by Jo Beverley
To invest in Captain Drake.
Some of the goods, as always, would be hidden in the cellars of Crag Wyvern. No Preventive officer would try to search the home of the Earl of Wyvern, even if the mad earl was dead and his successor had not yet arrived to take charge.
“Come on, come on,” she muttered under her breath, straining to see the first goods land on the beach. She could imagine the powerful thrust of the oarsmen, racing to bring the contraband in, could almost hear the muttering excitement of the waiting men, though it was probably just the wind and sea.
She and David had watched runs before. From a height like this everything seemed so slow. She wanted to leap up and help, as if the run were a huge cart that she could push to make it go faster. Instead she stayed still and silent beside her brother, like him watchful for any sign of problems.
Being in command was a lonely business.
How was she going to be able to leave David to his lonely task? He didn’t need her—it was disconcerting how quickly he’d taken to smuggling and leadership—but could she bear to go away, to not be here beside him on a dark night, to not know immediately if anything went wrong?
At last the first of the cargo was landing, the first goods were being carried up the rough slope. It was going well. David had done it.
With a blown-out breath, she relaxed on the rocky ground, arms around her knees, permitting herself to enjoy the rough music of waves on shingle, and the other rough music of hundreds of busy men. She breathed in the wind, fresh off the English Channel, and the tense activity all around.
Heady stuff, the Freetrade, but perilous.
“The Dragon’s Bride is vintage Jo Beverley. Fast pacing, strong characters, sensuality, and a poignant love story make this a tale to cherish time and again.”
—Romantic Times
“The Dragon’s Bride is a thoughtful, engrossing read.”
—All About Romance
Dear Reader,
If Seduction in Silk is the first book you’ve read in my Malloren World, you might want to catch up on the rest, beginning with My Lady Notorious, the first book in this series. My Lady Notorious won a RITA Award as Best Historical and the Golden Leaf Award for Best Historical. It was also listed as one of the top 100 Historicals of all time by Affaire de Coeur.
Romantic Times described it as “A fast-paced, rip-roaring and most ‘delicious’ read. This one is a keeper!”
My Lady Notorious is available in print and as an e-book.
Here’s a taste.
Enjoy!
Jo
The great crested coach lurched along the Shaftesbury road, over ruts turned rocklike by a sharp November frost. Lounging inside, glossy boots up on the opposite seat, was a lazy-eyed young gentleman in a suit of dark blue laced with silver. His features were smooth, tanned, and on the pretty side of handsome, but his taste for decoration was moderate. His silver lacing merely edged the front of his coat; his only jewels were a sapphire on his lax right hand, and a pearl-and-diamond pin in his softly knotted cravat. His unpowdered russet hair was irrepressibly wavy but tamed into a neat pigtail fixed with black bows at top and bottom.
This hairstyle was the work of his valet de chambre, a middle-aged man who sat upright beside his master, a small jewel box clasped firmly on his lap.
At yet another creaking sway, Lord Cynric Malloren sighed and resolved to hire a riding horse at the next stop. He had to escape this damned confinement.
Being an invalid was the very devil.
He’d finally managed to persuade his solicitous brother, the Marquess of Rothgar, that he was up to traveling, but only on a gentle two-day journey to Dorset to visit his elder sister and her new baby. And only in this monstrous vehicle, complete with fur rugs for his legs and hot bricks for his feet. Now he was returning home, progressing like a fragile grandmother back to sibling care and warm flannel.
The shouted command was merely a welcome relief from tedium. It took a second before Cyn realized he was actually being held up. His valet turned pale and crossed himself, muttering a stream of French prayers. Cyn’s eyes lost their lazy droop.
He straightened and flashed a quick glance at his rapier in its scabbard on the opposite seat, but dismissed it. He had little faith in stories of highwaymen who fenced with their victims for the gold. Instead he pulled the heavy double-barreled pistol out of the holster by his seat and deftly checked that it was clean and loaded in both barrels.
A cruder weapon than a blade, but in this situation a good deal more effective.
The coach came to rest at an angle. Cyn studied the scene outside. It was late in the short day and the nearby pines cast deep shadows in the red of the setting sun, but he could still see the two highwaymen quite clearly. One was back among the trees, covering the scene with a musket. The other was much closer and armed with two elegant silver-mounted dueling pistols. Stolen? Or was this a true gentleman of the road? His steaming mount was a fine bit of blood.
Cyn decided not to shoot anyone yet. This adventure was too enlivening to be cut short, and he had to admit that the distant villain would be a tricky shot in the fading light, even for him.
Both highwaymen wore encompassing black cloaks, tricorn hats, and white scarves around the lower part of their faces. It wouldn’t be easy to describe them if they escaped, but Cyn was at heart a gambler, though he rarely played for coin. He would let these dice roll.
‘‘Down off the box,’’ the nearby man ordered gruffly.
The coachman and groom obediently climbed down. At a command, they lay facedown on the frosty grass verge. The second highwayman came closer to guard them.
The coach swayed as the masterless horses shifted. Jerome gave a cry of alarm. Cyn put out a hand to brace himself, but he didn’t take his eyes from the two highwaymen. The team should be too tired to bolt. He was proved correct as the coach became still again.
‘‘Now, you inside,’’ barked the nearer villain, both barrels trained on the door. ‘‘Out. And no tricks.’’
Cyn considered shooting the man—he could guarantee to put a ball through his right eye at this distance— but restrained himself. Others could be endangered, and neither his pride nor his valuables were worth an innocent life.
He placed the pistol beside his sword, opened the door, and stepped down. He turned to assist his valet, who had a weak leg, then flicked open his grisaille snuffbox, shook back the Mechlin lace at his cuff, and took a pinch. He snapped the box shut, then faced the highwayman’s pistols. ‘‘How may I help you, sir?’’
The man seemed stunned by this reaction, but recovered. ‘‘You may help me to that pretty box, for a start.’’
Cyn had to work to keep his face straight. Perhaps it was the shock of his bland reaction to robbery, but the thief had forgotten to control his voice. Now he sounded well-bred and quite young. Scarcely more than a boy. Any desire to see him hang seeped away, and his curiosity gathered strength.
He flicked open the box again and approached. ‘‘You wish to try my sort? It is a tolerable blend. . . .’’
He had not intended to throw the powder in the robber’s face, but the thief was no fool and backed his horse away. ‘‘Keep your distance. I’ll have the box—tolerable sort an’ all—along with your money and any jewels or other valuables.’’
‘‘Certainly,’’ said Cyn with a careless shrug. He took the box Jerome clutched, which contained his pins, fobs, and other trinkets, and placed the snuffbox inside. From his pockets he added some coins and notes. With some regret he slid off the sapphire ring, and pulled out the pearl-and-diamond pin; they had sentimental value. ‘‘You clearly have more need of all this than I, my good man. Shall I put the box by the road? You can collect it when we’re gone.’’
There was another stunned silence. Then: ‘‘You can damn well lie down in the dirt with your servants!’’
Cyn raised his brows. He brushed a speck of fluff from the sleeve of his coat. ‘‘Oh, I don’t think so. I have no desire
to become dusty.’’ He faced the man calmly. ‘‘Are you going to kill me for it?’’
He saw the man’s trigger finger tighten and wondered if for once he’d misplayed his hand, but there was no shot. After a thwarted silence, the young man said, ‘‘Put your valuables in the coach and get on the box. I’m taking the coach, and you can be my coachman, Mr. High and Mighty!’’
‘‘Novel,’’ drawled Cyn with raised brows. ‘‘But aren’t stolen coaches a trifle hard to fence?’’
‘‘Shut your lip or I’ll shut it for you!’’
Cyn had the distinct feeling the highwayman was losing patience—a reaction he’d been causing all his life.
Cyn’s been captured by a lady who is desperate to get her sister and her sister’s baby to safety. Of course he insists on helping, despite her fierce resistance. Soon they’re fleeing a dangerous enemy, her powerful father, and a chunk of the British army.
