Table of Contents

  The Novels of Lynn Kerstan

  Raven’s Bride

  Copyright

  For St. Joseph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  About the Author

  The Novels of Lynn Kerstan

  A Regency Holiday (Anthology)

  The Golden Leopard (The Big Cat Trilogy)

  Heart of the Tiger (The Big Cat Trilogy)

  The Silver Lion (The Big Cat Trilogy)

  A Midnight Clear

  Lord Dragoner’s Wife

  Raven’s Bride

  by

  Lynn Kerstan

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-357-3

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-333-7

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 1996 by Lynn Kerstan

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  A mass market edition of this book was published by HarperPaperbacks, a Division of HarperCollins Publishers in 1996

  We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

  Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Background (manipulated) © Tajra1 | Dreamstime.com

  Woman (manipulated) © Lenanet | Dreamstime.com

  :Mbrd:01:

  For St. Joseph

  1

  England, 1822

  MIST LAPPED AT the foot of the crags, eerie in the dim light of the swaying lanterns as the coach rumbled into the High Peaks. Menace lurked within each copse of scraggly oak, from behind every lurching outcrop of black rock.

  Ashton Cordell, Earl of Ravensby, checked again the small pistol concealed in a sling above his wrist. Oiled, primed, ready to fire. His eyes burned and his neck ached from the strain of watching the road.

  With a sigh, he leaned against the padded leather squabs and told himself to relax. But caution had become habitual. Or compulsive, he thought with a humorless smile.

  For years, he’d never traveled without at least four armed outriders. Now he was protected only by the coachman and Big Charlie, whose wits were uncertain at best. And stealth, he reminded himself. No one knew he would be on this road tonight, and Ravenrook was less than two hours away.

  Ravenrook. Home in the clifftop aerie, he would be safe. His eyes drifted shut. Perhaps he could sleep for a while.

  He was dreaming about Ellen when the coach shuddered to a halt.

  “Stand and deliver,” yelled a rough voice. A spate of coughing followed the demand.

  Groggy, Ash fumbled under the seat for the primed set of pistols concealed there. Before he could reach them, a face appeared at the window.

  “Outside, your lordship,” said the highwayman in a raspy voice. “Hands in the air. I got you in my sights, so don’t make any move I don’t like or I’ll plug you.”

  Ash stepped to the ground, hands slightly raised. The shifting light revealed only a tall thin man holding two guns. One was leveled at his chest. The other pointed toward the driver’s seat where John Fletcher and Charlie poised, arms uplifted. The highwayman was careful to hold back, keeping all targets in his sights.

  Then Ash saw a smaller man some distance away, gripping a pistol between both hands. He waved it back and forth between the two men atop the carriage and the man he had come to kill.

  Nervous, Ash decided. The weak link. But why didn’t they shoot? One bullet for him, two in reserve for the driver and Charlie. They must be amateurs. Trained assassins would have finished the job and been gone by now.

  “Your money, milord,” said the rough-voiced man. When he bent his head and coughed, the smaller man moved forward as if to protect him. “Toss everything you got on the ground, including rings and watch and whatnots. But no sudden moves or I’ll pull the trigger.”

  Ash stared at him, dumbfounded. Could this be a robbery after all? But no highwayman with a jot of intelligence would be waiting on this desolate byway for a victim.

  And the man had said “your lordship.” Without question, they were expecting the Earl of Ravensby.

  “Don’t try my patience,” the highwayman warned. Again, more coughing and another move forward by his accomplice.

  Suddenly Charlie bent over. The robber swung toward him, both pistols raised.

  Without conscious thought Ash dropped his right arm and flicked his wrist. The concealed gun fell into his hand, and he fired at the same moment the highwayman did.

  The robber groped at his chest and the other pistol went off, sending a bullet harmlessly into the air. He pitched over, hands and feet quivering.

  Ash dove for the ground just as the second man fired. A bullet whizzed by his head.

  For a moment there was silence. Then Charlie, with a war whoop, swung down from the coach, his gun pointed toward the man who stood frozen with the pistol between both hands, aimed at where Ash had been.

  A few yards away, the other man lay still.

  “Papa!” cried the accomplice in a high thin voice. Dropping his pistol, he rushed to the limp body and huddled over it. “Oh, Papa.”

  Ash came to his feet and moved forward, pausing a short distance from the astonishing tableau.

  Two eyes, golden in the dim light, lifted to his. “You k-killed my father.”

  Ash felt ice at his fingertips.

  “Damn you to hell! You had no right. He never meant to hurt anyone.”

  By now Ash was sure it was a boy, not a man. He was smooth-cheeked and painfully slim in ill-fitting trousers and shirt, with a woolen cape over his shoulders and a floppy hat on his head.

  Ash glanced briefly at the dead man and at the pistols clutched in his gaunt hands, forefingers still pressing the triggers.

  Blood pounded at Ash’s temples. He had been careless. Charlie and the driver might be dead by now, and the bullet from the boy’s gun had nearly cut him down.

  Charlie moved toward the boy, but Ash heard sobs and gestured him away. A son should be allowed to mourn his father, even if the man deserved to die.

  “Were you hit?” he asked, relieved when Charlie shook his head. “Then stay here, and make sure that one”—he pointed to the boy—“doesn’t get away. We’ll send a wagon to pick you up. Bring him to me when you get to Ravenrook.”

  Golden eyes fixed on him. “Killer!” The boy spat in his direction. “Bloody killer!”

  Ash turned away. Why should he be held accountable for the death of a man who clearly intended to murder him? But his hands were shaking as he climbed into the coach. He hated violence, although he had lived with it for what seemed like forever.

  Whoever was responsible would pay for this night, he vowed to himself. Someone had hired these pathetic highwaymen, and the boy would know his identity.

  WHEN HE ARRIVED at Ravenrook, Ash went immediately to the library and poured himself a hefty shot of brandy. He drank it and then another, sensing the onset of a crippling attack.

  Now and again drinking helped him to sleep, if he swallowed enough in time. Five years ago, when a bullet creased his scalp in Hyde Park, the headaches began. Since that time, they came often and with little warning, bringing nausea and agony he’d never imagined until it took up shop in his head.

  But he always recovered, with only the vague memory of time lost and excruciating pain. Once in a while the brandy was stronger than the headache, and he badly hoped it worked tonight. He needed answers, and at last he had found someone who could supply them.

  In spite of the brandy, pain swept over him in waves. Two hours later he could barely see the door when he responded to a thunderous knock.

  Big Charlie stepped inside, intelligence shining in his eyes. His wits came and went since Waterloo, when shrapnel had pierced his skull. “There was two horses tethered near to where we was attacked. They’re in the stables now. Sad beasties, in need of a good feeding. We put the body in the icehouse. Will you be wanting to send word to the constable?”

  Ash rubbed his temples. “Yes, but not until I’ve questioned the boy. And I can’t do that tonight. Lock him in the cellar.”

  “He ain’t what he looks like, milord.” Charlie shuffled uneasily. “Fact is, he’s a girl.”

  There was a long silence, and then Ash swore long and loud. “Are you sure?”

  “Got tits.” Charlie’s voiced cracked. “Came upon ’em when I searched for weapons.”

  A girl! Ash regathered his concentration. “In that case, we can’t use the cellars. Lock her in a room upstairs, make sure a footman is posted outside, and see that she’s fed. I’ll deal with her tomorrow.”

  “As you say, milord.” Charlie shambled to the door and turned again, a despondent look on his face. “Mighty upset, she was. He was her father. The man you killed.”

  Ash winced. “Yes. I thought he was about to fire at you.”

  Charlie stared gloomily at the floor. “I shouldn’t have made a move. It was stupid of me. Sometimes I’m so bloody stupid.”

  Ash crossed the room and took his hand. “You were trying to protect me, and chances are they’d have shot us all if we hadn’t fought back. This is a damnable mess, but I will take the consequences.”

  Charlie raised his head. “I didn’t mind what happened until I knew it was a girl. She cried all the way here.”

  “I should have brought her back in the coach instead of leaving you to deal with her. Well, see that she is made comfortable, Charlie. That’s all we can do for now. And remember, you are not to blame.”

  “Nor you, milord.” With a vague wave of his hand, Charlie withdrew.

  Ash made his way to a chair, head throbbing. Devil take it, a girl! It was almost absurd. The assassin had scraped the bottom of the barrel when he hired a sickly highwayman and his daughter to keep watch on the isolated road to Ravenrook.

  As the room began to spin, he wondered how he would convince the girl to give up her secrets. Dear God, he had killed her father. How she must hate him.

  2

  GLENYS SHEA STUDIED the packed dirt beneath her window, recalculating the distance to the ground.

  It hadn’t moved any closer.

  The rope she had braided from the bedsheets and blankets wouldn’t reach nearly that far. She would have to tear down the curtains. But a servant was apt to notice bare windows, so she could do nothing more until her supper tray was removed.

  With luck, the same maid who had served all her meals would come back for the tray. Prudence was young, softhearted, and not terribly bright. When she saw a dejected woman huddled on the bed, begging to be left alone, she’d tell the other servants to keep their distance.

  Mad Jack Shea would have been pleased to see his daughter taking action instead of moping, but that didn’t stop her from feeling guilty. Poor Papa. Better if he’d been cut down at Salamanca or Vitoria, remembered as a war hero instead of a criminal.

  She wiped a tear from her cheek, angry because she’d promised herself not to cry again until she was free. On tiptoe, she crossed the room and pressed her ear against the door. After a while she heard a man clear his throat. The guard, posted in the hall when she was hustled upstairs, still blocked her way. It was out the window or face the hangman.

  At the sound of footsteps in the hall, she hurried to the bed and flung herself on the counterpane. There was a light knock at the door before it opened.

  “I’ll be takin’ your tray now, miss. Would you be wantin’ anything else?”

  Glenys emitted blubbering noises.

  Instead of withdrawing, Prudence came to the side of the bed. “It’s a sad thing, losin’ your da. Would you like me to sit with you for a time?”

  Glenys shook her head and heightened the intensity of her sobs.

  “Tomorrow we’ll have a better-fittin’ dress for you,” the maid said after a moment. “That’s my old one you are wearin’. Mrs. Beagle, she’s the housekeeper, is putting down the hem on one of her ladyship’s gowns. I’ll bid ye good night, then, and see that no one disturbs you. Well, his lordship might send for you, but he hasn’t said.”

  When the maid was gone, Glenys sat cross-legged on the bed for a few minutes, reviewing her predicament. Why were these people so kind to her? She had nearly killed the Earl of Ravensby, for heaven’s sake! Now his wife offered one of her own dresses for the almost-murderess to wear. And last night the man named Charlie had wrapped his arms around her while she wept during the long drive to this secluded house.

  He had even apologized for searching her, and seemed astonished to discover a female under the trousers and shirt. Although she was wearing her brother’s clothes, it had not occurred to her that she was in disguise. She could hardly wear skirts to help her father hold up a coach, and had not dared let him go out alone, sick as he was.

  She’d have followed him anyway, Glenys admitted to herself, if only because she longed for adventure. Riding through the dark night, robbing an elegant crested coach, plucking a diamond stickpin from a rich earl’s cravat … in her imagination it had appeared vastly exciting and romantic.

  The reality was savage and bloody.

  A glance at the clock sent her off the bed in a flash. Although dusk came late at this time of year, it was past time to finish her preparations. She retrieved the letter opener she’d found in a drawer of the writing table and set to work on the drapes.

  Two hours later the rope was finished. Securely tied at intervals with knots her father had taught her, it looked strong enough to bear her weight. She wouldn’t know for sure until she was dangling thirty feet above the ground.

  Concealing the rope under the bed, she returned to the window and gazed longingly at the solid branches of an oak tree growing just beyond her reach. Even if she swung like a monkey from the windowsill, she was certain to miss.

  A long sweep of grass lay just past the line of oaks that bordered the house. Once she stepped onto the lawn, there was no place to hide herself for at least a hundred yards. In the distance stretched a thick grove of ash trees, and beyond that she could see nothing.

  If she made it to the ash grove undetected, stealth and her own two feet would be her sole assets. With luck, she’d have the whole night to get as far away from this place as she could.

  The blue sky darkened to gray, and shadows cast by the trees began to lengthen. Almost time to go. Then she heard voices coming from a point not far from her window.

  Ducking, she listened attentively and recognized the earl’s deep voice.

  “… tomorrow, for Derby. I’ll give him a letter for the constable after I’ve questioned the girl.”

  “Will you do it tonight, milord?” That was Charlie.

  “The maid says she’s overset, and I’m not likely to get what I need from a weepy female. It can wait until morning, but no longer. Keep the guard posted.”

  After a few moments of silence, Glenys poked her head above the windowsill and saw the earl striding across the lawn. He wore dark breeches and a white shirt, the full sleeves fluttering in the evening breeze. He was headed directly for the same grove of trees where she intended to go.

  She muttered a few of her brother’s favorite oaths. Now what?

  For half an hour she kept watch by the window, and when it grew dark, he had not returned. Probably he came back to the house from a different direction, she decided, around the front where she couldn’t see him. In any case, she had no choice. Unless she made her escape, tomorrow she would be summoned to judgment.

  Careful to make no sound, she changed into Harry’s clothes, which had been laundered and returned to her for no reason she could imagine. A good omen and a blessing, because it would be nearly impossible to shimmy down the rope in skirts.

  In her pockets she stored the apple, dinner roll, and wedge of cheese she’d kept back from her meal trays. With no idea where she was or how far she had to go, she knew the food would be of use. She tugged the floppy hat over her short curls, pulled the rope from under the bed, and secured one end of it to the leg of a heavy armoire near the window.

  The lawn looked like a field of quicksilver under the pale half-moon. After a quick check to make sure there was no one in sight, she slowly let out the rope.

  She had miscalculated the distance, but the end hung only a few feet above the ground. Not a dangerous drop, if she got that far.

 

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