Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  Hunter led Rose over to the lad. He could not bring himself to let her go. Not for a single moment. “You did me a great service today.”

  “It was nothing, my lord.”

  Hunter dug in his pocket and produced a handful of coins. “Do not be modest. You risked your life for us.” He pressed them into the boy’s palm.

  “I did not do it for the coins.”

  “I know. I want you to have them.”

  The lad stared at the money, and grinned before closing his fist around it.

  “Might I have your name?” Hunter offered a smile.

  “William Bontray, my lord.” The lad notched his chin up.

  Hunter gave Rose a little squeeze. “William, it seems the lady and I are in need of a carriage and driver. I would like to hire you on for the latter. A permanent position as her driver.”

  A large smile bowed the boy’s lips. “Me?”

  Hunter glanced at Rose.

  “I cannot think of anyone better suited for the job.” She leaned against him.

  He gave her waist a gentle squeeze. “Nor can I.”

  “I am honored, my lord. I will get a rig ready and we will be off in no time.” William ran for the stables.

  * * * *

  Rose could not quite get over the past week’s events. Hunter had slain her wolf, whisking her off to safety. He was her hero whether or not he accepted the praise.

  They had reached Scotland the previous evening, but Hunter had insisted on waiting to visit the blacksmith’s shop in Gretna Green. He wanted her to have a bath and a fresh gown for the nuptials, insisting he only planned to wed the love of his life once and wanted it to be perfect.

  Her heart swelled at the memory as she gazed at him over the anvil. Somehow, Gran, Lady Julia, and Sinclair had also found their way to Scotland. The trio stood nearby watching. She did not know how it had all worked out, but today could not be more perfect.

  She repeated the words of matrimony, her heart bubbling over with love.

  Hunter’s smile never left his face. He rubbed slow circles with his thumbs over her hands throughout the ceremony, his gaze pinned on hers. When they were announced husband and wife, he broke the space between them and pulled her against him.

  She stared up at him, smiling.

  He took her mouth in a breathtaking kiss, sealing their vows.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, giving herself fully, meeting every swirl of his tongue, holding nothing back.

  He pulled away and gazed deep into her eyes. “Shall we embark on the rest our lives, wife?”

  She nibbled her swollen lip. “Indeed, husband.” The word made her giddy with joy. In that moment, Rose knew she would be loved until the end of her days.

  About the Author

  Bestselling, Amazon All Star author Amanda Mariel dreams of days gone by when life moved at a slower pace. She enjoys taking pen to paper and exploring historical time periods through her imagination and the written word. When she is not writing she can be found reading, crocheting, traveling, practicing her photography skills, or spending time with her family.

  Visit www.amandamariel.com to learn more

  TITLES BY AMANDA MARIEL

  Ladies and Scoundrels Series

  Scandalous Endeavors

  Scandalous Intentions

  Scandalous Redemption

  Coming soon to the Ladies and Scoundrels Series

  Scandalous Wallflower

  Kathryn Le Veque’s Kindle World of De Wolfe Pack

  Love’s Legacy

  Box sets and Anthologies

  Once Upon A Regency

  Romantic Favorites

  Love’s Prelude

  Free multi author excerpt books

  Timeless Kisses

  MY LADY’S TREASURE

  CATHERINE KEAN

  Dedication:

  For Megan. You are an exceptional treasure.

  I’m so very proud to be your mother.

  Acknowledgements:

  Many times over, I must thank my wonderful critique partners—Nancy Robards Thompson, Elizabeth Grainger, and Teresa Elliott Brown—who helped me forge the rough metal of my words into gold. Your friendship is very special to me.

  And, as always, I thank my husband, Mike. My hero

  CONTENTS

  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

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About the Author

  More from the Author

  Chapter One

  England, Early December, 1192

  The kidnapper had not yet come.

  Had something unforeseen happened?

  Oh, God. Oh, God.

  With trembling hands, Lady Faye Rivellaux pulled her hooded mantle closer about her body. Still, the afternoon gale, hissing over the gray, mist-wreathed lake before her, slipped icy fingers inside the garment. Even the skeletal trees at the water’s edge shuddered.

  Faye hugged her arms to her chest, for the cold seeped beyond flesh and blood into the aching place in her soul. Oh, please. She couldn’t bear this waiting. Any longer, and the strain would shatter her from the inside out.

  Her pulse gave a sudden jolt. Was she waiting at the wrong lakeshore? Nay. There was only one lake in this county with a string of rocks rising out of its depths like a mythical serpent. She had made no mistake.

  Faye forced herself to inhale and then slowly exhale. The cold didn’t matter, nor did her tattered nerves.

  Naught mattered, except Angeline.

  The little girl was only eighteen months old. How cruel the circumstances that her life depended upon the outcome of today’s meeting.

  Faye shivered again, for the moment of exchange loomed with all the menace of the gathering storm clouds which smothered any last glimmers of sunlight.

  If she failed to sway Angeline’s abductor—

  Faye’s jaw tightened. She must not.

  She would not.

  Her numb fingers brushed over the lump beneath her mantle. Thank the saints the object hadn’t come untied from her belt during her journey from Caldstowe Keep to the meeting site. Something about the bold, controlled handwriting of the missive, delivered to her two days past, warned that she dealt with ruffians who would never yield—or would do Angeline grave harm—unless Faye met their demands.

  With a shaky sigh, she walked nearer the inky water. In the buffeting wind she caught the tang of impending rain. Behind her, the wind moaned through jagged boulders, the sound so eerily human, her belly twisted.

  And then she saw him.

  The rider, garbed in a flowing black cloak, sat astride a huge black destrier. He approached from the brush-fringed trees several yards away.

  An iron helm, of the older Norman style with a broad nasal guard, covered his head. Not only did it secure his cloak’s hood against the buffeting wind, but it hid his hair and a good portion of his face. A deliberate attempt to conceal his features.

  He gripped his mount’s reins in one hand. His other hand rested upon his sword’s pommel, the weapon revealed by swept-back folds of his cloak. The horse’s bridle chimed like a handful of coins as the animal clopped toward her.

  Faye felt the man’s gaze raking over her, from her mantle’s voluminous hood to its hem brushing her ankles. Thorough, deliberate, his assessing stare told her he was well aware of the painful emotions tangling up inside her, but he would run this meeting as he wished.

  Despite the gale, the thud of the approaching horse’s hooves seemed terribly l
oud. Her hand flew to her throat. Sleepless nights, along with days of worrying about Angeline and being unable to swallow even one mouthful of food, weighed upon her like a stone blanket. The lake blurred before Faye’s eyes. Blinking hard, she fought the urge to swoon.

  Never would she reveal her fear to this knave. Fear, she’d once been told, was a sign of weakness. Courage would steel her like armor, for she mustn’t fail to secure the child’s freedom. She would never forget her tearful vow, pledged to Angeline’s dying mother, to protect the little girl.

  Forcing her hand down to her side, Faye looked at the approaching rider. “Where is Angeline?”

  He didn’t answer. His head tilted with undisguised arrogance. Then, she sensed his attention shifting from her to the rocks and trees behind her. Her bay mare, she remembered, was tethered there in the shelter of a gnarled willow.

  Mayhap he suspected she hadn’t come alone, as the missive ordered. The boulders were large enough for men to crouch behind. The clumps of brush, too, grew thick enough to conceal assailants. As though attuned to her perilous thoughts, his fingers slid down to his sword’s grip, preparing to draw the weapon from its scabbard if he sensed a threat.

  Panic raced through Faye. She’d done as the missive demanded. After she’d read it, anguish had almost convinced her to ignore the note’s warnings. She’d longed to run to Torr, show him the parchment, and beg for a contingent of men-at-arms to arrest his daughter’s kidnapper at the arranged meeting. However, concern for Angeline’s well-being had stopped Faye like iron chains clamped around her ankles.

  Worry again sluiced through her, but she fought the urge to raise pleading hands and swear she had obeyed his demands. This man would think such desperation foolish. Amusing, even.

  Through chattering teeth, Faye said, “Where is she?” Despite the hood protecting her face, the wind snatched the words from her lips, but she refused to be deterred. “Why is Angeline not with you? The missive said she would be.”

  The man halted his destrier barely an arm’s length away. The scents of leather and horse wafted to Faye. The lathered animal snorted a breath of white mist as the rider looked down at her.

  This close, she saw dark brown hair had worked free of his hood. The strands were long enough to brush his neck. His lips were wide and full, his chin slightly squared. His taut jaw embellished her impression of angular features, as did the scar slashing across his right cheek. Her gaze traveled upward, to lock with eyes so cold and blue, she gasped. By the meeting’s end, would she see compassion in his gaze or the ruthlessness of a murderer?

  He seemed to enjoy her scrutiny, for his lips curled up at the corner.

  “Answer me,” she choked out. “Where is Angeline?”

  “First, the silver.”

  His voice sounded deep and velvety, akin to the softened ripple of thunder. Although he didn’t raise his voice, each word rang with command. From the roiling clouds overhead came an answering rumble, as if to warn her she must do as he bade.

  Faye fought the desperate rage clawing up inside her. Of course such a knave would disregard the rules he’d written in black ink. He didn’t care for the welfare of children, only his payment. Revulsion flooded her mouth with a vile taste as she bit out, “I have no silver.”

  “Nay?” The hard smile that tilted his mouth vanished. “Why did you come, then?”

  “Because—”

  “Do not think to sway me with your beauty, woman’s charms, or tears. The agreement was clear. You chose not to obey it. No silver,” he growled, “no child.”

  His tone held the frozen chill of a January blizzard. How ruthless he sounded. Images of such heartlessness had slipped into her dreams, transforming her snatched moments of slumber into nightmares. To think of Angeline held captive by such a man . . .

  Lightning sizzled overhead, followed by thunder. The first drops of rain spattered on the lake’s surface as Faye’s fingers curled into fists. Equally vile to imprisoning a child, this knave thought she might ply her “woman’s charms” on him. She would rather eat mud.

  The bridle chimed as the rider pulled on the horse’s reins, turning it to ride away. “Farewell, milady.”

  “Wait!” Blood pounded hard at her temples. “We have not finished.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Indeed, we have.”

  “You have, mayhap,” she said, proud of her strong voice, “but I have not.”

  A laugh broke from him. He sounded astonished by her audacity. As her hands slid down to her waist, parting the edges of her mantle to expose her green woolen gown beneath, his laughter darkened with distrust. “I warned you, I will not be swayed by charms or tears—”

  “—and I offer none.” With stiff fingers, she unfastened the cord tied to her belt, and the stem of the gold cup melded into her palm.

  Arching an eyebrow, she raised the vessel into the grayed light. “I do not have silver, but gold.”

  Brant Meslarches fought to hold back a startled cry. Gold?

  Of all the outcomes he’d anticipated from the meeting, he had never imagined this one.

  Fighting the misgiving that knotted his gut, scrambling to decide how to proceed, he swung his mount back to face her.

  As he did so, his meeting with Lord Torr Lorvais two days ago in the snarl of woods by The Spitting Hen Tavern raced through his mind. Pulling a shriveled leaf from a tree branch, Torr had told him, “Lady Faye Rivellaux is a penniless widow. Her husband died and after the sale of his estate and settling of debts, there was naught left. Since she had nowhere to go, I let her stay at Caldstowe Keep. I know she has no silver to bring.”

  Brant had frowned. Since his return to England a few months ago, he’d deliberately stayed away from Torr’s controlling grasp. Using battle skills honed on crusade, which had seen him knighted on the desert sands by King Richard himself, he had competed in county fair archery contests and jousting tournaments to feed himself, his destrier, and his dog. Not rich living, but his life was his own.

  Until the rainy morning when he’d raised his drunken head from a tavern table to receive Elayne’s letter. It had taken the messenger a week to find him.

  Instantly sober, Brant had ridden to Caldstowe, only to learn she had died. Whatever Torr’s wife had wanted to tell Brant remained a secret.

  Regret, splintered by fragments of forbidden longing for Elayne, had still pained Brant, but he’d forced the emotions aside. Holding Torr’s gaze, he’d said, “I do not understand. If Lady Rivellaux is penniless, why send the missive to her?”

  Torr had laughed as if Brant had told a ridiculous jest. “You are to frighten her. Scare her. Bring her to screaming tears, if need be. Then you will ride away.”

  Torr had spoken of deceiving the lady as though he discussed the lack of clouds in the wintry sky. With effort, Brant had suppressed a surge of temper. “Who is this Angeline who has been kidnapped?” Torr had a young daughter of that name, borne to him and Elayne. Yet, despite Torr’s eccentricities, no father would abduct his own child.

  Torr had waved a lazy hand. “Angeline is someone Faye knows.”

  A vague, deceptive answer. “A relative? Friend?”

  An irritated scowl had twisted Torr’s brow. “It does not matter. You know what to do.” His mouth had eased into a thin, smug smile. “You will not refuse.”

  All warmth had suddenly vanished from the unseasonably mild day. Threaded through Torr’s words was the blatant reminder of what had transpired on crusade.

  The murder.

  The vow had Brant had choked out while, wracked with horror and guilt, he’d stood by his brother Royce’s body, the bloody knife still in his hand.

  The lie that had long ago strangled the life from Brant’s soul and bound him for the remainder of his hellish existence into Torr’s service.

  A shudder, as cold as death, rippled down Brant’s spine as he drew near the lady. Hardening his jaw, he halted his destrier, so close to her that his scuffed boot almost touched her raised hands.


  He stared down at her holding up the gold vessel like it offered salvation. Triumph gleamed in her green eyes the color of spring leaves. The wind had tugged her hood back a fraction, revealing her pale brow swept with coppery red hair. High cheekbones, more pronounced than he liked in his women, framed her slim face. His gaze slid down to her mouth. A captivating innocence defined the curve of her lips, although Torr had named her a widow.

  Widow or not, she was a beauty. With the right smile, she could enchant any man.

  Raindrops pelted Brant. A blunt reminder that here, now, he must do Torr’s bidding.

  Sweat beaded on Brant’s forehead, chilling where his skin pressed against the metal helm. He ignored the urge to yank off the helm and wipe away the discomfort, for to do so would fully reveal his face. In this disgraceful mission, he wanted a measure of anonymity. “Where did you come upon this gold, milady?”

  Her victorious smile wavered. “A friend . . . found it.”

  “You mean, stole it. From whom?”

  As she wiped rainwater from her cheek, her lips flattened. “’Tis not stolen. ’Twas a gift . . . from the earth.”

  He snorted. “A likely tale.”

  “I speak true.” Her determined gaze didn’t waver. Not a trace of pricking conscience clouded her eyes, even when he folded his arms across his chest.

  The droplets clinging to her damp hood shimmered like pearls. How luminous her skin looked against the drab gray wool better suited for a matron than a young woman. She must have interpreted his silence as disbelief, for she said, “I do not lie.” She turned the vessel in her slender fingers. “See? There is the dent where it lay crushed against a rock.”

  A hot-cold tingle of anticipation ran through him. “You found it near here?”

  She gnawed her bottom lip, then nodded.