WIP Wednesdays

by

Happenstance in WIP Wednesday

Chance and coincidence play a larger part in real life that we like to admit. And also, of course, in fiction. This segment introduces the heroine in Hook Lyon and Sinker, my little mermaid reinterpretation. Chance has just come to her rescue, though it might not feel like it at the time.

If the kitten had not lost his ball behind the sofa, Lady Laureline Barclay might even now be moving inexorably towards her wedding day.

She was behind the sofa on her hands and knees when her brother and her betrothed entered the room. She stayed there when she realised they were talking about Tiber’s wish to postpone the long-expected event yet again.

“Not if you want Laurel’s dowry, you won’t,” her brother told him. “If she is not married before she turns twenty-five it all goes to a home for indigent gentlewomen. Our father changed the conditions the first time you put off the wedding, when Laurel was nineteen.”

Laurel frowned. She had not been aware of that. She would be twenty-five in a matter of months.

Tiber was surprised, too. He let loose a word that Laurel hadn’t heard before. “But you are joking, Ben, surely. Or making it up to force my hand.”

“Tiber,” said Benjamin, “you are my best friend, but you are a careless ass. Do you mean to tell me that you still haven’t read the marriage agreement? Even after agreeing—and then changing—five wedding dates? Six, now.”

That fetched a deep sigh from Tiber. “For good reason, Ben,” he insisted. “The first time, at least.” His voice brightened. “But you are earl now,” he reminded her brother. “Just change the agreements.”

“Can’t do it,” Ben disclosed. “The money for her dowry is in a trust, and I’m not a trustee. Besides, the trustees are bound by the terms my father set. Anyway, I’m not sure I would if I could. You have messed the poor girl about. Father was right to be suspicious of your motives. And don’t suggest I give her a dowry. My money is all tied up in property.”

That set Tiber off into another string of what Laurel was certain were expletives, accompanied by the sound of boots walking back and forth.

“If you don’t want my sister,” Benjamin added, “just break the betrothal, or ask her to do so. She needs to be married by the time she is twenty-five. I’m sure I could find someone to take her off my hands. She might be old for a bride, but she is comely enough. And she has a whopping dowry.”

The footsteps ceased.

“I esteem her dowry,” Tiber admitted. “I even quite like the lady. She is pretty enough. A bit too strong-minded for my tastes, though. I think she will make the devil of a wife. But I have promised to marry her, and so I will. I don’t dislike the idea of marriage so much that I would leave her to dwindle into a spinster, for I doubt anyone else will have her at this late stage. And at least her dowry will allow me to set up another mistress.”

Laurel was over her first shock, and was in a tearing fury. She bounced to her feet and declared. “However, I shall not have you, Captain Lord Tiberius Seward. Consider our betrothal at an end. Benjamin, I shall find my own husband, thank you very much. One to my taste and not to yours.”

Both Tiber and Benjamin tried to change her mind. Tiber promised to be faithful, looking so doubtful about the idea that Laurel laughed.

“You can barely bring yourself to say the word, Tiber. Do not make me and yourself look ridiculous. You know as well as I do that our marriage would be miserable. I would indeed make you a devil of a wife, and you would make me a devil of a husband. Count your blessings, Tiber. Being jilted by me is certainly one of them.”

After Tiber left, Benjamin told Laurel she would be sorry when she realised what she had done, for Laurel had loved Lord Tiberius since she was seventeen. Laurel replied thatshe had been foolishly infatuated with Tiber when she was seventeen, but had lost her respect and even her affection for him over the interceding years. “You must know, Benjamin, that I have been convinced for some time that going ahead with this marriage would be a mistake. We do not suit, Tiber and I.”

Mama, when she was told, said she entered into Laurel’s feelings, but Laurel was foolish to think that Lord Tiberius would be faithful, for men were not. And besides, what would everyone say if she broke the betrothal? “Every one will think there is something wrong with you. You will be sorry when everyone jeers and calls you an old maid,” she said.

The gossips already thought there was something wrong with her. She had been betrothed for five years and the wedding had been postponed five times already. “People can call me what they wish,” Laurel replied. “I will not wed Tiber.” Mama had an attack of the vapours and retired.

Laurel remained adamant. Marry Tiber she would not. She retreated to her bedroom to think of a plan, but only after begging a couple of sardines from the cook to feed to the kitten as a reward.

 

by

Meet my “Little Mermaid with a Twist” in WIP Wednesday

Angelico Warrington made his painful way from the parlour of his employer down the stairs to the main hall of the Lyon’s Den, where he was nearly due to play another set with the other musicians. His progress was slow, but with a crutch on each side to take part of the weight off his damaged feet, Angel did make progress.

That was an improvement over those excruciating months after his friends rescued him from the French camp. They had insisted on sending him to London to see the best doctors, but he remembered little of the journey from Spain, and not a great deal of successive failed treatments. Except for the pain. He remembered the pain.

He had been working for Mrs Dove Lyons for a calendar month, completing the trial period she had offered him at the behest of her chief guard. Her wolves, she called them. Titan, their leader had served with some of same officers as Angel, but at different times. Still, at the request of one of his friends, he had put in a word with Mrs Dove Lyons, who had declared herself willing to employ Angel for a month. And after that, she said, they would see.

He had not doubted his ability to prove himself. Angel had always been a capable musician, though he had been a better singer. Once. Before he screamed his throat raw over and over during the month he had been in the hands of the French.

He had been a good dancer, too, once.

No point in repining. He could have been killed when the explosives he’d been setting under a bridge went off early and trapped his feet under piles of rock and his head under the water. He could have died at the hands of the French who rescued him, imprisoned him, and tortured him to find out what he knew about the movements and plans of the British army.

He could have passed away after his friends got him out, since by then the wounds in both feet were infected. Or he could have lost his feet altogether. The surgeons had been keen to cut off the poor mangled objects that remained after his captors had repeatedly rebroken the bones, over and over.

Instead, he was alive, free, and mostly recovered. He was even mobile, sort of. And he now had a permanent job. Mrs Dove Lyons had pronounced herself satisfied with his performances in the post month. She had offered him a contract and an increase in his wages. He could possibly move from the fourth floor room he shared with one of the other musicians, if he could find a cheap enough place on the ground floor somewhere.

He was smiling as he reached the intermediate landing and executed the manouver that allowed him to change directions, but one foot came down more heavily than he intended, and he shut his eyes against the pain that stabbed up from every poorly set bone in the dismal appendage.

As he did so, a warm fragrant body collided with him, and he lurched off balance into the wall, gritting his teeth against the agony, now from both feet as his crutches clattered to the floor.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” said a melodious voice even as a firm hand grasped his upper arm on one side to support him.

“Take a moment, Nereus. My lady, would you fetch my friend’s crutches?” It was Titan, the head wolf. Not that his true name was Titan, any more than Angel’s was Nereus. But Mrs Dove Lyon gave each of her workers a name—a stage name as it were. From Midsummer Dream, most of them, but not Angel. For him, their employer had strayed into Greek mythology. Nereus was the shape-changing god of the sea and particularly of its fish. Titan must have told the lady what Angel had done when he joined the Allied cause in Spain.

Titan’s was the firm hand, but not the melodious voice. Angel had to see who that was.

He managed to open his eyes, but the lady was wearing a bonnet with a thick veil. A pale blue rather than black, as was the fashionable gown that highlighted rather than disguising her figure. So not a widow. Wonderful. He had fallen in front of one of the customers.

“I truly do apologise Mr Nereus,” she insisted, as she handed Angel each crutch and he tucked them under his arms. “I was speaking to Mr Titan over my shoulder, and not looking where I was going. I do hope I have not hurt you. Well. I mean, I can see that I hurt you, but not worse, I mean.”

“Nothing that won’t pass, my lady,” Angel assured her. “As long as I keep my weight off my feet, they will be better soon.” Or as good as they ever were, which was the best that could be expected.

“Mrs Dove Lyons is expecting you, Lady Laureline,” Titan told the lady, and she smiled at Angel. “If you are sure you are unharmed, Mr Nereus,” she said, and continued on up the stairs.

Titan stopped to say “Stay there and I’ll help you down when I’ve seen the lady to Mrs Dove Lyons. He hurried after the lady.

Angel stayed leaning against the wall, it and his crutches doing most of the job of supporting him. He ignored the pain—it was a familiar companion. The thoughts that seethed in his mind took all of his attention. That was Lady Laurel.

Laurel Barclay. The girl he had once adored from afar. The girl he had saved from the sea when the ship they were on sank off the coast of Portugal. Eight years ago, that had been, in 1808. She had returned to her world and he had joined the British army.

Why on earth was Lady Laurel, virtuous sister of an earl, and flower of the English ballrooms, visiting the proprietor of a gambling den? Even such a gambling den as this, popular as it was with men and women alike, was not the place for an unmarried daughter of an aristocratic family.

A thought crossed his mind, but that couldn’t be her errand. Mrs Dove Lyon was a matchmaker for the misfits and the desperate. Laurel is betrothed. And if she does not like Lord Tiberius Seward9, and who could blame her, she can just choose another.

Titan caught him by surprise. “Nereus. You waited. Do we need to call a doctor?”

A fair comment. Usually, Angel refused help. “The lady,” Angel said. “I knew her once, a long time ago. I was curious about why she was here.”

Titan raised a brow. “Her business with Mrs Dove Lyon is her own. When did you have an opportunity to meet Lady Laureline? I thought you had only been in England for eighteen months.”

“It was long ago,” Angel said. “We were both on the same ship coming from Italy.” For part of the trip, anyway. Angel had been taken from his Sicilian home by pirates, and was on his way to the Tunisian slave blocks when the pirate vessel encountered a British naval patrol and came off the worst.

“The commodore was Lady Laureline’s uncle—Lord Somerford’s brother. I can’t say that we met, exactly. She was well chaperoned, and I was working with the crew. Then, off Portugal, a storm struck the fleet. It was scattered and our ship was blown onto rocks and foundered.” Angel shrugged. “Lady Laureline was the first person I rescued.”

“Which means,” Titan observed, “that you went back into the sea. More than once if I was to guess. How many people did you rescue, exactly?”

Angel shrugged again. He had no idea. Just the memory of aching heavy muscles as he forced himself through the waves again and again.

by

First Kiss in Four Years on WIP Wednesday

Before she could say anything, he had fallen to his knees before her, and was asking, “May I kiss you, Ellie?”

“You need to ask?” she said, laughing.

He was serious, though. “Yes. You gave yourself to me four years ago and I responded to that gift with distrust and accusations. We parted in ill feeling and have lived apart for four years. I am more grateful and more delighted than I can say that you are considering giving me another chance. I will make no assumptions; assume no rights. It shall be as you wish.”

She parted her knees so he could come closer and put her hands on his shoulders. “The fault was on my side, too,” she reminded him, and pulled him closer for a kiss.

He accepted the invitation. In a split second, his body was pressed against hers and his hands pinned her in place, one on the small of her back and one the nape of her neck. His mouth covered hers, his lips and tongue urgently demanding her response.

Ellie went up in flames at his touch, revelling in the sensations she thought she’d never feel again, cursing the clothing that kept her from getting closer still. She still had to tell him something, but with his tongue in her mouth, the hard length of him rubbing against the place that wept for him, she couldn’t remember what it was.

She clawed at his shirt, and he co-operated, shifting slightly away and moving first one arm and then the other as she dragged the shirt off him, their mouths parting only long enough to slip the material past. 

That was better. Skin under her hands. His clever hands had inched up her hem and were now raising her night rail. In moments, she would be naked, and her body ached for the fulfillment he could give her. 

(An excerpt from One Hour in Freedom, which is out for beta reading and will be published next month.

by

Starting the story on WIP Wednesday

Here’s the start of The Darkness Within, my current WIP.

Max paused in front of the elegant townhouse. What did the Earl of Ruthford want? There was never any question about Max obeying the summons. Even an occasional and remote member of Lion’s Zoo like himself would never ignore a message from their former colonel.

Still, he didn’t want to be here. He’d seen Lion a number of times since returning to England, mostly here in London, but he was never comfortable in the man’s home. Years of training and experience meant he could walk the stately halls of the wealthy and wellborn without displaying his discomfort , but all the same, he’d not breathe easy until he was back in the shadows where he belonged.

Besides, he was retired. If Lion wanted him for his old skills, he would have to disappoint the man.

He set his jaw, and climbed the short flight of steps to rap the knocker. A year ago, he would have found his way inside unnoticed—did, on several occasions. Lion had asked him to train the servants to see those who knew how to remain concealed, and they had proved good pupils.

The butler who opened the door wasn’t Blythe, who was in some sort a former colleague, as Lion’s soldier servant during the war. This one was the sort of superior creature he’d enjoy tweaking in a more cheerful mood, but today he just wanted to get the meeting over with. His facsimile of what the butler would undoubtedly call his betters was perfect. For most of his life, his survival had depended on his ability to imitate others, choosing as his model whomever would best achieve his goals, in this case, an upper class younger son.

The butler did not smile, but he at least gave a small bow, the depth precisely calculated, and marched off towards the rear of the house with Max’s card on a silver platter. In short order, Lion followed the butler back out into the entrance hall, hurrying towards Max with his hand stretched before him in greeting.

“Chameleon! Welcome. Thank you for coming.”

Max shook the extended hand. “I am always happy to see you, Colonel.”

“I’m not in the army any more. Lion will do fine,” the earl insisted, as he always did. “Come on through to my library. Would you like a brandy?” He led the way, still talking. “How have you been keeping, Chameleon?”

The library was a spacious room lined with book shelves, with a large desk in the bay window where the light was best. “Max. I prefer Max.”

Lion knew that. What was the man up to? Lion waved him to a chair by the fireplace; unlit on this warm day in May. Next to the matching chair, a small table held a book and half a glass of brandy. Lion poured another glass from a decanter, and brought it over before reoccupying that seat.

“Not Zebediah, or Zeb?” he asked.

Max raised a brow. The name by which the army had enrolled him. Curiouser and curiouser. “Max.”

“As you wish, Max.” Lion took a sip from his glass. “How have you been keeping?” he asked again.

Social chit chat? Even if Lion really wanted to know, did Max want to tell him? He gave a non-commital answer and returned the conversational serve by asking after Lion’s wife and children. The earl’s eyes lit up but he answered briefly.

“Both well, but Dorrie prefers not to bring the baby up to town in this heat.”

Clearly, Lion was still as besotted with his countess as he’d been nearly a year ago, last time Max’s path had crossed his. “I daresay you are missing them,” he ventured, inviting Lion to stay on that topic rather than Max’s own activities.

Not that he had anything to hide. Indeed, since he’d given up his profession, he’d not found anything to occupy himself. He’d toyed with buying an estate, but he knew nothing about farming and the idea of living in the country made him shudder. His only experiences with country living had been in Spain, Portugal, and France, where the landscape often hid snipers or troops of enemies in ambush.

He’d investigated various business interests to buy, and even invested in a couple—a canal they were building in Wales, a company to produce gas to light the streets of York. Investing his ill-gotten wealth was fun of a sort, but it wasn’t enough to fill his days.

He listened to Lion talk about his family, offering a remark or a question whenever needed to keep the conversation going. He could manage his part with just a small fraction of his mind, while another part catalogued the contents of the room, the available exits, the likely obstacles on each route out of the house. The rest wondered if he would spend the rest of his life living on the edge of a hair, ready for battle and calculating the odds. Even here, in the private home of a man he loved like a brother and for whom he would cheerfully give his life, he could not relax.

“Of course, you are battle-ready,” said that inner part of him that spoke with Sebastian’s voice. Sebastian was eight years dead, and his voice only a memory, but sparring with that memory had become a comfort in all the years alone, skulking behind enemy lines, as uncomfortable with the army he served as with the one he hunted.

“You were at war with the rest of the world when I found you,” Sebastian jeered, “and you were then only ten, as best as we could figure it. One of the many life-lessons I taught you was that letting your guard down exacts a terrible price. You’ll never trust anyone fully, ever again.”

“Enough about me,” Lion said, silencing the old ghost as the rest of Max’s mind came to attention. “You don’t want to talk about you, so let me explain why I asked you to visit. Remember Squirrel?”

Lieutenant Stedham had been dubbed Squirrel for his ability to scavenge whatever was needed by the motley band of exploring officers who served under Colonel O’Toole, now the Earl of Ruthford. With their commander already known as Lion and a Fox, a Bull, and a Bear in the line-up, they all soon gained animal nicknames. Lion’s Pride, one wag dubbed them, but another claimed they were more Zoo than Pride, and the name stuck.

“I remember Squirrel,” Max admitted. Young, eager, and with an optimistic outlook that even five years of a brutal war could not suppress.

“He has gone missing. He has not written to his sister for more than five months, and her most recent letters to him have been returned as undeliverable.”

Max lifted his brows. “You want me to find him?”

“If you are not too busy. It is not like him, Max.”

That was true. Max could see the boy in his mind’s eye, sitting close to the flickering light of yet another campfire in yet another godforsaken hollow of yet another bleak mountain, penning yet another letter to the much older sister who had raised him. He didn’t bother to protest that hunting men was no longer his job, and England not his hunting ground. He would do this for Lion. He would do it for Squirrel, whose cheerful outlook had intrigued as much as annoyed him. Above all, he would do it because a hunt might stave off boredom for the few days or weeks it took, and it was unlikely to involve killing someone. Max didn’t do that anymore.

“What can you tell me, Lion? Where do I start?

by

Mysteries in WIP Wednesday

In my latest made-to-order story, I explore a reunion between a husband and wife who were separated by lies and malice many years earlier. There’s a mystery about the whole thing, and hence the headline for this post. The following scene features the brother and sister who are meeting for the first time.

“Hello,” he called, as he approached.

“Hello,” she responded. He was somewhere near her own age. Or, at least, he was as tall as Lillian. Slender and with dark hair and eyes, he reminded her of someone, though she could not think who. Could he be the company she longed for, perhaps? She held out her hand. “I am Lillian,” she said.

He took her hand and bowed over it. “Thomas,” he introduced himself. “I live over there.” He pointed to a house, or more of a large cottage, beyond the field.

Lillian pointed to the door into her aunt’s garden. “I am staying with my aunt,” she explained. “Am I trespassing, Thomas?”

He waved his arms in an expansive gesture. “I invite you to visit any time you like,” he said. “Have you met Belinda?”

“The horse?” Lillian realised. “She is sweet, is she not? Is she yours?”

“Yes, or my mother’s rather. We have owned her since before I was born. Come on.” He led the way to the horse, who lifted her head to sniff at his pockets.

The pockets proved to contain apples, and Thomas gave one of them to Lillian to feed ot the horse. Belinda accepted the offering with gentle lips and tolerantly carried them in turn around the field, one riding, the other walking. They picked wildflowers and Lillian made them into necklaces and crowns. They hunted for berries in the tangle by the brook.

Thomas suggested that another day, they could fish. He swore the brook had trout, but all Lillian saw were a few darting minnows.

And all the time, they talked, sharing stories, ideas, and opinions. Lillian had never made a friend so easily. Something about Thomas felt familiar, as if she had known him all her life.

But she could not have met him before. He had been coming to this town since he was a babe in arms, he and his mother. He brushed off questions about his father by saying, “We lost him before I was born.”

It wasn’t until later that afternoon, as she sat at the modiste’s watching Aunt Alice be fitted for yet another gown, that Lillian had time to explore the idea hovering at the edges of her mind. It was ridiculous, of course. Surely such a coincidence only happened in stories. But it could be true. Thomas had something of the look of her father, even more if she considered the portrait in the long gallery of Father as a boy. He was also the right age, for she had asked him. He had just turned thirteen, he had told Lillian, and Lillian celebrated her fourteenth birthday six weeks ago.

Two years ago, Lillian had demanded that her father tell her the truth of the scandalous rumours she’d been overhearing for as long as she remembered. She had a living mother, and possibly a living brother or sister. Her mother had been with child when she disappeared shortly after Lillian’s first birthday.

by

Scandal and risk on WIP Wednesday

Scandal is part of the stock in trade of a historical romance writer, and particularly the writer of Regency and Victorian novels, whose stories are set against a rigid, if hypocritical, standard of publicly moral behaviour. If my characters didn’t ignore it, or be accused of ignoring it, my stories would be a lot shorter! Here are the hero and heroine of One Hour in Freedom, ignoring social norms. Or are they?

After she was ready for bed, Ellie sat in a chair by the fire, waiting. He had stopped in the hall as Mrs Blythe showed them to their rooms. From the look in his eyes, he had thought about kissing her, but had changed his mind. Why? Were they still estranged? Was she a fool to hope they could be together again? Surely he had the same questions.

After half an hour, she decided that Matthias was not coming. Does he not realise that they needed to talk? They had both been given rooms in the guest wing, and were the only occupants. Furthermore, when they had come up together after the meeting with Max, she had seen which room he had entered.

Well then. She let herself out into the dim hall and counted doors until she reached the one Matthias had been given. Light still shone under the door. Good. That made things easier. She knocked and listened for a response from inside the room.

The door swung open, and Matthias stood in the opening, his neutral expression dropping for a moment to reveal surprise, then delight and lust, before he reimposed control over his features.

He stood to one side. “Ellie. Please come in.” The huskiness of his voice sent her body humming, as did his state of dress—or undress. He had wrapped a towel around his waist to open the door, but—apart from that scrap of fabric—he was naked.

She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat and walked past him into the room.

“Give me a moment,” he demanded. He went behind a dressing screen. He is quite correct. We need to talk. Ellie took a deep breath and attempted to distract herself by cataloguing the contents of the room. A bed. A couple of chairs by the fire, one of which had a half full glass on the little table beside it. She sat in the other chair, and continued her examination.

A clothes press. A side table under the window. Another by the door. Very similar to her own room, so probably a washstand and some pegs for clothes behind the dressing screen.

Where Matthias was presumably armouring himself against her lustful eyes by hiding his glorious chest and strong legs under clothing. But the sight was graven on her eyeballs, and her efforts to think of something else were not working.

He emerged in a pair of trousers, with a shirt worn loose over the top. “Still undress,” he said, “but not quite as scandalous.”

“Not scandalous at all, under the circumstances,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but the household doesn’t know that, do they?” he argued. “Do you want a whisky, Ellie? Lion brings it down from Northumberland. They brew it in the hills there.”

“I have never tried whisky,” Ellie admitted. “Perhaps just a little. As to the scandal of my presence here, or not… that is one of the things I wanted to talk about.”

by

Ingenuity on WIP Wednesday

I get them into these situations and then I have to get them out. Fortunately, the plot elves usually come up with something. This is from Weave Me a Rope, which I’m currently writing.

The second day after a beating was always worse than the first. The insulating effect of shock was gone, the bruises were at their maximum, and the stinging cuts were still so raw that the least and lightest of covers caused agony.

Spen lay on his stomach and endured. The housekeeper visited again, and Fielder popped his head in a couple of times, bringing food and drink and taking away the chamber pot. He remained sullen, but was at least no longer actively hostile.

Just after the second meal of the day, Spenhurst heard voices outside of the locked door.

“His lordship said no visitors,” Fielder growled.

Spen strained to hear the response. It was John. Spen recognised his voice but couldn’t hear the words.

“No visitors,” Fielder repeated.

John’s voice again, Fielder gave the same response, and then silence.

So. Spen was to deprived of his brother’s company. Probably as well. If the marquess caught the John anywhere near Spen, it would go badly for the boy. John stayed safe by staying out of the way of the man who was too proud to admit that his wife’s second son was not his get, but too volatile to be trusted not to kill the unwanted cuckoo in his nest if John was anywhere near when the marquess lost his temper.

John, though, hadn’t given up. Spen’s dinner came with a note folded inside the table napkin. It was written on both sides and crossed to keep it small. Spen hid it until Fielder had taken away the tray, then puzzled it out by the light of the candle.

Spen, they won’t let me in to see you. Can you come to the window tomorrow morning at half after six by the stable clock? I will be in the oak tree on the other side of the courtyard. Lady Deerhaven is still taking her meals in her room, but her maid says it is only a bruise to her face. The marquess is leaving again tomorrow. The schoolroom maid heard him order the coach for 10 o’clock. I told Fielder that, and asked to see you tomorrow, but he said his orders were to keep you there and not let anyone in. Your loving brother, John.

Spen hobbled to the window, but it was too dark to see the clock in the little tower on top of the stables. No matter. Dawn at this time of the year was before six. If he watched for the light, he would be up in time to see John.

That wasn’t hard. He was in too much pain to sleep much at all, and up and restlessly pacing as soon as the sky lightened enough for him to move around the room without bumping into walls or furniture. The little tower room had become a dumping ground for elderly chairs and sofas, all overstuffed and sagging.

John should have waited until the marquess had left. He shouldn’t be climbing the tree at all—though it was a good choice. It was as tall as the tower, and on the far side of the tower from the house, so someone in the tree was likely to go unobserved.

He studied the tree as the sun rose. The growth was at its lushest, with young green leaves and catkins covering and concealing the branches, but Spen knew how strong those branches were, particularly on this side, where the gardeners kept them trimmed so no one could enter the tower from the tree—or, for that matter, escape by the tree from the tower.

Not that the bars on the windows made either possible. The marquess was nothing if not thorough. Spen could open the window, however, and he did.

Spen’s spirits rose. If John was careful, he might be able to get within perhaps ten yards of the tower, and he’d be impossible to see from the ground, should anyone be out and about this early in the morning. It was an easy climb, too. John shouldn’t be attempting it with only one useable arm, but Spen didn’t doubt his agility and balance.

The wait was interminable. Spen crossed the room twice to another window from which he could see the stable, and each time the longer hand had crept only a few minutes. No more. John would arrive, or he wouldn’t. And if he didn’t, Spen would worry about him for the rest of the day.

Despite his watching, he didn’t see John arrive at the tree. The boy’s head suddenly popped into sight, surrounded by leaves.

He was at the same level as Spen, but a few yards away. His intense determined look softened into a grin. “Spen! You’re here! You’re able to move around. The housekeeper said you would be up and about by now, but I was worried.”

“I’m well,” Spen lied. “Nothing for you to worry about, John.”

“Good. What does he want you to do, Spen? The servants say he is keeping you locked up until you sign something, but they don’t know what.”

Spen never knew how much the servants told John, and how much John picked up from the conversations of others because he was good at moving around the huge old house as silently as a ghost. Certainly, though, John was usually way ahead of Spen at hearing any news. “What happened to Miss Miller, John? The housekeeper said she got away safely, but I was concerned the marquess might send someone after her.”

John shook his head. “He didn’t. Not that I have heard. I don’t think she went far, though. Just to the inn at Crossings. The stable boy saw her horses at the inn when he took two of ours to be shod.”

“She is off our land at least. But she must go back to London, John. To her father. He’ll be able to protect her.” Spen hoped. The marquess had a long reach though, as Spen and John both had cause to know. Their mother had died at the hands of highwaymen, or so the world believed. But the marquess had told her sons that he had sent the villains after her and her lover, when Lady Deerhaven had attempted to escape her miserable marriage.

“What does the marquess want you to sign?” John insisted.

“A marriage contract. Between me and Lady xxx. I’m not going to do it. I am marrying Cordelia Milton, even if I have to wait until his lordship is dead. But the more I refuse the more danger there is to her. Go and see if she is at the inn, John. If it is, tell her to go home to her father and stay safe. Tell her I love her and I will come for her as soon as I can.”

“He will make your life miserable,” John warned. He frowned. “We need a rope. If you had a rope, you could lower it and I could send up anything you need.”

Spen looked over his shoulder at the room. No ropes lying around, and if he started ripping up the sheets or the bedcovers, his keeper would notice. “Maybe I could take the fabric off the backs of the chairs,” he mused. “I don’t know if I could get enough pieces to reach the ground, though. It must be close to fifty feet.”

“How many chairs?” John wondered.

“Half a dozen, and three sofas.” The tower room had clearly been used as a dumping ground for broken or tired furniture. As well as the seating and the bed, it held two chests of drawers, a desk, a couple of tables and a wardrobe with only three legs.

John had a furious frown, a sign he was thinking. “Horsehair,” he said.

Spen frowned. “Horsehair?” But then it dawned on him. A couple of years ago, a stable master on one of the estates had taught the pair of them to make bridles from horsehair rope, having first made the rope. “The chairs will be stuffed with horsehair,” he realised. It could work. It could actually work, and it would at least give him something to do.

“I have to go,” John said. “I need to be back in my room before the maid comes. I’ll try to get to Crossings today, Spen. See you here tomorrow?”

by

Falling in love in WIP Wednesday

This is an excerpt from Love in Its Season, my contribution to Under the Harvest Moon, the next Bluestocking Belles Collection with Friends.

Jack strolled through the lower town considering ways to approach Miss Hughes without her turning him away. As the farrier’s cottage came into view, there she was. Gwen, his heart said. Stupid heart. What use would a magnificent woman like her have for a broken-down soldier, soon to be an ex-soldier, old before his time, beset by nightmares, with only one working arm, no job and no idea where he was going or what he would do?

She was harnessing a horse to a little vehicle—something between a cart and a gig, with a gig seat in front and a small cart tray at the back. The frown on her face hastened his steps. She was worried, and he wanted to fix it.

“Good morning, Miss Hughes.”

She turned at his greeting, her eyes widening in surprise. “Captain Wrath!”

As an ex-cavalry man, he recognized the setup in the cart back of the vehicle—the farriers and blacksmiths in the army had carried larger versions of the little portable forge, and the other boxes undoubtedly carried the tools of Miss Hughes’s trade.

“Off to work?” he asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of his tone.

“Yes, if…” Relief spread across her face as a boy of about nine raced around the corner of the cottage and skidded to a stop in front of her.

She continued to look in the direction he came, welcome turning to puzzlement. “Is your mother far behind?” she asked the boy.

“Mam can’t come,” the boy reported. “Said to tell you she’s sorry, Miss Hughes, but Chrissie got too close to the fire, and her apron caught, and Mam’s had to take her to the doctor.”

Miss Hughes paled, her eyes widening. “I hope Chrissie is not too badly hurt,” she told the boy. “Does your mother need anything?”

“It’s not too bad, my Mam says. She dropped Chrissie in the rain barrel straight off,” he was backing away as he spoke. “I have to go back and watch the baby. Sorry, miss.” He took off the way he had come.

Miss Hughes nibbled at her lower lip, her eyes full of worry.

“Anything I can do to help?” Jack asked.

Hope lit her face, followed by rejection. “I do not know you, Captain Wrath,” she pointed out. True, but Jack was more and more certain that his heart knew hers. Which surely meant that her heart knew his?

by

Introductions in WIP Wednesday

 

This is an unused scene from Crossing the Lyon, my contribution to Night of Lyons. I had to write 7,000 words before I found the start of the story, so I thought I’d share some of the words I took out. My heroine has knocked on the door of the hero seeking shelter against the stormy night.

Ursula thought about the Beaumont brothers as she draped her wet clothing over a laundry rack that hung from the ceiling near the stove. They knew she was a woman; she was certain of it. She had seen the realisation dawn on first the one, and then the other.

There. That was the last item. At least, apart from the bandages, everything she wore was made originally for a man. She was not hanging a female’s unmentionables in a gentleman’s kitchen.

She should go out and face them. She quailed at the thought, but took courage from Mr Roy Beaumont’s recognition of her dilemma and the consideration that came up with the scullery as a solution.

She was alone in a house with three men she did not know. On the other hand, she was warm and dry.

No one knew where she was. If she disappeared, her employers might notice when she did not turn up for work, but only Nora would miss her and make an attempt to find her. And Nora was three hour’s ride away, in London, and not expecting to see Ursula again for another five days.

On the other hand, the brothers Beaumont did not look or behave like monsters. Those who worked for them thought well of them, and in a small community, it was hard to hide misbehaviour of the sort she feared.

In any case, unless she wanted to go back out into the storm, she had to trust them, at least to a degree. However, before she left the kitchen, she took a knife from a rack and hid it in the folds of her robe. Her preferred clothing kept her safe from most who employed a handyman-gardener, since few actually looked at her and saw her.

Most, but not all. She had been forced to defend herself several times, though she wondered if she would have fought so hard if any of them had actually asked instead of merely attempting to take.

After all, ruined was ruined. She worked for a living. She dressed as a man and did manual labour. Her father had killed himself rather than face his own failures. Her sister worked as a seamstress, which in the eyes of many meant she must be a harlot, as many seamstresses were, poor things, their wages being so low.

Still, virtue—and, to be honest, pride—had kept her and Nora from taking the expected path of those who were ruined. So far. Though tonight, she was so cold, that she might do anything asked of her just to keep from being turned back outside into the rain.

Ursula put her hand on the door to the parlour, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

The Beaumont brothers confirmed her belief they knew she was a woman by standing as she entered the room.

“Come and sit by the fire,” Mr Roy Beaumont invited, waving to a chair between the two the brothers were occupying.

She did as he suggested, taking heart that he offered her a chair of her own. She could feel the heat of the fire on her face and on the hands she stretched towards the flames, but still the cold racked her core, and she shivered.

“Would you like a brandy to help warm you?” Mr Roy asked.

“Just a little one,” Mr Ban Beaumont warned his brother, then turned his gaze to Ursa. “Unless you are used to brandy, Miss Ursa? A little is a good idea, but too much may leave you with a sore head in the morning.”

She was right. They had realised she was female. No point in dissembling. “Ursula,” she volunteered. “My name is Ursula Kingsmead. And yes, I will try a little brandy.” Anything to feel warm again.

Mr Roy crossed the room to a tray with decanters and glasses, and Mr Ban took a rug from the back of a sofa by the window and brought it to her. “Tuck this around you, Miss Kingsmead. Or is it Mrs? Or Lady?”

“Miss,” Ursula admitted. She and Nora had still been in the schoolroom when her father died and the creditors had seized everything. Since then, they had had offers, but not for marriage.

She wrapped herself in the blanket, and accepted the brandy. The brothers stood until she remembered the manners she had been taught so long ago. “Please. Won’t you sit down?” she said.

Mr Roy was correct. The brandy spread its warmth down her throat and into her chest. The blanket Mr Ban had provided also helped. She sat huddled in the blanket, sipping from her glass, and staring into the flames. Bit by bit, the shudders stopped as she began to warm.

The brothers made no effort to engage her in conversation, instead, they spoke to one another, casual conversation about what each had been doing during the day. Mr Roy had been out on one of the tenant farms, helping a horse that was foaling. He owned the horse, apparently, and had high hopes for the foal. “She is as beautiful as her mother, Roy, and if she is as fast, we’ll have twice the chance to breed the stallion we need.”

Mr Ban had been to London for a meeting about some sort of a container that would revolutionise—Mr Ban’s words—food preservation.

“I said I would have to consult with my partner,” Mr Ban concluded.

“Does it taste any good?” Mr Roy asked. “Will there be a market for it?”

“Military,” Mr Ban said. “The army will leap at it. Navy, too. Preserved food on a long march or a longer voyage? It will taste better than dried meat and beans, I should imagine.”

“Good point. We should try some, Ban. But if it is in the least edible, I say we invest.”

Investment. Horse breeding. Farming. Mr Beaumont senior may have lost most of the family’s money, but apparently the brothers were making it back again. Ursula wished she could have done as well. It had been all she and Nora could manage just to keep body and soul together.

At least Nora had a safe place to live with her employer. The dressmaker valued Nora’s skills, but her protectiveness towards Ursula’s sister also suggested an affection to which the woman would never admit.

Ursula, on the other hand, had come back from her Sunday visit to her sister to find the shack in which she had been living had burned to the ground while she was out, and with it everything Ursula owned that wasn’t on her back.

Thank goodness she had worn her man’s disguise for the trip to and from London, for if she had gone to work these past two days dressed as a woman, she would already have been fired.

Her sigh attracted the attention of the brothers.

“Are you back with us, Miss Kingsmead?” asked Mr Roy.

“Are you hungry, Miss Kingsmead?” Mr Ban said, at the same moment.

She looked from one to the other. “I do not wish to be an imposition,” she said, even as her stomach growled.

Mr Roy grinned, and got to his feet. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He left the room.

“It is no trouble, Miss Kingsmead,” Mr Ban assured her. “Our cook always leaves plenty for us for supper, and my brother and I have eaten. You will not object to eating in here? I could light a fire in the dining room…”

Ursula was not sure that she could force herself to leave the warmth of her cocoon of blankets. “I have no objection,” she said, faintly.

Mr Ban smiled, and put another log on the fire.

by

Declarations on WIP Wednesday

Jack sometimes thought the worst days were the ones when Griffith was most aware of the holes where most of his memories and his old skills should be.

“He won’t help with the chores or settle to spillakins or cards,” he reported to Gwen when she emerged from her stillroom. “He refuses to sing, and he makes loud screeches when I try to tell him a story. If you don’t mind, Gwen, I’ll hire a pair of riding horses and take him out for a ride. I can keep him on a leading rein.”

“I’ll come along, if you can make it three horses,” Gwen said. “I am almost done here, and I’ve earned the rest of the day off. Go and fetch the horses, Jack, and I’ll watch Father while I make us some food to take with us.”

Some things, it seemed, Griffith remembered. He easily mounted the steady horse Jack had hired—a large placid cob that the stable master at the inn recommended. Gwen might think she had kept her father’s condition secret, but the stable master knew. Adam’s housekeeper knew. Jack wondered how many other people were aware. If so, they should be ashamed for leaving his poor darling to try to manage father, house and business on her own.

He hastened to mount his own horse. Griffith was anxious to be off, and was becoming frustrated when his horse refused to obey his commands. It wouldn’t ignore the lead reins that tethered it to Gwen’s horse and Jack’s.

“This was a wonderful idea,” Gwen said half an hour later. She had taken them to an idyllic spot by the river. As soon as Jack spread the blanket for their al fresco meal, Griffith had commandeered it to wrap himself in and had gone to sleep. Jack put his coat down for Gwen to use instead.

She sat on one side, her knees and ankles decorously together, her sensible half boots off the edge of the coat. “There’s room, Jack,” she said. “Come and share.”

Jack shook his head. “Not a good idea, Gwen. I cannot sit that close to you and keep my hands to myself.”

She looked puzzled. “Do you mean that you want to touch me? As if…? Jack, what do you mean?”

Perhaps he’d be off to hell in a hand basket, but he could not resist just once telling her how he felt. He would regret it if she sent him packing, as she should, but just once, he wanted her to know.

“I want to touch you.” It was a ravenous growl. “I want to kiss you until you don’t remember anything but my name. I want to devour you, Gwen, and if you have the least sense of self-preservation, you’ll let me sit over here while you sit over there.”

Was that a flare of interest in her eyes? Heaven help them both if it was, for her father was no sort of chaperone at all, sound asleep as he was.