by Tamara Gill
Thank you for reading A Marquess for Convenience. I hope you enjoyed spending time with Madeline and Arthur. The Wrong Heiress for Christmas is the next book the Matchmaking for Wallflowers series. Start the series with How to Capture a Duke, which first introduces Madeline and Arthur.
About the Author
Born in Texas, Bianca Blythe spent four years in England. She worked in a fifteenth century castle, though sadly that didn’t actually involve spotting dukes and earls strutting about in Hessians.
She credits British weather for forcing her into a library, where she discovered her first Julia Quinn novel. Thank goodness for blustery downpours.
Bianca now lives in California with her husband.
Connect with Bianca:
www.biancablythe.com
FB Reader Group
Newsletter
Instagram
*
Matchmaking for Wallflowers
How to Capture a Duke
A Rogue to Avoid
Runaway Wallflower
Mad About the Baron
The Wrong Heiress for Christmas
*
Wedding Trouble
Don’t Tie the Knot
Dukes Prefer Bluestockings
The Earl’s Christmas Consultant
How to Train a Viscount
A Kiss for the Marquess
*
The Sleuthing Starlet
Murder at the Manor House
Danger on the Downs
The Body in Bloomsbury
A Continental Murder
ACT OF PARDON
Sandra Sookoo
Chapter One
St. Augustine, Florida, Castillo de San Marcos
December 25th, 1814
Sarah Covington pulled the hood of her cloak more securely over her forehead, as much to shade her eyes from the rising sun as to conceal her identity. For her errand this morning, it was best if she remained a stranger. It wasn’t often she ventured into the fort, but when she did, there were too many soldiers of both British and Spanish origin who knew her thanks to her penchant for spending hours with the city’s poor and less than privileged in the Mission.
She wrinkled her nose against a tickling sneeze, willing the urge away. Silence was her biggest advantage. The sneeze passed in short order and she let a tiny sigh escape. She darted a glance along the walls, ever watchful, ever suspicious the men would notice her and her limp. Above everything, she must not draw their attention, especially since she was armed.
At regular intervals, Spanish soldiers stood in their olive-colored uniforms with the white stripe across the breast and their funny-shaped helmets. Privately, and only to herself, she referred to the headgear as penis imitations. Everyone in her social circle, as well as the servants at home, would die of scandal if they knew her thoughts. What would they think if they found out what sort of knowledge she’d picked up at boarding school all those years ago? Unbidden, a memory of one such time came to mind.
She and a few other girls had ventured outside after dark, which was strictly forbidden, but the night was hot and humid, and swimming in the lake nearby held more sway than the threat of being punished if they were caught. Halfway to the oasis, they’d intruded upon the male music instructor and one of the older students locked in an intimate embrace, sans clothing. Instead of retreating, she and her friends had hidden behind nearby bushes and watched as the kiss deepened into a raw, uninhibited sexual encounter. The man’s member, clearly on display as he took the young student from behind, would always remain imprinted on Sarah’s memory. From that time onward, she’d kept her fascination and curiosity of the male body to herself, unable to figure out how to relieve the feelings that act brought to her.
Sarah had never talked about what she’d seen and most certainly had never told her father. Instead, she’d tucked the knowledge away, along with her hopes and prayers that maybe God would be gracious enough to give her a man who’d do such things to her. She quickly glanced again at the soldiers to make sure she hadn’t been noticed while lost in her musings. None of them looked her way and she relaxed, but a bitter laugh escaped before she could recall it. The daughter of a missionary should never waste her time thinking about a man’s nether bits. She could almost hear the admonition in her father’s stern voice.
You are no longer here, Father. My life is finally my own. A tiny wash of sadness threatened to undermine her attention. Too bad her independence had come only when her parent died. Why could they not have come to an understanding while he’d been alive?
The early morning sunlight winked off the hardware on a military uniform and scattered Sarah’s thoughts. Best to get on with it and secure her position. With a shrug, she limped past one of the men—a Spanish soldier she’d spoken to a handful of times. Would he notice her, the particular quirk, and question why she was in attendance for such a gruesome event? She held her breath. He barely nodded and she sighed with relief. Perhaps men were too self-involved, or mayhap women like her would always fail to make an impression.
Along the far wall, a cluster of British regulars waited, their scarlet coats in stark contrast with the grayish-white coquina walls. The small shells that formed the masonry glittered in the unrelenting sun.
A tiny smile tilted her lips then vanished under the onslaught of hatred she’d carried in her heart for the last six months. Now was not the time to be reminded of the good, the beauty of life. Besides, she’d long ago learned it didn’t come often and when it did, there were always entailments and clauses.
How ironic that this one event could bring together not only the Spanish and British military but the common folk of both nationalities who normally held each other in such animosity. Of course, that was exactly why she had come as well. The decline of everything she’d held dear at one time had shattered at the hand of this man—this pirate.
Thinking of such a man sent warmth over her skin and into her body to vie with the rising temperatures around her. Already, the tropical heat had left the air moist and heavy, so that her dove gray muslin skirts clung to her legs. The uncomfortable weather couldn’t be helped. Revenge didn’t chose its time; vengeance made no reservations. Opportunity had presented itself and she intended to take full advantage.
Though there was always some level of fascination regarding the men who showed no fear of death or the law, she fought her curiosity. This pirate may be full of mystery, but he deserved to feel her blade for his crimes.
Sarah moved with slow steps through the assembled mob, their excited, whispered voices echoing off the walls of the open courtyard. Their conversation didn’t center on the holiday but rather the execution.
Grim entertainment at any time, but on Christmas morning especially. Human nature craved the macabre, even if it was death.
In the center of the courtyard a hangman’s gallows had been erected. Straw lay strewn beneath the swinging trapdoor, presumably to catch any blood or other bodily excrement that might occur if the authorities left the pirate hanging. Bile choked her. She swallowed the burn and winced at the bitter taste.
Death was his fate, violent though it may be. He deserved it. Piracy had been all but wiped out in the Caribbean Sea by the British and Americans. After having lived in St. Augustine for some months, she’d picked up a couple of rumors along the way. The tide against piracy was finally turning in favor of the British navy, with the American fleet not far behind, especially after their prowess from the war not two years past. If the trend continued, the ruffians of the sea would all hang before too long. A twinge rode her spine. It was sad, in a way. Pirates were a part of life. What gave any government the right to put an end to their existence merely based on the monies in their coffers? Even in the midst of her current situation, she uttered a quick prayer that the craftier of them would elude capture and live to fight another day.
Sarah shook her head to clear her thoughts. Too bad this one hadn’t been as lucky. Even if he had, she would have tracked him down herself
. Revenge was a powerful motivator.
Eight steps led to the wooden platform where he would stand. A noose of thick rope dangled from the frame’s beams, gleaming with age in the morning sunlight. Three men—the prison administrator, the general in charge of the fort and his British counterpart—occupied posts on the contraption itself. All stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, their legs splayed a shoulder’s-width apart, and identical expressions of anticipation on their clean-shaven faces.
Navigating through the growing crowd with her unfortunate limp had made her late; now she had to fight for prime position in the smelly gathering. Body odor mingled with the scents of cooking clinging to the masses as they packed tighter. Biting her bottom lip to stave off nausea, she angled deeper until ten feet separated her from the edge of the platform.
She discerned the bristly fibers on the rope that would go around the blackguard’s neck. She fingered the carved hilt of the dagger she held in her right hand. Yes, her plan would work. If she’d been blind she would have known the scrolls and eddies in the metal hilt depicted a gryphon with ruby eyes and the words carved in Spanish on the blade itself read, For the glory and honor of God.
That was how long she’d plotted this event. That was how many times her fingertips had traced her father’s dagger as she’d planned, though how God’s glory and the slaughter of any man went together eluded her. She refused to spare an extra thought to the debate. It was for another time—once she’d completed her mission.
Sarah wet her lips, tasted dust, and pushed closer to the gallows. Softly, she cursed the limp that slowed her progress. There was little she could do about it. Fate had dealt her that blow at birth, but the pirate had dealt the more atrocious hand when he’d put her father and fiancé to death. She’d had no control over what fate had done to her, but in revenge, she had nothing but control.
She’d make certain the pirate perished today. For the deaths he’d brought her, there was no other recourse. The military officials might have the honor of hanging the man, but she held the guarantee he would be well and truly dead by the time she left. While the noose pulled tight around his straining neck, her blade would ensure his black heart would cease beating—her skill in throwing knives was unsurpassed in her set.
Amazing what odds and ends a girl picked up at boarding school. Oh if her father had known how she’d spent her time. Hardly pious or the model of a good Christian woman. Wouldn’t the instructors rush early to their morning prayers if they knew her intentions or her present situation?
Whether or not God would look favorably upon this action was not her worry. She’d given up caring about her path to heaven a long time ago. She’d had no choice when faced with what she was about to do. This morning, she would avenge the fallen. It was all she had left to live for. Afterward, she’d walk away. At the back of her mind, she knew if she were caught, she’d face the consequences without complaint.
Why should she care? She’d have completed her mission and she hadn’t thought about her life after killing the pirate. What was there for her to look forward to and what sort of life could she possibly adopt following such a violent deed?
As the sun sailed into an eight o’clock position, one of the doors in a side wall opened. A hush swept the crowd that now filled the courtyard to capacity. Sarah took a deep breath and let it softly out again. Thank God she wouldn’t need to wait long. She fixed her gaze on the platform. The men on top watched the door, as did everyone else assembled. Her heartbeat accelerated. Her palms began to sweat. She wiped them, one by one, on her skirt as she took deep breaths to regulate her pulse. Steady. This is what you want—what you deserve—for everything that man has done to you. Nodding, she focused on the men emerging.
Two Spanish officers led the pirate into the courtyard. From the tips of his scuffed black boots to the snug black trousers streaked with dust and straw to the dirty, plain muslin shirt he wore, this man—this pirate—exuded power. With a stiff, proud posture, he swaggered beside his escort. Even facing death, the man’s smug attitude hadn’t been quelled.
A rush of hot anger welled in her chest. How dare this man deport himself with such confidence and unconcern! He was a murderer. He should at least fear meeting his maker and judgment.
Yells of dislike mixed with support emanated from the assembled crowd.
“Let him swing!” yelled a man off to her left.
“Murderer!” called a woman to her right.
“Best the bastard English, pirate!” came from a male far behind her.
“You can come warm my bed, sweetie,” a woman purred nearby. “I’ll hide you.”
Sarah’s cheeks heated. Certainly, all men were the same in bed, so why choose a criminal to cavort with?
Having no answers, she focused on the grim scene. Since this was a Spanish-controlled hanging, there were no drumbeats or the usual pageantry that accompanied a British death march. St. Augustine was no stranger to both sorts of ceremony.
Hands and elbows jostled Sarah as trash and garbage were thrown in the pirate’s direction, but she stood firm, craning her neck for a better view. The three men led the procession. She counted seven, one being the hangman dressed all in black with a silk hood hiding his face and another being a priest in black robes with a Bible in hand. First, one officer mounted the stairs, followed by the pirate whose hands were bound behind his back, then the other officer, the hangman, and finally, the priest. Two regulars blocked the foot of the stairs. There would be no escape.
The crowd surged forward, buffeting Sarah further toward the front edge. Two burly men pressed into her back. As they planted their large selves at her sides, she remained in place even as she imagined the brush of their arms at her back and sides. A shiver of disgust racked her shoulders, but curiosity ran rampant. She pulled back the edge of the cloak’s hood in order to peek at them. The men resembled the pirate and were just as dirty. Were they part of his crew, or were they part of a rival crew sent to witness his demise? She didn’t want to know.
The sooner the deed was done, the sooner she would be free to leave. She now stood in the second row, so close the smell of cigars rolled off the honor guard, so close she caught the flash of defiance in the pirate’s eyes.
He looked across the crowd then down at her position. Their gazes locked. For the space of a few heartbeats she remained frozen in place, lost in his intensity. Stormy as an angry Atlantic, his eyes seemed to see into her soul, recognize her intentions and her hatred, and then just as surely, he dismissed her, a cold smile curling his lips. Cruelty flowed from him. Coupled with ire embodied by the stiff set of his broad shoulders as well as the hard set to his jaw and narrowed his eyes, he resembled the image of a god of rage. Lines of worry contradicted his expression of indifference.
What did he think ofbeing presented at such a crossroads? Did he wonder about his soul? Did he care? Given the chance, would he commit the heinous acts all over again?
He tugged at his bonds and flexed his shoulders. One of the guards growled an order for him to remain still.
Sarah kept her gaze on the pirate’s face while the Spanish man in charge asked the criminal basic questions.
“Name?”
“Captain Westerbrooke.” A sardonic curl to his upper lip accompanied the answer.
The Spanish officer narrowed his eyes. “Place of residence?”
“Wherever the wind and sea takes me.”
Snickers danced through the onlookers, but the official held up a hand for silence. “Home port?”
“You’re planning to kill me. Why does it matter where I hail from?” This time the pirate cocked an eyebrow, the very picture of arrogant rebellion.
“Dirty sea scum.” The Spanish man jerked his head in the direction of the noose. “String him up.”
The pirate inclined his head. “Ah, straight to the point. Lovely.” His messy, shoulder-length, dirty blond hair tossed about in the light breeze. He shook his head and the strands moved out of his eyes.
/>
Sarah frowned. Why did he seem so flippant when his death was imminent? What drove a man to kill strangers and rob them blind? Ruthlessness she understood. Hadn’t it brought her to this pass, but was there something more that motivated him? His livid gaze again connected with hers, and she trembled as cold fear plunged down her spine. This was a man not to be trifled with. This was a man as guilty as sin and not ashamed of it.
Without remorse, she hated this man. Yet at the same time, undeniable heat swirled low through her belly when he had the audacity to wink at her. The reaction confused her. She shouldn’t feel anything except disgust for such a person, but she couldn’t deny a certain attraction. In a different world, in other circumstances, would she have encouraged an introduction?
The man on her left bumped her elbow. “Look yer fill, miss. Ye ain’t never seen a more wily pirate. That gent has more lives than a cat, ‘e does, and enough magic to escape wit’ nary a scratch, ye’ll see.”
Sarah snorted, but refused to glance at the man. “If Providence or fate has a say, his neck will break swiftly before the church bells ring.”
And if I have mine, this blade will find his heart. She caressed the hilt’s butt with her thumb. The intricate design brought her comfort.
The man tugged at her hood and looked into her face. “I can see it in yer eyes, miss. Ye fancy ‘im.”
She stared straight ahead, refusing to respond to the bait, but her gaze crashed into that of the pirate’s again. What would it be like to experience an embrace from such a powerful, intense man? Would he be a ruthless lover, taking his pleasure, or did he, deep down in his black soul, harbor tender feelings that would translate to sharing in a carnal bed? A shiver hastened down her back as her thoughts swung the other way. Once a pirate, always a pirate. Men such as him don’t change no matter how exciting they may seem. “I don’t. I’d rather die than wish for a pirate’s touch, least of all his.”
One of the pirate’s eyebrows quirked, yet there was little chance he overheard her conversation with the other man.
