Angel’s
Guardian
Scottie Barrett
ANGEL’S GUARDIAN
Copyright© 2016 by Scottie Barrett
Cover Design by: Avanti Graphics
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.
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.
Table of Contents
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
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SCOTTIE BARRETT
CHAPTER ONE
Angeline surveyed the vast estate and smiled to herself. A person could get lost here. It was entirely possible that once married, she would not have to cross paths with Mr. Stanbury more than once a day. Perhaps taking the morning meal with him wouldn’t be too torturous…so long as it wasn’t a lengthy meal, but then she wasn’t much of a breakfast eater anyway. She experienced a sinking feeling in her stomach. Avoiding him in the bedroom would take some planning. Perhaps she could emulate her hired nursemaid, Mrs. Withers, who claimed a propensity for low spirits and would inevitably take to her fainting couch the moment her husband would arrive from London. The closed bedroom door certainly kept him away. Angeline hadn’t seen him upwards of four times in the entire year she’d spent in the Withers’ home.
The grass tickled her ankles as she strode across the lush lawn, two of Mr. Stanbury’s deerhounds trotting closely at her side. Once she reached the edge of the estate the dogs turned as if on cue and raced back to the house.
She reveled in a moment of freedom and pulled in a deep breath of woodsy scents. Restless, she moved deeper into the thicket of trees, letting her heart be her guide. Soon the beloved house came into view.
Of course, this was the reason she’d been considering marriage to the boor. The idiotic notion that marrying an acquaintance and neighbor of her guardian would at least bring the man into her social orbit. She knew she couldn’t have him, but at least their paths might cross. Would she really sacrifice her entire future for the occasional glimpse of the man? She thought she very well might.
A raindrop landed on the sleeve of her pelisse. The storm clouds that had been hovering over the distant hills were suddenly overhead. Her mind had been so preoccupied with Major Draxford that she hadn’t given much thought to the encroaching darkness.
She opened the parasol thinking it might provide protection from the sprinkles. Mrs. Withers had insisted that since Mr. Stanbury was the host of this country gathering, Angeline must personify perfection. She could only imagine the tirade she would have to endure if she spoiled the gown with water spots.
In moments, Angeline was no longer facing a drizzle but a deluge. Water poured through the satin parasol like a paper hat. A chilling wind accompanied the rain setting her teeth to chattering. She tossed the worthless parasol aside. The wind whipped her hair from the confines of the hairpins. She removed her pelisse and draped it over her head as she zigzagged through the stands of trees. The house loomed dark and unfriendly, only a few candles flickered in the ground floor parlor. Wick Hartlett, the head groomsman, stepped out of the stable. He stopped suddenly, his head swiveling in her direction. Surely, her pale rose gown made her stand out starkly against the forest colors.
Angeline feeling like a trespasser in her own home, hurried back through the trees, checking over her shoulder, embarrassed at the idea of being discovered lurking.
The storm increased in ferocity. Squinting against the rain that pelted her face, she spotted the infamous hunting cabin; a lair meant exclusively for men. She wondered if any woman had ever breached the sanctity of it. The structure was underwhelming. It was more of a hut than a cabin. She pushed the door open. The interior was almost as primitive as the exterior. Perfect, she supposed, for the male animal who wanted to share hunting exploits over a bottle of whiskey. A few weeks of dust powdered the wooden floor planks. The walls were covered with moth eaten hunting trophies.
Angeline took the flint box from the mantel and kneeled before the hearth. She used a yellowed newsprint to help kindle the fire. Once the fire provided light, she shuttered the lone window closing out the feeble gray daylight.
As she reached back to unbutton her dress she wondered if her nursemaid Mrs. Withers would be more outraged to find the dress ruined or her charge disrobing in a strange cottage without the aid of a maid. Her frozen fingers were like clumsy claws as she untied the ribbon at her waist and pushed the petticoat from her hips. Her stays clung uncomfortably like a second skin. She breathed a sigh of relief when she peeled it off. In for a pound and all that…she yanked the chemise up and over her head. She gathered up her wet items and draped them on the fireplace fender. She rarely allowed herself the pleasure of going naked. Mrs. Withers and her household staff had little respect for privacy.
The only piece of furniture in the place, besides a couch riddled with cheroot burns, was a door-less cupboard lined with dusty liquor bottles. She uncorked one, took a mouthful then forced herself to swallow and nearly gagged. It was not the first time she’d tasted alcohol. Silas had allowed her wine with her evening meal. But she had never tasted anything this potent. The heat that rolled down her throat tempted her to try the vile liquid again. She took another sip and experienced another warming sensation.
She ran her fingers along the fur draped over the back of the couch. White with spots, it had surely belonged to some exotic animal. She took a whiff and was relieved to find there was no musty smell. She shut her eyes and held her breath as she shook the dust from it then spread it before the fire. Angeline returned to the liquor cabinet and chose three bottles of spirits one the color of water, another of amber, and the last a wicked shade of green. She settled herself on the fur and began combing her fingers through her wet hair. Almost instantly the heat from the flames pinkened her skin. Her nipples were no longer puckered. They were rosy and full. She took a sip of the amber liquid. This one tasted much mellower than the first.
After a few more sips her head was spinning. She set it aside and sampled the clear liquid. The taste reminded her of pine needles. And the bitterness of the green liquid had her gulping back a swallow of the amber alcohol to get rid of the taste. She stretched out on the fur, fanning her damp hair behind her. Allowing herself to get lost in thoughts of him, she slipped her hand between her legs parting her lips and finding the sensitive nub. She moaned softly, dropped her legs open and arched her pelvis off the ground. As her fingers rubbed rhythmically over the sensitive spot, she slid the fingers of her other hand through her wet quim. Even fully clothed, her pussy would clench just at the thought of the man. Now luxuriously naked with her mind sinfully focused on Draxford, she found herself rushing toward a climax. Woozy from the drink, she turned her head, and imagined the man of her dreams standing i
n the shadows, his head nearly grazing the ceiling. Her lids heavy she stared through her lashes at her vision. Her spinning mind added the uniform and the cockeyed smile with the single deep dimple. How lovely. She would have to take up drinking if it would allow her to conjure the man at will. She let her legs fall open exposing herself completely to the honorable major.
She rolled one of her pebbled nipples between her finger and thumb and drew her knee back and up and slipped a finger inside herself. “Draxford,” she moaned. His name felt forbidden on her lips. “I want you,” she said feeling half-mad for talking to herself. She pumped her finger in and out and swiftly brought herself to a shuddering climax. She closed her eyes for a moment enjoying the sweet release. She stretched lazily on the fur and opened her eyes just as her vision stepped out of the shadows.
“My sentiments exactly.” The voice was rougher than she remembered it. Angeline’s heart jumped into her throat. With a gasp, she snatched her hand from between her legs, and scrambled to her knees.
“Major Draxford!”
He bowed his head. “At your service,” he responded dryly.
Her attempt to cover herself was practically useless, her full breasts spilled over her arm. She got awkwardly to her feet and collected her still damp clothing from the fender giving him a view of her naked backside.
“I saw the smoke and thought the old place might have been hit by lightning.”
“As you can plainly see, all’s well, so you may leave.”
The shock of seeing him had sobered her some, but she was still unsteady on her feet. She pulled her chemise over her head and managed to get her arm in the wrong opening. She struggled to pull it off, her bare bottom jiggling with the effort. She was definitely giving him an eyeful. Once free, she dispensed with the undergarments and pulled her dress on instead.
“Had I known Stanbury kept a beautiful creature, naked and ready tucked away, I would have paid a visit much sooner.”
“I am not Stanbury’s creature.” She turned to face him, pushing the damp hair out of her eyes. When she daydreamed about him, he was always smiling. This man did not look like he remembered how to smile. Though he was dramatically altered, her heart recognized him immediately. The years had wrought many changes in the man and all of them intimidating. His boyishly handsome face had matured to dangerously handsome, his hair was blacker and more severe than she’d remembered and his shoulders and chest had broadened to warrior proportions. The thought that this very different Nicholas Draxford had seen her at her most vulnerable forced a shiver through her entire frame.
He doffed his hat and shook off the rain then raked his hair back from his face. “You moaned my name. I’m more than flattered.” He shrugged out of his greatcoat and tossed it on the couch as if intending to stay. He stalked toward her and with each step of his Hessian boots her heart beat a little faster. “I can only assume that we know each other. Please forgive my rudeness but I would like to reacquaint myself with your face. I was somewhat distracted earlier,” he said with a suggestive lift of his brow.
His provocative manner would certainly come to an abrupt end the moment he came close enough to the firelight to get a truly good look at her face. He’d never uttered a harsh word to her before, but a ward making a naked spectacle of herself might test any man’s temper. She braced herself for the coming fury.
From a distance he’d seemed in complete control, but she could tell her wanton behavior had stirred something in him. His breathing was erratic and his gray eyes regarded her with a predatory glint. As his gaze wandered her face, scrutinizing her features, she allowed herself the same privilege. The man was devastating up close. She felt feverish and her legs were as wobbly as a new foal’s. She craned her neck to look up into his face. She noticed that his thick lashes were matted by the rain and stood in star-like spikes. The slash of a scar which ran parallel to his strong jaw line and the tattoo that peeked from the collar of his shirt only served to make him appear more unforgiving, more masculine.
Surely he would remember her own scar. The small crescent beside the corner of her eye. After all, he’d been the one to carry her into the house after she’d fallen from the tree. Or the paleness of her eyes, a color that was oft remarked upon. A nervous smile twitched the corners of her lips as she waited for a flicker of recognition to spark in his expression.
“Christ, you’re fresh out of the schoolroom.”
Would he forever think of her as a mere child? “I’ll be one and twenty soon. Well, nine months to be exact.” Not even that tidbit of information seemed to jolt his memory. His fierce eyes continued their unwavering examination of her. Had she pined for a man who’d never wasted a thought on her?
Perhaps she could not blame him for not recognizing her. After all she’d gone through a drastic metamorphosis. She’d been as scrawny as a little boy when he’d seen her last. She’d since developed breasts that to her mind were a bit too large for her frame. And her hair now skimmed her hips, a far cry from the hoydenish short hair she used to wear. She mentally chided herself. Why was she making excuses for him? She was still looking at him with the same adoring eyes. How could he not recognize her?
The lofty height of the man combined with the alcohol tainting her blood made her dizzy. She steadied herself by grabbing onto his lapel then quickly released it.
His lips curled in a sardonic smile. “A suspicious man might question the happy accident of this meeting. Our host would know that the storm had made the main road impassable and that the only logical path would be through the woods adjoining the estates. And certainly the smoke pouring from a deserted cabin could not be ignored.” He crossed the room, banged open the shutter and glanced out the window. “Surely, he would not drag his cousin out in this weather just to reinforce the notion that I’m a poor prospect for marriage.”
The day was swiftly becoming the worst of her life. He was in love with Mr. Stanbury’s cousin. It made perfect sense, Constance was everything Angeline wasn’t...confident, elegant, poised. Besides, he and Constance were nearly of an age. No doubt, he would never treat Constance Stanbury like a child.
“You have little faith in chance,” she said.
He folded his arms across his chest. “Why don’t you tell me what you are doing all the way out here without a chaperone? And how it is we are acquainted?”
She quickly came to a cowardly conclusion that the safest time to introduce herself was while surrounded by Stanbury’s house guests. “I am allowed quite a bit of freedom. You see my guardian is rather disengaged.” Angeline took some satisfaction in her little verbal daggers. Hopefully, they would have some sting once he came to know her identity.
His eyes were still narrowed with skepticism.
“Major Draxford, I simply believed all the gossip about you and was momentarily infatuated. You are the talk of Mr. Stanbury’s party. And I’ve seen those sensationalist pamphlets portraying you as an assassin employed by the crown.” She gestured toward the liquor bottle. “My imagination was helped along by some spirits. But I’m afraid the reality…”
“Disappointing?”
She hesitated a moment. “You have a forbidding presence.”
“And most assassins of your acquaintance are warm-hearted gents?”
She buried her face in her hands and let out a frustrated cry. “Haven’t you embarrassed me enough?”
“I’m at fault?”
“You could have acted the gentleman and backed out of the door discreetly, leaving me none the wiser.”
He gave a scoffing laugh. “To suggest that, I can only think you have no idea how beautiful you are. There isn’t a man with a pulse who would not watch. Hell, my cock is still so hard I could plow fields with it.”
She was certain he would never speak that way to Miss Stanbury. But then, she supposed, a boundary had been crossed between them
in the small cabin. Angeline almost always indulged her curiosity, but this time she fought it. It was difficult, but she kept her gaze above his waist.
Draxford collected the bottles. “Gin and whiskey. Christ, what’s this?” He took a whiff of the green liquid. “Absinthe. Darling, you’ll come to regret mixing these.” He set the two bottles which still held liquid in the cabinet. The one that now held only a drop of the golden liquid he hurled into the dying fire. She jolted as the glass smashed against the stone walls of the hearth and the alcohol flared brightly for a second. He pulled on his coat and donned his hat. “It’s stopped pouring. Get your things, we’re leaving.”
“I will stay behind and wait for the fire to die down completely.”
In the next second, he picked up an old tin bucket she hadn’t noticed before and dumped sand into the hearth smothering the flames.
“I made it here. I can make it back without your help. Besides, how would it look if I returned to the manor with you.” She tilted her chin at an obstinate angle. “What will Constance think?”
He picked up her pelisse and thrust it at her. “Move that luscious little arse of yours. I’d like to get my horse into a dry stall.”
“I am not riding with you.”
“Fine, walk, you stubborn wench and I will restrain my horse to trail behind, so we can enjoy more of this weather. Pleased, now?”
Where, she wondered, had this protective instinct been when he had shuffled her off to Mrs. Withers? Angeline took her time putting on her shoes then bundled her underthings and jammed them beneath her coat. At the door he grabbed an ancient oilskin hat from a hook and plunked it on her head. She acknowledged the gesture with a frown and set out at a rather leisurely pace, partly out of obstinacy, but mostly because it took some concentration to put one foot in front of the other. No matter how upright she held herself, she felt as if she were walking at a tilt. Her skin was breaking out in a clammy sweat. In an instant, nausea overtook her. She could actually feel the color drain from her face. She pulled in a couple of deep breaths hoping to stall the inevitable. With a whimper of frustration, she clamped her hand over her mouth, stumbled off the path, snagging her dress on branches as she dove behind a bush. She retched and retched. She returned on shaky legs. With a smirk, he handed her down a handkerchief which she accepted with an ungrateful ‘thank you’. She wiped her mouth and continued walking. In truth, she felt better for having vomited.
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