A Rogue to Remember

by Bowlin, Chasity

  Stepping down from the carriage, she walked with him, Marina holding on to his hand and his other arm about her waist, toward a break in the trees. Beyond it was a rocky and craggy ravine. Water trickled over those stones creating a kind of music that could only be found in nature. On the opposite side, atop a gentle rise with sea and sky meeting behind it, was Goringham Abbey. Spires, towers, and crenelated battlements were juxtaposed to buttresses and intricate stained glass. It was half-church and half-fortress.

  “So many styles and periods of architecture and yet it all works together beautifully,” she mused. “It is magical.”

  “It is home,” he said. “For us and for Marina.”

  “And for our children,” she said.

  “When we are blessed to have them,” he agreed.

  “That may well be sooner than you think, my devilish lord,” she offered with a grin. She had thought to keep her news and guard it close to her heart until she was certain naught would go wrong. But in that place, looking at the majestic house where they would build their life together, it seemed only right to share.

  “Willa, are you…” He stopped, unable to form the words, but looking at her with wonder in his eyes.

  “I am with child. We shall soon welcome our very own son or daughter. A cousin for Marina,” Willa said.

  “What’s a cousin?” Marina asked.

  “It’s like a brother or sister, but better,” Devil said. “And much more fun.”

  “Oh,” Marina said and quickly lost interest in the adult conversation.

  “Be careful of those rocks, Marina,” Willa warned.

  Devil smiled and pulled her close. “I didn’t think it was possible to be happier, but I am. I love you, Wilhelmina.”

  “When you preface my atrocious name with those words, I find I don’t mind it so much,” she said with a laugh. “And I love you, too, Douglas. My very own devil.”

  He leaned in and kissed her. As he drew back, he looked at her with wicked promise gleaming in his eyes. “And tonight, when we do not have a child with six arms, twelve legs, and a snore that could wake the dead lying between us,” he whispered, “I shall entice you to sin in ways you’ve never imagined.”

  “Then you should convince your niece to climb back into the carriage so we may make our way home and do all that you have said,” she replied. “My love. My husband.”

  “Marina, if you get back into the carriage, I will have cook give you sweets as soon as we get to the house!” he shouted.

  The little girl went scampering back to the carriage obediently, well bribed for her cooperation.

  “You’re spoiling her,” Willa pointed out.

  “As I mean to spoil you and all of our children,” he said. “Now, what do I have to do to bribe you to get into that carriage?”

  “A kiss should suffice,” Willa teased.

  So he kissed her and kissed her well. She was breathless with it when he simply hoisted her into his arms and packed her to their carriage, eager to reach their home.

  The End

  Author’s Note

  If you enjoyed “A Rogue to Remember”, Book One of The Hellion Club, please enjoy this excerpt from “The Lost Lord of Castle Black”, Book 1 of The Lost Lords Series from Chasity Bowlin and Dragonblade Publishing.

  And coming soon

  The Pirate’s Bluestocking (a Lost Lords and Pirates of Britannia crossover)

  Prologue

  December 1804

  The sea pitched and the ship rolled upon it, tossed about like a child’s toy. It was a dark day, the morning’s gray leaden sky having grown darker with each passing hour as it threatened to break open at any moment and pelt them with rain. Vicious wind had already made the journey difficult, but it seemed the closer they came to their destination, the more difficult it became. Was it an omen, perhaps, Lady Agatha Blakemore wondered?

  The sky was nearly black with the coming storm and the wind whipped wickedly at the sails, snapping them with such force it seemed impossible that the entire ship would not come apart. It ripped at her skirts and tugged at her carefully pinned hair until long tendrils escaped and danced about her face.

  Lady Agatha bit back a miserable groan as another wave of nausea swamped her. They had fled France in the wake of the vile and self-proclaimed emperor’s plan to invade England with his band of miscreant sailors. It had been one catastrophe after another. The journey had seen them all fall ill, even the most seasoned of sailors. Some aboard the ship whispered that it was not seasickness at all but poison. She had to wonder if that was not the truth. It had been an exercise in misery from the moment they boarded the ship.

  But it wasn’t only that, a traitorous voice in her mind whispered. She missed him. Despite everything she had learned, despite knowing the painful truth about him, she still longed for him. The touch of his hand on hers, the way he had kissed her as if starved for the taste of her lips—those memories haunted her and she imagined that they would for the rest of her life. Nothing would ever measure up to the joy she’d known with him or to the crippling heartbreak when she’d discovered it had all been a lie.

  The ship pitched again on an enormous wave. She gripped the railing and struggled to remain on her feet. Staying above and watching the storm was risking life and limb, but to go below and allow the awful sickness to sweep through her, once more, was beyond her.

  “This is interminable,” she said on a breathless gasp.

  “We shall be home soon enough and put all of this foolishness behind us,” Lord Blakemore said.

  He’d approached from behind and she had not heard him until he was upon her due to the raging wind and the creaking of the ship. Agatha’s stomach pitched for another reason entirely. He would never let her forget just as he would never allow her indiscretion to be forgotten. Her once-adoring husband looked at her differently now, as if she’d been sullied beyond redemption, and she supposed that was true enough. Guilt and shame would be her companions forevermore. Nothing shamed her more than the knowledge that she would run back to her lover at the merest provocation if she thought he would have her.

  “Where is Graham?” she asked. Their son was the only topic of conversation that did not result in tension between them. There was little else for them to talk about truly. He despised her now, as he should.

  “He’s below… suffering his own misery of seasickness. We should reach land within a few hours. Once you’re both on dry land, it will all look better,” he answered stiffly.

  “I should go check on him,” she said.

  He scoffed at that. “You wouldn’t make it without tossing up your accounts. You stay here in the air and I’ll go see to the boy.” He paused then and turned back to her. “Be careful, Agatha. The sea is vicious and greedy.”

  She didn’t argue the point as the very idea of taking her eyes off the growing chunk of land on the horizon made her stomach roil. England. His warning rang behind him, the words sending a chill snaking along her spine that had nothing to do with the bitter wind and cold mist that blew up from the lashing waves.

  Choppy seas, she thought. It was a metaphor, no doubt, for the muddle she’d made of her own life. She should have been happier to be home, happier to be returning to Castle Black and a quiet life with her family. That Nicholas was forgiving enough as a man to even have her back was a testament to his character. Certainly there was bitterness between them. And there would be, perhaps, forever. But he had not denounced her. He had not divorced her and left her to ruin in Paris. It was within his rights to cast her off, to petition the House of Lords and the church for a divorce and leave her to her considerable shame. But he had not. Despite the hurt she could see so clearly in him, he had simply stated that they would return to England together and leave her brief madness behind. She should be grateful.

  But all she could think of was Etienne, the man she’d nearly thrown everything away for. Even now, with her son below deck and her husband tending to him, returning to her life as a member o
f the upper echelon of British society, she’d throw it all away in a moment if he’d have her.

  But the ugly truth of Etienne’s betrayal was undeniable. She’d loved him and he had used her, had preyed on her loneliness and the weakness of her character that she had never suspected before. His sole interest in her had been to have access to her husband’s papers, to find out precisely what he knew about the movements of British operatives covertly working in France. She’d been his dupe and she’d risked everything she held dear for a moment’s passion with a man who could never be trusted. So now, thanks to the mercy of her husband, she was being permitted to return to the life she’d nearly destroyed.

  The ship lurched again, so violently that she lost her footing and had to grasp the railing to avoid being pitched overboard. A particularly nasty gust of wind came up, tearing at the sails. An ominous crack sounded, but the shouts and frantic running of the sailors truly sparked her alarm.

  “Graham,” she whispered, her own sickness and misery forgotten. She needed to reach her son and her husband.

  Struggling to her feet, she made her way to the narrow stairs that would lead below deck. As her feet touched the floor, water rushed up around her ankles. They were sinking. The ship would go down and they would go down with it.

  No sooner had the thought occurred to her than she saw him, Nicholas. Her husband. He rushed from their cabin holding Graham to him.

  “Get back up those stairs and get to one of the longboats,” he shouted.

  “What’s happening?” Agatha screamed.

  “The mast has broken… the ship will founder and sink. Our only chance is to get to one of the longboats. Go, Agatha! Hurry!” Lord Nicholas shouted.

  He’d never raised his voice to her. He’d always been calm, reasonable and a bastion of strength and stalwart sanity in an otherwise crazy world. Yet, she could see the fear in him, she could see that he was terrified. She also knew that his terror had little to do with his own survival but with hers and Graham’s. Even now, in the wake of her betrayal, he continued to be selfless and perfect. She didn’t deserve him.

  “Agatha,” he said again, pleading. “I cannot carry you both up to that deck. Do not make me choose which of you to save!”

  Those words brought the ugly reality of their situation crashing down on her. With a jerky nod, she turned and scrambled back up the stairs to the main deck. Nicholas was behind her, Graham clinging to him with the awful seasickness that had plagued them since they’d boarded the ship at Calais. It had seemed such a hardship then but, now, facing true danger, it seemed such a minor thing.

  Once on the deck, chaos reigned. Members of the crew were rushing to and fro as the ship pitched and rolled, taking on more and more water. It was already listing dangerously to one side.

  “Lady Blakemore!” The first mate rushed toward her. He grasped her arm in a breach of etiquette. But under the circumstances, one could hardly cling to the rules of society. “You must get into the boat.”

  She did, though with difficulty. Leaning starboard as it was, she had to leap into the boat, her skirts tangling about her legs. As she looked up, Nicholas was clambering over the side and into the boat as well. He reached up to take Graham’s wan and nearly lifeless form from the crewman when the ship suddenly pitched again. The ropes securing one end of the longboat snapped. Agatha screamed as she clung to the sides of the boat. Nicholas reached for her, grasping her wrists to hold on to her.

  “I’ve got to cut it loose,” the crewman said.

  “No!” Agatha shouted. Graham was still on the ship.

  The man ignored her protests, cutting the ropes that secured the boat and sending it crashing to the waves below. The seawater nearly swamped the boat as it rushed in, but Nicholas was there, bailing out quickly.

  Every wave carried them further away from the ship, further away from her son who still remained there with the crew of the doomed vessel.

  “Go back! Go back for him!”

  “If we are near the ship when it goes under, it will take us with it,” Nicholas said, grasping her arms.

  “I don’t care! You must save him.”

  “I must save you,” he insisted. “And the child you carry.”

  “It isn’t yours,” she admitted.

  “I know,” he said. “They will put Graham on another boat. We will find him shortly, Agatha. But for now, for the sake of you and your unborn child, we must wait here.”

  She wept then. Knowing the truth of what he said, having to choose between the safety of her son and the safety of her unborn child was a position no woman should ever be put in.

  A loud groan emanated from the ship and then it began to break apart, the boards snapping beneath the pressure of the water rushing into it. It was only minutes until it disappeared entirely, swallowed by the raging sea.

  “God is punishing me,” she muttered, her voice rising with hysteria. “God is punishing me and I deserve it, but he does not. Please, dear Lord, give me back my son… give me back my son.”

  She was still muttering that phrase beneath her breath, her voice having grown weak with the strain hours later when their small boat reached land. Other survivors were there. Bodies littered the beach, driven there by the raging sea. They lay stretched out like driftwood. But they were all grown men, sailors. There were no little boys.

  Graham, the only son and heir to Lord Blakemore of Castle Black, had vanished—taken by the vicious and greedy sea her husband had warned her of.

  Chapter One

  December 1822

  The winds were howling outside, lashing at the stone walls of the castle as thunder cracked and lightning flashed across the sky. It was typical weather for that time of year and generally no cause for alarm. Storms were a fact of life when living so close to the sea. Still, it seemed especially ominous that evening, as if the weather itself were a harbinger of other things to come.

  In the years since she’d come to live there as an orphaned child, Castle Black had changed exponentially. In those years since, beset with tragedy and with the neglect born out of the ensuing grief, it had come to live up to its dark moniker. At only six years old, she’d arrived on the doorstep uncertain of her welcome. With both her parents deceased and no family to take her in, the tenuous connection of the late Lord Blakemore and her father as school chums had hardly offered an auspicious beginning. They could very well have made her a servant in the house or, worse, sent her to an almshouse to make her way in the world as she might. Instead, Lord Blakemore and Lady Agatha had welcomed her with open arms. She had to wonder, if she’d arrived later, if it had been after Graham’s disappearance, their hearts hardened by grief, if the outcome would have been the same.

  Shaking off her morbid thoughts with a slight shiver, Miss Beatrice Marlowe waited for her maid to put the finishing touches on her hair before going down to dinner. The family was no doubt gathered already and she would receive stern and disapproving looks for being late. But as the thick, dark mass of her hair seemed to defy every attempt to contain it in a reasonable chignon, was it any wonder she could never make it downstairs on time?

  “That should hold it, Miss. I think,” the maid said skeptically.

  “Thank you, Betsy. If it does, we’ll call it a victory. If it fails, it’ll be much like any other attempt to control it. I should cut it and be done with it,” Beatrice mused.

  “No, Miss. ’Tis a lot to work with to be sure, but ’tis too fine to chop at,” the maid protested. “One day, you’ll have a husband who’ll appreciate the beauty of it.”

  A more unlikely circumstance Beatrice couldn’t imagine. Prior to the late Lord Blakemore’s passing, she’d had two seasons in London at the expense and to the dismay of her guardians. Both had been abject failures. She wasn’t a great enough beauty, or a great enough wit to have made the kind of impression on society that a virtually penniless woman without rank would require to land a worthwhile husband. In the words of Lady Agatha, it had been money well wasted. They
’d not be foolish enough to throw more in the same direction.

  She surveyed her reflection once more. She was pretty enough, though not in a fashionable way. Her lips were too full, her mouth slightly too wide, with large, wide-set eyes the same stormy gray as the sea raging outside. One gentleman had remarked that her eyes were unnerving. Of course, he’d only made that remark when she’d pointed out that he had yet to look at them as his own gaze had been affixed permanently to her abundant bosom.

  Shaking her head slightly, she addressed the maid’s wide-eyed concern over the mention of caving to popular fashion and shearing off her hair. “It doesn’t matter,” she admitted. “I’d be too terrified to cut it. The weight of it, at this point, is the only thing that makes it manageable. Without that, I can’t even conceive of what it would look like.”

  The maid was smiling at that quip as she draped a paisley shawl around Beatrice’s shoulders. “Well, it looks lovely for now.”

  “So it does,” Beatrice agreed. “Thank you again, Betsy.”

  “If I must say, Miss, you appear less than thrilled at the prospect of going down for the evening meal. You could always ask for a tray in your room,” Betsy suggested.

  Beatrice considered it. “I could, but I fear that if I am not there, Edmund will browbeat Lady Agatha until she simply caves in to his demands. He’s become unrelenting.”

  “Not to be forward in saying so, Miss, but do you not reckon it’s time to have his lordship declared dead? ’Tis been nigh on twenty years… surely, if he were alive, he’d have made it back to us by now.” The maid had no knowledge of Castle Black in the time when Graham had been present. Betsy had only come to work there in the year after his disappearance.