Cooper jumped down from the nearside and moved quietly behind the carriage to the rear, reloading his rifle as he ran.
“Stay here, Evans,” Lucia ordered discarding her mantilla and opened the door hidden from the shooters. She slithered out and up, crawling over the roof of the carriage, lying flat. Johnson had been shot and was bleeding heavily, Cooper had crept behind the carriage and was trying to drag him behind the carriage. There were voices and sporadic fire. Lucia let off a shot and then another and Cooper managed to pull Johnson out of the line of fire.
There appeared to be two shooters but the pugilist who had clubbed Tom Coachman was collapsed bleeding and groaning. Apart from the sound of the horses’ distress, and the boxer’s groans, all was not quiet. Two more shots rang out from the hedge, one zinged over Lucia’s head and the second thudded into the coach's boot. Cooper fired from behind the carriage and there was a scream from behind followed by a thud. Then the sound of running and Maurice was revealed dashing across the field to where some horses were tethered. Lucia fired once more, and Maurice fell to the ground.
“I think it’s over,” Lucia called down. “I am going to check on Johnson, my lord. Evans, can you check the horses.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Cooper?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Can you check on our attackers please.”
The former poacher clambered over the hedge. “This one’s dead, ma’am. I’ll go and check yon Maurice…” Cooper loped off to where Maurice had fallen. “Lovely shot, ma’am. Stone dead. I’ll fetch their horses because ours are not going to be pulling anything for a while,” he shouted back.
The passengers climbed from the carriage, and Rupert assisted Verity and Miss Herriot down. Both ladies appeared pale but resolute. Rupert squeezed Verity’s fingers once more, and said, “It is over. Maurice’s threat is no more.”
Rupert spotted Tom Coachman who was now vaguely conscious and moaning.
“Go to him,” Verity said, “Mary and I are fine.”
Rupert went over to Tom and bent over his coachman, but beyond a large lump on the older man’s head he seemed to be recovering. Glancing over at the villain bleeding in the road, Rupert said, “This one is still alive, but I doubt he’ll live long enough to hang.”
Lucia climbed down and was binding up Johnson, whose shoulder was damaged.
“How is the coachman, my lord? Johnson should be all right, smashed his collar bone but he’ll survive,” Lucia replied.
“Yes, my lady, keep the pressure on there,” she continued to Verity, who had bravely started to tend to their wounded.
Cooper led three horses towards a farm gate, opened it and brought them back to the carriage. He helped Evans, release the leading horse from their traces and forcing two of the saddle horses into their places. The rear horses seemed fine, but both leaders had wounded hooves. Then a carriage appeared from the other direction and stopped as the Ellesmere carriage had slewed across the road diagonally. Sir Cuthbert descended and strode over, staring at the carnage.
“There’s two bodies in the field, that blackguard bleeding over there, Tom Coachman got hit over the head and Johnson was shot, but the ladies think he’ll survive. And I believe there are caltrops in the road…” Rupert declared.
“My men can deal with the felons and the caltrops, can one of yours take the spare horse and get the doctor?” Sir Cuthbert Addison asked.
“Cooper, help Evans to lift Johnson inside, then go for the doctor. My lord, can you help Tom into the carriage and board. I’ll lead the injured horses,” Lucia ordered, then persuaded the others back into the carriage. “Evans go for the doctor please?”
Then they returned to Ellesmere Manor, at a slow pace.
Epilogue
His bride stared up at him, a bright flush on her cheeks and pure, unguarded love in her eyes. She was splayed beneath him, her legs wrapped high around his hips, and his manhood poised at her hot and welcoming quim. The fire in the hearth crackled, and the smell of pinecone was redolent on the air.
She touched his mouth. “You are staring at me.”
“I am still in awe that you are mine.”
It was the night before Christmas, and they were at her brother’s house in Wiltshire for a festive feast. They had arrived only a few days ago and shocked the entire family by announcing they were already wed. They hadn’t wanted to waste a moment, not after the fright of Maurice attacking their carriages. Rupert could have been killed…or Verity, and upon that realization he had moved with alacrity to sell off a little of the treasure and purchase a special license.
His darling wife lifted her hands and twined them around his neck.
“Rupert,” she breathed his name before kissing him deeply.
He thrust deep inside her tightness, and he captured her scream with his mouth. She wrenched her lips from his, panting.
“Husband?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
Something powerful wrenched in the vicinity of his heart, and he stared down at her glowing face, robbed of breath. This was the very first she had said the words to him. They had delighted in teasing each other about how close they were to falling absolutely in love, but this…
“I love you,” he said gruffly. “And I look forward to a lifetime with you, Verity.”
Verity’s heart beat wildly, her body pulsed with desire at the tenderness and love in Rupert’s eyes. There were times she looked at him and felt shocked that she could love another so quickly, so fiercely, and her love was so completely overwhelming.
“I love you,” she said again, tracing the fullness of his mouth. “I love you, Rupert, with a love I never knew was possible.”
He took her mouth and her body with ravishing greed. Nothing else existed beyond the feel of Rupert plunging inside her aching sex over and over, the wild hammering in her, and the wonderful delight she felt in her husband’s arms. A sob built inside her, catching in her throat as a blinding wave of bliss broke over her, and she came apart in his arms, quaking from the devastating pleasure.
With a harsh groan, he stiffened and emptied his pleasure inside her.
Several minutes later, their passion cleaned away, she laid snuggled into his arms, contentment in her heart.
“I got a letter today from Mary,” Verity murmured sleepily.
“Is she running away with Sir Cuthbert?”
“How did you guess?” she gasped. “Not that she is running away, but that he had a tendre for her. In her letter, she said he came by the house, and he kissed her most thoroughly under the mistletoe!”
“I have a good eye for these things,” Rupert said a bit smugly. “I saw how he looked at her at the church. Miss Herriot is a fine woman.”
Verity beamed at him though he could not see her expression in the darkened room. “Yes, she is, and with the share of the treasure I gave her, she will have an ample dowry if she chooses to marry him.”
Rupert laughed, and they chatted long into the night, embraced in each other’s arms.
About Stacy Reid
Stacy Reid writes sensual Historical and Paranormal Romances. Her debut novella was a 2015 HOLT Award of Merit recipient in the Romance Novella category, while her bestselling Wedded by Scandal series is among the top picks by Night Owl Reviews, Fresh Fiction Reviews, and The Romance Reviews. Stacy spends a copious amount of time binge-watching The Walking Dead, Homeland, and Altered Carbon, watching Japanese Anime and playing video games with her love.
She also has a weakness for ice cream and will have it as her main course.
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About Giselle Marks
Bo
rn in London, but living on the beautiful Isle of Man, Giselle Marks is an editor, poet and novelist, penning such historical romances as‘The Fencing Master’s Daughter,’ ‘The Purchased Peer,’ ‘The Marquis’ Mistake’ and ‘A Compromised Rake’.
Her family is grown, contented and expanding.
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The Secrets He Keeps
by Amy Sandas
Chapter 1
London
December, 1817
Callista Hale stepped gracefully from her stylish barouche to the cobblestone street in Soho. A winter gale kicked up and swirled around her feet, sending gusts of icy air up her skirts. Ignoring the cold, she peered through the black netting of her hat, which had been drawn down to conceal her features, and assessed the building in front of her.
It was not as grand as she’d expected.
Her own establishment near St. James was a veritable mansion built of red brick with ivy crawling up one wall, black shutters on every window, and a black-painted door possessing a gleaming brass knocker in the shape of a dragon’s head. This place was nearly its exactly opposite. Built in the romantic neo-classical style, it was three stories high but remained rather modest in size. It was all white with solid white pillars framing the entrance and marble steps that led up to double doors painted a conservative navy blue.
Smoothing her hands over the fur-lined black velvet of her winter pelisse, she started forward. Anyone observing would have seen a mysterious woman of obvious wealth and consequence. They’d have no idea the black veil concealed a shrewd and focused gaze. Or that such graceful, languid steps were grounded in determination and ire.
Because she was about to infiltrate the enemy’s lair.
Whispers and rumors about London’s newest gentleman’s club had been flying about town for months. At first, Callista had brushed off the news of a new place opening up. No club, brothel, or otherwise had ever been able to compete with Pendragon’s Pleasure House.
Callista should have easily been able to put any possible concerns about the new gentleman’s club to rest. And she would have, if she hadn’t started to notice that for all the talk it inspired, no one really seemed to know exactly what went on behind the establishment’s blue doors.
Even after months of using her rather extensive resources to learn more about the establishment in Soho, Callista had confirmed very little that proved to be useful or concrete beyond the fact that the place was owned and operated by one Erik Maxwell of unknown origins. And for a woman who’d been the primary custodian for the sexual secrets of England’s most prominent aristocrats, politicians, and businessmen for more than a decade, the lack of information was infuriating.
She did not tolerate competition, and though she doubted this new club could possibly be considered as such, she’d had enough with the bloody mystery. The fact that the club catered to the same pool of extremely wealthy and influential gentlemen as Pendragon’s was enough to place the establishment in her line of fire. It was time to discover exactly what secrets Maxwell’s contained. Personally.
As she ascended the pristine steps to the front doors, she put an extra sway in her hips and curved her reddened lips. Poor Mr. Maxwell had no idea what he was up against.
Lifting a hand gloved in the finest black leather, she ignored the gleaming gold knocker to rap her knuckles smartly on the wood. The door opened immediately to reveal a man who possessed the appearance and manner of an aged butler. Stiff spine, hooked nose, disapproving glare and all.
“May I help you, madam?”
Though the pompous servant was not what she’d expected, she replied with smooth command. “I desire an audience with the proprietor of this establishment.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
She laughed—a rich, husky, sensual sound. Assuming the man would continue his butler charade and refrain from physically stopping her, she swept past him into the building and began unbuttoning her pelisse. Though she probably shouldn’t have been, she was surprised to see that the attempt at mimicking an aristocratic home had not been limited to the doorman. The entryway was set up to give a visitor the impression they were entering a gentleman’s townhouse rather than a high-class brothel.
“Pardon me, madam, but all visitations are by appointment only.”
Lifting the small velvet reticule looped over her wrist, she slipped her hand in to withdraw a calling card printed in red ink on black. With a graceful turn of her elbow, she handed the card to the butler. “Take this to your master. He’ll receive me. With pleasure, I’m sure.”
Then she turned and strode toward one of the open doors leading off the hall. She had no doubt the butler would do as she said and even less doubt the man she wished to speak with would see her immediately upon receiving her card. She had only about five minutes or so to snoop around a bit.
As she listened to the butler’s steps crossing the gleaming marble floor behind her, she entered what proved to be a small library.
She scoffed. Who the hell featured a library in a blasted brothel?
Although she had one at Pendragon’s, it was for her own personal use. Men did not come to a pleasure house to read. Yet this was clearly intended for the club’s guests. For a moment, she wondered if she had the wrong address.
But her information had been confirmed. This was definitely Maxwell’s.
The floor was covered in thick Persian rugs and a grand fireplace occupied nearly the entire wall to her right. Leather chairs and sofas offered comfortable seating while books lined the opposite wall from floor to ceiling. The room felt like a quiet and studious sanctuary.
Callista laughed as she removed her pelisse and draped it over her arm. It was all so…lord-of-the-manor. So pretentious and arrogant and aristocratic.
She was all about discretion and keeping the specific activities at her brothel private and protected for the sake of her patrons. But no one walked into her place and didn’t immediately know it existed for the expression and enjoyment of sin, sex, and all manners of wickedness. There was no shame in it.
Annoyance seared her blood as she looked about the room, judging it harshly for its attempt at elevating the establishment above its purpose. It was a brothel. Nothing more. One of many that had tried to pilfer some of her elite clientele. All the others eventually perished from a failure to replicate the kind of service Pendragon’s provided.
This place would do the same.
“Pardon, madam,” the butler intoned from the doorway. “Mr. Maxwell will see you. This way, if you please.”
Callista smiled beneath her veil. Of course the man would see her. No one could resist an audience with Madam Pendragon, a woman celebrated throughout London for being the owner and proprietor of the most elite and fashionable brothel in all of England. It was a position she had no intention of relinquishing any time soon.
The butler led her up the wide mahogany staircase to a spacious landing on the second floor. From there, two hallways extended in opposite directions. Both were lit by elegant gas lamps and were lushly carpeted in more Persian rugs.
She paused to see which hallway the butler would lead her down and was momentarily surprised when he continued straight forward instead. The wall across from the landing displayed an elaborate carved relief depicting a scene of woodland stags and other small forest creatures.
Callista tilted her head as she studied the piece. Almost all of the artwork within Pendragon’s depicted Grecian themes of sexual congress—nymphs and satyrs, Zeus in his many forms with his many conquests. But this large bit of art was not the slightest bit sexual. It really was just a woodland scene.
The butler stepped toward the carved relief to press two fingertips against
a knot carved into the image of a gnarled oak tree. There was a near silent click and then the entire wall panel gently swung open to reveal a short hallway and another staircase.
Callista’s lips twisted with reluctant appreciation. Finally, a little drama!
But why would the club’s proprietor have her brought up to what were obviously his private quarters when he could just as easily have come down to meet her in one of the common rooms? At Pendragon’s, she had a special apartment of rooms that were designed to appear as her private suite, though it was nothing more than an illusion to make the clients she received there feel important and cherished.
It made no sense, however, to go through the trouble of concealing the entrance to your personal rooms in such a way if you were going to reveal them to your visitors. Unless, he was trying to demonstrate that although he kept such things from his patrons’ knowledge, he saw her differently. Was it a way of treating her as colleague rather than guest or rival?
It suggested he knew exactly what he was doing. This man might prove to be a better adversary than she’d expected. A thrill of particular poignancy danced across her nape and she almost wished it were true. Ultimately, however, no man had ever proven himself to be equal to her in cleverness or ambition. She always won in the end.
At the top of the secret stairway, the butler activated another hidden latch and the wall in front of them opened to a better-lit hallway. The third floor was as richly decorated and conservatively styled as the lower levels. It appeared the whole place was a study in aristocratic, gentlemanly décor. Cultured, generic, and—aside from the secret stairway—rather boring.
Stopping in front of an open room, the butler clicked his heels and gestured stoically for her to enter.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2) Page 118