by Edie Harris
It could be argued that this approach would never have occurred had a 1769 midnight meeting in the Red Letter Tavern not taken place between Faraday and a prominent Sons of Liberty organizer, merchant and purported smuggler Conrad Jackson. During this meeting—as Jackson later noted in his journal—Faraday made apparent his virulent distaste for and distrust of the reigning monarch, King George III. He is quoted in Jackson’s journal as saying, “There ought not to be man enthroned who thinks himself next to God, whose power smites those who dare challenge his delusions of holiness.” Faraday went on to say, “I for one will engage in the seditious behavior necessary to bring equality to our people. Never again will a man be thwarted in the pursuit of his livelihood by those who would deny their blood runs a common red, but blue instead.” As their conversation came to an end, Faraday promised Jackson and the Sons of Liberty the financial support necessary to fund their revolution, a promise he never failed to meet when they came to him again and again until the cessation of hostilities in 1783.
After the meeting at the Red Letter, a large wooden coffin was delivered to Jackson’s rear doorstep. In it lay five gleaming bayonet rifles, engraved with the letter “F” along the barrel. Jackson writes in his journal, “Never have I aimed a weapon so true as the Faraday. Never again do I wish to aim any other, for the Faraday seems an extension of my arm, my breath, my will.”
The ominous delivery of the coffin of rifles to Conrad Jackson revealed the purpose of the cloistered Faraday compound: Faraday and his people had spent the prior decade developing high-functioning weaponry, no doubt invented for the express purpose of starting a war with the country Faraday believed had wronged him when Lord Valsar denied him the right to legally perform his scientific inquiries. Most likely, this is the pursuit of livelihood which Faraday referenced in Jackson’s account of their meeting.
I answer to none but me. The prophetic nature of this statement cannot be undersold, because today, more than two hundred and fifty years after the hanging of that sign, the Faraday compound still stands, and Roland Jonquil Faraday’s descendants remain a deadly law unto themselves.
* * *
The treatise is thought to have been written by a rector’s wife circa 1750. It is signed only with the letters “Mme,” though there is the faint imprint on the title page of the seal used by the Rectory at Milland Pond. The treatise is currently on rotating display at the Bodleian Library in Oxford, and a digital version is available via the university’s online catalogue.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an exclusive excerpt from RIPPED, book two of the BLOOD MONEY series by Edie Harris, coming in Spring 2014 from Carina Press.
Tobias Faraday won’t forgive rogue MI6 agent Chandler McCallister for the role she played in his sister Beth’s abduction—and subsequent torture—but he’s willing to offer her a chance at redemption. All Chandler needs to do is help him infiltrate the black-market arms ring run by the criminal mastermind who put the Faraday family in the crosshairs.
Prologue
They no longer held him with clammy palms and meaty fingers, but instead bound his wrists with worn leather cuffs. The men on either side gripped the chains linked to the cuffs, forcing his arms to spread wide and leaving Tobias struggling for balance where he knelt on the dirty, cracked cement of the warehouse floor.
They’d removed his shirt, belt, shoes and socks, but even with only his trousers to protect against the early morning chill lingering in the stale air, sweat sheened the exposed skin of his torso. His gut ached with the bruising blows delivered by one of Kedrov’s henchmen, and the muscles in his shoulders and back trembled faintly, tautly stretched by the chain-wielding goons next to him.
He didn’t attempt to engage them in conversation; that time had long since passed, and besides, he wasn’t willing to barter for his release alone. If he left this Russian hellhole, he was doing so with his partner, or he wouldn’t leave at all.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway behind him—multiple pairs, three heavy, one light. It was the lighter he strained to hear, listening for a shuffle, a limp, anything to indicate that the owner of that gait had been harmed in any manner. But her tread was steady, her stride already familiar to him without sight. The woman walking toward him now carried confidence in every footfall, and the tight ball of anxiety lodged in his chest relaxed somewhat.
The muscle-bound men at his sides shifted, chains clinking as their fists tensed. Their attention fixed on the entrance to this warehouse chamber, Tobias subtly tested the give of the cuffs at his wrists. No chance at freedom, not even if he dislocated both thumbs. The goon on his left permitted more of a tug than the right-side goon, that one shooting him a pointed glare as he tightened his grip on the chain linked to the right-hand restraint. A reminder that, yes, Tobias was well and truly trapped and, no, his situation wasn’t about to change anytime soon.
Four people breached the cavernous room in silence. Keeping his chin high, Tobias adjusted his limited stance, pressing his bare toes to the ground and relocating the pressure from his knees farther back. If need be, he could push to his feet, catching at least the left-side guard by surprise, if not the right. Were luck on his side, the sudden movement might buy him one second, perhaps two, and that would be enough to shove Lefty in the path of a stray bullet or six. He possessed no compunction about using a villain as a human shield, not at this late hour in the game.
But jump he didn’t, wanting—needing—to see her first. To make contact with those brandy-brown irises he knew melted like chocolate when he kissed her, stroked her. He refused to make a single damn move without her, the understanding deep inside him now, clear as day, that it would always be like this. Always her for him, until he no longer drew breath.
Which was what made the following few minutes so unbearable.
Words in Russian that his brain struggled to translate, his attention focused entirely on the petite woman who’d rounded Thing One and Thing Two to stand in front of him. Her gaze scanned him quickly, coldly, the calculation in her assessing eyes an element he hadn’t seen from her in weeks. She stared at him, bare-chested and kneeling before her, bruises mottling his ribs and face, and he felt exposed.
Though not uncomfortable with her perusal. She’d given Tobias that sensation of overexposure before, and he had survived it—triumphed over it, in fact—embracing the animal dwelling within him he’d always sought to quell.
There was pleasure to be found in losing control. That was the lesson Chandler McCallister had taught him. Such pleasure Tobias could never come back from it and hope to survive.
He looked her over, fearing his inspection revealed far more of his feelings than hers had, and noted the dark smudges beneath her eyes. The tense set of her full lips. The clenching of her sharp jaw. But no blood, no bruises, and her black jacket remained zipped to the base of her throat. Still... “Are you all right?”
Her mouth compressed into a thin, bloodless line. “Ask me tomorrow, Toby.”
His heart sped at her words.
A prematurely gnarled hand gripped her upper arm, twisted by burn scars but evidently strong enough to make Chandler flinch. Unthinking, Tobias tugged his restraints, lunging forward as Karlin Kedrov moved into the pool of light provided by the single bulb swaying overhead.
“Ah-ah, Faraday. Do not be rude.” The man’s grating English was shaped by his heavy accent. “My pet is not for you to touch.”
“This woman is not your pet.” She belonged to no man, not even Tobias, and he liked her that way.
Kedrov grinned, or maybe grimaced—his features too twisted to be certain. “No?” The hand on Chandler’s arm slid upward to her shoulder, squeezed. “Well, then, koshka.” Kedrov’s fingers threaded through the loosened strands of honey blond spilling around her shoulders, head tilted to study her blank expression, voice patronizingly affectionate. The raging b
east inside Tobias snarled at the scarred man’s possessive touch. “You know what you must do, yes? To prove the American wrong?”
She nodded, and a belt, his belt, appeared in her hand, the black leather wide in her small palm. Stepping forward as Kedrov shifted back into the shadows, she again met Tobias’s gaze. No emotion lurked in her brown eyes now, no tell to alert him she was playing a role, another role, always a different role.
Tension gathered once more beneath his sternum, hands fisting as the chains dictated his position. He bent at the waist in a forced bow, acquiescing to the pressure on his arms as he gritted his teeth and stared at the floor, the planes of his bared shoulders offered up to her. To the belt.
Words stoppered his throat, a bottlenecked torrent of feelings he refused to release in front of their audience. He could do this for her. He would do this for her, damn it, even without knowing all the variables at hand. He had to trust in her, trust in them, and withstand what was to come.
The belt cracked as she whipped it at her side, a preparatory gesture. A warning.
He lifted his gaze from between his knees to drink in the sight of her once more, and a chill entered his veins at what he saw in her face. Determination, yes, but also a glow of...of sadistic glee. Pretending...or not.
She shook her head, almost sadly, as she studied his expression. “What did I tell you about me, Toby? From the very beginning, what did I make clear?”
Swallowing against the inner cold threatening to freeze his heart, he growled, “That you’re a self-serving bitch.” His lips didn’t want to form the curse, didn’t want to hurt her with her own words, and what a fool that made him.
“Excellent memory.” Her throat moved, but no sound emerged. No sound except—”Toby?” The glow in her eyes dimmed, and again he lunged, unable to stop himself from trying to protect her even as the goons at his arms slammed him to the floor, his body folded at the waist and his forehead nearly touching the cold cement. His lungs heaved like bellows as he strained futilely against their hold.
A pistol cocked behind Chandler. “You have five seconds, koshka.”
His eyes slid shut as he braced his body. “Do it,” he demanded. “Do it, and be done.”
©2014 by Edie Harris
About the Author
Edie Harris studied English and Creative Writing at the University of Iowa and Grinnell College. She fills her days with writing and editing contract proposals, but her nights belong to the world of romance fiction. Edie lives and works in Chicago and is represented by Laura Bradford of Bradford Literary Agency. Visit her website for backlist titles, contact information, and regular updates on upcoming projects. www.edieharris.com
Where no great story goes untold.
The variety you want to read, the stories authors have always wanted to write.
With new releases every week, your next great read is just a download away!
Keep in touch with Carina Press:
Read our blog: www.CarinaPress.com/blog
Follow us on Twitter: www.twitter.com/CarinaPress
Become a fan on Facebook: www.facebook.com/CarinaPress
ISBN-13: 9781426899263
Blamed: A Blood Money Novel
Copyright © 2014 by Edie Harris
Excerpt from Ripped: A Blood Money Novel ©2014 by Edie Harris. Used by permission of the author.
Edited by Kerri Buckley
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.CarinaPress.com
