Good Guy Heroes Boxed Set

by Julie Ortolon

  He felt everyone’s eyes on him while his own vision swam. Never in his life had he found it so hard to make a decision. Thank God he wasn’t on a battlefield with the enemy bearing down…although, given the antagonistic mood of some of those around him, that analogy wasn’t so far off.

  Rachael stepped close and laid a hand on his shoulder, drawing him away and down the corridor. The guests all turned to watch as she walked him to the end so they wouldn’t be able to overhear.

  “Your first instinct was good,” she said quietly. “Let her marry the man she loves.”

  His gaze flicked to the curious onlookers. “But—”

  “I, too, once thought this union inadvisable. But now that I’ve seen them together—”

  “What they feel for each other has little bearing on the repercussions of this match.”

  “Have faith in her. She has faith in him.”

  Griffin had faith in Tristan, too—but that wasn’t the point. “The ton doesn’t mirror that faith.”

  “Will you allow that to influence your decision? That isn’t the Griffin I remember. The one I imagined riding into battle with his principles held before him like a shield.”

  That idealistic youth, Griffin feared, was long gone. He stared at her. “You never thought of me that way. You thought I was a reckless rascal.”

  “Perhaps. I do recall you once telling me to ask for forgiveness, not for permission. But you were also stubborn as hell. You never let anyone else’s opinions stand in the way of your goals.”

  His gaze swept the assembled guests, landing on the odious Lady St. Quentin. He could see her straining to hear.

  Damnation. Rachael was right. He wasn’t going to let that despicable, fortune-hunting woman decide his sister’s fate. He couldn’t consign Alexandra to a life of utter misery, even to save the rest of them from suffering society’s disfavor. Not and live with himself, anyway.

  With a sigh, he surrendered to the inevitable, marching back to face his old friend—damn the barefoot bastard—in his sister’s doorway.

  “Get dressed,” he said tightly. “The Archbishop of Canterbury is half a day’s ride, and you’re in need of a special license.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  *

  ALEXANDRA SIGHED AS she watched the last of their guests’ carriages roll out of the quadrangle. “Why do I think they’re all going to gather at the end of the road and have a good gossip?”

  “Because they will,” Juliana said.

  “The repercussions have begun already.” Alexandra turned to follow her siblings back inside. “They didn’t even stay long enough to finish breakfast.”

  “That’s only because it was stone-cold,” Corinna said, sitting on an old, ornate treasure chest.

  “No, it wasn’t.” Tired and demoralized, Alexandra plopped onto one of the walnut hall chairs. “No one wants to associate with us. Dear God in heaven. What am I going to do?”

  “You’re going to marry Tristan tomorrow.” Griffin sat on the third step of the staircase, leaning forward with his elbows on his spread knees, his hands dangling between them. “And you’re going to be happy. I demand it.”

  “How can I be happy when the rest of you will be miserable?” A single tear rolled down her cheek.

  An expression of horror stole over his face. He sat up straighter. “You’re marrying the man you claim to love. There’s no crying allowed. You hear me?”

  “She’s not crying for herself,” Juliana said, moving to pat Alexandra on the shoulder. “She never cries for herself. She’s crying for us.”

  “I’m not crying,” Alexandra said, swiping at the rogue tear with a frustrated motion.

  In truth, she wasn’t sure why she was crying. She was a bundle of emotions. One moment she was elated to be marrying Tris, the next racked with guilt that it meant making pariahs out of her siblings. And she was humiliated beyond belief—absolutely mortified that half of society had seen her naked in her bedroom.

  “I’m sorry.” She gave a long, wretched sniff. “I’ve ruined all your lives.”

  “Good God,” Griffin said. “Cheer up, will you? You don’t see any of us crying.”

  “We’re thrilled for you,” Juliana put in.

  Alexandra looked around at all the grim faces. “Indeed.”

  “We are,” Corinna insisted. “We’re just a little…shocked. You’ve always been the good sister.”

  “Well, I’ve been changing, in case you haven’t noticed. It seems my transformation is now complete. From a paragon of traditional femininity to an utter tart, and all inside of a single summer.”

  “No one thinks you’re a tart,” Juliana said.

  Corinna nodded. “A little fast, perhaps, but—”

  “She’s about to be a married matron,” Juliana interrupted, glaring at her younger sister. “There’s nothing fast about that. Griffin, you did exactly the right thing.”

  “Thank you,” he said dryly.

  Alexandra sighed. “There was no right thing.”

  “Does Tristan really sleepwalk?” Corinna asked her brother.

  He nodded. “All of his life.” His jaw clenched. “I’m going to kill him.”

  Alexandra jumped up. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Sit down. I was jesting.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he added, “I’d like to kill him, but I’ll restrain myself. For your sake.”

  “Thank you.” She plopped back down.

  “Just be happy. That’s all the thanks I require.”

  But she couldn’t be happy—not when she’d ruined her family’s reputation. She wouldn’t be happy until she fixed that. Until her sisters could win any men they wanted. Until Griffin didn’t have to defend his friend or his decision to allow her to marry him.

  Until, she realized, the seeds of an idea taking root in her brain, she found the evidence that would clear Tris’s name.

  “Just give me a week or two,” she said slowly. “Then we’ll all be happy.”

  Corinna’s blue eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to find whoever murdered Tris’s uncle.” She could do it. She had to do it. “Then Tris won’t be shunned anymore by society, and you’ll be able to make a brilliant match. After all, your older sister will be married to a handsome, popular marquess who is well known for his expertise in machinery, animal husbandry, and land management.” Alexandra tried for a brave grin.

  “You’re going to find his uncle’s murderer,” Griffin said flatly. Disbelievingly.

  She raised her chin. “Yes. I am.”

  “How?” Juliana asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll need to investigate matters at Hawkridge Hall.”

  “Tristan doesn’t think there is a murderer,” Griffin reminded her. “He thinks his uncle died in his sleep.”

  “Well, we’d best all pray he’s wrong, because a natural death will be much harder to prove. But if that’s the case, I’ll find a way, because it’s the only hope for us all.”

  “Surely it’s not as dire as all that,” Juliana said.

  But no one spoke up to agree with her, because it was as dire as all that.

  Alexandra sighed into the silence.

  “Holy Hannah!” Corinna exclaimed after a long moment.

  Juliana turned to her. “What?”

  “She’s going to investigate matters at Hawkridge Hall. She’s going to move to Hawkridge Hall.”

  “Tomorrow,” Griffin said matter-of-factly. “I expect Tristan will want to leave directly after the wedding.”

  “She cannot leave tomorrow!” Juliana shook her head. “She’s made no preparations, she has no trousseau, she—”

  “She has no choice.” Griffin stood, one hand on the staircase’s marble rail. “I’m going to change my clothes and head out to the vineyard. Since Tristan has abandoned me, I’ll need to install his pump.” He started upstairs, gazing down at them as he went. “You’d better pack your things, Alexandra. And choose a wedding dress. With any luck,
I’ll be finished and back for dinner.”

  “A wedding dress,” Alexandra breathed.

  Corinna nodded. “A Lady of Distinction suggests a white one.”

  “I don’t even own a white dress.”

  “You can borrow one of ours,” Juliana said. “We’d best get busy.”

  *

  THE SUN WAS sinking in the sky by the time Tristan returned, special license in hand, to learn that Griffin was at the vineyard. A change of horses and a brisk gallop got him there just before dark. Griffin’s crew was completing the pipeline, lighting lanterns to provide illumination while they finished. As Tristan rode up, one of the men approached him, holding two of the lamps.

  “I was just taking these to Lord Cainewood, my lord.” He nodded in the direction of the newly dug pit.

  “I’ll take them for you,” Tristan offered, sliding off his mount. He tethered the horse and headed toward the pit, both lanterns in one hand. Slipping his other hand into his pocket, he toyed with the ring he’d detoured to Hawkridge to pick up. A simple gold band, wide but worn thin from centuries of use. A family heirloom for traditional Alexandra. Though it was plain, he hoped she would like it.

  Curses were coming from the square pit. Colorful ones. Still holding the lanterns in one hand, he started down the ladder, his eyes widening as he saw what was going on inside. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said as he reached the bottom.

  “Installing your damn pump.” Griffin’s wrench slipped, eliciting another burst of foul language.

  Tristan set the lanterns in a corner on the dirt floor. “I would have done it if you’d waited.”

  “When? In the middle of my sister’s wedding night?” Griffin mopped his brow with the back of a grimy hand. “I think she’d have my head. Besides, it’s time I learned how to do this myself. Given the way my luck has been running, I’m likely to need another pump or a dozen soon.”

  “Let me give you a hand.” Tristan took the wrench.

  “One of the hands you couldn’t keep off my sister?” Griffin snatched it back. “No thanks.”

  Heedless of the dirt, Tristan leaned against the wall, crossing his feet at the ankles and his arms across his chest. The pit exuded the pungent scent of recently turned earth. As fresh and sharp as his friend’s mood. “You’re angry with me.”

  “Give the man a prize.”

  “I didn’t compromise your sister on purpose.”

  “No, you were sleeping. Just waltzed in there unaware. Or so you said—”

  “Hey—”

  “All right, I believe you.” Griffin banged the wrench against a pipe, then winced at the sharp clang. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He whacked the pipe again.

  “You want to hit me?”

  He looked all too intrigued by that idea. “No.”

  “Go on. Hit me. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “It’ll make you feel worse.”

  Tristan just shrugged. “You cannot but admit I deserve it.”

  Tapping the wrench against his palm, Griffin stared at Tristan for a few long, tense moments. Then he dropped the tool to the dirt, drew back a fist, and rammed it into his friend’s shoulder.

  Though pain exploded, Tristan didn’t flinch. “You can do better than that.”

  “You’re right.” Griffin hauled off and punched him in the mouth.

  Tristan saw stars. His friend looked wavery through his watering eyes. Tasting blood, he flexed his jaw. “Feel better?”

  “Not yet.” Gritting his teeth, Griffin took half a step forward and drove his fist full force into Tristan’s gut.

  The wind rushed out of him as he doubled over in pain and surprise. When he came up, gasping for air, he returned the favor with a blow to Griffin’s face that sent him careening into the wall.

  “Hey!” Griffin said.

  “That’s enough.”

  “I. Think. Not,” he ground out, coming back swinging. “You compromised my sister. It will never be enough.”

  Tristan took two punches but ducked the third, straightening to throw a left-handed jab that landed solidly in his friend’s midsection. Griffin retaliated with a right-handed hit that was even harder. From there, Tristan lost track. The blows flew fast and furious until finally they both stood there, panting and exhausted, neither of them possessing enough energy to continue.

  Griffin dropped to sit on the dirt floor, his legs sprawled out before him, his face cradled in both hands. “I think you broke my nose.”

  “No, I didn’t. You’re such a widgeon.” Leaning against the wall above him, Tristan spit out blood. “I think you loosened my teeth.”

  “I hope so.” Griffin grinned up at him, then winced. “You feel worse now, don’t you? Just as I predicted.”

  Tristan slid down to sit beside him, groaning at new assorted aches. “Nothing you do could make me feel worse. Believe it or not, I’m more upset at this turn of events than you are.”

  “I don’t believe it. You didn’t just ruin two of your sisters’ lives.”

  “No, I ruined three of your sisters’ lives instead.”

  “Three? Alexandra was dying to marry you.”

  But the way Tristan saw it, she could die because she married him. Who knew what he might do the next time he sleepwalked? He was scared stiff.

  “Besides,” Griffin added, “she’s going to clear your name, and then no one’s lives will be ruined.”

  “She’s going to what?”

  “She’s determined to find your uncle’s killer.”

  “My uncle didn’t have a killer. He died in his sleep.”

  Griffin began to shake his head, then apparently thought better of it. “I told her you’d say that,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  *

  CORIANDER BISCUITS

  Take eight eggs, a little Rose water, some Madeira, and a pound of fine Sugar; beat them together for an Hour; then put in a Pound of Flour and half an Ounce of Coriander seeds; then beat them well together, butter your Pans and put in your batter, and set it into the Oven for half an Hour; then turn them, brush them over the Top with a little of the Eggs and Sugar that you must leave out at first for the Purpose, and set them in again for a quarter of an Hour.

  These biscuits are perfect to take visiting. My mother always brings some when we’re to meet someone new.

  —Lady Elspeth Caldwell, 1691

  “WHAT THE DEVIL ARE you doing up so late? It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

  “Is it?” Startled, Alexandra turned to see her brother standing in the shadowed entrance to the kitchen. “I’m making coriander biscuits to bring along to Hawkridge.” She beat Madeira into a bowl of eggs, sugar, and rose water. “I cannot arrive there with nothing.”

  “You don’t have to bribe Tristan’s people to accept you. You’ll be their marchioness.”

  She added flour to the mixture, dumping half of it onto her shaky hands in the process. “Chase women always bring sweets.”

  “Tomorrow will be a big day for you. For God’s sake, go to bed. If you truly feel a need to bring something, you can ask François to make it in the morning.”

  Not bad advice, except she was too excited—and nervous—to sleep. “We missed you at dinner,” she said, changing the subject. “And afterwards.” As he walked closer, she blinked and set down the bowl. “What on earth happened to your face?”

  He touched it gingerly. “Your soon-to-be-husband happened to it,” he informed her dryly.

  “Tris? Whyever would he hit you?”

  “Perhaps because I hit him first?” He looked around the cavernous kitchen. “Is there anything to eat in here besides raw biscuit dough? We just finished installing the pump. It works beautifully, but I’m about to expire from starvation.”

  “And Tris?”

  “Said he’s not hungry. Went straight to bed.”

  “I meant, does he look like you?”

  “Not much.” He crossed to where François had
left out some bowls covered with cloths. “His hair is lighter, and his eyes—”

  “Griffin!” Walking over, she playfully punched him on the shoulder with a flour-coated fist.

  “Ouch!” He waved at the white powder flying in the air. “I hurt everywhere, so keep your hands off.”

  “How much did you hurt him? Will I have to keep my hands off my husband as well?”

  Her brother’s face flushed red beneath the bruises. “I prefer not to discuss you touching that man at all. Or any man, for that matter.” He rooted in a bowl of fruit and came out with an apple. “But, you know,” he added, polishing it on his grimy shirt, “I think I’m just as happy you’ve been ruined. Saves me from having to explain all about the wedding night.”

  “I wasn’t ruined, Griffin.”

  “What?” He bit into the fruit with a juicy crunch. “Of course you were ruined. Why else would I marry you to someone completely unsuitable?”

  “Don’t talk with food in your mouth.” She dabbed at his chin with a dish towel, wincing in sympathy when he winced. “In society’s eyes, yes, I was ruined. But not in truth.”

  He swallowed this time before responding. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing really happened in my bed.” Perhaps that was an understatement, but the gist of it was true. “Tris kissed me and touched me, but that was all. Mostly we just talked. And then we fell asleep.”

  The apple sat forgotten in Griffin’s hand. “You just talked,” he said. “Naked.”

  Heat flooded her face. “Well, our clothes came off while Tris was still asleep. He took them off, I mean, while I was half-asleep. But after we both awakened…yes, we just talked.” Turning away, she started putting dollops of batter on one of the two pans she’d prepared. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  “I’m not certain I do. I have never in my life just talked to a naked woman.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that,” she said toward the biscuits.

  She heard the crunch of another bite. “Why?”

  “Because, being unmarried as you are, I wasn’t precisely sure you had experience. In matters pertaining to the bedroom, I mean. But I’m glad that you do, because that means you’ll be able to explain everything to me.” Hearing choking sounds, she turned to him. “Are you all right?”