by Georgie Lee
Lucien shifted, fear evident in the quiver of his pistol, and Devon saw his chance.
“Let us go, Lucien, and I’ll make a settlement on you,” he offered. “You may go to Germany or France and I’ll pay your debts.”
Lucien’s gun lowered. “All of them?”
“Yes.” He’d promise anything right now to stop this madness and keep Cathleen safe.
“Don’t be a fool,” Martha spat. “He’d be just as happy to see us swing as to see the backside of us heading across the channel.”
“You can keep Cathleen’s jewelry as a sign of our bargain,” Devon suggested, trying to draw Lucien in.
“Think of it, Martha,” Lucien pleaded. “No debts. Living abroad without worry. It has to be better than this.”
Martha swung the pistol at Devon. “No, I think not.” An evil smile curled her lips.
Before Devon could react, Cathleen lunged at Martha, pushing aside the gun before it fired. The ball hit the carriage and a sliver of wood sliced Devon’s cheek. The startled horses reared and bolted, pulling the carriage with them.
“Let go of me,” Martha screeched, wrenching free of Cathleen.
Devon sent Lucien reeling with a hard punch to the face and the man dropped his gun, grasping his face and stumbling backward. “My nose,” he whined, blood pouring between his fingers.
Devon lunged for Lucien’s pistol but Martha snatched it up and leveled it at him. “Now, you die.”
“No!” Cathleen jumped in front of him but he pushed her aside as the gun went off. Cathleen screamed, the force of the blow slamming her against Devon.
The smoke hung in the half-moonlight but Martha didn’t wait for it to clear.
“You can both go to hell.” She bolted off into the darkness.
Lucien staggered to his feet and ran after her.
“Cathleen!” Devon lowered her to the ground, searching in the darkness for the wound and finding it when sticky blood from her shoulder spread over his fingers.
“Devon,” she moaned.
“Don’t speak. Rest.” He pressed his handkerchief to the wound, the white cloth turning dark beneath his hand. “I have to stop the bleeding.”
“I’m sorry,” she cried, pain edging her words. “I couldn’t let another man I love die.”
“Don’t apologize. Everything will be fine. Dr. Manning is at Malton Hall, he’ll see to you.” If we can reach him in time. His mind worked furiously for ways to get her safely home. He couldn’t leave her here, vulnerable and bleeding in the mud while he went for help. With the driver still unconscious, there was no one to send.
Think, bloody hell, think!
“I don’t know how they found us tonight. I was never with them,” she whispered. He felt the wet drop of a tear on his finger. Leaning over, he brushed her lips with his.
“I know.” Devon pushed her damp hair back from her cool skin then removed his jacket and draped it over her. “Rest now.”
She didn’t respond and his chest tightened. He placed one ear close to her mouth, listening for her breath but another, more sinister sound began to echo through the darkness.
The screams of horses cut through the still air, punctuated by the thick burst of cannon fire.
No. He rocked back on his heels, pressing the palms of his hands against his forehead, but still the memories filled his mind. Not now.
In a flash the world turned bright. Thomas’s red uniform cut across his vision, his saber meeting the Frenchman’s. Devon squinted against the glare of the Frenchman’s blade, yelling when it cut through Thomas with a sickening slice.
“No!”
Devon fell forward, his fingers clutching the mud, his lungs struggling to pull in breath after breath. Then, through the volleys of rifle fire and the shouts of soldiers, Cathleen’s voice began to emerge, faint at first but steadily growing louder. He focused on it, struggling over the din of war to hear the light, soft strains of each word until they rang clear in the night.
“It’s not your fault Thomas died.”
The words came again and again until his own lips formed each syllable, his raspy voice joining Cathleen’s. The bright day in France receded to a small point of light, then blinked out.
“It’s not your fault Thomas died.” He said the words aloud, his voice the only one in the darkness. He opened his eyes to see the stars twinkling against the horizon, the air heavy with nothing but the earthy scents of wet grass and mud.
Cathleen moaned and he leaned in close. Her delicate face was barely visible and the faint rhythm of her breathing almost inaudible beneath the songs of crickets and the breeze rustling the trees.
“I won’t let you die for me. I love you too much to lose you.” He gathered her in his arms, her unconscious body limp and heavy as he rose, his thigh screaming in protest. It was five miles to Malton Hall and he could feel the burning in his thigh spreading up to his hip. He walked down the road, her head heavy on his chest, his boots sliding on the muddy road. Steadying himself, he kept moving, gritting his teeth against the pain, determined to make it home. She would heal and they would build a life together. He refused to believe otherwise.
Chapter Ten
Devon stood in the doorway watching Cathleen. She sat in the window seat overlooking the garden, propped up on a pile of cushions, the sunlight through the glass caressing the delicate pink hue of her cheeks. Outside, Elizabeth carried baby James, pointing out the butterflies and red roses blooming on the vines while his nurse hovered nervously behind them. Elizabeth leaned the child too close to one plant and he snatched off a red bud, holding it up triumphantly to his mother. Cathleen laughed at her nephew’s antics, her eyes bright and glowing.
Devon slipped one hand in his pocket and fingered the wrinkled edge of a letter. He’d held on to it for the last two weeks, debating every day whether or not to tell her of its contents, afraid it would bring back too many bad memories. It had been nearly a year since the tense night on the road from Lady Upland’s ball and the long ride back to Malton Hall in Lady Treston’s carriage.
He’d carried Cathleen for what felt like an eternity before Lady Treston’s carriage came upon them. During the frantic drive to Malton Hall, he held Cathleen tight, refusing to put her down even at the insistence of Lady Treston. Once home, he carried her upstairs to his bed, remaining by her side while Dr. Manning attended to her. The bullet had passed through her shoulder, leaving a clean but deep wound, and for the next two weeks, Devon stayed beside her day and night, anxious for fear of infection and thankful beyond words when none set in.
He shifted slightly and the board beneath his boot squeaked. Cathleen turned, greeting him with a radiant smile. All the emotions he’d experienced that night faded like a nightmare driven away by morning. All except one. He loved her as much as she loved him, and she’d been as terrified of losing him as he’d been of watching her die.
“Hello, my love,” she beamed.
“I see you’re feeling better.” He leaned over and laid a gentle kiss on her lips. “And how is my child?”
“Quite active this morning.” Cathleen took his hand and placed it on her large stomach. Underneath, the child stirred and she met Devon’s excited smile with one of her own. “He won’t stop kicking me.”
“Good. It’s a sign he’s healthy.” He sat down next to her on the wide window seat and took her hand, tracing her long fingers with his thumb. “I have some news about the soldiers’ hospital in Bath.”
“You found a suitable house for it?”
“I have. I sent my solicitor this morning to make arrangement to purchase it. By this time next year the hospital will be complete.”
“And many will thank you for it.” She squeezed his hand, the pride in her eyes making him hesitant to reveal the rest. As if sensing his dilemma, she titled her head
questioningly. “Is there other news?”
Devon paused, wondering if he should wait, but he’d kept it from her long enough. “There is, but I’ve debated telling you while you’re in this condition.”
“I’m not so delicate,” she laughed. “What does it concern?”
“Martha and Lucien.”
Her fingers tightened on his, anger rippling through her bright eyes. “Did you receive a letter from them? Are they trying to blackmail us?”
“Perhaps I should wait until you’re feeling better?”
“No, tell me. I want to know what mischief they’re plotting now.”
Devon took a deep breath and looked out the window at the thick white clouds hanging over the tall spires of London.
She reached up, turning his face to meet hers then running one finger along the small scar on his cheek. “Come now, it can’t be so bad, can it?”
“Not for us.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re dead.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “What happened?”
“After Lady Upland’s ball, they fled to Naples. Martha caught a fever shortly after they arrived and succumbed.”
She took a deep breath, turning his hand over and tracing the lines of his palm. “A fitting end to the wicked woman. And Lucien?”
“He lost a great deal of money at cards one night and couldn’t pay the debt. His body was found the next morning in an alley.”
“Poor Lucien.” A small crease marred her forehead before it vanished and she sighed, meeting his eyes once again. “He was so weak. Father left him a comfortable living and he squandered it and his life.”
Devon removed the letter from his pocket and turned it over. “Unfortunately, there’s more. I heard from a solicitor. Shortly after they left London, their creditors seized everything and it was auctioned off. I’m sorry. If I’d have known sooner, I’d have tried to save your father’s house.”
She closed her fingers over his. “It doesn’t matter. I always knew Lucien would lose it eventually. I’d said goodbye to it years ago. Besides, I have no need of it now.”
She drew him to her, brushing his lips with a tender kiss, her raspberry smell encircling him like a warm cloak.
“There you are.” Elizabeth’s voice interrupted them, and she hurried across the room, baby James perched on one hip, the frazzled-looking nurse following behind. “How bored you must be, Cathleen, missing all the delights of the Season. Your first one as a countess.”
“I’m still enjoying a few pleasures. Lord and Lady Chisholm are dining with us tomorrow night, and if Devon will allow it, we’ll take a turn through Rotton Row this evening.”
“I think it can be arranged.” Devon reached for James, and Elizabeth handed him the child. Devon bounced the baby on his knees, making the towheaded boy squeal with laughter. He looked past James at Cathleen, her radiant smile touching his heart. He’d soon be holding his own child. Sitting in the midst of his family, his love for Cathleen growing stronger each day, he knew nothing from the past could ever rise up to hurt any of them again.
* * * * *
In the mood for more historical romance?
Pick up this enthralling read by Georgie Lee, available now!
Mask of the Gladiator
Rome, 41 AD
Livia Duronius is driven to seek out a gladiator after watching him triumph in the Colosseum. His touch arouses a sense of hope she hasn’t felt since Rome fell under the tyrannical rule of Caligula—and her late husband betrayed her. Though in danger of losing more than her heart, she vows to see him again, even after she learns her uncle has arranged her marriage to a senator.
Senator Titus Marius cannot resist indulging in a passionate encounter with the veiled woman who waits for him after the games, though he faces execution if his true identity is discovered. Bound by honor to wed another, and embroiled in a plot to free Rome from madness, he never expects to see the mystery woman again.
When the fates reunite them in the marriage bed, Titus vows to protect Livia at all costs—even from the lecherous eyes of the emperor…
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About the Author
A dedicated history and film buff, Georgie Lee loves combining her passion for Hollywood, history and storytelling through romantic fiction. She began writing professionally at a small TV station in San Diego before moving to Hollywood to work in the interesting but strange world of the entertainment industry. In addition to historical fiction, Georgie writes contemporary romance novels and novellas. Please visit www.georgie-lee.com for more information about Georgie and her books.
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ISBN: 978-14268-9591-3
Copyright © 2013 by Georgie Reinstein
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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