by Elisa Braden
A Kiss from a Rogue
ELISA BRADEN
Copyright © 2019 by Elisa Braden
Smashwords Edition
Cover design by Kim Killion at The Killion Group, Inc.
Couple photo by Period Images, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form by any means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
For more information about the author, visit www.elisabraden.com.
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BOOKS BY ELISA BRADEN
Rescued from Ruin Series
Ever Yours, Annabelle (Prequel)
The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Book One)
The Truth About Cads and Dukes (Book Two)
Desperately Seeking a Scoundrel (Book Three)
The Devil Is a Marquess (Book Four)
When a Girl Loves an Earl (Book Five)
Twelve Nights as His Mistress (Novella – Book Six)
Confessions of a Dangerous Lord (Book Seven)
Anything but a Gentleman (Book Eight)
A Marriage Made in Scandal (Book Nine)
A Kiss from a Rogue (Book Ten)
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Want to know what’s next? Connect with Elisa through Facebook and Twitter, and sign up for her free email newsletter, so you don’t miss a single new release!
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DEDICATION
For all those who fell in love with vengeful viscounts and ruined angels, willful wallflowers and starchy dukes, wicked scoundrels and resilient pixies, wickeder devils and redheaded disasters, surly giants and starlight fairies, a dragon’s son and a certain widow, dangerous lords and domestic bliss experts, lowborn ruffians and steel-spined spinsters, eerie-eyed griffins and thorny briars, valiant knights and determined bumblebees …
And one tart-tongued dragon.
This one’s for you.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Books by Elisa Braden
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Author’s Note
More from Elisa Braden
About the Author
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PROLOGUE
“Be warned, sir: You have invoked an inexhaustible fire quenched only by the defeat of its enemies. I await your surrender with the greatest of anticipation.”
—Lady Dorothea Penworth to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, Earl Bainbridge, in a letter of scathing rebuke.
September 11, 1814
Wiltshire, England
She was floating. Here, in a bedchamber swathed in red. A room with a single window, two velvet chairs flanking a chess table, and low firelight flickering orange fingers across dim walls.
Hannah floated above the girl on the bed. Pitiful creature. Frozen as though stillness made a difference. Never had before.
Outside, rain poured, slithering gray on glass. Water’s chatter upon stone and grass didn’t muffle the sound.
Clack, tap. Clack, tap. Clack, tap.
Echoing across the terrace.
Clack, tap. Clack, tap. Clack, tap.
Down the steps.
Clack, tap.
A pause.
She sank down toward the girl, every inch deepening dread.
His voice sounded below the window. Placid. Pleased.
Clack, tap. Clack, tap. Clack, tap.
Receding. Retreating. Fainter. And gone.
Blessedly gone.
She floated again, on the ceiling now. Gray light offered cooling comfort.
“Here you are, miss.” The round woman with the Irish lilt waddled near the girl on the bed, placing a tray on the side table. She started to turn then stopped. Fingered the small bottle beside the teapot. “Laudanum should help.”
Wrong. Laudanum only dulled the senses. Nothing helped.
“You should not have tried to take his horse, miss. He hurts you worst when you run. Heavens, you never learnt to ride. How far did you imagine you would get, hmm?”
The girl did not move so much as an eyelash.
“If I—if I help you, he’ll kill me.” The woman’s voice thinned until it had no substance, only breath. “You matter. I don’t.”
True enough. Killing was his answer to many problems—rebellious servants, inconvenient neighbors. Her mother.
In a vaguely maternal gesture, the woman brushed a black, damp curl from the girl’s shoulder.
The girl didn’t flinch. But, then, she wasn’t present. Hannah floated away, curled into the corner of the ceiling where shadows gathered, gray and dark.
“I should like to take that bloody walking stick of his and …” The woman’s vicious utterance trailed away, unspoken. Her plump fingers formed a fist before shoving into her apron’s pocket. She plucked a green blanket from the foot of the bed and spread it gently over the girl’s body. “There, now,” she whispered. “Let old Mrs. Finney care for you.” Another brush at the girl’s hair, wet from the rain. “Bide awhile, sweet miss. He has enemies. Dangerous folk. One day, they’ll find him.” The woman’s hand shook. A flush streaked her plump cheeks. “One day, he’ll be gone, and you’ll be free.”
Hannah wished the woman would leave. Mrs. Finney was a fine housekeeper, but the girl on the bed did not wish to be touched. Not by anyone for any reason.
“No more bravery,” the housekeeper admonished while pouring tea and adding laudanum. “No more of this nonsense. Look at you. Tiny, fragile thing. Mustn’t continue inviting his punishments. And where would you go, anyhow, should you manage an escape? Orphans haven’t any family.” Mrs. Finney moved to the washstand and poured water into the basin. “Not that you could hide from him if you did.” She returned with a washcloth in hand, carefully unfastened the girl’s damp gown, and exposed the girl’s back. The woman’s gasp rang out sharply in the silent room.
In her corner of the ceiling, where it was dark and cool, Hannah let shadows cloister around her, muffling color and sound and sensation. Time passed. She couldn’t say how long. When the shadows thinned to wisps, Mrs. Finney was gone and the rain had softened.
Hannah watched the girl on the bed, huddled motionless beneath the green blanket. The girl’s pale fingers lay curled near blank, open eyes. Slowly, slowly, as though tugged through a mirror, Hannah found herself pulled inside those eyes. Pale, pale green. No one else had eyes
like hers. Only her beloved papa, who was gone. Gone, gone, gone.
Now, she stared through those eyes outward. Saw the girl’s fingers. Her fingers. White and curled. They twitched.
No. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted the shadows, the ceiling. She wanted to float away again.
Pain wouldn’t let her. It sang with a horrid vibration.
Mrs. Finney’s words formed lyrics in accompaniment. One day, he’ll be gone. The words chanted. Repeated. A song more dangerous than enemies, more foolish than the bravery of a stupid, desperate girl. One day, he’ll be gone, they crooned. One day, he’ll be gone. And you’ll be free.
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September 11, 1814
Lake Champlain, New York
Jonas should have been dead ten times by now. Twelve, if one counted the enraged husband who’d chased him with a cleaver and the enraged father who’d shot his hat clean off his head. But he never counted the incidents involving women and drink. Those were self-inflicted.
The truth was that Jonas Bartholomew Hawthorn was not meant to die. Rather, he was cursed to watch while others did.
“What’s that ye’re drawin’ there, Hawthorn? Yer mother’s titties?” Rollicking laughter followed the jest, blending into the creak of the frigate’s hull and the snap of her sails.
Jonas glanced up from his sketchbook. The sun shone mirror-bright off the massive lake this morning. While carpenters scraped and hammered, and ill-trained infantrymen heaved cannons into place, he was taking a few blessed moments before battle to record the scene around him—miles of blue lake water, thick-forested shoreline, a flock of geese flying overhead.
Soon enough, death would come. For now, he would harness something beautiful.
“No,” he answered Bailey’s taunt with a lazy half-grin. “Your mother’s titties are far more fetching. Care to have a look?”
His fellow soldier’s mirth turned sour. At twenty, Bailey was only a year younger than Jonas, but he’d seen one measly skirmish on the Continent before sailing to Canada with the Thirty-Ninth Regiment of Foot. Jonas had joined the Thirty-Ninth at sixteen. He’d survived muskets and cannon at Bussaco, goring lances at Albuera. He’d watched men like Bailey go blinding mad at Vittoria and collapse like stringless marionettes at Toulouse. He’d watched countless Frenchmen die by his hand. Today, he would watch Americans do the same.
Jonas was ancient, and death knew him well.
The ginger-haired Bailey raised his ginger-whiskered chin. “I don’t let nobody insult me mam, you blighter.”
Chuckling, Jonas blew away charcoal dust from his sketch, tucked the small notebook into his pack, and squinted up at his appallingly young antagonist. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have let her cavort naked with the likes of me.”
“What’s cavort?”
“Dally.”
Confusion turned to muddled wrath. “You never even met me mam. She’s back in England.”
“No, indeed. Though nothing amplifies a man’s pleasure like anticipation.”
Confusion returned. “What the devil are you sayin’?”
Jonas grasped the railing at his back and shoved to his feet. He moved slowly, as he’d always found being underestimated a valuable advantage. Likewise, he was tall, so he leaned back against the railing to reduce his height. Then, he grinned. “I’m saying it’s best to avoid mentioning a man’s mother altogether.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Then, we agree.”
Bailey scratched his gingered head. “I don’t much like you, Hawthorn.”
Jonas’s grin widened. “Give it time, and you won’t like me at all.”
Another scratch. More frowning confusion. “When’s the fightin’ start?”
Jonas sighed and glanced behind him. They were passing the lighthouse on Cumberland Head. He expected the ships to begin firing before long, but dullards like Bailey lacked patience. They itched for a fight, even if it was with their fellows. Jonas only wanted to be left in peace.
“Not to worry, Bailey. Soon enough, you’ll be swabbing blood from the decks. Likely your own. If you survive, you can go back to swilling rum and insulting the mothers of colonials.”
“A fine one to talk of swillin’. I hear Lieutenant Phillips pulled your arse from gaol to board the Confiance.”
Jonas crossed his arms and chuckled. “A misunderstanding. Happens an ensign’s wife is not to be believed when she claims her husband shan’t return for hours.”
“You was in your cups.”
“Every man in the Thirty-Ninth would be in gaol, were that the offense.”
Bailey narrowed his eyes. “You was caught kissin’ the lady in her husband’s rooms.”
“Hmm.” Jonas smiled in remembrance. “Speaking of lovely bosoms.”
Three more young infantrymen approached, flanking Bailey and squinting at Jonas with varying degrees of nervous tension.
“Last of the guns are in place,” said the blond one, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of a grimy hand.
“Bloody hell,” said the tall one with the wine-colored mark over his cheek. “Never thought I’d be pining for Spanish dirt again.”
Clayton, Jonas recalled. The man’s name was Clayton. He’d tried to avoid learning their names, but that birthmark was as vivid as Bailey’s ginger hair.
“Aye,” said the wiry one, shifting from one foot to the other as if struggling to hold his piss. “Lieutenant is speaking with Captain Downie. I expect we’ll be firing soon.”
Jonas turned his eyes aft. The smaller vessels of their squadron followed like lambs after a ewe. The Confiance was the biggest of them all—the biggest ship, the biggest target. Clouds momentarily covered the sun, coloring the water steel-gray.
He swiveled to look north beyond the prow. In the distance, a line of American warships waited to greet them with a booming welcome.
He eyed the men before him, part of a hastily assembled crew for an unfinished vessel. He looked down at the pitch-stained planks beneath his boots. The decks were constructed of green wood so rough the ship’s massive guns initially had to be lifted into place rather than rolled. Even for a well-trained crew—which they were not—firing them was arduous.
He glanced up at the rigging, sensed the brisk wind weakening inside the great, white sails. Fought a queer, foreboding chill.
“I expect you’re right,” he murmured, straightening away from the railing. “Best get to it.” He bent to retrieve his pack just as a squat beaver of an officer approached. Avoiding the man’s bitter glare, Jonas shrugged on his pack. Obviously, the ensign was still sore about the incident between Jonas and his wife’s lovely bosom.
“Take your positions, men,” the beaver barked. “Make ready.”
They moved below to the gun deck. Another chill snaked through him at the chaos—grizzled seamen barked commands at eight-man crews with too little experience. Even here, carpenters rushed about coated with shavings and weighed down by tools. Twenty-four-pound balls waited in racks to be loaded after the first volley.
A hand shoved his shoulder from behind. “Move your worthless backside, Hawthorn,” the beaver snarled.
He wanted to ask if the ensign’s wife thought his backside was worthless—she’d seemed rather impressed, as he recalled. But he didn’t fancy being stuffed into a cannon and shot across the bay. So instead, he held his tongue and joined Clayton and Bailey and five other men at the seventh gun.
An officer with a Scottish brogue, blue frock coat, and wide epaulets prowled the line of cannons, hands at his back, eyeing the crews. He was younger than Jonas would have expected for a squadron commander—thirties, he would guess. But Captain Downie’s eyes looked as grim as Jonas felt.
A third chill crawled up Jonas’s neck.
“Prepare to scale the guns!” Captain Downie announced over the cacophony. Firing the cannons would signal the British army in the village of Plattsburgh to advance in a coordinated attack. “Whilst we win the battle in the bay, our soldi
ers shall claim victory on land!”
Jonas watched the captain, proud and straight, command respectful nods from the crew of inexperienced rabble and cast-offs from other ships. They all seemed to take reassurance. But to Jonas’s eye, Downie did not look like a man about to win a battle. He looked like a man going to the gallows.
Another creeping chill took hold, turning into an itch along his nape. Jonas’s gaze drifted to Bailey, feverish with anticipation. Beside him, the steadier Clayton appeared confident, though his throat bobbed on a swallow.
Upon the captain’s signal, they scaled the guns. Each cannon recoiled several feet, stopped only by the ropes that secured the carriage. Jonas and the rest of the crew rushed to reload and heave the two-ton gun back into position.
His ears buzzed like insects.
The ship kept its course toward the Americans’ flagship, the Saratoga. It might have been seconds or hours before the Confiance suffered its first hit—minutes, probably. When the blast struck, wood splintered and flew like bullets. The decks above shredded. Had his ears worked, he might have heard the screams of men dying. As it was, he couldn’t hear much beyond the buzzing.
He could see, though. One of the lieutenants, face streaked with blood, shouted at Downie, who stood beside one of the guns. Jonas saw the lieutenant’s mouth repeatedly form the words “lost” and “sheet anchor.”
Despite his exertions heaving upon the cannon’s ropes, Jonas’s chill now pulsed thick inside him. Bloody hell. If they’d lost the anchor, they’d little hope of maneuvering into a proper position for battle, let alone turning the ship to avail themselves of fresh guns. He squinted through the gun port toward the Saratoga. The wind had died. Indeed, the Confiance seemed to have slowed to a crawl short of the position they needed for a full broadside.
