Table of Contents
Dedication
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
Author’s Notes
About the Author
Discover more Amara titles… The Wicked Viscount
What a Scot Wants
The Marquess and the Maiden
How to Train Your Baron
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Vanessa Riley. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 105, PMB 159
Fort Collins, CO 80525
[email protected]
Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Erin Molta
Cover model design by Teresa Spreckelmeyer with Midnight Muse
Cover art design by Bree Archer
Cover photography by Period Images
amoklv/Deposit Photos
ISBN 978-1-64063-847-1
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition August 2019
Dear Reader,
Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.
xoxo
Liz Pelletier, Publisher
I dedicate this book to my friends, the ones who’ve walked a journey in which your steps were challenged, your truths questioned, and your hearts broken. Know that you are loved and heard. It is my hope that the fire in your spirits has burned away the dross and exposed the gold.
To Christine and Anita, you are heard.
Though Ruth’s journey is told with sensitivity and respect, it may have emotional triggers.
Lastly, I dedicate this book to my beloved editor, Erin, and my inner matriarchal voice, Sarah M.
I admire you both so much.
Chapter One
October 4, 1818, Gretna Green, Scotland
The words between my Adam and the innkeeper left me shaking.
Get your bed wench out of here.
A chemise slipping from my shoulder exposed our so-called sin.
How dare you bring a whore to my good establishment!
The hate echoed in my head, rattling and shaking my conscience.
I was frozen.
Torn between fleeing and defending my love, I settled for hiding with blankets at my chin.
How could that horrible man reduce my vows said before God to something illicit and tawdry?
Plink. Plink. Scatter.
Coins dropped to the floor.
My hearing was sharp, sharper than my sight, and I could picture Adam throwing pence to prove a point.
Didn’t he know points stabbed?
Even a rich man’s son could be killed.
Adam came back inside our room and slammed the door. “My love, we must leave. Ruthy, we have to be on the road sooner than I wanted.”
His voice was calm, like nothing had happened. He finished dressing, tied his perfect cravat, and leaned over the mattress, kissing my nose.
But I knew Adam.
He seethed.
He prayed and called for blessings but could curse like a hot-headed sailor.
My love’s cheeks were red, flushed with anger, and he kept clenching and unfurling his fingers as if he’d fight the next person who crossed his path.
“I adore you, my Ruth.”
My husband’s voice—perfection. So sweet to my ears, if a masculine sound could be called sweet. I couldn’t think when he whispered my name.
“Ruthy, my love, I’m going to the stables.”
I pressed my hand to my middle and pushed hard on my stomach to squash the wiggles and tingles inside.
“Wait here for me.”
“No, I must come with you,” I begged to stay at his side.
“No, my Ruthy. Another time you’ll get what you want. But this is for your safety. My wife must stay safe.”
Mesmerized, I nodded. His power over me was complete. He took his gold cross from his neck and put it about mine. “So, you won’t forget me while you dress.”
The trance ended when he turned and reached for the door latch.
“Don’t, Adam. Don’t do anything rash.” I wanted to say stupid, don’t do anything stupid, but that would push him into trouble. His hot temper surpassed mine when he thought I suffered.
“I won’t, Ruthy. I won’t be long.”
Fingering the cross, I decided to try one more time to keep him. I feared that I’d never see him again if he left this room. My hands came together, palms flat and pointing up toward him. “Adam, please stay. Let me dress and come with you. I don’t want us apart.”
“I’ll be back for you when our carriage is ready. My wife is not waiting in the cold.” He came back and kissed my forehead like a reward for a good girl.
But I was his girl. And he was all mine.
Tossing me a wink, Adam slipped to the door again. “I’ll be back soon, to help you lace up your corset and anything else I had a hand in removing.”
My husband loved his jokes, but his jaw was stiff. His face remained beet red. Anger would eat him up.
The door closed with a thud. The lock clicked.
I was alone.
I climbed out of bed and found my shoes. Low boots with hard soles were better than bare feet when running for your life.
I paced around the smallish mattress of the rented room. The bedclothes he’d tossed off when the innkeeper had pounded on the door lay here and there. A pillow flopped half against the bedpost.
It looked like a struggle, where a volatile argument had occurred, not an abandoned lovers’ nest.
The floorboards creaking under my shifting weight made my heart race.
I stopped, grabbed the pine footboard, and tried to breathe.
My ears perked to the footsteps outside my door.
I waited.
I suffered.
I kept watching the door that didn’t open.
The pounding in my head grew so loud I saw stars and could almost envision Adam coming across the threshold. But I knew that was my fear twisting up my insides.
The vengeful innkeeper had given us an hour to leave. That time couldn’t be up, not yet. Adam hadn’
t returned.
My only possessions—a balled-up dress, a nightgown, a silver brush—I tossed into my trunk. I should lock it up, close the metal clasps, but I wasn’t done in this room and wanted to leave the way I came, on my husband’s arm
I picked up my pearls from the bed table. The smooth beads felt cold in my sweating palm. Five days ago, I’d worn them for Adam as we’d married with the anvil priest.
Adam had beamed at me with a wide lazy smile as he had tonight, before the knock upon our door.
The pearls.
The pearls were now slippery in my hand. I tossed them into the trunk before they fell and burst apart. Papa had given them to me for my birthday, something to wear for my coming-out. Or for a wedding to a groom he’d choose.
My concerns for my parents pressed. I pictured Mama rocking, blank faced, in a chair, fearing her wild child was lost to the streets. Gone a fortnight, traveling from London to Scotland and only now heading back—I must be dead to them. Surely, they think me killed, even slaughtered like my uncle.
Adam had persuaded me to send no note. He’d said it was too risky then had smothered my complaints in a kiss. That silver-tongued devil could convince me the world was flat, that I was the Queen of England. One look at me with his deep-gray, almost black, eyes would send me spinning. He wove sweet words about me—I was better than Papa’s silk—and I became boneless and agreeable and not myself.
I pounded the footboard with my palm. I was Mama’s wild child, at nineteen, her oldest. I had caused such trouble—breaking curfew, sneaking out, running from chaperones.
I sank onto the bed, trying to stop my sobs.
A full minute I sat before I couldn’t bear it and leaped up.
Sitting on sheets that had lost the warmth of Adam’s body but teased the scent of his Bay Rum cologne ripped everything wide open.
I didn’t know who owned these tears—Mama, Adam, or me?
I had to get out of this room that now felt too big and empty.
Over my corset and chemise, I yanked on my favorite dress. I buttoned it fast and crazy, missing hooks and holes. There wasn’t time to fix it, so I hid the uneven placard under my shawl.
This, my wedding gown, should be worn with care. Fragile, soft silk, colored in primrose yellow, I’d worn it with pride when I’d become Mrs. Adam Wilky.
Fussing and cussing sounded outside my door. Maybe the innkeeper had found another couple to evict.
I’d wait until the corridor cleared, and then I’d leave.
Quiet. No footsteps. No creaking floorboards.
Locking my heavy trunk, I then struggled with it, and walked out of the room.
I held my breath, tiptoeing with my head up.
Soon I was halfway to the stairwell, too far to turn back. My boldness and pride kept me from retreating. I shifted the trunk and mumbled that I was resilient. I was a Croome as much as a Wilky. That should mean I possessed strength like my papa and shrewdness like Mama.
But I was alone, and none of these notions seemed to stick, not when someone had cursed at me and wished me dead.
Resting for a moment, I brushed at the creases in my dress.
Mama’s hot scolds about lazy bones admonished my soul. The spring muslin gown should’ve been folded, placed with its bodice lines straight on the chair, not tossed with lover’s abandon, without thought or care.
I laughed, a gut-wrenching chuckle. Fleeing for my life had fashionable consequences.
Come on, Ruthy, I said to myself, modeling Adam’s way of keeping me calm. We were only a half day’s travel to London. A few more hours and we’d be at Nineteen Fournier to face my parents. The grief I’d caused shifted through my brainbox, raising questions I didn’t want to think about.
Did we rush to elope?
Had we found love too fast?
Would this passion last?
Yes.
Moonlight streamed through an open window. I headed toward it like a moth, swinging my heavy trunk. I peeked out the glass to get a glimpse of Adam or the carriage.
Nothing.
The light of the stars made the silver band on my finger sparkle. Pride cut through the confusion in my bosom. I am Mrs. Adam Wilky, the wife of a man who understands me better than any. He is worth it. I just need to find him.
I forced my chin to lift, forced my limbs to move, forced myself to believe I’d soon be safe in my husband’s arms.
Meow.
Glowing slit eyes crossed my path.
I ran. The heaviness of my trunk jerked my shoulders. Blinking, I turned the corner and saw nothingness, especially nothing soft or furry or as scared as me.
My sight wasn’t normally bad, but thick-rimmed reading spectacles like Papa’s would someday be mine.
Finally, finally, finally—I found the stairwell, dashed inside, and hid in its blackness.
Back flat against a wall, I filled my lungs and waited.
My breath caught in my throat, and I hugged my trunk as if it were Adam. He’d told me to wait, that he’d come back for me, but my heart was about to tear apart. I was afraid I’d never see him again.
Never.
Never ever were we to part.
Sweat dripped down my neck. My hastily done chignon fell. It was frizzy and damp on my neck. I couldn’t fix it now. I needed Adam.
Counting my steps, I made it to the bottom of the stairs. Ten paces more and I was out the door. I held my breath again. No carriage.
I set the trunk down by my foot. Though small, the thing was heavy, very odd for a leather-skinned box holding so few items.
Cupping my hand to my face, I hunted for my love.
I saw nothing but road and fence.
Oh Lord, had he left?
I prayed with hands folded in front, fingers pressed high, eyes shut tight, like a good girl who hadn’t broken a commandment, defying her parents, one who hadn’t lied about going to Mrs. Carter’s for tea. She was one of Mama’s closest friends. Maybe they comforted each other.
“Where are you, Adam?”
He’d never leave me, not by choice.
Stories of his family’s treachery slammed into my chest. All the air fled. I forced my breath in and out and tapped my foot to this rhythm then leaned out and looked from side to side.
Nothing.
No one.
No Adam.
Every cloak-and-dagger meeting by the dock, near my father’s warehouse, swept into my head, the motion roaring, swinging my balance like a fiddler’s reel.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Every whispered conversation swirled.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Adam’s walk, his smile, swam past my eyes.
He’d said his uncle was after him.
I’d thought it was a joke. Something that added to the mystery of him.
Had evil come and taken my husband?
Why did Adam have to be digging into his uncle’s business, nosing about stuff that could get him killed? He could be slaughtered, like my uncle.
Papa’s brother had been murdered for being too black and building his business in areas where my people weren’t supposed to be. A bloodied jacket was all that had ever been discovered.
I’d found it balled up on the steps like he was nobody and nothing to this world.
That couldn’t be Adam’s fate, a bludgeoned cape that would haunt my mind forever. It would remind me of his walk, that swagger, draped in ebony velvet. The best time of my life had been loving him.
I looked down at my trembling hands.
My whole arm vibrated. I couldn’t control it.
I was lost.
The panic that stalked my thoughts covered me, catching me in a fine fabric mesh. It was too wide. No seams to split. No way out.
Fear for the man I loved did me in.
I started sinking.
No way out.
No escape.
I tipped over.
Chapter Two
A Bride’s Heaven
“I have you, Ruth. I have you.”
“Breathe, Ruthy, breathe.”
Adam’s voice.
He’d found me, brought me from that gray place, not quite awake, not quite able to say anything. A place I’d visited more and more since finding Uncle’s coat. When would my nerves surrender to my boldness? I wasn’t this fragile, was I?
“It’s fine, my Ruthy. I know the innkeeper scared you.”
His voice touched my heart, cutting through my confusion.
I squinted and saw it was him. Tall, thin him.
He was a beanpole with arms—my beanpole.
Strong, pulse-racing tight, he held me. Who knew his embrace could offer the comfort of a warrior king like that hero in the Iliad…or was it the Odyssey—one of those poems he loved to read?
Peace settled upon me, and I let brave me return his embrace, no shyness, not even in front of his driver.
Adam, my Adam, was here.
“Ruthy, I told you to wait. My queen doesn’t lift her own trunk.”
His voice sounded like a song saying my name. His pitch, a smidge lower than alto, sweet-talked the remaining shadows from my mind. He was good at convincing my fears and good sense to flee.
With my arm locked in his, Adam scooped up my trunk like it was paper and headed me around the corner.
One low star centered above my husband’s carriage.
Husband.
I could breathe.
I could dance.
I could sing with gratitude for my husband. The innkeeper was horrid, the room terrible, but my Adam was wonderful. “Can’t wait to introduce you to my parents.”
Adam offered a small smile, his I’m-not-so-convinced smile, his let-me-change-your-mind smile, then moved to the yawning driver.
It was horrible this man didn’t get sleep, either.
Adam came toward me. We’d literally been kicked out of this inn, and this man here, moved with the swagger of a prince.
His boots shined. A perfectly tailored coat hung beneath that cape. My prince.
I put a hand to his lapel and fingered the daisy he’d found and put in a buttonhole. “You took so long. Picking flowers?”
My nose wrinkled, though I loved the fresh scent of daisies almost as much as his tangy cologne.
“Well, they are your favorite.”
Like the gentleman he was, he bowed and kissed my hand. “Why is my wife so nervous?”
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