Feisty Heroines Romance Collection of Shorts

by D. F. Jones

  Scarlet spun around, her heart in her throat.

  “Sit.” An enormous man in ragged clothing stood in front of the barred doors with a bow and arrow aimed straight at her.

  Terror streaked through her.

  Had the guards outside heard Tomas yell? Even if they tried to get inside, it would take a while to bust through the blocked double doors.

  How could she help Tomas? She had no hope of surprising the intruder or using her fighting skills against a man his size.

  Stay calm. Think.

  “What is this about?” She spoke carefully, making certain her voice did not tremble.

  “Mr. Hest is a bloody murderer I located and brought to trial.” Tomas’s face was red from hanging upside down, his voice strained. “The jury found the bastard guilty, but he escaped the magistrate before his hanging.”

  She turned toward the villain and boldly asked, “What do you plan to do with Lord Faulkner?”

  “Shoot him.” He tapped the quiver on his back. “Until I have no more arrows.”

  She clutched the painting in her hands and all of a sudden knew what to do. She smirked. “May I watch? The earl has made my life a living hell. I want to see him get his comeuppance.”

  A nasty snort escaped Hest. “Be my guest.”

  “I have one thing to show him first.”

  She stormed toward Tomas, tore the paper from the painting, and held up the large canvas, blocking Hest’s view of them. “Here it is, my lord. The painting you forced me to do. The endless days I toiled…”

  Terrified when Scarlet entered, Faulkner had watched her, fascinated as she quickly took in the situation and convinced Hest she was on his side. His heart burst with love for this woman, his soul instantly repaired by the simple fact she’d come back to him. At least if he died, he knew she truly loved and trusted him.

  Scarlet went on berating him, while her eyes stared into his with steadfast love. Her ruse allowed him to grab the knife from her cape and the one from her skirt without detection. He held the handles in his hands and flicked the blades inside the sleeves of his coat, which hung over his fingertips.

  Distracted by his thoughts of Scarlet, Faulkner had entered the chapel with his head down when suddenly everything went black. Then he woke, hanging like a side of beef.

  Faulkner’s guards kept diligent watch on everyone entering and exiting the inner castle grounds, but the chapel was situated on the outer grounds, and Hest had obviously found a way to sneak in.

  He was unsure why the miscreant hadn’t killed him yet. It seemed the man liked to play with his victims.

  “Full measures,” she murmured before she threw the painting on the floor. The stretched canvas broke. She stomped away and sat in the first pew. “Mr. Hest, wouldn’t it be better to remove his lordship’s coat? Surely your arrows will sink into his flesh deeper without its protection.”

  Hest snickered. “You really do hate the cur.”

  Faulkner ignored the excruciating pain and pressure in his head. He’d been trained and experienced on what to do in dangerous, torturous situations—yet never had so much been riding on his success.

  He tightly gripped the handles of the knives and concentrated his attention on the man’s chest as he prowled ever closer.

  When Hest was a foot away from him, Scarlet called, “Mr. Hest?”

  The man turned his head.

  Faulkner swiftly thrust upward with his hands and plunged both blades straight into Hest’s heart—forcing them deep.

  Hest’s eyes didn’t even widen, nor did his body stiffen. Instead, he immediately collapsed to the ground.

  Too quick a death for the murderous blackguard.

  Faulkner closed his eyes, thankful his aim had been so true. Lightheadedness plagued him.

  The wooden arm squealed as Scarlet unbolted the lock. The doors squeaked open. “Bricker. Hurry,” she yelled.

  “Tomas, my love.” Scarlet’s footfalls scuttled toward him. Her small hands pushed on his back as she tried to lift his upper torso. Her effort afforded him a smidgen of relief.

  At the thudding of boots, he opened his eyes.

  “Help him. He’s been upside down too long,” Scarlet pleaded.

  Three guards lifted Faulkner’s upper body as Bricker cut the rope around his feet. His guards carried him to the first pew and set his legs on the ground before assisting him to sit.

  Scarlet knelt in front of him. “I love you, I never stopped. I went to Worthing to retrieve my things. I am never leaving you again.”

  He reached out and cupped her face in his hands. “Darling. All that matters is you are back.”

  She rose and put her arms around him. He felt her shaking and understood this would haunt her. But any time she woke scared or upset, he’d be there to console her. He coaxed her to sit across his lap, and they held each other.

  After Bricker and his guards removed Hest’s body and Scarlet no longer trembled, Faulkner pointed to the ruined painting. “Is that supposed to be me?”

  “Terrible, isn’t it?” She laughed. “Portraits are beyond my talent. I’ve labored over it for ten years, and I think it gets worse each time I try to fix it.”

  He chuckled.

  “I brought it with me in hopes of using you as a model. I wanted it to be a present for you, representing how much I thought about you the last ten years.”

  “I have a gift for you too.” Faulkner stood. His body and the knot on the back of his head were sore, but he felt much better. He held her hand and led her to the parson’s quarters, picking up a candle on his way. He let go of her hand, took a key from his coat, and handed it to her.

  She quizzically glanced at him and unlocked the door.

  Scarlet strode into the dark room. Tomas brought the candle to a table next to the bed they shared those magical nights so long ago and lit a candelabra with ten candles. When the chamber flooded with light, she spun in a slow circle, spellbound. Hanging on the walls were many of her paintings of Murdock Castle and Seaford. She struggled to breathe.

  “I located you after I returned from the war. I commissioned a solicitor to hire different people to buy your paintings often.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “If I could not have you, at least I had something you’d touched.”

  Tears she’d been holding back burned in her eyes.

  “I also wanted to be certain you had money.”

  She gestured to one of the paintings, her voice soft. “That is the one I sold the day you found me.”

  “Yes, the man who bought it delivered it to me moments before I discovered you fighting those vagrants like a hellcat.”

  “Oh, Tomas, every time I sold a painting, I lost a piece of my heart.” She sniffed. “You’ve given me back my heart. You are my heart.”

  He wrapped his arms about her as he pressed his forehead to hers.

  “Every time I sought solace, which has been a lot lately, I came here. Being surrounded by your creations in this spot, our spot, always gave me hope and healing.” The crack in his voice told of his struggle to keep his composure.

  They’d both been through so much. She needed this moment to be happy and joyful, less serious. “Healing? Perhaps now that I am here, you can think of other ways I can heal you, my lord?”

  A playful grin passed across his lips. “Oh, I can think of so very many ways.” He kissed her and backed her toward the bed.

  High-pitched female voices and the shuffling of feet in the chapel interrupted them.

  Tomas broke the kiss, whispered a curse, then looked into her eyes with the passion she remembered so well. “We are coming back here tonight.”

  “The sooner, the better. For your healing, of course.”

  He laughed. “You will be healed, too, my love. Repeatedly.”

  A flush of heat raced through her.

  He kept Scarlet in his arms as he turned them just in time to see his sisters and Helen scurry into the parson’s quarters.

  “Oh,
thank God you are alive.” Rachel raised her hands to her heart. “I saw you both come in here, and then the guards brought out a body.”

  “Her scream woke us,” Francesca added. “So we came to investigate. I am relieved you are both unharmed.”

  Helen ran to them. “Miss Scarlet, you comed back.”

  She crouched to give Helen a hug. “I will always come back.”

  “Rachel, perhaps you should sleep at night instead of spying out your window,” Tomas suggested.

  She bobbed her head. “I have learned my lesson.”

  “Good. I am glad you are here, though,” he said. “In the morning, we are all off to London to obtain a special license so Scarlet and I may quickly wed.”

  “How wonderfully romantic.” Francesca sighed.

  “After the wedding,” he continued, “we set out for Paris.”

  Scarlet snapped her head his way.

  The girls joyfully squealed.

  “After seeing my portrait…” He grinned. “I understand how much you need Madame LeBrun’s instruction.”

  Scarlet laughed and playfully lifted her arm to punch him.

  He grasped her hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed the back. “You didn’t believe I would let you give up your dream, did you?”

  Heart full to exploding, she threw her arms around him. “You, Tomas, are better than any dream.”

  About Tess St. John

  Tess isn’t your “normal” writer. She didn’t aspire from a young age to become an author and never dreamed of holding a book she’d written in her hands. She didn’t really even enjoy reading as a child. Her last day of high school, her English teacher said, “You all have a book inside you, go find your book.” Tess thought the woman was crazy. Yet for years she couldn’t get a mysterious murder scene, like a movie reel, out of her mind. In her twenties, she began reading mysteries. In her late thirties, she read her first romance and voraciously read every romance she could get her hands on after that. Finally, years later, she sat down to write the nagging scene in hopes it would go away. Instead, the floodgates on her imagination opened. Her original mystery remained, but she struggled with the manuscript until she added a love story and a happily ever after.

  She lives near Houston with her true-life hero husband, has two grown children she adores, and is blessed beyond belief.

  Connect with Tess by email tess@tessstjohn.com

  Also By Tess St. John

  Buy Tess’s Books

  If you enjoyed Rescuing Lord Faulkner, please check out these full-length books in the Regency Redemption Series.

  Claiming Lady Brinton ~ Book 1

  Saving Lord Cheswick ~ Book 2

  Protecting Lady Annise ~ Book 3

  * * *

  Also, look for these other series by Tess St. John

  Chances Are Series (Historical Romance Books 1~5)

  Undercover Intrigue Series (Romantic Suspense Books 1~5)

  Danby Series (Contemporary Short Stories)

  To Rescue My Princess by Lane McFarland

  Chapter 1

  St. Duthas Chapel

  Tain, Scotland

  September 1306

  “Run!” Morgana clasped Marjorie’s small hand and dashed up the grassy knoll with the four other women. Out of breath, they hurried through the cemetery’s iron gate and hid behind cracked and crumbling headstones discolored by green lichen and mold.

  The cacophony of clashing steel, the echoing throb of military drums, and the stamping feet of advancing soldiers reverberated through Morgana’s ears. Her heart beat so fast, it near exploded.

  The English made no attempt to hide their approach. In broad daylight, they marched forward with purpose to capture and arrest Robert the Bruce’s relatives and supporters who had fled the slaughter at Kildrummy Castle last eve.

  Images of soldiers dragging a battered Nigel Bruce into the bailey flashed through her mind. His brother, King Robert, had escaped the country with a small contingent after the Scots’ crushing defeat at the Battle of Methven, leaving his family vulnerable and exposed.

  She shuddered.

  Blessed Nigel had distracted the troops long enough for his family, along with Isabella, Countess of Buchan, and Morgana, to escape.

  She prayed he still lived.

  “Where shall we go?” Queen Elizabeth cried. “What will we do?”

  “We have to get to the Orkneys. To safety,” Morgana stated. As one of the queen’s ladies, she would do everything she could to protect the queen.

  “There they are!” A shout rang out at the base of the hill.

  Isabella stared down at the men, a look of horror etched on her face. “Dear heavens. They’re upon us!”

  A group of soldiers stormed toward the women.

  Morgana held Marjorie’s slender shoulders and steered the eleven-year-old to the queen. “Retreat up the hill and inside the chapel. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

  The queen’s brow furrowed as Marjorie ran into her arms. “Morgana, donnae risk yerself.”

  “The chapel is a place of sanctuary, and I’m praying ye will be safe there, my queen.” Morgana looked to the others as she tugged her bow from her back and nocked an arrow. “All of ye, go now. Hurry!”

  The women hastened away.

  Morgana’s pulse pounded in her head. She peered from behind the stone grave marker and concentrated on holding her aim steady on the gate’s narrow opening.

  I can do this. Just like hunting, except the prey will be racing toward me. I have but a moment to wait before I pick them off.

  A soldier leading the charge appeared, his stare focused on the chapel.

  Her stomach tightened. With a deep breath, she loosed her arrow. It struck him in the neck. The man grabbed the shaft and toppled to the ground.

  She nocked another barb as the next soldier ran forward. One after another, she dispatched three more advancing troops as they slipped inside the gate. The soldiers fell back for cover, firing their own arrows her way. More and more troops stormed the hill.

  She was outnumbered.

  Chapter 2

  Morgana hoisted her skirt and sprinted up the hill. Arrows whistled by her head. Others stuck in the ground near her racing feet. An arrow sliced her sleeve and grazed her skin. A burn coursed down her arm.

  Lord, help me!

  With one last burst of energy, she darted into the chapel. “Bar the door.”

  Two monks thrust a wooden beam through iron brackets, blocking the entrance.

  Morgana hooked her bow over her shoulder and stepped back from the door. The chapel’s fortifications were never intended to repel advancing soldiers. It was only a matter of time before the defenses no longer provided protection.

  Whimpers sounded behind her and she turned to Isabella, huddled with the Bruce’s sisters, Christina and Mary. Marjorie, the king’s daughter, clung to the queen. Their widened eyes and dirt-streaked, ashen faces appeared stark in the dim light.

  “Is there no way out through the back of the building?” Morgana asked the monks.

  One shook his balding head. “No. ’Tis only this entryway.”

  Wham!

  Morgana jumped.

  The women shrieked.

  The door held, but for how long?

  Wham!

  Splinters broke away with each strike.

  Dear God!

  Morgana’s stomach twisted. Legs braced apart and arms shaking, she nocked another arrow and pointed it at the door. She’d die defending her queen and her friends.

  With another strike, the wooden slats creaked apart, giving way to the onslaught. Chainmail-clad soldiers stormed into the chapel.

  One of the monks ran forward, a large cross dangling from a chain around his neck, aged hands up as if to prevent the invasion. “This is a holy place of sanctuary,” he cried. “Ye cannae come in here bearing arms.”

  “In the name of the king, get out of the way, old man.” A burly fiend knocked the monk aside and led the troops
farther into the sanctuary.

  Hands on hips, he glared at Morgana, her arrow aimed at his chest.

  “Ye heard the good brother,” she snarled. “There’s no need for drawn swords in a house of worship. This place is holy—a shrine—under the protection of the church.”

  “Permit me to introduce myself.” A sneer distorted his pompous expression as he stepped forward.

  She raised her bow higher, her eye trained on the man. “Come no closer.”

  He stopped and held up his hands. “You had best lower your weapon. You are surrounded.”

  A squeal rent the air behind her.

  She spared a glance over her shoulder.

  A soldier held a struggling Marjorie against his chest.

  “Please, donnae hurt her,” Queen Elizabeth wailed. “She’s naught but a child.”

  Bile churned in Morgana’s stomach.

  “I’ll not tell you again. Lower yer weapon, mistress, or it will not bode well for the girl.”

  Hopelessness spread through her like wildfire. Her legs trembled and she dropped her arm. A soldier rushed her, snatched the quiver of arrows from her back and the bow out of her hands.

  The searing burn from the arrow that had grazed her skin earlier stung. Blood wet her hand as she rubbed the injury.

  “I am the Earl of Ross, devoted to Comyn, the rightful King of Scotland. That is until he was murdered by Robert the Bruce.” He marched over to her and squeezed her cheeks, lifting her to her toes.

  She winced, her fingers trying to dislodge his agonizing grip.

  “Where is the Bruce?” His hold tightened.

  Pain shot through her face. “I donnae know.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “Threaten all ye want. It willnae change my answer. I donnae know where the Bruce is.”

  Ross growled and shoved her to one of his men. She stumbled back against a guard. The man grasped her upper arms with steely pressure.