by Diana Ballew
Iset jerked as if she had been struck.
Of all the things her father could have declared, Tetisheri knew this was probably the worst. No proper burial meant an afterlife was impossible. She lifted her eyes to Kheper’s face and saw from his lack of reaction that he’d expected this. While it saddened her greatly, she knew that Pharaoh must, above all, maintain ma’at, and his daughter could be treated no differently than any other citizen of Egypt. And perhaps, in time, Iset would redeem herself and again find the favor of the gods.
“The King of Hazor has sought a marriage alliance with Egypt, and we have accepted his terms. With the rising of Re, the ambassador will collect Iset and deliver her to her new husband.”
Muttering broke out among the nobles who filled the hall behind them.
“Iset, do not mistake this as a reprieve. You will take your place among Hazor’s wives, of which there are many already. Your life will be no better than that of a slave.”
With a swift nod at Rekhmire, Pharaoh rose solemnly and exited the room.
When the crowd dispersed, Kheper escorted his future wife back to the women’s suite and took her in his arms. “I have not seen you in many days, Teti, I’ve missed you. How does your mother fare?”
She let her forehead rest upon his shoulder and breathed deeply of his manly scent. “I wish the news were better. So far, none of the healer priests have spoken of hope. Nor any of the magicians. Pharaoh says he will send to the territories and neighboring lands to search out physicians who might have a cure.”
Kheper brushed her lips with his, and his warmth reassured her.
“Perhaps, given time, she will heal.”
The moon sat very high in Nut’s nighttime sky. Menkhepere moved across his chamber in silence, then very carefully lifted the sheet that covered Alia as she slept. When he slid into the bed alongside her, she turned into his shoulder and snuggled close.
Her warmth filled him, and he let out a long, low sigh as he wrapped his arm about her shoulder. He could feel the fine ridges of scarring, but they had no meaning for him except as a reminder of his failure to protect her.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, a flame of hope filled his chest.
“Soon, my love,” he whispered as he stared out at the stars, his ancestors. He sent up another silent prayer, again asking for help in healing the woman he loved more than he thought possible.
The imperishable stars seemed to shimmer more brightly for a moment, and as they did, Alia wriggled closer to nuzzle his neck as if she knew who she slept beside.
It was a sign, he was sure of it.
Acknowledgments
A special thank you to all the archaeologists and historians who introduced me to the mystique that is ancient Egypt. And thanks to my buddies in the Writer’s Coven, your ongoing support is the backbone of all my writing.
About the Author
Jenny Brassel is passionate about a lot of things: romance, history and mythology to name but a few, and writing allows her imagination to run riot. Creative to the bone, when Jennifer isn’t writing she can be seen with a paintbrush in hand.
Her work has won a number of major romance writing contests including the Land of Enchantment Romance Writers’ Rebecca; From The Heart Romance Writers’ Wallflower and Missouri Romance Writers of America’s Gateway to the Best.
Jenny holds an MA in Creative Writing and teaches courses and workshops for community colleges and writing centers.
Jenny hails from Sydney Australia. Married to her high school sweetheart, most of her days are spent staring at her computer screen under the supervision of a very demanding bichon frisé, Cordy.
Find her online:
www.JenniferBrassel.com
The Earl’s Error
Kathy L Wheeler
Dear Reader
Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it. I love hearing from readers and would love to hear from you. You can contact me at [email protected].
Sincerely, Kathy L Wheeler
Chapter 1
London, 1818
The crack of her hand echoed against the rich wainscoting throughout the entry hall a full second before Thorne registered the heat rising on his cheek from the sting of the blow.
“You bastard,” she hissed.
His surroundings sharpened into brilliant shards of color, from the grooves in the freshly waxed wood, to the flaming tips of the candlelight in the overhead chandelier, to the velvet green drapes and the sheen of Lorelei’s cerulean blue silk skirts. Fury emanated from every pore of his wife’s slight body. The set of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin, the fire flashing in her dark blue eyes that ignited the blood to a violent surge through his veins. He’d never witnessed her temper before. Lorelei was renowned for her even keel.
His gaze fell to the missive that dangled from his fingers, stuffed in his hand by some miscreant just as he’d reached the steps of his London townhome; those same fingers singeing as he drew the note to his lower back. He’d had only a second to scan the first line before Oswald, so annoyingly efficient, swung open the door. Words that seared his brain as if branded with a medieval branding iron: That pressing matter we spoke of previously, my darling? I’m certain you remember ... Of course he remembered. Hell, it had only been a day ago. And, worse? From her. The longtime mistress he’d dismissed—generously so, in his opinion—prior to his and Lorelei’s nuptials at least two years past. Rowena Hollerfield.
Thorne cleared his throat. “I ... er ... suppose you’ve heard?” He struggled for a bland tone though his face felt made of clay, recalling the event.
Rowena had called out from her carriage. “Lord Kimpton, a moment of your time, if you please.” Pleasant, serene. Strategic. That was Rowena.
His pace accelerated. She was clever, that one, having the unerring knack of anticipation—of his reluctance.
His good friend, John Brown, Marquis Brockway, slid a sideways, amused glance Thorne’s way. Brock and Thorne had known one another since Eton which was the only reason Thorne let his friend get away with his nonsense. Thorne picked up his step, choosing to ignore Brock and Rowena. Perhaps he could reach the corner before—
“I’m carrying, sir.” The femininity of her voice tinkled over the early afternoon air and straight down the back of his neck in icy tendrils that snaked about his spine, squeezing each and every vertebra. Carrying? Carrying what? And why the hell should he care? He’d long since settled with her by way of a pricey set of emerald earbobs.
But a cloud of doom hovered over him and he pulled up. Thorne shot a glance about. Thankfully, most of the pedestrians had shifted their paths to the opposite side of the street. All but the notorious Lady Dankworth and her maid, touting two of the ugliest dogs he’d ever seen.
He managed to suppress a groan. Rowena’s voice dipped in that dramatic pause that had once thrilled him, but now grated over his skin like sanded paper. After assuring himself that the Dankworth woman was clearly out of earshot, he sauntered over to Rowena’s elaborate conveyance. She’d left him with no choice, after all. Reaching her carriage, he tipped his hat when he longed to throw it to the ground and stomp on it in a fit of temper. “What the devil are you up to, Rowena?”
She sniffed. Nothing like a cry, but more a condescending huff through a delicate piece of lace she held at her nose. “I’m carrying, sir. A child. Your child.”
“What!” He checked his tone and again glanced about for too-close passersby. If Lady Dankworth heard anything as titillating as this, true or not, it would be the talk of London in all of twenty minutes. “That is ludicrous, Rowena, and you know it.” He spoke softly but sternly.
The woman was as beautiful as ever, lifting one perfectly shaped brow and gracing him with the cynical smile with which he’d become familiar. Her lilting tone never changed despite her hardened expression. “Perhaps. But we both know the circles in which you travel. Scandal is the drivi
ng force, my lord.” She plucked a piece of lint from her shoulder and flicked it in his direction. And after a long pause, she planted the blow with a well-placed clout to his jaw. “If you must know, the child is Lord Harlowe’s.”
Thorne froze, then narrowed his gaze on her. That he could certainly believe. Brandon Smythe, Viscount Harlowe, had an artistic temperament that was a draw to many women. The man spouted poetic dribble at the drop of a hat.
Rowena relaxed against the cushions, revealing she was not alone. Her traveling companion sat deep within the shadows, eyes lowered, though he knew the girl took in every word. The small cynical smile returned, highlighting a coldness in Rowena’s exotic dark eyes. Had he truly thought her beautiful? She had nothing on Lorelei. “I shall send word when it is convenient for us to talk. And, make no mistake—we will talk.” she said. “How perfectly lovely seeing you again, Lord Kimpton. ’Tis almost like old times. I shall see you soon—”
“How could you!” Lorelei’s hurt cry yanked back his scattered thoughts.
Hurting Lorelei was the last thing Thorne intended. How was it possible she had learned so quickly? Lady Dankworth couldn’t have heard the slightest bit of his conversation with Rowena. She’d seen, however.
Frantic images of Lorelei barring her door or, worse, removing herself to their country estate, whipped through him. The promises he’d made upon her acceptance of his proposal filed neatly through his head. I will not be made a laughing stock, my lord. My dowry may be small, but I have my pride. “Lorelei, darling, your broth—”
“Don’t you dare speak to me of my brother.”
Thorne smoothed a hand over his cravat, the stiff fabric calming in direct contrast to the emotions raging through him. He’d never been a smooth one with words. That was her brother’s specialty. But, by God, this was his home. Here, he was king, in control.
Lorelei was the wife, dammit. Didn’t he own her, in the eyes of the law? What a fool he was. He wanted nothing but her happiness. But to confess his feelings? Now? A shudder of revulsion skittered up his spine.
Still, she meant everything to him. He pulled in a deep breath. He’d face her wrath, and after she calmed a bit, he would explain everything. He let out a resigned sigh. “She means nothing to me.”
“She?” The high-pitched astonishment bounded off the foyer walls, stinging his ears.
Ah, hell.
Lorelei drew herself up to her full height of five feet, four inches. She barely reached his chin in the dainty heels, and she spun away. She made it up two steps of the grand staircase before she threw over her shoulder, “I’ll be out of the house by the day’s end.”
That stung and infuriated him. “And where do you propose to go?”
She sniffed, sounding nothing like Rowena. “Spixworth Hall.” Her hurt was genuine, but a man had his pride. And he was a man. The man.
“I absolutely forbid it.” The words flew from him before he could stop himself. Wincing, he gentled his voice. “That puts you right through Norwich. There’s too much unrest with the Reform—”
She tossed those flaxen curls. “—all of that unrest was over twenty years ago—”
“Spixworth Hall is uninhabitable.” Not to mention a veritable nightmare to reach from London. “It’s too isolated.”
Each step up Lorelei took, Thorne’s chest tightened, restricted his ability to breathe. He looked about for something, anything to seize her attention. But, of course, the entry way was immaculate. The tall Ming vase overfilled with Cymbidium orchids framed in a leafy presentation that stood on the hall table offered nothing viable. They were Lorelei’s pride and joy. The mirror was so shiny, the candles from the chandelier could blind one. Neither a streak nor speck of dust marred the floor. The only items remotely out of place were his cloak and hat slung over a nearby wingback chair.
Another soft scuff of her slippers and still, she hadn’t looked back. Not a strand of her perfect blonde coiffure escaped its place. The myriad times he’d pushed impatient hands through her silken locks to send the hairpins flying stabbed through him. He couldn’t lose her. “Lorelei, stay.” His voice cracked, hoarse, sounding nothing like the confident man he’d grown into despite his father, who had tried at every turn to smash him.
She stilled. “You sent my brother away. He’s an artist, not a f-fighter. He could be killed.” The softness of her voice pierced him with the sharpness of a blade. She held her head high, one booted foot four steps from the top. She shook her head, hard enough that one of the pins slipped and let loose a rogue curl. “And now, another woman?” She broke off on a choked cry, darting up the remaining stairs.
Sent her brother away? “Darling, wait.”
“I shan’t forgive you for that. Ever.”
“Dammit, Lorelei. Don’t. Don’t run from me.” He took the stairs two at a time. Reached the top as she turned down the hall of the wing where their chambers nestled side by side. He should never have allowed her a separate room. At the end of hall, her hand twisted the knob on her door. “I’ll pay you,” he blurted. She stopped but didn’t turn. “One thousand pounds if ... if you can manage a fortnight. Just until—” until what?
The tightness in his gut registered as fear. Fear he’d never gain ground. But he had the advantage. Lorelei had nothing. Her dowry had been miniscule. She’d be destitute without him. He’d saved her useless brother from debtor’s prison. But now, her brother had stooped to a new low. Abandoning not only his sister, but a child as well. So what if the mother was one of the most sought-after courtesans in London? Lorelei would never care about such a detail, though most of the beau monde would turn her away if they knew she felt that way.
Blast. The short, cruel thing would be to enlighten her. Take her by the shoulders and shake her until she heard the truth. Make her realize that he hadn’t put her brother on board a ship; show her that her precious Brandon was acting as an irresponsible cad, running from the responsibilities of a mistake—a mistake most men of their standing took pains to buy their way out of. Hell, the man was more a noose around one’s neck.
Lorelei’s body stiffened and he swallowed the words. Thorne could never hurt her so callously. She turned, pierced him with flinty blue eyes. The world revolved to a stop, and perspiration gathered at the nape of his neck. He inhaled through his nose, letting out a slow stream through pursed lips.
“Per week,” she said. His wife’s tone, usually warm and full of husky mischief, radiated cold gray steel.
“What?”
“A thousand pounds. Per week. For two weeks I shall stay. And I want half now.” Her crystallized pitch would have made Medusa proud. Curiosity driving him, Thorne looked her in the eye, certain he would turn to stone, while bitter irony held him in a firm grip.
Two weeks. Could he find that no-good brother of hers in that amount of time? Force him to acknowledge his responsibility? Thorne had his doubts, but he would accept her offer. Give her half now, and pray it was enough to keep her from leaving before he located Harlowe.
But he had his pride as well. In a tone that matched her cold glare, he said, “Done.” He stepped back, enough out of reach to keep from grabbing her, with the scent of her hair annihilating what was left of any remaining sense, good or bad. He tipped his head, unable to stem the sarcasm. “Perhaps you’ll excuse me, my lady, I’ve urgent business to attend.” He stalked down the stairs to his study and shut the door with a solid click. Someday, he might learn to hold his tongue. Not speak until spoken to—a quality his father had tried beating into him until the day the old bastard dropped dead of an apoplexy when Thorne was but ten and three.
He tossed the note he still clenched on the desk, furious with his reaction—no, over-reaction—and moved behind the desk. He peered up at his father’s portrait with disgust. The pompous ass. It showed in the set of his shoulders, his grim façade.
Thorne reached up and ran his fingers along the gilded edge of the frame, just inside one corner, and pressed the minute mechanism. The large pa
inting parted slightly from the wall without a sound. He slipped a key from his watch fob pocket and fit it into his pride and joy—one of the first burglar-resisting safes created by Charles Chubb. Granted, it was a test model, but it worked magnificently. Talk about an exquisite piece of art.
Thorne counted out several hundred guineas, locked the safe, and restored the painting to its rightful position.
Of all the asinine things he could have thought of to entice his charming and beautiful wife into remaining by his side, he had to offer money. It was the panic, of course. Money she would likely use, inevitably leading him to the same fate she’d threatened. Losing her.
Well, he’d bought himself a fortnight to locate Harlowe and hopefully convince Lorelei to stay. He jerked out the bottom drawer of his desk and grabbed a sheet of paper. He scribbled off a quick note and rang for Oswald.
Minutes later, snatching up his top hat, he jammed it on his head. There was some satisfaction in slamming the door behind him. Only fifty feet from the stables, the heavens parted, dumping a waterfall of ice cold tears that soaked through every layer he wore.
The perfect ending to the perfect day, eh? There was nothing now but to follow through on this idiotic voyage he’d forged for himself. For if his wife found out about the babe ...
Lorelei hurried back to the stairway, blinking back unshed tears. She’d always believed her husband a Goliath. A man larger than life whose gray eyes could sear her with their passionate depths with a single glance. A stray dark lock of his too-long hair, draping over one brow, his firm lips twisting in that sensual grin, that more times than not, had her rushing her goodbyes at some silly soiree or musical at the mere thought he might be home waiting for her. When that square jaw of his firmed out of some irritation that had seeped under his skin, his exasperation sometimes shifts quickly to ardor if he caught her grinning before she could manage to mask it. In an instance, his noble roots evaporating, ceasing as if he were some baseborn thief; catching her up by the waist, tossing her over his shoulder, taking the stairs up two at a time, then stealing her heart. He’d slam the door to his bedchamber and make desperate love to her as if he couldn’t bear to wait another second to possess her body, not the least bit concerned what the servants thought. Her stomach dipped violently. Was all of that gone?