The Captain's Conquest
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
BOOKS BY SUSAN M. BAGANZ
Dedication
Author’s Note
Victory
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
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10
11
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36
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Thank you
You Can Help!
God Can Help!
Free Book Offer
The Captain’s Conquest
Susan M. Baganz
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Captain’s Conquest
COPYRIGHT 2018 by Susan M. Baganz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Contact Information: titleadmin@pelicanbookgroup.com
Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated are taken from the King James translation, public domain.
Cover Art by Nicola Martinez
Prism is a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC
www.pelicanbookgroup.com PO Box 1738 *Aztec, NM * 87410
White Rose Publishing Circle and Rosebud logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC
Publishing History
Prism Edition, 2018
Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-5223-9795-3
Published in the United States of America
BOOKS BY SUSAN M. BAGANZ
Black Diamond Regency Romantic Suspenses
The Baron’s Blunder (Prequel) novella
The Virtuous Viscount (Book 1)
Lord Phillip’s Folly (Book 2)
Sir Michael’s Mayhem (Book 3)
Lord Harrow’s Heart (Book 4)
The Captain’s Conquest (Book 5)
Orchard Hill Contemporary Romances
Pesto & Potholes
Salsa & Speed Bumps
Feta & Freeways
Root Beer & Roadblocks
Bratwurst & Bridges
Truffles & Traffic
Historical Christmas Novellas
Fragile Blessings
Gabriel’s Gift
Short Story Compilation
Little Bits O’ Love
Dedication
To Joy Lucille – my joyful light-bearer.
Author’s Note
During the tempestuous years between 1800-1820 or the more specific “Regency” years of 1811 to 1820, it was common for the upper classes, especially the men, to drink various forms of alcohol as part of their daily life. A glass of port wine was often savored by the men after the evening meal. French brandy was considered superior and highly coveted even though England was at war with France. In these stories my characters do at times drink, and sometimes even to excess with serious consequences for their overindulgence. This is not in any way a recommendation on the part of the author or Pelican Book Group to advocate the drinking of alcohol or to abuse any substance. Laudanum is an opiate that was often prescribed medicinally (although many did become addicted to the drug). The use of these in the story are merely an attempt to use this period in history and its notorious excesses as a backdrop where appropriate.
Lord, guide my heart to go where You lead.
~Miss Lucille Cameron
Victory:
νίκος nikŏs neeʹ-kos;
a conquest, i.e. (by implication) triumph; —victory
But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory
through our Lord Jesus Christ.
1 Cor. 15:57 (KJV)
1
Spring 1814
Northern Scotland
Jared Allendale screamed as the whip flailed against his back. His once pristine uniform had been filleted and he was certain the red fibers melded with his blood.
“Tell us what you know,” the Frenchie asked in stilted English. The stench of the cretin’s brandy and fish-laced breath made Jared’s stomach roil in protest. Half-starved, there was nothing to cast up.
“I would die before giving you what you want,” he responded through gritted teeth. His head throbbed with weariness. Kill me already. Please. Let me die rather than endure this. He would never give Napoleon’s lackeys the satisfaction of begging for his own death. He would also never give them the information they wanted on Wellington’s troop movements and plans. England would beat the Little Emperor, of that he was certain.
Jared bit back a smile at the memory of his last mission where he’d infiltrated French lines. He came within a hairsbreadth of assassinating the tyrannical ruler, who marched hundreds daily to their deaths. Captured before he could accomplish his goal, he now suffered for his cocky foolishness and temporary feelings of invincibility. The whip cracked within an inch of his face. Jared grudgingly admitted his torturer was good at what he did.
“Speak, you English dog,” the man growled in fury as he raised his arm again. The whip found its mark in the tender exposed skin on Jared’s buttocks.
Captain Allendale screamed again and his bloodied wrists struggled against the rope that restrained him as he knees buckled. The tree he was tied to was rough, and abraded his face and torso as each lash of the leather slammed him into it. He lost count of how many lashes he’d endured.
Hadn’t Paul been whipped? Jesus had. If only Jared were dying for this faith. Loyalty to mad King George and his fat, spendthrift son, the Regent, didn’t seem as noble a cause. Alas, one didn’t get to choose just what one would be tortured and likely killed for. In spite of its figurehead, Jared loved his English homeland. His course was set.
He longed to tell his brother not to worry over his eternal home. Jared forsook his debauchery to embrace the faith of his parents. He didn’t fear death for he would see the former Lord and Lady Remington in heaven. Oh, Dad, would you have been proud of me?
The light of a torch came close to his face, the heat causing beads of sweat to multiply even in the coolness of the night. They never tortured him during the day except to come and poke, slap, or even haul off and punch him.
“Tell us or we will slowly bake you alive.”
Of course, they couldn’t throw him on a pyre and send him home in a box of ashes, they needed to hold the torch close to his backside. He screamed and pushed himself into the rough bark of the tree as if he could escape through it.
Soft fingers touched his face as a sweet, feminine voice cooed, “It wull be a’richt, mah loue.” The scent of heather assailed him. Was this a new form of torture? The lyrical voice continued to whisper, “may loue, yer safe, na yin wull harm ye noo.
”
My love? Had they entrapped a Scottish lass to torture him? Soft lips touched his brow as the fingers tickled and tantalized in their exploration of his face. How did he come to be laying on his backside? He moaned. At least he no longer suffered the lashes and the burning. Lips found his and the sweet kiss aroused a new kind of pain. Her hands trailed down to his chest and healed his aches with their very touch. What kind of game was this?
Jared grabbed the woman’s arms and flipped her under him. He touched her face and kissed her with all the agony and longing pent up inside. Her hands went around him, caressing his back. His torn jacket was gone.
She whimpered underneath him. He pulled back and opened his eyes to the most mystical woman he had ever encountered. Ethereal blue eyes sparkled at him in the moonlight. Her frizzy, white-blonde hair was like the finest gossamer strands of silk. And that smile as she gazed back at him, was heaven. Had an angel come to save him from his agony?
She pushed him away and he rolled to his side, allowing her freedom. She kissed him again. “Rest weel, mah loue.”
He wanted more, but in a flash of white, she disappeared into the fog.
~*~
Jared awoke with the morning dew in his hair and on his clothes. The evening’s night terror ended differently than all his previous experiences. He sat and stoked the fire and wondered at the image his tortured brain conjured up. He shook his head. If only a woman could take away the memories that came in the night and the very real pain that accompanied him as he was transported to those days in France, only a few years past, where he had been tortured.
He never spoke of the horror of those days, but he lived them in his dreams. He shook his head. To save scaring most proprietors of inns, he often chose to camp as he traveled, so that only the wildlife was bothered by his nightly agony.
He pulled out some bread and cheese and broke his fast. Did the sun ever go down in Scotland? It was mid-June and he swore it was dark a little over two hours a day. In a way he was grateful, for the nightmares were held at bay by the light. He stretched and warmed himself by the fire. He pulled out his pocket watch. It was still quite early. He rubbed his thumb across the engraved surface of the timepiece and remembered his brother’s face as he gave it to him the last Christmas he had been home. Marcus had married Josie, and Jared recovered from a broken collarbone that conveniently kept him home to partake of his brother’s happiness.
He came to appreciate a different side to his brother during those months he’d been home to recover from his captivity and torture by the French.
His brother, the upstanding virtuous noble, was willing to sacrifice his reputation, and even his life, to protect Josie. Marcus survived.
Jared shook his head. He was an uncle now, and grateful that he was not next in line for the responsibilities that weighed on his brother’s shoulders. He pocketed the watch, rose to his feet, and put out the fire. He was only a few miles from Inverness. He saddled his horse and mounted.
This was his final mission for the Duke of Wellington and the Prince Regent. He’d made it clear, he was done. His time of service was over. Leave it to Nosey to give him one last mission as his coup de grace for his years of service.
“Retrieve this package in Scotland and return it to London and you are free of any further obligations to the Crown, except to find a wife and bounce some babies on your knee.” The Duke cackled at that. Jared’s reputation as a womanizer resulted in bets at Brooks as to when he would fall to the parson’s mousetrap. Most assumed it would be just that, a trap. They never envisioned the rascally soldier would ever want to settle down to home and hearth.
That was if he could find a woman who would not be put off by his scars. Not quite the thing to spring on her on their wedding night, so how did one go about determining if a potential bride would be repulsed by her husband? He shrugged. He had time to figure that out. While making love in the dark was a possibility, it was never his preference in his more debauched past. But since his scars, he never made an attempt to discover how a woman would react. Reclaiming his faith precluded that option.
In spite of that, marriage was his goal. He would endure the whirl of a season in London and find himself a sweet young bride and take her to his own modest manor house close to Rose Hill and live happily ever after. Marcus managed marriage, as did Phillip, Michael, and now Theodore. He envied them all their happiness, but not the torture that it took them to get there.
He hoped he would experience an easier time of it and still find a love he could cherish. His parents modeled something rare and beautiful, and with Marcus and their sister, Henrietta, married and raising kids, he got left behind. He wanted in.
All he needed to do was get the package and return it to London, to the War Office at Whitehall. Simple. Scotland wasn’t a battle zone.
He grinned to himself as Rogue, his stallion, plodded his way through the underbrush. He came far to reach the Highlands and his journey had been uncomfortable at best. He was half-way home once he got this bundle in his arms. He guided his mount down into the valley where the town was nestled. First things first. He desperately needed a bath, and a hot breakfast before he tackled his mission.
His hat sat on his head and a trickle of sweat already made its way down the side of his face as the summer sun warmed up the terrain south of Inverness. It was possible he would locate his package today.
He rode through the woods that ran along the eastern edge of River Ness, the sound of the trickling waters giving him guidance even as he traveled a road out of sight. At noon, he sat along the river as his horse drank. He enjoyed the repast the proprietor’s wife kindly made up for him. He grinned. One more day and he could begin his journey back to London and home. As he leaned against the tree and watched the little circles appear in the water, he longed for his fishing pole. He would have plenty of days to enjoy that again. Maybe with his nephew, since his brother was never good at catching anything.
Jared barked out a laugh that startled his horse. Rogue gave him a strange glance before he resumed his munching of the grass nearby. Marcus was good at almost everything he did. Jared at least was good at fishing and had been a good soldier. Retirement tantalized him with heady promises.
Get the package.
Return it to London.
Find a bride.
Return home.
Finally, these dreams were within his grasp.
He remounted and continued his journey south. Silently he cursed Wellington for making him take on this final mission. When he went in to resign he’d expected there would be no issue. Who refused a resignation and gave a fresh assignment? Apparently, Old Hawknose did. Jared respected the man but wasn’t too pleased with the task. Having never been to Scotland, though, he found the scenery breathtaking. At least he wasn’t riding past the bodies of the dead and dying. Noises like that haunted him as well. Would he forever be struggling with these unwanted souvenirs of war?
He stopped along the river. He was warm and close to his goal. He stripped his clothes and dove in to bathe in the sundrenched but cold waters. He emerged and had put on a fresh pair of pants when he spied her.
It was the fairy sprite from his dreams.
2
The sun shone on her and she appeared every inch the angel from the night before. Her blue eyes were wide as she gazed at him.
“You…” He could barely utter a word.
A pretty pink color suffused her cheeks and Jared remembered his undressed state. He grabbed his shirt, turned to put it on, and tucked it into his trousers. He followed it hastily with his waistcoat and jacket. His feet remained bare. Jared’s heart raced. Last night wasn’t a dream? How? He faced her. “Who are you?” he gasped.
The vision, who wore a rose-colored dress trimmed in silver, glided towards him, stopping within inches. If he reached out, he could touch her.
“A’m Lucille.”
He tipped his head and nodded, waiting. When she said nothing further he pulled his head ba
ck. “Captain Jared Allendale, at your service, Miss Lucille.”
“A’m a lady, Nae a lassie, but ye kin ca’ me Lucy, if yi’ll want. A’ body else aroond ‘ere does.”
She reached out and touched his whiskered chin, a soft smile on her face. “Yer braw, A’ve ne’er seen th’ lik’.”
“I don’t understand.”
The angel frowned and then spoke with heavily accented English. “You’re handsome. I’ve never met anyone like you.”
Who was this? A Scottish lass or an English lady? “Thank you.” Heat rose in his cheeks. Her hand dropped back to her side.
“Are you on a quest?” she asked in her melodic voice.
“I guess you could say that. What makes you think so?”
“Strangers come to the loch often. The monster is said only to show himself though if someone is about to die.”
Jared pulled his fingers through his hair. “Monster?”
“This is Loch Ness. Surely you’ve heard of the monster.”
“Fairy tales once upon a time, perhaps.”
Her eyes grew big. “Nae, ‘tis no fairy tale, m’lord.”
“Captain.”
Her beautiful eyes furrowed under the palest eyebrows he’d ever viewed. “Ah dinnae ken.”
“I’m no lord. A plain mister who is a Captain in King George’s army.”
She smiled and nodded her understanding.
They stood and stared at one another. “Hae a guid day. Ah wish ye luck oan yer quest.” She pulled a pink ribbon from her hair. Jared watched in fascination as the spiral locks tumbled around her pixie-shaped face. “‘ere is a favor.” She handed the ribbon to him.
“A favor?”
“Maidens gif knights a favor afore thay began thair quest tae bryng thaim luck. Ah gie ye mines.”
He clasped the ribbon and in a whisper, she was gone.
Was this another dream?
~*~
Lucy slipped through the woods to her horse, threw herself on to his bare back and galloped toward home. She’d been struck dumb initially at the sight of that muscular yet scarred chest and back. She bit her lip. She had viewed much more than that! Nanny would be horrified if she learned about her journeys, much less the education she’d received, especially from an English laird. He may claim to not be a ‘lord’ but his very bearing spoke of the aristocracy.