by Robyn DeHart
“So that you could leave,” he said. “She wouldn’t create concern with my guards.”
“That is precisely what I was thinking,” she said. “I had no choice, Jason. I couldn’t allow them to hurt you. I’m sorry I made you marry me.”
“You did nothing wrong, love,” he said.
A chill breezed past them, and Jason caught sight of movement behind Isabel. He primed himself, ready to fight as best he could in his current position, but realized he had seen only a flapping piece of cloth, a window covering.
“A window,” he whispered.
She raced over to see if she could reach it. Her arm stretched up, and she could reach it standing on the tips of her toes. “It is already open,” she whispered.
He motioned her back to his side. “We are directly next door to Potterfield’s townhome. He’s the former leader of the Brotherhood, and his wife will know how to contact Lords Somersby and Lynford. Do you think you can climb out? Maybe you could reach it with that chair.”
She followed his gaze, then nodded. “Of course.” She bit down on her lip. “I don’t want to leave you here alone.”
He shook his head. “There is no need to worry about me, but we haven’t much time. You must get out and get word to the rest of the Brotherhood.”
She took a deep breath. “I suppose it is time for me to make use of all the training I did on the rope in your room,” she said with a smile.
“Isabel, when you get outside, I need you to make certain the house you go to has a number twelve and a red door. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
She moved the chair over to the wall to better reach the window, and something bumped the heavy door. The men were returning.
“Go now!” Jason said. He pulled himself to his feet even though he hurt everywhere. Blakely’s thugs had obviously hit him in other places besides just his head.
“If I’m gone, they have no reason to keep you alive. They intend to make me a widow,” she said.
“I know that. You let me worry about keeping myself alive. Our best chance is for you to go get help.”
The door swung open, and a large man came in. He caught sight of Jason standing and Isabel on the chair at the window.
“I’ll kill him,” he roared as he faced Jason. The man slammed a fist into Jason’s stomach, and he doubled over in pain.
“Go, Isabel, now.”
She took one final look at him, then jumped and grabbed onto the elevated window ledge. Balancing her hips against the ledge, she brought one knee up, then the other, and launched herself out the window.
The last thing Jason saw was her skirts snagging on something as she jumped free. Potterfield’s wife would know what to do. The man struck Jason again and again. Blood pooled into his eyes, and his remaining thought before he blacked out was that at least Isabel was out safely.
…
Isabel ran as swiftly as she could to the adjacent house and was relieved when she saw the number twelve next to the red door. She knew some of the men were following her; she could hear them shouting. She banged loudly on the door.
“Over here!” one man yelled from not too far away.
Again, she banged on the door. It opened and she found herself facing the barrel of a gun. Instinctively she held up her arms. “I’m Lady Ellis. My husband is with the Brotherhood. He needs help.”
A hand reached out, grabbed her, and pulled her into the house. The door slammed behind them.
Isabel’s heart pounded so fiercely, she could hear it in her ears. She realized the person holding the weapon was a woman about her size, although at least two decades her senior.
“Mrs. Potterfield?” Isabel asked.
The woman nodded as she bolted the door. She rang for a servant and gave explicit instructions to send word to Somersby, Lynford, and several other names Isabel thought she recognized. She tried to calm her breathing. Jason would be saved. Those men, his friends and colleagues, they would not allow anything to happen to him. But they didn’t even know where Jason was. Not yet. They might not get here in time.
“Come this way,” Mrs. Potterfield said.
Isabel followed her down the wood-paneled corridor. They entered a door on the right. It was a typical gentleman’s study, boasting a large desk and a few shelves. But instead of books, the shelves were lined with a myriad of weapons.
“My husband is a collector. Was,” she corrected herself. “I am still getting accustomed to the fact that he is gone.” Her eyes grew misty, but the older woman did not cry.
“I’m sorry for his passing,” Isabel said.
“He died doing what he loved. He was a hero to this country,” Mrs. Potterfield said, pride radiating off her petite frame.
“Yes, he was.”
“I know your husband. Have since he was straight out of the schoolroom.” Mrs. Potterfield smiled. “He’s smart and strong. He shall survive.”
Although Isabel believed the woman’s sincerity, the words did little to calm her. She glanced around the room. The weaponry ranged from daggers to pistols to swords to a fencing foil. Isabel’s throat tightened. She didn’t think she could be one of those wives who sat at home and waited for notice that her husband had been killed. Especially not because of her.
She grabbed the foil and ran out of the room with Mrs. Potterfield calling her name.
…
Jason was alone. He could no longer see out of his right eye. It was swollen and bloodied.
The stairs leading to the room where he was being held creaked beneath the weight of someone approaching. It was the same man who had been beating on Jason since he’d arrived. He grabbed Jason and yanked him upright.
“Walk or I’ll drag you,” the man growled.
Jason stood despite every bone in his body aching. He wasn’t dead yet. Which meant there was still time to make things right with Isabel. Make things right with his wife. He followed the brute up the staircase and down a corridor. They emerged into the gardens behind the house.
“Yes, yes, bring him out here. I do not wish to have any more blood on my expensive rugs,” Lord Blakely was saying. He nodded with recognition as Jason stepped forward. “Ellis, you’ve certainly looked better.”
“Yes, well, your brute here has spent the better part of the evening pounding my face,” Jason said.
“You were far too handsome in any case,” Blakely said. “Damned annoying, if you ask me. No character to your face, just pretty lines, like a woman’s.”
Blakely’s rotund figure perched on a bench, taking up nearly the entire width of it. His enormous belly was stuffed in a waistcoat, and the cravat at his throat was tied big and flamboyant. The combination made his head look much smaller in proportion. He was the very picture of excess. Too much money. Too much food. Too much greed. And evidently the perception of far too much power.
“It was you this entire time?” Jason asked.
Blakely didn’t even bother to deny it. He merely grinned broadly. “It has been my greatest puppet show yet. Truly, the pieces fell into my lap. Granted we are still missing one.” He glanced around the gardens. “I’m certain she’ll show herself soon enough. Princess?” he called. “We know you’re out there.”
Isabel was here? Why wouldn’t she stay at Potterfield’s where she would be safe? But she did not answer Blakely or show herself.
“Thornton?” Jason asked.
“It took some time for me to uncover that he was the one who had the princess, but once I did, he was easy enough to control. It merely took promises of future positions of power within the new monarchy.” Blakely shook his head. “Fool.”
“And what do you get out of this?” Jason asked.
“I see what you’re doing. Trying to stall me so that I don’t kill you so quickly.” He shrugged his great beefy shoulders. “I can wait. I do want that pretty wife of yours to watch while I make her a widow.”
Jason said nothing and, though he longed to search the garden for signs of Isabel,
he kept his focus on Lord Blakely.
“I shall be the new king’s closest advisor,” Blakely said.
“So promises of future power worked on you as well,” Jason goaded.
“Those fools would not have come this far without my plans,” Blakely roared. “I am master architect of this entire scheme. I have no actual claim to the throne myself, but there is certainly no reason why a stupid girl should be England’s leader. That will never do.”
“Isabel is the same age as Queen Victoria,” Jason said.
“True, but Victoria is unmarried and will listen to no one save Lord Melbourne. Isabel shall be safely married off, and I shall control her husband.”
Blakely was mad, that much was evident. The Crown didn’t even have that much practical control. It was primarily a figurehead with Parliament and the Prime Minister running the actual government. But the promise of power and prestige was often too tempting for people to ignore. Jason was weighing what to do next when a flash of light caught his gaze.
Isabel had hidden herself in the large shrubs that bordered the west side of the garden. In her hand, she held a long, thin blade—a sword, perhaps, or a fencing foil, he wasn’t certain. His heart swelled. His warrior princess had come to save him.
Isabel ran over to Jason as Somersby and Lynford jumped from the shrubs followed by several other members of the Brotherhood, all wielding weapons of their own. He knew she wouldn’t have come alone. She gave him her sword. Blakely was far too rotund to make an escape and gave up quickly once his thugs were taken down.
Her hands cupped his face gently. “You look terrible,” she said.
“Thank you. And thank you for coming to rescue me.” He pulled her to him, so very thankful that she was safe and next to him again.
Chapter Fifteen
Two days later, she’d been questioned by several members of the Brotherhood and then subsequently presented to the queen herself.
There had been a seemingly endless number of questions regarding her intentions toward her position as princess, if she planned to return to Saldania and take her rightful place. She’d explained that though she would welcome a visit to her birth nation, she had no desire to be anything save the Viscountess Ellis. Isabel finally felt as if the entire ordeal was over, at least the danger. Perhaps that meant she and Jason could finally begin to build a real marriage, a real life here in London.
She wasn’t certain this scenario counted as her heart pounded with nerves. “Where are you taking me?” she asked. He’d blindfolded her at their townhome, then led her to a carriage where they’d ridden somewhere. Now he was leading her into a building and up a staircase.
“You shall see,” Jason said, a playfulness in his tone.
“Not if you have me blindfolded, I will not.”
“Relax, Isabel, it is almost time. One more step up, that’s it.”
They reached the top of the staircase, and a door opened. The chill of the night air brushed against her, and she knew they’d stepped out onto a balcony. Precisely what was he up to? He’d never given her any kind of surprise.
“Now you may remove the blindfold,” he said.
She reached up and pulled the strip of fabric from her eyes. They stood on a balcony overlooking the lights of the city. Their friends and his family were already there, waiting quietly. She scanned their faces, but could tell nothing from their expressions. She felt the weight of a frown. “What is this?”
“Isabel, our marriage was not one born of love. We hastily agreed to be husband and wife for our country, and I want you to know that I do not regret that decision. However, things have changed.”
Her heart seemed to have stopped beating, the blood halted in her veins, and her breathing slowed. What was he saying? Had he brought her here in front of his family and the only people in London whom she knew to tell her their marriage was no longer necessary? After all, they had caught the people responsible for the plot to usurp the Crown.
Jason dropped to one knee in front of her. “Though I fought it every step of the way, I fell in love with you. And I want to make you the vows a husband makes a wife.” His head tilted to one side. “If you will still have me.”
“You love me?” she asked numbly.
“I do.” He stood. “Will you marry me again?”
Tears clouded her eyes, and love filled her chest so wholly that she feared her heart might burst from her body. “Yes, of course.”
“Lynford, would you do the honors?”
“No one can call him the Priest anymore,” Somersby said.
“Still, he’s the closest thing we’ve got,” Jason said. “I’d already asked him.”
“Right here? Right now?” Isabel asked, swiping at her tears.
“Yes, I want to begin our new life together straightaway,” Jason said.
Isabel grinned at her aunt Lilith and then at Jason’s mother. She probably looked every bit the lovesick fool she was, but she didn’t care. Jason loved her. Her husband loved her.
Lynford opened the Common Book of Prayer, then cleared his throat. “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will,” Jason said.
His blue eyes never left her own, and Isabel barely heard Lord Lynford ask her the same questions. “I will,” she said.
Jason held her hands and vowed, “I, Jason, take thee Isabel to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
She repeated the vows and then they kissed. And their friends cheered, celebrating with them.
…
Two hours later Jason had come upstairs to the exercise room as she’d instructed him. She stood in the middle of the room with a foil hanging from her hand.
“We are well and truly married now,” she said.
He took a step toward her. “We are.”
“There is something I want to know. What changed?”
“I didn’t imagine you’d be armed when we had this conversation.” He nodded toward the foil, but she made no move to drop it. “You were right. About everything. It all comes down to my damned foolish pride.” He closed the distance between them but made no move to touch her. “I don’t want to pick pride over us. I choose you. Again and again, I choose you. We can have as many children as you want, or none. Whichever you prefer.”
“I love you, Jason.”
He grinned. “I don’t believe I’ll ever tire of hearing that from you.”
She tilted her head and grinned. “I think I’ve loved you since that first time you rescued me. I suspect I always will.”
He looped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him.
“I’ve been itching for another match.” A wanton look filled her eyes. Then she stepped back, swiped the foil, and slid it down the front of his shirt. The fabric fell open.
“Is that how this is going to be?” He moved swiftly from her and retrieved his own foil.
Thus began their approach-retreat dance. It took only two swipes for him to slice open her bodice, the dress falling away to pool at her feet.
She shrieked and lunged at him, and he fell to his knees, dropping the foil. He held up his hands in surrender.
“You have slayed me, my lady fair,” he said.
“You were a notorious beast, and now I am victorious.”
He pulled her down with him and covered her with his body. “I believe it is I who won. I love you, Isabel. I’ll spend six lifetimes trying to make amends for hurting you. Thank you for not giving up on me so quickly.”
“I’ll never give up on you, Jason. You are my heart.”
He may be her heart, but she was
his everything. Then he lowered his mouth to hers to show her precisely that.
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About the Author
National Bestselling author, Robyn DeHart’s novels have appeared in the top bestselling romance and historical romance lists. Her books have been translated into nearly a dozen languages. Her historical romantic adventure series, The Legend Hunters, were not only bestsellers, but also award-winners, snagging a Reader’s Crown and a Reviewer’s Choice award. She’s had more than a dozen books published, all set in the popular historical romance Regency and Victorian eras, and they’ve been translated into nearly that many languages.
Known for her “strong dialogue and characters that leap off the page” (RT Bookclub) and her “sizzling romance” (Publishers Weekly), her books have been featured in USA Today and the Chicago Tribune. A popular writing instructor, she has given speeches at writing conferences in Los Angeles, DC, New York, Dallas, Nashville, and Toronto, among many others.
When not writing, you can find Robyn hanging out with her family, husband (The Professor) a university professor of Political Science and their two ridiculously beautiful and smart daughters, Busybee and Babybee as well as two spoiled-rotten cats. They live in the hill country of Texas where it’s hot eight months of the year, but those big blue skies make it worth it.
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Dueling with the Duke
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