Rolling on to her stomach, she rested her arms on his chest and felt she had to question his frowning countenance. ‘You’re looking terribly fierce, my lord. Has something displeased you?’
‘We’re leaving.’
‘We are? And where are you taking me?’
‘Rockwood Park. I wish to be completely alone with my wife. We, my darling girl, are on our honeymoon. Grandfather has decided to remain in London with Amelia so we will have Rockwood Park all to ourselves—for at least two weeks.’
‘Alone?’ she murmured, preoccupied with the matt of hairs on his chest as she attempted to curl some of them round her finger. ‘And how do you suggest we pass the time?’
‘There are lots of things we can do. We could go walking or riding, or...should the weather turn against us, we could play cards—which I am very good at—as you already know—or chess, we could play chess. Do you play?’
‘Yes. I am quite good at it.’
‘So am I—as I am at a number of things, which brings me back to how to occupy our time. We could make love...’
‘Which you are also good at.’ He grinned. ‘Of which you have had plenty of practice, whereas I...’
‘Need to be taught.’
‘Since it is the only thing I cannot compete at, then I shall be happy to accept your tuition. I’m a fast learner and how will I learn if I don’t practise?’ she teased. ‘When do we start?’
* * * * *
WE HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS BOOK FROM
Your romantic escape to the past.
Be seduced by the grandeur, drama and sumptuous detail of romances set in long-ago eras!
6 NEW BOOKS AVAILABLE EVERY MONTH!
Love Harlequin romance?
DISCOVER.
Be the first to find out about promotions, news and exclusive content!
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
Instagram.com/HarlequinBooks
Pinterest.com/HarlequinBooks
ReaderService.com
EXPLORE.
Sign up for the Harlequin e-newsletter and download a free book from any series at
TryHarlequin.com
CONNECT.
Join our Harlequin community to share your thoughts and connect with other romance readers!
Facebook.com/groups/HarlequinConnection
ISBN-13: 9781488071973
A Viscount to Save Her Reputation
Copyright © 2021 by Helen Dickson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
For questions and comments about the quality of this book, please contact us at [email protected].
Harlequin Enterprises ULC
22 Adelaide St. West, 40th Floor
Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada
www.Harlequin.com
“Balthus,” she said.
The man stepped forward and shadows scattered.
It was indeed the youngest Warstone, though he had greatly changed since Séverine had last properly seen him the day of the engagement announcement. That one tentative moment when she had turned her head and caught him staring at her. That odd singular time when she had returned his stare. That moment before an icy hand manacled her wrist and wrenched her away from a life she thought she would be living to something else entirely.
She thought she’d exaggerated that moment, but he was here, and she felt the hitch in her chest again.
He was beautiful, like all the Warstone brothers. Dark hair, gray eyes, chiseled cheekbones and a cut jawline; features softened by ridiculously long lashes and lips that were upturned just at the corners as if he was internally amused. He had the assurance of wealth and power, and the knowledge that with either precise kindness or cruel malice, he could have anything he wanted.
This boy-turned-man was indeed of that loathsome family, but there had always been something different with him, and she was again slammed with that realization. She greatly resented it.
Author Note
When I started writing this series, Balthus of Warstone, one of four brothers, wasn’t supposed to live. Only one, Reynold, who broke away from the family, was noble enough not to be corrupted by his massacre-loving parents. (Why can’t I write happy stories!) However, at the end of Her Dark Knight’s Redemption, Reynold couldn’t kill his brother Balthus. I laughed and wondered if it was because Reynold had reached his HEA, so he was in a much better mood.
Thus, not appreciating what was going on with these Warstones, I let Balthus into another story, The Maiden and the Mercenary, and then it was revealed why he couldn’t die. He’s a reluctant hero...my very favorite kind.
However, under no circumstances could an innocent-in-the-ways-of-the-world woman take on Balthus and his broken views on life. Enter Séverine, a woman who lived with his vile parents and who will do anything to protect her two children from danger...which most definitely includes Balthus, her brother-in-law. And while she thinks Ian, the husband she ran away from, is alive, Balthus knows his older brother is dead. Yep, when he finally reveals that truth, it won’t go well for him.
Which begs the question, can a single moment, one small smile shared between them when they were much younger, be enough for them to find their happily-ever-after?
The Knight’s Runaway Maiden
Nicole Locke
Nicole Locke discovered her first romance novels in her grandmother’s closet, where they were secretly hidden. Convinced that books that were hidden must be better than those that weren’t, Nicole greedily read them. It was only natural for her to start writing them—but now not so secretly.
Books by Nicole Locke
Harlequin Historical
The Lochmore Legacy
Secrets of a Highland Warrior
Lovers and Legends
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
The Knight’s Runaway Maiden
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com for more titles.
To my family, extended and close. To my aunts and uncles, cousins, nephews and nieces, who kept me company during the many days of writing. Who fed, watered, sheltered and took me out on walks. Thank you for sharing yourselves, your homes, and just, well, being there like family. Love you all very much.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
CHAPTER ONE
France, 1297
‘I must confess, Séverine, your living here like this was...unexpected.’
Séverine of Warstone, once Séverine de Marteldois, the name she secretly still called herself, slowly stood from her hunched position stacking kindling and hoped the shadows in the woodcutter’s hut hid her reaction. It wasn’t the use of her true name that alerted her to a threat. Nor the fact that she had been identified despite her poor gown, the ash brushed through her tightly bound hair, and the vigilantly patted sheep dung around her ankles.
No, her imminent endangerment came through the carefully cultivated construction of that sentence. Just a few words purposefully measured in a cadence to exploit fear.
Ian of Warstone only used that tone of voice when he was about to strike. The tenor was different, but the control of it was the same, as was her reaction. That cold Warstone voice had always crystallised dread like hoarfrost along her spine.
Only now it was terror that stopped her. Because of what she had done to him and his family. Because of the punishment that would be enacted, the torture, the public rebukes. The certain lifetime confinement.
Because she had fled and disappeared from Ian of Warstone, her husband, and he would leave her with no merciful choices. Not that she expected any. After all, she’d stolen coin, priceless artefacts...his two only sons.
Running and hiding, actions she had effectively done for almost six weary years, were futile with him this close. Ian of Warstone, the eldest child of one of the few families feared by monarchs, kingdoms and emperors, had found her. He’d seize her before she took one step away.
Her life was forfeit, now she had to protect her sons. His sons. As long as no harm came to them, she would do whatever was necessary. In truth, she’d hidden from him far longer than she’d expected to. Long enough to avoid her sons from becoming the monster their father was. If fortune favoured her at all, it would always be so. For now, she would face the consequences. If only...
But the slight uneven scrape of his boot against the ill-swept floor indicated that the figure behind her was not a figment of her nightmares. However, his presence was curious.
Warstones weren’t known for being quite so impulsive. Ian would have secured her by now. Never would he have announced himself first when there were two doors to the outside and one was near her.
There was also something about his step that was odd. Every one of his family was uncommonly graceful. Her husband’s lone faltering step was almost alarming...but heartening. Was running possible? Perhaps he was injured and too slow to catch her. But...her children. She knew where they should be, but there was no certainty, and there was no risking them. Not ever, no matter what would happen to her.
Thus, Séverine, with a bundle of sticks cradled in her arms, turned to face a fate that was never meant to be hers. Only to be mired in more obscurity than her thoughts.
She was correct that the shadows hid expressions—it certainly hid her husband’s. The light from the opened door behind him outlined the man he’d become in the years since she’d seen him.
He had always been broad, but there was something more substantial about his shoulders; something entirely different in the way he held himself. More raw than elegant.
‘Ian,’ she said.
He inhaled sharply, as if she’d said something surprising or painful. He took another step inside the building. The light behind him receded, allowing her to discern almost familiar cheekbones and long lashes framing eyes below a lowered brow. The light didn’t allow for his distinct colouring, other than to see his hair’s natural waves edging along his nape, and that it was still as dark as midnight.
Warstones were always dark.
She remembered the first time she had seen that family at her eldest sister’s lavish betrothal announcement. Séverine had never cared for spectacle, but she did like to observe and listen. And many a jest had been made that day that there were four Warstone brothers for four Marteldois sisters. When she’d first overheard it, Séverine had had to cover up her snort with a quick cough. Though her sisters were expected to make advantageous marriages, as any royal member would, Séverine had had no such desire for herself.
Her father, ever indulgent, had agreed. After all, she was far younger than her sisters, and not the prettiest. She was also...different. Her penchant for snorting, scoffing and giving any sort of reaction at all was one of them.
Further, she had eschewed any knowledge of household management and fripperies. Instead, she’d enjoyed hiding in private chambers with her needlepoint, or meandering in abbeys to steal glimpses at books. While her sisters had conducted their lessons as if they were insignificant social gatherings, Séverine had badgered her tutors until they had begged her to stop her questions.
She was fortunate. Her family were great patrons of the arts and music, and her enthusiasm had been encouraged. No, a husband was not for her. The life in the abbey was the one she wanted.
And one she was denied by her husband, Ian, who had originally been meant for her sister, Beatrice, but who had demanded her hand instead. A man who was not the one in front of her.
She clutched the kindling in her arm. ‘Who...?’
‘Not Guy,’ he said with malicious amusement.
No, not Guy. She heard he’d met a violent death a few years before by some men he had crossed. Such a demise had always been a plausible end to the second eldest Warstone brother.
Not Ian, or Guy. He certainly wasn’t the father or Reynold, the third brother, who had always been singular. He was far too strategic a warrior to limit his sword range by entering a small woodshed. That left the youngest Warstone brother...
‘Balthus,’ she said.
The man stepped forward, and shadows scattered.
It was indeed the youngest Warstone, though he had greatly changed since she’d last properly seen him the day of the betrothal announcement. That one tentative moment when she had turned her head and caught him staring at her. That odd singular time when she had, because she’d been either perplexed or bemused...or perhaps embarrassed or equally arrested, returned his stare. That moment before an icy hand had manacled her wrist and wrenched her away from a life she’d thought she would be living to something else entirely.
Balthus was truly here in front of her. Over the years she had imagined that moment that had stretched before them until something had warmed her chest, and she had felt herself leaning towards him. Until his mouth had curved at the corner, and her heart had hammered, waiting for his smile. Snatched away too soon, she’d waited forever.
She’d thought she’d exaggerated that moment, but he was here, and she felt the hitch in her chest all over again.
He was beautiful, like all the Warstone brothers were beautiful. Dark hair, grey eyes, chiselled cheekbones and a cut jawline, features softened by ridiculously long lashes and lips that were upturned just at the corners as if he was internally amused. He had the assurance of wealth, power and the intimate knowledge that with either precise kindness or cruel malice he could have anything he wanted.
This boy turned man was indeed of that loathsome family, but there had always been something different about him, and she was again slammed with that realisation. She greatly resented it.
* * *
Almost six years since she’d disappeared from his brother’s life, many more years since she’d disappeared from his...if it was possible to say she had ever been part of his. Yet two memories of Séverine struck Balthus.
Her smile was his earliest memory of her. All encompassing, lighting up the darkest spaces in a young man’s soul. He’d never seen a woman smile with joy like she did, and for an entire day at his brother’s betrothal celebration, while people had knowingly alluded that the youngest sister was for him, he couldn’t stop staring at her, and when she’d turned...when she
’d looked back at him...he’d imagined his life illuminated by such bright happiness.
Until his brother had strode across the great hall and announced it wasn’t Beatrice he desired, but the youngest sister, Séverine. So with swift change of mind, and change of fate, the young maid who’d carried joy had become his brother’s unintended wife.
Many years had passed since then, but now he had two memories that would torture his dreams...when he dared have them. That smile, and his last memory of her, the way she, at this very moment, said his name.
‘Do you need help with the kindling?’ he asked, indicating with his chin.
Jumping back from him, some of the sticks in her arms fell to the floor. A step or two more, and he bent to pick them up, but her quick step back warned him, and he straightened immediately.
‘Clever,’ he said, feeling familiar yet unwanted suspicion slither down his chest as he registered her attempt to trick him. ‘Let the man pick up the kindling while you take the other exit and escape.’
‘I wasn’t—’
‘I don’t remember you being a liar.’
He didn’t care that she flinched at the word he’d used, and it didn’t matter if she lied or not. He certainly wasn’t here for any truth from her. He was here for a piece of parchment that she’d stolen from his brother. Given her history of running from his brother and taking Ian’s sons, him being lost in forfeited memories had no place here.
‘I don’t want to remember you at... What’s wrong with your arm?’ she said.
‘It is—’ He released his grip on his wrist and tucked both limbs under his cloak.
She’d noticed, even in the dim light of the wood hut, which he’d thought would hide his disfigurement from her. This day was both fortuitous and not. One, he’d finally found her, but now she knew his weakness. He hated it that he’d almost told her the truth, that his arm was agonising...it was agony. The pain made everything he did clumsy and ineffectual. At times, like now, simply walking jarred his entire body and caused him to stumble. The pain was meaningless compared to the veritable truth that his left hand had been severed a few months earlier.
Harlequin Historical May 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 45