Ryan's Bride (47 page)

But maybe, she told herself—and not for the first time—it wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe Saul Beckwith really was a kind man and they would have a nice life together, even though she had not been able to stretch her optimism to think she might ever love him. And she fully intended to do her best to be a good wife from the very start so he would yield to her request to send for Perry as soon as possible.

She wondered when the wedding would take place. She had sent Mr. Beckwith a wire two days earlier from the territorial capitol of Prescott, just as he had instructed in his letter when he had enclosed her tickets. No doubt he was planning on having the ceremony right away. After all, it was a matter of propriety after having traveled so far all by herself. Decorum demanded that he make her his wife as soon as possible after her arrival.

The stage hit another hole, and this time Tess was almost thrown to the floor. She dared to lean out to protest again, and that was when she saw what looked like a town just ahead.

“Is that it?” she called, but without enthusiasm. She had no excitement at all, for every beat of her heart was another stroke of dread.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Sam confirmed in his loud, robust voice as he popped the reins over the horses’ rumps to set them into a wild, frenzied gallop.

Beside him, Rooney took off his hat to wave as he shouted, “Yah-hoo! Devil’s Eye, Arizona. Wildest women and best whiskey in the West, and here I come to get me a bait of both.”

Tess drew back inside with a shudder but only momentarily, for she was anxious to see her new home.

Sam slowed the horses to a walk as they began to pass the jerry-built false-front buildings of unpainted pine that lined the street on both sides.

People stopped to stare, most unable to remember the last time they had seen a stagecoach in Devil’s Eye.

Tess knew she was about to be an object of curiosity and hoped Mr. Beckwith was there to quickly whisk her away.

She looked at her traveling suit—a soft blue velvet gown with matching cape. All the women she could see were wearing plain muslin dresses and wide-brimmed bonnets that hid most of their faces. None of the outfits she had brought were as ordinary, but maybe Mr. Beckwith would buy new ones for her so she would not feel so out of place.

“Whoa, now,” Sam called to the horses with a final yank of the reins. “We’re here. And Lordy, I can hear the beer calling.”

He jumped down and opened the door for Tess.

She took his hand, though she would have preferred not to, as she glanced about in hopes that one of the staring men would claim her. But, after seeing how rough and dirty they looked, she found herself hoping none of them
would
.

Sam had stopped the stage in front of a saloon. Rooney had already disappeared inside, and Tess could hear the men’s voices and women’s laughter over the sound of a tinny piano.

Sam made a clamor taking her trunk down, and when he set it on the boardwalk next to her, she whispered, “Did you have to stop
here
? Couldn’t you have gone to the way station?”

He spat another wad of tobacco juice. “Nope. ’Cause there ain’t one.”

He stared past her, and she caught his arm. “But where can I go to wait for the gentleman I’m to meet?”

Sam shrugged her hand away. “It’s a small town. He’ll get wind you’re here and show up directly.”

“But—” She felt so helpless.

“I done my job,” he said testily. “Now you’re on your own, missy.”

He pushed through the saloon’s swinging doors, to be swallowed up in a cloud of smoke and shadows.

The crowd that had gathered was starting to move away. There was no mail delivery, which some had been hoping for, just a city slicker who piqued their curiosity, but not enough to take up any more of their time.

Bitter enemies forced to wed. True love? Ha!

A True and Perfect Knight

© 2013 Susan Charnley

Sir Haven de Sessions was the favored knight of King Edward due to his unfailing loyalty, generous chivalry and impeccable valor. But Genvieve Dreyford knew his bright armor disguised a coal-black heart and vowed to have nothing to do with the traitor. Then the king ordered them to marry.

Bowing to their sovereign’s will, they reluctantly wed. But in consummating their vows, they find a need that scorches with its intensity. Driven to find out the truth of their pasts, Haven and Genvieve have no idea what mysteries they will find…besides a true and perfect love.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
A True and Perfect Knight:

“Rumor says that the bottom of a privy is more attractive than Roger’s widow.” Privately, Sir Haven de Sessions wished the widow to the devil, along with the incessant rain.

“No noblewoman could be that ugly, especially one from the court in Paris,” protested Soames, Haven’s second-in-command.

Haven thought of the execution he had witnessed and felt his jaw clench. “If God is just, Genevieve Dreyford’s face will expose every coil and stain in her black soul. ’Tis only right that the true nature of the woman who led my best friend to treason show on her face.”

Soames shook his head at his commander’s remarks. “Do you suppose that is her?” He slanted his head in the direction of six sodden figures huddled some distance from the byway.

Haven followed Soames’s glance. “Possibly. We have come almost a league from the castle. That is the distance the bailiff claimed he had taken the widow and her entourage when the new lord threw her out. But, I doubt…” His words trailed off as he peered through the downpour at the figure that stepped to the front of the pitiful group.

The woman stood tall and straight, shoulders back, legs braced. She anchored herself, as if by sheer will alone she could defend the others. A young boy clung to her skirts.

Could this be the suspected traitoress who had caused the downfall of his best friend, Roger Dreyford? Haven wanted to see her face, to see if she appeared as evil as he believed her to be. Distance and the obscuring rain defeated him.

“But what, sir?”

Soames’s question shook Haven from his musings. “But I doubt a woman like Roger’s widow would stand out in the rain or tolerate such a humble abode.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Of what? That she led Roger to treason? Or that she is proud and greedy as any of the Parisians we met on our way home from the Holy Land?”

“Either or both. Even before his marriage, Roger was ever looking for adventure. The search always landed him in trouble.”

“Aye, but the trouble was harmless for the most part.”

“Marriage should settle a man,” Soames commented. “He told me in his letters how unappealing he found his wife. Such a marriage is not like to settle a man of Roger’s stamp.”

“Odd, Roger never met a woman who didn’t attract him in some way.”

“’Tis what he claimed he disliked most about her, along with her constant nagging. Her unceasing demands drove him from home.

“Of course Roger would never lie,” Soames said dryly.

“We both know he loved to embellish a story,” Haven said, recalling the many nights spent as squires, when only Roger’s tales had relieved the loneliness.

“And never to his disadvantage.”

“Aye.” Haven had to admit to his friend’s failings. Roger had been a charming rogue, never serious, but always dependable in a fight. What else but a woman could drive a loyal friend to betray the king?

Haven signaled his men. They turned their horses from the muddy track and came to a halt before the group crowding around a fire.

The woman bent, spoke to the child, and sent him to a stout, buxom servant near the small blaze. Then the tall woman resumed her defensive posture.

“Who are you, and what do you here?” The words danced forth on the most exotic voice Haven had ever heard. Dark and rich, it first bit the ear like the smoke in a sultan’s chamber, then licked and soothed with sweet rasping strokes that somehow matched his rising pulse. He felt the tremors of that voice all the way to his groin.

“I asked, what do you here?” The woman repeated her challenge.

Haven shook his head free of her siren’s call. “I seek the widow of Roger Dreyford.”

She studied him.

The noisome smoke from the peat fire made his eyes water. Rain drizzled down his back and off his chin. The jingle of harness and creak of leather issued from his troop as it fanned out around the people on the ground. Bitter resentment toward this woman and his own part in his friend’s death urged Haven to trample her into the mud. He held still, unwilling to lose control. Despite his feelings, he would keep his vow to Roger and protect his family.

“
C’est moi.
I am Lady Genvieve Dreyford.”

Did that dusky voice tremble just the slightest bit? Haven looked her over and swallowed the satisfied gasp that tried to escape his throat.
Sweet Jesu, she’s hideous.

Purple-black splotches ringed her eyes. Her skin paled to chalk against dark, colorless clothing. Deformity stamped her features. Her face pushed out on one side. Odd streaks hollowed the opposite cheek. A lump decorated her forehead over one eye. As much as her appearance gratified, something about it bothered him. It was that lump, he decided. “Come closer.”

She hesitated, but evidently felt that compliance was the better part of valor.

When she stood by his mount’s shoulder, Haven removed one glove and grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. The softness of her skin shocked him. The impulse to stroke her twitched in his hand. Instead, he turned her face up to his. Astonished, he felt his eyes widen.

She was far from ugly. He had seen lumps and bruises like those that adorned her face on battle-weary men. Beneath the swelling and discoloration lay a bone structure that Aphrodite would envy. Eyes that blazed green lightning glared out at him from beneath delicately arched brows. God created wide, bow-shaped lips like hers for only one purpose.

Haven ignored the hardness forming below his waist. He glanced downward. Her shapeless, soggy robe hid any hint of her figure. For all he knew, her face was her only asset, and someone had done that serious damage.

“What happened to you?” He growled the question, angry with himself that he cared even the tiniest bit about this woman’s pain.

“I was stoned,” she said flatly.

At the unexpected reply, Haven’s hand dropped from her face. “By whom?”

“Why, the king’s good yeomen, of course. They thought to impress their new lord by stoning the widow of a traitor. But why should you care?” Her level voice struck blows at him. “You are a stranger and have no responsibility for me. You may even share the wish to destroy me simply because my parents arranged my marriage with a man who would commit treason.” Her beautiful lips twisted around the ugly words.

She bent and quickly rose again. “Here.” She thrust a fist-sized rock beneath his nose.

He stared at her. She couldn’t know that until moments before he touched her, he’d believed hanging was too good for her. That, if given the chance, he would have cast the first stone.

More horrified by his own thoughts than her actions, he recoiled. The movement startled his mount. Haven’s steed reared and threatened to kick her to Jerusalem. She neither cowered nor retreated. He steadied the horse.

“I have every responsibility for you, madame. King Edward commands your presence. I am here to take you to him.”

Her pale face went ashen beneath the bruises. She was afraid. He was certain. But of what? She was already destitute, what else had she to fear? There was more to Genvieve Dreyford than met the eye. He vowed to reveal every one of her secrets.

He watched her recover. She tilted her chin upward and squared her shoulders. A minute amount of color returned to her complexion. She broadened her stance and raised a fist across her chest, as if by that small gesture she could prevent her destiny. “Anyone may claim the king’s authority. I shall remain here until you tell me who you are.”

He admired her bravado, even if he considered it foolish. She lacked both weapons and the men to defy his authority, yet she did so without hesitation.

He advanced his horse, until his stirrup brushed her shoulder. He smelled the noxious muck encrusted on her clothes mixed with the unexpected scent of lavender. Still she did not yield, even when uncertainty shivered in her glance.

He leaned forward in his saddle. “Madame, I am Sir Haven de Sessions…”

Her breath hissed at his words.

So, she recognized his name. Then she knew he was Roger’s best friend, as well as the man who had taken her husband to the king for trial and execution.

Ryan’s Bride

Maggie James

A mysterious past… A dangerous present… A loving future?

When Angele Benet arrives at BelleRose plantation to take her place as Ryan Tremayne’s bride, her past is a mystery. Despite attempts to get rid of her, Angele enchants those she meets, bringing new life to the crumbling estate…as well as her handsome husband.