The Christmas Countess: A Valor of Vinehill Novella

by K. J. Jackson

  “I made it. So it’s not of the same quality as the others—far from it. Cook chuckled a few times as I tried to make it.”

  “You made it?”

  He nodded.

  “It’s my favorite. I’m going to save this one.” She picked it up, turning it in her fingers. There, a leg, maybe two. And maybe that was an ear perking up from the top. Her husband was not an artist. Yet it was perfect. Tears welled in her eyes.

  “What? No—this wasn’t supposed to make you cry.” His thumbs lifted to her face, wiping her cheeks.

  “No.” She set the dog creation down and grabbed his wrists, stopping the motion. “It’s perfect—so perfect that you did this—all of this—and it hurts my heart and then the tears just started. I’m happy—too happy.” She’d only told him the story of what her grandmother did at Christmas once, but he had remembered every detail.

  Of course he had. He always listened to her. He always had.

  His eyebrows cocked. “So it’s close enough to what your grandmother did? I wanted to attempt it before the babe is born, so I get it right for the both of you for the rest of our lives.”

  “It’s just as grandmother did it.” Her eyes went wide. “Except you sent me on the journey alone.”

  A sheepish smile quirked his mouth. “I didn’t know if it would make ye happy or sad, so I didn’t want to impose.”

  “It made me happy. Very, very happy.” The brightest smile overtook her face, so brilliant her cheeks hurt.

  “You’re not lying to me?”

  “I’m happy, more than you could ever know.” Her hands clasped onto the sides of his face. “And do you remember last year how I got the best present ever—you?”

  A flash of inordinate swagger crossed his dark blue eyes. “It is self-serving to say, but, yes. But I can say it only because I got you as my best present.”

  “I think I have an even better one for you this year.”

  “I already have ye, Karta. I can want for nothing else.”

  “Not even for this babe to arrive?”

  “What? Now?” His jaw dropped, his look hardening on her. “Our babe? It is coming? Ye are positive?”

  “I think I am. The pangs started once I got out of bed, just like the midwife described.”

  His eyes darkened, his mouth going to a terse line.

  “Dom, you are not pleased?”

  “Pleased?” He looked away from her, his jaw shifting back and forth for several long breaths.

  A moment where she couldn’t read what was in his eyes.

  She set her palm to his cheek, tugging his face back toward her. “You are not pleased?”

  His blue eyes suddenly softened, tears brimming in them. His mouth opened, his voice a rumbling whisper as he gently set his palms around the mound of her hard belly. “A babe. Our babe. How could I not be pleased? All of this, our life, is more than I ever could have hoped for.”

  His trunks of arms wrapped around her, encasing her fully, even with the extra girth of the babe.

  Always protected. Always his.

  Just as she’d always dreamed it could be.

  ~ From K.J. Jackson ~

  Thank you so much for reading! My next series is about a pesky cursed box and the couples that are brought together because of it. The series is complete, so be sure to check out the sneak peek below of book one: The Heart of an Earl, Box of Draupnir.

  ~

  I found you and you found me—let’s not lose each other! Finding readers that like your work is hard, and hopefully you 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!

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  If you liked reading The Christmas Countess, 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!

  ~

  Don’t miss my other 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 and series):

  Hold Your Breath

  Stone Devil Duke, currently free!

  Unmasking the Marquess

  My Captain, My Earl

  Lords of Fate

  Worth of a Duke

  Earl of Destiny

  Marquess of Fortune

  Lords of Action

  Vow

  Promise

  Oath

  Revelry’s Tempest

  Of Valor & Vice

  Of Sin & Sanctuary

  Of Risk & Redemption

  To Capture a Rogue, A Logan’s Legends Novella

  To Capture a Warrior, A Logan’s Legends Novella

  The Devil in the Duke

  Valor of Vinehill

  The Iron Earl

  The Wolf Duke

  The Steel Rogue

  Box of Draupnir

  The Heart of an Earl

  The Blood of a Baron

  The Soul of a Rogue

  Exile

  Exiled Duke

  Paranormal Romance

  Flame Moon #1, currently free!

  Triple Infinity, Flame Moon #2

  Flux Flame, Flame Moon #3

  ~

  The sneak peek of The Heart of an Earl, A Box of Draupnir Novel…

  { Chapter 1 }

  Caribbean Waters

  August 1814

  Home.

  Home to his wife. To his child.

  The child he never met, the child born seven years ago. A boy. A girl. He didn’t know.

  All of that—all of that time—robbed from him. Ripped away from him by battles that bloody well weren’t his to fight.

  Desmond Phillips stared out at the waves cresting, salt spray cutting into the air with the brisk wind that had caught the sails. Just beyond the tip of Barbados, the land retreated behind the ship.

  Good riddance.

  He spun to the railing behind him, bending over as his right fist clenched, the mangled knuckle of his ring finger bobbing awkwardly under his taut bright white skin. The knuckle that had never mended properly.

  His look lifted and he forced his stare on the horizon—on eastward. Forward. He needed to concentrate on that. Forward to home.

  Out there, only weeks away, his family was waiting for him.

  “Lord Troubant, Lord Troubant.” A cabin boy called his name, dodging busy sailors as he ran across the main deck to the forecastle where Des stood.

  The lad waved a letter sealed with black wax as he ran. With the hop of youth, the boy scampered up the ladder onto the forecastle deck and skidded to a stop in front of Des.

  “What is it?”

  “For you, m’lord. Captain Youngling told me to give it to ye. They found it in the bundle from the gov’ner’s office.”

  Des’s eyebrows drew together. He’d been crimped into servitude on an American warship for the last seven years. No one was sending him mail.

  “You are certain?”

  The boy nodded. “Captain said the gov’ner’s note mentioned it had been in his vault.” He thrust the letter out to Des.

  With a nod, Des took the folded missive with his name on it from the boy’s grip.

  Weathered, the edges were crinkled, the paper crisping during the days—probably years—that it had sat in the vault. But the seal was still in place, un-cracked. “Thank you…your name?”

  “Georgie, sir.”

  Des managed a forced smile, the motion foreign to his lips. “Thank you, Georgie.”

  The boy nodded and scampered down to the main deck, disappearing toward the captain’s quarters. Captain Youngling had had the boy running from place to place since they had
set sail—too many passengers and not enough cabin boys to serve them.

  Des looked at the cream vellum clutched in his hand. The seal. Black. Insignia of a wolf head imbedded deep into the wax.

  Wolfbridge.

  His brother-in-law had to be wondering where in the hell he was. He’d probably been chasing after Des for the last seven years and had sent letters to all corners of the empire.

  He was coming.

  Finally.

  Home.

  The very first thing Des had done once he’d stepped foot into Bridgetown was to find a ship leaving for England. Off one ship and onto the next. Luck had been on his side for the first time in forever, a passenger ship leaving Bridgetown within the same day on the tide.

  Des hadn’t even had time to eat. One quick stop at the governor’s office, new clothes, and then onto the Primrose.

  Des cracked the black seal, a shake setting into his hand. He’d hoped against hope that they hadn’t declared him dead. That Corentine hadn’t found a new husband. A new father for their child.

  But she was beautiful and full of life and it was only right that she would have moved on with her life. He’d known when he married her that she would always catch other men’s eyes. Her sparkling wit alone had him constantly fighting off other suitors. It’s why they had married so young—he couldn’t stand the thought of traveling to the East Indies and leaving her behind with the jackals.

  Des sucked in a deep breath, the thick humid air sponging into his lungs. He had to steel himself against that possibility. His wife with another man. Wolfbridge could very well be reporting that eventuality to him.

  He unfolded the letter, focusing on Wolfbridge’s scrawling script.

  Dated: June 1807

  Simple. Direct.

  Where in the hell are you?

  The tone changed.

  I am devastated, as I know you will be as well. Corentine has died in childbirth.

  His breath, his heart stilled. His eyes running over the line again and again and again.

  No.

  Not his beautiful wife. Not his love. Not Corentine. She couldn’t be dead. No.

  No.

  His legs dropped out from under him, the world spinning.

  He staggered to the railing, collapsing against it, sliding down to the wood planks of the deck, the letter crushing in his hand.

  He was on his way back. Home. Finally. On his way back to her.

  And she was dead.

  Pain swept through him in a tidal wave, crushing, suffocating him to the deck until there was nothing but numbness in his bones, in his heart, in his soul.

  Nothing but a dull buzz in his ears, filling his brain.

  He didn’t hear the first canon shot.

  Or the second.

  Or the third.

  It wasn’t until a sailor running past him tripped over Des’s leg and his cutlass clattered to the deck by Des’s hand that Des looked up. Slowly. His eyes unable to focus.

  Panic—panic on the sailor’s face as he shuffled onto his hands and knees. The fear of the devil approaching in his eyes. The sailor scrambled to get the handle of his cutlass back into his hand and he scampered to his feet.

  Des’s eyes bleary, he watched in a haze as the man leapt down onto the main deck.

  A boom thundered in his ears just as wood splintered in the air to his left, the railing exploding.

  Des jerked, his hand shielding his face as he spun around onto his knees.

  Bloody Judas.

  A schooner. So close, so fast there could only be one purpose for it.

  Pirates.

  Hooks swung out, latching onto the railings of the Primrose, pulling it closer. Closer. Ropes dangling. Men swinging across. Planks lowering into place.

  The crew of the pirate ship advanced across the gap of water, cutlasses swinging, daggers flashing, pistols firing.

  Grabbing what little was still sturdy of the wooden railing, Des yanked himself to his feet.

  Hell.

  Men were going down all over the deck. Sailors. Captain Youngling.

  Des’s hands ran across his waist.

  Nothing. No steel.

  He’d put down his blades and walked away from them the moment they landed in Bridgetown. He thought he’d been done. Done for good.

  And now he had nothing on his person to defend himself, the ship. Nothing.

  His vision came into focus. There were plenty of blood-splattered blades scattered across the decks with owners no longer alive to carry them.

  It didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered. Corentine was dead.

  He moved down the ladder onto the main deck, thick with smoke and the last clanks of resistant steel from the Primrose’s men.

  Screaming. Women’s high pitched squeals as the passengers from below were dragged out onto the main deck.

  The blackguards were rounding them into a line on the far railing, going through their pockets.

  Through the thick of the pirates and smoke, Des’s look dipped to the boards of the deck and he counted the skirts, the impossibly shiny boots, lined in a row. Twelve women. Four men.

  On the opposite side of the deck, Des slipped alongside the main mast and the bodies strewn about.

  More screams as the air cleared. Crying. The pirates huddled in a wide arc around the remaining passengers as a man—tall and filled with pomp—walked along the row of passengers, looking them over one by one. The pirate captain, Des could only assume.

  Des leaned forward, his hand outstretched to a cutlass wedged into the wood of the mast. He couldn’t take all of the pirates out. But he could take at least four. Maybe five if he was quick and lucky.

  Four or five might give the remaining men on board a chance. Maybe.

  “What move do ye think to make, ye fine nob?” A black-toothed snake of a sailor appeared to his left, his long dagger full on Des’s throat.

  Damn his clothes. Damn that he’d stopped to buy proper clothes before stepping onto the ship. Damn that he’d wanted to be presentable for Corentine.

  Where a moment ago he’d been ready to have a blade run him through, self-preservation appeared in full force and Des’s palms whipped up as he leaned away from the dagger. He eyed the snake sailor.

  He could take him. A spin to the right and a swinging heel to the man’s knee and the brute would go down. Des knew he was that quick. But the line of pirates standing along the deck—swords at the ready—behind this brute made Des reconsider.

  The pirates had dispatched the defenses of the Primrose in short order. Too short, for the rabid looks in some of the men’s eyes. One more death would mean nothing to them.

  “Into the line with the rest, ye coward.”

  The dagger at his neck prodding him along, Des moved to the railing, stepping into line with the rest of the passengers.

  Des glanced over his shoulder at the sea lapping along the side of the ship.

  Steal the rest of the valuables and then toss them over one by one?

  His hands clasped behind his back, the captain strolled back and forth along the line of women and the few men interspersed among them. All the remaining men were older and none of them were in any capacity—by age or body type—able to fight.

  The captain, a tall man, but not wiry or fat—with muscle under his red coat, Des presumed—had a short black beard that made him look years older than what his eyes revealed. He ambled along the line of passengers again, moving closer to Des, but then he stopped three people away from Des.

  Directly in front of a young girl—eighteen at the most.

  “Yer name, lass.” A good foot and a half taller than the auburn-haired girl, he leaned over her, the raw edge of his voice digging into her, making her cringe.

  “No, not my daughter.” The woman next to girl grabbed her daughter about her shoulders, trying to shove her child behind her.

  The back of the captain’s ring-filled fingers cut across of the woman’s face without warning, sending the mother flailin
g to the deck.

  “Mama. Mama,” the girl screamed, collapsing to her knees, her arms and body wrapping around her mother, shielding her from the captain as best she could.

  The captain had none of it, grabbing the girl’s upper arm and ripping her up from her mother. “Yer name, lass.”

  The girl looked to her right at the portly man standing next to her. “Papa—”

  The captain gripped her mouth between his thumb and forefinger, dragging her face to his. “No. No papa. No mama. Yer name. To me. Ye look at me.”

  Her father made no movement, his eyes on the boards of the deck.

  Lily-livered coward.

  But the girl met the pirate’s stare. Silent. Challenging.

  About to get herself killed.

  Des jumped to his left, wedging himself between the girl and the captain, breaking the man’s hold on her, his voice a growl. “She’s just a child. Pick another. Pick none. She’s just a child.”

  The captain shifted his look to Des, having to look slightly upward to meet Des’s eyes.

  For a long second his cold dark eyes, a gateway to hell, seared into Des’s soul. He sneered. “She’s a full grown woman. And yer a full grown fool.”

  The swing of a boot from one of the pirates came from his left side, knocking his left knee inward just the heavy hilt of a sword banged into his temple from the other side. Des dropped to the ground and the captain’s heel was on his neck before he could even think to breath.

  “What’s this?” The captain chuckled to himself and leaned over, the pressure of his boot cutting off all of Des’s air.

  “What ye got in yer hand, fine sir?” The captain twisted his boot, grinding its heel into Des’s chin. He plucked out the letter from Des’s grip.

  Folding it open, the captain stood straight, his boot keeping Des in place on the deck as he smoothed the wrinkles from the vellum far above Des’s eyes.

  Air, he was losing air. No air. Losing light. Black spots dotting in his eyes—expanding, shifting.

  An acerbic chuckle cut through air, but distant. So distant from his ears.

  Des twisted his head upward, his hand stretching up toward the paper.

  “Listen to this, ye bastards.” The captain waved the paper in the air to his crew. “It says his wife died.” The captain cackled, a viscous raw bark that echoed across the silent waters. “That’s a kick.” He laughed again. “This one—this one we leave alive boys.”