by Jenna Jaxon
“Shh. Go back to sleep, love. I will return shortly.” A fleeting kiss and he was gone.
She sank back into the warm bed, drifting off as tantalizing images of Tris during the night lulled her back toward sleep. Where was he going so early? Not the privy. Although the room had but faint lights of the dark before dawn, she’d seen he’d been fully dressed. Was he going to meet the marquess for an appointment this morning? He would return soon he said. That was good. She missed his comforting weight beside her in the bed. Turning over, Violet rubbed the pillow next to her, the indentation where his head had lain a shadowy crater. Why did he need to go before first light? Nothing happened this early in the morning except—
“Susan!” Violet screeched and bounded up in the bed. “The duel. That stupid duel.” She flung the covers back and leaped out of bed. Where were her stays?
“My lady, what’s wrong?” Slowly, Susan limped into the bedchamber, a pitcher of water in her hand.
“The duel. He went without me.” Cursing under her breath, Violet grabbed the first dress to hand out of her trunk, her brown traveling gown and jerked it over her head. “Quickly. He will not do this without me there.”
Susan settled the gown over her and swiftly laced the back.
A rumble of wheels sent Violet stumbling to the window. The marquess’s carriage pulled out of the inn yard, gathering speed.
“Tris!” She beat her hand on the window. “Tris! Wait. Wait for me.” Head spinning, she reeled back into the room, grabbed the stomacher and jammed it into the bodice. “Go tell them to bring Tris’s carriage.”
Eyes wide and frightened, Susan nodded and hitched out of the room, calling for a pot boy.
Violet pulled on her half boots and tied the laces with fingers that shook. Why would he leave her behind? Had he a premonition? Did he see his own death and wish to spare her seeing him die? Stupid fool. Did he think life would matter a tinker’s damn if he was not here with her? That she would wait calmly at the inn while he was fighting for his life? If he survived Simon Harper’s blade he might well fall by her hand for his idiocy.
“Susan,” she called as she passed the maid’s door, running down the steep staircase at a frenzied pace.
“Here, my lady.” Susan waited at the bottom of the steps, Violet’s cloak in her hands. “They’re bringing the carriage around now.” She pulled the garment around Violet’s shoulders.
Scarcely waiting for the maid to settle the cloak, she sped out into the cold inn yard, Susan following after her. The sun had at last peeked over the roof of the stables, bathing everything in a delicate pink light.
The carriage rolled up in front of them. “Stokes, do you know where Lord Trevor was to fight this morning?” Violet fixed the elderly man with a glare designed to make him quake in his boots.
“Y-yes, miss. That is, my lady. Tate, the coachman to the marquess, asked me last night if I knew where this pond was he’d be going to this morning. I did, and I told him.” Stokes’s face seemed to wither, his mouth quivering. “Will you try to stop him, my lady?” The hope in his pale blue eyes tugged at her heart.
“No.” As swiftly as she could, she helped Susan into the carriage. “I understand Lord Trevor must fight the duel, but by God, I will be there to see him do it.” She clambered in after Susan, slammed the door, and the vehicle lurched into motion.
The journey back to Harper’s Grange had the same air of unreality as her earlier flight from it. Violet clenched her hands in her lap and stared out the window, seeing nothing of the countryside flashing by her in the brightening light. What must she do when she arrived? If the duel was over she would quietly have a fit and cry on Tris’s shoulder. She doubted that would be the case. She’d been too quick behind him. Most likely they would have just begun.
Her stomach roiled and she bit back her gorge. Never again would she allow Tris to put her through such a thing. Her heart hammered as they passed through the gates that gave entry to the estate. The world spun and she grabbed the leather strap above her head.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Alarmed, Susan put out a hand to steady her.
“No, I fear I am not, Susan. Nor will I be until this ghastly ordeal is past.” Violet tried to smile at the maid, but couldn’t hold back the sob that broke forth instead.
“All we can do is pray, my lady.” Susan patted her hand. “I think we are here.” She nodded to the large pond that had come into sight when they topped a small rise. Two other carriages had pulled up next to the shore and two sets of combatants were milling around.
Violet spied Tris immediately and her tension eased a bit. “Thank God.” She rapped on the roof and Stokes opened the trap. “Take us down there, Stokes.”
“Wait, my lady.” Susan grasped her arm and Violet held a hand up to stay the coachman. “Did you ever think Lord Trevor may have left you at the inn for a reason? You don’t want to go down there and distract him when he needs all his wits about him.”
Violet sighed and leaned back against the leather seat. “I know, but I had to come. I would have gone mad with not knowing until they came back.”
“Tell Stokes to get us close enough to see what’s happening, but don’t get out until it’s done.” Susan squeezed her hand. “I cannot stand for very long in any case.”
This business would be the end of her. “Very well. Stokes, close enough to see, but not close enough to intrude.”
“Very good, my lady.” The trap snapped shut and they crept forward.
The duelists had taken their positions by the time the carriage halted, some yards from the area of combat. The two men saluted and Violet grabbed Susan’s hand, clutching it so hard her own fingers ached.
Tris raised his sword, the steel flashing in the full sunlight that lit the scene with too much clarity. He had doffed his coat and cravat, despite the cold, so the breeze fluttered his unfettered shirt. Attired informally, in buckskin breeches and stocking feet, splashed with mud, he nevertheless stood alert, like a coiled snake waiting to strike.
Simon Harper, similarly attired, lifted his sword over his head, a sickening smirk on his face. He said something and Tris smiled and replied, his gaze never wavering from his opponent. Both men seemed poised, waiting for the other to make the first move.
Suddenly Tris exploded forward, his blade ringing as it slashed back and forth, seeking the target. Harper, however, met each blow easily, both rapiers singing as they exchanged stroke for stroke. Graceful as dancers, the duelists slithered back and forth on the muddy ground. Pray God Tris did not slip.
Harper took the offensive, pushing Tris back toward the edge of the pond. The evil joy on Harper’s face brought her to her feet. “I’ve got to go out there.”
“No, my lady.” Susan’s hand stayed her.
She thumped into her seat and lowered her face into her hands. Much more of this would kill her.
“My lady.” The edge in Susan’s voice brought Violet’s head up.
Tris had ceased his retreat. He stood tall and with a mighty crash, knocked Harper’s sword upward, throwing the man backward, off balance. Tris grinned, pure pleasure in his face, as he swung his blade down across Harper’s thigh. Blood welled up immediately, staining the white breeches.
Clutching his leg, Harper yelled, and fell to the ground.
Still grinning, Tris saluted him, then offered a hand to his opponent.
Harper batted it away and shouted a name. Two men ran to his side. They dropped to their knees and seemed to be assessing the wound.
Tris turned away, heading toward the carriage where Mr. Matthews and the marquess stood, identical smiles on their faces.
Relief washed through Violet like a tidal wave. She cried and hugged Susan. “He’s alive. Oh, thank God.”
“I prayed the whole time, my lady.” Susan extracted her handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
“I must go to him.” Violet opened the door and slid to the ground. “Come, Susan.” She hel
ped the maid to the ground, eager to set off toward Tris, who was talking to Matthews and Lord Dalbury. She slowed her gait, however, to match Susan’s hobbling pace. “Be careful of the mud.”
“Don’t wait for me.” Susan laughed, picking her way through the muck with her cane.
As Violet turned back to her, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.
Mr. Harper’s seconds had staunched the bleeding and were tying a bandage around his bloody leg. They lifted him until he could stand, leaning heavily on the young man on his left.
A flash of metal and a pistol appeared in Simon Harper’s right hand. His grim lips pulled taut as he leveled his arm and pointed his weapon at Tris’s back.
Time, so long her enemy, slowed to a crawl. Without thought, in one smooth movement, she plucked Susan’s cane from her hand and tore across the slippery grass. With a sweeping upstroke, she knocked the pistol skyward as he fired, startling the crows roosting in a nearby tree. Their raucous cries echoed the sound of the harmless shot.
Black rage contorted Simon Harper’s face. He swung toward her, reaching for her neck.
Violet let the swing of the hawthorn cane carry her arms upward. As of their own accord, in a parody of the sword fight, she reversed over Simon’s head and swung the club with deadly accuracy at his temple.
Harper dropped to the ground, unmoving.
Time came back in a rush.
Tris appeared from nowhere, grabbed her up in his arms, squeezing so tight she couldn’t breathe. “Violet. Oh, God, are you hurt?” Carefully, he set her down and peered at her, his face almost as angry as Harper’s had been.
“I’m f-f-fine.” She laughed, wiping at the tears that trickled down her cheeks. Shaking so hard she almost put a finger in her eye, she leaned against him before her legs gave way.
“What were you doing here? I didn’t want you to have to witness this.” His hair had come loose and he brushed it out of his face. “Although as it turns out I’ve very grateful you did.” He glanced at Harper’s still unmoving form and shook his head. “Where on earth did you learn to parry like that?”
“Parry?” Laughter bubbled up, a release she savored. “I’m sure I don’t know what that means. I just reacted naturally, I suppose.” She clutched his arm. “I wasn’t about to lose you to that ill-begotten worm.”
“She’s a natural-born fighter, Tris.” From nowhere the marquess appeared before them. “Here, Lady Trevor, you’ll need this about now.” He handed her a small flask, the sharp, sweet smell of brandy wafting from the open mouth.
Gratefully, Violet grasped it and took a quick sip. The liquid fire burned its way into her belly, soothing her clenched muscles.
“I must introduce you to my wife, Lady Dalbury. She will be anxious to make your acquaintance when I tell her she has a kindred spirit in you. She will be quite put out with me that she missed your exploits today.” Lord Dalbury grinned ruefully. “I’ll wager as soon as her confinement is over, she will take it upon herself to train you properly in fencing.”
“I would be most honored to meet the marchioness, my lord.” Perhaps they could take nothing more strenuous than tea together. She’d had enough excitement today to last a lifetime.
“Tris, we’ll meet you back at the inn and make preparations for the journey home. Will we leave after breakfast?” His friend fell silent, his gaze fixed on something behind Violet.
Simon Harper’s friends had managed to carry him from where he had fallen to the carriage. They loaded him, groaning insensibly, into the carriage and with a piercing glare at Tris, left.
“I think we’ll leave tomorrow, if you don’t mind, Duncan.” Tris clutched Violet to him, his lips brushing her hair.
“If you are all quite finished, can someone help me up?” Susan’s voice boomed from the muddy patch of ground on which she sat. “I swear I’ll be glad to rub the mud of this town off my shoes.”
With a chuckle, Matthews rushed to assist her, scooping her up into his arms and conveying her to Tris’s carriage.
Tris lifted Violet into his arms as well. “Shall we return to The Black Horse, my love, and continue where we left off early this morning? A newly married couple is allowed at least a day to rest and relax from all the excitement.” His eyes promised excitement of a completely different sort.
“That is a custom I believe we should uphold, my lord.” She slid her arms around his neck and snuggled deeper against him. “To the very letter, if you please. We have had our share of excitement and more.” With her eyes, she promised him so many things then thrilled at his slight gasp.
“As the mistress of my heart commands, so shall I obey.” He kissed her, lingering just long enough to make her desire more.
Mistress of his heart, her true title, for now and forever.
THE END
Turn the page for a special excerpt of Jenna Jaxon’s
A Woo A Wicked Widow
Chapter 1
London May 1810
Moonlight streamed into the mews, brightening the night and making Lady Charlotte Fownhope draw back into the shadows of the stable. She strained to hear sounds from her father, the Earl of Grafton’s, townhouse, but only the clink of bridles came to her ears as Edward, her groom, led her chestnut mare and his horse into the light.
“You should have taught me to saddle her. Then I could have helped you.” She came forward to take the reins.
“I’ll always be here to do that for you, my lady.” He smiled, his white teeth a flash in the swarthy handsome face, then leaned down to kiss her.
His warm lips caressed her, calmed her even as the comforting scent of horses and leather that hung about him enveloped her. This was where she belonged, in Edward’s arms. Not with Lord Ramsay, her father’s choice for a husband.
A horse snorted and Charlotte jumped back. “We must be off. Dinner will last only so long. With luck no one will look in on me on me but my cousin Jane, so we will have until the morning before they know I am gone.”
Edward nodded and cupped his hands to give her a leg up.
Once in the saddle, she gathered the reins and waited for him to mount, her stomach tightening with excitement. “You know the way?”
“Yes, we take the Great North Road as far as York, then over to Manchester and up to Gretna Green.” He slid into the saddle. “We’ll be on horseback the first two days. They won’t expect that. They’ll be looking for a carriage.” He reached over and grasped her hands. “You’ll be all right on horseback for so long?”
She nodded, prompted to sit up straighter. If she had to spend a week in the saddle to be with Edward, she would do it. “Let’s go.”
They walked the horses out of the light, into the darkness of the underpass, keeping quiet until they were at the end of the row of stables. Charlotte resisted the urge to look over her shoulder to see if they had been pursued. They had been careful. They would succeed. She drew her black cloak around her shoulders against the now-chill wind.
At a nod from Edward, she tapped her horse and Sophie started into a quick trot. The clop, clop of the hooves on the cobbled streets soothed her. After months of planning, they were on their way at last.
* * * *
Several hours later, Charlotte and Edward slowed for another toll gate. They had passed through four already and after the first, Charlotte had turned the bag of coins over to him to take care of the fees. A twinge in her hip, an ache in her thigh muscle told her that her body had begun to feel the strain of constant motion in the saddle. When they finally stopped for the night, she doubted she would want to climb back on Sophie tomorrow.
Slowed to a walk, her mare nickered, and from somewhere behind the toll gate another one answered. Charlotte patted her withers and glanced at Edward.
“Toll keeper!” he called, rending the silent night. After a moment he called again, still with no result.
“He must be dead asleep.” The wind had risen, causing Charlotte to tug h
er cloak closer.
“Dead drunk’s more like.” Edward dismounted, strode to the toll house door, and knocked.
The door jerked open. A huge hand grasped his shoulder, dragging him inside.
“Edward!” Charlotte dropped the reins peeled her aching leg from around the horn of the sidesaddle and slid to the ground. She must get to Edward. As her boots hit the dirt, two men appeared from nowhere.
“Ha, got ya!” They grabbed her arms, their rough fingers digging painfully into her flesh.
Terror shot through her veins, stopping her breath in her throat. Still, she managed to pull back and forth, trying to break free. No use. Their big hands clamped down on her like a vise as they hustled her toward the tool booth.
“Edward! Help! Someone, help.” Charlotte shrieked as they dragged her toward the building. Dear Lord, they must be highwaymen. She had heard sickening stories about the dangerous criminals who roamed the roads, preying on unlucky travelers. Her stomach twisted.
At the threshold they loosened their grip to get her through the door. Charlotte swung around and raked her fingernails down one man’s face.
He bellowed and pushed her away, into the house.
She wheeled toward the other man, bent on a similar attack but stopped, shocked at the tableau before her.
The flickering light of the hearth revealed a large man holding Edward’s head down on a crude plank table, a pistol pressed against his temple. The toll keeper in his nightshirt and cap, eyes wide, face pale stood in front of the fire staring at the scene. To the left of the table stood her father.
All the strength ran out of Charlotte’s legs and she began to sink toward the floor.
The man she had wounded grabbed her arm and hauled her up. “No you don’t. That’s all, your lordship. Just the two of ‘em.”
Leaning on his silver-knobbed walking stick, her father fixed his dark eyes on her, his mouth a black line between thin lips.
