by Bush, Holly
Other American set historical romance series:
The Crawford Family Series includes Train Station Bride, Contract to Wed, companion novella, The Maid’s Quarters, and Her Safe Harbor and tell the tales of three Boston sisters, heiresses to the family banking fortune.
The Gentry’s of Paradise chronicle the lives of Virginia horse breeders and begins with Beauregard and Eleanor Gentry’s story, set in 1842, in the prequel novella, Into the Evermore. The full-length novels are set in the 1870’s of the next generation of Gentrys and include For the Brave, For This Moment, and For Her Honor.
Reader favorites Romancing Olive and Reconstructing Jackson are American set Prairie Romances and Cross the Ocean is set in both England and America.
Politics & Bedfellows and All the News are my general fiction titles published under Hollis Bush.
Please leave a review where you purchased The Bareknuckle Groom or on GoodReads or other social sites for readers. Thank you so much for your purchase. I love to hear from readers!
The first few pages of Into the Evermore and the third book in this series, the yet untitled Kirsty’s story follows.
All the best,
Holly
Excerpt from Kirsty’s Story
July 1870
Philadelphia Harbor
Chapter One
“Wait,” Kirsty Thompson shouted as she hurried across the deck of the steamer Maybelle. “Wait! Stop!”
A uniformed man with sideburns that reached his chin turned from directing sailors. “Miss?”
“You must stop moving the boat,” she said breathlessly, coming to a halt in front of him.
“It’s a ship, not a boat,” he said impatiently.
“It doesn’t matter what you call it, you must stop, set the break or whatever, because I need to get off.
“I’m sorry, miss. The lines have been pulled. We’ll be underway any moment now.”
“But I must get off,” Kirsty repeated, feeling a rising panic.
The man eyed her. “Where’s your ticket, miss?”
“I . . . I don’t have one.”
“Then how did you get aboard?” he asked, hands on his hips.
“Well,” she said. “There was a woman going up the ramp ahead of me, a rather large woman with flowered dress that nearly blinded me, with a little dog, a child, and three or four servants.”
“And you walked in with her. Hiding amongst her party,” he said. “You didn’t want to pay passage and you thought you’d sneak aboard.”
“Of course not! I’m no thief! I just needed to speak to someone. Just for a moment, I just needed to speak to him.”
“Lovers gone bad?” the man said and turned away to shout at a sailor. He turned back and regarded her. “Well, you’re stuck on this ship with him now.”
“Lovers! How dare you! I am not with him or anyone and that is why I need to get off!”
“You can get off in New York harbor because that’s our next stop,” the man shouted back at her.
Kirsty stepped closer to the man and wagged a finger at him. “You, sir, are rude and I’m going to report you to your superiors!”
“Now see . . .”
“Miss Thompson?”
Kirsty turned quickly. “Oh, Mr. Watson. I am so glad to see you! Please tell this man to stop the boat and let me off!”
The steamer lurched from its moorings and Kirsty would have tumbled to her knees if it hadn’t been for Mr. Watson catching her by the elbows.
“I’m af-fraid,” he said. “That will be impos-sible. We’re underway, it seems.”
“Oh, no,” she said and looked up at him, feeling tears gather in her eyes. She didn’t want to cry. Her family even accused her occasionally of crying to get her way which was hardly ever the case and certainly wasn’t now. But she dare not blink or those tears she did not want to cry would tumble down her cheeks.
“Perhaps a cup of t-tea would help you, Miss Thompson. Allow me to take you to the d-d-dining room.”
“But I must get off this boat,” she said. “My family won’t have any idea where I’ve gone and . . . and they will be so worried.”
“I don’t b-believe there is anything we can do until we land at New York har-harbor,” he said and held out his arm.
Kirsty wrapped her arm around his and looked up at him. “Oh. Oh, no. I’ve embarrassed you with my shouting. Your face is quite red. I am so sorry. Please don’t be angry.”
He shook his head. “I’m not angry,” he said very slowly.
Kirsty turned as he did towards the doors leading to the inside hallways after glancing longingly at the dock. He seated her at a small table once they were in the dining room and signaled a waiter. He nodded at her to order. She opened her drawstring bag to see what amount of money she had left after paying for the trolley that morning. She was suddenly panicked when she realized she’d have to find a way to travel to Philadelphia from New York when this infernal boat stopped, and she’d need money to do it.
“Nothing for me, thank you,” she said to the waiter.
“I’ll have coffee and this assortment of cheese and olives listed on your menu,” he said. “The lady will have tea. Thank you.”
She leaned forward. “I don’t have enough money to pay for it. Surely they’ll give me a glass of water.”
“Miss T-Thompson. I will take care of the b-bill. Please don’t worry,” he said and raised his hand again as if he was calling to the waiter again.
But a young, very young, red haired man walked to their table. His face had an unsightly burn scar on one side and Kirsty did her best not to look at it as he arrived at the table. She wondered if Mr. Watson knew him.
“Clawson,” Watson said. “Change of plans. You’ll need to contact the Royal Academy and see about rescheduling my talk.”
“Yes, sir, right away, sir.”
“We’ll be staying in New York overnight. We’ll need three rooms at the New York Hotel.”
“Three rooms, sir?”
“One for you, one for me, and one for Miss Thompson,” he said and nodded to her. “Clawson? This is Miss Thompson. Miss Thompson? My assistant, Mr. Clawson.”
“A hotel room? Oh, no! I’ll be heading directly to home. I have to get home. My family will be frantic!”
“Miss Thompson. I d-doubt we’ll be able to catch a train after we arrive. We’ll have to wait until t-tomorrow morning.”
“Do you always take a steamer to New York? Isn’t it easier to catch the train?”
“Aah,” Clawson said. “I’ll need to see if our tickets can be cancelled or sold, perhaps.”
Kirsty watched the young man hurry away. “What did he mean about the tickets being sold? What tickets?”
Mr. Watson stared at her and then looked up at the waiter bringing their cheese platter and pots of coffee and tea. He pulled several bills out of his wallet, handed it to the waiter, and told him to keep the change. He stirred several sugar cubes into the cup of coffee the waiter poured for him before leaving the table and looked up at her.
“Tickets for a t-transatlantic crossing.”
“Why would you cancel your tickets? When were you planning on sailing?” she asked, interested to know if the date could work for her although after she arrived home tomorrow, she doubted if her older sister and brother, Muireall and James, would ever let her out of their sight.
“Tomorrow, Miss T-Thompson. This steamer stops in New York to pick up additional p-p-passengers and then goes directly to England.”
“Well, why can’t you go now? Has something happened?”
He stared at his cup for some time. “I can hardly allow you to t-travel by yourself, Miss Thompson. I will see you b-back to your home.”
Kirsty shook her head. “No. Oh, no. You mustn’t. I could not allow you to change your plans on my account.”
“Have some r-refreshments, Miss Thompson. We will not arrive until after eight this evening.”
Kirsty felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. “I th
ank you for the tea and I will see that you are paid back once we are home in Philadelphia. But you cannot tell me what to do, Mr. Watson. You are not my father or brother or any relation.”
He leaned forward. “I am, however, a gentleman, and you are related to my good friend Mr. Pendergast, your brother-in-law, in fact. I could not countenance any young lady traveling alone if it was in my power to prevent it, especially as she is related to my circle of friends.”
“You are not stuttering, Mr. Watson.” Kirsty put a hand over her mouth as if doing so would stop her rude words from being heard. “I’m so sorry. I should never have mentioned it.”
He shrugged. “S-stuttering or not, I will escort you home.”
“My family . . .” she began and trailed off thinking of how terrified they would be when she did not arrive home for supper.
“We will send a t-telegram as soon as we arrive at the hotel.”
“You don’t understand.”
“W-Will you explain it to me?”
She sat quietly for several minutes, sipping her tea and staring at the spoon she’d used to stir in her sugar. She looked up at him finally with a resolved or resigned, and serious look on her face that he did not understand from this young woman. He’d met her and even escorted her into dinner at his friend Alexander Pendergast’s home who was married to her sister. She was a frivolous whirlwind of chatter on that evening, but that did not stop him from finding her the most beautiful woman of his acquaintance with a joyous light giggle that went straight to his gut. However, he was certain she would find nothing remotely interesting about him or his medical research, and the fact that sometimes he forgot to eat. His colleagues called his work brilliant. His mother called him a scatterbrain.
“There are men who want to harm us,” she said. “Did you know that my sister Elspeth was kidnapped before she married Alexander? She was! She was taken from us at a grand ball at Alexander’s family home!”
He shook his head, hoping she would explain. She leaned close to him, close enough that he could smell lilacs or some other aromatic that seemed to wrap around him but yet he could feel her panic.
“My father was the Earl of Taviston. There was a man, an illegitimate cousin, who claimed the earldom was his and he tried to kill my mother, stole my younger brother from us, and lobbied the governors who oversee such things in Scotland to give him the title and the wealth and the lands. My father was so concerned for the safety of his family that he brought us to America hoping to wait in safety until everything was settled and Plowman, the cousin, was jailed. But they murdered my father and mother on the passage here!” she hissed. “They poisoned their food, and they were buried at sea.”
She had tears in her eyes as she whispered to him, as if there were enemies all around.
“Why did they kidnap Mrs. P-Pendergast?”
“An exchange! They wanted us to turn over my brother Payden, the heir to the earldom,” she said with a trembling lip. “Elspeth knew her duty, though. She would die for him, as would any of us.”
“Die for him?”
“Had Alexander and my brother James not rescued her, she would have been . . . abused and murdered as we would never turn the rightful Earl of Taviston over to them.”
He sat back in his chair and stared at her. Good God! What a story!
“I thought you had an older brother,” he said remembering the looks he’d gotten from the man as he’d escorted his sister into dinner that night. He was a boxer and a champion, too.
“James? He is actually a cousin. His parents died when he was an infant, his mother was my father’s sister. Mother and Father took him in and raised him as their own.”
“But he’s not your true b-broth . . .”
She’d leaned across the table again but there were no tears this time, only a look that would have scared the most seasoned soldier. “James Thompson is my brother.”
He nibbled on some cheese and a cracker and pushed the platter to her side of the table. “So your family will assume something s-similar has happened to you.”
She nodded. “When will we arrive in New York?”
“B-by eight this evening,” he said and looked up at her. “Why did you come aboard?”
Her face reddened, like a length of pink gauze slowly crept up from the base of her neck.
“Well,” she said and looked at her hands. “I was hoping to talk to you.”
“T-To me? Whatever for?”
“Alexander said that you travel to England regularly for your medical work and I was hoping you’d agree to escort me and a companion,” she said and looked up. “I plan to import fine Scottish wool and yarns to America. I believe Thompson Fabrics would be quite successful. I need to go to Scotland and meet the people I’ve been corresponding with about such a venture.”
“Your brother would never allow it.”
“No. But there would be nothing he could do, if I boarded with my companion while they read a letter about my destination.”
“And you think I would have agreed to this outrageous scheme?”
“You aren’t stuttering. Again.”
“I find that I don’t stutter when I am furious.”
“Oh. What prompts it when you do stutter?”
He looked away. Miss Kirsty Thompson had the body of a siren, the face of an angel, and the scruples of the devil. He was, at the same time, horrified by her and attracted to her. Perhaps there was a medical explanation. And his stutter was especially prevalent when he was nervous. This young woman made his orderly, scholarly world tilt on its axis.
Excerpt from Into the Evermore
Into the Evermore
November 1842 Virginia
“Twenty dollars and you can have her. Don’t make no never mind to me what you do with her. I just want to see the gold first.”
The filthy-looking bearded man waved his gun in every direction as he spoke, including at the head of the young woman he held in his arms and at the three men in front of him. The trio all had handkerchiefs covering the lower part of their faces and hats pulled down tight, revealing six eyes now riveted to the pistol as it honed in on one random target after the other. The woman was struggling, although it was a pitiful attempt as she was clearly exhausted, and maybe hurt. The wind whipped through the trees, blowing the dry snow in circles around them. Beau Gentry watched the grim scene play out as he peered around a boulder down into a small ravine. He’d been propped against the sheltered rock, dozing, and thinking he’d best start a fire, when he heard voices below.
“Ain’t paying twenty dollars in gold for some used-up whore,” one of the masked men said.
The filthy man wrenched his arm tighter around the woman and put the gun to her temple. “Tell ’em, girly. Tell ’em you ain’t no whore.”
She shrank away from the barrel of the gun and moaned. “Please, mister. Let me go,” she begged.
“Tell ’em you ain’t no whore!”
She shook her head and pulled at the filthy man’s arm around her waist. “I’m no fallen lady,” she whispered. “I’m just, I’m just . . .” The woman went limp, and Beau thought she’d fainted but instead she vomited into the snow in front of her. He watched her choke and gag, bent over the man’s arm, and that’s when he realized she was barefoot.
Beau leaned back against the rock and checked his pistols and shotgun beside him. He hoped his horse wouldn’t bolt from the tree she was loosely tied to when the bullets started to fly. It’d be a long walk back to Winchester if she did, especially as he’d most likely be carrying the woman. “Shit,” he muttered. “Shit and damnation. She doesn’t have any goddamn shoes on.”
From his angle, he’d need to drop the three bandits with the two shells from the shotgun, and finish off any of them still breathing with one of his pistols. They’d be surprised and hopefully slow if the liquor smell floating on the wind meant anything. He was counting on the filthy man being hampered by the woman’s struggling. He was hoping she didn’t get shot in the cross
fire, but then she’d be better off dead than facing what was in store for her if the filthy man was the victor. The argument over the gold was getting heated, he could hear, making this as good a time as any.
The snow fell away from the fur collar and trim of Beau’s coat as he stood, lifted the shotgun to his shoulder, and aimed at the first man. He pulled the trigger, sighted in the second man, and pulled the second trigger right after the other, marching forward through brush and snow, letting the shotgun fall from his hands as he went. Two of the men dropped and the third fell to his knees, aiming his pistol at Beau as he did. Beau lengthened his stride, pulled a pistol from his waistband as he made the clearing, raised his left arm straight, and dropped the kneeling man to the ground with a shot to his face, letting the spent weapon fall to the ground. As he turned, he pulled his new fighting knife free of its scabbard and brought his right hand up, wielding a second pistol, side-stepping to get an angle on the filthy man.
“She’s mine! You ain’t getting her.”
“Drop the gun.”
“Twenty dollars in gold and you can have her!”
He wondered how much longer the woman would last. She was white-faced, except for the dirt, and her hair hung in clumps, matted together with blood. Her mouth was open in a silent scream. She raised and lowered her arms as if paddling in a pool of water. Most likely she was long past terrified and all the way to hysterical.
“Fine,” Beau said. “You want twenty dollars?”
The filthy man nodded, and Beau dropped his knife in the snow and reached his hand in his pants pocket as if intending to retrieve a gold piece. The man lowered his weapon by an inch or so as his eyes followed Beau’s hand, and in that moment Beau brought up his right hand and fired his weapon. The bullet tore through the man’s neck, sending blood gushing into the snow as the man tumbled sideways, releasing the woman. She fell in the opposite direction, covered in splattered blood, clawing and crawling away from her captor, turning on her back and shoving off in the mud and snow with bleeding feet, pushing herself away. Her cry echoed in the silent cold night.
