With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  But she had not demanded that he take them all far away from here, had not become hysterical, shrewish, or weepy with worry. She was, of course, nervous; he’d seen it in her eyes. But she, like Lucien, was placing her faith in him, and Gareth knew he would have to stand very tall indeed to measure up to what each of them hoped for, and expected, from him. Once he wouldn’t have given a damn. Now he’d die before he’d let either one of them—or himself—down.

  Outside, the blackbirds were calling, the first song to greet the dawn, and he could hear the distant quacking of ducks down on the river. He checked the clock on the mantle. It had just gone five. ’Sdeath. Early, yes, but at least he had several hours before having to report for training which left plenty of time to hunt down Nails and Bull O’Rourke.

  He finished dressing and stopped beside the bed on his way out, where he bent down, cleared a strand of hair from Juliet’s face, and kissed her gently on a cheek as soft and white as a magnolia petal. Charlie-girl was in her cradle, her little body rising and falling beneath her blanket; Gareth paused there as well, smiling tenderly down at the sleeping baby before bending down to kiss her brow. Then, very carefully so as not to wake either, he crept from the room.

  Ten minutes later, he was munching on a piece of buttered bread and striding up the leaf-shaded path between the Mill Stream and the Abbey Meadow, heading toward town. The sun was shining, sparkling on the water and glowing green through the ivy that choked the trees that surrounded him, and if he didn’t know anything else, he bloody well knew one thing:

  It was going to be a beautiful day.

  Dickie Noring hailed him just as he was passing beneath the Gateway of St. Nicholas Church.

  “Lord Gareth! Lord Gareth! ’Ave ye ’eard the news? ’Tis a terrible thing, it is—’specially as ’e ’as family an’ all!”

  Gareth, suddenly alert, paused just beneath the Gateway’s vaulted stone ceiling, his gaze moving from the County Hall across the street to the lad who, all out of breath, came running up before him. “What are you talking about, Dickie?”

  “Nails died last night! ’E never woke up after ’e went down! Some are sayin’ it was the strength of your hits that killed ’im, but the doctor thinks Nails ’it ’is ’ead when ’e fell. They’re burying ’im tomorrow!”

  For a moment, Gareth, blinking, could only stare at Dickie as his brain tried to absorb what he’d just been told.

  “What?!”

  “Aye, ’e died last night!”

  Denial rose like a brick wall before him. Nails dead? ’Sdeath, he hadn’t even hit him that hard!

  “You all right, m’lord? Ye’re looking a bit pale—”

  “I am sorry, it’s just that this comes as rather a shock.” He shook his head, trying to clear it. “Dear God.” He pushed his fingers against his brow and leaned back against the church’s cold, unforgiving stone, his thoughts racing and a prickling sense of unease icing its way up his spine. “Do you know where Nails lived, Dickie? I—I must go and pay my respects to his widow.”

  Moments later he was standing outside a little terraced house on East St. Helen’s Street, his tricorn in his hands and his face grim. He saw the neat white curtains at the windows, the black crepe that someone had already hung above the doorway. Guilt twisted his gut. Confusion filled his head. And the same thought kept going through his mind, over and over again like a litany: But I didn’t hit him that hard I didn’t hit him that hard I didn’t hit him that hard.

  What a lame excuse to offer Nails’s grieving widow. He felt sick.

  Taking a deep, shaky breath, he raised his hand toward the knocker. Despite the hour, he knew Nails’s wife would be up; country folk rose early, and besides, he doubted anyone who had just lost a spouse would sleep much in that first night following such a loss. Still, he hesitated, wondering if he ought to just quietly turn away and leave this family to grieve. He was, after all, the last person they probably wanted to see just now.

  Coward.

  He tried the knocker and waited.

  There was movement behind the door. He cleared his throat, wondering what to say to these people. The latch swung upward, and the door opened to reveal a gaunt woman with wet, red-rimmed eyes. A handkerchief was wadded in her hand, and two toddlers huddled against her skirts. She gasped at the sight of Gareth, her eyes filling up all over again as she shoved the handkerchief against her nose.

  Gareth’s heart went out to her. “I am so sorry to hear about your husband,” he said quietly. He clutched his hat, feeling awkward and terrible and sick at heart. “I just wanted to stop and pay my respects. I shall leave you in peace.”

  He turned and began to walk away, but her voice stopped him.

  “M’lord, please!”

  He took a deep breath and turned back around, not knowing what to say, what to do.

  She stood there in the doorway, looking small, lost, and forlorn. “Don’t go,” she whispered, her bottom lip quivering. “Oi know ye think ye killed me ’usband but ye di’int.”

  “Thank you for that reassurance, Mrs. Fleming, but I hold myself responsible for what happened. Had I been Nails’s second, I would have called off the fight. As his opponent, I only did what I could.”

  “M’lord, ye don’t understand. Oi’ve watched ev’ry foight Nails ever did.” Her eyes grew desperate behind her tears. “Oi was there last noight, and Oi saw what state me ’usband was in. Ye di’int ’it ’im that ’ard. And when ’e fell, ’e landed on ’is knees—’is ’ead never ’it the floor, no matter wot the doctor thinks.”

  Gareth stared at her and frowned.

  “Don’t ye see?” She gazed tearfully up at him, her eyes willing him to understand. “Me ’usband di’int die at yer ’and. ’E died because ’e someone gave ’im laudanum just before the foight!”

  At about the same time Mrs. Fleming was telling Gareth about the severely allergic reaction Nails had had to laudanum, Lucien’s informer was standing at the window, reading the missive that had just arrived from the duke.

  My brother is at Swanthorpe Manor in Abingdon, Berkshire. I am not easy with the situation in which he has involved himself. Go there immediately and report back to me daily, and if there is trouble I wish to know about it at once. This time, do not lose him.

  Blackheath

  The last four words were double-underscored. This was serious, then. Very serious.

  Chilcot folded the note, put it into his pocket, and called for his horse. He would go immediately to Abingdon, keeping a low profile until the rest of the Den members could join him there.

  By the tone of Blackheath’s note, there was no time to lose.

  Snelling gave all of his fighters the day off out of respect to Nails. Most of them went to get drunk, but not Gareth.

  He found Bull O’Rourke sitting in the Old Bell Inn, bent morosely over a pint of ale. Bull had, by all accounts, been drinking more or less steadily ever since his humiliating loss to the younger, less seasoned Gareth and was not much help when Gareth questioned him about events preceding their match. All he could tell him was that he remembered feeling “bloody strange” just after the first blows were exchanged, but he’d attributed it to the strength of Gareth’s hits. Gareth pursed his lips and made a mental note of what he’d learned.

  On Monday, after his morning’s training, he paid a visit to the local chemist. His questions turned up nothing, but then he didn’t think the perpetrator would be so stupid as to buy the drug in Abingdon. On Tuesday afternoon he borrowed a horse from Becky’s brother Tom and went to Wallingford to see the chemist in that town. Nothing. On Wednesday he tried the one in Wantage. Nothing.

  He was beginning to think he was pursuing a dead end when he finally found what he was looking for. It was late on Thursday afternoon when he walked into the small shop in Oxford and asked the apothecary the same questions he’d put to the others. Yes, a man with a narrow face and close-set eyes had recently bought a large amount of laudanum. No, he didn’t know who the customer wa
s.

  But Gareth did.

  And as he rode home that night, he recalled Lucien’s words:

  Just promise me one thing That if you get in over your head, you’ll contact me.

  His brother was right. Sometimes it did take more courage to put aside your pride and ask for help than try to do everything yourself.

  Arriving home, he immediately wrote to Lucien.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Friday afternoon.

  Six hours to go before the fight with Scotland’s dreaded Butcher.

  And no Lucien.

  Gareth had spent the morning pacing the floor like a caged lion, jumping at every sound of voices outside, wondering if he was overreacting. After all, he had no hard proof, only suspicions, and it would be damned embarrassing if Lucien came charging in, only to find that Gareth had built a mountain out of a molehill.

  He stalked to the window and glanced nervously outside. Juliet was there in the vegetable garden, squatting down and planting seeds in the narrow furrow she had dug. He let out his breath with relief. He must’ve checked her ten times in the last five minutes at least. Must’ve checked Charlotte, who was crawling around on the floor playing with the rattle he had made for her out of a hollowed out piece of wood filled with coins, ten times more than that.

  He resumed his pacing, and Charlotte looked up at him with her big blue eyes, watching him go back and forth, back and forth like an inmate at Bedlam.

  Gareth paused. What are you worrying so about? those eyes, so like Charles’s, seemed to say, and he suddenly relaxed, feeling like the biggest fool in the world. Two apparently drugged fighters and the word of a chemist and he was off like a ball from a cannon. Shaking his head at his own skittishness, he let out a sigh and dropped down beside his little girl. Immediately, she scrambled over to him as fast as her hands and knees could take her and climbed happily up into his lap. He picked her up. Her very presence was a balm to his nerves, a reassurance that purity and innocence still shone in a world that had, of late, seemed dominated by wickedness and evil.

  But it soon became obvious that Charlotte wanted more than just a cuddle. Eventually, she began to get restless, and Gareth had learned enough about her to recognize immediately what she wanted.

  “Hungry, Charlie-girl?”

  Raising himself to his knees, he picked up the bowl he’d excitedly prepared a few minutes ago and sat down, anticipation lighting up his face. Charlotte was beginning to eat solid food now, which delighted him beyond words because that meant he could have a hand in feeding her. Still, Juliet had looked dubious when she’d left him with the baby an hour before. Mash up her food carefully, she had instructed him, explaining the procedure with as much care as if she’d been advising an overeager two-year-old, going on and on while he’d stood there and nodded and nodded and nodded. Make sure there are no lumps in it, and don’t make her eat it all if she doesn’t want it.

  He realized his first mistake as he dug the spoon into the bowl and eagerly began to feed the baby. “Hmmm … perhaps I should have mashed up the peas or even the carrots, instead of these red beets left over from supper last night,” he mused, aloud. Indeed, it soon became difficult to know who was faring worse in this new venture—his daughter, now smeared from head to toe in red beet pulp, or her papa, who had it all over his fingers and in his lap. Charlotte looked up at him and smiled through the mess. Gareth guffawed. Ah, hell. They were both laughing and having fun.

  They were half-way through the bowl when a loud hammering at the door nearly caused Gareth to jump out of his skin. Lucien. Scooping up the baby and holding her easily in one arm, he went to open it—and found Perry and the rest of the Den of Debauchery standing just outside.

  “Bloody hell!” Perry’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “What on earth have you done to her?!”

  Gareth looked at Charlotte and fully comprehended just what a mess the two of them had made. Huge red blotches stained the delicate skin of the baby’s face. Her hands were bright red, her dress was ruined, and bits of crimson pulp clung to her chin. Oh, hell, he thought wildly, Juliet’s going to kill me!

  He grabbed up a napkin from the table and began scrubbing at Charlotte’s face, to no avail. “Damnation!” he cried, much to Perry’s amusement and the guffaws of the others.

  “Playing papa to the hilt, are you, Gareth?”

  “So much for your days of debauchery!”

  “I say, next thing you know, he’ll be changing napkins—ha, ha, ha!”

  “Sod off,” Gareth said, realizing how much he had not missed their immaturity. He was in no mood for their silly antics, their teasing, nor Chilcot, who had grabbed Charlotte’s rattle and was shaking it in his face with relentless obnoxiousness. He seized Chilcot’s wrist and all but ripped the rattle from his fingers. “What are you all doing here, anyhow?”

  “Why, we’ve come to see you fight tonight.”

  “Yes, there are posters up all over Ravenscombe: ‘Will the Scotsman Butcher the Wild One?’ Oh, they’re playing this up big, Gareth. You’re a celebrity!”

  Gareth swore under his breath. “Listen,” he said, “I’m glad you’re here because I believe something evil is going on, and I may need your help.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Hurriedly, he explained to them what he had learned and what he suspected.

  “Yes, but Gareth, you can’t prove any of this—”

  “No, I can’t. Yet. But I will. A man has died, and I shan’t rest until I expose the snake who murdered him.”

  Eager to explore the town, the Den members did not stay long, but Gareth at least felt reassured that they were there in Abingdon. Chilcot was a fool, the others thought it was all a big adventure, and only Perry seemed to take him seriously. Good old Perry. He knew he could depend on his best friend.

  But damn it, where was Lucien?

  It was now just past four o’clock, and the fight was scheduled for six. Gareth had expected the duke to come charging in like death on the back of a black horse, but there’d been no note from him, no acknowledgement of the one he’d sent, and worse, no Lucien. Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.

  He went to the window and stared out over the river, his hands in his pockets. In the distance, the pastoral hills off toward Culham, opaque with haze, rose blue-green against the sky.

  Come on, Lucien. Where the hell are you?

  A sharp knock sounded on the door downstairs. He heard Juliet—who, thank God, had decided the beetroot stains were not worth killing him over—crossing the floor to answer it. A moment later, he heard Becky’s distressed voice.

  “Gareth!” It was Juliet calling up to him, her voice urgent. “Come quickly!”

  He spun on his heel and took the stairs three at a time. In the foyer stood Becky and her younger brother, Tom. Becky looked pale and shaken, her eyes red from crying.

  “What’s this, now?” he asked, gently putting an arm around the shoulders of each and ushering them into the sitting room. “Sit down and tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Oh, Lord Gareth—Tom’s got somethink awful to tell ye!”

  And as Tom, rubbing the back of his head, began to speak, it soon became apparent why Lucien had not come. Tom had not even made it out of Abingdon when something—or someone—spooked his horse. He remembered falling, then someone charging up on him in the darkness—and nothing more than that. Next thing he’d known, he opened his eyes to find himself lying in a back street of Oxford, bound, gagged and nursing a headache a hundred times worse than any hangover. It had taken him the better part of the day to free himself and find his way home.

  “And what happened to the letter I gave you?” Gareth pressed.

  “Gone, m’lord. Me mare was waitin’ for me back ’ome, but the saddlebags, they was gone.”

  Gareth swore and, running a hand through his hair, met Juliet’s eyes from across the room. She was as white as the starched mobcap that crowned her glossy curls.

  She shook her head
very slowly, from side to side. “Gareth, you cannot fight tonight. Someone now knows what you know, and your life could very well be in danger.”

  “But Juliet, I have to fight.”

  “No. You do not have to fight.”

  “There are people coming from all over England! There are thousands of pounds being bet on this! If I don’t fight, I shall never live this down, never be able to hold my head up again, because everyone will think I’m a coward—why, we’ll have to leave the country, for God’s sake!”

  Her expression had gone stony. She raised her chin, hugged her arms to herself, and stared defiantly at him from across the room. “Gareth, I beg you not to do this fight.”

  “Juliet, I beg you to understand.”

  “There is nothing to understand. Your life is in danger. I do not want you fighting tonight.”

  Gareth threw a quick glance over his shoulder at Becky and Tom, who read the unspoken message there and beat a hasty exit. And then, changing tactics, Gareth crossed the room to his wife. He slid his hands up her arms, trying to loosen them. She had no more give than a locked door.

  “Dearest,” he said, leaning down to kiss her brow, her temple, putting a finger beneath her jaw to raise her face to his. He lowered his mouth to hers and found it stiff and unyielding. Angry. “I promise you that nothing shall happen to me tonight.”

  She tightened her arms, refusing to let him seduce her into agreement. “And I promise you, Gareth, that if you go through with this fight, I’m leaving.”

  He pulled back, stunned. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I thought you were going to stick by me, support me. Damn it, Juliet, you’ve been saying all along that you have faith in me; here’s your chance to prove it!”