The Bastard’s Iberian Bride
Alina K. Field
Havenlock Press
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Afterword
The Marquess and the Midwife
Liliana’s Letter
Bella’s Band
Rosalyn’s Ring
About the Author
DEDICATION
to Betsy,
the best, biggest-hearted sister ever
IBERIA, a name given by the generality of Greek writers to Spain, either from a colony of Iberians, a people bordering on mount Caucasus, planted there; or from the river Iberus, the Ebro of the moderns, one of the most famous rivers of this country.
--The Cyclopaedia; Or, Universal Dictionary of Arts, Sciences, and Literature
Daughter of spies
For a chance at true freedom, Paulette Heardwyn needs the fortune left by her inscrutable father. But she doesn’t know what it is, where it is, or how to find it, and the only man with answers, the Earl of Shaldon, takes his secrets to the grave. Worse, the dead earl tries to force her marriage to his bastard son—and leaves her prey to a traitor seeking the same treasure she’s after.
Soldier, Steward, Bastard
Bink Gibson is ready to throw off his quiet life as steward to his old commander and head for India and the chance of prosperity. But before he can leave he’s summoned to the deathbed of the Earl of Shaldon, a meddling spymaster, a complete stranger…and his father.
And the Earl has set a trap Bink will never be able to resist.
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Chapter 1
August, 1819
The Earl of Shaldon would have glorious weather for dying.
And after so many hours in the saddle, Bink Gibson would have a sore on his arse the size of Yorkshire if he didn’t reach Cransdall Hall soon.
Horizontal rays of late summer sun pierced the foliage and raised a lather on the horse’s neck, and his own. He pulled his hat low, dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at the back of his neck.
Devil take the Earl. He didn’t need Bink’s presence for his passing. Let him die in his bed with the men who’d stood by him in life.
Bink had never had a taste for death, not even when he’d been slashing his way through the muck, and blood, and smoke of the Iberian Peninsula. And this dying…
He took a deep breath and quelled his uneasiness. God’s truth, he wished he’d ignored this summons also.
His mount snorted.
“Stop your complaining,” he said. “You’ll have your rub-down soon, lad, in the Shaldon stables. Aye, with the finest of feed, and great aristocrat neighbors nipping at you.”
While his great bloody self was led into the grand palace for what was sure to be another let-down.
A low growl emerged from his midsection. He hadn’t stopped for a meal, though God only knew why not. He was in no rush for this deathbed acknowledgement, and it was well past even the town dinner hour.
Twenty-odd years ago, all hope of meeting Shaldon had been crushed by some Frog crisis on the other side of the channel. The time since had been filled with plenty of men’s pleas for their mothers and laments about disappointments.
Last year had been Zebediah Gibson’s, may he rot at his destination.
Bink gritted his teeth and touched a heel to his mount. Best get this over with. Best ignore the ambivalence stuffing his empty belly. Best be done and get on with his plans for India.
“Paulette.”
The gelding’s ears twitched and Bink straightened. He’d heard it too—a feminine voice, raised in what sounded like anger.
At the bend in the road, he spotted a faded black and yellow dog cart obstructing the way like a downed bumblebee.
“Paulette. I’m famished and sweltering. I cannot abide another hour of this heat.” A woman sprawled in the driver’s perch, directing her complaints forward.
The two wheels of the cart appeared to be whole and moveable and a large cob stood peaceably in his traces. If his name was Paulette, someone had a strange sense of humor.
A rustle in the brush drew Bink’s hand to his pistol.
“Sure and it’s summat about here.” Another female voice, this one disembodied, floated up. “T’was that last rut made it fly off.”
He eased out a breath. Nothing but women here, of course. Only the stupidest of highwaymen would lurk on the road to the Spy Lord’s estate.
“Leave it,” the harpy called over her shoulder. “It’s sure to be broken in pieces anyway, and I’ll die from hunger or this heat if I must sit here much longer.”
She unfurled a fan and set a vigorous pace, while he swallowed a chuckle. A lack of food would not take her any time soon, and if the heat did, at least she’d be silent.
“We’ll find it, missus,” the bush woman said. “T’won’t take but a minute.”
A large harrumph rumbled over the cob’s back.
An angry mistress and her clumsy servant—well, and wouldn’t he rather cross swords with the first and help out the other than stand by a bedside wringing his big stupid hands?
He cleared his throat. “May I be of assistance?”
Silence fell. The shrew’s head swiveled, puffy cheeks framing an open mouth. The bushes parted and a plump, plainly clad woman popped through.
“Did you lose a trunk then?” he asked.
“It’s here.” Another woman shouted from the trees. “Come help me.”
“Wait here.” His command stayed the maid. Nerves prickling, he dismounted, handed her the reins, and pushed back a veil of branches.
A few yards down the sharp slope, a woman straightened into the only beam of light filtering through the thicket.
Bink’s breath hitched. Young she was, but no man who’d gone without as long as he had would miss the plump breasts or the rounded bottom under dusty skirts. No man who’d spent as much time on the Iberian Peninsula as he had would miss the eyes, dark as black olives, skin the color of the sand at La Coruña. Dark curls fought to escape her loose bonnet, and when she lifted her chin, her mouth clamped shut, but not before he’d seen the pure white of her teeth.
The air buzzed and his vision fogged. Many such girls had crossed his path during his time in hell. No matter the state of his own sorry self, his desperation had been no match for theirs. He’d come close to bedding a few—except, the Duke’s proclivity for hanging men who strayed with the locals had been a powerful deterrent for any poor foot wabbler who could manage to think with the head on his shoulders.
The French command hadn’t had such scruples. He’d seen a few such girls after the chasseurs had got through with them.
He blinked, chasing the nightmares away. “Troubles, miss?”
Her gaze narrowed and the corners of her full lips turned down. “Are we blocking the road, sir? Surely there is plenty of room for
you to go round us.”
A haughty bit, then, well-spoken, but from the state of that yellow cart, not an aristocrat, he’d wager. Not the older woman’s servant, either. Impoverished gentry, he’d guess.
Three women in a dog cart on a road that was not a main thoroughfare. An old scold, a maid, and this snappish young miss. And no man to journey with them, during a time when England was abuzz with dangerous, unhappy laborers.
They’d be locals, surely, and when he was through with his duty, he’d give whatever man was responsible for them a piece of his mind.
“There’s plenty of room for me to stop and rescue a lady in distress.” He sidled down the embankment drawing closer.
The sharp chin eased higher. “I don’t need rescuing.”
He glanced around. “Now, where is this item you’ve lost and found?”
“There really is no need. My maid can help me.”
“She’s minding my horse.”
Her eyes lifted as he neared, and her scent rose to greet him, some mixture of florals and woman. Blood-stirring it was. Far more enticing then the odor of death awaiting him at Cransdall.
“Has it fallen then into that brook below?”
“What brook?” Her frown slipped lower, and she tipped her head. “Oh, bother. No, it hasn’t.”
“Lucky, that. Well, then.” He scanned the brush again. “Point me to it and I’ll retrieve it for you.”
Paulette Silva Heardwyn fisted her skirts and tried to beat down her chattering heart.
The man was as tall, and as broad, and as ruddy as some wandering Highlander from one of Scott’s stories, yet there’d been no tell-tale Scots accent to his words. His speech, his grooming, even his boots, were proper and gentlemanly.
The glint in his eye was not, nor was the quiver she saw about his lips.
But, tall—he was that. She glanced up at the thick clutch of box tree branches, and his eyes followed hers.
“That’s quite the tallest box bush I’ve ever seen,” he said. “And is that wee brown box lodged in it yours?”
She winced. The wee brown box was precious to her. It had bounced from Mabel’s arms onto the road, down the embankment, and into this great bloody bush that years of wind had tilted more than an arm’s reach away from the slope. And, blast it all, she wasn’t going to leave it.
“It’s my writing case. My lap desk,” she said. “I quite need it back.”
“Your wee box popped out of the cart box, into the box tree, did it?”
Annoyance sparked in her, and the upturn of his lips made it flare higher. He stepped around her.
The scent of soap and horses curled around the warmth rising in her. While he gazed up at the tangle of branches, her eyes fixed on the broad shoulders rippling under dark coats.
She shook off her fluttering. He was a great bloody ox dressed up in fine clothing, this man. That was all.
“My maid was holding it.” There’d been no more room in the cart’s box after Paulette and Mabel’s small cases and all of Mrs. Everly’s trunks.
“She was careless.”
“And how would you know? It wasn’t her fault. We hit a great rut.” A great rut that roused the dozing Mrs. Everly, knocking her into poor Mabel.
His gaze sent her skin squirming, raising the heat in her up a notch.
He wasn’t handsome, exactly, not like the smith’s new apprentice, or the poetically thin dancing master who came round the neighborhood for lessons, or even like Lord Bakeley, who Mabel had ridiculously mooned over on their only visit to Cransdall a few years before.
When he smiled, he cracked a few lines around his eyes, though she’d swear this man was no more than a few years older than her own self. The sun wore on freckled skin, Mabel always said, and wasn’t it true in his case. Lucky he was born male—the wrinkles only made him look rugged.
“And just how were you planning to have your maid help you get it down?”
More irritation welled in her. “I could shake the tree and Mabel could catch it.”
“She might miss it entirely, or fumble it, and plop it right into the brook.”
If there was truly a brook. “I don’t see water.”
“But you hear it.”
Grrr. She’d only noticed the sound when he’d mentioned it.
“Or it might hit the ground and crack all to pieces.” He turned his gaze back to the box. “And there’s no shimmying up that tree without taking an axe to the branches.” He sidled lower and reached a hand.
Her breath caught. He was only a bit short of the mark. On horseback even she could reach—but she wouldn’t risk any horse on this slope, and certainly not Horace. And then there would be the time wasted unhitching and hitching—
“Paulette.” Mrs Everly’s screech pierced through the thicket, bouncing off rocks, drowning the sough of the summer breeze.
Nerves itching, she looked up. The writing case was the one thing she had of the man she couldn’t remember. She wouldn’t lose it to a brook or her companion’s impatience, or her own rush to get where she must go.
“Well?” he asked.
In spite of the heat, a shiver went through her.
She straightened her shoulders. She wouldn’t lose that lap desk to fear either.
“Fine, then.” She’d let him help her.
His steady gaze sent her heart pounding like the beat of a downpour. Who was he? She didn’t even know his name.
He crossed his thick arms and her breath eased. The man could hold her down with one finger and do the terrible things Mrs Everly always alluded to but never truly described. Yet he hadn’t really flirted. He hadn’t grabbed at her. He hadn’t as much as stared at her bosom.
She took a deep breath. “You could boost me.”
His lips lifted into a full grin.
She took a step back, and he frowned.
“You’ve naught to fear, miss.” His jaw tightened. “I’ve never hurt a woman, and I won’t start with it now.”
“Paulette. Leave it Paulette.”
“Not even that woman,” he muttered. He shed his gloves and coat and tossed his hat atop them.
She gasped. “I’ve never seen hair quite that—”
“Red. Yes.” Color rose in his cheeks, but his eyes looked merry. “Now,” he linked his fingers and leaned down. “Step up. I’ll not need to touch more than the wee soles of your boots, though you may wish to steady a hand against my shoulder.”
She swiped at a bead of sweat on her lip. “Shall you put on your gloves?”
“Have you stepped in sh…manure?”
“Of course not.”
“Well then, my hands will clean up quicker than gloves.” He raised an eyebrow.
She eased in a breath. She must get back Papa’s case, and she must get to her destination. Both were important. Both were parts of the mystery that held the key to her future. And even if this man were to touch her improperly, what did it matter? No one would see.
What would Mama have done in her glory years?
His gaze caught her dithering and sent her blood higher.
“Well, and perhaps I can boost your maid instead.”
“My maid?” Mabel might well drop the box all the way into the brook just to have more of this man’s attention. “Right, then.” Nerves jangling, she lifted the skirt of her brown traveling gown and set a foot onto hands as firm as a granite stepping stone.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Put a hand to my shoulder and steady yourself.”
She flexed her knee, reached for him, and he propelled her high. Her other foot groped for his cupped hands, her fingers landed in handfuls of thick hair, and she wobbled against him.
“Steady, then,” he said, his voice muffled.
A gasp escaped her. He’d buried his face in her skirts at a level that sent damp heat washing through her.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked.
She wiggled and almost toppled.
A large hand clapped against her bottom. “Stop m
oving. I’ve got you.”
The words vibrated through her most private parts. Heat sparked in her everywhere, turning her brain to mush.
“I see it,” Mabel shouted. “Don’t drop her, sir. A bit to your right and she’s got it.”
He shifted a foot sideways, and Paulette gasped, cupping his ears.
They were big ears, on a big, thatch-haired head.
Her heart lurched, and she wobbled again.
“Hold on,” Mabel shouted. “A bit more t’other way.”
“Quiet, Mabel. Blast it, will you stop moving, sir?”
She bit back more oaths and caught her breath. The bank fell away to a tumble of leaves below, but just above her and a bit to the side, the wooden box nestled, looking secure.
It was not secure. She knew that. One slight nudge, one shift in her rescuer’s stance, one wobble on her part, and it would slide from her hands and she would lose her father forever.
He took a step and she swayed. His hand squeezed her bottom again.
Raw heat surged through her, and she shivered. “Stop moving.” She gritted her teeth. “And stop squeezing me.”
“And you stop wobbling,” he grumbled.
She tilted again and shrieked. “Don’t drop me, you nodcock.”
“Nodcock?” he mumbled into her skirts. “Reach for it. I’ve got you.”
She glanced down. His legs were like tree trunks. His head was as thick as a boulder. He was solid.
Breath rasping, she looked around. From this better view, she could see where the slope fell off sharply. A tumble—her own or the lap desk’s—would dash either to pieces.
She bit her lip, stretched her arms to their full length, slid the case from its nest, and handed it down to a grinning Mabel.
“I won’t drop it again,” Mabel said. “I can’t speak for the gentleman and you.”
His hand was still burning her backside.
“Don’t worry,” he mumbled.
In a heartbeat, he flipped her into his arms and set her onto her feet. She staggered and caught at a sapling.
The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1) Page 1
