E-BOOK - Lyrebird Hill

Australia, 1898. In a desperate attempt to save her family's beloved bushland property Lyrebird Hill, botanical artist Brenna agrees to wed a wealthy but cruel landowner. When she falls for the wrong man, the tragic consequences of her decision will leave a devastating legacy.

Over a century later, bookshop owner Ruby Cardel is living her dream life. But when it all falls apart, she returns to her childhood home at Lyrebird Hill, seeking escape. When the old house triggers memories of her sister's violent death, Ruby must finally confront her lost memories – was her sister’s death an accident, or was Ruby to blame?

Overwhelmed by guilt and fear, she confides in her long-lost best friend, Pete Milford. After a childhood in the foster care system, Pete is now reclusive and guarded, but their old spark quickly reignites. He knows Ruby would never hurt anyone, especially not the sister she idolised. But Ruby’s not so sure.

When Ruby finds letters written in 1898 by her great-grandmother who was convicted of murder, her fears take over. Could murder run in her veins? As she searches for answers, painful secrets emerge and she must confront her dark past—while also discovering the power of love to heal all wounds ... if only she'll let it.

CHAPTER ONE
BRENNA 1898
It is midnight. I am hunched on the library floor, penning these words by the light of a candle stub. Wind rattles the panes, and the air is heavy with the smell of gunpowder.
The men with guns are drawing closer. Their shouts echoing as they trample the bracken at the forest edge. Soon they will thunder along the drive and through the trees to the house. Their dogs will catch the scent of blood and they will find us.
A man lies on the floor beside me, covered with my cloak. A dark patch of blood seeps through the grey wool.
I lean nearer. “Love, can you hear me?”
The wind sighs in the red gums outside, bringing the distant baying of hounds. I watch him in the moonlight, taking in the wide mouth bracketed by lines, the regal nose, the pale skin. A compelling face, but fearsome too. The face of my obsession.
I shut my eyes, but it does no good to wish away the past. My yearning carves the soft hollows of my heart. My sorrow feels fatal. I huddle closer. A coppery scent saturates the air. My father used to say that blood has the gutsy odour of raw iron, but I disagree. To me, it’s sour like the shadows of the casuarina tree I played under as a child. It smells of brine and ash, of snakes sliding beneath the old house, of metal buried too long in the earth.
So much blood.
My glance strays deeper into the room, but I cannot bring myself to focus on the other motionless body slumped in the shadows. Not that his death grieves me. He was my bitterest enemy and I’m glad he’s gone. I only regret that by dying, he has condemned me too.
Gathering my skirts, I lie beside my love and link my hot fingers into his large cool ones. My sob fractures the stillness. Then silence returns.
I try to dredge up a prayer. Not for my soul, for I am past saving—but for the loved ones I have lost, the ones who now haunt me. The Lord hears every prayer, my father liked to say. Even the prayers of sinners. I reach for the words, but nothing comes. Perhaps my sins are too great, even for the Lord’s forgiving ears?
My journey here was long and treacherous. I crossed over the choppy waters, leaving all that was familiar behind and stepping into unknown territory. In those miles, I went from girl to woman, but this transformation hasn’t been easy. The old me was wiped away and replaced by someone new—someone foreign and strange—and while there are moments when I feel at ease in her skin, more often than not, I am scared and uneasy.
I edge closer to the man I adore, trapping his stillness in my arms, wishing I could warm him back to life. Once, he told me that love has the power to create miracles. If that is true, then surely love will grant me this one last wish?
Come back. Please come back.
There is so much to tell. Lies to unravel, deceptions to unburden, truths I want so desperately for him to hear. Before I lose him, too.
But where to begin?
My breath draws deep, my thoughts race back to an earlier, happier time. The time before fate called me here. Before love turned me into a murderer.
“I come from a wild, harsh part of the country,” I tell him softly, “where granite boulders stretch for miles, and tea-trees grow so thickly a cat cannot slip among them. A place where billabongs swelter in the sunshine, and the mighty river rushes over boulders and stones. Where black ironbarks rise into a sky so vast and blue it hurts your eyes ...”