NEVER A MISTRESS, NO LONGER A MAID
by
Maureen Driscoll
Copyright © 2011, by Maureen Driscoll
Cover design by Jennifer Omner, ALLpublications.com
Author photo by JBC Images, JBCimages.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales are strictly coincidental.
To my mom.
The greatest woman I know.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe a great deal to the amazing Lucy Carson, who fought for this project and, through her unending patience and excellent editing, made it a much better book. Thank you also to Danielle Fishel, Janice Minsberg, Carrie Weiner, Maggie Walsh and Rich Nurse whose invaluable notes and enthusiasm are much appreciated.
A special note of undying thanks to my DC friends: Mario Correa, Tara Gans, Andrew Goldberg, Morgana Lark, Betsy Lawton, Christos Nikolis and Adam and Allison Rak. You were there when I needed you most.
And I’m so blessed you still are.
PROLOGUE
Belgium, June 1815
Ned Kellington had awakened to worse headaches, but couldn’t for the life of him remember when. Surely, as the second son of one of England’s most infamous families, he’d indulged in his share of activities that would result in the type of relentless pounding currently plaguing his skull. But in this case, there’d been no pleasant prelude of drinking or gambling. And there’d certainly been no evening spent in the company of either an unhappily married lady of the ton or a perfectly contented member of the demimonde.
Ned opened his eyes slowly, avoiding the glare of what appeared to be the mid-afternoon sun, shining through a canopy of trees. Lying on his back, he slowly turned his head to the right and looked directly into the eyes of a member of Napoleon’s army, also lying on his back. Ned started, which sent a fresh assault of pain through his head, then fumbled for his knife. As he pulled himself to a seated position, he realized his head was only one source of agony. Judging from the pain shooting through his right thigh, avoiding death at the hands of his enemy would certainly be an improvement on his day, but wouldn’t mark the end of his problems.
The man, who looked to be an infantryman, wasn’t moving. As Ned drew closer, he recognized the blank look in the man’s eyes. He’d seen death too many times to mistake it. He looked around to ensure they were alone, then tried to remember how he came to be there.
He had a vague recollection of encountering the man while returning to the British line from his latest mission. He and the soldier had been equally surprised to see each other. The Frenchman was in uniform, but, given his lone state, most likely a deserter. As a spy, Ned wore no uniform, but with their proximity to the front the Frenchman would’ve known few civilians would be on horseback in that part of the woods. A brief, but vicious fight had ensued and had the Frenchman’s aim been better, Ned would likely have bled to death from the wound in his thigh.
Now, it simply throbbed with each beat of his pulse. Ned looked at the tourniquet he’d applied before losing consciousness. A surprisingly neat piece of work that. It would one day be part of a good story, if he lived to tell it. But he’d likely omit the part about passing out from the pain.
Ned knew he had to get out of the woods, but saw no sign of his horse. He carefully stood, almost fainting once more from the damned pain in his leg, which had temporarily diverted attention from his aching head. He limped over to a tree, where he broke off a sturdy branch for use as a crutch.
It was then that Ned became aware of his thirst. A quick and painful search of his surroundings revealed his canteen, complete with the bullet hole that had drained its contents. Ned eyed the Frenchman, then searched his belongings. The man had neither water nor food, and had probably been in search of both when they’d happened upon each other.
Ned stood again, wobbled precariously, then tried to formulate a plan based not on the hasty training he’d received when signing up for the Guards, but culled from the quite excellent experience he’d acquired through years of growing up in the wilds of Lynwood Manor. And it was at that moment that he recognized quite possibly the nicest sound he’d ever heard – a nearby river.
* * *
Jane Wetherby knew she might have only a short time left to live. And it was all the river’s fault. She’d been returning to the Allied lines after nursing a company of men on the western flank who’d been too injured to be moved to the hospital tents. After three long days, she was on her way back to the main lines in preparation for what she was told would be the defining battle of the war.
Dressed in men’s clothing, she’d been on her way back to camp, when she heard the river. With little access to clean water, and with what little there was given to the injured men, Jane was faint from the heat. A quick stop at the river was a necessity if she hoped to make it back to camp.
But as she approached the river, she realized too late that she wasn’t alone. A filthy man wearing the tattered remnants of a French uniform looked up at her. Before Jane could turn her horse and retreat, she was pulled off by another French soldier and thrown to the ground.
As she lay on her back with the wind knocked out of her, Jane prayed the men would simply take the horse and leave. She was grateful she’d had the foresight to disguise herself as a man.
“Bon soir, ma’moiselle,” said the first of the two soldiers. “What a treat to find you here, however curiously attired in the clothes of a boy,” he continued on in French.
Perhaps Jane’s disguise wasn’t as good as she’d thought.
“A treat, indeed,” said his friend. “One good enough to be shared.”
“You may wish to run along, gentlemen,” she said in French, as she rose. “My brothers will be here any moment and they won’t approve of my conversing with strangers.”
“Ah, you’re British,” said the first soldier, switching to English. “How delightful that your dear brothers would come all this way in the middle of a battle to watch over their sister.”
“It warms a man’s heart,” said the second man, also in English. “I would like to meet these devoted brothers, wouldn’t you, Henri?”
“Bien sur,” Henri said, taking a step closer to Jane. “And until they arrive I should like to get to know their sister a bit more.”
“Stop right there!” said Jane with all the authority she could muster. “My brothers will be angry.”
“I’m sure they will, if they ever hear what happened to their baby soeur. But I doubt very much they will ever learn what happened in a forest in Belgium.”
With that, Henri grabbed Jane and pulled her to him, while his friend laughed. Jane used all her strength to break his grip. She managed to run for a few steps until Henri grabbed her again from behind. With one arm around her waist in an iron-clad hold, he roughly grabbed one of her breasts, while grinding himself into her bottom.
“Let go of me!”
“This one has some life to her, n’est pas?” said the other soldier. He walked toward them with a leer on his face. Jane’s disgust turned to fear as she noticed him unbuttoning his trousers.
“Albert, fair is fair. I caught her. I should go first.” Then Jane felt Henri unfasten his breeches behind her.
Knowing her very survival was at stake, Jane flung her head backward, hitting Henri on the nose and startling him enough to let go of her. Jane bolted away from him, but had o
nly gone a few steps, when she was felled to the ground by one of them.
“So, the bitch thinks she can run. More pity for her.” Henri turned her to face him. “You’re going to watch me, English whore.”
Jane tried to bring her knee up, but was pinned to the ground. Thinking quickly, she reached up and tried to bite him. Then just as quickly, he was no longer on top of her.
“Run!” said a third man in unaccented English. He was in civilian clothes and brandishing a knife at the two soldiers.
Jane found a good-sized rock and ran toward the fight. She approached Albert from behind, then with all her strength slammed the rock into his temple. At the same time, she heard a blood-curdling cry and the sickening sound of a knife stuck into Henri’s chest.
Albert turned and staggered toward her, furious. But before he could hurt her, the Englishman grabbed his arm, then reached around and slit Albert’s throat. The Frenchman fell to his knees then hit the ground, dead. A quick perusal of his friend confirmed his death, as well.
Jane looked at the Englishman, who was holding a bloody knife. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a muscled body that had seen its share of hard work. He had long, dark brown hair and what appeared to be emerald green eyes, bright with the beginnings of fever. If he were an angel come to rescue her, she wasn’t sure who had sent him. He looked too sinful to have come from above.
“Did those bastards hurt you, madam?”
Madam? Was no one fooled by her disguise?
“No, you arrived just in…”
“I told you to run!” he said, suddenly angry she’d disobeyed him.
“I couldn’t leave you to die.”
“So you risked your own life, instead.” He said it as if he were disgusted, rather than grateful for her intervention.
Insufferable man.
“Of course,” she said. “It was only right to do so.”
The man shook his head, muttering to himself, then turned from her and climbed down the shallow bank to the river.
“Don’t drink that!” she said, as his hand neared the water.
He looked at her as if she had suddenly sprouted horns and a tail.
“Madam, I am having what can only be described as an extremely unfortunate day. Water is almost never my first choice of drink, but today it will have to suffice.”
“It’s unclean.”
“I have no fear of a little dirt,” he said as he lowered his hand into the water.
Jane immediately dropped to his side, and then pulled on his hand to keep it away from his mouth. She was acutely aware of his nearness and strength. While she was able to stay the hand, she had no doubt it was only because he allowed her to do so.
“There are spirits of disease in the water. If you drink it without boiling it first, you’ll become ill.”
“Madam, I’ve been drinking from rivers since I was in short pants, surely longer than you’ve been on this earth. I am, as you can see, alive and healthy, with the exception of a leg that has been gravely insulted by a bullet and a head that feels as if a blacksmith has used it in place of an anvil. I will risk your ‘spirits of disease.’”
He easily pulled his hand away from Jane’s, then lifted it toward his lips. It was only inches away when he felt a sudden jolt to his already aching head. And as he lost consciousness for the second time that day, he had the most curious idea that the jolt had been delivered by a dainty fist to the side of his head.
* * *
Ned Kellington opened his eyes slowly and noticed two things. One was that his head, which hurt even more than it had earlier, was being cradled in a very soft lap. The other was that two perfect breasts were tantalizingly close to his mouth. He’d noticed her shape earlier, despite the ridiculous attempt to hide her curves in men’s attire. She had blonde hair pulled under a cap and light brown eyes that showed flecks of amber. It was a pity he wasn’t in any kind of shape to do something about it.
“Are you all right?”
He looked up into the amber eyes that were filled with concern. Then she worried her bottom lip and Ned was struck with the highly understandable, yet, at the moment, quite impractical desire to take that lip between his own teeth.
“Can you walk?” she asked. “We really must find shelter before someone comes. I found a small cave on the other side of the hill. It’s where my horse is tethered.”
“Can’t we just ride your horse back to camp?”
“You won’t make it, sir. I need to see to your leg.”
“While normally I would accommodate all such requests from a lady, I have a feeling from that scowl on your face that you mean you’d like to see to it medically. But what use can a lady be in those circumstances?”
“You, sir, are about to find out.”
While that sounded more than vaguely threatening, Ned was able to stumble to his feet. She wrapped her arm around his waist to help keep him upright. The pain in his leg was greater than earlier, which diverted his attention from the feel of her breasts pressed into him as they walked. Diverted it to a point, at least.
“Am I slipping into delirium, or did you strike me earlier?”
The girl – how old was she? – had the grace to be embarrassed.
“I couldn’t let you become ill.”
“So you decided to knock me senseless instead, possibly concussing my brain. I believe I would’ve preferred to take my chances with the river. What’s your name?”
The question seemed to take her aback, because they stumbled and nearly fell.
“Iris. Iris Johnston.”
“Well, Miss Johnston, what brings you to the middle of a war?”
“I’m tending the wounded,” she said defensively, as if finding her near a battlefield were the most natural thing in the world.
Ned glanced at the girl as he forced his legs to take him up the hill. Her answer surprised him. Most female nurses were prostitutes. She didn’t look like a camp follower, or at least her attire wasn’t one that a lightskirt would ever consider wearing. But her body was certainly delectable enough. Her speech was that of a lady, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d met a fallen woman who’d once been respectable. And it wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken advantage of one, either. He pulled her closer.
“Are you feeling weak?” she asked with even greater concern. She had a wrinkle between her brows when she frowned that was worthy of kisses. Or at least Ned thought there was a wrinkle between her brows. At the moment, she seemed to have four of them. He would have to rest his eyes as soon as possible.
When they finally reached their destination, Ned was relieved to see there was a shallow cave in the hill, hidden from the path they’d just travelled. With any luck, they’d be safe until he could recover his strength.
He lay down on the ground and closed his eyes.
“I need to check your wound,” she said. Then he felt her knife cut away part of his breeches. A moment later, he felt her small hands tentatively probing his thigh. In other circumstances, it would have been highly erotic. In this one, he simply wanted to sleep. Which was when he realized he must be far more seriously wounded than he thought.
She continued to speak in quiet, calm tones. She had a dulcet voice. Maybe she was an opera singer or an actress. He felt her hands go through his pockets. First his jacket, then, after a moment’s hesitation, his breeches. He heard her say something about a flint, then he drifted off to sleep.
Some time later, he woke to her telling him to take a sip of water.
“Why can I drink it now, when I couldn’t earlier?” he asked the breasts that were pressed once again so close to him.
“Because I boiled the water, driving away the spirits of disease.”
Ned took a sip of water from the canteen she handed him, then saw a fire burning deeper in the cave, where it couldn’t be seen by anyone passing by. He only hoped no one was around to smell it. She took the canteen from him, then gave him a bottle of whiskey.
“Scots whiskey? Wh
ere did you get this?” he asked, as he took a sip.
“I’m never without it,” she said, taking the bottle and pouring it on his thigh.
“Good Lord woman, are you trying to kill me?” he asked, wincing.
“Hardly,” she said rather primly for a woman so deliciously endowed. She handed him a stick. “You’ll need to bite on this. We can’t afford to have anyone hear you.”
She picked up a knife from her satchel.
“Miss Johnston, I will not allow you to cut into me.”
“Mr…what is your name? I know it’s impolite to ask, but it’s no more impolite than not making yourself known to a lady in the first place.”
“Lord Edward Kellington.”
“Well, Lord Kellington…”
“Lord Edward. I’m a brother to the Duke of Lynwood.”
“Well, Lord Edward, if I don’t remove that bullet, there’s a very good chance you’ll henceforth be known as a late brother to the Duke of Lynwood. Bite the stick. You needn’t worry about becoming ill from it – I’ve soaked it with whiskey.”
“I don’t fear becoming sick from a stick, madam. I fear being killed by a female wielding a knife. I prefer to wait for a surgeon.”
“I prefer keeping you alive, although if you were to ask me why, I’m sure I couldn’t give you three good reasons. I’m not sure I could name one. But fear not. I’ve soaked the leg, the knife, the needle and the thread in whiskey.”
He knew the leg needed to be tended to, even if he didn’t quite trust the person would do the tending. But, given the lack of options, he resigned himself to it.
“You have absolutely no respect for good Scots whiskey. May I have another drink? I assure you I’m filled with plenty of spirits that would be well assuaged by the potion.” Then he gave her the smile that had melted half the hearts in the ton and spread a good portion of their legs.
She gave him the drink. Then the stick.
He obligingly bit down.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
Never a Mistress, No Longer a Maid (Kellington Book One) Page 1
