Soldier of Fortune: The King's Courtesan (Rakes and Rogues of the Retoration Book 2) (43 page)

His fingers traced her neckline with a delicate touch, leaving shivers of sensation that rippled through her body and made her nipples ache and harden as if from the cold. He caressed her collarbone, and then spread his hand wide and slipped it under the cool rope of her necklace, to lie warm against her skin. Her heart thrummed beneath his palm. He deepened his kiss as his fingers toyed with the faintly glowing moonlit strand encircling her throat. Traveling its length, his knuckles brushing the tender skin peeping from her modest décolletage to linger a moment, barely touching, just below her ear.

He felt her tremble. He felt a moment of knee-weakening lust, surprising tenderness, and unexpected regret, and then he plucked her necklace from her neck, and dropped it in his pocket.

“Jack?” She stared at him in stunned surprise, clutching her throat. “What are you doing? That was my mother’s!”

“I warned you, Bella. I am a highwayman.” He let out a piercing whistle and Bess came galloping, with Nate not far behind. “Keep her safe, Nate,” he called as he caught the swift moving mare by the mane and swung easily onto her back. Wheeling about to face Arabella, he bowed from the waist and tipped his hat with a flourish. “Adieu, Bella! Until we meet again.” The black horse reared up, taking several steps backwards, and then leapt forward. A moment later horse and rider were swallowed by the night.

Arabella stood there, staring into the dark. She could hear the bustle from the inn behind her. Someone was playing a fiddle. An argument was growing heated on an upper floor. A carriage rumbled by on the road behind her and somebody slammed a door. They were ordinary sounds on an ordinary night. She felt for her necklace, but both it and her highwayman were gone.
I have just awoken from a dream
. Her overwhelming feeling was one of loss.

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Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration #1

Libertine’s Kiss

Nominated Romantic Times Best British Isles' Historical

Booklist starred review

Romantic Times Top Pick

AAR Desert Island Keeper

Judith James’ RAKES AND ROGUES OF THE RESTORATION transports you to the thrilling days of highwaymen, cavaliers, courtiers, and spies. Rich with history and sizzling with passion, these are love stories you won’t soon forget!

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1 LIBERTINE'S KISS
: England, 1658—Having put a troubled youth firmly behind him, William de Veres—military hero, noted rake and close friend of the king—rises swiftly in the ranks of the hedonistic Restoration court. Though not before he is forced to seek shelter from a charming young Puritan woman. By opening her door to a wounded cavalier, the widowed Elizabeth Walters unwittingly endangers all she holds dear, opens a door to her past, and changes her life forever. Can a promise made between childhood friends lead to a new beginning? Can a debauched court poet and notorious libertine convince the wary Elizabeth he is capable of love? The first in a series of 17th century romantic historicals, an AAR Desert Island Keeper and an RT nominee for Best British Isles Historical, this book tells the story of two childhood sweethearts torn apart by civil war and reunited following the restoration of Charles II to the throne. It features a hero based on the notorious libertine, poet and close friend to the king, John Wilmot Earl of Rochester

“Fueled by sizzling sensuality and sharp wit, James’ refreshingly different historical deftly re-creates the glittering, colorful court of Charles II while also delivering an unforgettable love story.”

~
John Charles,
Booklist
starred review

“There are books I love to the point of wanting everybody I know to go out and buy a copy.
Libertine’s Kiss
is one of those rare books. Judith James juggles poetry, Restoration court culture, and fairytale references with an almost perfect sense of timing, and the result is a world that springs vividly to life. Rather than simplifying the historical details of the day, the author weaves their many threads into her story, letting readers see her world in its many layers of light and dark just as her characters would have. The result is a story that is sweeping and epic. I find myself wanting to compare it to something, but there is really nothing out there quite like this.”

~
Lynn Spencer,
All About Romance
Desert Isle Keeper Review

“Historical details, poetic quotations and fictional characters based on real individuals blend perfectly in
Libertine’s Kiss.
Judith James’ characters are wonderfully crafted...William and Elizabeth’s story is compelling, sexy as can be and expertly told...
Libertine’s Kiss
is everything a historical romance should be and more. Don’t miss this one!”

~
Joyce Greenfield,
ReaderToReader.com

“Readers will find this poignant love story enthralling and unforgettable.”

~
Kathe Robin,
Romantic Times
top pick

“
To get a 9 out of me, an author has to give me characters I can relate to, people who have problems that they face with bravery, honor and humor. The characters need a setting so vivid I feel like I’m there. The plot must avoid easy romance clichés, and the author has to use English in ways that make each sentence a pleasure to read.
Libertine’s Kiss
is most definitely a 9.”

The Season
top pick

“Libertine’s Kiss
is a captivating story of love lost and found. Penned with clarity and emotion, its poignancy is tangible...a wonderful story of passion, promises made and broken, and a love that stands the test of time.”

~
Joyfully Reviewed

“Readers will not be able to resist this charming tale of childhood sweethearts who are reunited later in life to become each other’s salvation.”

~
Romance Novel News

Preview

1658

Night had descended hours ago. He wandered a dark wilderness that was almost void of form. The sound of musket fire and the shouts of his pursuers had faded in the gathering storm. Now a mounting wind moaned and whistled, snapping off branches and rattling trees as thunder rumbled in the distance. The ice-cold rain, driven by angry gusts, fell in stinging sheets that raked his cheeks and turned the ground beneath him slick and treacherous. Thick oily mud squelched under his feet, gulping greedily at his ankles and clutching at his boots, and the torn bits of cloth wrapped tight around gashes in his arm and thigh were heavy with water, mud and blood.

He labored forward, fighting the elements and his own fatigue. His ragged breath strained in his ears. He clasped his injured arm tight against his chest, protecting it and the battered leather pouch strapped snug beneath his shirt. It was an unconscious act. For the past hour, all his attention had been fixed on a lonely flicker of light, wavering in the distance. Friend or foe, for now it was his only beacon. His exertions had opened his wounds. He was losing blood and heat and soon he would lose consciousness.

He limped to a halt at the edge of a small clearing. The rain had eased a bit, though the wind still battered in sudden whooping squalls. The feeble light had resolved itself into a warm glow that cast just enough illumination to coax shape and substance from the shadows. It emanated from the windows of a substantial cottage. His eyes flit here and there, coolly assessing. Isolated, two stories tall, built of brick and tidy stone; it was fitted with a solid slate roof and bay windows, and was too fine to belong to a simple farmer. A wealthy merchant or a gentleman’s hunting retreat perhaps, and potentially dangerous depending on whom was at home.

He listened intently. The house was quiet. No shouts, no laughter, no sounds of brawling or signs of horses, supplies or armed men. No signs it had been commandeered by Cromwell’s forces. His teeth flashed in a predatory grin and the fingers of his good hand twitched, then reached to caress the hilt of his saber. He needed shelter. Weapon drawn, keeping to the shadows, he crept forward.

There was no watchman, not even a mutt to raise an alarm. The only thing guarding the place was its solitude and a heavy wooden door. The latch seemed simple enough. He tried it with his free hand, but there was no strength in his arm and his numb fingers could barely feel to lift it. Cursing under his breath, he sheathed his sword and began working the latch with both hands as he pushed with his shoulder. The damned thing would not budge. His exertions were taking their toll. A wave of dizziness assailed him and he leaned back, letting the door take his weight as he waited for it to pass.

He lost his balance anyway, whirling to right himself, scrambling for his sword and fighting to stay on his feet as the door swung open suddenly on its own.

“Most people use the knocker or pull on the bell.”

He gaped in astonishment. Her voice was calm with a hint of irony, her demeanor self-possessed, but her fine gray eyes were as wide and startled as if she had just seen a ghost. Straightening and swallowing his own surprise, he looked carefully about the room as his heart steadied.

“Other than a handful of servants, I am here alone.”

Leaning against the doorjamb for support, he examined her as thoroughly as he had the room. She was a tiny thing, dressed in drab woolens and wrapped in a shawl she hugged close to her breast. Her hair was drawn into a severe bun hidden tight beneath a linen cap, accentuating a pale face that looked worn and tired. Her gaze was probing and wary. She reminded him of a brave little bird, torn between curiosity and the impulse to take flight. Collecting himself, he removed a wide-brimmed hat with a rain-soaked plume, and performed a courtly bow. “Good evening to you, madam. My apologies for the rude intrusion, but I’ve traveled as far as I may this day, and ’tis wicked cold outside.”

She noted his height, his disheveled appearance, his sodden bandages, and his cavalier’s clothes. Her eyes met his…searching…and then looked pointedly at his sword.

He sheathed it as if at her command.

A gust of wind slammed the door against the wall and sent a sheet of water spattering across the flagstone floor. She took another step back and motioned with her hand. “Come inside. I’ll give you shelter from the storm.” He let go of the doorjamb, took one step, then another, and toppled into her arms.

He awoke sometime later resting precariously on a dainty settee that was all but dwarfed by his length. Covered in warm blankets and settled in front of a cheerful fire, he was no longer cold, but his arm throbbed in time with his pulse. His leg burned like the fires of hell, and he ached all over. Grimacing, he tugged at his coverings, pulling them back to survey the damage, only to find he had been stripped of breeches and shirt, and other than a clean dressing and his boots, he was naked underneath. His lips quirked in amusement and he scanned the room, searching for his nurse.

She sat in the corner in a well-appointed chair, haloed by candlelight, frowning in concentration as she stitched his shirt. He watched her unobserved, smiling when she bent her head, lips parted, and snipped the thread with sharp little teeth. Though her hair and clothing made her appear severe, that unguarded gesture made her seem younger than he had first imagined. I doubt she’s any older than I am.

She was not so plain as that, either. Long a veteran campaigner in the lists of love as well as the field of battle, he was somewhat of a connoisseur. Sometimes the quiet ones burned brightest. The little abbess had full lips, a becoming pout, and a mouth that begged to be kissed. Fine cheekbones would serve her well in old age, and he was fascinated by her eyes, intent now on her sewing. They changed in the light when he tilted his head, from a smoky gray to hints of stormy blue. Siren’s' eyes. A daughter of the sea. He smiled, wondering what she would look like with her hair unbound.

His sex stirred and he grinned, forgetting for a moment the gnawing pain in his bicep and the angry stinging in his leg. What is she doing here by herself? No father. No husband. She can’t be married. No man would be so foolish as to leave her unprotected in these dangerous times. Perhaps she’s been widowed by the wars. Perhaps he should release her stays, loosen her hair and pull her down for a tumble. How long had she been alone? What depths of fire and passion simmered beneath that prim exterior, just waiting to ignite? He chuckled to himself and shook his head. He must be jaded indeed to imagine a houri from his tight-bound little wren. Still…there was something about her—

His heart lurched in his chest as he suddenly remembered his mission. Tossing blankets and pillows aside, he began a frenzied search for the pouch that could mean so much to his king. He subsided in relief as suddenly as he had started, when he found it still strapped to his side, but his movements alerted the little wren, who looked up curiously from her stitching.

“I am not in the habit of rifling the belongings of sleeping guests. Your secrets are your own.”

His secrets. She had no idea. He thought back to the chaos and fury of the young King Charles’s stand at Worcester nearly seven years ago and the mad scramble as Charles’s loyal cavaliers and Scots strove to defend him, then fought to give him time to escape. The king was amiable, informal and an easy man to love, but at six foot three he had not been an easy one to hide. Dependant on the help of royalist supporters and a network of Catholic sympathizers versed in moving wanted men, they had lived as commoners for six weeks, eluding Cromwell’s ferocious grip. They had experienced life in a way kings and courtiers never did, and grown close in a way only those who shared adventure and danger ever could.