Light to Valhalla
Melissa Lynne Blue
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Light to Valhalla
Copyright © 2012 by Melissa Lynne Blue
Cover Design by Rae Monet
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
For more information: www.melissalynneblue.com
Dedication
This one is for my wonderful friend, Stacey Coverstone—the real Lady Coverstone. Thanks for the use of your name…
Prologue
June 21, 1813
Northern Spain—Battle of Vittoria
“Do not fall back!” Major Alex Rawlings roared over the deafening din of cannon fire. He pulled his mount in a tight circle, wrangling the gaggle of green soldiers—the gleam of retreat in their eye—back toward the French onslaught. “Press on boys,” he urged, looking each one of them directly in the face as he rode past. “We must hold Napoleon here. The task falls to you.”
The soldiers shuffled and an unsure murmur of, “Aye,” rolled through the ranks.
Alex trotted back and forth along the line. “You are Britain’s hope.”
“Aye,” this time the call held more conviction.
“Her salvation.”
“Aye!” Gaining momentum, the men cheered, lifting bayoneted muskets into the air.
“What say you, men? Are you with me?” Alex thrust his sword into the air and kicked the horse forward. “Onward!”
“Aye!” The soldiers charged with him, meeting the crush of blue clad French with a vengeance.
Satisfaction settled in Alex’s breast. Piss on the other officers and his superiors who encouraged him to stay back from the front lines and out of harm’s way. Cowards the lot of them. Men needed leadership. Soldiers were far more willing to obey and follow an officer fighting alongside them. Those were the officers men loved. Moments like these made a man immortal. He would be—
Screaming, white hot pain tore through his right shoulder. Alex blinked in surprise, looking down. Deep burgundy blood spilled down the front of his uniform. “Christ, I’m shot.” Blood pounded in his ears, the roar of battle ebbed, and the world around him slowed until chaos all but froze in a still framed painting. Sparks flashed before his eyes, and then… it was the damndest thing, but the pain dulled and there lived a single pinpoint instant of absolute clarity. In that one, definitive, perfect moment he knew exactly what he wanted from life.
In life there are epiphanies… and there are revelations, the wise old Scottish parson’s voice from Dover Lodge rolled through his mind. Well, here and now, Alex was having a revelation.
The confusion and anger which had riddled much of his life disappeared. In this moment he held the secret to life’s happiness. The key to his own soul. All he wanted… all he needed—
Pure fire shot up his left thigh and through his groin, paralyzing him from his toes to his throat. He dropped off the back of his mount and slammed to the ground. Crunch. The breath whooshed from his lungs and the world kicked back into pace with deafening force. Blades clanked brutally all around him while muskets cracked and cannon roared.
His revelation vanished.
Alex dragged a ragged breath into his aching lungs, attempting to stand—his men needed him—but failed miserably, collapsing face down in the bloodied grass. He rolled to his back and grasped his injured shoulder. “Oh, Jesus.” Warm blood pumped over his hand in tandem with the weakening of his body and mind.
So this was it. After ten years in the army, five different countries, and twenty-three separate battles, he’d finally arrived on death’s doorstep—the brink as many of his compatriot’s called it. Rather different than he expected. No grace of immortality lived in this moment. No blaze of glory or distraught soldiers and loved ones surrounding him, lamenting his death. Instead they’d all charged forward without a backward glance. Alex was completely alone.
Alone and miserably cold. His lips felt like wax. Wax. Fear gripped his gut. This really was it. The end.
Emptiness and regret pooled as rapidly as the blood in his hand. Loneliness overwhelmed him though he had no one but himself to blame. This despair was punishment for a life spent lusting after glory. The price of evil. Alex wanted to go back in time… back to his childhood… back to the day he’d married… back to that one pristine moment after he’d been shot to discover the key to peace in his life.
But second chances didn’t exist. There would be no escape from this nightmare. May the devil take pity on his soul.
Fuzziness overtook his senses and after a moment the chill and fears ebbed. Alex found himself floating, yes, floating, up over the battlefield. His vision turned black and then everything became clear. He could see for miles around and he knew the strangest sense of entering a dream while remaining fully awake. He drifted up into the clouds and a towering structure of mythical proportions loomed in the distance.
My god, the pearly gates.
Just as the bible described except that they were not pearly at all but contrived of the purest silver he’d ever seen.
Would St. Peter let him pass?
Surely not. He’d been a sinner amongst men, cutthroat and out for himself alone. He’d blasphemed, coveted, committed adultery… murdered—not in cold blood, but he’d killed men just the same. More than likely he’d be cast straight into Hell. Purgatory if he was lucky.
Profound numbness crept up his limbs and he had the sense of moving forward, toward the silver gate though his legs would not work. Alex scarcely had the strength to hold up his head but found he didn’t need to. The revelation from the battlefield hovered around the periphery of his mind—his very soul—and he sensed needing to grasp that moment of clarity else his troubled spirit would never find peace.
An apparition so beautiful and vivid his heart ceased its feeble attempts to beat appeared. His epiphany—or rather his revelation—flashed back through his mind with resounding force, overwhelming him. “It’s you,” he rasped, the key to lifelong peace, suspended before him. “You’ve come back for me.”
A long slender arm, draped all in white extended forward. “Take my hand,” a musical voice beckoned. “Come with me.”
One
October 3, 1813
London, England
The vibrant red uniform blazed against the crisp white snow falling around Coverstone House. Charlotte Rawlings froze in a mixture of shock and horror, staring agape at the rider cantering up the unseasonably snowy cobbles. An emerald earbob dropped from her hands as she flew to the second story window, gripping the pane until her knuckles hurt.
“Blast!” The unladylike oath spurned from her mouth. The soldier could not be her husband! Please, God, anyone but him. Her heart beat in frantic cadence, matching the midnight black steed’s churning legs. She could almost hear the rumble of hooves, but alas it was only the rush of blood in her ears.
Charley studied the figure, searching for any indication he was someone other than Alexander Rawlings, the Marquis Coverstone. Dread filled her heart. There was no mistaking the powerful confidence with which the Lord Major carried himself. Even at this distance the jaunty set of his broad shoulders, the span of his incredibly sturdy chest, and the way his torso tapered into a trim waist were obvious indicators of his identity. The provocative cloy of his trousers against thickly muscled thighs was enough to make her gulp. Astride the sleekly muscled Andalusian he called Letty the marquis appeared quite the warrior to be recko
ned with.
Charley groaned, resting her forehead against the chilly windowpane. “Well, Willy,” she glanced down at the reddish brown dachshund waiting dutifully beside her feet. “It is him.”
Willy whined in response, fidgeting on short front paws.
Grudgingly Charley admitted she should not be surprised, her husband was long overdue for a visit, next week would mark three years since last he was home. Her hands trembled violently. The arrival set into motion all the pressures and expectations suspended in perpetual limbo. The moment the marquis stepped through the door an explosive scene would undoubtedly unfold.
“You are a disgrace to the house of Coverstone.” The chastising words of her mother-in-law, Regina Rawlings, echoed through Charley’s mind. “Your duty to Lord Coverstone, my son, is to provide an heir. You are not worthy of the title you hold until a son is produced. Veronica Childers would have provided an heir by now. Mark my words, Charlotte, she should be marchioness.”
Charley underwent almost daily comparison to Lady Veronica… the woman Alex actually loved. “I am certain the accomplishment of such a task is impossible given his lordship’s absence,” Charley always replied, a painfully polite smile trained on her lips. “Lord Coverstone’s service to the crown is invaluable and of the utmost importance.”
“A suitable wife would have conceived on the wedding night.”
The marquis dismounted before the main steps, moved to the head of his horse, and looked straight up into her window.
“Oh!” She whirled from his piercing gaze. Hatred poured from his smoky blue eyes, chilling her to the bone, though who could blame him after their farce of a wedding three years before. “Why could he not have come thirty minutes later?” She peered around the heavy curtain, praying Alex would no longer be within view—funny she should still think of him as Alex, he was hardly the same boy she’d adored as a child. Even Lady Carmichael’s dinner party would be preferable to an evening in the company of her husband and the dowager marchioness. Perhaps she could feign illness and spend a night of solitude with a new book. She’d recently purchased three.
She glanced contemplatively toward the silver bell pull. If she claimed a headache Henrietta would brew up a pot of her special tea—the mixture smelled of dirty socks, but never failed to put one straight to sleep. “Except that I’m no coward,” she murmured, squaring her shoulders. Alex could be dealt with now or in the morning. Either way the confrontation must go forth. If she met him now at least some of the servant’s gossip would be avoided.
Dutifully Charley moved to the door, preparing for the moment she would descend the stairs, and welcome her husband home. The bland, demure smile she’d perfected over the years proved just beyond reach. Husband. The word tasted a lie whenever it touched her tongue. Engaged to the title Marquis Coverstone since the age of three her intended had been Richard Rawlings, Alex’s eldest brother, for eighteen years. Through an entirely bizarre and tragic sequence of events three of four sons met an untimely demise; and she’d been married off to the remaining heir before any such harm could befall him.
Friends and acquaintances alike gushed over her good fortune and while Alex was sinfully handsome, and a decorated soldier, Charley would hardly call their happenstance sham of a marriage good fortune.
Charley tossed Willy a pleading glance—she would swear the dog cocked his head in silent empathy—and opened the door. The morphed intensity of the household engulfed her the moment she reached the top of the stairs. For a moment she stilled, hidden behind the pillar adjoining the mahogany balustrade.
At the foot of the stairs a harried crush of servants filled the front hall. “Welcome home, milord.” Hastings, their towering gray haired butler, stood at the forefront of the mob. “We did not receive word of your arrival, or I would have prepared a much more formal reception. You have my deepest apologies.”
Lord Major Coverstone shifted, power and authority emanating from his massive, militaristic form. “It's fine, Hastings, I did not send word of my arrival ahead.” His deep, booming tenor echoed through the house. A rigid gaze swept the hall, the mass of servants parted as the red sea. “If you’ll excuse me I would like to retire to my private study and rest a spell.”
“Certainly, my lord.” Hastings bowed his head. “Shall I order tea and refreshments?”
“Coffee will be all.” The major clipped without a backward glance.
Charley shrank further behind the pillar as the marquis marched past the sweeping staircase, she could not tear her gaze from the intimidating figure. He was bigger than she remembered, bigger and much more beastly, with the look of a lean wolf about him. A notable limp hindered his stride, adding to the aura of danger shimmering around him.
Charley waited for the servants to dissipate before drawing a shaky breath and slipping clandestinely down the red-carpeted stairs. An eerie silence settled over the hall and the sharp tap of her heeled shoes reverberated off the walls. Rather like marching oneself into a dungeon. Loneliness cascaded over her in waves. Who was she kidding? This place was a dungeon. Convulsively she gulped, and rapped softly on the study door.
“What?”
She jumped at the terse response and slowly opened the door. “Welcome home, my lord.” She stepped into the study, and may have curtsied if not for the decidedly bizarre scene meeting her gaze. Alex stood across the room, violently shaking the cabinet.
“Just open damn it. Open.” He jerked and tugged on a side panel adjacent to the hinges.
“I believe the door is at the front of the cabinet, my lord.”
The marquis’s jaw clenched dangerously. “Unless you have my coffee, get the hell—oh, Charlotte.” The wooden panel broke off in his hand, a shower of splinters raining onto the carpet. “Damn.” He glanced at the wood fragment in his hand, and tossed it aside. “Sorry about that.”
“Cursing or breaking the cabinet?” she quipped.
Alex grumbled with all the aplomb of a schoolboy taken to task. “Both, I suppose.”
An uncomfortable silence lapsed. Charley’s mind whirled, searching for something suitable to say. She hadn’t meant to scold him, but the man had just broken the cabinet for heaven’s sake! What did one say to that? Her gaze flicked about the room, looking anywhere but the daunting figure of her husband. At last she looked into his eyes. Alex’s cool gaze sliced through her. Charley clasped her hands in the blue silk folds of her skirt to hide the trembling.
“Are you injured, my lord?”
He glanced down at his left hand. “Only a splinter. Nothing serious I assure you.”
“I was referring to your limp, but if you have a splinter it should definitely come out right away. I-I could remove it if you’d like.”
“It’s really nothing,” Alex insisted.
“We wouldn’t want for it to become infected.”
“Very well.” The marquis strode across the room and settled the afflicted extremity palm up in her hands.
A jolt of awareness shot up her arm, tugging at all the sweet memories she fought to lock far, far away. Alex radiated pure energy. Mesmerized, she smoothed her fingers over his roughhewn, calloused palm—a working man’s palm. The stories these hands could tell… In a flash her mind transported her back to the sunny afternoon when she’d taken a nasty tumble off her pony. Alex had been with her. He’d gently washed the dirt and gravel from her scraped palms in a nearby creek and then brushed the tears from her cheeks.
Shaking her head, Charley pushed the painful memory aside, allowing her anger to return. He was not the same man now as he’d been back then. She must remember that or have her heart broken all over again. “Can you get the splinter?”
Charley jumped, glancing up briefly. His impatient expression warned her to hurry. “I believe so.” She shifted her attention to the sliver and wedged the end of her thumbnail against the base of the fragment, pushing it up and out of the skin.
“Ouch!” Alex jerked his hand away. “Keeping the splinter may have been
the less painful option.”
Charley opened her mouth to protest, but caught the teasing quirk of his lip, and smiled hesitantly in return.
“Thank you.” He graciously inclined his head, a twinkle warming his eye. “Not many women I know would have performed such a task themselves. As for the limp, I was shot in June. Twice. The injury is why I’m home now.” He hesitated, eyes thick with swirling emotion. He stepped close—too close—the heat of his athletic frame assaulting her senses. The back of his knuckles grazed her cheek, and her heart dropped. Heaven help her. After all the harsh turmoil between them could she still be in love with him?
“Charlotte, we need to talk,” he said softly, the deep timber of his voice stroking the long stifled affections within her. “Is there some place we can go to be alone?”
“N-now?” Charley gulped, unsure if she was ready to exchange more than the most platonic chitchat. Undoubtedly any attempt at pleasant conversation would dissolve into bitter fighting, and moreover, she knew to be suspicious. She had good reason to be, in recent years Alex had become known for calculating ruthlessness.
“Shot?” The shrill voice of the dowager marchioness cracked the air. “Not again, Alex.” Regina swept regally into the room, raking a scathing glare the length of Charley. “At this rate you’ll join your father and brothers long before an heir is produced. Time is wasting.”
Charley snatched away from her husband as though burned, avoiding the glowering stare of her mother-in-law. Heat crept up her neck. At this moment Charley would love nothing more than to crawl beneath the desk or evaporate into thin air. Her intention to maintain a face of indifference was going up in flames.
“Good to see you too, Mother.” All good humor flashed from Alex’s face.
At that moment Mrs. Roark, the housekeeper, bustled into the room, a silver coffee service expertly balanced on thin forearms.
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