The Iron Earl

by K. J. Jackson

  He grinned, shaking his head. “You never need know. Just trust me that it was worth it.” His hand lifted, his forefinger running along the mother-of-pearl comb tucked into the side of her hair in her soft upsweep. His mother’s comb. “And this, it completes it.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  “The only thing more I could wish for in the moment is a bench in this alcove so I could steal you from the party long enough to do indecent things under your skirts.”

  She laughed and glanced down to the front of his trousers. He was more than ready for her. He always was. She glanced around the alcove, considering it for a long moment. Evergreen hedges. Green grass. Nothing else. Her bottom lip jutted up, sorry to disappoint. “I think the dress deserves one moment in the sun before grass stains it.”

  Lachlan groaned, his lips dipping back to her neck “Truly?”

  “Yes.” She chuckled, pushing him backward. “And I think a torturous walk down to the party is your punishment for trying to entice me away from it.”

  He straightened, clearing his throat as a lascivious smile danced on his lips. “Then it is time to join the others. But I have plans for the walk back up to the castle.” He held his arm to her.

  “I will hold you to that.” She set her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow and they walked out of the alcove and onto the gravel pathway.

  Twenty steps and they were strolling down the expansive lawn that led to the party in the shade by the pond.

  “Took ye long enough to collect yer lass, lad.” From his seat next to the trunk of the expansive oak, Lachlan’s grandfather jutted his cane in the air at them. The thin bones of his free hand flicked out to the grass beyond the table laden with food and drink. “What would I have done had the wee one decided to crawl to the water?”

  “I think you would have found your feet, Grandfather.” Lachlan strolled to his cherub-faced son crawling along in the grass and swept him up into his arms. A high-pitched squeal of joy, and little Dunkin laughed, his chubby hands slapping blades of grass onto his father’s cheeks.

  Lachlan looked to his grandfather. “For this one, I imagine you would have found a way to run—to swim if necessary.”

  The marquess looked to his great-grandson and his wrinkled face twisted for a moment, then a smile cracked his face. “Aye. I believe I could have run. Wings under my feet for that one.” His look snapped up to Lachlan. “But ye should not try me.”

  “We trust you, Grandfather.” Evalyn looked at him from the table where she poured wine into three goblets.

  “Aye, as ye should.” The marquess’s look swung to Evalyn. “Ye look quite bonny, lass. That dress brings me back to the years when my Charlotte shined.”

  “As it should. It is a beautiful piece of history.” She brought the marquess one of the full goblets. “And it is a miracle it survived what it did. I would have worn it sooner, but I have only just been able to fit back into it since it was mended.”

  “Well, it is a treat for these ancient eyes.” He lifted the goblet to her.

  “And a treat for these young and virile eyes.” Lachlan winked at her.

  “You two.” Evalyn shook her head, not able to hide the blush creeping into her face, nor the smile lifting her lips. “You two are more alike than either one of you would ever admit.”

  “Our uncanny charm?” Lachlan offered.

  “Something akin to that.” She handed one of the glasses to her husband, her fingers pausing soft on the side of Dunkin’s face for a long moment before she turned back to the table and picked up her glass.

  “We’re all here.” She lifted her goblet. “Shall we celebrate?”

  “Remind me again what we’re celebrating?” the marquess asked, his glass as high as his creaky elbow would allow.

  “The day, Grandfather.” Lachlan motioned with his goblet at the perfectly bright and clear day bathing them. He looked down at Dunkin, his lips going to his bairn’s brow in a sweet kiss. “The sunny day. Do you need more than that?”

  “A sunny day? Hmm.” The marquess shook his head slightly, then tipped back his goblet of wine for a long sip. He lifted the glass again. “The wine is good, so fair enough. To the sun.”

  Evalyn smiled, lifting her glass. Indeed.

  To the sun. To the warmth. To her family. To peace.

  Author's Note

  ~ From K.J. Jackson ~

  Check out the sneak peek below of the first in a previous series that is close to my heart, Vow, Lords of Action.

  ~

  Don’t miss all of my books!

  Historical Romance

  If you haven’t already, be sure to check out my other historical romances—each is a stand-alone story and they can be read in any order (here they are in order of publication):

  Stone Devil Duke, Hold Your Breath

  Unmasking the Marquess, Hold Your Breath

  My Captain, My Earl, Hold Your Breath

  Worth of a Duke, Lords of Fate

  Earl of Destiny, Lords of Fate

  Marquess of Fortune, Lords of Fate

  Vow, Lords of Action

  Promise, Lords of Action

  Oath, Lords of Action

  Of Valor & Vice, Revelry’s Tempest

  Of Sin & Sanctuary, Revelry’s Tempest

  Of Risk & Redemption, Revelry’s Tempest

  To Capture a Rogue, Logan’s Legends, Revelry’s Tempest

  To Capture a Warrior, Logan’s Legends, Revelry’s Tempest

  The Devil in the Duke, Revelry’s Tempest

  The Iron Earl, Valor of Vinehill

  2nd in the Valor of Vinehill series

  Paranormal Romance

  Flame Moon #1

  Triple Infinity, Flame Moon #2

  Flux Flame, Flame Moon #3

  ~

  I found you and you found me—let’s not lose each other! Finding readers that like your work is hard, but if you’ve gotten this far, hopefully you liked The Iron Earl, Valor of Vinehill and want to read more by me. Because of the constant changes in social media, the BEST way to keep up with my latest works is through my newsletter. So be sure to sign up for my VIP List for news of my next releases, sales and freebies. You’ll get my FREE starter library when you sign up—three full-length books!

  ~

  If you liked reading The Iron Earl, Valor of Vinehill, please consider leaving a brief review. Even if it is only a line or two, that word of mouth is an enormous help and crucial to a book’s success—all of which allows me to keep doing this job I love! I thank you so much!

  ~

  The sneak peek of Vow, Lords of Action…

  { Chapter 1 }

  London, England

  May, 1816

  Putrescence infested his nostrils, invading upward, dulling his wits.

  Unable to hold back any longer, Caine Farlington, younger brother to the fifth Earl of Newdale, pulled free from his pocket a small, round silver vinaigrette, flicking it open under his nose and leaning back. The half-rounded rungs of the rickety chair creaked, threatening to snap under his frame.

  Casual. He had to portray casual even if he couldn’t breathe. It was crucial.

  A long whiff of the spice and vinegar, and Caine dropped the vinaigrette from his nose, slipping it back into his jacket.

  The sharp stench of sewer and rot instantly flooded his nose again. No reprieve.

  He had been in a sufficient number of brothels in the East End in his day. But this. Nothing like this. Filth. Decay. Timbers half rotted above him, threatening to collapse at any moment. Liquid dripping down along the wall next to his head, even though it wasn’t raining. Half of the floor wooden planks, half of it indiscernible muck.

  Squalor. A word that did not come close to doing justice to this devil’s den.

  Caine let his elbow slip off the arm of the chair in slobbery drunk fashion as a barmaid clad only in an apron and thick skirts clattered two mugs onto the askew table. He made sure to move his hand slowly, missing the handle of the mug th
ree times before making contact and lifting the tankard to his lips.

  He swallowed a gag. Even the blasted ale was rancid in this place.

  Fletch’s grey eyes shifted to Caine from across the table, the other tankard hiding his friend’s cringe as he swallowed. Good man. Caine hadn’t been able to let the vile liquid breach his lips. But Fletch did.

  If anyone could play the role of gutter-drunk rakehell, it was Fletcher Williams, Marquess of Lockston.

  Fletch’s left eyebrow cocked ever so slightly at Caine.

  Caine knew his friend would be laughing at him if the business in this whorehouse weren’t so gravely serious.

  That they had even gotten past the burly guards had been a feat. Drunk, a fool, he would have played any part to gain entrance to the auction. Caine had been terrified he’d missed it until they made entrance and found an open table in a dark corner, and he had recognized the place still buzzed in anticipation of the upcoming sale.

  Caine’s eyes haphazardly swept the room. Bustling crowd—surely more crowded than this place saw nightly. Half-dressed women draped over disheveled drunks, a few of the girls slipping sticky fingers under jacket lapels to snatch coins.

  But there were a handful of patrons sitting serious, sober, and impervious to the debauchery around them.

  Those were the men Caine knew he needed to worry about. The sober ones. Here for a purpose—not just for the entertainment, the sport of it.

  A ruckus started at the far end of the room by the bar that stretched almost across the depth of the building.

  The bar ended just to the left of a door that flipped open. Caine could see it was an interior door leading to stairs. A tall man dressed in shiny peacock colors emerged, raising a silver-encased cane high in his hand. He tapped the cane on the top seam of his ridiculously tall, purple satin hat as he walked along the edge of the room, jumping onto the stage that centered the room.

  “Gentlemen, and to the rest of you scrubs, welcome. You have waited long enough. It is time we offer this night’s entertainment.” His arms swinging wide in flamboyance, the barker’s voice boomed over the laughter of the women and the grunts of the men in the room. His face cracked into a wide sneer—almost vicious—emphasizing the wide gap from four missing front teeth.

  The man waited several beats for the crowd to quiet, then spewed with enthusiastic aplomb, “Virgins, virgins, virgins. I know you’ve been waiting. And let me assure you, these were worth the wait. Integrity, gentlemen. All verified to be clean and unspoiled by our own Ma Betty. Highest price, gentleman. You know the rules.” He paused, bowing slightly for effect before splaying his arms wide, his cane flourishing out to the side. “Welcome to the Jolly Vassal, lads—it be virgin time.”

  The point of his cane landed to the right of the bar, and the door he had come through swung open again.

  Caine’s breath stopped.

  A hulking thug stepped through the doorway, pulling a rope with him. The room erupted, and a splattering of men in front of Caine stood, vying for a glimpse of what was attached to the rope.

  Long seconds passed before the thug stepped up onto the stage, truly just a wobbly platform along the edge of the room. He tugged the rope as he stepped behind the barker.

  Caine leaned far to the side, his breath still frozen. At least from this angle he could see most of the stage.

  The rope snapped, dragging three girls single file up onto the stage. All three girls had the long rope tied about their waists, each of them clad only in a sheer, threadbare chemise that hid no skin from the eyes of the crowd. Heavy veils—almost hoods—covered the girls’ heads, hiding their faces from the room.

  “Shit.” Caine hissed out his held breath. He had known the veils were a possibility—the mystery of the faces spurred higher bids, while hiding the tears and terror—but Caine hadn’t wanted to take the slightest chance. He couldn’t afford to. Not tonight.

  The first girl stepped farther onto the stage where Caine could see her clearly. Too short. Too rotund.

  The second girl. Tall. Very tall, gangly. Elbows like razors popping from her skinny arms as she tried to cover her body. Not her.

  The thug behind the barker moved to the rope slacking between the second and the last girl and jerked it, yanking the third girl fully onto the platform. She stumbled over the lip of the stage and fell with the force, her long blond hair tumbling out from under the veil to curl around her body.

  “To yer feet, wench.” The thug snapped the rope.

  Half on her knees, the blond girl staggered across the stage away from the man, her bare feet gaining traction. But before she could reach the far end, the thug pulled the rope, jerking her to a stop. He strode across the stage and grabbed a fistful of her hair, shoving her against the wall next to the tall girl.

  His stomach churning, Caine’s eyes ran over the last girl’s body.

  The hair. The hair was the right color, had the right waves to it. Right height. She wasn’t scrawny, nor did her frame carry any extra weight. She stood proudly. Not trying to cover herself with nervous palms stretched wide like the other two.

  She just stood. Still. Solid. Not even a twitch under her translucent bright pink chemise.

  Caine swallowed, forcing breath into his lungs.

  It had to be her. It had to be.

  Only his Isabella would have poise like that in this god-forsaken place. On that god-forsaken stage.

  The jeering from the crowd reached a pitch, and the barker raised his cane, smiling, waiting for the mouths to quiet.

  “These be the three beauts, lads. We done ye well, as I said we would.” The gleam in the barker’s eyes shone as brightly as his purple hat. The bastard was clearly relishing the current affair. “Nothin’ but the best from the Jolly Vassal. Tell yer friends.”

  Fletch set his tankard down hard onto the table, ale flying and drawing Caine’s attention from the stage.

  Both of Fletch’s eyebrows were raised. Caine nodded, tapping three fingers on the table.

  Fletch’s eyes travelled from Caine’s fingers to meet his eyes. He nodded, understanding exactly what Caine was telling him. Fletch turned back to the stage.

  Caine stared at the three figures lining the back of the stage, his jaw clenching. The visceral need to smash every single face in this hellhole into the ground ripped through his body. He leaned forward, his chin dropping to his chest as he tamped down on his rage.

  Rage would not serve him at this point in time.

  Only money would. And that, he had plenty of.

  It was time to get his love back.

  ~~~

  Shoved into the carriage by the rope-holding brute from the stage, she landed in a thud at Caine’s feet. His love’s wrists were still bound together, and the veil sat like a hood over her head. The translucent chemise draped around Isabella’s body offered only a thin layer between her and the chill of the night.

  Caine fought the instinct to grab her arm, help her up, cover her in his warmth.

  He looked to the thug, his mouth drawing tight. “That will be all.”

  “Ye be able to control ‘er?”

  “Yes.”

  The thug stood there, staring at Caine, his hand not leaving the carriage door.

  Caine dipped into an inner pocket and pulled out a shilling, flipping it to the man as he knocked on the carriage roof.

  The horses started moving before the carriage door closed. Caine leaned forward, quickly pulling the dark curtains on the windows. One lamp by his head lit the interior.

  The jolt of the carriage sent Isabella scampering, her hands flailing about, trying to find her way to the bench across from him. Whimpers came between gasping breaths as her bare feet kicked at the squabs of the bench, and she tried to make herself as small as possible in the corner.

  Caine shifted to her bench, grabbing her thrashing arms. “Bella, Bella. It is me.”

  She fought him, growling, kicking at his legs.

  “Bella.”

 
She tried to wrench herself from his grasp, screaming.

  A kick, and her heel dug hard into his side.

  Grunting, Caine shifted without freeing her arms, wedging his leg over her thighs, and effectively stilling her kicks.

  Her head flew back and forth, the whimpers increasing. She couldn’t see.

  He realized she wasn’t listening because she couldn’t see.

  “Bella. It’s me.” Keeping one hand clamped onto her wrists, Caine grabbed the veil covering her head and tore it from her face.

  He froze.

  She froze.

  Eyes impossibly large, she stared at him, only her heaving breaths cutting through the silence.

  “Shit.”

  She cringed, her captured body trying to curl away from him.

  He dropped the veil to the floor, shoving off from her as he punched the back of the opposite cushions. “Bloody fucking hell.”

  He turned back to the crouching girl and his fists slammed into the cushions on either side of her head. Growling, he leaned over her.

  “Where the hell is she? I just spent a fucking fortune on you. And you’re not her. She was supposed to be there. That was the damn place. The only damn place and you were bloody well supposed to be her. They said Bella. Bella. They said you were Bella. Who the hell are you and what did you do to her?”

  He saw it then. Her entire body shaking in the shadows. Vibrating. Terrified. Terrified of him.

  It halted his rant.

  Her eyes were wide open. Watching him. Waiting for whatever he was about to unleash on her. But she didn’t hide from it. As terrified as she was, she was one to meet her fate as it came to her.

  He pushed himself from the cushions, sinking to the bench opposite the girl.

  He stared at her for a long moment in silence. “You are not Isabella. They said you were Bella. Where the hell is Isabella?” He knew he wasn’t keeping the desperate rage from his voice—the accusation—but blast it, she wasn’t Isabella.

  She shook her head.

  “What, girl? What? Bloody well speak.”

  Her bare arms tried to cover her body, but her wrists still bound by rope prevented the movement.