by Nicole Locke
‘How do you know? It’s beautiful, but it doesn’t talk about anything.’
‘The drawings at the corners.’
She pulled it out of his hands and shifted it around, seeing it from other angles.
‘Wait.’ She took out one of the books, flipped the pages. ‘See here? There’s a pattern.’
He didn’t see it.
She set it down. ‘I still don’t know what it means, I’d have to study it a bit more, maybe make comparisons to other pages.’
‘How did you know about the book?’
‘The parchment is a similar size and the handwriting is the same. But in the rest of the book the handwriting is different. It was as if a story was being told, the scribe was tired for one page and someone else did it, and then he went back to the original. That’s why this book always fascinated me.’
Her eyes were alight as she turned the pages slowly as if she’d never looked at them, though it was clear she had studied the pages before.
‘You’re excited.’
She looked up, her hand in the book. ‘I’ve always studied books or tapestries. I find it interesting to see who the artist was and what they meant.’
‘You and your tapestries.’
She laid a hand on his cheek and he leaned into it. He’d never get used to her touch.
‘My tapestries are beautiful, but they are cruel to the people who make them. Crippled hands, endless hours lost, eyesight weakened, blood shed.
‘And you say I’m like them?’
‘You’re not that pretty, but I could stare at you for hours.’
He clasped her hand. ‘Don’t.’
‘I think you’re blushing. Think I’ll find flaws?’ she teased.
He yanked her onto his lap. She squealed and protected the book. ‘No, if you study me that intensely, I’ll think you’re plotting against me.’
‘I’m always plotting against you. Perhaps I’ll order a dozen spare buckets to be made in case I need to throw them.’
He laughed. ‘Then I have no worries.’
She went back to slowly turning the pages. He found none of it interesting except deciding then and there that he could stare at her for hours, as well.
What were the boys doing now? Eating if they were around Henry. That sounded fine to him. His bones were tired, but now that he was settled with Séverine the fact he hadn’t eaten for hours was felt.
‘Are you hungry?’ he said.
She paused, looked up at him in surprise. ‘I am. The boys brought me some bread, but I don’t remember if I ate it. Now that these are in front of me, I just want a few more moments.’ She pulled back. ‘You’re staring at me. Are you now plotting against me?’
‘I think I am,’ he said. ‘How much do you hate Warstone games?’
She stiffened in his arms and he quickly kissed her. When he pulled back, her voice was almost breathless. ‘You know how I feel about them.’
He loved the softer look in her eyes. Wanted to kiss her again, but knew he’d then crush all the documents as he spread her out on the bed. ‘I was to bring this all back to Reynold for his protection and study.’
‘Oh,’ she said, looking at the book in her lap.
He rubbed up and down her arm. ‘You don’t want to give them up.’
‘Now that you say there are some clues to be found with the scribes, I thought I’d...’ Séverine pulled herself up. ‘Oh, you are plotting against me.’
His arm tightened around her waist, and she took in the feeling of safety, of warmth, of love.
‘Is that so terrible?’ he whispered. His breath and words skimmed her ear.
He was offering her a chance to study the beautiful books and scrolls, to investigate and find the scribes with all their meanings. It wasn’t terrible, it was what she’d wanted and so much more. She’d have a family, laughter, conflict and beauty.
‘Do you think there could be more scrolls or books?’ she said. ‘These were what Ian left, but that doesn’t mean this is all of them.’
She felt him smile against her neck as he trailed kisses along her collarbone. ‘No, it doesn’t. The process could take years.’
‘It doesn’t mean we have to travel or fight battles?’
‘It means I’d have to spend coin to build walls, to hire watch guards and protect you.’
She already felt protected. ‘Can I have a room where I can study, with absolute quiet and as many pillows as I want?’
‘As long as I can throw them and you on the floor as much as I want.’ He skimmed his teeth along the curve of her neck and bit.
She shivered. ‘I thought you were hungry.’
‘I am,’ he said, soothing the spot he’d bitten with soft kisses and darts of his tongue.
‘Shouldn’t we be worried about what King Edward or Philip—or your parents—will do with the boys?’ she gasped. ‘There’ll be orders, perhaps even decrees.’
He kissed her again, but now his hand was untying her gown’s laces and his fingertips were skimming the edges of her breast.
‘Balthus?’ she said. Her voice was breathless.
Seizing her waist, he whipped her around and grinned. ‘Trust my silences, remember?’
Oh, he would be the most impulsive man she’d ever known. ‘Trust your silences. How am I to—?’
He kissed her. Soundly. Thoroughly. With no more thought of plots and schemes, she dropped the book from her lap to the floor, kicked the scrolls off the bed and kissed him right back.
* * *
If you enjoyed this story, be sure to read
the previous books in Nicole Locke’s
Lovers and Legends miniseries
The Knight’s Broken Promise
Her Enemy Highlander
The Highland Laird’s Bride
In Debt to the Enemy Lord
The Knight’s Scarred Maiden
Her Christmas Knight
Reclaimed by the Knight
Her Dark Knight’s Redemption
Captured by Her Enemy Knight
The Maiden and the Mercenary
Keep reading for an excerpt from A Viscount to Save Her Reputation by Helen Dickson.
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A Viscount to Save Her Reputation
by Helen Dickson
Chapter One
1816
Lucy had been summoned to Miss Brody’s study at the Academy for Young Ladies, at a loss to guess at the reason. Of medium height and as slender as a wand, she hurried along the corridor. The Spanish blood from her mother was evident in her dark eyes and dark curling hair and passionate nature. She had attempted to scrape her hair back into a ribbon at the nape without much success. The effect was softened by several escaping stray curls brushing her cheeks.
She had been born and raised at Aspendale, her father’s ranch in Louisiana, but when her mother had died when she was nine years old, her father, a man of unimaginable wealth, had sent her to England to receive her education and to learn to be a lady. Lucy adored her tall, golden-haired father and had wept copious tears on the ship that had brought her to England. He had made Lady Caroline Sutton, who had been her mother’s closest friend and Lucy’s godmother, her official guardian for the time she was in England. Lucy would stay with her at her house on Curzon Street when not at the academy.
Miss Brody, the proprietress of the academy for the past twenty years, was a tall, stately woman. Her greying hair crowned a lined, intelligent face and shrewd grey eyes. Her graceful movements, calm features and soft voice disguised a formidable efficiency and energy. She put all her great emphasis on learning an
d devoted all her time to crusading for the education of women. She ran her academy efficiently and employed only the best teachers. She was seated at her desk, her head bent over a letter. Looking up when Lucy entered, she smiled, but Lucy noted the concern on her face and the frown that furrowed her brow.
‘Come and sit down, Lucy. I have received a letter from your father and wanted to make you aware of its contents straight away.’
Lucy sank on to a hard wooden chair in front of the desk, sitting stiff and straight-backed on the edge. The summer sun shining through the window fell on Lucy’s face, illuminating her fine skin to a soft shade of golden honey and lighting the brown eyes with a luminous quality. She had a natural poise and unaffected warmth, and at that moment an air of seriousness as she waited for Miss Brody to proceed. ‘He is aware that your time at the academy is almost over—indeed, you have taken advantage of all the academy has to offer and excelled admirably in all your studies. Your father is extremely proud of you and has made arrangements for your future.’
Lucy’s heart leapt with sudden hope that he had arranged for her to go home. ‘Am I to return to Louisiana?’
‘No—at least not immediately. He—he has arranged for you to be married, Lucy.’
‘Married!’ Lucy gasped, so taken aback that her façade of dignity dropped and for a split second she felt like a bewildered child. ‘But I don’t want to get married—not to anyone.’
She wanted to scream at Miss Brody that she was too young, that when she did marry it would be to a man of her choosing. But she had learned some self-control, taught her by this very woman, so she folded her hands in front of her. She looked the perfect image of piety and humility as she looked guilelessly into Miss Brody’s narrowed, watching eyes, but Miss Brody knew better and would not be misled by her show of meekness that for the present concealed her recalcitrant nature.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Brody.’
‘You should be. You must learn to guard that tongue of yours.’
‘Yes—but I have no desire to be married.’ Reckless, in spite of Miss Brody’s reproachful look, she cried out, ‘I will not be forced into this. I will write to my father and explain how I feel. He will not make me do this—to—to marry a complete stranger. Why? There has to be more to this.’
Miss Brody had always been extremely sympathetic to the trials and tribulations of all her pupils and in particular this young lady who was so far from her home in America. But on this matter, on a direct instruction from her father, then she must support that. ‘I realise that the letter from your father has come as something of a shock, Lucy, and you will need time to adjust, but he is acting within his rights. Since Lady Sutton is on an extensive stay in France and not expected back for at least another month at least, your stepmother, Mrs Walsh, will be here shortly. She is looking forward to meeting you. She will be taking a house in London. You are to go to her there. As your father’s wife she will undertake your chaperonage and take full charge of the marriage proceedings.’
‘But—she is not a blood relative of mine. I have never met her.’ In spite of all her efforts, she found that she could not check her wild, resentful thoughts. They flew around in her mind like bird wings beating against the bars of a cage. She felt a trap closing around her and she endured a nauseating turmoil of distress. ‘And—and this man he wants me to marry—does he have a name?’
‘Your father writes that he is Mark Barrington—a friend of his and your stepmother and also a ranch owner in Louisiana.’
‘I see. Then—what is he doing in England?’
‘He is coming to London on affairs of business. I dare say he will return to Louisiana when they have been settled and you are married.’
‘But—my godmother, Aunt Caroline, has arranged for me to remain here at the academy until she returns or sends someone to escort me to Paris where she will be expecting me.’
‘Then I will write to her and explain everything.’
* * *
As Miss Brody returned to her work Lucy made her way to the garden, which was quiet at this time of day when classes were in full sway. She would have returned to her lesson, but her knees were shaking so violently that she had to sit herself down on a bench. She was so angry that she could hardly think straight. The letter from her father filled her mind, obliterating everything else. Tension vibrated in her highly strung body and her hands, instead of being clasped demurely in front of her, were now clenched by her sides in a passion of anger. Her large, brown eyes, flecked with gold, were stormy. No matter how hard her teachers had tried to instil discipline in her, they had failed to cleanse her mind of rebellious thoughts. There was no sign of resignation, obedience and humility in her now.
She had hoped for so much on leaving the academy. She and her godmother had talked of her debut and of the balls she would attend, the travelling they would do together—France, Italy and Spain—but all she felt was betrayed and led down by her own father, and she had not even left the academy.
As an only child she had been her father’s pride and joy and he had given her anything she wished for, so why was he doing this to her? Without being consulted or offered the choice, she was to marry a man she had never even heard of. Because of circumstances was she any less her own person because she was a woman under her father’s domination and because she had a mind of her own and a will to go with it? She was eighteen years old with her whole life in front of her, a future of excitement and new experiences. And now, without warning, the exciting future she had hoped for was being snatched away from her.
She found herself wondering what kind of woman her stepmother was. From her father’s letters she knew her name was Sofia and that he had met her on a visit to New Orleans. They had married after a short courtship. There must be something endearing about her to have captivated her ageing father. But Lucy felt nervous about meeting her. How would they react to each other when they met?
* * *
Broughton Fair was a tremendous social event, when the close-knit families of the surrounding countryside came together to enjoy and revel in the two days of festivities. It was also of economic importance, for livestock and farm produce were brought in from nearby farms and villages to be sold, and wandering gypsies came in gaily painted caravans, positioning them in fields adjacent to the fairground. Fairgoers would go and have their palms read and buy good luck charms. There was music and dancing and games to play with the riotous children. It was a colourful, exciting affair and everyone could forget their troubles for a while and enjoy what was on offer.
It was mid-afternoon when some of the girls from the academy were allowed out to attend the fair. Miss Hope, one of the teachers at the academy who was in her middle years and sadly overweight, was in charge of them, which she found tiresome at the best of times. Having found herself a comfortable bench in the shade of a leafy elm, she had soon dozed off, unaware of the mischief her young charges got up to.
Lucy was with her friend Emma. Missing her Louisiana home, Emma had been her salvation when she had arrived at the academy. She had entered Lucy’s life like a shining light. They often quarrelled, but this did not spoil their friendship. They talked with the easy camaraderie of kindred spirits and would be eternally united by girlhood memories. Emma charmed all her companions and could not be found wanting in those accomplishments that characterise a young lady. She was so very different to Lucy. Emma was petite with a profusion of golden curls, cornflower-blue eyes and was sweet tempered, whereas Lucy was slightly taller and exotic with her darker hair and creamy complexion.
Dressed in identical blue skirts and white blouses, which marked them as pupils at the academy, lying on the grass on the edge of the crowd beneath a warm July sun, with the appetising aroma of cooked food filling the air, they were discussing the letter Lucy’s father had sent to Miss Brody. Emma was a dreadful romantic at heart, and was of the opinion that Lucy was lucky to find herself in a situ
ation where she was to marry and had immediately launched into a torrent of questions.
‘You might not be so displeased when you see him. Your father might have made a good choice. And he’s to come to England. Perhaps he’s impatient to take a look at his bride.’
Emma’s words weren’t meant to provoke Lucy, but they did just that. ‘Really, Emma! Are you saying that I should be grateful to my father for choosing my husband? I am eighteen years old and not ready to be married off. When I leave the academy I want to have some fun and enjoy myself. I don’t care how rich he is or how handsome, I don’t want to meet him. I have every intention of foiling their arrangements. I absolutely will not marry yet. There are more important things in life.’
Emma sighed, sitting up and picking a bonbon out of a box she had purchased from one of the stalls. ‘I don’t know what. I hope my papa soon finds me a husband—a handsome one, of course. I wouldn’t want to marry an ugly man,’ she said, popping the bonbon in her mouth and proceeding to lick her sticky fingers.
‘I’m sure he will, Emma. Men find you attractive and the way you flirt with them is quite shameless. You’ll soon have yourself a husband—although,’ she said, as she watched Emma’s soft pink lips close around the sugary sweet, ‘if you carry on eating those bonbons like that you’ll become so fat you’ll put them off.’
‘No, I won’t. I don’t intend to get fat. But what will you do when you meet with your stepmother and this gentleman your father wants you to marry? You can’t very well ignore him. He’s not going to go away after travelling all the way from Louisiana.’
‘I know.’ Lucy frowned. She would have to give it careful thought. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll think about what to do when I reach London.’ Sitting up, she brushed the stray pieces of grass from her skirt. ‘I wish you were coming with me, Emma. I’m going to miss you when we leave here.’