My Savage Lord
Colleen French
Copyright © 1996, 2018 by Colleen French. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of The Evan Marshall Agency, 1 Pacio Court, Roseland, NJ 07068-1121, [email protected].
My Savage Lord
Version 1.0
Published by The Evan Marshall Agency. Originally published by Kensington Publishing Corp., New York, under the title Destined to Be Mine and under the name Colleen Faulkner.
This work is a novel. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
Cover by The Killion Group
This one's for Lori Darlin'. Thanks.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
Somewhere in the Maryland Wilderness
American Colonies, Spring 1646
Tsitsho of the Bear Clan of the Mohawk crouched low behind an inkberry bush at the edge of the hardwood forest, his hand resting on the hilt of his war hatchet. Cautiously, he surveyed his surroundings. He heard the call of a whippoorwill and the sound of swaying tree limbs. He smelled the scent of a scurrying squirrel, and of the white men in the cabin in the midst of the clearing.
He watched the smoke rise from the stone chimney and knew that it was soft pine they burned. Somewhere a hen clucked.
Tsitsho guessed a family lived inside the cabin. Outside he saw evidence of a woman and children—clothing hanging to dry on a rope strung between two trees, a leather ball left abandoned near the chiseled stone steps of the single room cabin. A family, yes, that was good. It was what he'd been looking for.
Suddenly the cabin door swung open and a bearded man stepped out into the morning sunshine. He wore boots and white men's cloth leggings; his chest was bare. He leaned his musket against the oak-hewn wall behind him and stretched, raising his arms over his head.
Tsitsho felt his heart pounding beneath his breast. Out of habit, he touched the mark on his left cheek, eyeing the white man.
This was what he had come for. This was why he had walked hundreds of miles. This was what he had risked his life for time and time again. This was why he had killed his brother.
But Tsitsho was no coward, so he rose, stepping out of the shadows of the morning forest.
Immediately the man in the beard gave a cry of alarm, reaching for his musket.
"Yahten!" Tsitsho called, raising his hands. "Do not shoot." The English words tasted strange on his tongue. "I mean you no harm."
The white man aimed the musket, staring at Tsitsho's colorfully tattooed chest, evident beneath the sleeveless, quilled leather vest. Tsitsho watched the white man as he took in his appearance—his loincloth and porcupine-quilled moccasins, his hair shaved in a scalplock, the mark on his face. Tsitsho knew the man was judging him. He knew the white man feared him, and he knew that he was justified in that fear.
"What do you want, you scurvy redskin?"
Tsitsho shook his head, his blue-eyed gaze meeting the white man's. "No. I am no Mohawk. I am English. A captive." He was surprised by how quickly the English words came back to him. How many years had it been since he'd heard or spoken them? Six? Seven?
The man took a step closer, squinting in the bright morning sun. "God above," he swore. "You've got blue eyes. Who are you?"
Tsitsho let his broad hands fall to his sides. By his calculation he was only eighteen years old, and yet at this moment he felt as if he'd lived five-score years . . . ten. Painful memories flashed through his head—the Mohawk attack on his English family, his mother's screams, the torture, the slow acceptance. He felt the weight of his dying infant son in his arms, and he remembered the acrid stench of his wife's funeral pyre.
Slowly Tsitsho lifted his gaze. "My . . . my name is Duncan. I am Duncan Roderick, the Earl of Cleaves."
One
London, England
August 1661
Taking her sister's hand, Jillian slipped through the glass-paned double doors into the peaceful sanctuary of the overgrown garden. "Gemini!" she swore. "There's as much confusion in that house as at a Gypsy fair."
"We're supposed to be supervising the unpacking of the silver plate," Beatrice protested weakly, glancing over her shoulder as she was led away. The sound of a splitting wooden crate, crashing silver, and the shrill voice of their mother could be heard through the open windows. "We shouldn't disobey. Mother will be frightfully angry."
Jillian's laughter rose, filling the hot, humid air as she directed her sister over the flagstones that drew them past the blackberry bushes, broken and leaning, and deeper into the unkempt garden. "Can you believe we're finally in London?" she asked. "I was beginning to fear Father was going to keep us hidden in the country until kingdom come!"
The Hollingsworths had just arrived in the city from their country home in Sussex. A full year had passed since the throne had been restored to Charles II, and finally Jillian's father had agreed it was safe to bring his family to their home on the Strand. The house had not been occupied, except by caretakers, in two and a half decades. After the death of Cromwell, Lord Hollingsworth, a Royalist, had insisted upon keeping his family in the country until he was certain the Stuart government was stable again. The Hollingsworths had returned for the fall season of parties and suppers, to visit relatives, and to see their eldest daughter, Beatrice, finally wed.
Jillian dragged her sister down the path, ducking beneath low-hanging branches and vines grown wild with years of neglect. The garden was filled with the heady, sweet scent of blooming flowers and the humming, chirping sounds of insect song. "Father said the new gardener had the Chinese goldfish delivered this morning. Don't you want to see them?" Jillian arched one brow, her freckled face beaming with excitement.
"No, no I really do believe it's best we follow Mother's bidding. I—"
"Oh, stop your bellow-weathering, Bea. It's time you started making your own decisions. In a few short months you'll be a married woman yourself, with your own properties and a husband to order about!"
Beatrice blushed, covering her mouth with her delicate palm. "I can't believe it, Jillian. After all these years, he's really coming for me. I'm going to be a countess!"
The two sisters walked to the stone fish pool and sat down at the water's edge. Jillian peered into the fresh blue-green water in search of the exotic fish. "Fiddle! They must be hiding." She dipped her fingers into the cool, inviting water. "I knew he'd come for you. Father said he was waiting for his call to the judicial courts before he returned to England for you. Now that he's been declared the true heir and his title has been r
eturned, he's finally in a position to wed you properly. God's teeth, Bea. You wouldn't want to marry a penniless Colonial, would you?"
Beatrice studied her younger sister's face. "It's true enough I'm anxious to be out from under our parents' feet and a woman of my own right. Heaven help me, I'm nearly twenty-eight, but what if what Cousin Elizabeth says is true? What if he is a he-devil with a forked tail?" Superstitiously, she lowered her voice, as if mere mention of the beast could conjure him up. "What if he is scarred so horribly that he truly must wear a mask?"
Jillian pulled a thick strand of her own bright-red hair off her shoulder and tucked it into her mouth thoughtfully. "Gossip! It spreads like summer fire in the meadow! A man in a mask, indeed!" She touched her sister's arm lightly. "Father met him at Whitehall Palace only a week ago. You don't think the man could have hidden a forked tail in his breeches, do you?"
"Elizabeth said all of London is calling him the Colonial Devil," Beatrice whispered, her hazel eyes still wide with fright. "They say he has the eyes of glowing coals and the hair of a wretched ghoul."
Jillian dragged her hand through the fish pond, watching the water part and the lily pads sway. "We'll meet him tomorrow and see for ourselves, won't we?" But when she saw the frightened look on her sister's face, she reached out to take Bea's smaller hand in her own. "Ignore such prattle. Elizabeth is a liar; everyone knows it. She's just green with jealousy because you're marrying an earl and she's only marrying an earl's son. By the time Toddy Burke inherits, Elizabeth will be toothless and bald."
Despite her fears, Beatrice couldn't resist a chuckle. "Oh, Jillian. I don't know what I'll do without you when I must go to America with my husband. I'll miss you terribly!"
On impulse, Jillian slipped off her kidskin slippers and began to roll down her hose. "Nonsense, once Jacob and I are wed, we'll come, too. There's nothing for us here. We'll live in a parsonage within riding distance." She spun around, lifting her apple-green taffeta petticoat above her calves. "I always wanted to see the American Colonies with their red savages anyway."
"Jillian! Father said he would hear no more of the parson's son." She looked this way and that, fearing someone might be eavesdropping in the deserted garden.
Jillian lowered her feet into the cool water and gave a sigh of delight. "I'll have Jacob, I will, and Father won't stop me. We'll elope if we have to."
Beatrice wrapped her arms around her own waist in fear. "Don't say that; please don't say that, Jilly. Promise me you won't do anything foolish. Promise me you won't ruin our family name by marrying below your station."
"I'll promise no such thing. I always told you that when I married, it would be for love." She lowered her feet deeper into the water, leaning over to peer into the stone pond. "Where are those goldfish? Father paid nearly ten pounds for the lot of them. For that sum, I vow, you would think they'd be big enough to see!"
Beatrice giggled. "Jillian, you'll be in that pond in a moment. Put your slippers on. Someone will see you and tell Father!"
Jillian gave a wave of her hand, dismissing the thought. "It feels wonderful." She lifted her long mane of curly red hair off her prickly warm neck. "Want to try?"
Beatrice shook her head.
"It's so cool, I just might climb all the way in and take a swim." She leaned over, still searching for the fish. "I'd find the little buggers then!"
Beatrice giggled. "You wouldn't!"
Jillian threw a mischievous glance over her shoulder in her sister's direction. She was standing on the shallow side of the pond, her abundant taffeta skirting pulled up around her knees. "Was that a dare I heard?"
Beatrice broke into nervous laughter. "No. No, it wasn't. It wasn't a dare!"
"Sounded like a dare to me . . ." Jillian sang, already beginning to unfasten the pearl buttons that ran the length of her gown. "You should know better. You know I can't resist a dare."
Beatrice jumped up from the stone wall, throwing her hands into the air. "Jillian! Please. I was only teasing! Have you lost what little sense you ever had? Someone will see you!"
"Who, pray tell?" Unfastening the last of the tiny buttons, she pulled the gown over her head. "Every maid and footman are busy hauling crates," she insisted through the stiff folds of the gown. "Mother, Father, and the sisters are all occupied with unpacking. I'll just take a quick dip, and no one will be the wiser." Finally her head appeared through the skirting of the gown. "Catch!"
Beatrice gave a little squeal as she dove to keep the hem of the new gown out of the fishpond. "You've really gone too far this time, Jilly," she hissed at her sister, who had begun to wade into the deeper water. "You know what Father said. He said he'd send you back to Aunt Prudence in the country if you didn't act like the lady you were born to be."
"He won't send me back because he's trying to keep Jacob and me apart. Not that it will do any good, because Jacob is coming for me." She unhooked her busk and tossed it through the air, discarding it along with her gown.
Jillian heard her sister give another little squeak as she lowered herself into the pond. "There's one! I see one of the goldfish!" she cried, laughing. "Oh, Bea. You should come in, too. They're so beautiful."
Jillian turned her back to her sister, pushing her wet linen smock aside where it floated in the cool, clean water. Twice she tried to catch one of the fat, bright goldfish the size of her palm, but both times they managed to slip through her fingers. She was just about to turn and head back for the pool's edge when she heard her sister give a strangled cry of fright.
"Bea? Bea, what—"
Jillian knew her jaw must have dropped as she spun around, and for a moment she felt her heart flutter beneath her breast. "My heavens," she murmured.
There in the neglected garden, standing not six paces from the fish pond, was a giant of a man . . . a man with a purple veil covering the left side of his face . . . a man of threatening masculinity.
Beatrice stumbled backward a step, the gown and busk bundled in her arms.
"It's all right," Jillian assured her sister as she waded quickly toward the pool's edge. In her rush, she made no attempt to cover her nearly naked form, draped in the wet, transparent linen of her smock. Although her sister was nearly six years her senior, Jillian had always felt it was her responsibility to look after Bea, ever since they were children in their nursery.
"Can . . . can I help you, my lord?" Jillian managed, knowing full well this must be her sister's betrothed. Who else would be wearing a scarf to cover his face? So the tales were true, she thought, wondering impulsively if she should be looking for his forked tail.
But the man did not smile like the devil. Or perhaps he did, for Jillian's great-grandmother had always said Satan would not come to her with a forked tail breathing fire and shouting obscenities, but as a handsome man with a come-hither smile and words as sweet as clover honey.
Instinctively Jillian put herself between the stranger and Beatrice. Beatrice was now making little mewing sounds, too frightened even to move. Surely she, too, realized who this man was.
"Well," Jillian demanded of the gentleman, for he surely was a gentleman by his dress. "Why are you here in this private garden? You've scared the lady half to death!"
His lazy smile made her forget the purple scarf that obscured one side of his face. He was robed fashionably in a rich burgundy doublet and wore wide-legged breeches with a short brown periwig and a plumed cavalier's hat dyed the same shade of red. Around his waist was strapped a fine sword. What she could see of his face was suntanned and ruggedly handsome. Earl or not, here was no milksop dandy of the King's court, this man of her sister's. His unobstructed eye was the color of the morning sky, so piercing that he seemed to see through Jillian to her very soul.
"I must ask your business, here, my lord," she repeated, her voice true and clear, "because you're trespassing."
He swept off his hat and bowed as if they were the Queen's maids of honor, keeping eye contact with her. "The baron is expecting me, madame. I am Lo
rd Duncan Roderick, Earl of Cleaves, your servant." He raised an eyebrow, his voice mocking her as he returned his hat to his head. "And might you, by my good fortune, be Beatrice Hollingsworth?"
Bea, standing behind Jillian, sucked in a strangled breath.
Jillian shivered in her wet shift, not because of a chill, but because the earl looked at her with an expression she'd never known. He frightened her, yet intrigued her at the same time, and for a moment she forgot that he was her sister's intended. For the briefest second she contemplated what it would be like to be this man's bride.
Suddenly she crossed her arms over her breasts, trying to cover her unclothed form. "No, no, my lord I'm not," she snapped tartly. "A sister." She didn't know what made her answer so rudely, perhaps because she did find him so attractive, even with his obvious deformity. She frowned, angry that her sister's betrothed would be so ill-mannered, angry because she knew this man was not a good match for Beatrice. The poor girl had to be distracted with fear. How could Father have betrothed her dear Bea to such a brute of a man?
Jillian made eye contact with the earl once more. "Now if you'll excuse us, my lord . . ." she murmured, beginning to back up, still positioned between him and her sister. She reached behind her back to take Beatrice's trembling hand and then turned and ran, pulling her sister behind her.
Duncan stood on the path of the disordered garden a full minute, chuckling to himself. What good luck to find a half-naked woman in Hollingsworth's garden, what poor luck she wasn't his intended wife. He was instantly attracted to the chit with her flaming red hair, nutmeg eyes, and rosy breasts. Now a woman like that—she wouldn't be difficult to bed and get with his heir.
Duncan sighed. He knew he might as well get on with the call. He'd been too long in putting it off already. He had promised Lord Hollingsworth last week that he would come by and meet the daughter he'd been betrothed to since he was a boy. It was time he had a wife, and his duty to his dead father kept him to this promise. Besides, Hollingsworth owed the Rodericks a considerable sum of money. That matter needed to be discussed as well.
My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity) Page 1
