With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Looking as if he was about to release his bowels, the lad gave a single nod.

  “As I said before, you’ll not be harmed. In fact, you will be rewarded. I am a duke. I can ensure your life takes a turn for the better.”

  “A d-duke?”

  “Ravenscar. Seventh in line to the throne.” Drake took a chance and released the boy. “Will you keep mum?”

  He nodded.

  Drake reached inside his coat and pulled out a crisp one pound note. “Have you seen one of these before?”

  “Seen, but never held one.”

  “This is yours if you saddle a horse for the lady.”

  “I-is she a duchess?”

  “She’s better than a duchess.”

  “Cor.”

  Drake put the money in the boy’s hand. “Tell the innkeeper to send me an accounting for the horse and saddle.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, yes, Your Grace.”

  “Now haste.”

  Drake strode to the barred box that looked to be a one-man jail cell sitting at the rear of the stables.

  “Britannia?” he said in a strained whisper, peering into complete darkness.

  “Drake?” Gasping, she stood, grasping the iron bars. “I-I, they, he, you—”

  “I know.” He brandished the ax. “Stand back.”

  “It’s Gibbs. He’s taking me to a convict ship. G-g-going to Australia!”

  “The only place you’ll be going is to the north of England. I swear it.” With one swing, he smashed the lock from its fastenings.

  Drake tossed the ax aside and swept Britannia into his arms. “My God, I was terrified I’d lost you.”

  “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “Hell would freeze before I’d let you board a convict ship.”

  “How did you know?”

  He cupped her beautiful cheeks between his palms. Warm, delicate cheeks he never wanted to release. But he must. Closing his eyes, he imparted a ferocious but passionate kiss. “Lord and Lady Calthorpe helped me persuade Beaufort to tell us what had happened.”

  “Beaufort.”

  “Gibbs is his man.”

  “But—”

  “We’ll talk more later.” He clutched his arm around her shoulders and started for the stables. “Are you well enough to ride?”

  “A horse?”

  “Yes.”

  “I haven’t for years, but I’ll do anything to—”

  “Halt!” bellowed a deep voice from the direction of the inn.

  Turning, Drake pulled Britannia behind him. “Gibbs. I might have known you were a light sleeper.”

  Secure in the scoundrel’s hand was a Wogdon and Barton pistol. It had only one shot but was deadly accurate when fired by the right man. And Drake had no illusions about Gibbs. His reputation as a Bow Street Runner alone heralded the man’s skill.

  “And I might have known you were a fool,” said the cur with a smirk.

  “I think not.” Buying time, Drake guided Britannia backward, edging closer to the barn. “You see, I had a word with Beaufort. He gave you away. Sang like a sparrow and accused you of being a kidnapper.” It wasn’t the complete truth but was intended to plant doubt in the blackguard’s heart.

  The former runner smirked. “I’m following orders. That is all.”

  “You’re a liar,” Britannia seethed.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Drake spotted the stable door. “Oh? If anyone knows the law, it is you, sir. And abducting a woman without cause is absolutely a hangable offense.”

  Gibbs raised his pistol. “Only if you’re still alive.”

  As the flintlock fired, Drake dove through the gap, pulling Britannia beneath him, shielding her with his body.

  She grunted as they hit the ground.

  “Are you hurt?” he whispered.

  “No.”

  He looked up to see the boy standing wide-eyed, saddle in hand. Before he drew his pistol, he helped Britannia to her feet. “Take the boy. Hide in the loft.”

  With no time to help them, Drake led with the barrel, suspecting Gibbs’ pistols were a matched pair just like his. “Do you honestly want to pay fealty to a man who would sell you out?”

  “Shut your gob.” The blackguard’s voice was nearer now.

  “What do you aim to do once you’ve killed me?”

  “I’m finishing the job. Charlotte’s by-blow never should have been born. If it had been up to me, I would have drowned the bitch in Bayeux.”

  Britannia’s gasp came from above.

  Swallowing his rage, Drake stepped out. His pistol held secure in his right, he swung the weapon toward the sound of Gibbs’ voice.

  Nothing.

  A twig snapped.

  Drake dropped into a crouch.

  But not far enough.

  As a blast boomed in his ears. Suddenly, his world turned black.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Drake!” In a heartbeat, Bria flew down the ladder and dropped to her knees beside him. He wasn’t moving. Blood seeped everywhere. She grabbed his shoulders and shook. “Wake up! Please!”

  A trickle of blood streamed from his temple while his eyes remained closed.

  “No!”

  Throwing herself over him, she wrapped him in her arms. “Please. You can’t be dead.”

  “Release the bastard,” said Gibbs, moving beside her.

  “No,” Bria’s voice strained as she clung tighter. “I’ll never leave his side.”

  Gibbs grabbed her arm and tugged.

  With all her strength, she twisted away. “Let me go!”

  “We have a ship to catch.” He wrapped his hands around her waist and tore her away from the love of her life.

  “Drake! No!” Bria kicked her legs. “Put me down!”

  “Glad to,” he said, carrying her to the coach.

  She thrashed, fighting with all her strength. “You won’t get away with this. Too many people know that Ravenscar was after you.”

  His arms squeezed tighter. “Shut your mouth.”

  “You’ll be hanged. My mother will see to it!”

  “If you don’t stop talking, I’ll shut your mouth for good.” He opened the carriage door and tied her wrists to the bar. Then he pulled a kerchief from his pocket and gagged her. “You’d best forget about Ravenscar. Besides, dukes don’t marry by-blow trollops. They tup them and leave them in the gutter. God’s bones, woman. A stage dancer? You might as well have been a lady of the night.”

  Tears burned the back of Bria’s eyes as she struggled to twist her arms free. But the hemp rope only cut deeper welts into her wrists.

  As the carriage got underway, Bria strained for a glimpse at Drake. The boy from the stable was kneeling over the duke while a man rushed from the inn.

  If only she could take care of him. If only Gibbs had listened.

  Was the only man she had ever loved badly injured or was he dead?

  No, no, no, no, no!

  The worst thing? She would never know.

  Well before the carriage came to a halt, odors from the wharf seeped through the walls. The foulest was that of rotting fish, followed by filth. Only the wafting overtone of the sea made the stench bearable.

  But Britannia didn’t care. One moment she had been the darling of London with her name in the papers several times a week. In her haste to save Pauline, Bria had erred and now she was lost. Overpowered by a tyrant, she’d been bound and gagged and now she was headed to Australia for fourteen years transport, accused of a crime she didn’t commit.

  When the carriage stopped, the smell grew worse. Gibbs opened the door, untied her hands from the rail and pulled her outside. Bria pulled down her gag and blinked at the bright sun hidden by a thin layer of clouds. Right beside them, a large ship bore the name: Lloyds.

  “Come on, then,” Gibbs said, marching her up the gangway.

  The plank’s timbers creaked and groaned, making a shiver snake up Bria’s spine.

  Behind her, Gibbs sniggered. “You
’ll have a three-month voyage to wallow in the bowels of this cesspool.”

  A sailor on deck whistled. “Don’t tell me we’ll ’ave a bit of muslin to keep us company during the long nights of our cruise.”

  “Aye, a cruise to bleedin’ ’ell,” another added.

  Gulping, Bria kept her gaze downcast. From the arms of a duke into the talons of the bane of society. Could she fall any further?

  “Who’s this?” asked a man, sounding official. He wore a navy-blue uniform. Behind him stood a stout but well-dressed officer who had gray hair and a double chin.

  The captain?

  “Miss Britannia LeClair.” Gibbs handed over a parcel of documents. “You’ll find her transport documentation in order.”

  The first man frowned and leafed through the papers. “What is her crime?”

  “Thievery.”

  “Lie!” Bria jerked her fists against her bindings. “I’ve never stolen a thing in my life.”

  The feminine pitch of her voice hung over the deck like sultry air. All work stopped as every pair of sailor’s eyes shifted her way.

  The officer knit his brows. “An upper-class accent? She doesn’t sound like a thief.”

  Gibbs pointed to the document. “She stole a necklace from Baroness Calthorpe.”

  “You told the innkeeper it was Beaufort’s. You cannot even manage to keep your story straight.” Bria turned to the officer. “Bless it, the miniature was mine! Given to me by Her Ladyship at my birth.”

  “Likely story. She’s been professing her innocence since we left London.” Gibbs snorted. “But the Duke of Beaufort has attested to LeClair’s guilt.”

  “A baroness and a duke?” Eyeing her, the officer passed the papers to a younger man dressed in a similar uniform. “You keep lofty company for a convict.”

  “I haven’t been convicted of anything.” Bria stamped her foot. “Nor have I received a trial.”

  “No trial?” asked the man who looked like the captain.

  “Ah…” Gibbs stammered, turning red in the face. “His Grace wanted this situation to be dispatched swiftly. It was a matter of security. Utmost confidentiality was needed.”

  “Beaufort, hmm? I see.” With the tenor of an educated man, the captain stepped in and looked Bria from head to toe. “What has been your occupation?”

  “I am a dancer for the Paris Opera Ballet. I’ve been in London performing the role of the Sylph in La Sylphide.” Understanding the captain as educated, she leaned toward him. “S’il vous plait, aidez-moi!”

  The man’s eyes widened at her request for help.

  “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be on my way,” said Gibbs, backing down the gangway.

  “How did you come to know the Duke of Beaufort?” the captain asked in a whisper.

  “He’s my grandfather.”

  That made the man’s wiry eyebrows draw together. “Lieutenant Barrow, let me see Miss LeClair’s documents.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The captain studied them more closely than the first officer had. “This is signed by Beaufort himself. If you are his kin, why in God’s name is he sending you off for fourteen years transport?”

  “Because I’ve only just discovered that His Grace’s daughter is my mother. Merely two, no three days ago, I thought I was a foundling.” Bria pursed her lips. She wasn’t about to say anything else. Though the captain could put the pieces together, admitting that she was illegitimate would do nothing to help her survive the voyage—if she managed to endure three grueling months at sea.

  “Well, your paperwork appears to be in order. Lieutenant, put this lady in the cell with the boy.” The captain raised his voice and faced the crew. “Any man who raises a finger against Miss LeClair will have said finger severed from his hand. Am I understood?”

  “Aye, Captain!” the men shouted, still staring.

  “Return to your duties. The Lloyds will not sail on its own.”

  The lieutenant tapped Britannia’s arm. “We’ll proceed below, miss.”

  Below. The word made her swoon.

  Without the use of her hands, she managed to descend the narrow steps into the dim hold, smelling worse than had anything along the wharf. “It stinks.”

  “You’ll grow accustomed to it. We’ve no choice but to bring livestock aboard, else we’d all starve.”

  Presently, starvation seemed like a merciful escape. Drake was gone. Left bleeding in the grass. Who would tend him?

  He cannot be dead. I will not believe it.

  But there had been so much blood.

  No!

  A hole the size of a cannon ball stretched her heart.

  Fourteen years in Australia? She’d be thirty-three by the time she was given leave to return—well past her prime. She’d never dance again. She’d never marry, never have the family she wanted so badly.

  God save her. Bria couldn’t care less about the stage or the papers or the applause. If only she could breathe life back into Ravenscar—sit by his sickbed and tell him how much he’d come to mean to her. If only he were taking this voyage with her it might be bearable. Who cared where they lived as long as they had each other?

  But nothing and no one would help her escape.

  She was doomed to a life in hell.

  The lieutenant removed her bindings and nudged her into a small room. Bria’s eyes welled with tears as she slid down the wall. She buried her face in her hands while sobs wracked her body. Why did this happen to her? Why was her grandfather so evil? What horrors had she ever committed against him?

  Something moved in the far corner. Bria blinked, trying to clear her vision. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Johnny,” the figure said, his voice raspy, but childlike and not yet changed to a man’s.

  Bria wiped her face. “Are you a convict?”

  “Uh huh.” The boy didn’t sound very sure about it. As her eyes adjusted, she spotted him sitting in the corner, his arms wrapped around lanky knees. His face streaked with dirt, the lad had unkempt sandy-colored hair.

  “Tell me, Johnny, how old are you?”

  “Nine, I reckon.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Here and there. London mostly.” He picked his teeth. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “Do I?”

  “Weigh anchor!” shouted a voice above decks.

  “God save us,” Bria whispered.

  Johnny bit his lip. “What’s your crime, miss…ah…”

  “LeClair.” The ship’s timbers groaned as the vessel pitched to the side. Bria braced her hands on the floorboards.

  Johnny rolled to his knees and scooted closer. “So, what’d you do?”

  “I am innocent.”

  “Right-o. Me as well…aside from being hungry.”

  “Hunger is no crime.”

  “Aye, but the baker saw it different when I pinched a loaf of bread.”

  “Nine years old and you’re being sent to Australia merely for taking bread?”

  “I reckon Botany Bay will be better than the foundling home in the long run.”

  “Oh, my heavens.” Her heart twisted into a hundred knots as she let out a sob. “It seems more than one person on this voyage has been wronged.”

  The boy scooted over the timbers until he sat beside her. “Don’t cry, Miss LeClair. Everything will work out in the end.”

  “How can you say that? How can you be so assured? A foundling at the age of nine sentenced to fourteen years transportation which will doubtlessly include back-breaking hard labor.” Yes, Britannia’s predicament was precarious and frightful, but what chance at life did this young boy have?

  “I got to believe the future will be brighter, else there would be no use thinking at all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Aware of a bright light and a pounding headache, Drake groaned. “Stop blinding me with the bloody lamp.”

  When nothing
happened, he drew a hand over his eyes. Until he remembered his purpose. He jolted to sitting, the fast movement making him heave. Fie, he felt like shite. Gripping his hands across his gut, he looked from wall to wall.

  Where the blazes am I?

  More importantly, where was Britannia?

  He staggered out of bed and looked out the window, immediately recognizing the grounds of the inn and stable. Not surprisingly, the carriage was gone. And after he’d been shot, they must have dragged him upstairs. Indeed, his entire body ached as if they’d dragged him.

  Quickly, Drake filled the bowl with water and splashed his face which did little to help the throbbing pain in his head. He grabbed a cloth and looked in the mirror. His skull was wrapped with a blood-seeped bandage. Pulling it off, he examined the wound. A deep scrape the length of his little finger cut a channel at the side of his temple. Holy hellfire, had the musket ball hit a fraction of an inch nearer, he’d be dead.

  Worse, his beard more than peppered his face. There was two, perhaps three days growth. Drake threw the cloth aside. Dash decorum, he’d take time to shave when Britannia was in his arms.

  He shrugged into his coat and loosely tied his neckcloth as he bounded out the door.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the boy who’d been chopping wood peeked around a door jamb.

  “You there, where’s my horse?” Drake demanded.

  “In the stable, Your Grace.”

  “Saddled?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How long have I been abed in that chamber?”

  “They carried you up yesterday morn,” the boy said as if it were nearly dark.

  Drake pulled his watch out of his pocket and held it to his ear. Blast it all, the damned thing had stopped. “What time is it?”

  The boy pointed to a floor clock at the end of the hall. “A quarter past three.”

  “Three?” He had no time to waste. “Run—see to it my horse is saddled. Where is the innkeeper?”

  “Here, Your Grace.”

  “I demand to know why you were harboring that fugitive, Walter Gibbs.”

  “Fugitive?”

  “He kidnapped the Duke of Beaufort’s granddaughter.”