport. Quick dexterity with a 16 gauge brought three flushed grouse to hand… just one less than he… while her effete spouse was knocked ass over heels by his 12 gauge gun. Clarice had stayed abed.

>   And Victoria must have otter in her blood, out swimming him, crossing the river in swim garb much too brief for local customs. Long arms and strong legs sliced the water with astonishing ease.

  He felt stirring, despite his tight britches, at the memory of his arms around her, teaching her to cast a fly for trout. Her soft chuckle hinted at greater expertise with the long rod than she admitted. ‘Twas sport neither of which their partners show interest.

  Victoria Chevalier was truly akin in spirit, far different from either of their mates. This French beauty would be his that very day. His starving soul demanded it, boding a liaison far more intense than just a quick tumble in the grass.

  How is it she was even wed to this foppish count? Arranged marriages! Bah! Neither Chevalier, nor the earl's icy wife will offer any real obstacle to their desires. Charles and Victoria had slyly courted for the entire week, and now was their chance to fulfill those promises silently made.

  He smiled as she wound her horse through the mob. As she edged nearer, her devilish grin and sly wink snatched the breath from his lungs.

  "We go," his strong tenor carrying to the page, standing atop a small stone wall. "Sound the horn, God blast it!"

  The brass trumpet echoed three times over the glade, and then thrice again.

  Shouting riders urged their steeds ahead, each vying for a place directly behind the Earl, a sea of horses, sleekly muscled hunters, surging into the lightly wooded countryside. The drum of hooves and the echo of lusty shouts echoed through the trees like rolling thunder.

  Immediately, a stone wall bordering a creek loomed as the first challenges, and two riders were quickly down. The hounds had drawn far ahead, hurdling through the underbrush, noses skimming the ground, seeking fresh scent. It won't be long. The Earl had spied several fox in the area just last week.

  A movement at his right drew his glance, as the copper-tressed angel closed to his side. A few light strokes from her crop urged her steed ahead. She grinned, a playful challenge in her eyes, tossing her head, loosening burnished bronze locks from beneath her flowered hat.

  They were swiftly upon a huge downed oak, vaulted by both animals with little trouble. Just as they landed, a hound let forth a melodious wail, and charged off to the south, head high, the call ringing from his throat, joined in full harmony by his brethren. A familiar wave of goose bumps skipped down his spine.

  "Tallyho! Tallyho!" Wallace yelled, as he urged his dappled mount hard after the quickly disappearing dogs.

  "Tallyho!" the two-legged vixen riding beside him howled gleefully, putting her crop to her snow-white steed. The cry echoed behind him again and again, as the others, strung out over a thousand yards, strove to follow. None could match the abandon of their host and his reckless female companion as they surged even farther ahead.

  Ten minutes of hard riding, spiced by arduous jumps, had brought them within a few hundred yards of the hounds, their calls saying the fox was not yet bayed. Much of the party had fallen prey to the many obstacles they had crossed in their pell-mell charge after the dogs.

  The countess' fearless attack of the hunt had kept her slightly to the front. Charles happily hung back, watching her with an ever-escalating appreciation. She was magnificent! Never had he known such a wild and exciting creature, so fully invested in all he held dear. He could barely wait to gather her in his arms.

  The hounds were clearly visible ahead, just beyond a low, stone wall. The riders vaulted it, almost as one, and as they landed on the far side, Victoria began slowing her mount, pulling off to the side.

  "What's amiss," he asked, slewing to a stop beside her.

  "Fa! This foolish beast has come up lame. I’m unable to continue."

  "Damn the luck. We were hot on the little bastard's trail." Turning to Count Armand, surging to a skidding halt with several other riders, Charles pointed south.

  “Her horse has gone lame. Finish the hunt without us. I’ll see the Countess safely back to the manor house.” The mud-spattered Frenchman nodded, tapping his cap with his crop, and charge off in pursuit of the fast disappearing dogs.

  He may be an effete dandy, who can’t shoot and doesn’t fish, but the bugger can ride. Charles watched them vanish into the woods.

  Dismounting, he took the lady's reins, starting back from whence they came. After a bit they found themselves in a shaded meadow, a small brook tumbling cheerfully along one side. Cottonwoods lined its banks, their flowers in full bloom, perfuming the air with a heady scent.

  "Come, m'lady. We’ll take our ease here for a time before we continue. 'Tis been a hot, thirsty chase."

  "Ah, truly said, m’lord. Your every wish is my command."

  His lust-filled eyes caressed her every curve, lingering over each erotic swell. He licked parched lips, smiling up at her.

  "An interesting proposition. You'll accede to anything I ask of you?"

  She gave a throaty laugh, as he plucked her from her sidesaddle mount… and into his arms. Once there, he had not the will to release her. The scent of lilies and musk sent him spinning.

  She tilted her face, crimson lips slightly parted, eyes green pools of fire. The sweet smell of her hair laid waste to his senses. His manhood, trapped in the confinement of skin-tight jodhpurs, struggled to attention.

  "You are but to ask, m'lord," she whispered, panting softly. "I am willing--nay, eager--to heed your every desire."

  He crushed her to him, hungry lips entangling, tongues darting vipers, his breath snatched away by the heat of her response. The fire of her kiss consumed him in delicious flames. They grappled with sweaty garments, and luckily, riding habit was infinitely less complicated than the normal fashions of court.

  Welded as one, they slid down upon the soft grass, moist with dew. There was only sweetness in the salty taste of their skin. In a moment’s time they were lost in wonder, soaring high above even Heaven’s Gate.

  For uncounted hours they bared their souls as well as their bodies to each other. Charles, reluctantly struggling with his unwilling libido, glanced at the sky.

  “Come.” His voice still husky with ardor, he snatched up their garments and pulled her to her feet. “We must be off before we are found out.”

  “Oui,” she said, but her flaming body, clinging closely to his, disagreed, rekindling the blaze within him. She raised liquid eyes to his, honeyed lips parted, wetted by the tip of her tongue.

  They were quickly lost in a heated embrace, slipping again to the lush green carpet. He worshipped her skin with tender kisses and wet caresses of his tongue before entering her, her long legs trapping him urgently against her.

  Their hearing filled by the thunder of unquenched passion as they lay entwined, they never heard the heavy tread of quickly approaching footsteps.

  A sudden vicious blow to the back of his head slammed Charles against her, showering her with blood and gore, pinning her down.

  "No!” A fearsome beast hovered above her, swinging a weapon high above its beaked head.

  “Mon Dieu! No! Please, don't hurt...” The thud of heavy blows, the crunching of bones and rending of flesh, continued unabated for many minutes in the otherwise silent glade.

  It wasn't until four hours after the last of the hunt had ridden in, two foxes in hand, before it was admitted that something was amiss. A hastily organized search party gave up, finally, three hours into the night.

  The entire village was out again at dawn, searching ahorse and afoot for the missing couple. Two hours after sun-up, a hunting horn was sounded from a thick forest glade. The dogs had found their master. Searchers gathered in silent wonder in the small meadow that, sixteen hours before had hosted an idyll of love and passion. The ground was torn, blood and bits of flesh splattered everywhere. Two broken bodies lay heaped together, limbs twisted askew, heads crushed, faces gone, barely recognizable as having once been human.

  The huntsmen agreed it was the work of some great beast--mayhaps an angry bear. Had an enraged sow destroyed them while protecting her
cubs? Surely a plausible answer. They would hunt down and kill her, if they could.

  So two lovers, newly discovered unto each other, died with love and life unfulfilled.

  It was a passion that might have lasted an eternity, were it not cut short.

  So brutally short.

  ~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

  The year 1850 AD

  Morgana Quincy’s hazel eyes, shaded by arched, inky eyebrows, squinted against the sun, watching the one-horse coach clatter around a corner before she started down the cobblestone path. Her white parasol, protection against the mid-day sun, draped casually over a slender shoulder. She shook her head, glistening onyx curls swirling and bobbing about her gentle, round-cheeked face. She needed time to clear her mind.

  Her father, Jonathan Denton, had immigrated to the Americas only fifty years before, and had distinguished himself as a blockade-runner in this new country's second war with England. Now, thirty years later, he owned a successful shipping business, with six sloops carrying goods to all the major cities of the World.

  But a life that should be a cornucopia was not going well. She was a fortunate woman, raised in a warm and loving environment by her father, widowed now these past twelve years. She married eight years past to a handsome young pillar of Philadelphia society, something that should fill her life with joy. William came from one of the oldest families in the city.

  At twenty-seven, the major thing missing from paradise was a child, but not for a lack of trying… at least during their first five years together. Sex with her husband… something she shamefully enjoyed… was far less frequent now.

  Just last month she discovered the cause: his affair with a sultry, voluptuous singer from a "high class" saloon near the harbor.