The Stranger She Married (Rogue Hearts Series)

by Hatch, Donna

  Matthews, the head groom, whistled as he attended his duties at the far end. Elise entered the darkened interior and moved to Prince’s stall. Prince whinnied again.

  “Hello, Prince.” She set down her gun and ammunition and opened the gate. Upon entering his stall, she rubbed the horse’s muzzle and ran her hands down his neck and back.

  Prince put his head over her shoulder and, using the underside of his chin, he pulled her against his neck for a horse hug. She wrapped her arms around him, savoring his sweet, musty scent and his genuine affection. His lips nipped softly at her neck, and the hairs on his chin tickled.

  He’d been a first-rate hunter in his prime, much like the horse she’d ridden at her father’s side in local fox hunts in her youth, to her mother’s disapproval. When she’d turned sixteen, her mother had announced that Elise needed to give up her wild ways and begin acting like a lady. Too grief-stricken over the recent loss of her father, Elise had bowed to her wishes. She never participated in another fox hunt and married the perfect gentleman.

  “Mornin’, Mrs. Berkley,” Matthews called.

  “Good morning,” she called over her shoulder.

  Matthews threw the tack over the gate where she could easily access it and left her alone with her horse. After tying up Prince so he wouldn’t move about, she brushed him, rubbing her hands along his rich, chestnut coat. Grooming her horse always calmed her when she was troubled, and Lily Standwich’s announcement had left her decidedly unsettled.

  “I don’t understand Lily,” she muttered to Prince. His ears swiveled back to hear her as she brushed his coat to a shine. “You won’t catch me falling for a man or walking meekly into a second marriage.”

  On cue, Prince whinnied and shook his head.

  She laughed softly. “You and Colin are the only ones I could ever love now that Edward, God rest his soul, is gone.”

  Elise had loved Edward, of that there was no question. She’d earnestly strived to be the perfect wife and to conduct herself in all ways to make him proud. Allowing another man into her life would be a betrayal of Edward’s memory. Besides, Elise liked being her own mistress. Was the love of a man truly worth giving up one’s widowhood liberty?

  Elise set aside the brush and tacked up Prince. After stopping for her gun, she led him outside.

  “Nice day for a ride,” Matthews said. He spotted her rifle and made a grunt of satisfaction. He gave her a leg up and stepped back.

  He’d finally stopped asking to accompany her. It simply wasn’t done for a lady to ride alone, but now that Edward was gone, Elise often did things that simply weren’t done. Besides, they were in Brenniswick, hours from the nearest city. Nothing dangerous ever happened in Brenniswick.

  Prince danced against the reins, and she let him have his head. They galloped, leaping over stone fences and hedgerows, avoiding her tenants’ homes and crops. Nearing the north edge of her land, she slowed to wend her way through a grove of birch. Sunlight slanted through the leaves, illuminating patches of soft earth which muted the clopping of Prince’s hoof beats.

  A disembodied male voice shattered the peace in the woods. “I don’t care what you do to the boy. He means nothing to me.”

  Startled, Elise reined. Prince let his breath out in a whoosh. As Elise stroked his neck, he quieted. Not even birdsong broke the afternoon’s silence. A prickle ran down the back of her neck.

  A sharp, mirthless laugh erupted from the trees. “You care, or you wouldn’t have come for him. Talk, or the boy dies.” The second man’s voice raised chill bumps on her arms.

  A child cried out in distress and broke off.

  Elise’s imagination painted frightening reasons why a child might be silenced so abruptly. With quickened heartbeat, she urged Prince toward the direction of the voices.

  The first voice floated through the misty air. “Kill the whelp; I don’t care. It won’t change my answer.” The voice ended with a strangled grunt.

  With her pulse hammering in her throat, Elise eased her loaded rifle out of its resting spot by her knees.

  Following the voices, she walked Prince forward, his footsteps muffled in the damp loam. At the edge of a clearing within a hollow, she pulled him to a stop. The scene that met her exceeded her fears. Her heart nearly leaped from her chest.

  Like entertainers in a play, three men and a small boy performed a deadly act. A man with a large, plumed hat slowly pulled a rope stretched over the limb of a nearby tree. The rope encircled the neck of a second man who stood on his toes in a desperate attempt to keep the noose from cutting off his breath.

  Shock rippled through her, robbing her breath. He was being hanged.

  Only a few paces away, a third man with long, black braids straddled a boy who was lying on his stomach on the dirt. The ruffian fisted one hand in the boy’s hair, pulling the head back. The other hand held a knife against the young victim’s exposed throat.

  The man holding the rope spoke in a faintly Spanish accent. “Then Santos will carve him up. Slowly. Since you don’t care.”

  The child appeared to be eight or nine, not much older than Elise’s son. He squeezed his eyes closed, and the pain and terror in his expression twisted her heart.

  “Stop!” the man in the noose gasped. “Let the boy go.”

  The captors exchanged knowing glances. “I knew you were bluffing,” sneered the man with the rope. “First you watch Santos kill the pup, then your turn ... unless you talk.”

  The man being hanged twisted against his bonds. “I told you, Leandro, someone else took it. I don’t have it and I don’t know where it is.”

  “Then you are of no use to me alive. I still owe you for killing Macy. I will enjoy watching you die a slow death. But first, the boy. Santos, slit his throat.”

  Horror froze a knot in Elise’s stomach.

  A curved sword hung from Leandro’s belt, but Elise saw no sign of a gun. The boy emitted a cry of pain and fear. Her heart lurched, demanding action. Anger surged, followed by determination. She raised her rifle to her shoulder, sighted down the left barrel at Santos who threatened the boy, and eased her finger over the first trigger.

  “I’ll tell you,” the man in the noose man gasped. “Let him go and I’ll tell you.”

  Leandro pulled hard on the rope until the man’s feet dangled an inch off the ground. The man in the noose let out a strangled noise and abruptly silenced.

  “Gentlemen!” Elise’s voice rang out with more confidence than she felt. “Remove your hands from the boy. Release the man. Get off my land.”

  Every eye turned to her, and mouths dropped open. Whether their surprise stemmed from her sudden appearance or her boldness in addressing them, she did not know.

  The ruffians made no move. Perhaps they needed more encouragement. She braced herself against the rifle’s kick and squeezed the front trigger. The ground erupted in a tiny explosion inches away from Leandro’s feet. Yelping in surprise, the Spaniard released his hold on the rope. The hanging man fell to his knees and collapsed face-down.

  Prince, the hunter that he’d been for years, remained calm.

  Leandro kicked the motionless man on the ground. Elise’s stomach tightened at the brutality. She squeezed the second trigger which fired a ball through the other barrel. The ball hit the ground at the horses’ hooves in the clearing. The horses whinnied and reared and stomped.

  With remarkably calm fingers considering the situation, Elise began the reloading process. Before she could fire another shot, the scoundrels scrambled to their horses. Leandro glowered down at his former victims, his face twisted in rage. Even at this distance, Elise felt his malignant hatred. He galloped away with Santos following him until the trees swallowed them.

  Still lying on his stomach, the boy dropped his head into his arms, his shoulders shaking silently. Elise spurred Prince toward him in the hollow. Before Prince fully stopped, she slid out of her saddle and rushed to the lad. Terrified, he shrank from her.

  She halted and laid the
rifle at her feet. With her hands held out, she spoke in soothing tones. “It’s all right. They’re gone. I’m a friend. I’m here to help.”

  He stared at her with large, dark eyes.

  She tried to smile reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite. Those blackguards nearly got the better of you, didn’t they?”

  With his frightened eyes still upon her, he pushed himself to a seated position and hugged his knees. Except for a shallow cut on his neck, he appeared unharmed.

  Choking noises from the fallen man snatched her attention. How could she have forgotten him? Alarmed, Elise dashed to his side and fell to her knees. His face and neck were mottled and purple. With trembling fingers, she ripped off her riding gloves and pulled at the tight knots around his neck.

  Elise continued to work at the noose, breaking her nails as she tore desperately at the ropes. The instant the knot loosened, the stranger gasped and coughed. When she enlarged the loop enough, she slid it over his head and cast it aside. The rope had bitten into his skin, and bruises surrounded a raw wound.

  “Those scoundrels,” she muttered, her heart squeezing in sympathy for the injured man.

  The boy crawled closer, warily eyeing her. Tears and grime streaked his face. Blood dripped onto his shirt from his throat.

  “You’re safe now,” she soothed as she glanced at the boy. “Did they hurt you elsewhere?”

  The child blinked and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Without speaking, he shook his head. He wore the coarse clothes of a field worker, but they were in good repair. He looked anxiously at the gasping man lying face-down at her side.

  She returned her gaze to the man. “Sir?”

  With his face turned away, he continued to cough and wheeze.

  “Sir? Can you hear me? Those men are gone. The boy is well. You’re both safe. Sir?”

  She shook him gently, unsure if he were even conscious. Or did coughing signify consciousness? She had no idea. Except for his attempts to breathe, he made no effort to move. His harsh breathing continued, but the coughing abated.

  Hoping to rouse him, she ran her hand over his head as she would a distressed child. His dark hair curled slightly around her fingers as she stroked it. In a flight of fancy, she imagined the sun had also run its fingers through those thick waves, leaving lighter streaks behind. When her hand encountered a bump on the back of his head, he hissed in his breath and pulled against the binding which secured his wrists behind his back. Wishing she had a knife, Elise turned her attention to the cords on his hands. As she worked at the knots, the rough jute bit into her flesh, her bleeding fingers staining the rope.

  The bound man wore no coat; only a linen shirt, breeches, and heavily creased, leather boots. No gentleman would go about so roughly clad. He must be a craftsman or tradesman. With his powerful, muscular body, she could easily imagine him as a blacksmith or a pugilist. He could be a sailor, but Port Johns lay a two-hour carriage ride away. Few sailors ventured this far inland, preferring to remain in the port town.

  His identity mattered little. At the moment, her most pressing concern lay in seeing to his welfare.

  At least he breathed more easily now. Once Elise loosened the knots around his wrists, the man wrenched his hands free and rolled over onto his back, chest heaving, eyes closed.

  Elise caught her breath. A shiver raced through her nerves.

  He was without a doubt the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He appeared perhaps thirty, with a deeply suntanned, clean-shaven face. Dark brows arched over his closed eyes. His long lashes no doubt drew envy from women, but nothing effeminate touched his rugged face. He had the kind of strong features, square jaw, and well-formed mouth that would have fascinated a sculptor. Unlike most men in her social circle, his features possessed a certain hardness which hinted at a life of struggle. Typically, that edge only appeared on the visages of the impoverished or those who had returned from the horrors of the Peninsular War.

  A horse nickered. Fearing the ruffians had returned, she reached for her rifle and came to her feet. A lone a blue roan thoroughbred stood in the shade, its reins dragging on the ground. She listened. Except the wind in the trees, no other reached her ears sound. No one else appeared to be nearby.

  She looked back at the roan, the horse of a wealthy man. Had this man stolen it? Had she unwittingly aided a horse thief? That might explain the hanging, however illegal. But no, the Spaniard, Leandro, had been demanding information.

  The boy remained curled up, watching her with enormous eyes. He pointedly glanced at her gun and inched further away.

  “You’ve nothing to fear from me, lad. I’d never shoot a little boy.” She poured a teasing tone into her voice. “Unless, of course, you refuse to eat your vegetables.”

  He studied her warily and heaved a shuddering breath. A glimmer of a smile touched one side of his mouth.

  She returned her gaze to the stranger and sank back down beside him. One eye had swollen and discolored, and he bled from a cut at the corner of his lip.

  Resting her hand on his chest, she leaned over him. “Sir, can you hear me?”

  He opened his eyes. Vibrant blue-green, they possessed a penetrating quality that left her feeling strangely revealed. Astonished at the quickening of her pulse under his focused stare, she swallowed.

  “My lady,” he said hoarsely. In direct opposition to his attire, his accent bespoke good breeding.

  Despite his rough clothing, an air about him mocked the idea that he could be some kind of servant. Moreover, his features looked decidedly patrician. The by-blow of a nobleman, perhaps?

  He gazed at her with unnerving intensity. “Are you the angel who rescued me?” He lapsed into coughing again.

  With effort, she found her voice. “I’m no angel, sir. However, you’re fortunate I happened along. You’d surely be conversing with St. Peter if those ruffians had their way.”

  “I doubt I’ll be allowed anywhere near the pearly gates.” He touched her face as if to assure himself she truly existed.

  The intimate contact startled her. The gentleness of his caress surprised her more. She never expected a soft touch from such a large and heavily-calloused hand. Nor did she foresee the delicious warmth that traveled through her body in response. Shocked more at her own reaction than his bold behavior, she moved out of reach. To her dismay, a small place in her heart cried out for more.

  He lowered his hand and glanced toward the boy. “José, lad, are you all right?”

  “Aye, sir, well ’nough,” the boy replied in an accent Elise could not place.

  Relief touched the man’s face. Then he refocused those aquamarine eyes upon Elise. “I’m in your debt, my lady.”

  “Think nothing of it, sir.”

  “You are a woman of great courage to face those cutthroats.”

  His fingers closed around hers as if she were a lifeline. Her late husband’s hands had always been smooth and soft, the hands of a gentleman, so unlike this man’s calluses which bespoke hard work. She marveled at the strength in those hands, not to mention the tingles that traveled up her arm.

  A flush crept over her face as she realized the direction of her thoughts. “I saw a cruel act and felt compelled to intervene. I could do nothing less.”

  His eyes darted over her face, and he said in a stronger voice, “They might have turned on you.”

  “I’m an excellent shot.”

  “And did you not consider that you may have been in danger from me?”

  She suspected many women found him a very great danger, but not for the reason he spoke.

  Swallowing against a dry mouth, she lifted her chin. “You hardly looked dangerous at the time. And I daresay you lack the strength to offer any threat now.”

  The barest hint of a smile twitched his lips. He opened his mouth as though to say more but refrained. Instead, he said, “I’m grateful to you. Now we must leave or risk them returning.”

  Without letting go of her hand, he tried to rise. Instead, he sucked in
his breath sharply, his features twisted in pain, and eased himself back down. Elise bit her lip in sympathy and almost wished she’d shot the villains instead of the ground.

  After breathing against pain, he glanced at the boy. “José, lad, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Then shimmy up a tree and see if you can spot them.”

  José clamored up a nearby tree and peered out over the countryside. After a moment, he called down, “I see farms, sir, and open fields. No riders.”

  “Keep a sharp eye out, lad.”

  Elise turned her mind to the man’s well-being. The bruising around his eye had darkened and it had swollen nearly shut. Looking for bloodstains, she made a visual perusal of his body. She found none but wondered what hidden injuries he’d suffered.

  He closed his eyes, and his face relaxed. “Your hands are so soft,” he whispered, his fingers tightening over hers. “My mother used to stroke my hair like you did a moment ago.” He brought her hand to his face and pressed it against his cheek as if hungry for human touch.

  Torn between wanting to comfort him and achingly aware of the impropriety of his conduct—and hers—she turned her hand over and rested it against his cheek. She couldn’t remember when she’d touched a man in such an intimate manner. It felt right somehow.

  And that terrified her.

  She removed her hand. “Are you well enough to be moved? Or should I send for a doctor?”

  “Not necessary. I merely need to rest a moment.” Again those vivid eyes fixed upon her. The corners of his mouth lifted. “Your timing could not have been better.”

  He pushed himself up, breathing harshly against hidden pain, but then steadied himself. As he leaned forward and shifted his position, his unbuttoned shirt exposed a shocking amount of his chest. Muscular and broad, it provided a tempting sight. She’d never even seen Edward so scantily clad. Her late husband had been the perfect English gentleman, always immaculately dressed.

  She flushed deeper when she realized she had failed to look away from the indecent sight of this stranger’s dishabille. Guilt tugged at her heart for betraying Edward’s memory by looking at another man so wantonly.