My Scandalous Bride

299 Pages·2004·1.21 MB·English

by  Christina Dodd

P age | 2

My
Scandalous
Bride

CHRISTINA DODD
STEPHANIE LAURENS
CELESTE BRADLEY
LESLIE LAFOY
P age | 3

The Lady and the Tiger by Christina Dodd
4

Melting Ice by Stephanie Laurens
69

Wedding Knight by Celeste Bradley
142

The Proposition by Leslie LaFoy
226
P age | 4

The Lady
And The Tiger

Christina Dodd
P age | 5

CHAPTER 1

Kent, England, 1813

Miss Laura Haver groped her way toward the ocean cliff, guided only by the sound
of the waves and scent of salt water on the breeze. Clouds streamed across the
stars, blocking the feeble light, and her foot skidded down the first few inches of
cliff before she realized she'd reached her goal.
Sitting down hard, she pulled herself to safety, then scooted back and huddled in
the rough sea grass.
Pebbles scattered down the steep slope to the beach on the Hamilton estate, and she
listened for the shouts that meant she'd been discovered.
There was nothing. Just the endless rocking of the waves on the sandy beach
below.
It had been three months. Three months of lonely torment as she pored over her
brother's diary and tried to decipher his cryptic scrawls. Three months of futile
visits to the London townhouse where Keefe Leighton, the Earl of Hamilton,
resided and kept an office. Three months of listening while Leighton assured her
the government would avenge Ronald's death.
Three months of knowing that he lied.
A boat crunched on the sand below as it drove onto the beach. Shivering with chill
and fear, she pulled the dark hood over her brown hair and scooted back to the
edge of the cliff. Although it was a moonless night and so dark she could scarcely
see her hand in front of her face, she nevertheless observed as covered lanterns
flashed like fireflies. They showed bits of light only as the men deemed necessary,
and in their movement she counted at least twenty smugglers—eight unloading the
boat, eight receiving on the beach, and three men just standing, apparently
supervising the operation.
P age | 6

One tall figure moved back and forth, and from the consideration all the men paid
him, it was obvious he was the leader. Ronald's diary mentioned him only as Jean,
but Laura feared she knew his identity.
She strained her eyes wide and prayed for just one moment of light—and when it
came, she stood in indignation.
"He is the smuggler."
As if her words caught on the wind and blew to his ears alone, Leighton turned and
looked up toward the top of the cliff. She saw the glint of his eyes, and with the
instinct of a hunted creature, she crouched behind a rock and froze. She didn't want
Leighton to see her here. She couldn't let him find her here.
All her ugly suspicions had been proved true, and if he had killed her brother to
silence him, she doubted he would hesitate to murder her, too.
Her heart pounded and she wanted to flee with unrestrained panic, but she'd come
too far and too much was at stake for her to lose her composure now. Straining to
listen, she could hear men's voices above the lap of the waves, but no shout of
discovery gave her reason to run. She had to keep her head, get back to the inn, and
write her report to give to the authorities. It would be difficult to convince them
that a member of the House of Lords was nothing but a common criminal, but with
Ronald's diary as corroboration, she'd do it.
She had to, for Ronald's sake.
She crept backwards. Her skirt caught on her heels, rocks ground into the palms of
her hands. She stood finally, and leaned to dust off her skirt. When she
straightened and squinted toward the horizon, she realized a tall figure blocked out
the stars. She stared, pinned by fear, then with a yelp and a start, she whirled and
ran.
She could hear the sound of thudding boots behind her. The gorse grabbed at her
skirts and the ruts of the mostly untraveled road moved and twisted in snakelike
guile. The wind gusted at her back and carried a man's warm breath to touch the
nape of her neck. Gooseflesh ran over her skin and she moaned softly, clutching
the stitch that started in her side. When she could run no longer, she dared a look
behind her.
P age | 7

All she could see was black night. The stars had disappeared completely and the
upcoming storm splattered the first raindrops in her face. She'd imagined Leighton
when he wasn't there.
With a ragged sigh of relief, she slowed to a walk and trudged toward the inn. How
stupid and cowardly she'd been in her precipitous flight! But for weeks she had
dreamed about Leighton chasing her. She'd seen his face on every dark-haired man
who walked the streets. Something about Leighton convinced her she should flee
and never stop.
It hadn't always been that way. When Ronald had been killed, she'd gone to meet
Leighton for the first time, confident he would help her. After all, Ronald had been
Leighton's first secretary, and he spoke of Leighton in dazzling terms.
Instead, Leighton had actively and personally repelled her inquiries. According to
him, she should remain at home like a proper lady, and the smugglers would be
brought to justice when the time arrived. But she couldn't bear to be patronized,
especially not by Leighton. She just clenched her teeth and faced up to him,
ignoring the breadth of his shoulders, the sculptured perfection of his features, and
her own untutored desire to hurl herself into his arms and let him care for her.
Early in their relationship, she might have done just that, but from the very
beginning some instinct told her that his placid exterior hid something deep, potent
and deceptive.
Still apprehensive, she glanced behind her again. Ronald had always said she was
too straightforward to sneak around and too blunt for diplomacy, but now that
she'd read his diary she'd learned that her brother had led a secret life. He had her
convinced he was nothing more than Leighton's secretary, when actually he had
worked to uncover this ring of smugglers. A frown puckered her forehead. He
hadn't told her because he didn't want her to know and worry. He'd been protecting
her, and now she was alone with no one to avenge his death but her.
She'd do it, too. She'd make sure those responsible suffered as she had suffered
with his loss.
The rain began to fling itself to the ground with increasing conviction, and she
wrapped her redingote, that coat which she'd sewn with her own fingers, tighter
around her shoulders.
When she saw the lights of the Bull and Eagle, she fixed on them as if they were
her salvation. She knew, of course, that Leighton might seek her, but not tonight.
P age | 8

He had brandy to unload and reckless men to pay, and he would never imagine that
she'd be on her way at first light, even if she had to walk.
Carefully she crept through the now-muddy inn yard and pushed the outside door
open. In the two days she'd stayed here, she'd ascertained that it squeaked if not
handled properly, and that brought Ernest bustling out of his quarters to smile and
bow and greet her as if she were the salvation of Leighton Village.
And all because of one little lie she'd been driven to tell.
God would forgive her, she was sure, for she'd told it in pursuit of truth and justice,
but she didn't know if hearty, bald-headed Ernest ever would.
The hinges didn't make a sound. The taproom was empty, as it had been when she
left, and she didn't understand how her luck had held. She didn't want anyone to
know she'd been out, yet at the same time during the other evenings she had been
here the townsfolk had congregated in the taproom for ale and conversation.
Briefly she wondered what kept them away, why the fire burned low and place
looked abandoned. Then a burst of angry shouting from the kitchen sent her fleeing
up the stairs. At the top she paused and listened.
Ernest's voice she could recognize, and he sounded both agitated and afraid. The
other voice was a man's, lower, less distinct, but with a tone that raised the hair on
the back of her head.
Who was it? Gripping the rail in both hands, she crept down two steps and listened
intently. Why did he sound so menacing? Heedlessly, she stepped on the edge of
the third step and it creaked beneath her shoe. The conversation in the kitchen
stopped and she froze. Footsteps sounded on the floorboards and Ernest stepped
into the common room. She tried to melt into the shadows, and he stared up at her.
He saw her; she would have sworn he saw her, but he shrugged and walked back
into the kitchen without any indication that he'd noted her presence.
The conversation began again, lower this time, and she sneaked to her room.
Silently, she took the key from her reticule and unlocked the door. Slipping inside,
she shut the dark oak panels behind her and turned the key again, protecting herself
from all comers.
It was just as she'd left it. This was, as Ernest had told her the night she arrived, the
best bedchamber in the inn and the one which had served Henry the Eighth when
he'd been stranded in a storm. Laura didn't know if she believed that, but certainly
P age | 9

a gigantic old-fashioned bed dominated the room. It rested on a dais in the corner,
and the canopy was hung with velvet curtains which could be drawn to keep in the
warmth. Gargoyles decorated every bedpost and each rail between had been
sanded and polished until it shone. Ernest had proudly told her that over two
thousand geese had been plucked to stuff that feather mattress. She only knew
she'd been lost in it when she slept.
The fire in her fireplace burned, piled high with sweet-smelling logs. On one side
was a settle, a bench whose high back protected her from drafts when she sat there.
On the other stood a desk and a chair.
As she always did, she went to the desk first. The candles had burned down while
she was gone, but they still illuminated the papers that were strewn in artful
disarray. Beneath them rested a diary. Ronald's diary. His diary was the one reason
she knew to be in Leighton Village now, tonight. It was the reason she'd scouted
the area earlier in the day and had deduced that the cove would be the landing
place.
She reassured herself the diary remained safe, then thoroughly covered it with the
papers again. Ronald had taught her that. Always hide things in plain sight, he said.
He'd learned that while in service to Leighton, and she'd found it good advice.
Flushed with guilt, she opened the desk drawer and pushed her hand all the way to
the back. Her fingertips touched the cold metal, and she drew out a small silver
pistol. On this matter, she ignored Ronald and his advice. She couldn't bear to
leave the deadly thing out. She'd stressed her need for privacy to Ernest and been
careful to lock the door whenever she left, but possession of such a firearm made
her nervous. It was Ronald's, and until he'd been killed she'd never imagined she
would want to carry one. She knew how to use it, of course. Her father had insisted
on her learning self-defense while they lived in India. But back in England, she'd
believed herself inviolate. Now, with Ronald's death, her veil of security had been
ripped and she trusted no fellow being.
Strange, but her sense of being threatened by Leighton had started long before her
suspicions that he was the smuggler congealed into a certainty. Once when she
turned suddenly, she caught him contemplating her with a look she'd seen only one
other time. When her parents were alive and the whole family lived in India, she'd
seen a tiger concealing itself in high grass, waiting for his prey.
Leighton's mien betrayed a tiger-like confidence in himself. He was sure he could
have her if he wanted, but the time wasn't yet right. His expression had given her a
P age | 10

shiver, but when she tried to verify her impression, all expression had smoothed
from his face.
But. as the months had worn on, she sometimes thought she could sense the
impatient twitch of his tail and the way he crouched, waiting to pounce.
Shivering, she replaced the pistol. Stripping off her wet redingote, she flung it over
the back of the settle, then laid her gloves by the feeble flames. She slipped out of
her practical boots, now covered with mud, and placed them neatly by the gloves.
Her dark blue walking dress, so suitable for the city and for the occupation of
seamstress, was bedraggled from the night's ill-use, and she touched the hem with
trembling fingers. She hadn't the money to replace it; every cent she had had gone
into this trip to Kent.
Still—she firmed her chin—it was worth the loss of a mere gown to bring Ronald's
murderer to justice, and she was close to that now. Kneeling, she repaired the fire
so it burned brightly again, warming her hands all the while. As her hair dried, the
short strands sprang away from her head and curled in wild abandon, but she didn't
care tonight, for who would see it?
* * *
"She's at the Bull and Eagle." Keefe Leighton, the Earl of Hamilton, gave the boy a
push. "Go back and tell the others, then return and wait in the stable. I'll be out
when I've got the information."
In the dark and the rain, he couldn't see Franklin leave, but he knew he would be
obeyed. Every one of his men was loyal to him, and only to him, but tonight
something had gone wrong. As he kicked the door of the Bull and Eagle, he cursed
the woman he'd seen silhouetted against the stars.
Laura. His instincts told him it was Laura Haver, and his instincts were very active
where she was concerned. What was she doing here on this precise night? What
did she know, and how did she know it? What had her brother told her that he
hadn't been able to communicate to Leighton? Leighton needed to get the answers,
so he'd abandoned his men as they unloaded casks of brandy and hid them in the
caves on the cliffs above the beach. Leighton had to follow the woman.
The taproom was empty. Not even Ernest stood before the fire that sputtered on the
hearth, and Leighton's gaze probed every corner as he scraped mud off his boots.