Suddenly a hand clamped down on his wrist. He swung around, ready to strike and deflect anyone who kept him from going up the stairs to retrieve Charlotte.
Only when he swung around, it was to see Charlotte. Her sweaty, soot-smeared face was the most precious sight he had ever beheld.
With an exultant shout, he hauled her to his side and turned them for the door.
Hunkered low, they pushed out into the fresh air, both coughing violently.
They staggered past people—there were a good dozen more now and still more coming—trying to put out the fire. He led her several yards away, beneath a tree. She gasped for breath amidst her sobs.
“Easy,” he soothed.
There was no easing her. She wept, tears leaving clean trails down her sooty face. “My house . . .”
He knew what this house had meant to her. He felt her sorrow keenly.
She rocked side to side. “The house . . . it’s gone.”
He pulled her into his arms. “But you’re here. You’re alive. That’s all that matters. Houses can be rebuilt.”
He felt the dampness of her tears at his throat. “I was going back for the basket.”
“What basket?”
“The basket my mother left me. Of all the scraps of fabric from her dresses . . . and our dresses as girls. It was . . .” Her voice broke on another sob. The sound twisted like a knife into his heart.
“Where is it?”
“I left it in the front drawing room. Near the settee. The smoke was too thick. I could not see my way.”
“Your life is more important,” he said firmly. “You should not have gone back for it,” he admonished her even as he set her from him.
She blinked at him in confusion, wiping at her nose. “What are you—”
“Wait here.”
He rushed back to the house, resolute. Determined that she not lose everything today.
He heard her shouting his name, but he ignored her, searching the yard for something to aid him. Spotting a discarded bucket, he lifted it and rushed around to the side of the house, swinging the bucket and crashing it into the glass of the drawing room doors several times, clearing the shards enough so that he might ease himself through—and inside the burning house.
Charlotte staggered forward, screaming as Samuel disappeared inside the house, his shape swallowed up in the deadly inferno that was once her home. She started to go after him, but was suddenly restrained on all sides.
“Samuel!”
What was he doing? He was mad . . . risking his life for a basket? It was one thing for her to take such a risk. It had been for herself.
What was he thinking doing such a thing for her? She should never had said anything to him.
He could die. For her. To fetch something for her.
God. No.
“Samuel!” She fought, too weak against the men holding her and she hated them for it.
She watched the house burn helplessly—her only thought for the man inside. The man she loved. The smashed drawing room door through which he’d leaped was engulfed in black smoke. It was impossible to see within the room. How could he even see to locate her basket?
Simple. He could not. He was in there even now, likely lost in the smoke and fire. Dying.
Crying out, she surged against her captors with renewed vigor, determined to break through. He could not die.
She could not lose him.
Suddenly her sisters were there. They grabbed hold of her with comforting hands, shooing aside her captors. It was the opportunity she needed. They were no match for her. She managed to escape—only to be caught up by Nathaniel. Apparently, he’d been ready for her. He lifted her off her feet, indifferent to her swinging fists.
“Nooo! Let me go! Samuel’s in there!”
Because of her.
Because of her and her wretched tears for something that didn’t matter.
Not as he did. Not as he mattered to her. He was everything. The house was just stone and timber. It could be replaced. He never could.
“Char! Look!” Nora pointed to the house.
Charlotte went limp with relief, following the direction of her sister’s gaze.
Samuel emerged from the broken door, her basket tucked under one arm.
Nathaniel released her and she ran. She ran until she was at his side, looping one arm around his waist. He was hot to the touch—all of him, his skin and clothes—and she winced.
Someone confiscated the basket of fabric from him, but she didn’t care. She didn’t spare it a glance. His weight fell against her. He coughed fiercely as she led him clear of the house.
“Water,” she shouted, motioning for several bucket bearers to douse him. Five or six buckets were dumped over him. She never left his side, getting soaked herself in the process.
She pushed the hair from his forehead and wiped the water and ash from his face, looking him over critically. “You daft fool! What were you thinking?” A sob choked out of her at this last question. She knew what he had been thinking.
“You,” he answered thickly, his voice hoarse as he collapsed against a tree. “I was thinking of you. Only you. I only ever think of you. Your peace. Your happiness. You . . . you are everything to me, Charlie.”
A sob swelled up in her throat, and it had nothing to do with grief or fear or sadness.
“Like I said . . . you’re a daft fool.” She sniffed back the burn of tears and wiped at her runny nose. She knew she looked a fright, but here he was telling her the most profound words she had ever heard in her life. And she was a wreck. “Promise to me that you will never do anything like that again. Not for me.”
“I can’t promise you that.”
“You stubborn man.” She shook her head, her heart overflowing with emotion.
“I can promise you anything else. The world. A new house. Jewels to drape around your lovely neck. Anything, but I can’t—”
“Promise me your love,” she cut in, staring at his smoke-ravaged face. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
A slow smile spread his features, his teeth shockingly white against the stain of ash and soot on his skin. “That is easy. Don’t you know? You have that. For some time now, you have had that, my love. My heart is yours.”
Her own heart expanded, swelling to the point of pain in her chest. Was love supposed to ache like this? “I needed to hear it,” she whispered, stroking his cheek.
He pressed a kiss to her lips, slow and lingering. “You’ll hear it every day, love. For the rest of our lives, I will be telling you this.”
Epilogue
Ten months later . . .
The summer day was overly warm with the sun burning high overhead. Charlotte guided the wagon beneath a stretch of trees, seeking the shade. She lifted her face to the dappled light that made its way down through the leaves and branches. The shroud of trees shielded her from the worst of the sun’s rays.
The lemonade she transported in the back of the cart sloshed loudly inside its barrel as she drove across the countryside. It would be a welcome treat, no doubt, for the thirsty crew busy at work.
Charlotte cast a glance over her shoulder to assure herself the lid was still safely secured and the barrel had not tipped over. A wood crate packed with no less than two dozen ham sandwiches, their aroma rich on the air, sat beside the lemonade.
Satisfied, she faced forward again and continued to guide the cart across the countryside, clicking her tongue to encourage the mare.
“Nice of you to join me,” Charlotte addressed Nora, seated beside her on the bench.
“I’ve been cooped up long enough.” She, too, sent a glance to the back of the cart. “Those sandwiches smell heavenly. I skipped breakfast.”
“Yes, we missed you this morning.”
Lately Nora had become more reclusive, spending long hours in her chamber or outdoors, hunting for plants and herbs. She lost all sense of time when she was busy at her work.
As a result, Marian had forbidden t
he servants from taking meals to Nora in her bedchamber in an attempt to encourage her to emerge to eat with them in the dining room. Unfortunately, now that the servants weren’t allowed to bring her food Nora often worked right through meals. Skipping breakfast was not uncommon these days.
Of course, Nora hardly looked as though she were wasting away. She probably bribed servants to bring her food. Nora could be tremendously persuasive.
Charlotte was certain that if Nora lived alone she would be perfectly content going days, weeks, without seeing anyone.
“If you can reach the box, you can have one now,” Charlotte offered.
“No, I will wait.” Nora smiled and then tilted her face up to the sun, clearly enjoying the jaunt outdoors. “What kind of sandwiches?” she asked.
“Ham.”
“Hm. Delicious.”
Cook had suggested cucumber sandwiches as though Charlotte were delivering food to a ladies’ garden party, but she had insisted on filling the sandwiches with thick wedges of ham. The men rebuilding the house were hard at work in the sweltering heat and deserved hearty sandwiches stuffed with plenty of Cook’s honey sweet ham.
“Oh, my,” Nora exclaimed as the cart cleared the copse and rounded the turn leading to what had once been their childhood home—before it had burned to the ground. “You and Kingston have been busy,” she said over the song of hammers as the house came into view. “Just think,” Nora mused. “This all started because of me.”
“You mean because of the tonic?”
Nora shrugged and then nodded. “Same thing.”
“You know, Samuel still doesn’t believe your tonic works as an aphrodisiac.”
“Pessimist.” Nora sniffed.
“It would be interesting to see if it worked on men the same way,” Charlotte mused.
A thoughtful look came over Nora’s face. “Why, yes, it would. Why didn’t I think of that? It would be an interesting experiment . . . interesting indeed.”
Charlotte chuckled. “Don’t get any ideas, Nora.”
Nora looked indignant. “Have a little faith, if you please.”
Charlotte left it at a “hmph” and turned her attention back to her house.
It was coming along nicely. A complete rebuild. They weren’t able to salvage any of the original house. The fire had destroyed it all.
The structure was slightly larger than before, designed for their preferences, but it still possessed a similar aesthetic with the same elevation and facade and scalloped trim.
Similar but still new. Something she and Samuel could make their own.
Samuel had hired an architect from London and included Charlotte in every meeting.
At first, she had been hesitant to speak up, but her reticence quickly faded. Samuel wanted her opinion . . . he wanted her mark on the house. Now her enthusiasm bubbled over. She could hardly contain her excitement and was full of ideas she had no trouble voicing.
This house was more than anything she had ever wanted because it was everything they wanted.
It would be their house—their home.
It was strange. While she and her sisters would forever mourn the loss of their childhood home, there was no regret in this new house.
She and Samuel were building it together. It would be theirs. For their family.
Her hand drifted to the slight swell of her stomach and a small smile played about her lips.
“They’ve made much progress,” Nora remarked approvingly.
“Haven’t they?”
“The last time I was here there was naught but beams. Not even a roof. When will it be finished?”
“The initial projection was October, but now Samuel thinks the house might be ready for us in September.”
“September?” Nora lifted an eyebrow. “Just don’t move in on the day of Pembroke’s wedding. You promised him you would attend.”
“Ah, of course.” She nodded as she climbed down from the wagon.
William was marrying Delia Smith. Delia had long mooned after William, and the couple seemed very happy.
Most important, William was happy.
He’d come to Charlotte the day after he proposed to Delia to thank her for ending their betrothal. For doing what I didn’t have the courage to do.
His words had served as a release. A blessing. She had not known she needed to hear them until he had uttered them.
Samuel emerged from the house. His eyes alighted on her and a smile stretched his lips.
Her heart swelled at the sight of her husband, virile and too handsome to believe, and hers. He strode across the yard toward her.
With no care for their many witnesses, he embraced her and kissed her, long and deep.
“Ick. You two,” Nora muttered. “You definitely need to finish this house so I don’t have to see so much of that anymore.”
They came up for air to watch Nora start for the house.
Charlotte chuckled and shook her head.
“And how are you, my beautiful wife?” His hand went to the slight mound of her stomach.
“I am wonderful.” She motioned to the cart. “I’ve brought food and drink for everyone.”
“Brilliant.” His hand shifted on her stomach. “And this little one? How fares the baby?”
“Snug and happy, too,” she replied.
“Well, my two happy girls—”
“Girls? Are you so certain it’s a daughter?”
“Yes.” He kissed her nose. “Just as beautiful as her mother. Now. Shall I show you to the nursery? The molding is up and they’ve started papering the walls.”
“Oh! Yes.” She bounced excitedly on her toes.
He slid an arm around her waist and guided her forward, up the walk, through the door and into their waiting home.
Announcement
Sophie Jordan continues her scintillating Rogue Files series with
THE DUKE EFFECT
On Sale
October 2020
About the Author
SOPHIE JORDAN grew up in the Texas hill country where she wove fantasies of dragons, warriors, and princesses. A former high school English teacher, she’s the New York Times, USA Today, and internationally bestselling author of more than twenty novels. She now lives in Houston with her family. When she’s not writing, she spends her time overloading on caffeine (lattes preferred), talking plotlines with anyone who will listen (including her kids), and cramming her DVR with anything that has a happily ever after.
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By Sophie Jordan
The Rogue Files Series
The Virgin and the Rogue
The Duke’s Stolen Bride
This Scot of Mine
The Duke Buys a Bride
The Scandal of It All
While the Duke Was Sleeping
The Devil’s Rock Series
Beautiful Sinner
Beautiful Lawman
Fury on Fire
Hell Breaks Loose
All Chained Up
Historical Romances
All the Ways to Ruin a Rogue
A Good Debutante’s Guide to Ruin
How to Lose a Bride in One Night
Lessons from a Scandalous Bride
Wicked in Your Arms
Wicked Nights with a Lover
In Scandal They Wed
Sins of a Wicked Duke
Surrender to Me
One Night with You
Too Wicked to Tame
Once Upon a Wedding Night
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
t
he virgin and the rogue . Copyright © 2020 by Sharie Kohler. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition MAY 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-288539-5
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-288544-9
Cover design by Patricia Barrow
Cover illustration by Jon Paul Ferrara
Avon, Avon & logo, and Avon Books & logo are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
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