A Marriage of Equals

by Elizabeth Rolls

  But now all Will wanted was his bride. The woman who filled his life, his world and his heart with such joy and love that—

  The click of the bedroom door opening behind him had him slewing around in his seat to see... Very carefully he set the brandy—a wedding night gift from Hunt—on the wine table.

  Before he dropped it.

  Psyché glided towards him, hips swaying, confident and utterly alluring. All that wonderful, spiralling hair tumbled about her shoulders and her smile promised every earthly delight imaginable.

  ‘Do you like them?’

  God help him! The low, sultry voice was temptation incarnate. And like was an understatement. A very poor choice of word indeed. He was fairly sure there wasn’t a word in the entirety of the English language that would cover this. At least not one he could think of when every drop of blood had apparently drained into his breeches.

  In the lamplight her bronze skin glowed against the dusky, rose-pink chemise—the exact shade of the gown she had worn for their wedding—veiling her curves. She stroked one hand over matching drawers that skimmed long, slim legs. But the coup de grâce... She might as well have hit him in the head with a brick.

  ‘Ah...’ He fought for coherent words. ‘Are those my riding boots?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Her sultry smile lured him to insanity. ‘I never did get around to trying them on.’

  He rose from the chair. ‘Do they fit?’

  She came to him on a ripple of laughter. ‘Not really. But—’ a wicked glance assessed his state ‘—they do seem to have done the job.’

  He grinned, scooping his bride, his woman, up into his arms, boots and all. ‘I can assure you, that job was already accomplished.’

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this book, why not check out

  these other great reads by Elizabeth Rolls

  The Unruly Chaperon

  Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride

  Royal Weddings

  ‘A Princely Dilemma’

  And be sure to read her Lords at the Altar miniseries

  In Debt to the Earl

  His Convenient Marchioness

  Afterword

  People always ask, ‘Where do you get your ideas?’ Usually I just make something up, because I have literally no idea. But with this story I know exactly where it came from.

  Some time ago I fell down a virtual research rabbit hole and followed the River Fleet upstream to its source on Hampstead Heath in the grounds of Kenwood House, home of the First Earl of Mansfield. With an actual trip to London planned, I added Kenwood to my itinerary and started exploring the house and grounds online.

  Lord Mansfield was a familiar name, but I read the story of his Black illegitimate great-niece, Dido Elizabeth Belle. Fascinated, I started looking for more information.

  I found a fleeting reference to Dido in Hugh Thomas’s The Slave Trade, which has been on my shelves for over fifteen years. Scouring the internet, I found the biography Belle, by Paula Byrne, which accompanied the 2013 film of the same name, starring Gugu Mbatha-Raw in the title role.

  There is little direct information about Dido. She left no diary and she only appears, ghostlike, in various letters—sometimes snidely referenced by those who disapproved of her place in Mansfield’s home.

  Wanting to know more about her world, I looked deeper and found other sources on slavery and the Abolition movement of the late eighteenth century.

  On my trip to London I visited Kenwood House and looked back down the Heath to London and St Paul’s, as Will does in the story. I explored Soho with a friend, learning the streets where Psyché makes her life. I should note that by the time of this story coffee houses were nearly gone from London—The Phoenix Rising was possibly the last of its kind!

  Readers familiar with Dido’s story will realise the enormous debt I owe to her for the inspiration for this book. They will certainly recognise Kenwood House in my story, thinly disguised as Highwood, and notice other elements of Dido’s history that have made their way into Psyché’s tale—not least in the way Lord Staverton uses his will to ensure Psyché’s safety. Those are Lord Mansfield’s words.

  But this is not Dido’s story by any means. That is not a story I feel I have any right to tell. I did bring her portrait home from London in the form of a drink coaster, which I keep on my desk for my water glass—Dido and her cousin, Lady Elizabeth Murray, have been my constant companions in this telling.

  Slowly we are coming to see that London was never quite the homogenous society we imagined and perhaps now we are seeing further beneath the glitter and romance of the Regency period to some of the darkness that underpinned it. I hope that in telling a story that touches on this darkness, the brutal reality of slavery and its influence on society, readers will be encouraged to look further into how history continues to shape and inform our world today.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Rescued by Her Highland Soldier by Sarah Mallory.

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  Rescued by Her Highland Soldier

  by Sarah Mallory

  Chapter One

  May 1746

  The night sky was a gruesome mix of black and red. Behind him, the darkness was black as pitch, but from his hiding place beneath the gorse Grant could see the village, or what was left of it. He watched the angry flames leaping from the roofs and windows, and listened to the cries of the cottars, men, women and children, their screams cut short as the redcoats put them to the sword. Every one of them and without mercy.

  Grant felt the bile rise in his throat. He wanted to charge to the rescue, to use his broadsword to slash and kill the soldiers, but there were more than a dozen of them. He had learned a great deal about fighting in the past six months as he followed Charles Stuart into England and back again and he knew that to show himself now would be a futile gesture, he would be just one more body left to rot in the glen. One more victim of the Duke of Cumberland’s retribution. Keeping low, he turned and began to make his way back through the gorse and into the darkness. Better to live and fight another day.

  * * *

  Maddie opened her eyes and stared at the faded hangings around her bed. This was not the lodgings in Inverness that had been her home for the past twelve months, but that was not what caused her to feel uneasy. It was the unusual silence and stillness within the room.

  She pushed back the hangings and saw immediately that the truckle bed in the corner was empty. Slipping out of her own bed, she went over to it. The rumpled sheets were cold, suggesting that Edie, her maid, had left it some time ago. A quick glance showed her that the cloth bag Edie used for her possessions had gone, too. It was inevitable really. They were but three miles from Edie’s home and she should not be surprised that her maid had left and gone back to her family.

  Maddie dressed quickly and went downstairs, where she soon confirmed that the maid was not in the building. And she had taken the pony.

  ‘I remember her saying yester evening that she had family in this area,’ said the landlady, serving Maddie with her breakfast. ‘Perhaps she has gone a-visiting.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  It was unlikely, since the maid had left no word, but Madeleine wanted to believe it. She remained at the inn for as long as she dared, but at last she knew she must move on. The landlady looked concerned when Maddie asked to have her pony saddled.

  ‘You’ll never be riding off alone, mistress,’ she exclaimed, shocked. ‘It isn’t safe for ye, what with the redcoats everywhere.’

  ‘I have no choice,’ replied Madeleine. ‘I cannot go back to Inverness. Since the battle, the area has been crawling with redcoats. But neither can I sta
y here.’

  ‘No, that is true enough.’ The landlady sighed and gave her a pitying look. ‘Ye must move on, but it would be dangerous to use the road, for you are sure to meet soldiers if you do. There is an old track not half a mile from here that will take you across the hills to the next change house at Kildrummy. Young Robbie, the groom, will set you on your way.’

  * * *

  Two hours later Maddie bade farewell to the groom, tossed him a coin and turned her horse on to the barely discernible track. She was well aware that soldiers of Charles Stuart’s army who had escaped the carnage of Culloden might well be hiding in the hills, but she was sure they posed less of a threat than the marauding government troops who were terrorising the country.

  * * *

  It was growing dark by the time Grant arrived at the change house. A couple were standing outside and they watched his approach with anxious eyes. Not unexpected, he thought, in these troubled times. Any stranger was a threat, even one dressed as a gentleman—albeit a ragged one—in top boots, breeches and a riding jacket.

  When they would have turned away, he hailed them cheerfully.

  ‘Good day to you! Would you be the landlord, sir?’

  ‘Aye.’

  It was a cautious reply, but Grant was not deterred.

  ‘I wonder if I might get a little food here.’ He gave a shrug and a wry smile. ‘I would willingly work for my supper. I can clean out the stables, cut you some peat, or chop logs for your fire.’

  ‘I—’

  The man’s response was cut short by raised voices from inside the inn and the sound of smashing crockery. Grant’s brows rose.

  ‘That will be the soldiers.’ The landlord looked nervous. ‘Three of them.’

  ‘Ah. Then perhaps I should wait.’ He had barely finished speaking when a woman screamed.

  Without hesitating, Grant dragged out his sword. He pushed past the landlord and strode into the inn. A redcoat was in the narrow passageway, leaning against a closed door and drinking from a wine bottle. Grant quickly lowered his sword arm so the weapon was concealed by the skirts of his coat. The soldier spotted Grant and pushed himself upright, swaying slightly.

  ‘Try the taproom at the back of the house,’ he said, his words slurring together. ‘The parlour’s occupied. My friends are taking their pleasure.’ Another cry rang out and he bared his teeth in a lecherous grin, his hand going to his crotch. ‘I’ll be getting my turn next.’

  Grant came closer, smiling. ‘Lucky fellow.’

  The man never noticed the swinging sword hilt until it caught him squarely on the jaw. He reeled away, already unconscious, and Grant neatly caught the bottle as it fell from his hand. Pausing only to remove the fellow’s sword and drop it and the bottle out of sight behind a wooden bench, he stepped over the inert body and went into the parlour.

  He took in the scene in one glance: discarded red coats, swords and belts thrown over a chair, muskets resting against the wall by the door. One man slumped in a corner, a bloody handkerchief pressed to his head. A second soldier struggling with a woman, forcing her back over a table.

  Grant fell upon the attacker, dragging him off the woman and giving him a blow that sent him crashing to the floor, where he joined the plates and tankards already scattered there. The other soldier struggled to his feet, but Grant was standing, sword in hand, between him and the weapons.

  ‘You are wise to hesitate, I’d like nothing more than to run you through. You are a disgrace to your uniform. Damme, sir, if I was your commanding officer I would have you flogged!’

  Grant’s clipped English speech and natural authority had its effect—the man glared at him, sullen but wary. The other soldier was stirring and Grant nodded towards him.

  ‘Help your friend to his feet.’ He picked up the coats and tossed them across. ‘Here. You will find your guard in the passage, senseless with drink. Leave this place and take him with you.’

  ‘But we cannot leave without our arms,’ protested one.

  ‘You can take the muskets, nothing more.’

  The men looked at him, aghast.

  ‘No cartridges? We will be virtually unarmed!’

  ‘Aye, so you’d best rejoin your regiment with all speed,’ Grant replied coldly. ‘If you make it back alive, you may refer your commander to me, I am Colonel Rathmore of the Fourteenth. Now get out before I change my mind and kill you anyway.’

  Such was his assurance the men did not question him. They shambled out of the room and closed the door behind them. Grant listened to the sounds from the passage, then moved to the window, watching until he saw the men riding away. Only then did he turn his attention to the woman.

  She was still leaning against the table, but she had straightened her disordered gown and was currently engaged in retying the ribbon around her dusky curls. All the time she was watching him, her eyes wary. Deep blue eyes, he noted, like the colour of Loch Ardvarrick on a summer’s day.

  ‘Madam, are you hurt?’

  ‘I am not,’ she told him brusquely. She added, as an afterthought, ‘I am obliged to you.’

  ‘Pray think nothing of it,’ he said politely.

  ‘But it was three against one.’

  ‘Two,’ he corrected her, smiling a little. ‘You had already dealt with one rogue, had you not?’

  ‘I broke a water pitcher over his head.’

  ‘Good for you.’ He righted an upturned chair and set it before her. ‘You are very pale. Understandably so, in the circumstances. Will you not sit down and I will fetch you a glass of wine?’

  ‘I do not think—’

  ‘You need not be fearing they will return for a while,’ he interrupted her. ‘It will take them some time to reach their quarters and even more to discover I duped them.’

  His voice had slipped back into a softer, Highland lilt and she frowned at him.

  ‘You are not Colonel Rathmore?’

  ‘I am not even an Englishman.’ Grant shrugged. ‘Well, my grandmother was English, but I hold no affinity with that country. I was not sure they would believe me, but they are young and inexperienced.’

  ‘They were also vilely drunk!’

  ‘Yes, which made it easier to overpower them.’ He said again, ‘Will you not sit down, madam?’

  Madeleine hesitated. The terror was fading and this man, rough as he looked, spoke gently. His face was covered with thick, dark stubble, suggesting it had not seen a razor for some time, but that was not unusual. Mayhap he was an honest traveller, although in her experience, there were precious few of those around.

  At that moment he intercepted her appraising look and smiled. For the first time she noticed the golden flecks in his deep brown eyes and she could see only kindness and concern in his face. Madeleine wanted to trust him and decided to do so, at least, for the moment. She perched herself on the edge of the chair.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I will find our host and tell him to bring in some wine.’

  When he had left the room she felt a slight resurgence of fear and crossed her arms tightly, willing herself not to tremble. Her gown was not torn, but she could still feel the soldiers’ hands scrabbling at her bodice and dragging up her skirts. She felt dirty, unclean, but the thought of bathing was inconceivable. She had no maid, no one to guard her door. She was very much alone.

  Her thoughts went back to her rescuer. He had seen off her attackers, but to what purpose? It was a month since the government troops had routed the Jacobite army and the land was crawling with soldiers, both hunters and the hunted. The victorious army was scouring the land, pursuing their enemy with a ferocity that left everyone in fear of their lives. No one was safe, as she had discovered.

  She flinched as the door opened.

  ‘I beg your pardon—did I startle you?’ The man came in carrying a bottle and two glasses. ‘I thought it would be quicker to brin
g these myself. The landlord has set the tap boy and stable hands to keep watch, just in case our friends should return.’

  ‘Are you sure he is not in league with them?’ she replied, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. ‘He did nothing to help me.’

  ‘The poor man was terrified. He was afraid for his wife and children, too.’ He filled the glasses and handed one to her. ‘They are trying to make up for it now and are busy in the kitchens, organising dinner for you.’

  ‘For me?’ She watched him over the rim of her glass. ‘And what of you, sir, do you not eat?’

  ‘Later, perhaps.’ She did not miss his slight hesitation, the way his hand flattened against his coat pocket. Could it be he had no money?

  ‘You might dine in here,’ she suggested.

  He shook his head. ‘This is a private parlour and you have hired it.’

  ‘That is so, but after the service you have rendered me, the least I can do is to buy you dinner.’ When he hesitated, she added, ‘I should be grateful, too. I would rather not eat alone tonight.’

  ‘Very well, I shall accept your offer and thank you for it, ma’am.’ He glanced around, his mouth twisting. ‘The landlord has promised to send the maid in before too long. She will clear up the room and prepare the table.’

  ‘Good. We may tell her then to set another place for you. In the meantime, perhaps you, too, will take a chair.’ She waved him to a seat. ‘I should like to know to whom I am indebted?’

  ‘I am Grant Rathmore, ma’am, of Ardvarrick, but there is no debt.’

  ‘You are very kind, Mr Rathmore.’

  ‘I am also curious,’ he said bluntly. ‘I should like to know what you are doing here, alone and unaccompanied.’