His fist slammed into his thigh, his knuckles straining bright white. He spun away from her, his left hand running across his brow. “Pen, you almost died. Died.” He looked over his shoulder at her, his lips drawn to a severe line, his voice low thunder. “Died. You don’t know how many times I looked at you and your breath stopped and I thought that was it—you were gone. Every one of those moments crushed me. Crushed me into a place where I wasn’t about to go on without you. I cannot do—”
“No. Stop. You need to stop because I didn’t die. I am here. Alive. Death is just another cage that cannot hold me back from you.” She rounded him, setting her hand on his cheek.
His head jerked away from her touch.
She wouldn’t have it and moved in closer, her palm landing along his jaw, refusing to let him escape her. “If death comes, then death comes. That will not stop me from being where I’m meant to be—at your side.”
“No, it cannot—”
Her other hand went upward, capturing his face, making him look at her. “Here’s the harsh truth—the only way you could stop me from coming to you time and again when we were children was for you to break my heart.”
“Pen…” His eyes closed as he exhaled her name, the torture of that memory still haunting his face.
“But I am so much smarter than I was then. If I know anything, I know that.” She went up onto her toes, her face close to his where she could inhale the scent of him. “I know you’re never going to do that to me. You’re never going to hurt me again—break my heart—no matter the reason. So stick me in a house in London and I will escape it and find you. Stick me on the farthest Scottish isle and I will escape it and find you. I am with you, Strider. Against all your excuses. Against all your fears. I am with you. We make sense together, and that is the only place I will be.”
His eyes still closed, he cringed, her words wounding him. Wounding him for he realized the truth of them. She would always find him.
As much as it pained him, he would just have to accept it. She wasn’t about to let some foolish noble thought of protecting her separate them—steal more years away from them. And if he was smart, he’d realize that sooner rather than later.
Strained, his jaw shifted under her palms. His eyes opened to her and she saw the most glorious thing in his honey-brown irises.
Defeat.
A low growl escaped him. “You are impossible.”
“Yes. But I know where I belong. With you. With love.”
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight, desperate, to him. It aggravated her side, but she didn’t take pause at the stab of pain. His arms, the heat of him, took away everything that was wrong. They always had.
His mouth dropped to hers, kissing her, his lips soft, tender. Kissing her with the start of something new that didn’t demand urgency. Permanence. A future. Peace. All of it in his lips on hers.
He pulled up slightly, but didn’t release his iron hold on her. “I don’t deserve any of this—you—”
Her right thumb flicked in, pressing against his lips. “No, you do. Good caught up to you, Strider. For as hard as you ran from it. Good caught you.”
“No, you caught me.”
“I did.” She smiled at him. “When are we going to Scotland?”
“Scotland?” He shook his head, a wicked smile on his face. “I’m a duke now, Pen. I’m getting a special license and we’re getting married here as soon as I round up a clergyman.”
She laughed, leaning into his chest.
Finally, she was home. The home she was always meant to be in. The home in his arms.
She had her family back.
{ Epilogue }
You will be the best of men.
His mother’s voice, a whisper on the wind from the past, tickled his ear, and he paused in his steps, his stare on the pond just down the hill in front of him.
He wasn’t the best of men.
But he was trying.
Ever since Pen had shown up at the Den of Diablo four years past, he’d been trying. Righting what he could. Giving hope—the very hope that had eluded him for far too many of his years—where he could.
His strides had stopped, but that hadn’t gone unnoticed by the cherub-faced boy at the edge of the pond with rocks in his hand. Throwing the handful of pebbles all at once into the water, he tugged away from his mother’s hand and ran up the hill toward Strider, the chubby stubs of his legs slipping on the wet grass every third step and making Strider cringe in fear he’d tumble back down the hill.
“Papa, Papa, Papa.” The high pitch of his son’s voice cut over the buzz of all the other children near the water, the excitement in his voice so innocent it made Strider’s heart hurt for the sweetness of it. “Papa, Papa, Papa.”
Always the word repeated three times when his son was in full frenzy mode.
Wallace’s little strides crested the hill and Strider scooped him up into his arms and tousled his dark hair as he stared at the sparks of elation in his son’s green eyes.
“What is it, my heart?”
“Papa, Papa, Papa, Mama said yes. She said yes. Yes.”
He glanced past his son to where Pen stood by the water looking up at them. A vision in the soft yellow-orange rays of the evening sun, her left hand flattened on the top of the enormous mound of her belly. She wouldn’t be making the trek up the hill. But the smile on her face told him she was concocting something with their boy.
He looked to Wallace. “What did your mother say yes to?”
Both of his hands balled up into little fists, his entire arms shaking for the pure, uncontrolled excitement surging through him. “The archery field—she said yes. She said yes. I can go and learn arrows as long as you come with me. But only if you come with me. You will, won’t you? You will? I want to shoot. Please.”
Not so innocent, learning to maim something.
Strider stifled a chuckle, his left eyebrow cocking as he looked back down the hill to Pen.
The little bugger had worn her down. Or rather, their past had worn her down.
Pen hesitantly nodded her head in answer to his silent question. As unsure as she looked—opposite of the peaceful, loving and living-for-the-day woman she was—she could not deny the practicality of Wallace learning to shoot. The fear of uncertainty that had rooted into her when they were ten would always creep along the edges of her soul, a part of her. A part of him.
It was never too early to start learning how to protect oneself—learning how to survive.
Though both he and Pen fought it, the hard-learned instincts of their youth were difficult to squelch. It was only wise to prepare for any eventuality—including becoming proficient at shooting an arrow at a rabbit or squirrel if need be.
Strider looked at the cherub cheeks of his boy. For the last year he’d been begging for this, ever since he first saw the boys and girls practicing archery at the field on the west end of the Willows that had been designated as the practice grounds.
To Wallace it was a glorious game—the arrows whizzing through the air—all he could think about were dragons and knights and storming castles.
Strider prayed—would move heaven and earth—so that his boy would never lose the innocence of those thoughts.
He beamed back a smile at his son. “That I can do. I will be happy to teach you. You will be the surest shot in no time. And then you will be the one to teach all your tricks to your younger brother or sister.”
Looking to explode for the smile across his face, his little fists vibrated in front of him, unable to contain his excitement. “Thank you, Papa, thank you.”
Chuckling to himself, Strider let his boy slither down the ground and he grabbed his hand. “Now let’s go collect your mother.”
They walked down the hill, Wallace’s tiny hand clasped in his.
“Oh, and Papa, it is a younger brother.” His son looked up at him. “I am sure of it.”
Strider laughed. “Why do you think so?”
“I ha
d my hands on Mama’s belly earlier when he was kicking. I told him to kick twice if he was a girl and three times if he was a boy. And he kicked three times. Three.” He held his free hand up in the air, three of his fingers waving. “Mama says we are to be the best of friends. The best of men.”
“She is undoubtedly right.”
They reached Pen, and Wallace tugged his hand free from Strider’s grip, running off to play with the other children gathered at the edge of the pond skipping rocks. Wallace didn’t have the coordination for rock skipping quite yet, a fact that never stopped him.
There were nearly a hundred here now. A hundred children. And there would be so many more once the two new wings off the main house of the Willows were completed. He’d just finished discussions with the architect overseeing the project and he’d been promised the construction would be done before the cold of winter set in. It couldn’t be fast enough for Strider.
Lucky for them, the Willows was only an hour carriage ride away from the Leaven Manor, so they could visit often.
He stepped to Pen, kissing her brow as his left palm went flat onto her belly and his right fingertips rested along the back of her neck, tracing her spine. “You, my wife, are a genius.”
A smile as bright as the sun lit her face. “Truly? Do tell me more.”
“Turning the Willows into this.” His arm swung about him. “I never could have imagined the good that could have become of this estate.”
Pen looked around her. Scores of children played by the pond, the sounds of their laughter filling the air, a call to all angels to come out and play.
For how many of his investments he’d had to sell for propriety’s sake once the title was firmly back in place, the Willows was someplace he was never going to let go.
But it could evolve, and that it had.
The children at the Willows were all orphans, fighting for the barest existence in London’s rookeries. Fighting as hard as he and Pen once had to. But now they were here. The Willows was now their home, for as long as they needed it. And so many of the retired ladies from Strider’s old brothels had jumped at the chance to live there as caretakers—or they would travel from their cottages in Fifield to help every day. A purpose for them—so many of them had so much love in their hearts that they had never been able to shower upon anyone.
Pen slid her arm along his lower back, leaning into him and settling herself into the crook of his arm. Exactly where she belonged.
She looked up at him, her green eyes twinkling. “I may have imagined it, but you made it so, Strider. I think that makes you the genius.”
“We made it so.” His arm slipped to tighten along her shoulders. “It truly is the best use of the estate, as this is the one place I’m never letting go. This is where my forever with you started—truly began—and I’m never going to give it up.” He leaned down to kiss her, the cool of her lips turning heated far too quickly. Her mouth slipped open, her tongue tangling with his. Torture for his lower region. But he would never tire of these lips. Never.
It would be entirely more convenient for him at the moment if the babe wasn’t about to make an appearance any day. But for another child—boy or girl, he didn’t care—he would wait patiently, his trousers securely buttoned.
Pen wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was he.
He may not be the best of men, but he did have the best of women.
That alone made him the luckiest of men.
Valor. Honor. Courage. He was becoming reacquainted with those traits. Every deed he did, every thought he had, would honor his fortune until his dying day.
~ From K.J. Jackson ~
Thank you so much for reading! My next full book is about Juliet (she’s a super-scrappy lady with lots of secrets and she meets her match in a burly Scot looking for a fake fiancée. Oh, the tropes!). Wicked Exile, An Exile Novel is available now for preorder, but be sure to check out the sneak peek below.
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I found you and you found me—let’s not lose each other! Be sure to sign up for my VIP List for news of my next releases, sales and freebies. You’ll get my FREE starter library when you sign up!
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If you liked reading Exiled Duke, An Exile Novel, please consider leaving a brief review. You are awesome if you do, and the good karma will come back your way! I thank you so much!
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Don’t miss my other books
Historical Romance
If you haven’t already, be sure to check out my other historical romances—each is a stand-alone story and they can be read in any order (here they are in order of publication and series):
Hold Your Breath
Stone Devil Duke, currently free!
Unmasking the Marquess
My Captain, My Earl
Lords of Fate
Worth of a Duke
Earl of Destiny
Marquess of Fortune
Lords of Action
Vow
Promise
Oath
Revelry’s Tempest
Of Valor & Vice
Of Sin & Sanctuary
Of Risk & Redemption
To Capture a Rogue, A Logan’s Legends Novella
To Capture a Warrior, A Logan’s Legends Novella
The Devil in the Duke
Valor of Vinehill
The Iron Earl
The Wolf Duke
The Steel Rogue
Box of Draupnir
The Heart of an Earl
The Blood of a Baron
The Soul of a Rogue
Exile
Exiled Duke
Wicked Exile
Paranormal Romance
Flame Moon #1, currently free!
Triple Infinity, Flame Moon #2
Flux Flame, Flame Moon #3
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The sneak peek of the next in the Exile series, available on preorder now: Wicked Exile, An Exile Novel…
With the gash on his temple cleaned, Juliet looked down to the wound on Evan’s upper arm that had sliced through both his tailcoat and his shirt. She couldn’t discern how bad it was with the black of his coat, but along the rip of fabric there was the tell-tale matting of blood soaked into the wool.
She reached out with her left hand, her fingers tracing along the tear of the cloth on his upper arm. “I’ll need to look at this one as well. You need to take your coat and shirt off.”
She turned from him and went the bowl of water, dunking the washcloth to rinse the blood off his temple from it. Dunk, swish, squeeze, over and over. Ignoring the rustling of clothes leaving Evan’s body behind her, she kept her gaze on the water tinging pink in front of her.
Damn, but she was beginning to like the Scot.
Against all her ingrained instincts, she liked him. She could count on one hand the men she liked. Hoppler, Jasper, Talen Blackstone, and Egbert—though Egbert she liked for the goofiness that would escape him when he wasn’t busy doing the dirty work of the business they were in.
She couldn’t afford to like Evan.
And as much as she wanted to escape to Scotland with him for her own safety, he’d been hurt because of her. Unacceptable.
She needed to go back to the Den.
Juliet turned around to find him still sitting in the chair, but now he was naked from the waist up.
She hadn’t been wrong about the build of his body.
Wide and thick and solid muscle. Her mouth went dry. Still not conventionally handsome, but a pure, brawny man. Strong and brutal and yet kind. His damn kind eyes.
No. Since when did she look at a half-naked man and actually note the shape of his arms? The cut of muscles against his abdomen? The harsh line down the center of him that cut between mounds of strength? Never. She didn’t do it. Ever.
She needed to go back to London and never think on Evander Docherty again.
Gripping the rinsed cloth in her hand, she stepped across the room to him, resolve in her chest.
She dropped down to her knees next
to his chair, her stare refusing to veer off the cut along his upper arm. Longer and deeper than she had hoped. She cleared her throat. “All that said, my problems shouldn’t have affected you and I was wrong to leave with you on this journey. I need to go back—go back to the Den of Diablo and face it like I should have. I will figure out what to do—I have Jasper and Egbert and if I need to, I can involve Talen Blackstone.”
“Mr. Blackstone? Didn’t Jasper say he was a rival of Mr. Hoppler’s?”
“He is, and he isn’t. He’s useful when Hoppler isn’t available as he’s just as powerful.” She dragged a long swipe of the wet cloth against the cut. “It doesn’t matter. I will go back and deal with it. I never should have gotten you entangled.”
His head bobbed slightly up and down. “A bold plan, yes, but ye made a deal with me lass, and I need ye to uphold it.”
Her eyes lifted to his face. “Your grandfather?”
“Aye.”
Not what she wanted to hear. “But what if Lord Vontmour sends more men after me? I cannot have you hurt again because of me.”
“Ye think I’m afraid of a wee bit of danger?”
She rocked back onto her heels, looking him up and down as her arms clasped in front of her chest. “No. I suppose you are not. You are a wall. A very solid wall. By all rights the blade should have never breached past your iron skin.” She pointed to his arm. “But it did. And if the steel had been deeper? Or across your neck?”
“It wasn’t. So I put no importance on it.” He grabbed her raised hand pointing at his arm. “Not that ye want my opinion, but I think ye should make other plans for when our ruse ends. I dinnae think ye should ever step foot back in the Den again.”
Juliet forced a smile. So like a man. Not understanding there were so few choices for women like her. Best to direct the conversation elsewhere. She pulled her hand from his grip and lifted herself off her heels to continue dabbing at the wound along his arm. “I do apologize to woman you will marry someday.”
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