The Hired Man

by Lynna Banning

  Reverend Pollock stood before the wooden altar, an open Bible in his hands. The organ music boomed.

  She shifted the bouquet of yellow roses and honeysuckle into her other hand and wished she could stop trembling. Rose petals were fluttering onto the polished wooden floor like little yellow butterflies.

  Her palms were damp. Her stomach was doing somersaults. Why, why was marrying Cord so frightening?

  Because it matters. It matters more than anything, other than Molly and Danny, because I love him. And that means... Oh, God, that means I can be hurt. What if he dies? What if he decides to leave me and go to California after all? What if he...?

  Suddenly she heard her name. “Eleanor!” Cord’s voice. And then Molly’s.

  “Hurry up, Mama!”

  “Eleanor!” His voice was closer now, and all at once there he was in front of her. He scooped her up into his arms, strode down the aisle and set her on her feet at the altar.

  He bent toward her. “Let’s get married, okay?” he breathed. “I’m tired of sleeping in the attic.”

  It was the first time the church congregation had witnessed a wedding ceremony where the bride both wept and laughed all through her marriage vows.

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this story, you won’t want

  to miss these other great Western stories

  from Lynna Banning

  BABY ON THE OREGON TRAIL

  HER SHERIFF BODYGUARD

  PRINTER IN PETTICOATS

  Keep reading for an excerpt from A PREGNANT COURTESAN FOR THE RAKE by Diane Gaston.

  Get rewarded every time you buy a Harlequin ebook!

  Click here to Join Harlequin My Rewards

  http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010003

  We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Historical.

  You dream of wicked rakes, gorgeous Highlanders, muscled Viking warriors and rugged Wild West cowboys from another era. Harlequin Historical has them all! Emotionally intense stories set across many time periods.

  Enjoy six new stories from Harlequin Historical every month!

  Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!

  Other ways to keep in touch:

  Harlequin.com/newsletters

  Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks

  Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks

  HarlequinBlog.com

  Join Harlequin My Rewards & Instantly earn a FREE ebook of your choice.

  Earn points for every Harlequin print and ebook you buy, wherever & whenever you shop.

  Turn your points into FREE BOOKS.

  Don’t miss out. Reward the book lover in you!

  Register Today & Earn a FREE BOOK*

  *New members who join before December 31st, 2017 will receive 2000 points redeemable for eligible titles.

  Click here to register

  Or visit us online to register at

  http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010001

  A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

  by Diane Gaston

  Prologue

  Paris—1816

  ‘He is dead?’

  Cecilia Lockhart stood in the doorway of the shabby Paris room where her husband insisted she should be grateful to lodge. Sounds of babies crying, a man and woman quarrelling, and an old woman wailing could be heard from behind closed doors. The scent of cooking meat, urine and sweat filled her nostrils.

  A captain of the 52nd Regiment of Foot stood stiffly in the hallway, unable—or unwilling—to look her in the eye.

  ‘Killed,’ he said. ‘By a Frenchman. In a duel.’ His tone was disapproving. Why not? Duelling was forbidden in the regiment. ‘He apparently had a great deal to drink.’

  Of course he had. What day did Duncan not have a great deal to drink?

  ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Did he cheat at cards? Insult the French army?’ Why did she bother to ask? Cecilia did not care about the reason.

  The captain stiffened. ‘The Frenchman apparently found Lieutenant Lockhart in bed with his wife.’

  Oh.

  Why that detail should have stung, she did not know. It was merely one more humiliation.

  Another slap in the face.

  She almost laughed at her little joke, but this stern, disapproving captain would never have understood.

  ‘What happens next?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll bury him,’ the captain replied. ‘You may return home. Do you have enough money to make the trip?’ He asked the question without sympathy, perhaps worried he would have to take up a collection among his fellow officers on her behalf.

  ‘I need nothing.’ Not from these men anyway. ‘Do what you must, and thank you for informing me.’

  He nodded and turned away. She closed the door and leaned her forehead against it. The baby cried. The old lady whined. The couple cursed each other. And the captain’s receding footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs.

  But for Cecilia it was as if the sun had burst through a sky of dark clouds.

  She was free. Her husband was gone, never to return.

  Never to slam his fist into her flesh ever again, nor throw her against the wall. No more bruises to hide. No more pain.

  She had little money, no friends—Duncan had seen to that—and no one in England who would welcome her home. In a moment she might panic at being alone in this foreign country, among people who, a few short months ago, would have considered her the enemy. But for now she felt as light as air.

  Free.

  Uno

  Paris—August 1818

  Oliver Gregory strolled along the River Seine as the first fingers of dawn painted the water in swirls of violet. The buildings of Paris, tinged a soft pink at this time of day, were even more beautiful than in the brightness of a noonday sun. London at dawn would seem a dark maze of streets and shops.

  And Calcutta... Calcutta, the city of Oliver’s birth, defied description, except in words whispered in memory—Hindi words.

  Oliver struggled to remember those steaming, fragrant, exotic days of his childhood and the smiling woman swathed in brightly coloured silks holding him in her arms and calling him her pyaare bete, her sweet boy.

  In the quiet of dawn he could bring it all back. He feared forgetting even more than the depths of depression that followed. Lately his decadent lifestyle provided no ease from the blue devils.

  He’d crafted his life to distract him from the sadness of loss. What better setting than a gentlemen’s club devoted to pleasures of the flesh? Oliver was one of the owners of Vitium et Virtus—Vice and Virtue—the exclusive gentlemen’s club he and his three friends started when they were mere students at Oxford. Vitium et Virtus specialised in decadent pleasure, whether it be beautiful women, the finest brandy or a high-stakes game of cards.

  To think he’d just left a Parisian club that made Vitium et Virtus look tame. This club featured sexual gratification through pain, whether self-inflicted or inflicted by another. Vitium et Virtus included some fantasy games with one of their tall, beautiful, dark-haired women playing dominatrix, but this French club went way beyond, so far Oliver nearly intervened to stop it. He knew some people found pleasure in pain, but these Parisians flirted with death. He had no intention of bringing those ideas to their club.

  His mind flashed with an image of a nearly naked man swallowing a snake. And another man running over hot coals.

  Memories from India again.

  A cry jerked him back to the present near-dawn morning. In the distance a swarm of street urchins accosted a woman, pulling at her clothes, their demands shrill in the early morning air. He’d seen street urchins in Calcutta rush a man and le
ave him with nothing, not even the clothes on his back. The dark rookeries of London posed similar dangers.

  Oliver sprinted to her aid. ‘Arrêtez! Arrêtez! Stop! Stop!’

  The woman lifted her arms. ‘No! No!’

  The children scattered.

  When he reached her, she placed her hands on her hips. ‘Look what you’ve done!’

  ‘You are English?’ He was surprised.

  She merely gestured in the direction the children had disappeared. ‘They’ve run away.’

  ‘They were attacking you.’ At least that was what he’d thought.

  She gave him an exasperated look. ‘They were not attacking me. I was giving them money so they might eat today!’

  ‘Giving them money?’ He turned to where he’d last seen them and back to her. ‘Is that wise?’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘Wiser than having them starve or be forced to steal.’

  He could not argue with that. ‘Forgive me. I thought—Can you call them back?’

  ‘No, they will be too frightened now. They are gone.’

  He shook his head. ‘I am sorry.’

  She frowned. ‘Another time—tomorrow—I will be back.’

  She turned to walk away.

  ‘Wait.’ He strode to her side. ‘What is an Englishwoman doing on the banks of the Seine at dawn?’

  Now mischief sparkled in those dark eyes. ‘Why, I was giving coins to street children until you chased them away.’

  She was lovely! Those beautiful eyes were fringed with dark lashes, and her brows, delicately arched. An elegant nose and full, luscious lips adorned her oval face. Her bonnet covered her hair, but as the sky grew lighter, Oliver saw her dress was dark blue and her hair a rich brown.

  ‘What is an Englishman doing on the banks of the Seine at dawn?’ she asked, mocking his tone.

  Oliver smiled. ‘Attempting to rescue damsels in distress.’

  She laughed. ‘You must keep searching, then. I assure you I am not in distress.’

  ‘But I am at your service.’ Oliver bowed.

  She kept walking, and he kept pace with her.

  She finally spoke again. ‘Enjoying the delights of Paris now that the war is over?’ Her tone was a mockery of polite conversation, but at least she’d not dismissed him.

  ‘Actually a bit of business.’ Although his business was pleasure. ‘And you?’

  ‘Moi?’ She fluttered her lashes. ‘I live here.’

  He was pretty astute at perceiving the character of a person, a skill he’d honed so he’d know right away the degree to which a person might accept him as an equal or as a lesser being. She was guarding her own privacy, not giving him any information at all.

  He pretended to peruse her. ‘I would surmise there is quite a story about why an English lady such as yourself lives in Paris.’

  She looked suspicious. ‘Why do you say I am a lady?’

  His mouth widened into a smile. ‘It is not difficult. The way you carry yourself. The way you speak.’

  She shrugged at that. ‘Well, I am not telling you anything.’

  And he would not press her. He understood the need to keep one’s privacy, but he also did not wish to say goodbye to her. The sky had lightened, turning the water blue and the stone path to beige. He suspected she would soon leave this path and be gone.

  ‘I have a proposal,’ he said impulsively. ‘Eat breakfast with me.’

  She laughed derisively. ‘Why would I do that? I do not know you.’

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself, then. I am Oliver Gregory. My father is the Marquess of Amberford.’ He never explained further. People who did not already know his father usually assumed he was a younger son. ‘Now you know me.’

  She laughed again, this time with more humour. ‘I know your name. Or at least the name you deign to give me.’

  ‘I assure you it is my name.’

  Her brows rose and she nodded with exaggerated scepticism.

  He spread his palms. ‘I am telling you the truth.’

  She cocked her head. ‘It does not matter.’

  ‘So,’ he tried again. ‘Will you have breakfast with me? I promise to be amusing. We can sit in the open at a café if that will ease your discomfort.’

  Her expression sobered and she stared at him for several seconds, as if deciding how to respond. ‘At a café?’ she repeated.

  ‘Wherever you wish. You choose where you would like to eat.’ He’d dined at Le Procope, a café that had been in existence for two hundred years. Would she choose some place as grand? He was suddenly very eager to find out.

  ‘Very well,’ she finally said. ‘But you must also give me some coins for the children. They will be even more hungry tomorrow.’

  He reached into a pocket and pulled out a leather purse. He loosened its strings and poured out several coins. Then he extended his hand. ‘Here.’

  She scooped up the coins and slipped them into her reticule. ‘I know of a place we can breakfast.’

  She walked him past La Fontaine du Palmier, the monument to Napoleon’s battles in Egypt, in the Place du Châtelet, to a small café just opening its doors. They sat at a table out of doors. With the sun came warmer temperatures and a blue sky dotted with white puffy clouds. A perfect day.

  ‘The pastries are lovely here,’ she said.

  ‘Pastries.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Everywhere in Paris I’ve been served pastries and I do not possess a sweet tooth.’

  ‘Some bread and cheese, then?’

  ‘Ah, oui. C’est bon.’ He smiled. ‘With coffee.’

  The waiter arrived and greeted her warmly. Obviously she was known to him. She gave him their order, selecting a pastry and chocolate for herself, bread, cheese, and coffee for him.

  He watched her as she settled herself in her chair. She removed her gloves and rearranged the colourful Kashmir shawl she wore that reminded him of India. She wore a dark blue walking dress and looked as if she’d just spent an afternoon promenading in Hyde Park. Was it only the children who caused her to be on the banks of the Seine at dawn?

  ‘Tell me what your business has been that brought you to Paris,’ she asked with some evident interest.

  Oddly enough, he did not want to tell her of the business that brought him to Paris lest she disapprove. He’d come to explore the decadence of Parisian gentlemen’s clubs to see what they might include at Vitium et Virtus. This trip had not been as productive as the previous one when he’d found a satisfyingly buxom, Titian-haired French songstress eager to come to London to work in their club. He usually did not care if a lady disapproved of his activities. For the ladies who did disapprove of him, the gentlemen’s club was the least of their objections.

  ‘Exploring opportunities,’ he responded vaguely.

  ‘Opportunities?’ Her eyes, lovely as they were, showed little interest.

  He challenged her. ‘You are making polite conversation with me.’

  Her eyes sparkled. ‘Yes. I am. But tell me what opportunities anyway.’

  Those eyes distracted him. In the sunlight they appeared the colour of fine brandy and just as liquid. A man could lose himself in those eyes.

  He glanced away. ‘Business, you know, but nothing came to fruition.’

  The waiter brought a pot of coffee, a pitcher of cream and a sugar dish, placing it in front of him. He placed a chocolate pot in front of the lady, produced two cups and poured for them.

  When he left, Oliver added only some cream. He took a sip of the coffee and nodded to her. ‘This is excellent.’

  Her captivating eyes appeared to concur. ‘It always is here.’ She sipped her chocolate and made an appreciative sound.

  He faced her, fingering the handle of his cup. ‘The topic of business is always a boring one. Perhap
s there is something else you would like to ask me?’

  Her eyes flickered in surprise, then fixed on him with a challenge of her own. ‘Do you mean why you do not look like an Englishman?’

  He was not certain if she was asking or not.

  Who was he attempting to fool? Women always wanted to know why his skin was so dark, why his hair was so dark. She simply was more direct than most and much quicker.

  ‘See. You are wondering why the son of a marquess looks like something spawned on a foreign shore.’

  ‘Am I?’ Her brows rose. ‘Or is this what you desire to tell me?’

  He paused, unsure of his own motivation. He did want to tell her, though, he decided. ‘My father is the Marquess, but my mother was from India.’

  He waited. Usually the women with whom he spent the most time found his looks exotic and appealing but, then, such women were typically interested only in sharing the pleasures of the night with him.

  Ladies of the ton with marriageable daughters steered them away from him, however. Even though they knew he was wealthy. Even though some of those same ladies did not mind sharing his bed.

  She took another sip of chocolate. ‘That does explain it. Were you born in India?’

  ‘I was. I left when I was ten.’ He would not tell her everything about his birth and those first ten years of his life. He never talked about it, although many who knew his father knew some of it. His partners in Vitium et Virtus knew nearly all and they’d accepted him as an equal since their days at school.

  ‘You must remember it then.’ She sounded truly interested now.

  ‘I do.’ He’d been remembering it that morning when she appeared.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, licking off the chocolate from her lips and nearly driving India from his mind.

  ‘I remember the sounds and the smells and all the bright colours,’ he began.

  He told her about the man charming the snake and others sleeping on a bed of nails or walking over hot coals. He told her of the music and the singing and dancing, of statues and paintings of gods. He talked of fragrant gardens and cool houses with pillows.