Although he’d kept an eye on her in Edinburgh, he’d made no effort to form more than her passing acquaintance. Mayhap if he engaged her in conversation, she’d stop looking at him as if he were taking her to the gallows.
He caught a flash of bright blue and glanced left and found the king’s normally gliding mistress charging with long, determined strides through reeds toward the babbling burn behind the croft like a ship plowing through high seas. How odd. He shook his head and turned his attention back to securing their possessions. The woman was a conundrum.
The next time he looked up, she was again gliding as she normally did, this time with their breakfast in hand. “Here,” she said, holding out a square slice of oat cake and a cup.
He looked in the cup. “Milk?”
She nodded, biting into her oat cake. “There’s a lovely cow in yon paddock.”
“’Tis warm.”
She looked at him blankly as if not understanding his meaning, then blanched white as the cup’s contents. “I…I found a bucket half full of milk by her side. A tenant must have begun milking her but been startled away by me. I took only a wee bit but… Oh dear, I’ve no coins…”
“I left enough coins.”
Nay, she could not have milked the cow. The queen’s ladies-in-waiting were just that: ladies, the pampered daughters and sisters of landed men. He very much doubted any knew which end of a cow to approach for milk. He couldn’t imagine any knowing how to hobble a cow, much less stooping beneath one and pulling on teats. Aye, she must have found the milk as she said.
His qualms settled, Britt tried to suppress his bone-breaking shudder as he drained the cup. Never let it be said that he lacked chivalry.
He dropped the cup on the croft stoop. “If you’re ready, we should leave.”
She looked up at him, her bonnie blue eyes shimmering as if on the verge of tearing. “Aye, I’m quite ready.”
Nay, she was not, not in the least.
He placed his hands above the silver girdle she wore, marveling once again at how small her waist was. When her hands settled on his shoulder armor, he lifted her negligible weight, bringing them face-to-face. What was she thinking as she stared into his eyes so solemnly? Was she simply wary, or did she feel the same charge he felt when he held her so close? How easy it would be to capture her mouth with his, to taste the forbidden fruit he’d been thinking about since she’d cocked her head and smiled at him in her parlor.
Too easy and too dangerous for both of them.
He settled her on the gray, then leapt onto his patient destrier. Determined to put her at her ease, he said, “What new songs have you to entertain the court?”
“Uhmm…none. I’ve had no opportunity to learn any.”
He nodded. Of course she hadn’t had time, what with her having to arrange her parents’ funerals, then notifying the earl and her extended family of their passing.
They rode on in silence as the day grew warmer, he alert to danger and Lady Armstrong yawning in the saddle. When the sun reached its zenith, he stopped by a burn, and Lady Armstrong jerked upright, asking, “Why are we stopping?”
“Because I’m hungry, as are the horses.”
Helping her dismount, he again caught the scent of lavender and roses, his blood heated, and he quickly set her down and turned his attention to their mounts. He pulled free their wine skin and his saddle bag and handed them to her. “I’ll water the horses if you would be so kind as to set out something for us to eat.”
She mustered a smile, her first since leaving the croft.
With their mounts tended, he settled on a sun-warmed boulder next to her and accepted the oatcake and dried fruit she’d packed. “How many years have you been in the king’s service?” she asked.
Mesmerized by the halo of sunlight bouncing off her silver coronet and glossy braids, he murmured, “Near a decade.”
“Ah, you must enjoy it, then.”
He straightened and looked about. His remaining at the king’s side had naught to do with enjoyment. “Duty and honor before pleasure, my lady.”
They finished their repast in silence. Dusting the crumbs from her kirtle, she said, “We should be going.”
In no hurry, he suggested, “Why not rest a bit. You must be tired.”
She rose. “Nay, we need be on our way.”
They rode on. And as he could have predicted by gloaming, Lady Armstrong was head down and eyes closed, weaving in her saddle. They were but a few hours’ ride from the stronghold of Meade Mont, but fearing she’d topple and crown her lovely noggin, Britt steered his destrier to a grassy wee glen and dismounted. The gray followed without any assistance from their king’s sleeping mistress.
Shaking his head at the woman’s stubbornness, Britt secured his mount, gathered deadwood, then cleared a spot in the grass to lay a fire, all while Lady Armstrong slept. Accustomed to sleeping in the elements, he needed no fire, but from what he’d observed, Lady Armstrong enjoyed her creature comforts. And God forbid she should grow ill.
When the fire caught, he spread his breachen feile on the ground at a safe distance from it, then lifted Lady Armstrong from the gray. As she settled on his plaid, she mumbled something incoherent about love and castration—a decidedly unsettling thought—then, sighing, curled like an exhausted kitten before the fire.
He pulled his whetstone from his sporran, then freed his blades from their sheaths. As he ran a finger over his broadsword’s edges, testing the sharpness, he watched her by the glow of the fire. Aye, his king was a lucky man but had no clue to what extent. His Majesty had been blessed first with a fertile and sensible wife, then been granted a second wife, one half his age, and still his eye wandered.
Shaking his head at the sad waste of blessings, he sheathed his broadsword and began honing his more oft used sgian duhb.
And what on earth was this woman, now tossing in restless sleep, thinking? She’d been gifted with incredible beauty and a voice that could make songbirds weep with shame, yet she too squandered her gifts. Was she such a rustic, such an innocent, that she did not know she’d ruined all hope of her ever making a good match by acquiescing to Alexander?
She could just as easily have said, “Thank you, but no.” His Majesty was lusty—no denying that—but he was also chivalrous. Oh, he would have sulked and made everyone’s life miserable for a day or so, but then he’d have shrugged it off and sought out one of his other paramours…or the queen.
Women. Be they fair or foul, royal or not, he would never understand them.
Lady Armstrong, brow furrowed, flipped onto her stomach and cocked a leg. Looking at her well-turned ankle and calf, at the lovely swell of her rump, he sighed. At least he well understood what his liege was thinking.
One promise, two pendants...love that was destined to be.
Gypsy Legacy: The Marquis
© 2008 Denise Patrick
Gypsy Legacy, Book 1
Lady Christina Kenton’s life is turned upside down when her gypsy great-grandmother gives her a pendant, along with a deathbed request—Tina must promise to marry only the man wearing its mate. But Tina cannot bring herself to make the promise, for her late stepfather has already pledged her hand to his long-absent heir.
Jay Collings, now the Marquis of Thanet, returns to England after an eighteen-year absence to honor a promise to a gypsy who once aided him, only to discover he must break his vow in order to secure his inheritance. The last thing he wants is a wife chosen by the father he despised.
Tina’s gentle strength touches Jay in ways no other woman has. And, unknown to them both, she holds the key to Jay’s promise and his inheritance. But just as their fragile relationship begins to take root, the legacy of her gypsy blood brings danger to their doorstep.
Jay and Tina’s destinies may be entwined—but will they live long enough to fulfill them?
Enjoy the following excerpt for Gypsy Legacy: The Marquis:
Silence descended again. Tina discovered that, without Felicia i
n the room, she was nervous. She glanced toward the door as if expecting Felicia to return. Studying the chessboard was a useless thing to do, but it kept her occupied—and her eyes from straying to the man carelessly lounging on the settee.
There was something about him that made her very aware of him. A sense she could not describe, but recognized. He was all male in a way Aaron had never been. A potent force that could not be ignored.
A log fell in the grate, causing her to jump. Then Jay’s deep voice startled her again.
“You were about to lose.”
“Wha—what?”
“The game,” he said, indicating the chessboard. “If you were white, you were about to lose.”
Tina turned and looked down at the chessboard as if she’d never seen it before. Shaking her head to clear it, she looked back up at him.
“I know.” She looked down at the board again. “I wasn’t concentrating well tonight. Not that Felicia isn’t a good player, but tonight I wasn’t as focused as I should have been. I’m afraid I wasn’t much of a challenge for her this evening.”
Silence again.
“Would you like a glass of wine? Keyes brought two glasses.”
She didn’t want to look up at him again. She was too drawn to him—too aware of him. He seemed to fill the room. But manners won out and she found herself looking into his dark eyes. For a moment she completely lost her train of thought. What had he asked her? Wine.
“No—no thank you.”
“Jon asked me to bring you his greetings. He said he would write soon.”
“When did you see him?”
“In London. He and I spent quite a bit of time trying to find out as much as we could about Roderick Milton.”
“And what did you find out?”
“Not much. A number of people remembered Aaron and him as being friends but no one seemed to know where they met.”
Tina tried to recall the first time Aaron had brought Milton home, and whether either had given any hint of how they had met. “Did Aaron have other friends who might have known?”
“Actually, that’s what Jon stayed behind to try and find out. Then he is headed to Wynton Abbey to get his first look at his country seat.”
“That’s wonderful,” she sighed. “I hope he is able to settle in with no difficulties.”
Jay did not respond. He seemed to be studying the painting over the fireplace. Tina looked up, noticing that it was of a house on a cliff overlooking the sea. Kenwyck Manor, if she remembered it correctly.
“Have you been there before?” she asked him.
Jay turned in her direction. “Once, when I was a small boy. And you?”
She shook her head. “Papa and Mama went there sometimes during the summer, but Felicia, Jon and I were usually with our great-grandmother then.”
There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but uncertainty kept her quiet. If he and Jon were looking for Mr. Milton, maybe things were more serious than she supposed.
“I should thank you and Jon for sending the modiste to us. Felicia was ecstatic.”
His eyes traveled over the deep green gown she wore. Was that light in his eyes approval? She hoped so.
“You’re welcome. It was Jon’s idea.”
“I hope we didn’t spend too much.” She smiled. “I had to resort to threats to get Felicia to order a riding habit. She wouldn’t have done so otherwise.”
“Did you now?” he murmured. “And what did you threaten her with?” Something flickered in the ebony depths and her pulse leapt in response. The room was suddenly close, the fire brighter. His voice seemed almost tangible in its gentleness.
“I told Madame not to finish any more of her dresses until the habit was done.”
Jay put back his head and laughed. For a moment, she merely stared at the change his humor wrought in his features. His dark eyes seemed to glitter and the lines around his eyes and mouth softened. Mira called them laugh lines and now Tina knew why.
“I can see you and Jon have her well in hand.”
Her pulse returned to normal and she chuckled. “Well, we have been watching over her since she was born.”
The silence that fell seemed awkward. She was at a loss for anything else to say. She knew they needed to discuss the contract, but she’d promised herself she would not bring it up.
“I-it is time for me to retire.” She was suddenly shy, and rose from her seat. “And…and, I need to check on Felicia.”
Jay rose to his feet as well. He towered over her and she cursed her petiteness as she dipped him an elegant curtsy, then moved toward the door. “Good night, my lord.”
She was at the open door before he responded. His voice was low and tinged with…disappointment? She almost didn’t hear the softly spoken words. “Until tomorrow, then.”
He hadn’t wanted to let her go, but could find no suitable topic of conversation with which to keep her in the room other than the contract and, goodness knew, he was not up to a discussion of that tonight.
Jay knew she thought his reactions odd. He had forced himself to look at almost anything other than her—except when she addressed him directly and seemed to need an answer. Staring at the painting of Kenwyck Manor reminded him he needed to do a tour of the family holdings. Unfortunately, he and Tina had some decisions to make before it could happen.
Perhaps he should have said something. If he had, he might not be sitting here, alone, wondering what her reaction would be. It was too late now. He’d give himself a little time first. He would wait a few days to see what happened, then decide.
Resuming his seat, he poured himself another glass of wine, and turned to contemplate the fire. The flames were beginning to die, but it mattered not, for all he saw were twin pools the color of a tropical lagoon framed by lush dark lashes.
The Scarred Heir
Denise Patrick
Double trouble—with a twist.
Two months. Just two more months and Sarah Standish will be twenty-one and free to come out of hiding. Not long ago she was on the brink of marrying the man of her dreams—until she discovered his complicity with her uncle’s plan to gain control of her missing father’s substantial fortune.
A wounded man appears at the inn where she lives under an assumed name, and she’s shocked to discover it’s her would-be groom. He seems to have no memory of her, yet her traitorous heart remembers.
Max Dayton awakens from a fevered dream to find a vengeful angel hovering over him. When he realizes she’s mistaken him for his twin brother, his protective instincts kick in. There must be some reason his brother assumed Max’s identity…and some connection to this dazzling beauty and the father she insists is not dead.
In a quest to untangle the twisted trail of lies that threw them together, Sarah and Max journey to London, where the mystery grows darker and deeper. And the fragile beginnings of love are threatened by a secret someone would kill to keep.
Warning: Contains a war hero, runaway bride, jealous twin, greedy uncle, and a good reason to check names before proceeding. At least the dog knows who is who.
eBooks are not transferable.
They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
The Scarred Heir
Copyright © 2012 by Denise Patrick
ISBN: 978-1-60928-698-9
Edited by Sue Ellen Gower
Cover by Scott Carpenter
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: January 2012
www.samhainpublishing.com
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
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
About the Author
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