How to Wed a Warrior

by Christy English

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” she said, “would you see to it that this bag goes into whatever room I’m bound for? If I know the duchess—and I do know her, as I know my own mother—I’ll be shuttled off to tea without time to turn around twice. She’ll want to chat about London and look me over as she might a bit of good horseflesh, and there’ll be no time for me to put this bag away.”

  Atlas’s blue eyes lit up, as if he somehow understood her trust in him, and honored her for it. He bowed almost like a gentleman, and would have spoken, had Mrs. Prudence, Mary Elizabeth’s companion and almost-governess, not intervened.

  “Now, Mary, this fine man must see to the horses.” Mrs. Prudence plucked the leather satchel from Atlas’s hands and passed it to a waiting footman, who kept a poker face like any true Englishman, and did not even blink.

  Mary Elizabeth loved Mrs. Prudence, as she loved her brothers, but she wondered if the lot of them would ever cease to bother her about her life and mind their own.

  “My friend here looks sensible enough to see to my favorite bag,” she said, certain that she sounded like a petulant child, but not sure how else to deal with high-handed interference.

  Mrs. Prudence was the soul of courtesy, but as always, she was implacable, a woman to be reckoned with. “Mary, each person here has his role in the household, and that hierarchy must be respected.”

  “But why?” Mary Elizabeth asked. She could feel herself digging in, even though she knew she was wasting valuable breath. The English had their system and they would not change it for the likes of her. “Why should the groom not handle my favorite bag? I like the look of him. Isn’t that reason enough?”

  “No,” Mrs. Prudence answered. “This is the duchess’s household, and we must respect her wishes.”

  Mary Elizabeth met Atlas’s eyes, feeling her embarrassment rise from the ground as if to strangle her. But then she saw the gleam of humor in his eyes, and knew, the way she understood the minds of horses and kittens, that he was not laughing at her.

  She listened with half an ear as Mrs. Prudence clucked like a broody hen, maneuvering her to the front steps. She watched as some unknown English footman whisked her favorite bag away in a trice. She reminded herself that knives and fishing lures, even her bit of family tartan, were only things, and that things could be replaced.

  This logic was not what comforted her as she went to meet her mother’s friend in the splendid mansion before her. It was the blue eyes of Atlas, and his last surreptitious wink.

  * * *

  Harry—Harold Charles Percy, Duke of Northumberland—was not a man to listen to gossip, especially gossip that found its way so far north, but he knew as he watched his mother’s guests climb out of his carriage from Town that barbarians were upon them.

  He wondered to himself which of the girls was the famous Hellion of Hyde Park, the young lady who had wrestled with the Earl of Grantham in the grass, and who had almost cut the man in two with a great steel blade. Neither of the women looked capable of such violence, and Harry was about to remove himself and hide among the horses in the stable until it was safe to go back to his work in the garden again, when he caught the eye of the slight blonde girl with the voice of a siren’s call.

  The girl was a mere slip of a thing, but she was well rounded, as all women should be. Harry knew he was a cad for noticing that, but he dismissed his own scruples for the moment, assuring himself that he would take himself to task later for his irreverence. As it was, he simply stared at her, taking in the maple brown of her eyes—staring so long that he soon found that her pupils were rimmed with a bit of green.

  He had seen many women in his thirty years, but there was something about this one that fair took his breath away.

  He stood, staring still, trying to discern what it was about her that held him, as her governess—a lady doing a terrible job of hiding her good looks behind an ugly gown, oversized spectacles, and a lace cap—shuffled the beautiful spitfire off into the house.

  Harry made it his life’s mission to avoid all women of good birth save for the occasional merry widow. For all women born in the British Isles, some in the Americas, and more than a few in darkest India, wanted to marry a duke. And he, God help him, had held that title for the last five years.

  But as he watched the little blonde go, he knew that, in spite of his past vow to avoid the married state at all costs, he would make certain to see her again. Surely he might prevail upon her to speak with him without revealing who he was. He did not like the thought of her knowing his title, and fawning over him like a fool, as every other woman seemed to do. He wanted to enjoy speech with her for just a while longer.

  Being a duke must hold some privileges, after all, or what was an august title for?

  The large barbarian man, some relation of a friend of his mother’s, stepped forward then, placing a gold sovereign in his hand. The Highland Scot handed one to the footman standing by as well, and Harry watched as Charlie slipped the barbarian’s coin into his pocket without a blink.

  Harry fingered his own sovereign, trying to remember the last time he had actually held money in his hand. He had an army of stewards and lawyers who dealt with his funds. If he needed something, he asked for it, and it was brought to him forthwith. Money was not something that figured heavily in the daily life of a duke, if at all. He raised the coin to the light and watched it gleam in the slanting sun. There was something about the gleam which pleased him. Harry suddenly wished he had earned it.

  Before the Highlander could speak to tell him what the coin was for, the lovely woman dressed as a dowd came to his side. She spoke not to Harry, as anyone sane might have done, but addressed herself to the Scot. The two continued their conversation as if Harry were a deaf and blind mule who had simply wandered into the yard.

  “Robbie, you can’t tip the duchess’s household,” the pretty woman said.

  “Why not?” the Scot asked.

  “It simply isn’t done.”

  “Yes, it is,” the barbarian insisted. “I just did it.”

  Harry stood in silence, listening to their conversation, staring beyond them to the house where the little blonde had gone. He felt a bizarre and almost overwhelming desire to present himself at tea, and to eat scones among these people who clearly had no idea who he was.

  The Scot and his lady bantered on, as if Harry was not even there.

  “The duchess pays her own people. It is not for us to pay them twice,” the lovely woman said.

  “Northumberland is close enough to the border for these people to know the value of a pound,” the Scot answered her. “If a man, even a Lowlander, is given a piece of gold, he takes it, and says thank you.”

  The barbarian turned to Harry expectantly. Harry swallowed a smile, for dukes did not smile in company, even among those who did not realize that they were addressing a duke. He pocketed the sovereign.

  “Thank you,” Harry said at last, fingering the coin in his waistcoat pocket. He remembered the semblance of his manners, and bowed once to the lady before he walked away.

  He did not bother with the stables, but went straight to the garden, hoping that some time with his roses might chase the sight of the little blonde from his mind. She had the scent of roses on her skin. He had taken in a bit of it when she had stood close and handed him her bag.

  He pushed the girl from his mind, though her scent would not leave him.

  Acknowledgments

  As always, whenever I have the privilege of writing a novel, there are a lot of people to thank. I want to begin with the usual suspects, my mother, Karen English; my father, Carl English; and my brother, Barry English, for a lifetime of love and encouragement. Thanks to my godparents, Ron and Vena Miller, as well as my dear friends Amy and Troy Pierce, Laura Creasy, and LaDonna Lindgren for the years of love and unwavering support. My affectionate thanks also go to Trilby Newkirk, an
d Marianne and Chris Nubel for their sympathetic ears and for always making me laugh at just the right moment. And I have to thank Mike and Jennifer Peace as well as Ellen and Andy Seltz, not just for the years of friendship, but for raising four of the best girls ever to walk the face of the earth.

  I also want to thank the incredible team at Sourcebooks Casablanca. Without my amazing editor, Mary Altman, the Waterses and all their antics never would have seen the light of day. Many thanks to Rachel Gilmer and her stellar team, as well as Hilary for her timely and thoughtful insights, and to Amelia Narigon for getting the word out. And I have to thank the design team for the beautiful cover.

  A heartfelt thanks to you, the readers, for spending time with me and my Highlanders.

  About the Author

  Ever since Christy English picked up a fake sword in stage combat class at the age of fourteen, she has lived vicariously through the sword-wielding women of her imagination. A banker by day and a writer by night, she loves to eat chocolate, drink too many soft drinks, and walk the mountain trails of her home in western North Carolina. Please visit her at www.ChristyEnglish.com.

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