Edward looked up to see his son come strolling into the dining room as though nothing had happened. He paused with a forkful of eggs almost to his parted lips.
“Good morn, Father,” Dec said as he went to the sideboard and took a plate from the stack. “Lord Jamie.”
Jamie brought his napkin to his lips to hide a grin. “Good morn, godson,” he muttered.
“Where the hell have you been?” Edward demanded, letting the fork drop to his plate with a heavy thunk.
“Outrunning your posse,” Dec replied. “Are they back yet?”
“No, they most certainly are not,” his father bellowed. “They are still out looking for your arse.”
“Well, I am going to park my arse in a chair and partake of this wonderful-smelling repast,” Dec told him as he took a seat.
“The banns were posted yesterday,” Edward stated.
“So they tell me,” Dec replied. “But you can unpost them, Father. I have no intention of marrying the Standfield chit or any other woman you think to foist off on me.”
“I’d rethink your words, Dec,” Jamie said softly. “He’s been like a bear with a sore paw since you managed to outwit your guards.” He chuckled. “How did you hoist yourself up the bloody castle wall?”
Dec looked him in the eye. “I’ll never tell. I might want to do it again.”
“You most certainly will not be doing it again,” his father snarled. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t clap you irons in my dungeon.”
“That threat is getting old,” Dec said with a sigh. “Do try to find another that will at least attempt to put the fear of the gods in me.”
“Oh,” Jamie said. “Not a smart thing to say, son.”
“Put that fork down, now,” Edward bellowed.
Dec sighed and did as he was told. He leaned back in his chair. “All right,” he said. “Let me have it, Father. All of it. Don’t hold anything back.”
“You are going to marry the Lady Althea whether you like it or not,” Edward told him. “Alastair and I have put our signatures and seals to the banns and they will be read every Sunday from now until the end of August. At that time, there will be a wedding at Standfield Hall. You and your new wife will honeymoon at your mother’s estate in Chale with a full complement of my men there to make sure you do not leave.”
“Do not escape, you mean,” Dec said, a muscle bunching in his cheek.
“Take it however you like,” Edward replied.
“And until then?” Dec questioned. “Am I to be a prisoner again in my own home?”
“The gods damn you, boy,” Edward hissed. “You…” He choked on his anger and started to cough.
“What your father was going to say is if you do your duty as you are honor bound to do, he will not restrict you to the keep,” Jamie said.
“My duty?”
“Your father and the Lady Althea’s father have given their words, their pledges—if you will—as members of the King’s Council to join their two families together.” He gave Dec a steady look. “They also sent the contract for the two of you to be Joined to be ratified by the High Council.”
Dec’s eyes widened. “They did what?”
Jamie gave him a commiserating look. “That contract was approved and sanctioned by the king himself. The decree came from Boreas Keep at dawn this morn.”
“And is irrevocable,” Edward managed to sputter. “Balk at the marriage now and you will go to jail for breach of contract.”
“Breach of contract?” Declan repeated. He hadn’t counted on that. That put a fly in the ointment.
“Aye, and I’m told you’ve been prattling on about marrying a chit you chanced upon at some sordid inn,” Edward stated. “Let me disabuse you of that ridiculous notion. Should you do something so idiotic as marry another woman, you will still be in breach of the contract and you will still go to jail. Are we clear?”
Dec felt the rug being pulled out from under him with every word his father spoke.
“You like screwing her? Fine. Do so until you come down with the clap. You want to play the brigand, Declan James?” Edward queried. “Fine again. Be about your business; I will not try to stop you.” He pointed his finger at his son. “But hear this. If you do not go through with this marriage, I will turn you in to the Royal Marines myself.”
“You don’t mean that,” Dec whispered.
“Not for being the infamous thief the entire country is talking about but for dereliction of duty, breach of contract, dishonorable behavior, and any gods-be-damned thing else I can think of to have you put away. I promise you, you will spend the next year or two behind bars. That will give you ample time to contemplate just how foolish you were to defy me.”
“You’re going to blackmail me?”
“Call it what you will. If you want any freedom at all, you had best think twice about not going through the Joining.”
“If you are thinking of running, Dec,” Jamie put in. “It would be best that you don’t. Your father has pledged Jack McGregor as your ancillary if you flee. Your punishment will become his punishment. Since he is a commoner, he will spend the rest of his life paying for your mistake.”
“Jack has nothing to do with…”
“Run and he pays,” Edward stated. “It’s as simple as that. You want to put your friend in jail then—by all means—run.”
* * * * *
If there was one thing Dec had learned over the years since he’d been spared the same fate as those who had been on the Molly Celeste with him that fateful day, it was that life goes on after it kicks you in the teeth.
People are born, grow up, marry, perhaps conceive and bear a child then die. It was a cycle that rolled along from century to century like a juggernaut. No matter how many people died, that many more were brought into the world to continue the circle of life. What was one man’s life compared to the millions that had come before him and would come after him?
Slamming the door to his room, he stood just inside the chamber and wanted to scream at the top of his lungs at the injustice that was being forced on him. The chains that were slowly but surely constricting him until he thought he would suffocate from lack of air. Tearing at his jabot, he ripped it from his neck in an effort to fill his lungs. He found himself gasping, unable to breathe. He was drowning—not from water but an absence of oxygen.
Drowning, he thought as he dropped to his knees, clawing at his constricting throat. Drowning should have been his fate all along. He should have died alongside his mother and brother. Gone down with the ship as they had.
Tears filled his eyes as he rocked back and forth. He’d never felt as helpless as he had that day. He had failed those who had loved him, depended on him. Failed the very woman who had conceived him, borne him and raised him to manhood. Failed the little brother who had looked up to him, trusted him, believed in him.
Now here he was helpless again. His failure coming back to make him atone for a multitude of sins he had committed in his life. Mayhap jail was where he belonged, he thought. At least there he could not fail those who still loved him.
Shoulders slumping, he buried his face in his hands. The low keening that came from his throat shamed him but it helped to alleviate some of the sense of suffocating. Scraping his hands down his face he dropped them to his thighs and dug his fingers into his flesh.
He’d tried so hard, he thought, to make up for having failed his mother and Eion. To be a good and dutiful son. But the screams of the dying echoed in his thoughts and the flailing hands going under for the third time played before his eyes day and night. He couldn’t cope. Didn’t know how. Drinking helped ease the pain, but it only served to bring out the worst in him. The scrapes with the constabulary began soon after his mother’s funeral and continued on until his father forced him into the Royal Marines. He hadn’t wanted to go. The military wasn’t for him and he’d tried to tell his father that’, but the Duke of Arlington refused to listen.
And Dec had been right. He hated the military and the military hated him. He’d gotten into even more trouble under the iron first of his commanding officers and rebellion was the only way he had to handle how helpless he felt at being ordered around like a puppet. The military treated him like a mindless dummy. He was perfectly capable of doing what needed to be done without having his face shoved into it. Nothing they expected of him had any real consequence anyway. It was all meaningless drilling and saluting and clicking of the heels. Ordered to toady to men who were one step up from the moronic irked him like an ingrown toenail.
He had failed dismally at the only real obligation he’d ever been given—that of saving his mother and brother—so nothing the military demanded of him was important. Being unable to protect those who had been placed in his charge had been a hard blow to his manhood. To his ego. His self-esteem. That failure had crippled him in ways he knew would never heal. It turned him cold and numb inside and left him with a burgeoning rebellious streak that bordered on the suicidal for a long time. All the military managed to do was bring out the stubborn, reckless part of his nature. He hated being away from Arlington Hall and the harder the officers pushed him, the more recalcitrant he became.
When he was sent home in disgrace, his father had shunned him for weeks. The old man’s silent treatment was no only condemnation, but an indictment of all that was broken inside Declan.
He hadn’t felt wanted or needed.
Until the day he’d been out riding and had seen a family of four being evicted from the hovel that was all they had in the world. The displacement of that family mirrored the way he felt about his own life: he had no more control over it than the poor family had of theirs. He understood well the helplessness, hopelessness, and futility of it.
That was when he decided to even the playing field for those who could not enter the game themselves. At least this was one wrong he could right. As the privileged son of the Duke of Arlington he was privy to information that could be used to target those who would stomp their boot upon the necks of the less fortunate—those they felt were beneath them anyway. He had access to baronial homes and castles, entre into a world where wealth and prestige could be turned into an asset to help the poor rather than extend the prosperity of the rich.
Thus the Gypsy had been brought to life and the highwayman had saved many a family from starving, from having their land confiscated for lack of the money to pay their taxes. He was bringing good to those who desperately needed it.
And still did.
He lifted his head and looked across the sumptuous room that had been his since he was a toddler. His father’s words rang in his ears.
“You want to play the brigand, Declan James? Fine. Be about your business; I will not try to stop you.”
There were those who truly needed him. Had come to count on him. There wasn’t a single soul he had helped who knew the real identity of their savior but they blessed him nonetheless. They appreciated what he was doing for them. He was not failing them.
But to continue to do so, he had to be unrestricted, free to come and go as he needed to.
“If you want any freedom at all, you had best think twice about not going through the Joining.”
The face of Althea Standfield passed through his mind’s eye and he pushed up from the floor. He walked to the window to look out.
They were there again—the guards. He supposed there would be two more on the roof and though they hadn’t been there when he’d come upstairs, he was sure as hell they would be outside his door now.
Trapped. Unable to leave. Watched day and night. He might as well be in prison.
Jamie’s words came at him like a slap.
“If you are thinking of running, Dec. It would be best that you don’t. Your father has pledged Jack McGregor as your ancillary if you flee. Your punishment will become his punishment. Since he is a commoner, he will spend the rest of his life paying for your mistake.”
Jack.
His best friend. The man who had always had his back. The man who would take a musket ball for him.
A man he desperately needed to talk to at that moment.
Clenching his teeth, he turned from the window and strode to his door. He flung it open and—surprise!—there were two burly men lounging across the hall. They straightened as soon as he left his room and fell in behind him as he walked.
Down the stairs and to his father’s study where he knew the man would be at this time of morn. He didn’t bother to knock but opened the door and entered. His father looked up in surprise then frowned.
“What is it, Declan?”
“I want to talk to Jack,” Dec told him.
“For what purpose?”
Dec walked to his father’s desk and leaned his weight on his balled fists on the desktop. “If you want me to prostitute myself to the Standfields then send for Jack. Let me talk to him.”
“Again,” his father said, putting aside the document he had been reading. “For what purpose?”
“What harm is there in allowing him to talk to young McGregor?” Jamie asked from behind him.
Dec glanced around and was somewhat relieved to see support on the face of his father’s trusted confidante.
“Send a messenger, then,” Edward ordered. He narrowed his eyes. “But if it is your intention to cook up some wild scheme to get you out of doing your duty, remember who will pay for that scheme.”
Dec nodded—not trusting himself to speak—and pivoted on his heel. As he passed Lord Jamie he did not miss the compassion in the older man’s eyes.
* * * * *
“What are you going to do?” Jack asked.
They were sitting on the rim of the formal fountain in the garden with six—not two, but six—men within tracking distance, watching Dec’s every move.
“Does it seem to you as though I have a choice?” Dec countered. He would not tell Jack about the threat to his freedom. There was no reason for Jack to know because Dec had no intention of letting his friend be punished for something that was none of his doing.
“I guess not.”
“I was told the marriage has been tentatively set for the fifteenth of September. A request for a visiting priest from the abbey to come celebrate the Joining has been sent,” Dec told him. “That should give Standfield time to invite as many pompous asses as he has in his address book.”
“I know this isn’t what you want…”
“Hell no it isn’t what I want,” Dec snapped.
“But it may turn out to be a good thing for you, Dec.”
“How?” Dec demanded. “How can being tied hand and foot to a woman I’ve only met once be a good thing? To have the responsibility of her?”
“Is she an ogre?” Jack queried.
Dec shrugged. “She’s comely enough.”
“I’ve heard she’s a raving beauty,” Jack said.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Dec quoted.
“I’ve also heard she has a sweet temperament and goes weekly to the village to help feed the hungry.”
Dec frowned at him. “So what?”
“That tells me she has a kind and giving spirit.” Jack nudged him with his boot. “Do you think her father orders her to do that?”
Dec snorted, rolled his eyes.
“I have also heard she’s…”
“Has a halo and wings and strums on a harp while singing hymns,” Dec snarled as he hopped off the fountain edge.
“Got a wicked sense of humor.”
Putting his hands on his hips, Dec stared out across his ancestral lands and shook his head. “You’ve asked about her.”
“Learned all I could,” Jack admitted. “I wanted to know who it was we were up against.”
“It’s going to be me up against her,” Dec mumbled. “Every day and night for the entirety of my fucking life.”
“What I have learned has been nothing but good things. She is nothing like her father and seems to be an accommodating person. Mayhap if you are faithful to her…”
“Fidelity is not on the menu,” Dec stated. “I may be forced to service her but I will take my pleasure where I find it. I won’t allow her to emasculate me. I’ll sleep with whomever I please.”
Jack scowled. “Like the tavern wench?”
“Her name is Bess,” Dec hissed.
“You’re not going to listen to reason, are you?” Jack asked.
“Are we friends?” Dec queried.
“Of course.”
“Then be my friend and don’t give me the same shit everyone else is dishing out,” Dec told him. “It’s coming from every side of me, Jack, and I don’t know how much more I can take without being buried under it.”
Jack stared at him for a long moment then nodded. “If you want my advice, you can ask for it. Otherwise, I’ll not give it.”
Dec put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Just be there for me. That’s all I ask.”
* * * * *
When he left his bedroom later that evening, the guards were gone. Neither had they been under his window.
All because he had prostrated himself before his father, swallowed his pride and extended his wrists for the virtual shackles that were being placed there.
“As long as Jack is not dragged into this, I will do what you want,” he had told his father.
“You will do your duty?”
“I will do whatever you think must be done,” he’d agreed.
“One mistake, Declan, and McGregor will pay for it,” his father warned.
“I understand. As long as I’m the good little neutered sycophant everything will be right as rain in Serenia,” he’d said.
“All I ask is that you be careful,” his father said, and he could have sworn there was moisture in the old man’s eyes.
No one stopped him at the stable when he went in to fetch Warlock. No one looked askance at him as he saddled the horse himself. Not one servant stood in his way as he mounted the beast and rode out. None of his father’s men followed though he couldn’t shake the notion that he was being watched. If he was, whoever was tracking him was very good at his job.
He rode to the bridge at Dead Man’s Crossing and sat there for a long while watching the waters swirling under the wood and stone structure. His gaze shifted to the cave but there was no reason for him to venture inside, so he nudged Warlock. The Rysalian continued on across the bridge, their shadows gliding across the moonlit planks.
He had a tax collector to intercept in Waterford, a small town five miles north of Wixenstead. According to the papers he had taken from the courier, taxes were being collected the past two days in the riverside berg and the collector would be leaving on the morrow for Boreas Keep. Tonight, he would be staying at the Piper’s Horn, a seedy tavern with two rooms to let on the top floor of its ramshackle building. There would be two redcoats to guard the collector’s take and they would have use of the second pigsty of a room. Chances were good all three would be well into their cups by ten of the clock and in bed by the stroke of eleven. He felt sure none of them would pose a threat.
As Warlock trotted along the coach road, Dec’s thoughts were on the kind of man it took to earn his way as a tax collector. Universally hated, such a man was shunned by the villagers even as they feared him. It was a cesspit job that only men who could not seem to find other gainful employment took. Sometimes the bastard was a craven coward but there was the rare bird who was a sadist at heart and enjoyed watching the suffering of others. Listening to their tearful pleas.
That could well be the man at the Piper’s Horn.
He hoped so for he was in the foulest of moods and itching for a fight. His fists itched to break teeth, shatter a jaw or two. He fervently hoped one—or all three—would try to keep him taking back the money they had taken from the poor people of Waterford.
It wasn’t customary for him to venture into a village or town to do his thieving. He was, after all, a highwayman and the coach road was his usual haunt. But of late, the good Captain Penry had forbidden tax collectors and messengers, couriers, envoys, and government officials from traveling after sundown. Those who traveled about in their personal coaches had been warned to stay off the coach road until the Gypsy was brought to ground. Because of the new restrictions, he was having to take his business to the taverns and inns where such individuals might stay. It was a nuisance more than anything and it doubled the chances of him being caught. Considering the frame of mind he was in, he relished the danger such an enterprise posed.
Waterford was one of those towns that had absolutely nothing going for it. It sat beside the river like a dead, decaying toad on a hump of land what smelled of sulfur. There were no street lamps for there was no street. Mud comprised the thoroughfare that ran through the center of town. Only three windows among the dozen or so structures glowed with light. Most of those who lived in Waterford worked in the mine at Cumberland and had to be up well before dawn to make the two-mile trek—mostly on foot for horses were an expense many of the villagers could not afford.
“Yet along comes the king’s tax collector to take what little they do have,” Dec said quietly as he sat beneath the spreading limbs of a live oak and stared at the nearly dark town.
At the far end of the thoroughfare, the dilapidated tavern sat beside a stable that had seen better days. At the end nearest to where he sat were the meeting hall and another nondescript building he knew to be the undertaker’s abode. The rest of the constructions were where the miners lived: identical one-room shacks with roofs badly in need of new thatching and chimneys that were cracked and missing stones. All of it was a sad commentary on the harsh life these people were forced to live.
As he watched a light was extinguished in the last miner’s shack—leaving only two lights left burning in the tavern. He set Warlock into motion, keeping the animal at a slow walk that took them behind the row of shacks on his right. The stench was overpowering and he pulled up his kerchief more to block the odor than hide his face.
This night he was dressed all in black for the claret velvet coat would have stood out like a red flag in the bright moonlight. Although he doubted any of the miners would raise the alarm if they saw him, he didn’t need one of the redcoats to be out and about and catch sight of him. Gone, too, was the cocked hat with its snowy white plume and in its place a simple black tricorne minus of any adornment. No pistol was stuffed into his belt and no rapier hung from a scabbard at his waist. He carried a single black obsidian dagger that he had purchased in Necroman after leaving the Royal Marines.
Skirting the edge of the stable where he knew the redcoats and tax collector’s horses would be, he walked his own steed to the copse of trees behind the tavern, threw a leg over Warlock’s head and dropped quietly to the ground. The heels of his knee-high boots sank into the mud and he bit back a curse that came rushing to his throat.
He stayed where he was and took in the position of everything surrounding the back of the tavern. There was a privy off to one side. Two rows of unfinished boards had been placed atop the mud as a walkway from the back of the tavern to the outhouse. Another row of boards led to a chicken coop and a fenced area where a scrawny goat lay atop a hay mound. A covered well was between the tavern and a lean-to under which cords of wood was haphazardly tossed.
When the last light went out in the tavern, he moved as quietly and quickly as he could through the slush of the mud. With every footstep there was a sucking sound that made him grind his teeth but there was nothing to be done about it. Just as he reached the well, the door to the tavern opened and a man stepped out carrying a lantern.
Ducking down behind the well, he watched the man walking down the rows of boards that led to the privy. From the way the man was dressed, Dec knew it was the tax collector. Though the clothing was not fashionable by any stretch of the imagination, it did look clean, if worn. With his hair pulled back in a queue, it was hard to tell the bastard’s age but the most important thing was that he was unarmed.
The man reached the privy and opened the lopsided door to enter. He hung the lantern on a hook just inside the structure then closed the door behind him.
Dec eased up to a standing position then made his way to the door of the tavern. He listened for any sound from within but there was only silence. In one quick move, he drew his dagger, opened the door and slipped inside. He pressed his back to the wall to await the return of the tax collector.
* * * * *
Althea sat at her window and glared at the moon. It looked so happy sitting up there—without a single care—while her world was rapidly falling apart.
“He doesn’t want to marry you,” her father had told her when she had come down to break her fast. “But his father and I have taken the matter out of his hands. The banns have been posted, a contract has been signed by Edward and I, and the Joining will be in mid-September.”
She had stared at him with horror turning her backbone to ice. “You are making him marry me?” she asked.
“You are not getting any younger, Althea,” her father reminded her. “In trying to find the right husband for you…”
“The right wealthy husband,” she corrected him.
“It would be remiss of me not to find you a husband who has the wherewithal to provide for you as well—if not better—than have I,” he said. “The combined Standfield and Farrell estates will make you the wealthiest woman in Serenia.” He smiled smugly. “Even wealthier than the queen.”
“You know full well I don’t care anything about wealth, Papa,” she told him. “I want the man I marry to love me. To be in love with me. By forcing Lord Declan into having me against his will, you will quite effectively make sure that never happens.”
“Posh,” her father said with a snort. “Love is overrated and it is not necessary to have a good marriage. The uniting of two illustrious families with impeccable bloodlines is far more advantageous for you than having a man moon over you.”
“Moon over me,” she said to that. “As though I should be ashamed to want a man who would do so.”
She thought back to the night of her cousin’s party and the man with whom she had danced. He had been most pleasant, witty and she had enjoyed spending time—as short as it was—with him. His leap over the balcony and plunge into the pond told her he had a carefree reckless side to him that would be fun to get to know. She had been attracted to him right from the start and when the prospect of marriage to him had first been mentioned, she had been thrilled. Then when she’d learned he didn’t want to marry her, she’d been hurt and a bit offended that he had not been as taken with her charms as she had been with his allure. He might not want her but she wanted him.
Fiercely. From that first night they had danced together.
And she meant to have him.
But not this way. Not made to take her to wife despite having strong feelings against the union. That did not bode well for a happy lifetime together. That was simply a recipe for disaster.
Apparently, though, it was out of both his hands and hers now. The banns had been posted. The entire county, district and country would know of their engagement. It would be impossible for him to back out if his father and her father held the proverbial pistol to his handsome head.
“Damn and double damn,” she said with a stomp of her foot.
Turning from the window she went to her desk, pulled out the chair and sat down. Reaching for a sheet of paper and her quill, she dipped the nib into the ink pot and put pen to page.
* * * * *
He heard the tax collector returning from the privy and tightened his grip on the handle of the dagger. He was calm, clear-headed and centered.
The door opened, the wash of the lantern’s glow spreading over the floor and up the far wall followed by the man’s shadow. Mumbling to himself, the man closed the door behind him, turned and took two steps before Dec hooked his left arm around his throat and pressed the tip of the dagger over his heart.
“Cry out and it will be the last thing you do,” he hissed in the man’s ear.
The man had gone as still as a statue with his left hand holding the lantern and his right arm clamped closed to his body by Dec’s biceps.
“Is the tax money in your room?”
“Aye.”
“How many guards are with you?”
“Two.”
“Are they in their room?”
“I believe so.”
The man’s voice was steadier than Dec thought it would be. He was close to Dec’s size though a bit taller.
“We’re going to walk over to the table and you’re going to set the lantern atop it.”
“If you’re the one they call the Gypsy, you can have the gods-be-damned tax money. You will make better use of it than the king’s men will. The people here are as dirt poor as any I’ve ever seen—even the wretched natives in Barter Town.”
There was something in the way the man spoke, the cadence of his voice, his accent that made the hair stir on Dec’s neck. But when he mentioned Barter Town, a tingle ran down his spine. “Who are you?” he asked.
“The name is Daniel Rees and unless the gods were so fucked up they created two of you—and by the gods I hope not—you are Declan Farrell.”
Dec drew in a quick breath and stepped back, pulling his arm and the blade from the man in front of him who turned slowly to face him.
And it was a face Dec knew well but hadn’t seen in over ten years. A face belonging to a dead man.
“Sweet Merciful Morrigunia,” Dec whispered. He pulled down the kerchief. “It is you.”
“In the rather worse for wear flesh,” Daniel replied.
“We thought you were dead,” Dec told him.
“Apparently the gods weren’t finished with me.” He went over to the table and placed the lantern atop then turned, spread his arms. “Come here, you little bastard, and give us a hug.”
Dec looked down at his dagger then quickly sheathed it at his thigh. He hurried to the man who had saved his life more than once and wrapped his arms around him. Tears pricked behind his eyes, for Danny Rees was a ghost from his past that had meant as much to him as Jack did.
“You’ve put on weight,” Daniel said then eased back from the embrace. Hands on Dec’s upper arms, he looked him over. “Filled out right nicely though. That skinny little brat I knew from the Royal Marines could have slipped through the eye of a needle.”
“What happened to you?” Dec asked him. “We looked all night for your…”
“My body?” Daniel finished for him. He shrugged. “I got caught up in some debris far down the river—snagged me as I shot past. My arm was broken and it got hooked around a tree branch.”
“Why didn’t you come back to camp? At least let us know you survived the fall.”
“After what those bastards tried to do to me, do you think I wanted to go another round with them?” Daniel inquired. “Fuck that. I like my dangly right where it hangs.”
Heavy footsteps walking across the floor above them drew their eyes to the ceiling.
“That’s the guards,” Daniel said. “I think they’re coming back downstairs.” He swung his head about the room. “You need to hide, Dec.”
“I need to put them out of commission,” Dec replied. “They’re probably on their way to the privy.”
“I’ll take one; you take the other,” Daniel suggested, reaching for a couple of empty wine bottles sitting on the table. He kept one and tossed the other to Dec.
Dec grinned as he caught the bottle. “Works for me.”
Slipping quickly over to the door that led to the taproom, Dec took the left side and Daniel took the right, putting their backs to the wall.
“Who else is in the tavern?” Dec whispered.
“Just the blowsy old battleax who owns it.”
The sound of the guards arguing as they came down the stairs all but drowned out Dec’s next question.
“Where is she?”
Daniel jerked a thumb twice toward the ceiling and Dec nodded. They tensed for the guards were almost on them, their voices floating down the stairwell.
“And I say if you beat her every now and again, she’ll…”
The first man came through the door, took two steps into the kitchen and went down with an oomph when Daniel brought the wine bottle down on the back of his head. The guard dropped like a rock and the man behind him stumbled over him. That man had just a moment of stunned surprise before Dec swung the bottle in his hand and cracked the guard in the temple. He, too, slid to the floor atop his companion.
“Smooth as Chalean cream,” Daniel said and he and Dec slapped palms together.
“Just like old times,” Dec replied.
“I’ll get the strongbox with the tax money,” Daniel said. “You stay here and watch them. Smack ’em again if they need it.”
Dec nodded as his old friend stepped over the two prone men and jogged lightly up the stairs. He didn’t have long to wait for Daniel was back with a small wooden box sealed with a padlock.
“Where’s your nag?” he asked. He put the strongbox on the table beside the lantern
“Back in the trees.”
“All right, you take the money and get the hell out of here.”
“What about you?” Dec asked.
“You need to pop me, too. Make it look like a robbery.”
Dec shook his head. “I’m not going to hit you with the gods-be-damned wine bottle, Danny.”
“If I don’t have a goose egg to match theirs when they wake up, they’re gonna know I helped you,” Daniel said. His smile turned pleading. “As piss-poor as this fucking job is, I need it, Dec. I can’t afford to go back to prison so just fucking hit me with the bottle and be done with it.”
“Prison?” Dec queried. “You were in…?”
“Hit me with the bottle and go before they wake up,” Daniel hissed.
“Wait. Where are you living?”
“Groversner’s Point,” Daniel snapped. “The cottage with the green door. Now shut up and do what I told you for once in your stubborn life.”
As much as he hated to do it, Dec saw the wisdom in Daniel’s plan. He exhaled heavily then swung the wine bottle again. It clanked against Daniel’s temple, his friend’s eyes rolled up in his head and he started to fall. Dec grabbed him before he could and laid him gently on the floor.
“I’m sorry, my friend,” he whispered.
He started to pick up the strongbox but his gaze went to the floor beside the door. There was one pair of muddy footprints leading from the back door to where he and Daniel had taken out the guards. As sure as the gods made little green plums, the second man was going to remember there being two men in the kitchen.
With a growl, he hurried to the back door, went outside, stomped around in the mud again then tracked it back into the kitchen to stand in the same spot Daniel had been standing. He turned, picked up the strongbox, took one last look at Daniel then hurried away.
* * * * *
Declan was sound asleep the next morning when there was a light tap at his door. He groaned, pulled the pillow over his head. It had been well after dawn when he’d gotten to bed and it felt as though he’d barely closed his eyes. When the tap came again he cursed.
“Come,” he snapped.
The door eased open and Iverson, his father’s manservant, poked his head into the room. “I have a missive for you, Your Grace,” the man said.
His head still under the pillow, Dec growled before telling the servant to put it on his desk.
“Milady wishes a reply, Your Grace. Her man awaits below.”
He lifted one side of the pillow from his face. “Milady who?”
“Standfield, Your Grace,” Iverson reported.
“Shit,” Dec hissed. He tossed the pillow aside then held out his hand. “Give it here.”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
“And stop staying that, gods-be-damn it,” he ordered.
Iverson’s lips tightened. The man was a stickler for propriety, rules and regulations and anything—Dec firmly believed—that smacked of subservience. The white-haired gentleman brought the note from Althea Standfield to the bed. He handed it over then stood there with his hands behind his back.
Dec looked up. “What?” he asked.
“I am to take your reply to her man, Your…” Iverson frowned. “Milord.”
“Can I at least read the gods-be-damned thing before I give her my reply?” Dec queried.
“Of course, milord,” Iverson agreed. He raised his eyes and looked at the wall beyond.
Dec glared at him. “In fucking private?” he snapped.
Iverson’s stony face turned beet red but he bowed slightly. “Of course, milord,” he replied and did a precise military about-face before striding regally to the door and leaving the room.
“Uptight walking stick,” Dec mumbled. He pushed himself up to lean his back against the headboard. He ran his thumb under the bright blue wax that was imprinted with the Standfield crest and opened the missive. The elegant, flowing handwriting was quite beautiful with its curlicues and delicate strokes. Her words, however, were not at all what he had been expecting. There was nothing flowery or mincing about them.
Milord, she began.
It has been made clear to me that you do not want this marriage. I am told you have been pushed into it, coerced and quite possibly threatened. For that, I apologize. I wanted to assure you I have had nothing to do with the thrusting of this onerous task upon you. I am as much a pawn in this game as are you and have even less say in the matter than you do. No matter how I feel about the situation, I understand your reluctance to wed a woman you do not know.
If I had the wherewithal to flee my father’s rule and the obligations of this Joining, trust me, I would and this union would not be consecrated. However, females of our class have no control over their future. That is especially so for those of us in the upper echelons of wealth. Our fate is in the hands of our male kinsmen.
Were it possible for me to buy my way out of this Joining that you find so burdensome I would do so, but I have not a copper to my name. I am totally at the mercy of my father—and soon—yourself.
I have but one request of you and will never presume to ask anything further. If you would be so kind to provide my man with your answer I would be extremely grateful.
Here is my request. All you need do is reply either yay or nay.
Will you swear on your honor as a gentleman and a peer of the Court of King Valdric that you will not hold this ill-fated union against me nor seek to punish me for a matter well beyond my control? Your answer will go a long ways in helping to settle the fear that is growing in my soul.
With respect,
Lady Althea Marie Standfield
He read the missive again then dropped his hands to his lap as he continued to stare at it. Apparently milady was as disheartened and unhappy about their coming nuptials as he was.
If I had the wherewithal to flee my father’s rule and the obligations of this Joining, trust me, I would and this union would not be consecrated….Were it possible for me to buy my way out of this Joining that you find so burdensome I would do so but I have not a copper to my name.
He raised his head and turned his face to the window where a sliver of light was peeking through the closed draperies. Thoughts were tumbling through his head like water over the rocks at Dead Man’s Crossing.
If I had the wherewithal to flee.
He realized he had to think more on this. Throwing the covers aside, he left the bed and walked to the door, opened it—knowing he’d find Iverson on the other side.
“Tell her man that my answer is yay.”
“Very good, milord,” Iverson said with another bow.
Dec closed the door and headed for the armoire. He needed to talk to Jack—and to Bess—about the plan that was slowly taking shape in his mind. As he dressed and the plan began to have structure, he realized there was something he needed to have his father do and the outcome of that had him grinding his teeth.
* * * * *
“A dowry?” Edward inquired. “You want a dowry?”
“One hundred thousand denestras,” Dec stated. “Surely that is a mere drop in the bucket for a man of Duke Alastair’s presumed wealth.”
“But there was no mention of him providing a dowry for Lady Althea in the marriage contract he and I signed. Now you want me to go to him and demand he pay you to take his daughter off his hands?”
“Precisely so,” Dec replied. “I believe I should make something off the deal.”
“Why?” Edward asked, narrowing his eyes at his son. “What do you intend to do with the money?”
“Call it a bribe to make sure I treat his daughter with the respect and honor she is due.”
“You will do so with or without compensation,” Edward snapped.
“I’ve not asked you for even one concession in this, Father,” Dec reminded him. “You are holding Jack’s fate over my head and I am being sold into sexual slavery. I don’t think asking for a few measly denestras is too much to ask.”
“Sexual slavery?” Edward repeated. “For the love of the gods, Dec, how could you say such an odious thing?”
“All right, how about putting me out to stud?” Dec queried, playing his part of petulant brat to the fullest of his abilities.
Edward winced. “Please stop,” he asked.
“A bit embarrassing to think you’re forcing your only son into a loveless marriage with a woman he doesn’t even know and expecting him to lay with her X amount of times to produce X amount of offspring?”
“Enough,” Edward told him.
“Then ask for the dowry,” Dec said. “Tell him I’m being intractable and obstinate and if he does not pay me, I’ll hold my breath until I turn blue.”
“And you would do it, childish little bastard that you are,” Edward grumbled.
“I want that money by the end of the day tomorrow,” Dec said.
“Now you are being absurd,” Edward snapped. “One does not have that kind of money lying about the keep.”
“He can get it from his bank in Iomal,” Dec said. “Tell him to send a courier to fetch it.”
“Why the rush?” Edward demanded. “For what are you going to use this money?”
Dec looked to the ceiling. “Someone saw me along the coach road the night the government courier was robbed of his diplomatic pouch. He says he’ll go to the redcoats and turn me in if I don’t pay him to keep quiet.”
Edward gasped. “You are being blackmailed?”
“You mean by someone other than you?”
“Declan…” his father warned.
“Aye.”
“By someone who believes you are the…” Edward clamped his lips together.
“Precisely,” Dec acknowledged. “He’d have a hard time proving it but considering the hatred Royce Penry has for me, he’ll sic his inquisitors on me until I confess.”
“What is to prevent this man from continuing to demand money from you, Declan?” Edward questioned. “Blackmailers are the scum of the earth. They have no honor.”
“He has cheated the wrong people and needs the money to buy quick passage to Chrystallus. If I don’t give it to him, he’ll turn me in for the bounty. If we pay him we would never see him again.”
“You only have his word that is so,” Edward reminded him. “He could come back for more money at a later date. Keep his knowledge hanging over your head for years.”
“Give me credit for having some common sense, Father,” Dec snapped. “I’ve checked him out thoroughly. My life depended on it.”
Edward paced his study—his eyes tracking back and forth across the rich Rysalian carpet as he contemplated his son’s words.
“We should pay the money,” Dec nudged him. “Standfield is the reason my mind wasn’t entirely on what I was doing that night. If I had not been distracted…”
“All right,” Edward told him. “I will ask for the dowry but he may decline to pay it since it was never mentioned in the contract.”
“But…”
Edward held his hand up. “If he doesn’t pay, I will. We can’t have the threat of your identity being exposed lurking out there.”
Dec’s forehead. “Thank you, Father.”
“You can thank me by doing what is right and taking the request to the man himself.”
That set the boy back on his heels, Edward thought. There was sudden disquiet in Dec’s blue eyes and a decided tinge of pink at his cheeks.
“Me?”
“You are in need of the money and you should state your case to Alastair. Either way, the money will be available to you to pay the blackmailer. An added bonus will be that you get to see Lady Althea, perhaps spend some time with her.”
“Oh, aye, her,” Dec said. He ran his palms down his thighs.
“Aye, her,” Edward said. “Your future wife?”
“It can’t be today,” Dec said.
“Might I inquire why not?” Edward asked.
“I have business in Wixenstead,” his son replied. “Business I cannot put aside.”
Edward scowled. “At the Hound and Stag Inn, no doubt.” When his son’s eyebrows shot up, Edward pursed his lips. “I know all about the girl, Declan James. Jasper informed me of her.” He shook a finger at his son. “Get her pregnant and there will be hell to pay. Do you understand me?”
“I have no intention of getting her or any other woman with child, Father,” Dec declared.
“I should hope not. At any rate, I expect you to be here first thing tomorrow morn so you can make the trip to Standfield Hall.”
“Aye, milord,” Dec replied. He bowed slightly then excused himself.
Edward went to his desk to pen a note to the Duke of Oxmoor.
* * * * *
Lying in Bess’s soft arms with his cheek pillowed on her breast, he twirled a long lock of her sable hair around and around his index finger.
“Do you think it will work?” he asked her.
“I think it is a good plan,” she said. “Whether it will work or not depends on what she will do with the news.”
“You read the note,” he said. “Did I somehow misunderstand her words? Did she not say had she the money to leave, she would?”
“Aye, she did, but if you give her the dowry—which is a lot of money, Declan—can you be sure she will flee as she suggests she will?”
He brought the lock of hair to his face and fanned it across his lips. “She doesn’t want this marriage any more than I do.”
“She didn’t say that,” she said, drawing the words out.
“She didn’t say she did,” he countered.
“No, she didn’t,” Bess agreed. She was raking her fingers through his hair, looking down at him. “But my guess is she does but wrote you what she did to save face.”
“So do you have another suggestion?” he asked. “If so, tell me for I need to leave by eleven of the clock if I am to make it to Belvedere Glen by midnight.”
“Who are you after tonight?” she inquired.
“There are five very well-heeled young gents who have a regular card game the first Friday of each month at a cottage just beyond the Glen. One or two of them will be riding back to Wixenstead. I intend to relieve them of their winnings.”
She leaned down to kiss his brow. “How do you know which ones will be the winners?”
“The ones who always win,” he said. He craned his head to look up at her. “The ones who have a nasty habit of pilfering money from the local widow’s trust to fund their games.”
“Ah,” she said. “Vengeance is mine, sayeth Declan Farrell.”
“You think they should get away with cheating those poor women?” he queried.
“No and I am proud of you for stepping in. All I ask is that you be careful,” she replied.
“I’m always careful, wench,” he said with snort.
He scooted down in the bed beside her until he could kiss her naked belly. Dip his tongue into the deep indention. Looking up at her through his eyelashes, he grinned, wagged his brows and moved lower still, sliding his hands under her rump. He nuzzled the soft hair at the apex of her thighs then flicked his tongue across the tender little nub there.
“Aye,” she moaned, her fingers threading through his hair.
He moaned against her core and she writhed beneath him. Her reaction to his lovemaking did strange things to his heart as much as it pleasured his body. She was fast becoming an addiction to him.
One he had no intention of ever breaking.
Stabbing his tongue lightly into her cunt, he locked his lips around her nether folds and probed deeper. The taste of her was like nectar to him—warm cream that exploded upon his taste buds as he lapped at her body’s offering.
“I love you,” he heard her whisper.
He paused with his tongue pressed as deep as he could probe inside her. Something extraordinary shifted through him as what she’d said sunk into his mind. He really didn’t want her—or any woman for that matter—to love him.
How many times had he heard those three words from women lying beneath him and knew they didn’t really mean it? He wondered. A dozen? Two dozen? A hundred? He’d had so many women in his twenty-four years that he had lost count. He wasn’t a man to mark his conquests with a notch on the bedpost.
Slowly he lifted his head to look up at her. She was staring down at him with a soft, gentle look he had never seen on any other woman’s face. There was desire there, yes, but there was something else that bespoke her truthful feelings and that scared—and worried—him.
“I do,” she said. She smoothed the hair back from his eyes. “I truly do love you, Declan. With all my heart.”
“Then why did you tell me no when I asked you to marry me?”
“You know why,” she told him.
And he did.
He desired her. Wanted her. Lusted after her. Cherished her. He was quite fond of her, but in his heart he knew he didn’t love her. What was more, she knew it, too.
“Bess…”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“I would marry you tonight,” he stated.
“And be in prison by the end of the week,” she said, shaking her head. “Even though I love you, Declan, I will not be the reason you are arrested. I would do anything else for you, but not that.” She smiled sadly. “I would give my life for you.”
A shiver of cold dread slithered down his spine and he pushed up from between her legs, moved to her side.
“Don’t say that,” he said. “Don’t ever say that.”
She blinked—her eyes wounded as her eyebrows drew together. “That I love you?” she asked and he heard a tremor in her voice.
“No,” he said, shaking his head adamantly. “That you would die for me.”
“I would,” she insisted.
“Don’t,” he said. “Never, ever say that.”
Her wounded look turned a bit amused although the pain did not leave her dark eyes. “Are you superstitious, my Gypsy?” she asked.
“Just don’t say it again,” he commanded. “Promise me, Bess. Promise me you won’t.”
“All right,” she said yet he knew she was humoring him. He could see it in the way her gaze roamed over his face. He knew there was worry stamped on his features for it was thundering in his heart. “I won’t.”
“You swear?” he demanded.
“I swear.”
* * * * *
Declan couldn’t shake the uneasiness that had been plaguing him ever since he left the inn. Her words had scared the hell out of him and he couldn’t stop them from reverberating through his mind. The thought of anyone dying for him filled him with such terror it made his hands shake, brought bitter bile to his throat.
Warlock whinnied softly. The beast sensed other horses coming toward them. It would be the two Baxley brothers whose pockets would be filled with their ill-gotten gains at the gaming table.
Absentmindedly, he pulled the kerchief over his nose, adjusted the wide brim of his cocked hat and drew the pistol from his belt.
He shouldn’t be doing this, he thought. His mind wasn’t completely on what he was about to do.
And there was that niggling feeling that pricked at his senses and scraped a wickedly sharp nail down his spine that warned him he was being watched. Though he had spied no one lurking nearby and he did not sense a troop of redcoats or even a scout spying upon him, the feeling would not go away. He shifted his shoulders against the sensation as the sounds of hoofbeats reached his ears.
“Here we go,” he said to Warlock.
The Rysalian bobbed its head and moved quietly from beneath the camouflage of oaks under which his rider had placed him.
“Did you see his face when I laid down those two aces?” Brad Baxley asked—punctuating the question with a whoop of glee.
“He never learns,” his twin brother Chad replied. “Like a lamb to the…” He stopped when he saw the dark figure that suddenly appeared in the middle of the coach road.
“Stand and deliver,” the Declan stated, his pistol pointed toward them.
“The Gypsy,” Brad said in a loud whisper. “Do you believe this?”
“I want your winnings, boys,” the highwayman told them. “Every last gold piece you took from Lawrence Grant and Stanley Pell.”
It was Chad who drew his own pistol and fired before his brother could take action. The lead ball fell well short of its intended target but Brad’s did not. His aim was truer, calmer than his twin and the lead that spat from the end of his three-barrel pistol grazed Dec’s cheek. Before Baxley could fire again, a shot rang out from somewhere in the forest off to Dec’s right and the pistol went flying from Brad’s hand.
“Don’t shoot!” Chad shouted. “Don’t shoot!” He threw his gun to the ground and slammed both hands into the pockets of his coat. He pulled out two coin purses and dropped them as well. He snapped his head toward his brother. “Give them your money, Brad.”
“I will do no such…” Brad began but another shot came from the other side of the road and hit the dirt beside the hoof of the young man’s horse. “All right,” he cursed then reached inside his own coat for his winnings.
The assistance of whoever was lurking about in the trees had stunned Dec. He had seen what his intended victims had not: a dark rider moving quickly and quietly across the road behind the Baxley’s to fire the second shot—making it seem there was more than two assailants.
He cursed his inattention but pointed his pistol at the young man he thought the one who considered himself in charge. “Get off your horse, Bradley and pick up the gold.” When Baxley did not readily comply, Dec cocked his pistol.
Baxley growled but swung down from his mount. He picked up his own fat purse then went over to retrieve his brother’s. He came toward Dec with a brutal look that might have alarmed lesser men.
“This isn’t over, Gypsy,” Baxley said.
Dec took the purses from him, stuffed them into his pocket, cast a quick look to the far side of the road—surprised to see the rider had disappeared—then lowered his gaze to Baxley.
“I have left a note at the parsonage in Belvedere Glen to apprise the authorities of your penchant for raiding the widow’s fund. That bank is now closed to you and if I know Constable Wayne—and I know him quite well—he will be coming to question the two of you tomorrow morn,” he told the Baxley twins.
“You’re going to regret doing that,” Brad hissed.
“Run along, little boy,” Dec said. “Before I decide to return the favor of your shot and put a nice long groove down that peach-fuzz face of yours.”
“Brad, mount up,” Chad pleaded. “He means it.”
“It’s not over,” Brad said, but it was all brag and Dec—as well as both the brothers—knew it.
He watched the surly young man vault into the saddle and viciously kick his mount into motion. His twin hastened down the road behind him—neither turning to look back.
“Are you still there?” Dec called out.
There was no answer.
Someone had saved his life this night but he had no idea who.
* * * * *
“The little bastard might not have hit him but I couldn’t take the chance,” Jack told Fairling as he climbed into bed beside her. “I wasn’t going to sit there and let anything happen to the idjut.”
“Are you sure he didn’t see you?”
“No and he wouldn’t have recognized the horse. I didn’t take Spirit,” he replied, referring to his white stallion.
“What horse did you take?”
“A roan I borrowed from the duke’s stable,” Jack said with a grin as he nestled his wife in his arms.
“It’s a good thing you were there,” Fairling said though he could hear the fear in her soft voice.
“I was careful,” he told her.
“He wasn’t,” she reminded him.
“No,” Jack said, staring into the darkness. “He wasn’t and that scares the shit out of me.”
* * * * *
The next morning, Dec dressed in his best waistcoat and breeches and presented himself to his father who was just sitting down to break his fast. He had not slept all night—replaying the scene on the coach road in his mind over and over again.
His father glanced up, down then up again. “What happened to your face?”
Dec put his fingers to the place where the iron ball had burned his cheek. “Cut myself shaving,” he replied.”
“Looks more like a rash to me. Will you join me for the morning meal?” his father inquired.
“I’m not hungry,” Dec told him.
And he wasn’t. Not only did he have a sour stomach for having to make the trek to Standfield Hall to make his request for the dowry, he was troubled over what had nearly transpired the evening before.
“Understandable,” his father said with a twitching of his lips.
“I am so happy you find this amusing, Father,” Dec grumbled.
“What?” the duke inquired. “Taking you down a peg or two?”
“Humiliating me,” Dec replied.
“Was it not you who wanted the dowry, Declan?” his father queried. “You who needs it?”
“Aye,” Dec mumbled, hating feeling like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Then go fetch it. Spend some time with your betrothed—mayhap have a spot of lunch with her and Alastair—then go pay off your blackmailer.” He flexed his hand toward his son. “Off you go, then. You do have a busy day ahead of you.”
Clenching his jaws to keep from saying something disrespectful, Dec inclined his head and turned away.
“And Declan?”
He looked around.
“Try not to fuck up anything else.”
That hurt.
As he made his way out to the stable his father’s words continued to lash at him. Those words added to the guilt he’d been carrying around all the years since the day the Molly Celeste went down. He didn’t believe his father did it a’ purpose or even realized he had said something to hurt him, but that was the case. It brought a sting to his eyes and an ache to his heart. That his father thought him a fuckup was a bitter pill to swallow.
“You want the big boy saddled, Your Grace?” George, the stable master inquired.
“Aye,” Dec mumbled. He spied Jack at the blacksmith’s and nodded to him, wondering what his friend was doing. Jack farmed the land Dec had insisted be given to him when they’d returned home from the military, but he spent as much time hanging around Arlington Castle as he did as his cabin.
Jack lifted a hand in greeting then turned back to the man with whom he was speaking. When George led Warlock out into the stable yard, he didn’t even look toward Dec. He appeared to be deep in conversation with the smithy.
A bit curious why his friend was all but ignoring him, Dec pulled himself wearily into the saddle and drummed his heels to put Warlock into motion. He rode out of the bailey and across the drawbridge with a heavy heart and a lump the size of Virago lodged in his throat. He was going to the last place he wanted to be, talking to people with whom he really had no desire to spend time.
* * * * *
Althea barely glanced at the rider she saw galloping toward them. She looked down to adjust her lace gloves and was tugging them up her wrist when the man and his horse passed her carriage. She was out of sorts for her father was sending her on an errand she had no desire to undertake. Though she had pleaded to be spared the trip to Warrington Keep, he had insisted. She hated traveling so early in the morn and it would be in the heat of the day by the time she arrived there. The August sun would be sweltering.
What she wouldn’t give to go down to the pond, strip down to her chemise and dive into the cool, dark waters. Better yet, strip down to nothing and dive in as her intended had the night of her cousin’s party. That he had done that might be wishful thinking on her part, but she doubted he had kept on his underpants when he went into the water.
“Wish I’d been a wee froglet sitting on one of the lily pads and seen that,” she muttered as she lifted her head and turned to look at the passing scenery.
She’d like to see him period, she thought. He’d answered her note to him with a simple Aye—and that had been a relief of sorts—but she would have thought he would have presented himself to her by now.
“Ah well, all this is an abomination to him,” she said. “Just as I am an abomination, apparently.”
She snapped open her fan to ply what breeze there was to her already heating face. Perspiration was already forming at her hairline and between her breasts.
It wasn’t just the trip to Warrington Keep that had her irritated. It was the fact that she would be expected to spend a few days with her late mother’s cousins, the Earl and Countess of Warrington. She loathed the pair of them for they were the most obnoxious imbeciles she had ever had the misfortune of encountering. In twenty years of life she had never met a man and woman more insufferable and intolerable to be around. The earl gave new meaning to pompous ass and the countess was the very epitome of pretension.
“A miserable four days,” she said. The mere thought of spending time at Warrington Keep was enough to make her want to pull her hair out. “Four long, hateful days of sheer boredom and trying to keep from screaming at the two fools.”
The woman sitting across from her opened her eyes and sat up. “Did you say something, milady?”
Althea shifted her attention to the woman her father had hired the day before to be her traveling companion. A woman who had promptly fallen asleep as soon as the carriage cleared the barbican of the keep.
“Just talking to myself, Teresa Anne,” she replied. She didn’t like the horse-faced old hen and suspected Teresa Anne Mullavey didn’t like her in return.
“They say such soliloquies are the first sign of a slipping mind,” Teresa Anne said with a sniff.
“Who are they?” Althea asked but the women merely blinked at her. She waved her hand. “Never mind. I don’t really care to know.”
“I do hope we don’t run into that wicked highwayman,” Teresa Anne said.
“He only strikes at night and we will be at our destination long before then,” Althea told her although she wished that wasn’t the case. She would love to have the infamous Gypsy waylay them. What a grand adventure that would be.
* * * * *
“Your father sent me a note to inform me you were coming to speak with me,” Lord Alastair said as he motioned Dec to have a seat.
“That was good of him,” Dec said, annoyed that his father had not informed that was the case.
“He didn’t say why, though,” the Duke of Oxmoor stated.
“Ah,” Dec thought. Naturally not.
“I must apologize, again, for my daughter. She left this morn for a brief visit with her cousins, the Earl and Countess of Warrington. I say, my boy. Do you know them?”
Dec refrained from rolling his eyes at the thought of the earl. “Aye, I have had the opportunity to make their acquaintances.”
“Very astute businessman, the earl,” Lord Alastair said.
“Quite,” Dec agreed but had to bite his tongue to keep from guffawing at the ridiculousness of the statement.
“So,” his host said. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Declan?”
Dec shifted in his seat. He was acutely uncomfortable and the formal morning wear that he was sporting made him feel as though he was encased in an Iron Maiden. His jabot was strangling him so he ran his index finger behind it to loosen the constriction.
“Come now,” Lord Alastair said with a merry grin. “It can’t be as bad as all that. You look positively green.”
Girding his courage, Dec lifted his chin. “My father was remiss in including certain items in the marriage contract you and he signed,” he said.
“Remiss?” his host repeated. “In what matter, Lord Declan?”
He swallowed then spat the answer out as though it was about to choke him. “The dowry.”
Lord Alastair stared at him—no facial expression at all upon his moon-shaped face. When he spoke, the words fell from his mouth like heavy stones. “The dowry,” he echoed.
“Aye, Your Grace,” Dec said. “Lady Althea’s dowry.”
“With the merging of two such vast estates as mine and your father’s, it was deemed unnecessary to provide a dowry,” Lord Alastair said, his eyes narrowed.
“It is an ancient custom in Serenia, Your Grace, and is expected and demanded as a condition to an agreement of Joining among men of our position,” Dec pointed out.
“Pray do not think to lecture me on the legalities of Joining agreements, young man,” Lord Alastair snapped. “I studied law at the same academy from which you graduated.”
“Then you know a dowry is a binding form of protection for the wife against the possibility of ill treatment by her husband and his family,” Dec reminded him.
Lord Alastair shot to his feet. “Is it your intention to abuse my daughter, Farrell?” he demanded. “I did not think you the sort to do such a thing.”
“And I am not,” Dec said calmly. “The dowry is simply a protection for Lady Althea. Failure to provide…”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Lord Alastair snarled. “I am well aware the Joining can be called off if a dowry is asked for and not provided.”
“It is a protection for her,” Dec repeated, feeling like the lowest kind of heel. “Nothing more.”
Lord Alastair lifted his chin, looked down his long nose at Dec. “How thoughtful of you to demand it, then, eh?” A muscle tightened in his cheek. Flexed again before he spoke. “How remiss of me not to pay you to take my daughter off my hands.”
Dec flinched. The man was glaring at him as though he was a loathsome thing slithering over his boot.
“You shall have your gods-be-damned dowry you greedy little bastard,” his host told. “Now get the hell out of my sight. Accepting a grasping reprobate such as you as a son-in-law will surely prove to be the worst decision I have ever made.”
Dec got slowly to his feet. He bowed formally then fled the room as nobly as he could despite the burning in his cheeks and the sour taste threatening to choke him. Once outside, he swung into the saddle feeling even worse than he had when he’d dismounted.
“It is for Althea,” he said under his breath.
And was the only way he knew to prevent the farce of a marriage neither of them wanted.