Showing posts with label excerpts. Show all posts

Tuesday, 26 May 2020

New! THE MASTER COOK & THE MAIDEN. Historical Romance. Money off! Excerpts

#NEW THE MASTER COOK & THE MAIDEN Vengeance…or love? Will Alfwen have to choose between them? And what part will the handsome Master Cook, Swein, play in her life? amazon.com/dp/B088RJNYJ4/ UK amazon.co.uk/dp/B088RJNYJ4/ #Romance #MedievalRomance #RomanceNovel

THE MASTER COOK AND THE MAIDEN

Vengeance…or love? Will Alfwen have to choose between them? And what part will the handsome Master Cook, Swein, play in her life?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B088RJNYJ4/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=lindsay+The+master+cook+and+the+maiden&qid=1589871083&s=digital-text&sr=1-1

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B088RJNYJ4/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=The+master+cook+and+the+maiden&qid=1589871416&s=books&sr=1-1

Romance, MedievalRomance, RomanceNovel

The Rose and the Sword Novel Series

Excerpt

The Master Cook and the Maiden

Lindsay Townsend

Third day of Lent, 1303

The small brown dog stumbled towards Alfwen as she pounded washing in the river. Without stopping her work she watched the little rough-coated creature slip through a gap in the convent boundary wall to limp her way, flopping down on the damp grass twice before it reached her.

“Hey, boy,” she whispered, glad of the honest companionship even if it was just a dog. Hearing a pitiful whine she dropped the dry crust she had been saving for her supper in front of the shivering beast. “Go on, it is yours.”

The scrap disappeared between the dog’s narrow jaws. Alfwen wiped a hunger tear from her face, glancing about. So far, she and the little dog were safe from discovery. This close to Terce, the other nuns and novitiates of the convent were busy with their own assigned labours. As Alfwen had pretended she was afraid of the river, naturally the spiteful Mother Superior had ordered the girl to do the sisters’ laundry, an outdoor task that suited Alfwen very well, even on this bitter afternoon in early spring. Tempers sharpened during Lent, when all were famished, and to be in the fresh, chill air was better than being mewed up in the sooty church or cramped, icy scriptorium.

Kneeling on the riverbank, Alfwen wrung out another section of bedsheet and dunked the next, flinching at the freezing water flowing over her reddened fingers and pale skinny arms. No possible spy was with her, no religious or lay brother or sister, and she could relax a moment. She unwound from her knees and sat on the grass, trying to ignore the burning prickling in her legs. When no shout or complaint issued from the convent she stroked the dog.

With a soft whine the beast crawled closer. So small and trembling, she thought, and she could count its ribs through that rough brown coat and the raw patches along one flank where the fur had shed. Recalling a lively, bouncing pup from long ago, she whispered, “Teazel?”

The dog weakly wagged a balding tail. As it raised its head, Alfwen spotted a filthy cloth collar, half-hidden by dirt.

“I gave you to Walter with a leather collar,” she murmured, surprised she remembered that detail. Teazel snuffled and edged even nearer, so she could see the grey in his muzzle. She wrapped the dog in the rest of the dry sheet she had yet to scrub and fought down a wave of horror.

Walter must be dead. Teazel would never have left him.

She tried to pray for her brother. Failing that, she tried to remember him. It had been seven, no eight years since Walter and his new wife had abandoned her in the convent, though Alfwen knew she had no vocation.

I was ten years old and my parents had just died. Walter was in the first flush of marriage and lordship and his wife—Alfwen shuddered, checked again for spies and admitted the truth. Enid hated me.

A growl came from the tangled sheet as if Teazel agreed with her. A quivering, questing muzzle emerged from the heavy linen and Alfwen was struck by a memory of Walter. Her older brother, whirling about the tilting yard with his new puppy in his arms, laughing as the little dog yapped and squirmed and nuzzled closer.

“He likes me!” Walter cried, pressing a sloppy kiss on the pup’s back.

“He is yours,” Alfwen agreed, and Walter had grinned at her, his hazel eyes bright with joy, the sunlight picking out the red glints in his brown curls.

Enid had soon shorn off his hair, claiming it unseemly for a young lord. Alfwen had scowled and Walter had scolded her for protesting against his wife, although she had said nothing. Two days later she was delivered to the convent, a poor, mean place. My limbo, with an entrance to hell, and my brother did not care, did not question. Eight years she had been here as a novitiate, neither lay nor nun. Postulants to a religious life were supposed to serve only a year as a novice but as a sister Alfwen would have status and Enid and the Mother Superior between them did not want that. Instead I am trapped and my close family have forgotten or dismissed me. Would I be as stupid and selfish in wedlock as Walter?

Alfwen shook her head and tried a second time to pray for her brother’s soul.

He is gone forever and I cannot even cry.

She tried to think of him, remember him, kindly memories. Save for when she had given him Teazel, and he had taught her to write her name, she drew a blank on any more joyful times. Have I forgotten or was Walter really so morose and carping? Am I unjust in how I consider him now?

In the dank grey light of early spring, the bell for Terce rang through her like a blow. Numb, Alfwen rose, ready to gather her work and stumble into the nunnery’s huddled church set close to an expanse of marsh but out of reach of the river. She reached for the part-washed, part-dry sheet and Teazel burst from its coils. Again she noted his thinness, the scrap of cloth collar.

The collar was once part of a favourite gown of mine, a yellow dress my mother made me.

The bell for Terce continued to toll and Alfwen detested its sweet intrusion.

Anger sharpened her, tempered her dull acceptance of convent life into more than resentment. In a blast of sudden added colour she saw the white and pink daisies by her feet, the blue glow of a kingfisher farther down the riverbank, the glint of gold amidst the dirty yellow of Teazel’s collar.

He has something pinned to his collar.

A shadow fell across Alfwen before she could unpin the tiny roll of parchment, but thankfully it was merely a cloud, not a nun coming to drag her to service.

No, the good sisters of Saint Hilda’s will be hastening to church. I will not be missed until after the latest holy office.

Alfwen flinched as the gold brooch scratched her fingers and then the thing was undone. Heart hammering, she smoothed out the parchment.

Two words only in her brother’s hand, but a message to her, all the same.

“Avenge me.”

Chapter 2

Swein saw the girl drop into the water from the riverbank and leapt from his waggon, sprinting to reach her before she drowned. Hearing no splash or screams he dared to hope and ran faster, forcing air into his searing lungs.

Pounding along the track and over the water-meadow he vaulted the mud brick wall of the convent. He landed clumsily but kept going, determined to save her. Never a fatal accident in my kitchen and I’ll not gave one here, either.

Scrambling to the edge of the bank he stared downstream, seeing nothing but a young trout, swung round to scour upstream—and choked on his breath. Tripping daintily over the river pebbles at the stream’s edge the girl walked steadily away from her pile of laundry.

Swein flattened himself to the grass and watched the small, skinny wench. Her skirts were sodden to the backs of her knees, he reckoned, but she moved smoothly, never looking back. Across her retreating shoulders she carried a sling, made from part of a sheet. A little old dog poked its muzzle from the bundle and seemed content with the ride.

A runaway from Saint Hilda’s. “No business of mine,” Swein muttered, but his ankle ached so he lay still and stared.

The girl disappeared round the bend in the beck—stream, Swein mentally corrected, since this was in the south, not north—her presence winking out like a small star.

She will walk to the ford and take the Roman road hence. I could drive my waggon there and wait for her.

“Why not?” Swein said aloud, flexing his toes in his boots. “I have no business with Saint Hilda’s.” The head nun in the place did not like men and detested cooks so he had never had cause to visit in his travels.

‘Tis Lent and I go home for Lent. Cooking food for fasting times does not stir me and my folk are waiting. He had the early gifts ready for them.

Still he would catch Nutmeg, his mule, and his waggon and drive to the ford. That girl needs fattening up, I reckon, fleeing from Saint Hilda’s.

The nobles I cook for do not like me curious but I am my own master and this Lent time is my holiday. He could do largely as he pleased and he wanted to see the lass’s face.

Swein rolled to his feet and set off back for the track, whistling a merry tune.

****

Alfwen glanced at the sinking sun and the crossroads with dismantled archery butts stacked against the oak tree. She had hoped for a hiring gather and had her story ready. I am a laundress seeking honest work.

She wanted to steal a nag and ride to her family’s seat at Ormsfeld, but she brutally dismissed the desire. She needed to know how Walter had died and who were his enemies. Teazel would never have left if Walter lived still. Yet no one had come to the convent to tell her that her brother had died. Although I am a de Harne I have been buried at Saint Hilda’s for eight years and no doubt forgotten.

“Avenge me,” Walter growled in her head, in a voice she was not sure was his, or what she remembered of him.

Again she was relieved she had not taken final vows. Nuns were not supposed to plot vengeance.

Why should I? When did Walter care for me?

Alfwen squashed such thoughts, stamping her feet in a futile bid to keep warm. Her skirts and sandals were still wet from the river and she knew she would look strange, a lone woman with no protectors. I dare not linger here past twilight. I have to find shelter, food for Teazel.

The dog slept on the damp ground in her rough bundle, weary with hunger. Enid starved him. Did she do the same cruel thing with Walter?

“Are you seeking work?”

Startled, Alfwen turned, stumbling as she took a rapid backwards step. The man looming over her was so big—

Strong arms caught her, brought her safe against a broad chest.

“Here,” said the stranger as she gulped in breath to fight, “Before you hunger faint.”

A large calloused hand pressed a warm round dumpling into her palm, a white plump dumpling straight from a pottage pot, but not so hot as to burn. The comforting heat and yeasty scent took her straight back to childhood, pottering after Simon, the old cook, who would often take her with him into the kitchen garden and let her eat fresh bread from his ovens.

Avenge me, Walter scolded, while she chewed and swallowed the dumpling treat, licking her fingers after.

“I need a washer lass,” the stranger went on, dropping a morsel of something on the earth for Teazel. “I feed my folk well. You come?”

He almost had her at feed well, but Alfwen had not sprung the trap of the convent to fall into another. She shook her head. “I cannot stay, sir.”

Now she spoke, Alfwen felt the light-headedness of hunger boil into the seethe of panic. What might this big brute make me do for his food?

Tuesday, 12 May 2020

British Romantic Suspense in the tradition of Mary Stewart with a World War 2 Mystery at its heart. 99p/99cents

There has always been a mystery in Julia Rochfort's family. Who killed her grandfather Guy, a member of the Italian resistance movement in World War Two? When Julia travels to Florence to compete in a singing competition, she meets Roberto Padovano, already an established opera star, and they discover that they have a lot more in common than simple attraction.

99p here https://www.amazon.c o.uk/gp/product/B0061BTEHW/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i4

99c here https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0061BTEHW/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i4

99 CDNS here https://www.amazon.ca/Voices-Dark-Lindsay-Townsend-ebook/dp/B0061BTEHW/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Voices+in+the+dark+lindsay+townsend&qid=1588928419&sr=8-1

Amazon India here https://www.amazon.in/Voices-Dark-Lindsay-Townsend-ebook/dp/B0061BTEHW/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=Voices+in+the+dark+lindsay+townsend&qid=1588928590&sr=8-1

Amazon Australia here https://www.amazon.in/Voices-Dark-Lindsay-Townsend-ebook/dp/B0061BTEHW/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=Voices+in+the+dark+lindsay+townsend&qid=1588928590&sr=8-1

Excerpt

PROLOG UE

26th November, London, 1993.

She had foreseen his revenge, but the attack when it came was brutal. Impossible to avoid, she watched the knife slicing towards her heart, her features betraying a mixture of anger and agonised suspense. Too late - she would never know love now, only obsession.

He struck, and a dull throbbing bloomed in her chest. The blow smashed her to her knees and the wooden floor seemed to jackknife upwards, sucking her into a cool embrace. She lay still, horror and fear fading as a warm languor swept through her body. Dying was easy.

Dimly, she heard the man standing over her chant something; a lament, a name, then he too was silent.

The main lights snapped on and she coughed.

'Sorry, it's the dust,' Julia murmured, coming out of the role and her character, rising to her feet. The Maestro seized her hand.

'Marvellous,' he was saying over the applause. 'Bravo!'

The masterclass for Carmen was over.

The Maestro caught up with her as she was hurrying from the hall. 'Is it tomorrow you're going?'

Julia nodded, pushing Carmen's veil down in her bag.

'Good luck - take care.'

Julia smiled, thinking of another promise. 'I will,' she said.

Summer 1944, Italy.

The terror began with the music. As they wound up the gramophone, the youth moaned and thrashed, trying hopelessly to break free. He lay in chains, a blindfold cutting into his eyes. The walls of the underground chamber were wet: blood or water he did not know. Sometimes he touched the stones with his broken fingers, desperate to invoke their silence in himself.

This time would he break? The record needle dropped onto the seventy-eight, the chamber rang. A finger glided down the boy's calf - he tensed, but the pain did not come at the music's climax. A lighted cigarette was thrust against his right foot and allowed to burn, spitting in the open wounds.

‘Tell me!' The whisper carried over the chords, over his scream, piercing the moment when he felt he could bear no more.

'Know nothing.. .' He shuddered. 'Don't.' He lifted his head, pleading with the Whisperer, the voice he most feared.

There was a moment's silence. And then a man, another captive, suddenly began shouting.

'I'll have you! Not one of your family will be safe! I'll have your wives, your children - their children . . . I promise you - you'll see . . .'

CHAPTER 1

28th November, 1993, Florence, Italy.

Her search would begin tomorrow - tonight she could keep for herself.

The wind, sweeping through the funnel of jewellers' shops, thrust Julia along the Ponte Vecchio. She sped across Florence's oldest bridge, watching the faces of the local people, fascinated by their every nuance of expression, at once familiar and exotic. Winter sunlight flashed on her earrings as she turned her head. determined to miss nothing.

Polished windows tossed back reflections of a young woman in jeans, trainers and duffel coat. With glowing skin, bright, grey eyes, animated features and a heedful of black curls, she attracted attention even in the bustle of the pre-festive rush. She could be taken for a teenage daughter of the Italian matrons cutting over the bridge with their bags of vegetables, yet she had the surface confidence of someone older, unafraid to show feeling in an age of fashionable cynicism.

That same commitment marked Julia Rochfort as a rising force in British opera. She was twenty-six, and this was her first time in Italy since childhood.

English, English-speaking, yet also fluent in Italian, Julia had always intended to return to the country where she had been born. She found herself at ease within the swarms of dark-haired Christmas shoppers and black street traders hawking bangles and carpets. Out of the crush a jeweller sat relaxing beside his window, drinking from a china saucer. Julia smiled at him as she passed.

The wind swept on, grit-blasting the eastern edge of the City of Flowers, cleaning and brightening its face. The golden orb at the top of the dome of the cathedral gleamed, like a star pointing the way she should go.

Julia knew where she was going. She was taking part in a singing competition, the springboard, she hoped, to an international career. In four days she would be performing to her first Italian audience. She was apprehensive yet exhilarated, opened-out by the challenge.

She was in Florence, amongst people who spoke the same language as herself, who were dark as she was; people with whom she felt she belonged.

The sharp tang of the river drew her to the loggia set in the middle of the medieval bridge. Wind flicking her face, she passed a gaggle of school children, arguing - with the same extravagant face-pulling she had made herself as a child - over whose turn it was on a pocket-sized games machine, and leaned out over the Arno. The tip of her tongue played between her teeth, as always when she was concentrating.

Looking across the muddy waters to the biscuit-coloured apartments opposite put Julia in mind of her own family. Enrico and her mother Angelica would be boarding their plane now, to spend Christmas in Tenerife.

The holiday was her gift. In October, her mother went into hospital for an operation - not serious, but Julia was on tour and unable to visit. Now, with Angelica fully recovered, a long stay on a warm island would set her parents up for the new year.

It had made a hole in her savings, but she had been glad to spend it. She just wished she and her mother—

Julia laughed at herself and shook her head, cutting off the thought. She watched two youths bump over the stone sets on a scooter, black slicked hair gleaming more than their leathers. Across the river, above the snarl of rush-hour cars came the sudden ringing of bells, a clock striking the hour: it would soon be evening. In the meantime she would enjoy this mirage-like dusk of fading sun and coloured lights, the music of people's voices, the throaty chatter of roosting pigeons.

Julia smiled, absented-mindedly winding a curl of hair round her thumb. It was ironic that she, so much a creature of light, should spend most of her life working at night.

Enough, she thought, stifling old fears with a twist of her hand. Tomorrow she was going to Bologna, to see where Enrico had lived. Her stepfather had always talked about his life in Bologna, but was afraid to go back in case he or the city had changed. His widowed mother and sister had been killed during the Allies' bombardment: Enrico, then a prisoner of war, had seen no reason to return. He had stayed in England, eventually marrying a woman fifteen years younger than himself and with a small child - Julia.

Tomorrow she was going to Bologna to trace her mother's surviving Italian family.

This search was as important to her as the competition. Whatever happened, Julia had decided to spend three weeks in Italy. Surely in that time she would find something.

She pushed away from the chill parapet. Seeing a beggar crouching under the third arch of the loggia, Julia crossed over to give him money, then hurried on. Enrico knew virtually nothing about his wife's past: she had promised her stepfather she would find out something. The journey to Bologna was partly for his sake, an attempt to discover who Angelica's family were, but mostly, Julia had to admit, the trip was for herself, filling a gap in her life.

‘You think Rochfort is Italian?' her mother would say whenever Julia attempted to question Angelica about where they had both come from, 'I'm English. You're English. Forget Italy.'

Julia could not forget. Perhaps if her beautiful, auburn-haired, English-rose complexioned mother had told her of the Rochforts, of her real father, Julia might have been able to dismiss Italy, yet Angelica had remained stubbornly silent on these too. Throughout her childhood, Julia felt she belonged nowhere: she had often wished she looked as English as her mother, yet she did not.

Now, as an adult, Julia recognised that whatever her mother's claims, Angelica was also Italian. She had married Enrico, given up 'Rochfort' and taken his name. She was Angelica Varisi; she was linked to someone with a past. Enrico had snapshots of his family, Julia had none of the Rochforts. Or of the others, the mysterious Italian side that her mother always denied. It was not enough to have a name and nothing more.

She had been born in Emilia Romagna - Angelica had told her that much. Bologna was the capital of the region. Somewhere in that city there would be her birth records, people she could talk to, a family to discover.

Julia wished the days were longer, so that she could start at once.

Glancing back, she noticed a man in a grey woollen coat and scarlet scarf approaching. He was eating almond macaroons from a paper bag. A few crumbs showed pale against his lapels.

Julia swung round into the wind, pausing to fiddle with the loose bracelet of her watch. The man was speaking to the beggar, who gestured in her direction. She recalled seeing him earlier, hearing snatches of that staccato tread as she crossed the flags of the Straw Market and later along the stone corridor linking the Uffizi gallery to the Ponte Vecchio. Her musician's training gave her a good ear, a good memory.

Licking her lips, Julia decided to return to the jeweller's to have her watch repaired. It was something she should have had done weeks ago, except she had never had time.

Fifteen minutes later, the bracelet of her watch tightened and snug against her wrist - 'No charge,' the jeweller told her, with a smile she emerged back onto the street.

The man in the grey coat was still there, scowling at the prices in the window across from her. Tossing a crumpled paper bag into the gutter, where the breeze spun it along, he moved when she did.

Another tourist, taking in the same sights.

Julia stiffened, irritated at herself. This was already her country. She strode over the last cobbles off the Ponte Vecchio without looking back.

He was lurking when she bought throat pastilles at the pharmacist, prowling at another card carousel as she chose her postcards. He was nearby as she took note of a dry-cleaner's address.

His persistence deserved a medal, thought Julia wryly, but not from her. She decided she would leave finding a launderette for another time. Her thumb wound in her hair as she walked on. Now that she thought about it, this fellow was interested in linen, too. Why else had he been lingering near the market stall where she had bought her sewing silk?

'Come on then, pinch me,' she muttered, humour and irritation blending. She wondered if she were being unfair. Had she perhaps smiled at the man in one of their coincidental meetings, sent the wrong signal? She wished he would make his move. 'Let's get it over with.' Checking her step, she turned.

Twenty paces back on the pavement, the man had stopped. Ignoring frowns and gestures from people who shoved past, he was cleaning under his fingernails with a knife - not a penknife: Julia knew that at once. This was something heavier, surely much larger than any normal person would wish to carry.

Telling herself that she was over-reacting, Julia lengthened her stride. Suddenly she felt very alone.

Behind her the beat of footsteps increased.

A few moments later, whipping down twisting, car-echoing side streets back to the river, she was convinced she had lost him. Humming a competition piece, Julia crossed a road lined with Vespas and turned down another alley, hoping to find a short cut to the rank of bus stops outside Florence station. Her hotel was in the suburbs.

He was waiting up ahead in the piazza, one of several men leaning against a column. She saw him detach from the group: the blood-red scarf separating him from a hundred other strollers. He wasn't a tourist. He knew the city better than she. Her knowledge came from maps; his from experience.

The red scarf bothered her more than the knife. It suggested impulse, a man who had spotted her in the street and was wondering whether to try an approach to ask her out. Yet the stranger was stalking her with a determination which seemed out of all proportion to such a casual interest. But if he were trailing her - as he obviously was - then why would he wish to draw attention to his pursuit? Was the scarf a signal to others?

Even compared with opera plots the idea was bizarre, but then this was Italy, home of the kidnapper. Only last month a certain soprano - famous but hardly a great star - had been snatched from her hotel in Padova and held for ransom.

Dammit, thought Julia, yanking her hood over her head then immediately tugging it back, she wasn't going to allow this man to worry her. Nor under any circumstances would she lead him to her hotel.

Cutting through office cleaners streaming from a bank at the corner of another small, bustling square, Julia stepped briskly along the Via de' Tornabuoni. Florence's smartest street thronged with fashionable locals - easy to distinguish from visitors by their designer sunglasses worn even in winter, and those loose, taupe-coloured suits. Choosing the brighter, wind-blown half, she made great play of studying the ultramodern clothes displayed in the new Galatea salon. The mirrors gave her a chance to observe more closely.

There he was, walking straight past, scowling at the strobe light. Small and slight, with a jerky gait. Definitely not what she thought of as a mugger or the kind of prowler who preyed on lone women. He was older than his close-cropped brown hair and animated walk suggested - fifty at least. Expensive grey suit, close-fitting coat, conservative tie - clothes which should have given him presence. The red scarf was incongruous with such an outfit, yet somehow fitted the man.

No, he was nothing more sinister than a pest, Julia decided. The knife was probably bravado. There was no need for her to search for a police station, nor disturb the two carabinieri striking a movie-star pose on the street corner. Their guns made her nervous of approaching them, especially in so trivial a matter. She did not want to be mocked or pitied by those tough young men because of one ageing Romeo.

Julia stuck to that conclusion even in her more paranoid moments, when, between gusts of swirling air, she imagined she could hear that busy tread both behind and coming towards her. She hurried along, planning what she would do, counting her steps under her breath to keep wilder fancies in check. No one could possibly be interested in her. She had two assets, a strong voice and stamina, neither of which could be sold - not yet, anyway, not as a performer unknown outside England and without a recording contract. So who would pay for her release?

She dismissed the idea, letting out a sigh as she passed the obelisk outside the black and white patterned front of Santa Maria Novella. Cutting through a bumper to bumper line of traffic, she entered the building, forgetting to cover her head. She had remembered that this church backed onto the road opposite to the Station. Soon there would be a bus leaving for the outskirts. She would wait inside, then make a run.

The man would not accost her here: even Cosa Nostra drew a line at attacking people in the sanctuary of church.

Julia's prayers were swift. She checked her watch by the candle light: twenty minutes left.

At the end of the time she burst out of the great church, darting round two sides of the long building before her eyes had fully adjusted to the twilight. Her bus was waiting along the Piazza delta Stazione, revving its engine. Julia pitched into the melee - Italians never queue when they can shove - and was fighting for a place when a prickling between her shoulders made her swing about.

The man had joined the crowd and was elbowing closer.

Julia felt a blaze of anger - she did not want this creep trailing her all the way to Bologna. She had been wrong to be discreet: the best way to deal with a threat was to confront it.

She stopped dead in the heaving mass, letting people flow past, and pitched her voice so everyone could hear.

'I really think this has gone far enough,' she said coolly, her narrow hand pointing unerringly to its target. 'I'm talking to the gentleman with the red scarf. If you don't stop following me, I'm calling the police.'

The smallest of gaps opened for an instant around the man in the red scarf and several more innocent businessmen, their expressions such that Julia was almost sorry.

Seizing the moment before the press closed up again, she leapt onto the bus as its doors were closing. The driver roared off as she squeezed past other standing passengers to punch her ticket, her hands not quite co-ordinated as she glimpsed the man staring after her from the pavement.

The man's name was Tommaso and he answered to it, although in his own mind he was Tom. Now he was angry at himself for giving way to impulse. Seeing the girl by chance in the street, he had lost his head.

And how, Tom thought, scowling into his unsugared brandy coffee. His left hand was aching: he'd had to dig out a splinter from under the nail - he got a lot of splinters in his line of work and nearly always missed a couple until they were really hurting. He hadn't considered what the girl might think, catching him using a knife in the street.

Shaking his head, Tom took a sip of coffee, savouring the bitter drink whilst he stared out at the emptying square from his bar stool. In the tobacco stand opposite, a crumpled stack of papers flapped the day's stale news: another collaborator exposed and brought to trial. With the World War Two fiftieth anniversary commemoration due in the new year, prosecuting magistrates had switched their attentions away from the Mafia. These days anyone who wanted to get on in the judiciary was rooting out war criminals: it was seen as part of the new democracy, a clearing of the decks.

Tom snorted, signalling to the barman. Only Italians could get excited about ancient witch hunts.

The bearded barman brought him another coffee, poured in brandy without asking. Tom always drank brandy coffee at this bar: the place and indeed the city had many special memories for him. Of course had it not been for the business he would not have moved here two years ago after his wife's death. He wasn't sentimental, although he had his weaknesses.

He had kept his promise to his wife over the years, but that hadn't stopped him from being curious. When he had read the article in Oggi and learned that the girl was coming to Italy, Tom had seen it as fate. He was a believer in fate.

Tom lifted his grey coat from the next stool, leaving a few coins on the bar. He'd been undecided about Julia. Maybe if she hadn't confronted him he might not have bothered, let the whole thing slide. As it was, he had been offered a challenge.

Planning their next encounter, he stepped into the dark street, tucking the scarf round his throat to keep out the wind.

CHAPTER 2

Sherry eyes fixed on his fellow-singer, Roberto pursued Isabel Alvarez across the stage through rows of peasant dancers.

He was a tall, vigorous figure. The sword at his belt seemed freshly forged for him. the long athletic lines of the eighteenth-century costume breeches suited him. A thin white shirt defined every muscle of his torso as he sang.

His face, that square forehead and chin and hawkish nose, was as telling as a Roman portrait bust, but his dark brown hair was a war zone of untamed spiky curls.

Isabel, the Spanish-American soprano singing Zerlina in Mozart's Don Giovanni was as beguiled as the audience of the San Francisco opera house. Roberto Padovano could have any woman he wanted, Isabel thought, and I wish it were me. She wished she and Padovano were more intimate than just colleagues. The Italian bass was just so convincing as the Don.

But the conductor was glaring at her from the orchestra pit: she was losing concentration. Isabel began and finished a heated duet with another singer and tried to conceal her impatience as the stage emptied. In a few moments, she would be in Padovano's arms as much as Don Giovanni's.

Now they were alone. If only this was more than acting, she thought, her voice almost stopping as he approached.

He caught her at the edge of the stage. His actor's kisses covered her eyes and cheeks and lips. He played at untying the strings on the bodice of her costume. He wrapped his arms tenderly around her middle - singing all the while, it seemed, only to her.

It was better than sex - almost. No man could sing like this one: the love song poured from him, a living caress in sound. Closing her eyes, Isabel leaned against him, breathing in music, answering not because she remembered the words but because she wanted them to become real.

Their duet drawing to a close, Roberto whirled her off her feet. carrying her towards the back of the stage as they sang.

Isabel shivered. A warm hand stroked along her flank, the touch light yet firm.

‘You're doing fine.' His low speaking voice steadied her. Roberto smiled, absently wiping a trickle of moisture from the side of his nose, brown hair spiralling across his forehead.

As he set her down on her feet, Isabel let out a shriek.

Roberto glanced up. A light fitting directly above them tilted wildly, then snapped with a loud crack. The heavy mass plummeted downwards.

With one hand, Roberto thrust Isabel Alvarez out of harm's way. His own momentum had them both on the floor, where they skidded violently into a laden props table. Disregarding a sudden fire in his left foot, Roberto gathered Isabel Alvarez gently into his arms, cradling her as the curtain finally swung down over the wreck of the light.

The doctor at the state hospital glanced from the X-ray to the tall impassive man seated in his consulting room.

‘You finished the performance with this?' the doctor asked, tapping the X-ray sheet with his finger.

'After a break to restore a little calm.'

'Just as well it was the last night. Must have hurt like hell.'

Roberto smiled, thinking already of his flat in Milan, of local bars familiar evening strolls and the fountains in the park across the road. 'Not as much as it could have. Accidents happen.' Glancing at his watch, he knew he would still make it to the airport for his flight home.

Lindsay Townsend

Wednesday, 21 March 2018

HEIRESSES IN LOVE TRILOGY - Boxed Set by Marie Lavender (Guest Post)

HEIRESSES IN LOVE TRILOGY (boxed set)

By Marie Lavender

An unforgettable, sweeping saga of romance, passion and history rooted in tales of maritime suspense…

Three heiresses…three novels like no other.

UPON YOUR RETURN

Fara risks her heart every time she’s with him, but she cannot deny him.

UPON YOUR HONOR

Chloe never imagined that the man she deceived would be the one man she can’t stop loving.

UPON YOUR LOVE

Adrienne must decide whether to succumb to desire or fight for love.

…Will these remarkable women at last find what they’ve always wanted, or lose more than they can bear?

UPON YOUR RETURN (book 1)

Fara Bellamont has been back in society for a year after leaving Cluny Abbey, where her uncle sent her long ago. When he chooses a suitor for her for marriage, she fears that she will be forced to marry a stranger and live a miserable life.

But, Fara finds herself thrust into an adventure of a lifetime when unforeseen circumstances cause her to place her trust in a strange man for protection. His intervention not only saves her, but puts her in an even more compromising position.

Grant Hill, a trading captain, is enchanted by the young heiress not only because of her beauty, but because she is hardly conventional. Underneath her ladylike exterior lies a tigress. Grant cannot help but offer his protection as she is in need and he is far from immune from her charms.

Fara just never bargained on the passion that she feels for Grant Hill. As events unfold, she must decide whether her desires and the dictates of her heart should trump the rules of society…

UPON YOUR HONOR (book 2)

Deception is a dangerous path…

New York City, August, 1891 – Orphaned after the death of her father, Chloe Waverly stows away on La Voyageur to escape the clutches of her cruel fiancé, Lamonte Beckett. Gabriel Hill, a strange and compelling gentleman, comes upon Chloe and promises to protect her without knowing the true circumstances of why she is running away. During their journey, Gabriel doesn’t bargain on being distracted by her fair beauty or succumbing to her many charms. As their attraction to each other grows, so does the danger and Gabriel suspects things are not as they should be.

Both are determined to get to New Orleans, where she can start a new life. But, once they reach their destination, events spin out of their control and Chloe is captured by the fiancé she escaped. Gabriel is left wondering if he can overlook her betrayal. Soon he finds himself in a race against time, to reach her before Beckett can exact revenge.

UPON YOUR LOVE (book 3)

The Hill family saga concludes as loyalties are questioned, faiths will be tested and undying love may come at a terrible cost…

Fara Hill, mother and faithful wife, is torn between her family at home and her urge to be at sea. Soon, she learns some disturbing truths. Was the past a fairy tale instead of reality?

Chloe Hill, loving wife and young mother, questions her faith when her husband sets an ultimatum she cannot meet. Will she be able to keep her marriage from falling apart?

Adrienne Bellamont Hill, born of a valiant captain and a fiery redhead, is untamed to her core and will bow to no man. Then Christian du Plessis enters her life with an offer she can’t refuse. Discovering the man behind the polished gentleman, she is drawn to him in many ways. Holding out for love is a family tradition, but can she resist the temptation of passion?

Christian finds this young woman to be a fascinating challenge, and is torn between keeping his distance from her and succumbing to her charms. A fierce battle of wills ensues as he sees she is much more than he ever imagined.

But danger lurks, threatening to destroy everything…

Can these two strong-willed individuals unite in the cause before time runs out?

HEIRESSES IN LOVE TRILOGY Excerpts

From UPON YOUR RETURN

In the darkness, she blinked, her eyes still adjusting. Suddenly, she sensed something different about the room. A presence. Was that the slightest movement before the window? Could that have been a footstep heard on the carpeting? Her stomach muscles clenched into a tight knot of fear and she wondered if it could be Grant. No, she decided at once. He could be mysterious at times, but he would never enter a place unannounced. Well, at least he wouldn't come through the window if he wanted to be with her. “Rosalie?”

A chuckle could be heard a short distance from the mattress. “Your nursemaid has left for the night…”

The voice was masculine but unfamiliar. She rose on her elbows and felt vulnerable in only her nightgown. “Who are you? Reveal yourself or I will scream for help.”

“Relax, Mademoiselle. It is I, Nicholas Bordeaux.” He stepped forward into the moonlight that spilled through the window.

She recognized him as the man she'd seen in the club. A new kind of heat built inside her and it felt like a refreshing rage. Her fiancé? The man who had nearly killed Grant and was somehow still tied to her in writing had truly crossed the line this time. “Get out,” she ordered thickly.

“Please, Mademoiselle…” He sighed. “I realize the circumstances of our first meeting were less than acceptable, but—”

“What are you doing here? Get out!” She flung her feet over the side of the bed and rushed toward him. “Out!”

He caught her wrists as she fell against him, her fists balled. “Mademoiselle…” He sighed again. “You must listen. I had to see you.”

“No, get out of my house. You don't belong here!”

“Fara…Mademoiselle, you are overreacting.”

Pain shot through her wrists from his grip. “Am I? I will scream. Do you think I won't?”

“I believe you, but I needed to see you just once.” His eyes roamed over her transparent figure, lust lighting them.

Fear knotted in her stomach once more. “No!” she cried. “Get out of my house! I'll scream! Let go of me!” She jerked from his grasp, her hip slamming into the armoire. She drew in a breath of agony.

“You heard the lady, Monsieur. You are trespassing on certain property…and it seems to be a recurring theme with you, if you don't mind my saying it.” The reference to a past duel was not lost on Fara.

She swung to see Grant with his pistol trained on Nicholas. He did not often carry it, she knew, and it surprised her to see it in his hand. She had not heard the door open. The light streamed in from the corridor behind him. She was near hysterical from the fear of seeing Nicholas and Grant was the last person she thought would ever come to her rescue again. She had been told by messenger that he would be late tonight because of business.

“Fara?” he asked gently. “I assume this gentleman was bothering you.”

“Oui,” she agreed. “Monsieur Bordeaux was just leaving. Perhaps you might escort him?”

“With pleasure. Monsieur?” Grant gestured with the pistol.

“I am not threatened by you, Capitaine,” Nicholas replied with disgust.

“Oui, but I am not the one who is disadvantaged. Let's go.”

Nicholas grimaced. “I know the way. Mademoiselle, if I had known this English bulldog was to answer your cry for help, I might not have shown up. I see I have much to learn about you…” He turned away.

“Nicholas!”

He looked back at her. “Oui, chère?”

She gritted her teeth in revulsion at the endearment before answering, “It's over. This engagement is over.”

“You cannot do that, Mademoiselle. It was promised. Your uncle set this up in writing—”

“My uncle is dead, Monsieur. His will states that any indiscretion is grounds for annulment. It's over and you know it.”

He stared at her for a moment, his face grim, and then left the room.

“I do not think he will give up, Fara.”

She sighed, both from relief and exhaustion. “No, probably not.” She walked back to her mattress and sat down.

His gaze rested on her face, concern showing in his eyes. “I'm going to make sure he has truly gone. I'll return,” he promised. When he left the room, she despaired. But what was in a promise? With Grant, was it much at all?

She waited the long moments in silence. As soon as he returned, he set the pistol aside and lit a lamp. Then he went to her, sitting at her side.

“I'm going to do everything I can to be rid of your engagement with Nicholas. I know you do not want it. He seriously stepped out of line this time and that should be enough. I will contact your uncle's lawyer tomorrow. And then, I will take you to find your aunt.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. It was all she could manage. She couldn't help her trembling.

“Are you all right?” He lifted her chin toward him, cupping her cheek.

She shook her head. “He was watching me.”

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, pulling her close.

After her trembling ceased, she asked, “How did you get here?”

“I'm supposed to be your protector, remember? I got back from a meeting after you went to bed. I thought you wouldn't like it if you knew I was here and had free rein in your house without your knowledge. So I thought to remain downstairs, but then I heard you cry out.”

He was right. She wouldn't have liked it if she knew unless, of course, she had invited him. “Merci,” she said once more, grateful that she hadn't had to face Nicholas alone.

His gaze swept the length of her body. “Are you hurt? You fell into the armoire, oui?”

“Oui, there will be a bruise. Do not concern yourself.”

His hand gently kneaded the flesh beneath her nightgown. “That is a very difficult thing to ask of me, Fara. I came because I was concerned.”

Fara felt the onslaught of tears and she fought it. She lowered her head to his shoulder and he kissed her temple, gathering her close to him. She felt safe and warm in his embrace, a feeling she was sure she hadn't known since she was a child. She breathed deeply, trying to collect her thoughts. “I do not understand.”

“What, love?”

“Why did he call you English?”

A long silence fell between them. She pulled away, but stayed near him on the mattress, close enough to see his face. A range of emotions crossed his features, none of which she could read, but she thought one might be grief. Her heart strained for him.

“My father was English. This is my mother's country. I am a half-blood. Since I have been here, I have tried to hide my heritage because I know how people see it. It is not one of the stronger aspects of my character. And it doesn't do much for business.”

She had never entertained the idea that he might not be completely French, though his name suggested otherwise. But, she was learning something else about him, and she was grateful for it. “It's all right, Grant. I understand why you wouldn't disclose it. I won't tell anyone.”

He nodded. “I know that.”

“So…you were raised in England?”

“Partially. At least I was until my parents died.”

“And then?”

“And then I was thrust onto the streets. I ended up on a ship later so the crew became a sort of family to me.”

It was evident from his approach to the subject that he had lived a hard life and did not wish to reveal the harsher aspects of it. “What were your parents like?”

He attempted a smile, but there was pain behind it. “My mother was an angel, always supportive and loving. She loved to read to me. My father, on the other hand, was the opposite. Simply put, he was a military man, and that was all that was important to him.”

“I'm sorry.”

He simply nodded.

“You know, I'm not entirely French either.”

“No?”

“I can't be for sure, but I always thought my mother was from another place. She was so exotic. That probably seems silly.”

“No, not at all.”

Fara moved closer to him so that her head rested on his shoulder again. He received the gesture in kind, pulling her close to him. Though the circumstances were different, he had lived with the same indifference she had endured from her uncle. It was unfortunate, though, that he couldn't have had the support and love of both parents as she had. The rough times, however, had made him stronger and she appreciated that. The one thing that concerned her was that the indifference his father had had toward him might have outweighed the way he accepted his emotions; deep down, she was afraid he might never be able to love her in return.

From UPON YOUR HONOR

Eyes wide, Chloe watched them, fending off the attack of the other. Parry and thrust. Entangling, then hauling back. As they fought, she was aware of the other four men closing in on her on all sides. Gabriel was distracted. He couldn’t possibly help her. She looked around for a weapon, but only saw ropes. Then she saw a sailor’s body lying on the ground, facedown. She shuddered, afraid he was dead instead of unconscious. She leaned down as if to check on him and located a knife in his belt. She picked it up, then rose to face her attackers.

One of the men laughed at her. “What are you going to do with that, darlin’?” he drawled.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of answering. She took many steps away until she came up against the wall of the ship. Her gaze went to the ropes tied into a figure eight and slowly traveled to the sails high above her. She glanced at the man advancing on her, felt her stomach clench when he licked his lips. Then she dove for the rope and sawed quickly with her knife.

Shortly, the ship jerked forward, upsetting the equilibrium on board. The man who stalked her went down. Seeing a narrow escape, she ran straight past two men on her left. She kept running until she reached the wheel of the ship. She tried to turn it, but it was heavy. She thought if she could turn the ship, she could throw the men off balance once more. Suddenly though, she was tackled and her head hit a cold hard object. A loud bell rang. She shook her head to try to clear it, but the disorientation spread. It was too soon after her other injury. She fell into the enveloping blackness.

A few minutes later, she was roused by a man hauling her fiercely to her feet. Her head spun with the sudden shift in movement. Feeling faint, she sagged against him and he gripped her shoulders with a biting grasp. “Miss Waverly,” he grated out.

She frowned up at him. It was the man Gabe had been fighting before. He had dark hair, an equally dark mustache and very cold eyes from what she could see in the light from the lanterns.

She peered around him. Gabe was struggling with the others. How had this man gotten away? She heard a gunshot on the other side of the ship. Was Gabriel all right? And had she heard the man right? Had he said her name?

“Don’t you worry, Miss Waverly, my comrades have everything under control.”

He knew her name. A form of dread curled hard in her belly. It was a suffocating thing. She gasped for air, and winced at the pain in her skull. “How…how do you know me?” She prayed he had simply been hired to work on La Voyageur, but logic told her that wasn’t the case. She didn’t recognize him as a sailor. It was true she probably didn’t know everyone yet, but she would have at least seen him in passing.

“Beckett sent us. He’s looking for you. You will come back to him.”

She clenched her jaw, staring up at the man who gripped her arms. “No, I won’t. You can go back and tell him that. It’s over.”

He shook his head. “Maybe he’d rather hear that from you.”

“I doubt it. You’re just afraid of him, afraid of what he’ll do when he finds out you failed him.”

He slapped her and the force of it had her stumbling away. “I haven’t failed him, bitch!”

The shock of it brought tears to her eyes. She shook with fear, but managed to dampen it. She no longer had the knife so she couldn’t harm him. But, there wasn’t much he could do to her. He would have to return her to Lamonte unharmed. The violence instilled upon her would be of Lamonte’s making, and no one else. She was in danger of being raped with him. But, he would probably kill her for her insolence. That was another reason she’d run away from him. She had suspected what he was capable of as soon as her father died.

Gripping her arm, the man seemed about to yank her to her feet and drag her against him once more. Just when he reared his hand back to slap her again, he toppled to the ground, a blood stain appearing on his chest.

The captain was there, holding his rapier and glaring down at the man.

Captain Hill was hardly an old man. He had a handsome, boyish charm to his face with a hard edge of arrogance. He was a strong man, and she could clearly see where Gabriel got it from.

Shaking, her breath unsteady, he helped her to her feet. “Thank you.”

“Of course. I would be sorely lacking as a gentleman if I disregarded a woman in peril, Mademoiselle.”

Chloe’s cheeks felt warm. She looked around for Gabriel. Where was he? Now that her terror was wearing off, she could only think of his safety. When he approached, she breathed a sigh of relief. Obviously, he’d dispatched the other men.

He eyed the bruise on her cheek. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I think so.” She frowned. “Are you?”

He shrugged. “You didn’t know that man, did you?”

Her heart started to pound erratically, a sick rhythm. How had he figured that out? He was too clever. “No. How would I?”

“I assume he came from the last port, your home. Maybe they followed you.”

“That is ridiculous. What would they want from me?”

“Indeed. That is the question, isn’t it?”

Unsettled, she ran a hand through her hair, wincing.

He caught her arm swiftly, then tipped her head with a slight grasp on her chin, lifting her face to the light of the moon.

Alarmed, she looked up at Gabe. “What is it?”

“You’re bleeding again. You must have hit your head. Let’s have the physician take a look at that.”

He signaled for Davis to take her back to her cabin and alert the ship’s physician. Resigned, she went below decks with the man.

* * * *

Gabe went back to stand by his father.

“This is a nasty business, Gabriel. You suspect more, don’t you?”

He frowned, weighing his words carefully. His father was not the type of man to take trouble lightly, nor was he an idiot. He knew his son’s moods well, and though he was intelligent, he could be dangerous when necessary. “It’s just a feeling I have.”

“Then, the quicker you can escort Mademoiselle Waverly to her home, the better.”

He agreed.

His father shook his head. “It is a damned shame this had to happen to her though.”

“Yes, it is.”

The captain turned to the crew. “Let’s take those men down to the brig, shall we? I have a few questions for them.”

William Barlow, a newer sailor, stepped forward. “As soon as we intervened, they jumped ship, Captain.”

Gabe swung to where they’d been. Barlow was right. There was no one left but the crew they respected and trusted with their lives. He shook his head. “What about the man who attacked Mademoiselle Waverly? He was wounded.”

“I assume he went with them.”

Gabe strode over to the railing, looking out over the dark currents. A search party would never find them in those unforgiving waters. They would soon be dead, unless they’d had a small boat and another ship nearby. That would have been the smarter option. Uncertain whether that revelation was enlightening, troubling or both, he slammed a hand down on the railing. “Damn!”

Grant joined him for a moment. “At least the threat is gone, son.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple, Father. Something just isn’t right here.”

He nodded. “Your instincts have saved you in a number of situations. If you say something else is going on, then I believe you.”

Gabe frowned, then sighed. “I should check on Chloe.”

The captain grabbed his son’s arm. “You care about her, don’t you?”

“Papa,” he warned.

“It’s all right. I understand. You’ve heard the story about your mother and I.”

“Yes, many times.”

He chuckled. “More than you probably wanted to hear. I’m not passing judgment, son. I already warned you once. I sincerely hope you find what you’re looking for and I wish you well, that’s all.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The captain nodded and went to the helm. “Tie down that sail!” he called to another man.

Gabe looked out over the sea once more. They had been lucky. He and Chloe had been outnumbered at the outset, and it was pure luck that they had survived. Fortunately, she’d fallen into the bell by accident. Or had she been slammed into it? He grimaced. Either way, it had summoned the crew. It was possible that without it, someone might have heard the scuffle on deck. But, most of the crew had been fast asleep, and those who were supposed to be on watch had been knocked out. Even through the clash with those other men, he’d noticed her resourcefulness. She had cut the sail’s rope. That was smart. But, nothing either of them had done would have saved them if the bell hadn’t alerted everyone, he realized with grim knowledge.

Indeed, they had been too lucky. He felt a niggling worry deep in his gut. Something didn’t quite fit. He would have to figure that out. Shaking off the sensation, he headed down the companionway to see Chloe. She had sustained another injury while in his care. It did not bode well for the journey ahead. Nonetheless, he was determined to get her home, no matter what he was forced to sacrifice for her safety.

From UPON YOUR LOVE

Prologue

July 18, 1882

Harwich, England

Adrienne Bellamont Hill was considered a young lady in society. But to her, she was different, much more than that….

The nine year old girl tightened her hand in her father’s as they entered the group of sailors milling down the lengthy Halfpenny Pier, a part of Harwich called ‘the quay’. Some were talking business while others walked steadily along. Still, the pier was chaotic, and Adrienne wasn’t sure she wanted to brave the crowd. She and Papa were to meet her mother and Gabriel at the Pier Hotel. Her father, the captain, had said he needed to finish up some business on La Voyageur first before escorting her there. The odor of decayed fish drifted on the air, her nose wrinkling. Forty-two days at sea, she’d been told, and they’d just landed in England this afternoon.

She was glad they were on land once more. Though she’d come on board La Voyageur before, she’d never been at sea until now. It hadn’t been easy living on the ship, but Adrienne could handle it just as well as her brother if need be, she thought with a firm lift of her chin, her dark tumble of curls brushing her face. She often wanted to compete with him in activities he deemed she was too young for. Her brother acted much older sometimes. He was so overprotective of her, even at home. But at the age of nine, she was a great runner and she would do more than that if her Maman allowed it. She often got scolded for being headstrong, though she still wasn’t sure what that meant.

Just prior to reaching land this morning, a search party had been sent out, despite the fact that she’d only intended to quickly breakfast in the mess deck before meeting her parents on deck. She hadn’t planned to worry her family. Papa had often warned her of the dangers for a young girl at sea. Not only could she easily drown in the mass of tides, but injuries could happen with the equipment sailors used. He had worried that she’d also get adventurous and climb the rigging, as she was prone to do with trees at home, and be caught in a sail or fall. This was why he had informed her she shouldn’t be unsupervised on deck.

Captain Hill murmured to the others as he tugged her along now, probably excusing himself. She thought they would squeeze through the mass of people but, then, two men eased very close to her, crowding her, making it hard to breathe. Her fingers slipped from the captain’s grasp. “Papa!” she shouted, but her voice was caught in the din of voices on the pier. She experienced an odd sensation in her stomach and her heart raced wildly. On impulse, she crouched down, trying to crawl out of the crowd. “Papa!” she tried, again.

A big hand clutched her small body, jerking her to her feet. A sense of relief swamped over her, until the hand shook her.

“You little pickpocket!” a man ground out.

She shrank back at the unfamiliar, booming voice, but glanced up into the man’s face, which was red from the sun. His clothes were tinged with dirt and she detected a strange odor upon him. She glanced around for her father. She’d been taught to avoid strangers unless her parents were present. His insult did not go unnoticed, however.

“I am nothing of the kind, sir,” she declared. “I am a lady. My father was—”

His hand tightened on the back of her dress. “Is he a thief as well?”

“Thief? Why, no, he is an honorable man, a captain, and you must unhand me or he’ll do you harm, I swear.” Panic swept through her at his hold, and a shout tore out of her. “Papa!”

“No one can hear you, scamp. And you stole my money.” He grasped her arm.

“I am not a scamp!” she cried. “I am a lady.” She stamped her foot on the ground. Fear threatened to choke her, but she knew it wouldn’t solve a thing. Her father was gone. She had to rely on herself. Her gaze swept the pier until her attention was caught by a quarrel nearby. A boy, perhaps about eleven years old, attempted to wrest a blue reticule from a young girl, who was screaming. A few bills stuck out of the boy’s side pocket. “Sir, I do believe that is the rascal you’re looking for.” She pointed across the pier. “Now, if you’ll be so kind as to let me go….”

His eyes followed hers. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He glanced at her clothing. “I suppose you don’t look like a pickpocket.”

She nodded.

He released his hold on her. His brown gaze softened, and he swept a hand over his dark hair. “How old did you say you were?”

Adrienne frowned. “Well, I didn’t. I’m nine,” she proudly announced with her hands on her hips. This brought a laugh out of the man, but she couldn’t see why.

“We must find your father.”

“I appreciate it, sir, but it looks as if your money is getting away.” Even now, the boy was yanking the reticule out of the girl’s grasp and Adrienne gasped as the girl, dressed in a dark blue gown, fell head over heels into the water by the dock with quite a splash. “Mon Dieu! We must help her!” Adrienne said.

She grasped the man’s hand, tugging him over to the scene.

Her mouth gaped further as the man shook his head, dropped her hand and took off after the boy who’d stolen his money. Adrienne had no time to remark on his actions, and moved to her stomach, leaning over the pier. She took hold of the girl’s hand as she thrashed in the water, desperate to stay afloat.

“Someone help!” she cried, fearful she might drown before Adrienne could save her.

She took a deep breath, realizing she was still on her own. The girl didn’t appear to see her on the dock. She whistled hard, just like she’d seen her brother do on occasion. “Miss, can you swim?”

The girl’s tears mixed with the water on her face as she shook her head.

“Are you able to find a footing on the pylons below?”

“I, I think so,” she said, her teeth chattering now. The girl struggled more, and an odd look crossed her face. “Yes, I think I found it.”

“Good. I want you to grip my hand tight, and then take my other hand, all right? On the count of three, I’m going to pull hard and you will push off the pylon. Do you have that straight?”

The girl nodded, grasping Adrienne’s open hand.

“Now we count. One… two… three!” Adrienne yanked as hard as she could, and the girl clutched at the pier. She pulled her over the rest of the way, and they both rolled, collapsing hard on their backs, breaths labored as the setting sun shone down on their faces.

Sobs came from her companion. Adrienne hugged her until she stopped crying, and then looked into the girl’s face. She had damp, dark blonde hair, at least from what she could tell of the wet mop, and pretty blue eyes. “You did well.”

“Thank you. Oh my Lord, I think you saved my life!”

She smiled. “My pleasure. May I have your name, Miss?”

“Elena,” she said, though her teeth continued to chatter, and the girl rubbed at her wet arms.

She smiled. “Let’s get off our backs, shall we?”

They managed to stand upright. Adrienne saw a bit of dampness on her own gown, but didn’t care. She was more concerned about the girl. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” she paused, then declared, “You don’t sound English.”

Adrienne frowned. “I am American. Well, my father is half English, and my mother is French. But, we live in the states.”

Elena lifted a brow. “A strange combination, to be sure.”

The way the girl proudly lifted her chin despite her bedraggled appearance made Adrienne laugh. “In any case, we will have to do something about this….” She gestured to the dirty water soaking through the girl’s dress and dripping at her feet.

Her soulful blue eyes darkened. “Oh, my dress is ruined. My mother will be so angry with me!”

“It’s all right.” She considered the girl for a moment. “I do believe I have a dress that might fit you.” Elena was a bit shorter than her, though.

“You mustn’t go to the trouble.” Her blue gaze searched the harbor. “I got turned around. My driver is gone. I took pianoforte lessons in town, and then he was to stay with me on a stroll I usually take at this time of day.” The girl bit her lip, and Adrienne thought she caught a hint of fear in those eyes as they darted around.

“Don’t worry. I do hope the man taught that ruffian some manners, however.”

“How can you tell me not to worry? I am at the harbor, and my family lives in the country. And without money—”

“We’ll help you.”

She frowned. “You don’t even know me.”

Adrienne shrugged. “I will still help you. Come, my family is nearby. We’re visiting England.” Surely, she could locate La Voyageur again. Perhaps George, Papa’s second-in-command, could help?Or, maybe she could find the hotel they were staying at, and her father could find her there.

“Oh, I suppose it would be fine if they took me home.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“Adrienne!”

She turned her head. “Papa!” she shouted, unable to express the pure joy of hearing his deep voice again.

The broad shoulders of her father came into view, his full head of dark, wavy hair swirling in the breeze as he stood in his gray day suit. He scowled down at Adrienne, clutching her shoulders as he shook her gently. He was stern just like on La Voyageur, in charge when he stood with his hands crossed behind him at first, waiting while the men lined up in two opposing rows.

“Twice in one day? Chére, how many times have I told you that you must not run off?”

She stuttered as she replied, “Papa, I got caught in the crowd, torn away from you. I couldn’t help it.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

He nodded, and then glanced over at Elena. “Oh. What do we have here?”

Adrienne frowned at him. “That’s a girl, Papa!”

His lips twisted. “Oui, I can see that. Who is your friend, chére?”

“Why, I…,” she frowned. “I do not know her surname.”

Despite her disheveled state, the girl managed a curtsy. “I am Elena Wyndham. Pleased to meet you both.”

Adrienne couldn’t figure out why her father looked so amused as she glanced at him, then back toward Elena. “A pleasure, of course. My name is Adrienne Bellamont Hill and this is my father, Captain Hill. Papa, Elena got herself into some trouble. A ruffian stole her reticule and pushed her! I saw it all. And I would have taken him to task if the man who found me hadn’t rushed off after him. I also had to pull her out of the water.”

The girl’s teeth chattered as she crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s true, sir. Your daughter saved me.”

“I see. Those are unfortunate circumstances, to be sure, Miss Wyndham. May I ask the whereabouts of your parents as you seem quite alone?”

“They are at home. I… got lost somehow, and I don’t know where my driver is.”

He nodded. “Well, we shall take you to them at once.”

“Yes, of course. But, she’ll borrow one of my dresses first,” Adrienne offered.

His dark gaze swept over Elena’s gown. “A reasonable request I’m certain we can accommodate. Come along, girls, and stick close to me. The hotel isn’t much farther, but we still must get through this crowd of people.”

This time, she took Elena’s hand in hers and clung to the edge of her father’s suit jacket with her other. She didn’t want to lose sight of him again. They went to the hotel, a blue and white structure at the end of the pier. Inside, Papa inquired about rooms, and Adrienne smiled at Elena. “Perhaps I will see more of you while we are in town.”

Elena nodded. “I would like that.”

“We could exchange addresses and write to one another. I don’t have any friends in England.”

Elena’s blue eyes twinkled. “You just made one. I’ll never forget what you did for me out there.”

Adrienne waved a hand. “Really, I think anyone would have done it.”

“I’m not so certain.”

She didn’t want to think about what might have happened if she hadn’t known what to do. She couldn’t imagine watching someone drown and doing nothing to help, as it appeared that man on the dock was capable of. Besides, receiving gratitude wasn’t something she had ever handled very easily. She knew her parents would have done the same in her position, though, and she was glad she’d taken action.

“Come now, girls. It appears your mother found some rooms. I’ll take you to her.” They followed her Papa and another man up a set of stairs and down a hall until the man knocked on the door.

Her mother answered. Fara Hill’s auburn hair, just a shade or two lighter than Gabriel’s, was pulled up into a bun. Her violet eyes, so like Adrienne’s, were filled with concern though they narrowed. “What kept you?”

Her father kissed Maman’s cheek, then tipped the man who’d accompanied them before ushering the girls inside the room.

“Sorry for the delay, love. Adrienne ran into some trouble, and it seems we have a visitor. This young lady is Elena Wyndham, and we are charged to return her to her parents.”

“Of course!” She smiled at Elena. “It is a pleasure to meet you. You may call me Fara, if you like.”

Her new friend curtsied once more. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Hill. How long do you think your family will be staying?”

“Grant?”

Captain Hill scratched his chin. “Ah, maybe five days.”

“Then perhaps Adrienne can come to dinner with my parents tonight or tomorrow.”

Adrienne felt a sudden thrill, and she clenched her hands. “I would love to. Maman?”

“Well, I’m sure that would be fine. Elena, have your mother let us know when it is a good time to come back for Adrienne.”

“I will.”

“For now, Maman, Elena needs a dress.”

Her mother nodded, that swift violet gaze assessing Elena’s damp state. “I can see that.”

Papa cleared his throat. “Ah, that’s my cue. I shall disappear for an hour and procure a ride to Elena’s house. Where do you live, Miss Wyndham?”

“On the outskirts of Harwich, in the country. Everyone has heard of the Wyndham estate.”

“Very well.” He kissed her mother’s forehead, and fluffed Adrienne’s hair before leaving the room.

“You are taller than Elena, chére. I fear your clothes won’t fit her.”

She frowned. “No, Maman! I packed that light blue dress, the one you said was too short for me.”

“Hmm… yes, that might work.”

Soon enough, they had Elena stripped and sponged off using the water basin and soap nearby, then wrapped her in a warm towel. When she was warmer, she was given a shift and new pantaloons, as well as Adrienne’s spare pair of boots. Then her Maman put the light blue, silk gown over Elena’s head and buttoned it up.

“I will give all of this back to you tomorrow,” Elena said.

“It’s all right. We don’t need it.”

Fara Hill smiled. “Adrienne is right. We can buy her other clothing. Don’t concern yourself over it, all right?”

She nodded.

Her father arrived with a knock at the door and he escorted the young ladies to the waiting cab. They piled in, one by one, and headed off. The drive was scenic, but Adrienne was far too distracted to enjoy much of it. She didn’t want to let her new friend go just yet.

All too soon the driver pulled up to a large house in an ivory color with numerous, shuttered windows. Her father stepped out of the cab and helped the girls down.

A blonde-haired woman shouted as she came out of the house, “Elena, darling!” Then she gathered her daughter against her. “When Theodore returned without you, we weren’t sure what to do. Your father was about to fetch the constable.” As she drew away, she looked at Adrienne and her Papa. “Oh, hello….”

“Good evening, Mrs. Wyndham. I am Captain Hill of La Voyageur. We just docked this afternoon. My family is visiting with me in town and it appears my daughter, Adrienne, happened upon your own child at the harbor. She could have drowned, but she’s a very lucky girl.”

She gasped. “Are you all right, Elena? Do we need to fetch a physician?” She caught her daughter’s chin and lifted her face up to the setting sunlight.

“No, I’m fine, only grateful to Adrienne. She saved my life. And her parents, of course.”

She hugged Elena. “I am grateful as well, darling.” She glanced at the captain. “I’m sorry to be a burden on you since you just came into town.”

“Not at all. We were happy to help. And if I’m not mistaken, I think our girls have a burgeoning friendship.”

“Oh, well… we would, ah, only want Elena to associate with young ladies of her class, you understand?”

He nodded, but his smile vanished. “Of course, but have no fear. My daughter is an heiress, Mrs. Wyndham.”

“Oh! I didn’t know.”

“Adrienne is a pleasant, young lady. I can tell, Mama.”

“Of course, dear.”

“May she come to dinner this evening?” Elena asked, with a hopeful look in her blue eyes.

Mrs. Wyndham appeared to consider it. “Not today, dear. We have other plans tonight, but she may come tomorrow evening at eight o’clock. Would that be all right, Captain Hill?”

“Yes, of course. I will escort her myself and you can tell me when to fetch her.”

“Good. Come along then, Elena.”

“Mama, let me say goodbye to Adrienne….”

“All right, love. I’ll meet you inside.” She turned on her heel and had disappeared before they could blink.

Elena looked at them both. “Mother can be rather difficult about my acquaintances. I don’t know many girls my age as I only have a governess.”

Adrienne’s father frowned. “I still find it odd you were in town on your own, even with a driver.”

“Mother doesn’t go into town often, perhaps to the milliner’s shop, but nowhere else. We have done some traveling, however, to London and Bath.”

“I see. Well, we should head off now. Adrienne?”

She nodded. “Yes, Papa. Elena, it was nice meeting you.”

“The pleasure was mine.” They shook hands like she’d been taught. “We’ll exchange addresses after dinner tomorrow, Adrienne. It is all right if we write to one another, sir?”

Captain Hill smiled. “Of course.”

“Thank you, sir. Goodbye, Adrienne.”

“Goodbye, Elena. I will see you tomorrow.”

Elena curtsied and then went inside her house.

Adrienne waited while her father boosted her into their hired cab and, after he climbed in, the hansom cab began to move. Papa squeezed her hand and she glanced over at him. “Hmm?”

“Elena is a nice young lady. I see no reason you shouldn’t become friends with her.”

She nodded. “I was thinking the same thing, Papa.” She bit her lip. “She was so grateful to me before, I knew not what to say.”

“You saved her life. I am so proud of you, bébé.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “In truth, Papa, I don’t know how I did it.”

“That is often the way of things when someone is in danger. We can only react.”

When they arrived at the hotel, her father lifted her out of the cab, took her hand and they went inside. She froze in the front hall just inside the door. That man from before, the one who’d confronted her, stood there, with his ruddy appearance and soiled clothing. She drew behind her father, grasping his suit jacket, and tugged.

He frowned, glancing back at her. “Chére?”

“Papa, that’s him, the man who thought I was a thief and handled me roughly, then went after that boy.” Captain Hill’s dark eyes widened for a moment, and then his face became a hard mask. She realized she’d forgotten to tell her father everything before, and she shivered. “Papa, I—”

“Let me handle it, Adrienne.”

She nodded and watched as her father stepped forward, his hands clenched into fists. “My daughter is no thief, Monsieur. If you’ve come to recover what you’ve lost, you’ll have nothing from us. She had to pull that poor girl from the drink—”

“No, and I’m sorry…”

“Captain Hill.”

“I, I’m sorry, Captain. I never meant for her to have to do that. I was desperate, but I found the boy.”

“Interrogated him, did you? I hope you handled it without resorting to violence at least.”

He shrugged. “No, I barely touched the rascal, but I did get my money back. I also retrieved this,” he said as he handed over a royal blue, satin, drawstring purse with braided cording.

“Elena’s reticule!” she cried, and moved closer.

“Just so. I thought the young lady might have need of it.”

As she glanced between the men, her father’s eyes narrowed. “I trust her belongings are still there?”

“Of course. I am not without scruples, sir.”

“How did you find us?”

“I inquired on Halfpenny Pier to see where the girl might have gone. When they mentioned both had disappeared with a man down the pier, I began to fear for their safety. I see you found your daughter, anyway.”

“Yes. Thank you for returning the reticule. We shall deliver it safely, I assure you.”

He nodded, then made a move to leave the building, but turned back. Both Adrienne and her father watched as he shook his head in a wry fashion and pointed at her. “That one, she is one to watch out for. Fearless.”

“You have no idea,” her father murmured.

After the man left, she frowned up at her Papa, shaking her head. “I was plenty afraid, Papa, when you left, but I knew I was on my own so I had to figure it out.”

He smiled. “You learned an important lesson today, chére.”

“What’s that?”

“There is never courage without fear.” He drew his arms around her then, and she leaned her head against his waist.

About Marie Lavender

Multi-genre author of Victorian romance, UPON YOUR RETURN, and 22 other books. UPON YOUR LOVE and THE MISSING PIECE placed in the TOP 10 on the 2017 P&E Readers' Poll. DIRECTIONS OF THE HEART was nominated for the 2017 Reader's Choice Awards. The I Love Romance Blog became a finalist in StartDating DK's Romance Blog Awards of 2017. ILRB landed on Feedspot’s 2017 TOP 100 Novel Blogs and TOP 100 Romance Blogs. DIRECTIONS OF THE HEART placed in the TOP 10 Books of 2017 on Amy’s Bookshelf Reviews blog. TOP 20 Authors of 2017 on Amy’s Bookshelf Reviews blog. Mystery Blogger Award for 2017. A to Z Blog Challenge Survivor in 2016. March 2016 Empress of the Universe title - winner of the "Broken Heart" themed contest and the "I Love You" themed contest on Poetry Universe. SECOND CHANCE HEART and A LITTLE MAGICK placed in the TOP 10 on the 2015 P&E Readers' Poll. Nominated in the TRR Readers' Choice Awards for Winter 2015. Poetry winner of the 2015 PnPAuthors Contest. The Versatile Blogger Award for 2015. Honorable Mention in the 2014 BTS Red Carpet Book Awards. Finalist and Runner-up in the 2014 MARSocial's Author of the Year Competition. Honorable mention in the January 2014 Reader's Choice Award. Liebster Blogger Award for 2013, 2014 and 2016. 2013 and 2014 Amazon Bestseller Ranking for UPON YOUR RETURN. Top 10 Authors on AuthorsDB.com. Winner of the Great One Liners Contest on the Directory of Published Authors.

Marie Lavender lives in the Midwest with her family and three cats. She has been writing for a little over twenty-five years. She has more works in progress than she can count on two hands. Since 2010, Marie has published 23 books in the genres of historical romance, contemporary romance, romantic suspense, paranormal romance, dramatic fiction, fantasy, science fiction, mystery/thriller, literary fiction and poetry. She has also contributed to several anthologies. Her current published series are The Heiresses in Love Series, The Magick Series, The Code of Endhivar Series and The Blood at First Sight Series. Feel free to visit her website at marielavender.com for further information about her books and her life. Marie is also on Facebook, Twitter, Google+ and LinkedIn.