by C. J. Archer
Hughe had to act now.
"Diversion," he whispered to Cole, right behind him.
Without a word of acknowledgement, his friend called out, "Warren! Careful, lad!"
Slade turned around in the direction of the stables. And Hughe wasted not a moment. He drew his knife from his boot and lunged. Slade turned back after seeing no one behind him, but by then it was too late; Hughe had sunk the blade into Slade's side and grabbed the hand that clutched the knife, staying it.
Cat slipped down and away, out of danger. Hughe gripped both of Slade's arms and forced him to his knees onto the stones. It wasn't difficult. The man's life drifted away as the blood drained from his side and his body finally crumpled in a heap. Dead.
Hughe fell to one knee, partly out of exhaustion, but mostly from relief. A pair of light, supple arms circled his shoulders and he was drawn against Cat's breast. He closed his eyes and held her against him. She was alive, safe, and she was all his.
He held her as she cried, and continued to hold her as Slade's body was removed and his blood washed away. He didn't want to let her go. Couldn't.
"Hughe," she finally murmured. "Hughe, you should be in bed. You're unwell."
He parted from her, just enough so he could look her in the eyes. "I am well as long as I have you with me, Cat." He stroked his thumbs over her face, wiping away her tears, and gently down to the wound at her throat. It didn't look too deep. "You are my heart, my soul, my whole. I love you, my sweet little Cat. I love you forever and always."
Her lip wobbled and she began to cry all over again. "I love you too, Hughe."
She kissed him. Thoroughly. Completely. He felt like he was drowning in her and he didn't care. This was what happiness was, a wholeness that filled him up to bursting. It was desire in its rawest form, but it was more than that. It was wanting to be with another so much that it hurt to be apart. It was not being able to imagine your life without them in it. It was a kind of madness, and yet brought peace too, and a certainty that the world was balanced, right.
"I will protect you always, but only with the truth," he murmured against her lips. "And the truth is that I will never let you go, Cat. You and I will be together in this life and the next."
EPILOGUE
Cat leaned back against the solid wall of her husband's chest and gazed upon the Hampshire countryside as the setting sun bathed it in the golden tones of late summer. It wasn't Oxley countryside, but she felt a sense of rightness nevertheless. Perhaps it was because so much had happened to them in the valley, or it might have been because their good friends sat with them on the Sutton Hall garden seats, equally contemplative. Or perhaps it was simply because Cat felt safe, enveloped as she was in her husband's powerful arms. She knew without needing to hear him say it, that those arms, this man, would never let her go.
Baby George gurgled in his father's lap, transfixed by his own fist waving in front of his face. Cole placed his hand over his wife's belly and she smiled up at him. She had announced a few days earlier that she suspected she was carrying.
"How do you feel, Hughe?" Susanna asked.
"Better," came the rumbling answer at Cat's back. "Widow Dawson thinks the poison has left my system entirely."
"Finally," Cat said on a breath. Hughe had been sent back to bed for a week by the wise woman after Slade's death. A week was a long time for an active man. He was up and giving orders again by the second day, until Cat scolded him. To keep him quiet, she sat him down and together they made plans for the future.
"So, what's next?" Cole asked, twirling a lock of his wife's hair around his massive finger. "Do you have your next target?"
"Not yet," Hughe said.
Monk kissed his wife's cheek. "I wish to stay home awhile, to settle into Oxley Gatehouse."
"Not forever," Elizabeth said. "Cat and I cannot constantly have you two under our feet."
Cat rather liked the idea of having her husband near, but she knew he'd grow mad with boredom after a few weeks.
Hughe chuckled and kissed her temple. "I cannot promise a less dramatic life than the one we've lead thus far, but I do promise to be more careful."
Cat knew he was talking about thoroughly checking on the person who commissioned him, not just the target, but she didn't say so. Hughe still felt horrid that he'd been duped into assassinating Stephen by Slade. He had told her that he also regretted not making sure she received the money he'd left for her. She reminded him that it didn't matter. If anything had been different, they may never have met and she regretted none of it; she had even come to terms with his marrying her out of guilt. No matter what his original motives had been, she knew he now loved her as deeply as she loved him.
"You would wither on the vine if you had less drama in your life," Orlando teased Hughe.
"And drive us all mad," Cole said, his eyes twinkling.
"It's all right for the two of you," Monk said over the rim of his cup of wine. "We have to live near him. Elizabeth and I won't have a moment's peace."
"I protest!" Hughe said with a hint of his foppish disguise. "I would not bother you and your lovely wife. I have my own wife to bother." He squeezed her waist. "Luckily she adores me. She even puts up with my vying for the prime position in front of her looking glass!"
Orlando groaned. "Cat, you have our permission to thump him if he begins to think himself too high."
"Or too pretty," Cole added.
Cat giggled. "My husband's right. I do adore him too much. However, I have it on good authority that the dowager countess will scold him and remind him frequently of an earl's duty."
He groaned and rested his forehead against the back of her head. "I have plans to build Mother a new house. I'm sure she'll like that."
"Will it be at the edge of the estate?" Orlando asked with a wicked grin.
"With no easy access to the main house?" Cole said.
"I can help you dig a moat around it," Monk offered. "And a drawbridge that just happens not to open with ease."
Elizabeth nudged her husband's arm. "You're all wicked. I happen to like the dowager."
"So do I," Cat said. "She's got a strong spirit."
"And a sharp tongue," Hughe added. But there was no malice in it, Cat was glad to see.
She turned and kissed him. "Never fear, dear husband. I have the perfect solution to dowager dragons."
"And what is that, my love?" he said.
A warm breeze stroked her cheek and teased her hair. She placed her hands over his, resting on her belly. "Presenting her with a grandchild."
Around them, others gasped. But Hughe stared at her, his eyes huge. How could she have ever thought them cold? There was so much love and wonder in them, so much depth of feeling, that it was overwhelming.
"Truly?" he whispered.
She nodded through her tears of happiness. "It's early, but I think so."
He swooped down and kissed her hard, possessively, but it soon turned achingly tender. When they finally parted, Elizabeth, sitting to Cat's left, caught her hand.
"That makes three of us with child," she said softly. "You, Lucy and me."
"You too!"
"Little play mates for George," Orlando said, stroking his son's cheek.
Monk grinned at them all like a simpleton. "We are lucky men." Elizabeth rested the back of her head against her husband's chest and smiled.
"Aye," Hughe murmured without taking his gaze off Cat. She felt as if she were glowing as bright as a beacon. "Four assassins—five if you include Rafe Fletcher—and all of us brought to our knees by love. They'll write ballads and plays about us."
"Forget ballads," Cat said. "I'll settle for a long and happy life instead."
Hughe's arms tightened around her. "As will I, my love. As will I."
THE END
A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR
I hope you enjoyed reading THE SINNER as much as I enjoyed writing it. As an independent author, getting the word out about my book is vital to its success, so if you li
ked this book please consider telling your friends and writing a review at the store where you purchased it. If you would like to be contacted when I release a new book, please send an email to [email protected] and I will subscribe you to my New Releases newsletter. You will only be contacted when I have a new book out.
HISTORICAL ROMANCES BY C.J. ARCHER
Her Secret Desire (Lord Hawkesbury's Players #1)
Scandal's Mistress (Lord Hawkesbury's Players #2)
To Tempt The Devil (Lord Hawkesbury's Players #3)
The Charmer (Assassins Guild #1)
The Rebel (Assassins Guild #2)
The Saint (Assassins Guild #3)
The Sinner (Assassins Guild #4)
Courting His Countess
Surrender
The Mercenary's Price
HISTORICAL PARANORMALS BY C.J. ARCHER
The Medium (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium #1)
Possession (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium #2)
Evermore (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium #3)
The Wrong Girl (1st Freak House #1)
Playing With Fire (1st Freak House #2)
Heart Burn (1st Freak House #3)
The Memory Keeper (2nd Freak House #1)
Seared With Scars (2nd Freak House Trilogy #2)
Edge Of Darkness (2nd Freak House Trilogy #3)
Honor Bound (The Witchblade Chronicles Book #1)
Kiss Of Ash (The Witchblade Chronicles #2)
Redemption
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C.J. Archer has loved history and books for as long as she can remember. She worked as a librarian and technical writer until she was able to channel her twin loves by writing historical fiction. She has won and placed in numerous romance writing contests, including taking home RWAustralia’s Emerald Award in 2008 for the manuscript that would become her novel Honor Bound. Under the name Carolyn Scott, she has published contemporary romantic mysteries, including Finders Keepers Losers Die, and The Diamond Affair. After spending her childhood surrounded by the dramatic beauty of outback Queensland, she now lives in suburban Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and their two children.
She loves to hear from readers. You can contact her in one of these ways:
Blog/web: http://cjarcher.com
Email: [email protected]
Twitter: www.twitter.com/cj_archer
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/CJArcherAuthorPage
Have you read C.J's historical ghost novel, THE MEDIUM? It's FREE! Here's a teaser:
An excerpt from THE MEDIUM
(c) C.J. Archer
CHAPTER 1
London, Spring 1880
Whoever said dead men don't tell lies had never met Barnaby Wiggam's ghost. The fat, bulbous-nosed spirit fading in and out beside me like a faulty gas lamp clearly thought he was dealing with a fool. I may only be seventeen but I'm not naïve. I know when someone is lying—being dead didn't alter the tell-tale signs. Mr. Wiggam didn't quite meet my eyes, or those of his widow and her guests—none of whom could see him anyway—and he fidgeted with his crisp white silk necktie as if it strangled him. It hadn't—he'd died of an apoplexy.
"Go on, young lady." He thrust his triple chins at me, making them wobble. "Tell her. I have no hidden fortune."
I swallowed and glanced at the little circle of women holding hands around the card table in Mrs. Wiggam's drawing room, their wide gazes locked on the Ouija board in the center as if Barnaby Wiggam stood there and not beside me. I too stood, behind my sister and opposite the Widow Wiggam who looked just as well-fed as her dead husband in her black crepe dress and mourning cap. However, where his face was covered with a network of angry red veins, hers was so white it glowed like a moon in the dimly lit room.
"Are you sure?" I asked him. If he knew I suspected him of lying, he didn't show it. Or perhaps he simply didn't care.
"Sure?" Mrs. Wiggam suddenly let go of her neighbor's hands. My sister, Celia, clicked her tongue and Mrs. Wiggam quickly took up the lady's hand again. It's not as if anyone needed to hold hands at all during our séances but my sister insisted upon it, along with having candles rather than lamps, a tambourine and an Ouija board even though she rarely used either. She liked things to be done in a way that added to the atmosphere and the enjoyment of the customers, as she put it. I'm not convinced anyone actually enjoyed our séances, but they were effective nevertheless and she was right—people expect certain theatrics from spirit mediums, so if we must put on a performance then so be it.
Celia had taken it one step further this time by wearing a large brass star-shaped amulet on a strap around her neck. The recent purchase was as unnecessary as the hand-holding but she thought it gave us authenticity amidst a city filled with fake mediums. I had to admit it looked wonderfully gothic.
"Sure about what?" Mrs. Wiggam asked again, leaning forward. Her large bosom rested on the damask tablecloth and rose and fell with her labored breathing. "What does he want you to say, Miss Chambers?"
I glanced at Mr. Wiggam's ghost. He crossed his arms and raised his fluffy white eyebrows as if daring me to repeat his lie. "He, er, he said..." Oh lord, if I repeated the lie then I would be contributing to his fate. He could not cross over to the Otherworld until he was at peace, and he would not be at peace until he let go of his anger towards his wife. Lying to her wasn't helping.
On the other hand, it was his choice.
"Emily," Celia said with the false sing-song voice she employed for our séances. "Emily, do tell us what Mr. Wiggam is communicating to you. Give his poor dear widow," she paused and smiled beatifically at Mrs. Wiggam, "some solace in her time of mourning."
"Mourning!" Barnaby Wiggam barked out a laugh that caused the edges of his fuzzy self to briefly sharpen into focus. For a moment he appeared almost human again. To me at least. "Tell that...that WOMAN who sits there pretending to be my demure wife that there is no fortune."
"He says there's no fortune," I repeated.
A series of gasps echoed around the small drawing room and more than one of the elegant ladies clicked her tongue. Mrs. Wiggam let go of both her neighbors' hands again. "Nonsense!" Her gaze flitted around the room. "Tell that lying, cheating, scoundrel of a husband that I know he amassed a fortune before his death." She placed her fists on the table and rose slowly to her considerable height, well above my own. She even dwarfed her ghostly husband. "Where is he? I want to tell him to his face." She reminded me of a great brown bear at the circus Mama had taken me to see as a little girl. The creature had expressed its displeasure at being chained to a bollard by taking a swipe at its handler with an enormous paw. I'd felt sorry for it. I wasn't yet sure if I felt the same emotion towards Mrs. Wiggam.
I must have glanced sideways at her husband because she turned on the spirit beside me even though she couldn't see it. He took a step back and fiddled with his necktie again.
"I know there's money somewhere." Her bosom heaved and her lips drew back, revealing crooked teeth. "I deserve that money for putting up with you, you wretched little man. Rest assured Barnaby dearest, I'll find every last penny of it."
A small, strangled sound escaped Mr. Wiggam's throat and his apparition shimmered. Fool. He was dead—she couldn't do anything to him now. Her four friends shrank from her too.
My sister did not. "Mrs. Wiggam, if you'll please return to your seat," Celia said in her conciliatory church-mouse voice. She ruined the effect by shooting a sharp glance at me. Mrs. Wiggam sat. She did not, however, resume handholding. Celia turned a gracious smile on her. "Now, Mrs. Wiggam, it's time to conclude today's session." My sister must have an internal clock ticking inside her. She always seemed to know when our half hour was over. "Everyone please close your eyes and repeat after me." They all duly closed their eyes, except Mrs. Wiggam who'd taken to glaring at me. As if it were my fault her husband was a liar!
"Return oh spirit from whence you came," Celia chanted.
"Return oh spirit from whence you came," the four guests re
peated.
"Go in peace—."
"No!" Mrs. Wiggam slapped her palms down on the table. Everyone jumped, including me, and the tambourine rattled. "I do not want him to go in peace. I do not want him to go anywhere!" She crossed her arms beneath her bosom and gave me a satisfied sneer.
I'm not your husband! I wanted to shout at her. Why did everyone think I was the embodiment of their loved one? Or in this case, their despised one. I once had a gentleman kiss me when I summoned his deceased fiancée. It had been my first kiss, and hadn't been entirely unpleasant.
"Let him go," Celia said, voice pitching unusually high. She shook her head vigorously, dislodging a brown curl from beneath her hat. "He can't remain here. It's his time to go, to cross over."
"I don't want to cross over," Mr. Wiggam said.
"What?" I blurted out.
"Did he say something?" Celia asked me. I repeated what he'd said. "Good lord," she muttered so quietly I was probably the only one who heard her. Especially since Mrs. Wiggam had started laughing hysterically.
"He wants to stay?" The widow's grin turned smug. "Very well. It'll be just like old times—living with a corpse."
One of the guests snorted a laugh but I couldn't determine which of the ladies had done it. They all covered their mouths with their gloved hands, attempting to hide their snickers. They failed.
"Tell the old crone I'm glad I died," Barnaby Wiggam said, straightening. "Being dead without her is a far better state than being alive with her."
"No, no this won't do," Celia said, thankfully saving me from repeating the spirit's words. She stood up and placed a hand on Mrs. Wiggam's arm. "Your husband must return. We summoned him at your behest to answer your question and now he needs to cross over into the Otherworld."
Actually, he probably wouldn't be crossing over. Not while there was so much lingering anger between himself and his wife. He needed to release the anger before he could go anywhere. Until then he was tied to this world and the Waiting Area. That's why some places remain haunted—their ghosts aren't willing to give up the negative emotion keeping them here. Although Celia knew that as well as I, she couldn't be aware of the extent of Barnaby Wiggam's sour mood. She certainly couldn't have known he deliberately lied to his wife about his fortune.