A Dream of Redemption

by Bronwen Evans

  Portia, Marisa, Antonia, and Beatrice sighed in unison. “How romantic. Handsome and romantic.” Marisa decided to tease her sister. “Now that he’s also a baron, you best keep your eye on him. Women will be flirting with him constantly.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that. Perhaps I haven’t thought this title idea through enough,” Helen pouted.

  He grinned at the frown on his wife’s face. “I only have eyes for you, my love.”

  “Not when I’m big and round with this child you won’t,” she muttered, and all the family turned to stare at once.

  Marisa’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re with child. That is so wonderful.”

  * * *

  —

  Helen wanted to bite her tongue. This was not how she’d wanted to tell her sister. Marisa would never get over not being able to give Maitland a child, to have one of their own. She usually wasn’t so thoughtless. Marisa took her hands. “Truly, I am so happy for you. I’ll be an auntie again. I hope I’m as good an aunt as Aunt Alison, God rest her soul.”

  She didn’t have time to say more as other people began to come to congratulate him. The first was her friend Lady Angela, who had married Viscount Levy last month. Helen was thankful that Sebastian had not only warned Lord Fairfax about spreading any gossip, but he’d also told him if he didn’t leave Angela alone he’d skewer him on the dueling field.

  Instead, with Portia’s help, she had managed to match-make her friend with the tongued-tied but sweet viscount. He was grateful for the help in finding a wife, and once he’d met the quiet bluestocking Angela, it didn’t take long to find they were well suited.

  “Congratulations, Lord Haxby,” her friend gushed. She turned to Helen. “I’ve also got some good news. Lady Hughes has agreed to donate the money to extend the Richmond building.”

  Angela had been one of her staunchest supporters of her marriage to Clary. She did not shun her for marrying beneath her, and Helen would never forget that. Angela was also engaged in regard to helping the children. Helen had taken her to Southwark, and she’d been overcome with the need to help. Helen hugged her friend tightly. “Thank you. Let’s meet for lunch tomorrow and go over the plans regarding what we want to do in Richmond.”

  They kissed each other goodbye, and soon everyone began drifting outside to call for their carriages.

  “I shall see you at home,” Beatrice said waving to them. “I want to hear more about when the baby is due and what names you have picked out.”

  Helen laughed out loud; she had not even thought about names. All she wanted was for her child to be born healthy.

  Clary slipped his arms round her waist and laid his hands on her stomach, which was just beginning to show. “I’m so happy. I never thought I’d be this happy. I never thought I’d have a life like this, and it’s all because of you.”

  “No. It’s because of fate. I asked fate to find me the man of my heart, and it led me to you.” Just then their carriage drew up.

  Sebastian had given them another present. He had ordered them a new carriage with the Baron Haxby coat of arms stamped on the sides. Her lover, best friend, and handsome as hell husband helped her up the steps for the ride home to her brother’s house. They had not bothered to buy a London residence because they rarely came to town, and she wanted to be with her family when they did.

  As soon as Clary followed her into the carriage, he closed the door and pulled Helen onto his lap and nuzzled her neck with his lips. “I think I’ll ask the driver to take the long way home. I want to christen my new carriage.”

  She moved to sit astride him, already bunching her skirts to her waist while fumbling to undo his breeches. “I’ve never made love with a baron before,” she teased.

  “He’s married, you know.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do say. I’ve also heard he’s very much in love with his beautiful wife.”

  She lifted and slid down his erection until he filled her to the hilt. “And is she in love with him?” she asked as she began to move up and down so very slowly, looking into his silver gray eyes brimming with love.

  He groaned her name before replying. “She loves him to distraction and apparently will do so until the end of time.”

  As Helen began to move faster, she knew he heard her say, “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

  To romance readers everywhere who love happy endings, this book is for you.

  Read. Feel. Fall in love.

  Acknowledgments

  As always I have a team of supporters who help me stay sane as characters invade my life and I’m thrust into my own little world.

  Writing is quite self-indulgent. You forget everything when you enter this make-believe world. I need to thank those who let me indulge my passion for storytelling. To my family, my sister Leigh, my friends, my writing buddies, my beta readers, and those who help me in my daily life by keeping my house clean and my garden manageable—thank you.

  To my two little shadows who sit quietly at my feet each day, Brandy and Duke, thank you for reminding me when it’s time to go walkies.

  To my wonderful agent, Sarah Younger; my editor, Sue Grimshaw; and all the team at Penguin Random House, I could not do it without you.

  BY BRONWEN EVANS

  The Disgraced Lords Series

  A Kiss of Lies

  A Promise of More

  A Touch of Passion

  A Whisper of Desire

  A Taste of Seduction

  A Night of Forever

  A Love to Remember

  A Dream of Redemption

  Imperfect Lords

  Addicted to the Duke

  Drawn to the Marquess (coming soon)

  PHOTO: MALCOLM BROW BLUE FISH STUDIO

  USA Today bestselling author BRONWEN EVANS grew up loving books. She has always indulged her love of storytelling and is constantly gobbling up movies, books, and theater. Is it any wonder she’s a proud romance writer? Evans is a three-time winner of the RomCon Readers’ Crown and has been nominated for an RT Reviewers’ Choice Award. She lives in Hawkes Bay, New Zealand.

  bronwenevans.com

  Facebook: bronwenevansauthor

  Twitter: @bronwenevans_NZ

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Addicted to the Duke

  An Imperfect Lords Novel

  by Bronwen Evans

  Available from Loveswept

  Prologue

  THE GREEK ISLE OF MYKONOS: AUGUST 1811

  Alexander Sylvester Bracken, the Marquess of Tavistock, heir to the Duke of Bedford, on no account considered himself a hero. In all his twenty-five years, he’d never rescued anyone, let alone a young girl. Her sorrowful cry filled the still night air, unsettling creatures both big and small. The sound drifted down the stairs from the rooms above with fear imbued in every note. It was as if she was desperate to be heard over the din from the drunken men in the tavern below.

  The girl’s father thought he was here simply to repay a debt of honor. And that was true, but Alex was also here for vengeance.

  He knew who would be coming for the girl.

  Slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself, he moved his head, easing muscles now corded with tension as he lay on the stained tabletop pretending he was comatose from drink. His tattered clothes were soaked with sweat. At three in the morning the cicadas haunting the evening air were adding to the night’s disturbing symphony. The smell from the nearby dock was overpowering. From under semiclosed eyes, he studied the activities within the tavern. To any casual observer, he appeared to be just another seafaring pirate well into his cups.

  It wasn’t until dawn began to set the sky on fire that Paval, the tavern owner, began dispatching all the patrons from the bar. Alex was counting on the Greek being too lazy to bother moving the drunken sailor—him—from the back pew.

  Paval glanced Alex’s way, took in his drunken snore, and walked past him to lock the door out onto the dock. Alex silently heaved a sigh of r
elief: so far, so good.

  Within seconds of the door closing, Sultan Murad Bayezid, accompanied by two of his fierce Turkish warriors, entered through the rear.

  Alex swallowed the bile threatening the back of his throat and let his consuming hatred at the sight of Murad dressed in his white flowing robes infuse his soul. His hands itched to bury the dagger he had hidden in his palm, deep into the empty cavity of Murad’s chest. He knew from firsthand experience that the sultan had no heart. He would never, for as long as he lived, forget Murad’s cruelty, reflected now in his cold, dead eyes. Alex had a score to settle with the sadistic man, and the opportunity to do so had been a long time coming.

  Murad had held him captive three years ago now, and Alex could remember the hell as clearly as if it was yesterday.

  His nemesis gestured toward the stairs and one of the warriors bounded up them two at a time. He heard the sound of dragging feet overhead, a muffled slap, and a small, piteous cry. He swallowed his fury; the thought of what could have already happened to the young girl clouded his mind.

  The warrior arrived back downstairs with the girl slung over one shoulder like a sackful of grain. Without ceremony, he dumped her on the floor at the sultan’s feet.

  Dressed in what had been a virginal white nightgown, now dirty and torn, she looked up from the floor, and her eyes filled with dread. He watched as she gathered herself together and, with more grace and pride than he’d expected from a girl of only six and ten, she rose from the floor like an opening flower to stand tall and erect. Terror was clearly visible on her exquisite features, but what really captivated him was her look of courage. The intake of breath in the room was audible.

  He watched Murad’s evil smile break across his thin lips, causing his thick mustache to twitch comically in his fever to possess her. Alex’s hatred for the perverted sultan almost choked him. He was a man built like a gorilla—stocky, solid, and as ugly as one.

  The Turk approached the girl and viciously wrapped his hand in her flowing fair tresses. Her silky hair hung so long it looked as if she were wearing a protective mantle of angels’ wings down her back. Cruelly, the sultan tilted her head into the light. His accent was more pronounced in his desire. “Paval, you have outdone yourself. She is indeed a rare beauty. But a face can be misleading. Let us see the rest of her.”

  Dropping his hand from her hair, he gripped the top of her white nightgown and ripped it from top to bottom, then threw back the edges, leaving the torn pieces to flutter to the floor.

  She gasped in horror and tried to cover herself, cringing where she stood. She attempted to flick her waist-length hair forward to cover her small breasts, but Murad maliciously pulled it back.

  Her eyes swept the room before coming to rest on him slumped in the shadows. Lifting his head for just a second, he hoped that his sympathetic look of support would give her strength. Her beauty made him believe, for just a moment, that there was a God. Only a heavenly force could have made something so innocent and so lovely.

  Apparently Murad had had the same thought.

  “Don’t be shy, my beauty. Let us see what exquisiteness Allah hath wrought on you.”

  With hands at her sides, she stood trembling, her head lowered in shame, while Murad walked slowly around her, touching her shamelessly.

  “There is no need to be scared, little one.”

  At the word scared, her shoulders straightened and she lifted her head against the dishonorable onslaught of the sultan’s intrusive hands.

  The image of her with her head held high despite her nakedness, her small pert breasts heaving in her attempt to hide her fear, sheen from the heat on her fine porcelain skin, and the curl of disdain on her lips, would be forever imprinted on his brain. He had never seen anything more magnificent.

  But Murad’s next words chilled his heart.

  “Men would kill to possess one such as you. I am going to have to guard you well. Paval tells me you’re an innocent, and he wants a great deal of money for you.” Murad reached out and squeezed her nubile breasts. It must have hurt, because he caught the grimace that flickered in the depth of her fiery emerald eyes.

  The spoiler of innocents moved closer to his prey.

  “Perhaps I will take you here on this table to ensure I’m getting what I paid for. You’re welcome to fight. I like a girl with spirit.” Murad was practically drooling now.

  Alex’s stomach heaved. The rage brewing in him at the thought of the man raping the girl almost overwhelmed him. He unclenched his fists but waited; the time for action was not quite here.

  Suddenly, the sound of a hand slamming hard against flesh resounded around the shadowed room. His admiration grew. She’d slapped Murad’s face. Her voice when it came caressed him like a cool breeze, swirling around him until he was completely off balance.

  “That’s the only fight you’ll get from me, you piece of filth. You may be able to take my body, but you’ll never take my soul.” And then she did the unforgivable. She spat on her would-be rapist.

  Alex’s body coiled, ready for action, but it was too late to stop the instant backhand blow Murad dealt her. The force sent her sprawling unconscious across the drink-littered tables. With a cry the sultan fell on her, one hand gripping her face, hunting for her mouth to receive his slobbering kisses, the other fumbling within his robes.

  Frantically, Alex looked around. Where were his men? Yet even without them, he had to act. If he didn’t, Murad would take the girl on the table, in front of him.

  Without thinking, he stood up and called from the shadows, “So the mighty Murad first has to steal his women and then has to knock them out in order to take his pleasure. It goes to show women have excellent taste.”

  At his words Murad swung to face him. A smile began to play across his cruel lips. “What a…pleasant…surprise, Alexander. I did not know you were back on Mykonos.”

  “Forgive me. You weren’t top of my calling card list.”

  With an evil laugh, Murad said, “Quite so, but how quickly you forget. I don’t need to knock my conquests out, as it doesn’t take me long to have them begging for my touch.” His leer grew as he added, “You of all people should understand my power. As I recall, you would have done almost anything for me—once.”

  Alex shuddered as repressed memories, disgusting and degrading, flashed before him. Out of the corner of his eye, a movement to his left showed the warriors moving to Murad’s side. With a relaxed smile, he leaned against the back wall; they would not take him from behind.

  “How long has it been, Alex? Far too long, I think. I have missed your beauty in my palace.” Murad’s tone became cajoling. “I never thought I’d have the pleasure of seeing my altin kole—my golden slave—again.”

  He snarled. “Don’t you call me that or I’ll forget my manners. I’m not your slave, not any longer. All I want is the girl.”

  Murad stroked his mustache and with a sly smile cooed, “She is a beauty, but are you sure that is all you want?”

  Murad gestured toward the tavern keeper. “Paval, bring us a pipe. As I recall, opium was more of an allure for you than even a woman. There is no need for hostilities. Are we not old friends? Come, my Adonis, I have some of the finest opium with me. Let us lose ourselves in dreamland and perhaps, like old times, we can share the girl. I’d even let you have her first. Anything for you, my fair boy.”

  Paval approached. At the first waft of the sickly sweet smell from the opium pipe, Alex’s mouth filled with saliva and adrenaline surged through his veins. No, not again. He would not give in to his past addiction. Momentarily, he basked in memories of the ecstasy the narcotic would give him. His hands itched to take the pipe, while the voice in his head thundered no; the rapture was merely an illusion.

  He looked at the smirk on Murad’s face and almost retched. He’d die before he let himself become Murad’s plaything again. He might not have fully broken his addiction, but God damn it, he was here to rescue the girl. He owed her father. A river of
sweat poured between his shoulders. He would have to master his driving need for the drug’s compassionate relief.

  “Come and taste her. You’ll know once you’ve smoked from the pipe what sweet release this innocent beauty can offer.” Murad’s sure voice held a note of triumph. He was not to know that Alex hadn’t touched the drug in almost a year.

  Pushing nonchalantly off the back wall, he approached, one slow, considered step after another, returning Murad’s ruthless smile with one of his own.

  “Perhaps you are right, she is indeed very beautiful. I’ll even hold her for you once I’ve finished with her.” Alex licked his lips. “But first maybe let’s have just a small puff for old times’ sake.” He pointed to the naked girl on the table behind Murad. “While we wait for our plaything to awaken.”

  He watched Murad’s shoulders relax as he motioned for his warriors to step back and pushed the pipe toward Alex.

  Murad turned his back on him and stroked high up the girl’s milky thigh with his pudgy, grimy hand.

  Briefly he closed his eyes, allowing the fury of Murad’s assault on the girl to fill him, before ultimately giving in to his rage and letting his leashed temper explode. In one swift movement he surged forward and seized Murad by the throat, pulling him away from the girl’s naked flesh. Murad let out a cry of alarm and his guards immediately went on the attack.

  He held Murad around the throat, his hidden blade pressed into the now madly pulsing vein in Murad’s neck. “Surrender or forfeit your life.”

  “Go to hell, my golden boy. You’ll likely kill me anyway,” Murad spat back.

  “Call off your men, tell them to back away from the girl and move up the stairs,” he hissed through clenched teeth. It took all his willpower not to sink the blade into Murad’s neck. But he needed to get the girl out first; only then could he think of taking his revenge.