With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  My brother, I have but one thing to ask of you, and knowing that you will see to my wishes is the only thing that calms my troubled soul during these last few moments before we depart. If anything should happen to me—tonight, tomorrow, or at any time whilst I am here in Boston—I beg of you to find it in your heart to show charity and kindness to my angel, my Juliet, for she means the world to me. I know you will take care of her if ever I cannot. Do this for me and I shall be happy, Lucien.

  I must close now, as the others are gathered downstairs in the parlour, and we are all ready to move. May God bless and keep you, my dear brother, and Gareth, Andrew, and sweet Nerissa, too.

  Charles

  “Captain? Forgive my intrusion, sir, but everyone’s waiting downstairs for you. It’s nearly time to leave.”

  “Yes, I am sensible to it. I shall be down directly, and do thank everyone for their patience with me, Ensign Gillard.” The captain scanned his letter. “Not worried about tonight, now, are you?” he asked conversationally, not looking up as he folded the correspondence.

  “Well, not exactly worried, sir, but . . . well, do you have a bad feeling about this mission?”

  Lord Charles raised his head and regarded him quietly for a moment. “And here I thought it was me,” he admitted, his expression both amused and reassuring.

  “Everything will be all right, won’t it, sir?”

  “Of course, Gillard.” The smile broadened. “Isn’t it always?”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.” Gillard grinned back. “I’ll leave you now, sir.”

  “Thank you. I shall be down in a moment.”

  Gillard closed the door, and dipping his quill in the ink once more, the officer wrote his brother’s address across the front of the letter:

  To His Grace the Duke of Blackheath, Blackheath Castle, nr Ravenscombe, Berkshire, England

  There. It was done.

  Putting down his pen, Lord Charles Adair de Montforte rose to his feet, picked up his hat and sword, and, leaving the letter propped on his desk, strode boldly out of the room, down the stairs, and to his fate.

  A fate so tragic that even Gillard’s premonition could not have foreseen its very horror.

  The waiting was terrible.

  Fourteen-year-old Will Leighton lay stretched out flat on his stomach behind a granite wall, his musket propped between two boulders and trained on the ominously still road along which the King’s troops would come.

  Easy! he told himself, his heart pounding. You’re a man now! A grownup! But he was so tense he felt sick. So jittery he kept forgetting to breathe. Off to his right, several others, all members of the Woburn militia under Major Loammi Baldwin, also lay hidden. None of them looked as nervous as he felt. Eyes flinty beneath their tricorns, they stared toward the road.

  Waiting.

  Will tried to imitate their gritty expressions, but all he could hear was the fierce pounding of his heart. His elbows dug into the spongy, rain-soaked earth. Dampness seeped up through his clothes, chilling his skin, making him shiver. In the maple above, a chickadee flitted from branch to branch, trilling its innocent song: chickadee-dee-dee; chickadee-dee-dee.

  And from fifteen feet away, Baldwin spoke the words they’d all been waiting for:

  “Here they come. Get ready, boys, to let ’em have it.”

  And now Will felt a sensation like needles prickling all up and down his spine as he heard it too: Dogs, barking an alarm from somewhere down the road. Distant shouts, sporadic musketfire, the steady rattle and stamp of hundreds of approaching men. Will’s hand went sweaty and began to shake. Any moment now, the king’s troops, on their way back to Boston after what everyone said was terrible fighting at Concord, would come around the bend and into view.

  He swallowed, the taste of fear metallic on his tongue. Nearby, his cousin Tom narrowed his eyes, spat, and brought his musket to full-cock.

  “Oh, we’ll let ’em have it, all right. Come on, you bastards . . . We’ve been waiting for this moment for years.”

  And come they did. Will’s eyes widened and his heart quailed as the troops, nearly a thousand men strong, streamed around the bend like a river of blood. They were an awesome and terrible sight. Mounted officers in scarlet coats rode alongside them waving swords and barking orders. Sunlight flashed from bayonets, gorgets and pewter buttons. But closer scrutiny revealed the signs of battle. Many, limping painfully, had all they could do to walk; others were borne on litters and in carts, and still others were so bloody that their breeches, snow white only hours earlier, were as red as their wool coats. There was exhaustion in their eyes. Desperation in their faces.

  But Will, who’d heard all about what had happened at both Lexington and Concord earlier this day, felt no pity.

  And neither did Baldwin as he roared, “Fire!”

  From both sides of the road, a barrage of musket shot slammed into the unsuspecting troops, catching them in a deadly crossfire. Horses, screaming, bolted in terror. Soldiers fell dead as colonial muskets banged out, instantly cutting them down. Redcoat officers, shouting commands, sent their horses charging to and fro, trying to restore order and organize the troops into fighting formation, and soon answering volleys of shot were plowing into the surrounding trees and enveloping the rocky pasture in thick, acrid smoke.

  Discharging his musket and retreating behind a massive oak, Will reloaded, his hands shaking so badly that he spilled half his black powder down his leg. He rammed the ball and wadding home, his nerves shot as all around him yelling minutemen ran past, diving behind rocks and trees to aim and fire and reload once more. He brought his musket up again, just in time to see a wild-eyed young ensign break rank and sprint toward them from out of the drifting smoke, leaping a stone wall and yelling at the top of his lungs, “Come out and fight fairly you cowards, you damned rebel wretches! Show yourselves and do battle like brave men, not skulking Indians!”

  “Gillard, get back!” shouted a redcoat captain, splendid in scarlet and white, the blue facings of his uniform proclaiming him to be one of the King’s Own—and sent his horse charging down on the runaway ensign at a full gallop.

  Tom narrowed his eyes and raised his musket. “He’s mine, the son of a bitch.”

  And fired.

  Will would remember it for the rest of his life: The deafening roar of Tom’s musket. Half the young ensign’s face going up in a fountain of blood. His body seeming to trip and somersault, rolling over and over in the just-greening grass before it slammed up against the granite wall that Will had just vacated.

  “Got ’im!” crowed Tom, thrusting his musket skyward a second before a ball sliced through his neck, instantly killing him.

  Will had no time to react, for at that very moment the captain’s horse exploded out of the smoke, sailing over the stone wall like an apparition. Five feet from where the ensign lay screaming in agony, the captain pulled the animal up and leaped from the saddle. Ignoring the lead whining about him, he ran to the young soldier, lifted him in his arms and carried him back toward the fretting, wild-eyed horse.

  Will stood transfixed. Never had he seen such steely courage, such selfless devotion to a subordinate. The captain’s hawkish face was hard, his eyes the December-ice clarity of aquamarine, and as he turned his back on Will and gently hoisted the soldier up into the saddle, Will knew he was going to have to kill him.

  He leaped out of hiding.

  Fired.

  And oh my God missed.

  The captain turned his cool, level stare on Will, one pale, arched brow lifting with the sort of surprised annoyance that any well-seasoned warrior might show a colonial bumpkin trying to irritate the finest army in the world. Will’s stomach flipped over. Nausea strangled his throat. Too terrified even to reload, he froze as the captain picked up his ensign’s musket and trained it dead-center on Will’s chest. The blue eyes, so competent, so self-assured, so very, very dangerous, narrowed a second before the redcoat would have blown him into eternity.

  �
�Don’t shoot!” Will squeaked, and his voice cracked, revealing his age—or rather lack of it.

  The captain realized Will’s youth at the same moment the weapon discharged and jerked the musket skyward, trying to deflect his fire. Flames roared from that long and terrible muzzle, shooting straight over Will’s head. The gun’s fierce kick, combined with the unnatural angle at which it had been fired, threw the officer off balance. As he stepped backward to regain it, his heel sank into a hollow in the soft April earth and he fell straight into the wall of granite, the musket flying from his hand and the back of his skull striking one sharp, lichen-caked boulder with an awful, thudding crack. For a moment, he seemed to gaze up at Will in astonishment as he lay there spread-eagled against the rocks; then the pale blue eyes lost focus and clouded over, their thick lashes coming down like a curtain on the last act as his head slid sideways, leaving a smear of blood on the boulder behind him.

  For a moment, Will stared at the dead man in horror.

  Then he turned and fled.

  Letter from General Thomas Gage, Commander-In-Chief of His Majesty’s forces, to Lucien de Montforte, His Grace the Duke of Blackheath . . .

  My dear Duke,

  I regret to inform you that whilst on a mission to Concord to seize arms that the rebels had secreted there, your brother, Captain Lord Charles de Montforte, was engaged in fighting and fatally injured. From all accounts, His Lordship fought bravely and selflessly, bringing glory to his family’s name and tears throughout his regiment upon confirmation of his death.

  Enclosed herein is the regimental gorget taken from Lord Charles’s body immediately prior to burial in Concord, along with a letter that his servant, Billingshurst, found propped on his desk the day of his death. His dress regimentals will follow. I hope that these will bring you some comfort in this darkest of hours. Your brother was greatly respected and admired by both superiors and subordinates; he was ambitious and supremely confident in his own abilities, but like the best-loved commanders, never crossed that fine line into arrogance. He was an asset to this army, to his country, and a beloved friend to all who knew and served under and with him.

  Respectfully yours,

  Genl. Thomas Gage

  Buy The Beloved One

  About the Author

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Danelle Harmon has written twenty critically acclaimed and award-winning books, with many being published all over the world and translated into numerous languages. She and her family make their home in New England with numerous animals including several dogs, an Egyptian Arabian horse, and a flock of pet chickens. Danelle enjoys reading, photography, spending time with family, friends and her pets, and sailing her 19th century reproduction Melonseed skiff, Kestrel II. She welcomes email from her readers and can be reached at Danelle@danelleharmon.com or through any of the means listed below:

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  The Duke’s Fallen Angel

  Amy Jarecki

  Chapter One

  London, 5th April, 1833

  If a man was capable of spontaneous combustion, Drake Chadwick, Duke of Ravenscar, teetered on the verge of bursting into flames. Bad news came often enough but this topped the charts as the most calamitous complication of the Season.

  No, not the Season; of his lifetime.

  In fact, he didn’t believe a word.

  Drake leaned forward, grinding his knuckles into his writing table. “Repeat yourself, sir. If there is the remotest truth to the blather you spewed, not only is Chadwick Theater ruined, my reputation will be smeared for the duration of eternity.” His stomach roiled to the point of losing his breakfast. Either that or he was about to commit murder.

  Mr. Howard Perkins, theater manager, raised his palms, stepping back as if he sensed his life was about to be smote. “Your Grace, I am simply the bearer of regrettable news.”

  “Regrettable?” Drake growled. “Profoundly catastrophic is more apt.”

  Perkins lowered his arms. “I concede our situation is gravely dire, but we must face the fact that Mademoiselle Taglioni was not on the ship. Furthermore, I’m told she has signed a continuation of her contract with the Paris Opera and refuses to come to London.”

  “Good God, are the French angling to start another war?” Despite that the disaster was egregiously infuriating, he’d been deceived on an international scale. How the devil was he to explain this to his patrons, to all those ticket holders anxious to see the opening of a grand spectacle? “Who else knows about this?”

  “No one. I met Monsieur Travere and the troupe at the wharf, marshaled them into carriages and took them directly to the theater.”

  “And you left them there?”

  “To come here, Your Grace.”

  Drake picked up the program he’d saved from the performance of La Sylphide in Paris. The cover featured a rendering of the famous ballerina for whom he’d paid a premium. A payment for which he would be seeking recompense.

  “We have collected ticket revenues. The premiere is sold out. I spent countless hours entertaining benefactors with the promise of Marie Taglioni’s London debut.” He faced his man while solutions rifled through his mind. “Tell me, who have they sent in her place? Fanny Essler? Emilie Bigottini?”

  Drake gave the globe a spin though, of course, when it drifted to a halt, bloody, bedamned Paris was facing him. The debut of his new theater had been years in the making—represented the culmination of his dreams. Drake’s greatest passions? Theater. Opera. Ballet. Shakespeare. But dukes did not appear in operas, ballets, or plays. Dukes became benefactors and theater magnates.

  In Paris he’d found the perfect ballet for the grand opening of Chadwick Theater. Marie Taglioni had stunned the world with her performance of La Sylphide and Drake had salivated at the chance to be the first to introduce such talent to England. Nothing like the diva’s ethereal dancing had ever been seen in Britain. He’d promised all of London a phenomenal performance, an extravaganza, a display of epic brilliance.

  “Ah…” Perkins looked to his shoes. A very bad sign. “Monsieur Travere extolled the competence of Taglioni’s understudy.”

  “Understudy?” Drake boomed so loudly, his voice cracked. Without wasting one more tick of the clock, he marched for the door. “Do not tell me I have paid an outrageous sum to present the most acclaimed ballet of this century, and the Parisians had the gall to send an understudy!”

  “That was exactly my response.” Perkins scurried behind as Drake bounded down the stairs of his town home.

  Pennyworth, Ravenscar’s butler, met them in the entry with gloves, hat and cane at the ready. Drake took them, giving a nod of thanks while a footman opened the door. “And how did Travere suggest his troupe repay the hundreds of Londoners who purchased advance tickets?”

  “He didn’t.”

  Before descending to Half Moon Street, Drake shoved his hat atop his head and tugged on his gloves. “That’s the first offense I must remedy.”

  By the time they’d marched the two-thirds of a mile to his new theater on Haymarket, Perkins was wheezing with beads of sweat streaming from his brow. Drake patted the man’s back. “Stand straight, old friend. We need to don our battle armor for this confrontation.”

  Taking a deep breath, Drake glanced to the brass placard above the door bearing his family name gleaming in the afternoon sun. At the time, Chadwick Theater had a delightful ring, if not a tad vainglorious. He’d dreamed of elite members of the ton referring to Chadwicks over a cup of tea:

  “Will I see you at Almacks tonight?” asks one.

  “I could not possibly entertain attending a ball,” responds another. “No one can miss the debut of some-or-other ballet at Chadwicks…you haven’t tickets? Oh my, that is a quandary. Opening night has been sold out for over a month.”

  With a gr
umble, he pushed inside. There would be no Chadwicks if he didn’t sort out this dilemma posthaste. He’d be ruined. Even more abominable, his mother would be devastated, possibly forced to endure the rest of her days in far less comfort than she was entitled. He bristled, imagining the shock and disappointment on his mother’s face when he broke the news. After the death of his father, the duchess’ care and wellbeing had been Drake’s first priority. Disappointing her with a black mark against the Ravenscar legacy would send her to an early grave.

  Inside, the place was embroiled in chaos with hammers pounding above the relentless clatter of the pianoforte. The curtains were drawn on the stage where bedraggled dancers, still clad in traveling attire, queued in rows as they practiced pliés rather than rehearsing La Sylphide.

  Drake planted his fists onto his hips and scanned the mayhem for their leader.

  “There he is,” said Perkins, pointing and leading the way toward a rather short gentleman who was in dire need of a shave.

  “Travere, is it?” Drake asked in a low voice, eyeing the deceiver.

  Appearing affronted, the man sneered. Unfortunately, Perkins stepped between them before the duke could brain the imbecile with a swing of his cane. “Monsieur Travere, allow me to introduce His Grace, Duke of Ravenscar—”

  Drake grasped Perkins’ shoulder and ushered him aside while he stepped so near the dance master, the man was forced to crane his neck. “Exactly what do you think you are about, coming to my theater with an understudy after I, in good faith, contracted Mademoiselle Taglioni for the Season?”