Light to Valhalla

by Melissa Lynne Blue

“Mr. Reilly, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  “Top of the mornin’, milord.” The older man bowed respectfully. “A wounded man fitting the description of your John Halverson arrived in town just this very morn. Given the sensitive nature of the situation I rode in to collect you myself.”

  “Excellent. I’ll ride out straight away to question him.” Alex turned to the door and his gaze tangled with Charley’s.

  All color drained from her face and she swayed against the dark stained doorframe. He took half a step in her direction, more than ready to take her in his arms, and wash the fear from her eyes, but… he hesitated. After his accusations of impropriety she’d never welcome his advances. Time to leave her be.

  “Goodbye, Charley.”

  On the ride to town the cool morning air did little to cool Alex’s strained emotions. No matter what pressing matter lay at hand Charley consumed his thoughts both waking and sleeping and he was at a loss. She didn’t trust him, and he had painfully little time to gain her trust. To simply be honest with her about Witherspoon, and how he’d come by his sudden change of heart would probably be for the best except that accusations of murder would hardly instill confidence that he was a changed man.

  As the chimneys of the village came into view Alex trained his thoughts to the task before him. If the wounded man was indeed John Halverson he’d beat him within a bloody inch of his miserable life, find out who’d hired him to kidnap Charley, and then watch the bastard swing. He reigned in before the quaint stone cottage, ignoring the gaggle of gawkers cloying to the snow riddled yard.

  “This way, milord.” Mr. Reilly dismounted, hitched his horse and led the way into the house.

  Dim light contrasted with the bright white of the outside. Alex blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and followed the magistrate down a narrow, windowless hall. Mr. Reilly opened a scarred wooden door and Alex strode past him into the small bedroom. Light filtered through the wavy glass considerably more luminous than that in the rest of the house and there was no mistaking the man reclined on the bed, wrapped in a faded blue and red checkered quilt… John Halverson.

  Beady gray eyes looked up as Alex moved deeper into the room. “Him,” Halverson cried. “That’s the sum bitch what shot me.” His eyes shifted from side to side. “Cold blooded I tell ye.”

  “Is that so, Mr. Halverson?”

  “Names not Halverson. It’s Jennings.”

  Alex shook his head and turned to the magistrate. “This is one of the men who kidnapped my wife.”

  “I suspected as much. Mr. Jennings here wove quite the tale of being jumped by highwaymen.”

  “I suppose he didn’t mention the part about being paid to abduct and murder a marchioness?”

  Halverson gulped.

  With measured menace Alex stalked forward, a predatory gaze fixed on the scalawag. He’d questioned hundreds of enemy prisoners over the years, this man was weak and would crumble in seconds. “Who hired you?”

  Alex drew the field knife from his boot, tilting the blade so it caught the light and glared into Halverson’s eyes. “This is the last time I’ll ask nicely. Who—”

  “I don’t know,” Halverson blurted. “Johnston asked me to ‘elp him with a job. Said it’d pay one-thousand pounds and ‘e’d split it with me fifty-fifty.”

  “I see.” Alex closed the distance and stood over the bed, turning the knife over in his hand. Halverson quaked, cringing into the wall at the far side of the bed.

  “Some army gent or maybe it was a sailor hired ‘im, but I swear, milord, I don’t know ‘is name. Never even laid eyes on ‘im.”

  Military? Halverson’s testimony drove home Alex’s belief that Witherspoon hired these men to do his dirty work.

  “Where can I find, Johnston?”

  The brigand’s Adam’s apple bobbed feverishly. “Mayhap Scotland, milord, but truthfully we planned to go our separate ways once we got paid.”

  Alex knew with near dead accuracy when a man was lying and he’d bet his left thumb that Halverson told the truth. “Any chance Johnston will be back to try for his money again?”

  “He’s a tenacious sort, milord, if the employer is still willin’ to pay I’d bet he’ll look to collect again.”

  Eight

  Absently Charley ran her finger around the white edge of the china teacup, mesmerized by the glittering display of sunlight reflecting off the liquid.

  When will Alex return?

  The urge to look at the clock for the umpteenth time in the last hour was near impossible to resist. The hands hardly seemed to move, and for the first time in years she was actually anxious to see her husband.

  “Charley? Charley? Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

  “What?” Charley snapped her head up. “Oh, sorry, Mama. Just wool gathering I’m afraid. It’s been a long couple of days.” She shook her head. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Or the one before that.

  Evelyn reached across the tea table, affectionately squeezing her daughter’s hand. “I still can’t believe you were kidnapped. Really, dear, who would want to see you dead?”

  “Other than Regina?”

  “Oh, Charley, you can’t really believe that?”

  She sighed, glancing about the bright, cheery sitting room. Nothing in Coverstone House ever seemed cheerful or sunny. “No, not really, but the woman hates me. Sometimes I truly think she would be relieved if I fell off the ends of the earth. Perhaps I’d be happier if she fell off the ends of the earth.”

  “Charlotte,” her mother scolded. “I did not raise you to be so ungracious. Try to be more understanding. The last few years have been extremely trying for Regina. She lost her entire family quite suddenly, and then had to worry about Alex fighting on the continent.” Evelyn took a delicate sip of tea. “Tragic.”

  Tragic or not Charley found it increasingly difficult to be tolerant of a woman who spent every waking moment capitalizing on her every fault.

  Finally giving in to impulse Charley glanced at the clock. Eleven thirty. Jittery fingers drummed her thigh beneath the table.

  Was it possible only two days ago at this time she’d had no matter more pressing than what to wear for Lady Carmichael’s dinner party? Surely a week had blown past. But alas in the last forty-eight hours she’d been kidnapped, rescued, and Alex had kissed her…

  No… he hadn’t kissed her… such a simple word could never describe their heated embraces. Alex had opened her eyes, woken her soul to the promise of passion and her body to the discontent of unfulfilled desires. Even now an image of his rugged frame washed in the moonlight, face obscured by shadows, his eyes glowing an ethereal hue, burned her mind. Her mouth watered, unexpected heat collected between her thighs. Her fingers itched to graze the contours of his chest once more, feel the muscles quiver beneath her touch. Tingles budded in her lips, and if she were to be painfully honest the mere memory of him left her hot everywhere.

  “How was your night with Alex?”

  Horrified that her mother had so accurately read her thoughts, Charley choked on a sip of tea.

  Evelyn hid an amused smile behind a muffin.

  For half a heartbeat Charley hesitated. “We had a bit of a fight,” she confided. “And then I found him passed out drunk in Papa’s study this morning.”

  For a long moment her mother remained silent, delicately sipping her tea. “You know,” Evelyn said contemplatively, “I always thought you and Alex would suit very well.”

  Charley scoffed, picturing Alex sprawled across the chair rather adorably snoring, an empty brandy decanter propped between his elbow and thigh. “You’re jesting.”

  “Nothing of the sort. For years I lamented betrothing you to Richard because it was Alex you so seemed to fancy.” Evelyn sighed, settling her teacup in the matching white saucer with a soft clink. Once again the lines around her face and eyes deepened. “I had thought to petition your father and the late Lord Coverstone to release you from the contract, but your fat
her was becoming so eccentric. I feared the day he would become an embarrassment and ruin your chances for a good match.”

  Charley’s mind spun, mulling over the information. Her mother’s observations proved dangerously perceptive and even more dangerously close to the truth.

  “Alex seems quite intent upon making amends,” her mother said softly.

  “Yesterday I learned that Alex will be discharged from service if he does not produce an heir,” Charley confided, stirring her tea with a dried cinnamon stick. “It seems he came home to see the job done with all haste so that he can return to the peninsula.” Valiantly she tried to keep her tone and expression passive, but from the concern reflected in her mother’s eyes it was obvious she’d failed miserably.

  “I see.” Evelyn gazed into her teacup as though divining answers from a wishing well. “And that is what you argued about?”

  “More or less.”

  “That certainly sounds like Alex,” she sighed. “But, Charlotte, I really don’t see how his motivations change anything. If he didn’t come home now with the sole purpose of procreating, eventually he would come home and expect to share your bed.”

  Heat crept up her neck. “His motivations change everything. You can’t expect me to surrender to a man who has every intention of leaving me? The whole business is cold hearted and makes me feel… dirty; like a prized broodmare.”

  “It is your duty as marchioness, Charlotte, regardless of your husband’s intentions.”

  Duty. Duty. Duty. She was sick to death of duty. Charley bristled. “Whose side are you on? You sound exactly like Regina.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” Evelyn said, whisking a silencing finger between them. “I’m not saying I agree with Alex’s behavior, it’s certainly not the way to a woman’s heart, but when it all boils down you have little choice in the matter. How you choose to respond to the situation is entirely in your hands.”

  “How do you suggest I respond?”

  “It seems to me,” Evelyn continued, a sly smile teasing her lips, “you can either be righteously outraged, shut your husband out and live miserably separate lives much like the majority of the aristocracy, or… you can win him.”

  “Win him?”

  “Absolutely. It’s all about bringing him around to your way of thinking.”

  “Please, Mother, I hardly think Alex is the sort to be manipulated.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Charley, I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

  “As though he’d rather be hundreds of miles away in France or Spain?” For a long moment their eyes locked and Charley finally had to look away from the intensity shining in her mother’s gaze. She fiddled with her cinnamon stick and took a sip of tea, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to cry.

  “As though he loves you and just hasn’t realized it yet.”

  Love? Surely not, but it didn’t keep her heart from leaping with hope.

  “You could win him if you set your mind to it. I realize Alex has a reputation for being out for himself alone, but deep down he’s the type to be faithful.” Evelyn sipped her tea thoughtfully. “Give me an hour, maybe two, and your husband will be eating out of your hand by sunset.”

  Sunset? Charley’s gulped not entirely certain she was ready for such a prospect. But then, if anyone recognized the spark of attraction—even love—it was her mother. Despite his faults Alex still held court in her heart. Perhaps she was going about this in all the wrong way… Alex could hardly fall in love with a cold woman, intent upon pushing him away, but what of a wife willing to fight for him, to win him as her mother suggested?

  Mentally Charley kicked herself for even entertaining the idea. She was only setting herself up for disappointment.

  Evelyn’s green eyes gazed back at her with gentle understanding. “Give Alex a chance, Charley. Your first instinct is to push him away, and with all that’s happened in the last few years I can’t say as I blame you. But… open your heart to him. I truly believe the two of you can be very happy.”

  Rest assured, love, I will not touch you again unless it is upon your request.

  Beg? Surely not. Charlotte Trent Rawlings begged for nothing. A reality Alex would soon discover.

  “Did you have anything specific in mind for winning my husband’s favor?”

  * * *

  Nothing, Charley thought, crawling through the mounds of winter hay stored in the Grayson loft, smells more inviting than a barn. Save, perhaps, for Mrs. Kent’s Lemon butter scones. She momentarily contemplated whether the two could even be compared, decided barns and scones were entirely different and therefore equal depending upon her mood, found a comfortable reading nook just below the peaked window and settled into the straw.

  Charley sighed, inhaling the comforting aroma of dried alfalfa, leather and horseflesh. Below the everyday clink of tools and the creak of well worn leather bustled by, oblivious to her presence in the hayloft. Obscurity was peaceful, and of late she experienced far too little. She burrowed into her heavy coat, crossed her legs in a fashion thoroughly unsuitable for a marchioness and tilted the old book she’d found in the library into the stream of light sneaking through the shuttered window. Reading, losing herself in someone else’s melodrama—fictional or otherwise—for an hour or two never failed to soothe her frazzled nerves.

  Pushing aside all thoughts of her husband, she opened her book, and gently smoothed the crease along the spine.

  White capped waves crashed against the slanted timbers, violently rocking the ship.

  Certainly an exciting beginning. She plunged on.

  Captain Alexander Hawkins gazed—

  Alexander? Alexander!

  Charley groaned, dropping the book in her lap. What a stroke of bad luck to have plucked a book bearing her husband’s name from the shelf. Now every time she read the word an image of her husband—tall, brooding, and dangerously handsome—would pop into her mind. She cast a jaded eye downward. Alexander all but glowed from the page. Gustily she sighed. Given the number of times they’d played pirates in this very loft as children a much needed respite would be impossible to glean from reading this particular book.

  Creak.

  The wooden ladder propped against the loft groaned in protest, alerting her to the presence of an intruder. Charley cringed, hoping the interloper would continue on by, but, alas, the ladder moaned with each step the trespasser took.

  “Charley Trent,” a deep voice boomed, shooting tremors along her spine. “I do believe I’ve found you.”

  Charley sat bolt upright, a flurry of straw raining from her clothes. Her heart dropped at least a foot, and may have fallen out entirely if the butterflies in her stomach hadn’t flown up to catch it. “Alex!”

  “In the flesh.” He grinned mischievously, dragging a leisurely gaze across her straw covered figure before joining her in the hayloft.

  Her breath caught. Heavens! Did he have to look so remarkably good? As though the dashing Captain Hawkins had stepped from a page in her novel? Not once had Alex looked more of a pirate in their games than he did now. Framed beneath the slanted barn roof, her husband looked magnificent in a simple white lawn shirt and tan breeches, very rugged, in fact, with his sleeves rolled to the elbows exposing muscular forearms. Veins ran from his thick, roughened hands, up his arms while taught sinew and lean corded muscle shifted powerfully beneath his thin shirt with even the minutest movement. Alex strode easily forward, and rather than deter from his devastating effect, the subtle limp only added to the roguish quality of his appeal. A ray of sunlight captured his face, illuminating eyes so intense one could not look directly into the depths without growing unsettled—she was certainly unsettled.

  “My god, look at you,” he teased, oblivious to her distress. “A book, boy’s breeches, and those ancient boots. Have I gone back in time?” He knelt in the straw before her, a perfectly crooked grin splitting his handsome face. “Beneath all those fancy clothes and stuffy manners I knew you were still in there.”


  “My manners are not stuffy,” she protested.

  “Of course your manners are stuffy. I’m quite sure it is a criterion of becoming marchioness.”

  “Then I’m quite certain I make a terrible marchioness.”

  A smile rolled across Alex’s perfectly molded lips. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Her heart floundered. She opened her mouth to speak, but found suitable riposte just beyond reach.

  To win a man’s favor, her mother’s instructions skipped through her head, you must not give him what he wants too easily. Make him work for the object of his desire, you, and he’ll grow to more than want it. He’ll covet it.

  Sound advice. Or so she hoped.

  He reached into her lap, lifting the leather bound book. Thick knuckles grazed her inner thigh, the bare touch sending shockwaves through her system. She gulped, her mother’s voice flooding her mind again, Be cool and collected. If you’re nervous and jittery he’ll know he has you exactly where he wants you. Control the situation.

  Charley schooled her features impassively and ignored the tingles running along her thigh. Control.

  “Still reading about romance and drivel?” Alex teased, obviously unaware of her distress.

  She snatched the book back out of his hands, raising her chin in mock pertness. “I make a point never to read drivel, and romantic tales are very diverting.”

  “Diverting, pah! More like an absolute waste of time and paper. Come now, you don’t really believe in all that happily ever after nonsense and hokum?”

  “There is nothing wrong with believing in happy endings.” Not that her life had given her any reason to. “Don’t you?”

  Alex scoffed. “My profession hardly promotes belief in anything other than the absolute truths of life.” Though his tone remained light, a distinct chord of melancholy touched the words.

  Charley shifted in the straw, facing her husband directly. The dim light of the loft cast shadows over his handsome face, making his eyes unreadable. “And what are the truths of life, Alex?”

  “Sickness. Disease. Death.” He twirled a piece of straw between thumb and forefinger, contemplating the golden strand. “Life is hard.”