‘I’d hate to be you,’ Riordan drawled, sorting his own hand. ‘You have the harder job. You have to decide how many proposals to accept. You have to take at least one if you want to keep me to a tie. If I’m vulnerable and I win, you’ll lose it all.’ He was far too relaxed for Maura’s tastes. ‘On that note, I’ll exchange one card.’
‘And I’ll refuse it,’ Wildeham said smugly. ‘You’re already ahead. A tie won’t help me, so what do I care if I win the hand and you’re not vulnerable?’
The battle began. Riordan played the ten of hearts, capturing Wildeham’s seven. Riordan led again with the jack of spades. Wildeham triumphed with the queen. Their hands seemed to be evenly matched. Riordan won the next trick, lost the following. Wildeham led the king of clubs. Maura’s heart sank. Only the ace was higher and it might still be in the deck, unclaimed. The last of her hope slipped away. Riordan flipped his card on to the table. Red flashed. The eight of diamonds lay there. ‘That’s trump. Trick to me.’ Riordan scooped it up and added it to his pile. ‘Looks like I have won.’
Maura started to breathe again.
Riordan reached for the papers in the centre of the table. He wasn’t fast enough. A knife blade came down, skewering the papers to the table top, just missing his own digits. There was a collective rustling and Maura stifled a gasp.
Pistols and knives appeared in nearly every hand. A small gun flashed in Riordan’s. He waved it dangerously close to Wildeham’s face, undaunted by the weaponry surrounding him. ‘Play fair. Those papers are mine. Merrick, grab the papers. If anyone gives him trouble, I shoot the baron where he stands.
‘Get behind me, Maura.’ Riordan’s voice was deadly cold once Merrick retrieved the papers and tucked them in his coat. Riordan’s eyes held Wildeham’s without wavering, his free hand behind him, on her arm. ‘I’m sorry to have to win and run.’ They backed towards the door, Ashe and Merrick covering their retreat against Wildeham’s men, most proving to be cowards or mercenaries, unwilling to risk being shot for the sake of another.
But at the door Vale waited, blade in hand. ‘You forgot about me, cousin.
You’re becoming much more trouble than Elliott ever was.’ He sneered. ‘First a suicide and now a murder—what bad luck your family has.’
Riordan didn’t hesitate. ‘Looks like we’ll have to take you with us.’ He fired into Vale’s arm, disabling the viscount’s knife hand. The viscount crumpled, only to be caught up between Ashe and Merrick. They were out the door, but not nearly free. Riordan pushed her ahead of him as they lumbered down the hall. ‘Run! The carriage is outside. We’ll catch up.’
Maura ran. The stairs seemed endless, the lobby burgeoning with people whose only purpose was to get in her way. She pushed and she shoved, stumbling and picking herself up until at last she was there at the entrance to Grillon’s, the Chatham carriage at the kerb. She flung herself towards it, calling instructions to get the door open. She hurtled inside and squeezed herself into a corner to make room for the others, Merrick climbing on top with the driver, yelling, ‘Go, Go!’
The carriage lurched into rapid motion, Riordan falling against her at the sudden motion.
‘We made it. Vale’s passed out. It’ll make him more co-operative for the Watch,’ someone, Ashe perhaps, said in the darkness. She could hardly make out what arms went with what legs in the tangle of the interior.
‘Maura, are you all right?’ That was Riordan.
‘Yes, are you?’ She pushed at the body closest to her, certain it was Riordan’s.
She could smell him, familiar and warm.
‘Maybe. Ouch. Stop pushing at me, I think I may be shot. That bastard, Digby, clipped me.’
Her hands came away in sticky confirmation. ‘Oh, my goodness!’ Maura gasped.
He was bleeding everywhere.
‘Somebody tell her, I’ll be fine. It’s just a scratch.’ Riordan laughed, then he collapsed against her, out cold.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The bloody man was lucky he’d passed out. Otherwise she would have slapped him for laughing at such an inappropriate moment. Bullets were no laughing matter, neither were bullet wounds, although the doctor assured her Riordan was correct. It was just a scratch and sometimes scratches bled more than they had a right to.
Broken hearts did, too, Maura was discovering. It had taken a night and a day for things to return to normal at Chatham House. Ashe and Merrick had taken themselves and their families off to their residences with promises to return to check on Riordan later. The children had finally settled back into their routine, assured that Uncle Ree was fine and the world was restored to its right order.
Merrick had given her the baron’s papers. She was free. Best of all, Browning had come that afternoon from DeWitt’s chambers with the news that after the report of the activities at Grillon’s and a closer look at Vale’s personal finances, he’d set aside any consideration of the Vales as guardians for the children. Everything had worked out. All that was left to do was set Riordan free.
Maura approached his bedroom with slow feet. She dreaded this. He didn’t need her any more. He’d been shot because of her. He deserved to be free. He’d more than paid for it.
She opened the door quietly. Maybe he’d be asleep. No luck. He was awake, propped up by pillows, his colour good. It was a scratch, after all. He wouldn’t be moping about like an invalid. If it was up to him, he’d be downstairs or up in the nursery playing with the children. ‘Ah, you’re awake.’ She pretended surprise.
‘Awake and bored, come entertain me with news.’ He patted the bed beside him. How could a wounded man make a sickbed seem seductive? ‘How are you, Maura? No ill effects?’ They’d not spoken since Grillon’s, since he’d wagered everything on the turn of a card.
‘I’m all right.’ She remained standing.
‘No, you’re not. Now, sit down,’ he insisted, tugging at her with his good arm. ‘I won’t break.’
I might. ‘I wanted to tell you I was leaving as soon as Mrs Pendergast can send a new governess.’
He said nothing, his blue eyes staring hard at her, trying to divine answers. She pressed on, unnerved by the silence. ‘What I am trying to tell you is that you’re free. You don’t need to marry me. You’ve seen Browning’s report?’
‘I saw it.’
There was more in the report than just the financial records. Frightened at the prospect of facing trial, Vale had confessed to four years of blackmailing Elliott Barrett, easily proven by the payments Browning had discovered in the ledgers.
What hadn’t shown up in the report was the reason for it. DeWitt had judiciously left out the cause—a seven-year affair with a naval officer currently up for promotion. Maura knew it would take Riordan time to come to grips with his brother’s secret, not because he disapproved but because Elliott had not confided in him.
‘The children are yours. You can build the life you want,’ Maura went on. He should be leaping out of bed. He could have all the unscheduled outings he wanted, drag the children to White’s whenever he desired.
‘You’re free, too. Is that what you’re really telling me?’ he quizzed. ‘You don’t have to marry me? And you don’t have to work for me. Merrick and Alixe have offered to take you to Hever with them.’ She was free, but her situation was precarious. She couldn’t go home. Her uncle had sided with Wildeham. There was no family there for her any longer.
‘You were only marrying me for the children. We both understood that. You don’t have to pretend otherwise.’
His face grew thunderous. ‘I am marrying you because I love you. How many ways can I show you that?’
She took a step backwards under the weight of his declaration. ‘You love me?’
‘I don’t get shot for just anyone.’ A ghost of a smile whispered on his lips, his anger fading. ‘Ashe asked me if I loved you, if I would have chosen you if I’d been free to choose. My answer is yes, so the bigger question is yours. How about you, Maura? Would you choose me?�
��
*
Maura stood in the alcove of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, smoothing the pale-green folds of her wedding gown. She was going to marry Riordan Barrett, Earl of Chatham. More than that, she was going to marry the man she loved and who loved her in return. She’d come a long way since the day she’d disembarked from the Exeter coach. Dreams of family and a home of her own had come true even after she’d given them up for her freedom.
The journey to this day had not been without cost. She’d lost her family. There would be no returning to her uncle’s home. There’d been fear and uncertainty and there had been betrayal. But she’d found a family of her own now with Riordan, and Cecilia and William, all of whom waited for her at the end of the aisle.
Uncle Hamish stood with her, ready for the walk to her future. If the church was not quite full, she didn’t notice. There were still the lingering remnants of scandal surrounding Riordan’s marriage to his governess, even if they had waited a respectful amount of time to marry. But she had eyes only for the handsome man at the end of the aisle and the children standing with him. They’d gone from calling him Uncle Ree to Papa Ree and she liked the sound of it. They still called her Six and that was all right, too. They were putting a good life together and the promise of a future was all the happiness they could wish.
Uncle Hamish placed her hand in Riordan’s and her husband-to-be smiled at her, a most wicked smile for a church. But that’s what she loved about him—that and a hundred other things. The priest intoned the opening prayer and she took the opportunity to whisper in Riordan’s ear the surprise she’d been keeping for just the right moment. ‘You’re going to be a father in about seven months.’
It wasn’t every day she succeeded in shocking Riordan. But this did it. He raised his dark brow and recovered his aplomb. ‘Now, that’s what I call sinning successfully.’
May 1836—the Royal Academy art exhibition
‘I feel ungainly.’ Maura put her hand over her belly. It was huge, but he loved it. It was late afternoon on a weekday, fashionable society hadn’t come out to play and Riordan had Somerset House to himself, free to escort his pregnant wife without society’s censure over a woman about to give birth being out in public.
‘It will be worth it,’ Riordan promised. ‘Close your eyes, you can’t look until we get there.’ He put a hand at her back and another at her arm and whispered, ‘You’re beautiful to me, that’s all that matters.’
‘Oh!’ Her hand went back to her stomach. ‘The baby kicked again.’
‘I thought the doctor said babies quietened down before they were born.’
Riordan steered her to the right towards the far wall.
‘This one isn’t.’ Maura laughed. ‘The kick has been different today, though.
Maybe it’s a sign.’
‘All right, we’re here. You can open your eyes.’ He brought them to a halt in front of a large canvas featuring an auburn-haired woman, draped on a couch.
Maura’s eyes flew open. Riordan took great pleasure in that moment. His wife was speechless. ‘It’s me,’ she said, finding her tongue. He could see her eyes start to well with tears, not an uncommon experience these past months. ‘You painted me. It’s amazing. How did you do it? I didn’t sit for you.’
Riordan squeezed her hand. ‘I can paint you by heart.’ All those nights he’d lain awake contemplating his luck, watching her sleep, her face had been etched in his mind, from the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, to the tilt of her nose. Not a contour of her face had escaped him. He was a man in love, a man truly besotted.
She glanced to the side of the painting. ‘What’s this?’ She waddled towards the rosette hanging from a peg and read the trailing ribbons. ‘“Best new artist.”
Riordan, I am so proud of you.’ He basked in her adulation.
‘Oh!’ Maura grabbed at her stomach suddenly, a strange look on her face. ‘Oh dear, Riordan, I think your baby wants to celebrate.’
They stared at each other for a long moment, both of them grasping what was about to happen. Riordan swept her up into his arms and laughed. ‘The last time I was here, this happened, too.’ The gallery wasn’t crowded, but there were a few people to shoulder past with his wife in his arms. ‘Coming through, coming through, I’m going to be a father.’ Again. For the second time in a year. In two years, he’d become a father to three children. What were the odds of that? If anyone had told him last year he’d be happily married and the father of three, he’d have laughed and taken that bet. He would have lost and it was a bet he was happy to lose. He leaned down and kissed Maura. ‘I’m thinking Six is my lucky number.’
*
Keep reading for an excerpt of Whirlwind Cowboy by Debra Cowan!
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Chapter One
West Texas
June 1886
Where was she? The ground was hard beneath her back. Her head pounded as she stared up at a gray sky and the sun hidden behind red-tinted clouds. Carefully pushing herself up on her elbows, she winced as sharp pain speared through her skull. Her shoulder ached, too. She was behind a two-story white brick building she didn’t recognize.
She touched her temple, and her fingers came away bloody. She inhaled sharply. Blood also streaked her pale blue floral bodice. What had happened?
A creaking sound had her looking over her shoulder. A saddled black horse watched her with dark eyes. Then she saw a wet stain a couple of feet away.
She eased over and touched it, startled to realize it was more blood.
Cold, savage fear ripped through her and she got unsteadily to her feet, fighting back panic. Whatever had happened here had been deadly. She couldn’t remember it, but she knew it.
Her head throbbed as she looked around wildly, trying to identify something, anything. Not the building hiding her or the store across a dusty street or the railroad tracks beyond. Nothing was familiar.
Alarmed and confused, she felt tears sting her eyes.
From the front of the building she heard the heavy thud of boots. A man muttered in a low, vicious voice. The hairs on her arms stood up and fear rushed through her.
There was no thought, only instinct. She gathered her skirts and hurriedly mounted the waiting horse, riding astride. Her skull felt as though it was being cracked open and she thought she might pass out from the pain.
Urging the animal into motion, she rode hard away from the unfamiliar buildings and headed for the open prairie. Someone yelled after her. She wasn’t sure what he said, but she didn’t stop.
Gripping the pommel with sweat-slick hands, she kept the horse at a full-out run until she was assured no one was behind her.
Then she slowed the horse to an easy pace. As far as she could see there was an endless sea of golden-brown prairie grass, dotted here and there with a few evergreen trees. The landscape looked familiar, but she didn’t know why. She didn’t know anything.
A forceful gust of wind had her grabbing the pommel. Bits of dirt and grass pelted her face as well as her mount’s. The animal slowed, but kept moving.
Dust whirled across the prairie. The horse’s hooves pounded in a steady lope.
On and on. Daylight turned to gray. They crossed a dry creek bed, then topped a small rise. Through the swirling light and dirt, she spied a small cabin and a barn.
As she rode up to the front of the house, she called out, bu
t no one answered.
There was no sign of anyone at all.
Glancing over her shoulder, she frowned at a boiling mass of clouds sweeping across the ground. The first stirrings of a dust storm. Being caught out in it could be deadly.
Fighting back panic, she decided to take shelter in the small cabin. She wasted no time settling the horse in the barn. After filling the trough with water from the pump just outside, she closed the animal inside and ran to the cabin, praying she would be able to get in. When she tried the door, it opened and she slipped inside with a big sigh of relief.
Shaking out her skirts then brushing off her hair and bodice, she took stock. A Franklin stove sat in the corner to her left, along with a sink and a pump and a short work cabinet. There was a small but sturdy-looking table, and straight ahead an open door revealed the foot of a bed.
The windows, real pane glass, shook as the wind gathered force. Her shoulders and neck throbbed, but she searched for candles or a lamp in case she needed light later.
Though small, the cabin was solid and would offer protection from the storm.
Looking down, she stared at the bloodstains on her bodice. Her mind was empty.
Why couldn’t she remember anything?
A shiver rippled up her spine. Not only was she completely alone and lost—she had no idea who she was.
*
After a week of tracking Cosgrove, Bram had lost him and returned home.
Whirlwind’s sheriff, Davis Lee Holt, had wired every lawman in the state and promised to send word to Bram if he received any news.
Bram had duties at the ranch, but he still checked with Davis Lee every day about Cosgrove. Two weeks after the trail had gone cold, Bram got news.
Surprisingly it was from his uncle, not the sheriff. Uncle Ike had witnessed Cosgrove robbing a bank in Monaco.
Bram had ridden straight to the small town located northwest of Whirlwind, where he discovered Cosgrove had murdered a man during that robbery.
How to Sin Successfully (Rakes Beyond Redemption) Page 21