Bride of Falcon
Page 1
Table of Contents
Teaser
Title Page
Copyright
Other books by Collette Cameron
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Collette Cameron
Collette Cameron
“I want to kiss you.”
Not more than an inch separated their lips.
“Yes.” She dared not breathe, having waited for this moment for so long, nothing must disturb the magic.
“You’re sure?” Nostrils flared, his hot gaze fastened on her lips. Ever the gentleman, Falcon paused and lifted his desire-laden eyes to hers. He brushed her lower lip with his thumb again. “You want me to continue?”
Woman’s intuition told her he asked for much more than a kiss or two. Ivonne smiled, past caring if he knew the secret she’d long nurtured in her soul. “I’ve waited a lifetime to kiss you.”
BRIDE OF FALCON
A Regency Novella
Collette Cameron
Blue Rose Romance
in conjunction with Windtree Press
Portland, Oregon
Copyright © 2015 by Collette Cameron
ISBN: 978-1-94236-806-9
Excerpt from Bride of Falcon copyright © 2015 by Collette Cameron
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any ressemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Please respect the hard work of this author and legally purchase a copy of this book. Unless the author has authorized a promotion through a reputable distributor site offering this work for free or for a reduced cost are pirating sites. Such sights are guilty of theft and copyright infringement.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
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Portland, Oregon 97203
www.collettecameron.com
Other books by Collette Cameron
Castle Brides Series
The Viscount’s Vow (Book 1)
Highlander’s Hope (Book 2)
The Earl’s Enticement (Book 3)
Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series
Triumph and Treasure (Book 1)
Virtue and Valor (Book 2) June 2015
Conundrums of the Misses Culpeppers
Wagers Gone Awry (Book 1)
A Regency Novella
Bride of Falcon
A Scottish Novelette
Heart of a Highlander May 2015
Dedication
Bride of Falcon is for you, Grandma Cameron.
I only wished you’d lived to read my books.
Who knew I had so many stories waiting to be told?
Acknowledgements
As always, I owe a huge thanks to my critique partners and beta readers. Your honesty, insight, and suggestions have been invaluable to me.
To my cover artist, Sheri McGathy, editor, Danielle Fine, and virtual assistant, Cindy Jackson, mega hugs!
And to my wonderful Street Team, Collette’s Chéris. Thank you, darlings, for all you do!
Xoxo
Chapter One
London, England
Late May, 1818
“There you are, Miss Wimpleton.”
Ivonne Wimpleton whipped her gaze to Captain Melvin Kirkpatrick. Groaning in frustration, she snapped her fan closed, prepared to use the frilly accessory to give him a good poke or two, if necessary.
Fiend seize it. What is he doing here?
He must have arrived after she ventured outdoors.
She’d specifically asked Mother not to invite him tonight. Somehow, the bore had finagled an invitation to accompany another guest. Ivonne had hoped he’d finally sailed for Africa and wouldn’t impose his unwelcome presence on her for six blessed months or more.
He staggered toward her secluded bench on the side terrace, a drunken smile skewing his mouth.
She shot to her feet, searching for a means to avoid him. The only possibility lay in the narrow stairway descending to the manicured garden where an occasional colored lantern glowed. Ivonne strode toward her salvation at a near run.
Captain Kirkpatrick caught her arm and pinned her against the balustrade with his great weight. Her fan fell, clattering to the flagstone.
Straining against him, Ivonne fought to breathe and gagged. Did the man ever bathe?
“What audacity. Unhand me, sir!”
He shook his head. Excitement glimmered in his glassy eyes. “I think not. You’ve played the reluctant miss long enough. It’s time you tasted what our married life will be like.”
“Are you dicked in the nob?” Though no match for his strength, Ivonne still fought to break free. As she struggled, her hair pins came loose and scattered onto the stones. “I. Am. Not. Marrying. You.”
He tightened his clasp, and she winced as he held her arms in a bruising grip.
“I prefer blondes with blue eyes, but I cannot complain about your curves.” Leering at her bosom, Captain Kirkpatrick licked his lips. He pawed her breast with one beefy hand as his other gripped her head in an attempt to steal a kiss.
His foul breath assailed Ivonne, sending her stomach pitching at the stench of strong spirits and onions. Intent on screaming like a banshee, she opened her mouth and sucked in a huge breath.
A chortling foursome of gentlemen burst through the French windows onto the other side of the terrace. Their sudden appearance rescued her from the captain’s lewd groping. Panting heavily, his bushy red eyebrows scrunched together, he released her and scowled at her brother, Allen, Lords Sethwick and Luxmoore, and the Duke of Harcourt.
A pity the new arrivals weren’t her twin cousins, Edwina and Edward. They would come to her aid and not breathe a word of the untoward situation. However, if Allen spied her in Captain Kirkpatrick’s company, there would be the devil to pay.
Ivonne tried to blend into the manor’s shadow, but the sea captain’s stout form obstructed her. Her brother had warned the widower away from her once already. If he suspected the captain dared lay a hand on her, Allen would call him out. A dab hand at pistols—all firearms, for that matter—Captain Kirkpatrick might wound, or, heaven forbid, kill dear Allen.
She shuddered. It must not come to that. She peeked at the captain from beneath her lashes. More than a trifle disguised, his drunken focus remained on the other men. Ivonne seized the moment. Without hesitation, she kneed him in the ballocks with her good leg and gave him a mighty shove.
Bent double and growling in fury, he stumbled backward, clutching his groin.
Ignoring his gasps of pain and vile curses, she edged away. With one eye on the laughing quartet, she crept down the stairs. Once out of their view, she flew across the lawn as rapidly as her injured leg would allow. She’d broken the lim
b in two places in a riding accident three years ago. The leg pained her on occasion, and she endured a permanent, though slight, limp made worse by overexertion.
She darted behind a tall rose-covered trellis. In her haste, the ball gown’s black net overskirt caught on a thorn-laden cane. Breathing labored and leg throbbing, she halted just inside the alcove and gave the skirt a gentle tug.
Dash it all. Stuck fast.
She sent a frantic glance along the footpath.
A twig snapped. Had Captain Kirkpatrick followed her?
A jolt of fright raised the hairs on her arms and stole her breath. Did she dare step outside the arbor and release the material? Would he see her if she did? She couldn’t move farther into the enclosure, though if she remained here, she risked almost certain discovery.
A sleepy dove cooed from somewhere in the garden’s trees. The night’s festivities had no doubt disturbed its slumber.
Ivonne peered through the lattice slats.
Where was he?
With her forefinger, she nudged a couple of leaves aside. Her white gloves stood out, a stark contrast against the plants. Oh, to have the mythical mantel of Arthur in Cornwall and be invisible.
A soft wind wafted through her hiding place and rustled the leaves overhead. Several spun lazily to the ground. Guests’ laughter and the lilting strains of the orchestra floated through the beveled French windows and carried to her on the mild breeze.
What possessed her to give into the impulse to venture outside alone and catch some air?
Because you dislike balls, gentlemen treating you as if you’re beneath their touch, and all the pretentious nastiness that’s generally present when the denizens of High Society gather.
Though only May, the crush of the crowd inside the mansion caused the temperature to rise uncomfortably. The heat, mixed with cloying perfumes, less-than-fresh clothing, the aroma of dozens of beeswax candles, and the occasional unbathed body, made her head ache and stomach queasy.
She’d sought a secluded niche on the side terrace to recover. Unfortunately, Captain Kirkpatrick, deep in his cups, found her there. Much like the shaggy bull he resembled, he’d stalked her at every social gathering.
A more off-putting man she’d never met.
Ivonne turned sideways and hoped the vines’ thick cover concealed her. If fear had a scent, the captain’s bulbous nose would lead him straight to her. Heavy footfalls crunched upon the gravel not more than a yard away. She closed her eyes as her heart lurched to her throat. Thank God she hadn’t tried to detach her gown. He’d have been on her like dense winter fog on the River Thames.
“Miss Wimpleton, you saucy minx, where are you?”
A low, suggestive chuckle followed. “I do like a spirited gel in my bed. I do, indeed.”
Ivonne’s eyes popped open. Captain Kirkpatrick’s gloating singsong whisper sent a shiver of loathing the length of her spine. She bit her lower lip, afraid to exhale lest he detect her presence.
He advanced another foot, pausing before the lattice.
She clenched her jaw and shut her eyes.
He stood so close, the noxious mixture of his dinner, pungent cologne, and sweat assaulted her nose. Hot bile rose to her throat, and she swallowed against the burning. Her nose twitched. Flaring her nostrils, she fought to suppress a sneeze.
If he discovered her hidden within the nook, there’d be no escaping the man’s amorous attentions. He might claim to prefer blondes, but he’d become bolder each time she encountered him. Given the opportunity, God alone knew what the foxed knave might try in this private bower. Look what he’d attempted on the veranda in full view of anyone who might have come along.
Holding her breath, she pursed her lips.
Do not sneeze.
The captain planted his hands on his ample hips and scanned the shrubberies. He turned in a slow circle. The straining gold buttons of his black tailcoat gleamed in the moonbeams bathing the path. He withdrew a silver flask from his pocket, and after a furtive glance around, took a couple of healthy gulps.
“Where are you? Come out, my sweet.” He belched and returned the flask to his pocket. “No need to be coy. I have something of importance to ask you.”
Precisely why Ivonne huddled like a timid mouse amongst the foliage outside her parents’ mansion. In the past two months, he’d asked the same question thrice before. Her firm “No” each time hadn’t deterred him in the least. In fact, her reluctance appeared to make the stocky widower more determined to win her hand.
Grimacing and cautious to keep her gown from rustling, she shifted her weight to her good leg.
Ah, much better.
Wisteria and salmon-colored climbing roses concealed the garden nook. Her favorite hideaway, normally, she would have relished the fragrant air surrounding her. Tonight, however, she could only be grateful the roses’ scent masked her perfume and hadn’t produced a fit of sneezing.
Ivonne swallowed against the tickle teasing her throat. If only she dared pinch her nostrils. She mustn’t. Her gloves against the verdant leaves might give her away. Yearning to slip into one of the nook’s inky corners, she yanked her skirt again. The fabric didn’t budge.
Captain Kirkpatrick swung his dark gaze to the trellis.
Chapter Two
Petrified, Ivonne mouthed a silent prayer.
Dear God, don’t let him find me.
The distant glow pouring from the manor’s open doors bathed the captain in muted light. Kirkpatrick turned his head from side to side, a perplexed frown on his broad face.
“Where’d the chit get to?”
She nearly wept with relief. He hadn’t discovered her after all.
Muttering a vulgar curse, he scowled at the couple strolling along the path in his direction.
Bless, Edmund and Edwina. Their presence in the garden wasn’t accidental. They must have been looking for her and followed Captain Kirkpatrick. They wouldn’t leave her to his mercy.
“Mr. Linville. Miss Linville.” He offered the briefest of bows.
Edwina favored him with a tight-lipped smile. “It’s a splendid evening for a turn about the gardens. The honeysuckle there,” she pointed in the opposite direction of the alcove, “smells divine, does it not, Captain?”
“Er, indeed.” He didn’t spare the fragrant vine a glimpse. He peered behind them. “You haven’t seen Miss Wimpleton, have you?”
Edmund canted his blond head. “Why no, not since I asked her to dance.”
“She danced with you? She told me she doesn’t dance.” Scowling, Captain Kirkpatrick scratched his buttocks.
Staring pointedly at his indecorous behavior, Edwina raised a fair eyebrow.
“No, she doesn’t dance anymore, but I still like to make the offer.” Edmund flashed one of his engaging smiles. “Ivonne wanted to try her hand at cards tonight. Claimed she felt lucky.”
Cards bored Ivonne as much as French lessons or gossip of Prinny, yet she would play the entire night if she didn’t have to dance. Never nimble on her feet, with a lame leg, she’d become even less so. A blindfolded elephant in half-boots possessed more grace than she.
Creating a spectacle before two hundred guests again was unthinkable. She had done so once before and found herself plopped upon her derriere, her gown mid-thigh, exposing her legs for all to see. She no longer danced, and gentlemen rarely asked her to. Nonetheless, Edmund always made a token request at those gatherings that included dancing as part of the evening’s entertainment.
Her nostrils tingled in warning. Eyes watering, she pressed her teeth together.
Don’t sneeze. Don’t sneeze.
Do. Not. Sneeze, Ivonne Georgina Augusta Wimpleton.
“Cards, eh?” Captain Kirkpatrick rubbed his chins. “She was taking the air on the terrace a few minutes ago. I’m positive I saw her wandering along this path.”
Lying buffoon.
“Oh, I’m sure you’re mistaken, Captain.” Edwina’s voice acquired a harsh edge. “Ivonne might be set
upon by an uncouth, inebriated lout if she strolled about alone. Lord and Lady Wimpleton would be most displeased if such a thing befell their daughter.”
Brava, Edwina.
“Why don’t you accompany us inside?” Edmund turned his sister in the direction of the house. “We’ll look for Ivonne together.”
Ivonne smiled. Her cousins would have the widower examining every unused, cobwebby cranny in the manor. She held her breath against another potential sneeze. Something else must be in bloom. Roses didn’t cause her this distress.
The captain shook his oversized, red-haired head. “I’ll be along in a moment or two. It’s too hot in the house, and I need a few moments more to cool off.”
He removed his handkerchief from his coat pocket.
In the faint light, Ivonne detected thick beads of sweat glistening on his mottled features. He did rather resemble a great lathered ox. Truth to tell, everything about the man shouted brutish beast, from his thick-set build, bullish shoulders, and wide face, to his bulging round brown eyes, clomping walk, and gruff, deep-toned voice.
After wiping his damp face, he returned the sopped cloth to his pocket.
Ivonne swore Edwina slid a sidelong glance in the trellis’s direction. No surprise there. Her dearest friends, the twins had spent many hours sequestered in this sanctuary with her.
Another sneeze threatened. Ivonne wriggled her nose and twisted her lips, fighting the urge. Was there anything as annoying as trying not to sneeze?
Oh, do go along, Captain, will you?
How much longer could she keep stifling her sneezes?
“Captain, I do believe Lady Wimpleton has a delicious iced punch for the gentlemen. A cup or two of the bracing beverage ought to refresh you.” Edwina linked her arm with Captain Kirkpatrick’s.