The noise finally drew her attention. Faircloth was fighting with someone … Roger. Oh, thank God, Roger had come. She sobbed as she struggled to her knees. The left one gave out, still aching from the fall she took on the stairs at Manchester Square. She ached all over, but grasped the edge of the sofa and pulled herself up to a standing position just in time to see Faircloth hit Roger on the shoulder with something, and Roger going down on one knee. Faircloth ran, but not out of the room. Instead he hurried past her to a small secretary in the corner and yanked something from a drawer.
It was a gun. “Roger!” she screamed, but she knew it was too late. As Faircloth aimed, she lurched toward him and the gun went off. She felt a stinging pain in her arm but ignored it and threw herself on Faircloth, slamming into him so hard, they both went down, falling too close to the fire. There was a sickening sound, like air in a tunnel, and then her skirt was aflame, leaping over to Faircloth’s lacy jacket cuff and up his arm.
“Harry!” Roger yelled, dragging her away from the fire and rolling her around on the carpet, his hands batting out the flames. Faircloth rose to his feet behind them, screaming as he tried to rip his burning clothes off. Roger tucked her face into his shoulder, holding her there. “Don’t look!” he shouted.
She didn’t.
* * *
Mercy slept beside her. She hadn’t let him out of her sight since Wiley had brought him down the stairs at Faircloth’s the night before. She’d tried to take him in her arms but couldn’t, so Wiley had ridden home in the carriage with them, holding Mercy next to her.
Roger sat beside the bed, watching them sleep, his hands shaking. He’d almost lost her. Not just to Faircloth’s machinations, but she’d almost died. The bullet she’d taken for him could have done it, or the fire. But from what she’d said, she’d been suffocating when Faircloth held her down on the sofa as he tried to rape her. The Godforsaken bastard probably wouldn’t have noticed until it was too late.
He pulled an errant strand of her soft hair out of her eyelashes with his shaking hand, resisting the urge to touch the angry bruise on her cheek. Instead, he got up from the chair and wiped a hand over his sweating face. He never, ever wanted to see something like that again. When he’d seen the tableau that greeted him after he and Wiley together broke down Faircloth’s door, he’d been filled with a rage so profound that he’d wanted to kill. He’d tried, but Faircloth must have known this time he was fighting for his life. If it wasn’t for Harry, Roger would be dead right now.
“How is she?” Hil whispered from the bedroom doorway.
Roger motioned him out and then went to meet him in the hall. “Exhausted, sore. He beat her rather severely, and she has bruises, a swollen knee and elbow, and the gunshot wound, which was only a scratch, thank God.” He leaned weakly against the wall. “This is my fault.”
Hil shook his head. He looked as weary and guilt-ridden as Roger felt. “No, it is mine. I should have foreseen this. I met with him, I knew he was unbalanced. I should have known his mental state would result in something desperate. But I wanted to do things Lady Mercer’s way. I didn’t want to get the authorities involved. And I wanted you to save the day. Although I assumed by marriage, not that you’d actually have to save her life.” He looked at Roger apologetically. “It was a dangerous and foolish mistake.”
“Yes, Machiavelli, it was,” Roger snapped. “The next time you want a fellow to marry a girl, just tell him. You and your matchmaking.”
“I will,” Hil promised.
“I’m glad you showed up when you did,” Roger conceded. “How’s Faircloth?”
“Burned, bitter, ranting,” Hil said tiredly. “His father came and got him after Lavender went around there. He’s going to nurse him back to health in time for the trial, I suppose.”
“Harry doesn’t want a trial and neither do I. She’s been through enough.”
“Agreed. I’ll talk with the authorities and with Faircloth’s father. I think I can get them all to agree to send him away, preferably to Botany Bay. If not, Canada perhaps, or America.”
“I pity those places,” Roger said grimly, “but not Faircloth. And the other one? The one who had Mercy?”
“Ran, as Wiley said. Offered no resistance, just took off. Lavender says we’ll probably never find him. He most likely left with the tide. How are you?”
“Furious. Guilty. Sore.” He put a hand to his shoulder and rotated it painfully. “He got me with a cane.”
“Sloppy fighting,” Hil admonished. “How did you let him get a cane?”
“I was too busy trying to see if Harry had started breathing again,” Roger said peevishly. He stood away from the wall. “Look, where’s Wiley? I owe him.”
“I have repaid him,” Hil said drily. “He informed me to the penny what you owed.”
Roger was glad for the laughter that prompted. “That’s fine, then. He’s a good one, Hil. You were right.”
“Of course I was,” Hil said. “Tonight was an unfortunate exception to that rule.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Harry came awake slowly, luxuriating in the warm, soft covers of her bed. She started to roll over and was brought up short by aches and pains everywhere. “Oh,” she cried out with a hiss.
Immediately there was a hand on her forehead, brushing her hair back. “Are you all right?” Roger asked quietly.
She opened her eyes as he sat down on the bed beside her. He looked ragged. “How long have I been asleep?” she asked in dismay.
“Only a few hours,” Roger said, puzzled. “Why?”
“Well, you look as if you haven’t slept in days,” she chided him.
His grin was lopsided. “I haven’t, if you’ll remember correctly. Last night was supposed to be my night to catch up.”
She tried to sit up and Roger helped plump her pillows behind her back. She was so sore he had to practically lift her against them. “Where’s Mercy?” She actually wasn’t very worried. Roger was here and so she knew Mercy was safe.
“Wiley has him up in the nursery. He’s quite good with him. I suppose because he’s a father himself.”
“Sir Hilary told me. But he’s so young.”
“A very long story,” Roger said. “But Mercy is fine. We just didn’t want him to wake you.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry,” Roger said at the same time, then looked surprised. “Why?”
“What for?” she asked at the same time. They both laughed. “You first,” she said.
“I’m sorry. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t left you and Mercy unprotected.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she declared, indignant on his behalf. “This entire episode was Faircloth’s fault. We should never have had to be protected in the first place.”
“True,” Roger admitted, though it looked reluctant. “But I should have seen that he was desperate enough to try something like that.”
“Why? Because you are familiar with the ravings of syphilitic madmen?”
Roger looked horrified. “My God, he has the pox?”
She nodded. “Apparently. He told me he got it a year or so ago. In his madness he seems to think he’s cured.” She shivered. “If you hadn’t shown up, not only would he have …” She couldn’t finish that thought. “But I’d have it, too.”
Roger gathered her in his arms. “I can never be sorry enough.”
“Oh, please,” she said, “let’s not start out like that.”
He pushed her away gently, his hands on her shoulders. “Start out?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she said, fussing with the covers at her lap, smoothing them out. “Our marriage. It wouldn’t do at all to start out with you abjectly apologizing all the time. I wish us to be equal in all things, and I feel no need to apologize. So there, you must not either.”
He took a deep breath and reached for her hand, kissing the back of it before holding it in his against his leg. “Then I won’t do it, if you feel so strongly about it,” he s
aid. “After all, I don’t want to force you to do anything.”
She looked at him then, biting her lip as she tried not to cry. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Now, see here,” he said, exasperated. “You just told me I couldn’t say it.”
She gave a watery laugh. “I meant I was sorry for thinking, for even one moment, that you could ever be like Mercer or Faircloth. I know you’re not. I know that … that marriage to you will result in an abundance of benefits.”
“You’ve had a rough time of it,” Roger told her. “I understand that, believe me. After Rose, I never thought I’d trust another woman again.”
“Is she the woman you proposed to?” she asked hesitantly, not wanting to get Sir Hilary in trouble for telling her.
“Hmm, yes,” Roger said absently. “Didn’t I tell you about her?”
She shook her head. “No.”
He shrugged. “Well, that doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” he said. He smiled at her. “You are not Rose, and I am not Mercer. We are just Harry and Roger. And I do trust you, Harry.”
“Yes. Yes, we are,” she said. “And I trust you, too. Now, if you would go and fetch some tea. I’m starving.”
“I might be tempted to do that,” he said with a smile. “For a kiss.”
She readily complied, but then she didn’t get her tea for quite a while.
Reviewers have called Samantha Kane “an absolute marvel to read,” and “one of historical romance’s most erotic and sensuous authors.” Her books have been called “sinful,” “sensuous,” and “sizzling.” She won the Passionate Plume for best erotic historical in 2008, the Historical CAPA award from The Romance Studio in 2011, and has been nominated multiple times for Favorite Author at The Romance Studio. She was born in the Midwest, but now resides in North Carolina with her family.
THE EDITOR’S CORNER
Welcome to Loveswept!
I truly believe that one of the best things in life is spending long, leisurely days curled up with a book. Whether it’s a novel of erotic discovery and hidden desire like Stacey Kane’s scorching e-original CLAIMED, a sizzling small town romance like Elisabeth Barrett’s fourth e-original Star Harbor book, SLOW SUMMER BURN, or an electrifying story featuring hockey hunks like Toni Aleo’s contemporary e-original BLUE LINES … it’s a wonderful feeling to be transported to a new and exciting world … especially one filled with sexy heroes and vibrant heroines. Pick up these reads and lose yourself in romance and love.
And for more wonderful reads, don’t miss:
Sandra Chastain’s SURRENDER THE SHADOW – an enthralling classic of secrets and suspense; Katie Rose’s charming historical romance, COURTING TROUBLE – where an attorney and a determined suffragette butt heads; Adrienne Staff and Sally Goldbaum’s CRESCENDO – a sparkling story about a princely society man and his everyday princess; Iris Johansen’s blazing YORK, THE RENEGADE – where passion takes a man and woman on a wild ride in a rough-and-tumble mining town; and Ruth Owen’s BODY HEAT – an alluring tale of love, betrayal and murder.
If you love romance … then you’re ready to be Loveswept!
Gina Wachtel
Associate Publisher
P.S. Watch for these terrific Loveswept titles coming soon: September arrives with more timeless stories for you – Three enticing stories from Sandra Chastain, THE JUDGE AND THE GYPSY, FIREBRAND, and THE LAST DANCE, beloved author Iris Johansen’s THE DELANEY’S OF KILLAROO, Fran Baker’s enchanting SEEING STARS, Julie Ortolon’s irresistible DRIVE ME WILD as well as three original stories: another fantastic installment from Ruthie Knox’s ROMAN HOLIDAY serialized novel, Lauren Layne’s seductive AFTER THE KISS, and Mira Lyn Kelly’s sexy and sweet TRUTH OR DARE. October has more e-originals in store: Maggie McGinnis’s brilliant THE ACCIDENTAL COWGIRL, Megan Frampton’s sweltering WHAT NOT TO BARE, and Katie Rose’s delightful MISTLETOE AND MAGIC, as well as some wonderful reissues: Connie Brockway’s dazzling stories, DANGEROUS MAN and MY DEAREST ENERMY, Ellen Fisher’s memorable THE LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS, Ruth Owen’s riveting works, SMOOTH OPERATOR and SOMEONE TO WATCH OVER ME, Iris Johansen’s delicious ACROSS THE RIVER OF YESTERDAY, and three breathtaking books from Sandra Chastain, THE MORNING AFTER, FOR LOVE OF LACEY, and GABRIEL’S OUTLAW. Don’t miss any of these extraordinary reads. I promise that you’ll fall in love and treasure these stories for years to come.…
Read on for excerpts from more Loveswept titles …
Read on for an excerpt from Samantha Kane’s
The Devil’s Thief
London, June 5, 1817
Chapter One
The faint, metallic screech sounded as loud as thunder in the oppressive silence of the dark bedroom. Julianna froze, silhouetted by the moonlight against the back wall, the sudden noise stealing her breath away.
“Unless you care to be shot this evening, I wouldn’t move from where you’re standing.” The deep voice was quiet but firm and it came from the shadows of the big bed.
Julianna remained still as a statue, her mind awhirl. For a moment all was silent, but then she heard the bedsheets rustle and the mattress groan. She cast her eyes toward the bed, afraid to move even an inch. She could see from the man’s outline that he was now leaning against the headboard. His arm appeared to be resting on his upraised knee, but it was too dark to tell whether or not he was actually holding a gun.
“You’re probably wondering if I do indeed have a gun,” he said nonchalantly, and Julianna had to suppress a gasp. How did he know? She closed her eyes and pursed her lips in annoyance at herself. Of course he knew. It’s what any halfway intelligent person would be thinking if they were discovered in her position.
“Let me reassure you that the answer is yes.”
His reassurance was hardly necessary, since she had already concluded that to be the case. In her experience, gentlemen were alarmingly odd, at least in most respects, so it was no surprise that this one apparently slept with a gun. Given his wild and reckless reputation, it would perhaps be more surprising if he did not.
He snorted inelegantly from the bed, which amused Julianna in spite of the dangerous situation she was in. In that moment he didn’t sound at all like the Honorable Mr. Alasdair Sharp to whom she’d recently been introduced, but very much like an annoyed schoolmaster.
“Stand up, for God’s sake,” Mr. Sharp ordered from the bed. “You look like a caricature of a thief, hunched over and creeping along the wall.”
Julianna started to straighten and she heard another rustle from the bed.
“Slowly,” Mr. Sharp admonished, and she froze again for a moment before straightening very, very slowly.
“And now you must tell me what you found so irresistible in my bedroom in the middle of the night.”
Julianna heard the amusement in his voice and it irritated her. So he found her amusing, did he?
The slight weight in the secret pocket of her shirt burned into her side like a brand as she faced him. “Let me reassure you that it was the Stewart Pearl I found irresistible,” she retorted, “and nothing else.”
As soon as she spoke she could have bitten off her tongue. Why, oh why did she always open her mouth before thinking things through? Surely he would recognize her now.
“You’re a woman,” Mr. Sharp exclaimed in shock.
Julianna closed her eyes in despair at her own foolishness. If she had kept her mouth shut, he wouldn’t have figured that out so quickly, maybe not at all. She was dressed in dark trousers and a dark shirt, her hair pinned up. In the dark she was certain she could pass for a man. The waning crescent moon outside barely gave enough light for him to see her. Even though her outburst had given away her sex, she refused to confirm it by answering him. She was light-headed with relief that he had not recognized her voice.
“I thought you looked a little short for a man,” he mused, “but I imagined that you were an apprentice thief or some such thing. It never entered my head that you might be a woman.”
Julianna had to pre
ss her lips together not to make a disparaging comment about the contents of his head, since it was clear he had no idea who she was. It wouldn’t be wise in this situation, although it was her natural inclination.
“Cat got your tongue, Miss Thief?” he asked, and Julianna shivered. She was not afraid of him—rather, she was afraid that she was losing control of the situation and of herself.
He shoved the covers aside and rose from the bed, and Julianna almost squeaked in alarm. He was naked. The pale moonlight flowing through the open window fell across the floor at an angle, and as he stood next to the bed, the light shone on his very naked body, illuminating him from his flat stomach to his bare feet.
His face was still covered in shadow, but Julianna remembered it from the many times she had seen him leaving his house and walking down the street, not to mention the party she had attended the other night. Mr. Sharp was a descendent of the Stewarts, all right: tall, handsome, with a high forehead and spectacular blue eyes. He looked just as the eyewitness accounts had described Bonnie Prince Charlie. She should have known from his firm, pointed chin that he wouldn’t be an easy mark. But she’d been distracted by his silky blond curls and those eyes, not to mention the width of his shoulders. Oh, yes, and, more important, the Stewart Pearl. At the party she had barely been able to take her eyes off the famous pearl, which sat in solitary splendor in a glass case surrounded by candelabra—gleaming, pale, and round and begging to be stolen.
“So you want my pearl, do you?” he asked, his voice smooth and suggestive.
Julianna’s gaze darted up to his shadowed face, but she could see nothing. The anger and amusement in his voice, however, had been replaced by something else. Something that made her distinctly nervous, considering that he was naked and she was caught.
He slowly moved toward her. As he approached, she saw that he was indeed holding a pistol. She wasn’t all that knowledgeable about guns, but at that moment her primary concern was that the gun might contain a bullet, and she really did not care to be shot this evening. When he stopped in front of her, Julianna couldn’t take her eyes away from the gun.
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