by C. J. Archer
He nodded. "In more detail, yes. All I want to say tonight is that Mother will be returning to Kent as soon as possible. But we’re staying in London. And I want you to keep working at Shawe’s. The old man needs you."
Now more than ever, she thought. She leaned into his warmth, relishing the feel of his powerful body. The anticipation of seeing it soon in all its beautiful nakedness quickened her pace. She felt safe, loved, desired. "I’m glad you finally see it my way."
"You’re a persuasive woman."
She smiled. "Let’s go make that baby."
THE END
A message from the author:
I hope you enjoyed reading HONOR BOUND as much as I enjoyed writing it. As an independent author, getting the word out about my book is vital to its success, so if you liked this book please consider telling your friends and writing a review at the store where you purchased it. My other ebooks, THE ADVENTURES OF MISS UPTON AND THE SKY PIRATE and THE MERCENARY'S PRICE, are also available for immediate download to your ereader. Book #2 in The Witchblade Chronicles, KISS OF ASH, is also now available. Read on for an excerpt. KISS OF ASH features Lord Ashbourne (Ash) from HONOR BOUND as the hero.
***Read on for an excerpt from KISS OF ASH***
Excerpt from KISS OF ASH (THE WITCHBLADE CHRONICLES BOOK #2)
CHAPTER 1
1583 – Berkshire, England
She would kill him.
Pippa Ingleside crumpled the documents in her fist and slammed them down on the desk, rattling quills and ink horns and her own fragile nerves. The swine! The thieving scoundrel! She'd known he was a black-hearted cur but to steal on such a grand scale was low indeed. She wouldn't have believed her uncle capable of it if the evidence wasn't written on those pages. And from his own niece too.
She flattened out the documents and scanned the figures on the first one again, then the second and third just to be sure. Anger rose with each page so that by the time she read the last one, she was almost blinded by sheer rage and the frustrating hopelessness of it all. It had been five years since she'd felt the same spirit-crushing emotions. Five long years that had slowly and consistently worn her down, drip by drip, until all that was left was a hole where something solid had been.
Then, as now, there was nothing she could do. That realization crushed her more than anything else. As Simon's ward she was completely at his mercy. As his prisoner, even more so. She could do nothing about his theft. She couldn't go to the authorities, couldn't appeal to another family member even if there were any.
Not long after her arrival, he'd locked her inside the confines of The Grange with only old Widow Dawson for company during the afternoons. But even that had been denied her after Pippa's two unsuccessful escape attempts. Although she'd never stopped looking for a means to get away, never stopped cursing her predicament, she'd always longed to know why. What did he gain by her trapped presence? He couldn't have been saving her for marriage because he never presented any candidates to her.
But now she knew. The documents had given her the answer.
"What are you doing in here?"
She stood so fast the chair she'd been sitting on fell back with a soft thud onto the rushes. Her uncle, filling the doorway with his bulk, glared at her. She gathered her wits and courage and prepared to confront him.
But he strode into the study and snatched the documents from her hand before she found her voice. "I said, what are you doing?"
He towered over her, anger making him seem bigger. He seethed with it. She'd never seen him so furious and her own rage subsided beneath the unnatural ferocity of his glare. Normally he did everything in such a controlled, cold manner. On the rare occasions he spoke to her, he never so much as raised his voice. He shouted at the servants regularly, even beat them sometimes, but to Pippa he was a silent, morose figure who avoided interacting with her. If it had been different, if he had funneled his infamous rages onto her, she could never have endured the last five years.
"Well?" His ruddy complexion had turned a violent mottled red, a stark contrast to the snow-white of his hair and beard. "Answer me, you stupid girl! What are you doing in my study?" He emphasized the "my" by smacking the rolled up pages against the palm of his hand.
"I, I..." Fear made her tongue useless. She watched the pages as they thumped into Simon's hand over and over, like a club he would use to hit something.
Hit her.
No, he wouldn't do it. He'd never laid a finger on her, even when she'd railed at him for weeks after informing her that she could never leave The Grange. Never receive callers, never receive friends. Never receive potential suitors. He hadn't used violence then and he wouldn't use it now, she was sure of it. For some reason, he thought physical force perfectly acceptable with his servants, but not with his niece. She supposed she should be grateful for small mercies. If nothing else, that knowledge gave her the courage to speak now.
"I was looking for some parchment for sketching." It was the truth. Or close to it. She had run out of parchment, but she'd been looking for the steward to ask him to fetch more when she realized her ever present guard was asleep and her uncle away for the afternoon. Ordinarily Widow Dawson never let Pippa out of her sight but she'd not turned up thanks to a chest cough that kept her abed. The sudden taste of freedom, and the yearning to discover the reason for her imprisonment, led her to her uncle's study.
"I found those instead." She nodded at the papers in his hand.
"You should never come in here. Ever!" He stepped closer, only an arm's length away. "This is my private study and these are my private papers. Do you understand me?"
"Perfectly." He must think her too dull-witted to have understood what she'd read. But then he had never taken much interest in her, before her father's death and especially after it. How could he possibly have known that her father had ensured his only child received a good education? And with nothing else to do during her imprisonment at The Grange, she'd devoured every book in her uncle's library, even the obscurest Greek poets. Widow Dawson had asked her friends and relations for reading material, but books were difficult to come by in Shelton. Simon's ignorance of his niece's education would prove to be his folly. She had a head for numbers and accounts, something her father had put to good use as his health failed in the year before his death.
"I understand that you have been stealing from me, Uncle." She would not let him get away with it. He might be her uncle and her guardian, but he was taking her money, her dowry. She might need it one day. She hadn't completely given up on being rescued by a knight in shining armor, although she had to admit knights, like books, were thin on the ground in Shelton.
"Stealing?" Simon snorted. With his round face and broad nose, the sound made him resemble a pig. "I'm merely taking what I am owed. Keeping you in the manner to which you have become accustomed is a costly business."
"Nonsense! It is clear from those figures that you are taking more than that. Much more. I demand an explanation. No, I demand every last penny be returned to me. With interest." Ha! Let him see what this stupid girl was capable of.
He stared at her. Then he burst into laughter. "Or you'll what?"
She flexed her fingers as an odd tingling sensation warmed them. It seemed to be emanating from deep within where her rage surged like a tide. She forced herself to remain calm. Anger would not solve this situation. It required clear thinking and calculated words. "I will get out of here one day, Uncle. And I can assure you, when I do, I will retrieve everything you owe me."
"With interest?" His laughter ended with snorts. "My girl, you know nothing of the world if you think you will ever get away from me. You seem to forget, you have nowhere to go. No family, no friends, not even the Widow Dawson would help you. She's too afraid of me. Everyone is too afraid of me in this county." He smacked his palm again with the papers.
"You are mistaken," she said with deliberate effort to keep her voice calm. "I have friends. You forget I had a full life before I came here. There are peop
le who would gladly help me." But even as she said it, she could think of only one.
Georgiana. Sweet Georgiana Dale had never given up trying to contact her even though all Pippa's correspondence, in or out, had been confiscated. Nearly two years ago, a sympathetic servant had risked a great deal to smuggle in a letter from Pippa's elderly friend. But it was the only one. There had been nothing since.
"If you manage to get out of The Grange," he went on as if she'd not spoken, "I can easily hunt you down and drag you back here. You will never leave. You and your land are mine."
The pool of rage surged again but this time she didn't check it. Couldn't. It was too fierce as it rushed through her body, along her arms and burst from her fingertips like bolts of lightening. She wasn't sure how it happened but suddenly the papers in her uncle's hand caught alight.
With a yelp, he dropped them onto the rushes and tried to stamp out the flames with his riding boots. But the pages scattered and Molly the house maid hadn't changed the rushes in too long. They were dry and the flames quickly spread across the floor.
"Fire!" her uncle shouted. "Fetch water! Fire!" He removed his cloak and swatted at the flames but it only served to fan them towards the curtains. "You witch," he yelled at her. "You did this. I'll see you hung for witchcraft, you filthy bitch." He returned to swatting the fire but fell back when the flames swallowed up the curtains.
Pippa watched in a kind of trance but her uncle's accusation was as good as a slap to her face. Oh God. She had caused the fire. She knew it as clearly as she could feel its heat on her face and smell the smoke.
But how...?
There was no time to consider the answer. The fire was rapidly consuming the study. Servants handed pails of water through the door but their efforts did nothing to dampen the flames. Her uncle had given up trying to put it out and was frantically rummaging through one of his coffers, its edges already smoldering. He shouted orders, barely heard above the roar of the fire, for valuables to be rescued. Servants abandoned their buckets and ran to either do his bidding or save themselves.
The thick smoke stung Pippa's eyes and filled her nose and mouth. Her chest ached. She couldn't breathe. She had to get out.
The door was wide open. Some servants remained to help Simon with his papers and books but most had vanished. No one seemed to take notice of her.
She ran. Out of the study, down two flights of stairs, past scurrying, hysterical servants, to the front door. She would leave through the main entrance this time, no backstairs with her guard on her heels.
No one on her heels at all.
She fled to the stables where grooms led horses out and away from the rapidly spreading fire. She could probably take one in the confusion but she wasn't dressed for riding and she'd not ridden in five years anyway. No doubt one of the frightened creatures would throw her before she even left the estate.
She would have to flee on foot. She changed direction and ran towards the gatehouse, hampered by her skirts. She lifted them and kept running. The steep pitched roof of the gatehouse loomed closer. People from the village streamed past her, carrying buckets and blankets. They jostled her but didn't seem to see her. She was dressed plainly and most had never even met her—no doubt they thought her a frightened servant fleeing to safety.
"Stop her!" Simon's command rose above the confusion.
She looked back. He stood near the stables, his arms full of ledgers and papers, his white lace ruff and cuffs blackened by soot. He kicked one of the serving boys racing past but the lad was too scared or too occupied to stop. Simon swore at him then looked around for someone else but no one seemed aware that their master needed them. Behind him, black smoke billowed from the study windows and two of the adjoining rooms. Servants threw valuable tapestries and painted cloths out of the other windows, but most got trampled beneath frantic feet.
Pippa continued running towards the gatehouse and the arched entrance to the estate. Almost there. Even though she knew Simon could recapture her beyond the gates, she still desperately wanted to reach them, wanted to taste the air on the other side.
"Stop!" Simon again, his voice hoarse. "Get back here, Witch!" When she didn't stop, he shouted, "I'll send the Witch Hunter after you."
She stumbled and fell, tearing her hose and scraping her knee. Simon's threat lingered in the air with the ash and smoke. Despite the warmth of the day, she felt cold to the bone.
Witch.
No. Not her. Surely not.
Yet she had caused the fire. She'd felt the force of it gathering within, felt the heat and power flood her body and blast from her fingertips.
Her stomach lurched. She wanted to throw up. There was no doubt—she was a witch. But...how?
She had no time to consider the answer to that. Two fat hands clamped down on her shoulders and drew her roughly out of the dirt. She looked up at her uncle and shrank back from his crazed glare. His fingers dug into her skin where shoulders met throat. A little higher and he would strangle her.
Pippa fought down panic and tried to control her breathing. "Let me go!"
"Allow my dear niece to abandon me?" He sneered, as if that were amusing. "Foolish girl." Without warning, he slapped her.
She gasped at the sting but refused to rub her cheek or check if he'd drawn blood with his rings. She wouldn't show weakness. Not to Simon. He fed on it. He wanted it. Her fear only made him feel more powerful and she would rather die than give him what he wanted.
"That was for running off." He raised his hand, laughing like a madman when she flinched in anticipation of the pain. "And this is for burning my house down." His hand curled into a fist.
Instinctively, she lifted her arm to block his blow. But she did more than merely stop him hitting her. With an explosion of power that seemed to emanate from her core, her arm connected with his and he flew through the air, landing some distance away on his back.
Dusty, sooty and sprawled in the dirt like a beggar, he stared up at her, fear imprinted in every feature. He was afraid of her.
Good Lord, the giddiness of it. The sheer pleasure of knowing that she could make a man like Simon Rowe afraid. It was intoxicating, heady and thoroughly exhilarating, like riding extremely fast in rough terrain.
But also very, very dangerous.
Thankfully no one had seen but she needed to be more careful in the future. If she didn't learn to control these strange new powers, she would find herself at the end of a noose.
Simon pointed a finger at her. "You...you...!"
"Witch?" she offered after making sure no one was within earshot. "Now will you let me go?"
He licked cracked lips. "Go if you dare. But I will set the Witch Hunter onto you. He will find you no matter where you go, and when he does, I'll not stop him from doing his job."
She backed away from the sheer venom in his voice. The Witch Hunter's self-appointed job was to kill witches. Kill them and obliterate every trace of them as if they never existed. Legend said he knew how to negate a witch's powers, making it easier to capture them. No one knew how he did it and no one knew what he did to the women afterwards, but rumors were rife. Some said he tortured the accused before killing them, others said he took his perverse sexual desires out on their bodies first.
Pippa swallowed and backed away. Simon stood and dusted himself off, watching her all the while. Despite wobbling legs, she turned and ran.
"You'll never find peace again!" he shouted after her. "He will hunt you down. You can't hide, my girl. He'll find you and your kind. He always does."
The sound of his mad laugh dogged her heels. She had to get away, had to run far enough and hide somewhere that not even the Witch Hunter would find her. But where? The man was said to be omniscient. He could find witches anywhere in England.
She tried desperately to think of somewhere and of someone who could help her. But she knew of only one person—Georgiana Dale—and one place. With a silent prayer of thanks to Georgiana for her kindly offer in that final letter, Pip
pa ran through the gatehouse and didn't look back.
***
2 Days Later
Even dressed in boys' clothes and perched half way up a tree just outside London's ancient walls, Pippa didn't feel safe. She wouldn't until she reached Ashbourne House and Georgiana Dale. She needed some of her mother's friend's calm wisdom to help her get far away from Simon. And the Witch Hunter. Especially the Witch Hunter.
Now, if only she could climb down, she could complete her journey. Without stiff skirts and a bodice, climbing the tree had been easy. Getting down was a different matter entirely.
She tried stretching her foot to reach the lowest branch but it was a few inches beyond her toes. How had she managed to get up in the first place? She'd taken no notice of her progress, too intent on climbing high enough to see over the row of buildings lining the northern side of The Strand. Her tree stood in a large field behind those houses and gardens. Ashbourne House lay beyond them on the other side of the busy thoroughfare into London proper.