Lightning Strikes Twice (The Heart of a Hero Book 4)

by Jillian Chantal

  She opened her mouth to say something.

  “Wait, please. Let me finish.”

  Hetty shrugged her shoulders.

  “Things have changed in the last weeks. In that time, I’ve gotten to know the person you are and have taken the chance to look at you. Really look at you. And I find, if you ever were invisible to me, you certainly aren’t now.”

  “Because I’m an experiment?”

  “Don’t be daft.” Laurence came off his chair and knelt at her side. He grabbed hold of the hand she had on top of the coverlet. “It’s because of who you are.”

  “Who I am?”

  “Yes, you’re a lovely, wonderful woman who is passionate about everyone and everything you hold dear. You’re brave and uncomplaining when in difficult circumstances. When we were on the way to Bristol, I first wanted to lock you in that room at the inn and leave you there, but when we shared that bed, things started to change.”

  “Change?” she barely whispered the word.

  “Yes.” Laurence squeezed her hand. “I barely slept that night with you beside me. You invaded my dreams and somehow, my heart as well.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “How could I? You were upset with your father being taken by those men and angry that he had agreed to allow Henry Hammond to court you.” He ran his knuckles over his forehead. “And to tell the truth, I had no idea how you would react if I confessed my love for you. For all I knew—and know even now—you may reject my suit as you did Hammond’s.”

  “Your suit?”

  “Are you quite all right?” He peered into her eyes.

  “Yes, why?” Hetty tilted her head as if confused.

  “You must have hit your head harder than I thought when you fell off the porch since you don’t seem to be understanding what I’m saying.” Then things became clearer. Maybe she was being deliberately obtuse so she wouldn’t have to reject him outright.

  Laurence leapt to his feet. “Forgive me. I’ll be going now. I hope you recover soon and I’m sure I’ll see you again at the laboratory sometime when you come by with your father.” He turned to leave, disappointed that she didn’t want him to court her.

  Just his luck. At age twenty-seven, he finally found a woman he wanted to spend his life with and she didn’t care for him other than as a friend. Sure, she didn’t want to be merely an experiment to him but she didn’t seem to want to be a wife either.

  Laurence made it to the foyer before he heard the sound of wet slippers behind him on the tiles. He turned around at the same moment Hetty threw herself at him.

  Reaching out to stop her flight, he took hold of her upper arms and looked down at her.

  Wet and bedraggled, her hair a sodden mess, she stared into his eyes and said, “If you’re leaving because you don’t think I love you, please stay. If I sounded as if I didn’t care about the words you spoke, it’s only because I was stunned. I’ve loved you so long, I scarce could allow myself to believe you were declaring yourself to me.”

  His heart leapt in joy. “That’s exactly what I was doing, Hetty Hale. I love you with all my being and I’d be honored if you’d let me spend the rest of my life showing you how much.”

  She put her arms around his neck and he pulled her to him.

  Wet clothes pressed against wet clothes, but he didn’t care. The woman he adored loved him. He captured her lips with his.

  “What, ho. What do we have here?” Hetty’s father’s voice echoed through the foyer.

  “I always said she was going to throw herself at that man,” John said.

  “It appears to me he was happy to catch her,” her mother said.

  Laurence stopped kissing his beloved and over her head, said, “Very much happy to catch her and I hope I’ll be allowed to keep her as well.”

  “You have my blessings, Fortescue. We’ll be overjoyed to welcome you to the family.” Mr. Hale came to stand beside Laurence and shook his hand. “But can you explain why you and my daughter seem to have been out in the rain?”

  “Father, we were outside when the storm hit.”

  “You’ve already been struck once by lightning. Can’t you be more careful and stay indoors when there’s bad weather outside?” her mother asked.

  “Haven’t you heard? Lightning only strikes once in the same place,” John said.

  “Hardly, dear brother. Lightning can strike twice,” Hetty said with a shiver.

  Laurence didn’t want to let go of his Hetty, but knew she needed to change into dry garments before she became ill. “You should put on another gown to warm up,” he said. He noticed her clothes seemed drier than his and idly wondered if it was her higher body temperature causing it. Too bad because the wet fabric had emphasized her bosoms to great advantage.

  He turned to face John. “I can attest to lightning striking twice. It struck your sister when she recreated Mr. Franklin’s experiment and then it struck me when I realized I was madly, desperately in love with her.” Laurence glanced down at his beloved as he said the last words.

  “Desperately?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

  “The most desperate type of desperate.” He smiled at her, knowing they would always be as happy as they were at this moment.

  “That’s the best kind.” She grinned.

  Not caring who was there, Laurence scooped her into his arms and kissed her until they were both senseless.

  Somewhere, as if far away, he could hear the sound of clapping and laughing, but all he could focus on was the love he had for his Hetty. The rest was just noise.

  *THE END*

  About the Author:

  Jillian Chantal is multi-published in the romance genre. She’s a lawyer by day and writer, amateur photographer and history buff by night. Jillian lives on the beautiful gulf coast of Florida and loves her little slice of paradise. But not too much to enjoy world-wide travel every chance she gets. After all, a writer and photographer needs new and exciting places to go and capture in order to stay fresh, right? And there’s nothing quite like seeing historical places in person, is there?

  Jillian loves to hear from readers. She can be found at her website www.JillianChantal.com or http://www.facebook.com/jillian.chantal or

  https://twitter.com/JillianChantal

  Her books are available at http://www.amazon.com/Jillian-Chantal

  http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/jillian-chantal?store=allproducts&keyword=jillian+chantal

  Regencies:

  The Orphan and the Duke

  The Bachelor and the Dowager

  Lightning Strikes Twice

  Full Length:

  Doctor, Lover, Baronet

  Moon Dance

  Redemption for the Devil

  Sebastian’s Salvation

  Solo Honeymoon

  Surf Bride

  Tequila Mockingbird

  Venetian Masks

  Series: Long:

  The Gambler (Book One, the Gambler’s Inheritance)

  The Gambler’s Brother (Book Two, the Gambler’s Inheritance)

  The Gambler’s Daughter (Book Three, the Gambler’s Inheritance)

  Christmas on St. Charles Ave (Christmas story, the Gambler’s Inheritance)

  Series: Short:

  It Only Takes a Minute (Book One, the Minute Series)

  The Second Minute (Book Two, the Minute Series)

  Some Minutes Last a Lifetime (Book Three, the Minute Series)

  Shorts:

  All I Want for Christmas is a One-Night Stand

  Carver’s Fall

  Enchanted Edinburgh

  Fireworks for Katerina

  Flight Risk

  Surf Break

  Thanks for Giving

  The Season of the Witch

  The Tainted Keitre

  Chapter One Excerpt from:

  No Hiding for the Guilty

  The Heart of a Hero Series

  Copyright © 2017 Vanessa Riley

  Buy No Hiding for the Guilty:

&nbs
p; Amazon.com

  Amazon UK

  Amazon CA

  Amazon AU

  Chapter One

  July 1813 Devonshire, England

  The velvet fog engulfed Isadel Armijo, swallowing her whole like lump of brown bread drowning in white soup. She flinched at a noise from behind. She pulled on the reigns of her stolen horse and swiveled in the saddle to see if she was followed.

  Nothing.

  Nothing but night was behind her. And nothing would be for her if she didn't keep moving. Bundled up in Papa’s old coat and breeches, she was still just a female alone, but one on the greatest adventure. One of honor. Well, that's what she told herself when she snuck away from Hartland Abbey.

  She kicked her mount forward. The thick fog closed in. Isadel couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't feel anything but heaviness as if she'd be dragged down at any moment. She swatted the air with her straw hat as she had from the boat deck the eve she immigrated from Spain. The half-done thing had been scooped up from a blocking tool of a neighbor’s burnt out workshop. The lady spy had slapped it upon her head as she made Isadel flee Badajoz.

  If Isadel closed her eyes and thought hard of that night, she’d smell the soot that consumed her city. If there was a God, then he should let black powder smell the same. Then this hat would be a crown ordaining her destiny.

  A branch slapped her cheek. The horse must've veered to left and into the woods. Fear swept through her. What if this wasn’t the way to Bannerman, but to another of Lord Wellington’s spies? None of them had the skills she needed. Bannerman was the one, the only one up to the task and the only one who hated her enemy as much as Isadel.

  Clinging closer to the horse's neck, she had to trust the beast knew the way. Trust—that word made her raw nerves snap like uncooked fidelli noodles, but this past year, she learned that her employer, Lord Hartland, was friended by men of precision, those set to provide justice. Who else needed it more than Isadel? Who else had lost as much?

  Her mottled colored mount whinnied but kept moving forward into the thickets. The night had grown dark again. She could barely see and hoped this gelding could navigate its way like the boat captain that spy woman, Joanna Perkins, had bribed. The captain slipped through the low salty clouds of the Bay of Biscay as if he possessed an inner compass guiding him toward the North Star. Isadel understood, for her inner compass aimed solely at vengeance.

  The animal lurched then started to the right again. She stilled her fingers on the smooth leather strap of its reign. Humming her mother's tune, the one that timed her whisking the strokes to perfection, didn't distract the horse. It began moving faster down a steep incline. When they reached the bottom, the clouds parted. She could see again and witnessed moonlight kissing the white stones lining the trail. It was the first light she'd seen since leaving the Abbey at sundown.

  When the housekeeper discovered her missing, the old battle ax would screech that “the half-breed” done run off. This this time the old woman's fear of Isadel's kind being evil or a thief would be true.

  Stomach souring, she slapped the reigns between her palms. These hands were meant for making pastries, forming biscuits, for stirring delicate sauces, not unlocking doors and unfurling the stocks keeping a horse stabled. Yet, her finger tips had grown tired of wiping midnight tears. If she did nothing, her gift of pastries and breads would feed her enemy, the man who had destroyed her world. Moldona would come to the Abbey at month's end.

  Deflating in her saddle like a cake that fell from too much checking, she threw her arms tighter around her mount's neck and clung to it as if it were her father. With a breath, gulping in the strong horse lather, she sat up straight and dared her eyes to grow wet. A woman destined to kill shouldn't be weepy. That was a victim's plight, and she refused to wear that crown anymore. Her greatest wish must come true. She'd risked everything to make things right, her spotless reputation and her safe employment for a man who made sure his staff treated her fairly. The earl’s disappointment in her character would kill her faster than the lashings he could demand to punish a horse thief. If he exercised rights like the wealty hacendia owners in Spain, he’d ask for a hanging.

  Too late to turn back, not that she wanted to, she kept on, urging the horse saying, “To Bann-er-man, horse. To Ba-nner-man.”

  Another hour of hard riding and the smell of the sea, fresh and salty, seemed stronger. Soon, she should be able to see Sandon Manor, the castle hiding the reclusive spy. Fingers vibrating, she swiped at her mouth dabbing at the fresh blood coming from the corner. She'd bit down with the last jostle of the horse. How horrid she must look, probably seeming more like a lost urchin than a cook. She couldn't wear her neat uniform and keep her seat, and who needed to fret about getting creases upon her starched apron while stealing away? Riding like a man, in men's breeches just looked easy. It wasn't. It was quite hard for someone with short legs. Papa would say she was barely enough stones in weight to fill a messenger's saddlebag.

  Patting the horse, she gave him a moment to catch his breath. She needed let her pulse slow and leaned back, gazing at the rocky incline ahead of her. It stretched high, sticking into the clouds headless as if it had been axed like a roasting chicken. Her stomach rumbled and all she could think of was how odd it was now to remember being hungry. Did they feed prisoners in English jails? Maybe they'd shoot first and ask questions later like the British soldiers had done at Badajoz.

  Righteous anger welled inside her growling gut, but so did a little teaspoon of hope. With a click of her heels, she urged the gelding forward. If the horse had done its job, she'd see Sandon from the top. Then she'd know that she'd stolen the right horse, that she'd come to right place. She'd have a chance to no longer live with hate. “Go to Ba-nner-man.”

  Gravel flew on every side. Isadel became breathless. The final push through the fog made her heart flip against her ribs and stay there. The pounding in her chest hurt so badly her ribs would surely poke through her coarse nankeen shirt. Papa's shirt. Bracing in the saddle, Isadel held on as her mount leapt above the clouds to the top, a flat plateau lidding the hill.

  Quiet surrounded her and she tugged at the reigns, stopping the horse. The air smelled clean and sweet like after the rain. The salt, it burned her nostrils, only because she breathed so hard. Yet maybe it cleansed. If there was a heaven, this had to be it—quiet, pure, sweet —unseeing of the horrors below, untouched by the death of innocence—the scream of a sister, the unanswered begging prayer of Papa.

  Clouds swirled and for a moment, then opened and showed things—tree groves, the waters of the Bristol Channel. Joy leaped inside. They’d made it to the coast. Sandon had to be near. The tired part of her wanted to linger in this peace, but to stay in heaven was to deny the hell she'd lived. Morning meant discovery of her theft, no new mercies, no more chances. She steered the horse to the edge. The wind picked up again, spreading the fog, making it thin in spots. The gaps appeared like the insides of white Emmental cheese.

  With wide eyes, she beheld the sight she'd seen from the boat smuggling her to these shores, the high turret of Sandon Manor. It was again alone in the night sky just as it had been nine months ago. With her finger, she traced the structure down to the rest of the castle which lay shrouded by trees. The turret looked daunting, almost whispering “don't reach for me,” but Isadel had to. She gripped the reign tighter and became deaf to the warning. She risked too much to turn back now. Bannerman had to see her. He had to help.

  With a gulp, she hunkered down and pressed forward. The horse flew down the hill, galloping faster, sinking deeper into the steamy fog. They moved as one, splashing through mud puddles. She blocked low branches with her hand and ducked under tree limbs. The horse knew the path, slipping through openings that didn't seem to exist. It trotted, weaving and threading through the dense blanket of leaves. The horse stopped on the castle's rock-strewn drive.

  Isadel sized up the worn door, the overgrowth of vines hugging the limestone brick. That sens
e of being alone, of not wanting to bear the company of others, closed in upon her, but she welcomed it and pushed it into her heart. Nothing alleviated her misery more than the isolation of not explaining, of not searching for ways to fit into this very English world. Emboldened, she jump down and walked with her chin up to the door.

  It took three knocks, three shifts in her stance, three stampings of her short boots, before the door opened. A grizzled man with a lantern and a balding head glared at her. "We've no use for beggars, boy."

  Boy? She surely must look like one with her hair pulled up in her hat. Yet, being thought a man might serve her. "Sir." She coughed and deepened her hoarse voice. “I'm no beggar. I'm a cook…chef."

  "Don't need one of those either."

  A thief and want-to-be-murderer had no room for shame. Shoving all the pride she had left into her spine, she stood up straight, probably exposing her ankles from her father's old breeches. He wasn’t that tall either. "I bring a message for your employer, Ba-nner-man."

  The man wriggled his hooked nose. "Jump on your horse and leave, cook-chef. Take it with you."

  She curled her tongue and tried that long name again in what she hoped sounded clipped, very English. "I'm here for Mr. Bannerman." She kept her voice even, making sure no hitch of feminine desperation could be heard. "It's a matter of death."

  Brow furrowing with more crevices, the fellow pulled a knife from his pocket, waving it as if to intimidate her, but she'd skinned too many chickens for that. "So you're looking for him? You'll have to kill me to get to him."

  Kill this man? He needed to know her private thoughts of murder had nothing to do with his master; well not really. She raised hands and shook her head. "Not here for that."

  "Then what, boy? Why did you come?"

  Like Papa, she spread her feet apart and tried to seem rooted and certain. "Your master is safe from me. And he'll see me. I come from Lord Hartland." She let her gaze lift to the grand stairs behind the gatekeeper. "Is Bannerman in the tower? I can run up there and deliver the message."