A Night Without Stars

by Jillian Eaton

  “Bran! Look out!” Her cry of warning echoed through the small bedchamber when the Slasher removed a smaller knife from the inside of his coat. Bran, thinking his opponent had been disarmed, was caught off guard and he grunted in pain when the sharp blade buried itself between his ribs.

  “To hell with this.” Staggering to his feet, he yanked out a pistol and drew back the hammer. The first shot was deafening and caught the Slasher in the shoulder. “I hope that hurt, ye bloody bastard.”

  His eyes wild, his mouth contorted in a hideous snarl that was more demon than man, the Slasher turned…and threw himself out the window.

  “Bran!” Ignoring the shards of glass covering the floor, Lilly ran to Bran and threw her arms around him. Wincing only slightly when she accidentally brushed against the knife that was still protruding from his side, he wrapped her in a tight embrace.

  For the span of a dozen heartbeats they simply held onto one another, rocking from side to side as they realized how close they’d each come to losing what could never be replaced. Bran was the first to step back.

  “Are ye hurt? Did he hurt ye?” Looking her up and down, his eyes flashed when he saw the blood trickling from the tiny cut beneath her collarbone. “I’m going to tear him limb from limb,” he snarled as he started towards the window. Clinging to his arm for dear life, Lilly struggled to hold him back.

  “No. No, don’t go after him. Please. I just – I just want to go home,” she implored. “Let the Runners deal with it. Please, Bran. Just take me home.”

  He looked back at her, and whatever he saw caused his expression to soften and the fury to fade from his eyes. “All right, love. Let’s go home.”

  Even though she told him he was being ridiculous, that he’d been the one who had been stabbed, not her, Bran insisted on carrying Lilly up the stairs and laying her gently on his bed. Pausing only to light a candle and set it on a nearby table, he stretched out beside her and immediately pulled her into his arms.

  “I’ve missed this,” he said huskily.

  “I’ve missed you,” Lilly whispered, tipping her head back in order to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry it took all this to make me realize how much.”

  “Ye have nothing to apologize for, love.” He placed a tender kiss on her brow. “Ye never did.”

  Lilly’s mouth curved in a rueful smile. “As much as I’d like to think I was that perfect, the truth is…the truth is I’ve been afraid.”

  “Of the Slasher?” He brushed a curl behind her ear. “Ye don’t have to fear him ever again, love.”

  “Well yes, of course the Slasher, but what frightened me even more was falling in love. After…after Doyle left, I thought my entire life had ended. But then I met you, and I realized my life was only beginning. It scared me, to realize that if I allowed myself to love you I would be risking my heart all over again.”

  “And I hurt ye,” Bran said grimly, “just as ye feared I would.”

  “You did,” she acknowledged. “But now that I understand why you did, I can forgive you. More than that, I can thank you. If not for our time apart, I might have never realized how important you were to me. How important you are to me. I love you, Bran.” She smiled up at him. “I think a part of me fell in love with you on the night that we met, and a part of me remained in love with you all of those months we were apart. But now I want more than a part. I want everything. Both the good and the bad. The easy and the hard. The simple and the complicated.”

  “Do ye know how happy that makes me to hear ye say that?” Lowering his head, he claimed her lips in a long, slow, drugging kiss that made her toe curl. “I love ye as well, lass. More than I ever thought possible. Which is why I want ye to be my wife.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Your – your wife?”

  “Aye. I’ll be the first to admit ye do make a fine mistress. One of the best I’ve ever had, but–”

  “One of the best?” she interrupted, arching a brow.

  He grinned wolfishly. “The top five, at the very least.”

  “Bran Sullivan, you are a rake.”

  “I am indeed, love. So what do ye think about taking this rake as your husband?”

  “I think there’s nothing I would like better.” Smiling, she slipped her hands behind his neck and drew him down for another kiss.

  Epilogue

  “Well?” Steeping his hands on the edge of the table, Owen’s gaze traveled around it as he met each one of his men’s eyes in turn. After a night spent searching the entire city from top to bottom they were all filthy and exhausted. “Any sign of him?”

  Ian shook his head. “No, captain. I’m afraid not.”

  “He couldn’t have disappeared into thin air. He has a bullet in his shoulder, for God sakes, and most likely a broken leg from jumping out the damn window.” Grinding his teeth together in frustration, Owen poured himself a glass of whiskey before passing the bottle around the room. Everyone with the exception of Kent took a swig.

  At the far end of the table the Irishman sat wrapped in brooding silence, his eyes as dark as Owen had ever seen him. Poor bastard, he thought silently. Out of all of them Kent had the most personal reasons to want the Slasher dead. Owen had never met his young wife, but he knew she’d been pretty. One of the prettiest women in all of London.

  Until the Slasher got to her.

  “Get some rest,” he ordered. “We’ll regroup tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s it?” Kent demanded. It was the first time he’d spoken since Owen had convened the meeting. “You’re just giving up?”

  “No one’s giving up.” Grant Hargrave, Owen’s second-in-command, had returned from his honeymoon yesterday afternoon. He’d been away for the better part of two months, but from the instant he walked into Bow Street it was as if he’d never missed a day.

  “We need sleep and food, Kent.” Colin rubbed his hands down his face. “No use trying to go after the Slasher if we’re half dead on our feet.”

  “To hell with that.” Kent’s chair crashed to the floor as he stood up. “And to hell with all of you.”

  “Kent–” Colin began, but Owen shook his head.

  “Let him go,” he said. “He has to fight his own demons.”

  “And if he loses?” Grant asked.

  “Then heaven help us all.”

  Rest? The captain wanted him to rest?

  Bugger that, Kent thought as he ducked down an alley. He could rest when he was dead…or the Slasher was.

  They’d been so damn close he could smell the bastard’s blood on his hands. But once again, despite all the odds, he’d managed to slip away.

  The damned Slasher was like a cat with nine lives. Eventually, however, his luck going to run out…and Kent was determined to be there when he did.

  His thought as dark as the storm clouds rolling in off the Thames, he didn’t notice the carriage until it was too late. The driver shouted a warning and tried to rein in his team of horses, but one of them hit Kent square in the chest as he tried to lunge out of the way. Another struck his head with their hoof as he fell to the ground. He saw a flash of bright light…and then there was only darkness.

  “Do you think he’s dead?” Poking the dark-haired man with the tip of her parasol, Lady Amelia Tattershall crouched down to get a closer look. “He doesn’t look dead,” she decided after noting the shallow rise and fall of his chest. “Best put him in the carriage, Higgins.”

  “In the carriage, my lady?” her driver asked, visibly aghast that she would dare suggest such a thing.

  “Well we can’t just leave him here.” Rolling her eyes, she tapped her parasol against the tip of her boot as she watched Higgins and the footman struggle to lift the stranger. “Do be careful,” she cautioned as they more or less tossed him onto one of the velvet-lined seats. “Mother will have a fit if she finds blood on the upholstery again.”

  “Where do you want us to go?” Higgins asked.

  “Go?” Amelia blinked. “Why, I want you to go home, of c
ourse. Where else would we go?”

  “The nearest body of water?” her driver suggested.

  “Don’t be silly, Higgins. It’s obvious the man is still breathing. If he expires before we reach our destination then you can have him tossed in the ocean, but not before. Is that understood?”

  “Her Grace isn’t going to like this,” Higgins predicted ominously as he gathered the reins.

  “You’re probably right,” Amelia agreed cheerfully. “But then when does my mother like anything I do? Home, Higgins, and be quick about it.”

  Hopping into the carriage, she sat down across from her unconscious guest and regarded him with a bright smile. “Don’t worry. Higgins’ bark is worse than his bite. It’s Mother you really have to look out for. But what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, will it?”

  As the carriage lurched forward Amelia braced her feet on the floor to steady herself, her gaze never leaving the stranger’s pale face. He was certainly handsome, she decided. Bold slashing brows and high cheekbones that gave way to firm lips and a strong jaw. A layer of dark bristle clung to his chin and extended all the way down to his neck, giving him a rather piratical appearance…and making her wonder what he would look with an eye patch.

  “Dangerous,” she whispered, her gaze lighting with excitement.

  Just the sort of man she’d been searching for….

  About the Author

  Jillian Eaton grew up in Maine and now resides in Pennsylvania. When she isn't writing, Jillian is doing her best to keep up with her three very mischievous dogs. She loves horses, coffee, getting email from readers, ducks, and staying up late finishing a good book.

  She isn't very fond of doing laundry.

  www.jillianeaton.com

  Read on for an exclusive excerpt from Jillian’s next release, The Summer Duchess – available for preorder wherever ebooks are sold!

  The Summer Duchess

  A Duchess for All Seasons

  Chapter One

  The ton - which could never reach a general consensus on anything - agreed on two things. One, that Lady Georgiana was the most striking debutante in the past five years. And two, that it was such a shame her husband had died. Beauty, they unanimously agreed, was wasted on a widow. Although if anyone could make black work with their complexion, it was Georgiana.

  “That poor, poor family,” Lady Portia sighed dramatically. Blowing the steam off her tea, she took a careful sip before addressing her audience of one with an arched brow and a knowing smile. “Some people say they’re cursed, but of course I’ve never believed in such nonsense. Although one does begin to wonder, given who her brother married.”

  “I heard it’s a love match,” Lady Beatrice interceded.

  “Love?” Lady Portia’s second brow rose to join the first. “Why on heaven’s blessed green earth would a duke fall in love with a bluestocking?” She lowered her voice. “Everyone knows he married her to avoid a scandal.”

  “I don’t know…” Lady Beatrice said uncertainly. “They seemed very happy at Lord Kinnear's dinner party just last week.”

  “She keeps a rat in her pocket, Beatrice,” Lady Portia snapped.

  “Actually,” a dark-haired woman said pleasantly as she glided up to the two women and sat down across from them, “it’s a hedgehog.”

  “Lady Georgiana.” The malice that had crept into Lady Portia’s tone was instantly replaced with sugary sweetness as she sat up straighter in her chair. “I wasn’t aware you would be here this afternoon.”

  “Yes, well, now that my mourning has officially ended I have decided to resume my charitable activities.” Nodding at a maid to indicate she would like some tea, Georgiana patiently waited for a cup to be filled before adding a splash of cream and a sprinkling of sugar. Raising it to her lips, she met Portia’s gaze over the curved porcelain rim and smiled.

  It was a sharp sort of smile, the kind one used to silence crying children...or gossiping biddies who would do well to mind their own business. She and Portia may have made their Season debut together, but there was little love lost between the two women. Rivals from the first moment they’d both set their sights on the same man, they were always pleasant in public but rarely had a kind word to exchange in private.

  “How wonderful. Lady Newgate mentioned you’d returned to London. I am so very sorry I haven’t made the time to pay you a call.” Portia’s hand fluttered airily. “Between running the charity and the children, I have been impossibly busy.”

  “I’m sure,” Georgiana said demurely. “Well, hopefully with the Season drawing to a close at the end of the month you shall have more free time on your hands. Have you and Lord Dunlop made any plans for the summer?”

  “We will be going to Bath, of course.”

  “Of course.” Renowned for its healing waters, Bath was a premiere destination for members of the ton. One of the largest cities in all of England (with the exception of London, of course) its population quadrupled between the months of June and August. Personally, Georgiana had never cared to bathe in the same water as dozens of other women - no matter how magical it was supposed to be - but she was in the minority. The natural springs were said to cure all sorts of ailments, from infertility to gout, and the upper class paid a pretty penny to sit side by side like fish stuffed into a barrel.

  When Georgiana was married, she and her husband used to travel to Bath every year - he’d had a bad back from a fall off a horse as a young child - but since his death she’d yet to return, nor did she have any plans to. Particularly now that she knew Portia would be there.

  “And you, Beatrice?” she asked, directing her clear cut gaze to the mousy-haired woman sitting beside Portia. Blushing, Beatrice looked down at her lap and mumbled something indecipherable. “I’m sorry dear, I did not quite catch that.”

  “I said - I said my husband and I will be traveling to Wales to visit his mother. She has recently taken ill.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Please extend my best wishes for a quick recovery.” How quickly it all comes back, Georgiana reflected silently. The empty questions. The vague well wishes. The idle small chat. She had lived inside high society’s glittering bubble for the better part of five years - more, if she counted her time at boarding school - and she could count the number of meaningful conversations she’d had on one hand.

  Once she’d been content in her bubble. Happy to float along from one vapid social function to the next. But having glimpsed what existed outside of the clear glossy shell, she was finding it far emptier and constricting than she remembered.

  For that she blamed her sister-in-law Eleanor, the red-haired social misfit who had more in common with hedgehogs than people and had managed, against all odds, to do the impossible: bring the infallible Duke of Hawkridge to his knees. Contrary to whatever gossip was floating about, her brother and his wife were very happy. It was almost sickening, really. Like a fairytale brought to life. But if Derek and Eleanor were the blessed prince and princess, what did that make her?

  The wicked stepsister, Georgiana thought with a smirking curve of her lips. Destined to be surrounded by love, but never to have it for herself. There were worse things in life, she supposed as she refocused her attention on Portia. Like being a miserable, jealousy-ridden hag who took special delight in spreading vicious lies and rumors.

  “If you will excuse me, ladies, I believe I shall step outside for a bit of fresh air. It was so delightful to see you again. We’ll have to do this again very soon.” Her smile warming as it swept over Beatrice, she set down her tea and left the room as gracefully as she’d entered it, rose colored skirts fluttering silently in her wake.

  Bright afternoon sunlight reflected off the marble tiles in the foyer, causing Georgiana to squint as she tried to decide where to go next. Out into the back garden, where she would undoubtedly be forced to field question after question about her brother and his unusual choice for a bride? After a year and a half of marriage one would think the speculation would have died do
wn. And it most likely would have, if they’d continued living completely separate lives as any dutiful, well-behaved couple of the ton was expected to do. But then they’d had to go and fall head over heels in love with one another, openly defying all convention and sending the gossip mill into a tither the likes of which it hadn’t seen since Lady Bishop had been caught in the broom closet with her footman.

  If there was one good thing that had come out of their wedded bliss - aside from the sickeningly sweet glances - it was that everyone was so busy asking Georgiana about her brother that they’d completely forgotten about her husband. Some widows might have been insulted at the lack of attention, but she was grateful for it. Twelve months was more than enough time to mourn a man she’d quite liked but never loved, and she didn’t need his name dragged into every conversation...or the thinly veiled sympathetic glances that inevitably followed.

  Still, it was rather wearying to answer the same questions again and again. Which was why she was giving serious consideration to simply walking out and returning home...until the unmistakable clatter of hooves on cobblestone and the babble of excited feminine voices had her backing hastily away from the front door.

  Good Lord. Just how many women had her friend invited to her charitable luncheon? ‘A quiet affair of close friends’, she’d promised Georgiana when they’d met last week for tea. ‘It will be the perfect venue for a soft launch back into society.’

  Quiet affair my arse, Georgiana thought. There had to be nearly four dozen women in attendance, with more pouring in every second. What was supposed to be a private luncheon to discuss London’s poor had turned into a full-fledged high society affair. A regular who’s who of the ton’s female elite.