When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord_Her Majesty's Most Secret Service Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more Amara titles… Betting the Scot

  The Bittersweet Bride

  My Scot, My Surrender

  The Pursuit of Mrs. Pennyworth

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Tara Kingston. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Erin Molta

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill

  Cover art from Period Images

  ISBN 978-1-64063-556-2

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition April 2018

  For Mom—

  You always believed in the power of love.

  I miss you more with each passing day…

  Chapter One

  London, October 1892

  Alexandra Mary Quinn did not believe in ghosts.

  She was, above all else, a logical woman. Even as a child, she’d dismissed tales of hauntings as rubbish. Still, she could not deny the chill wafting over her skin, a shiver that had nothing to do with a drafty window.

  Lamplight gleamed against the polished brass amulet she cradled in her palm. The Pharaoh’s Sun. When Professor Stockwell had entrusted her with the mysterious artifact he’d recovered in the tomb of a long-dead king, he’d spoken of a curse. Rather casually, he’d mentioned a tragic fate said to be visited upon any who possessed the pendant.

  Of course, her eminently rational mentor had placed no value on morbid whispers.

  But now, on a night rife with thunder and gloom, and with a bit of loneliness tossed in for good measure, the dire rumors broke through the barrier of reason and set her nerves a bit on edge.

  She heard a faint creak of the floorboards in the corridor outside her study.

  Goose flesh peppered her skin. Her pulse raced. A phantom had most certainly not produced that barely detectable sound. Even if a disembodied spirit did wander among the living, such an ethereal entity would not possess sufficient mass to cause the wood to squawk in protest.Alarm jolted through her like an electric current. This could not be her imagination. Someone was in the house.

  Dear God, I am not alone!

  Suddenly, the amulet felt heavy in her hands. Clutching the pendant, her fingers trembled.

  She gave her head a shake to clear it. She was made of stronger stuff than this. A bit of a noise would not set her off kilter.

  There was no time to debate her next course of action. Quietly, she slid open the top drawer of her desk, placed the amulet within a padded, velvet-lined box, and retrieved her Sharps Pepperbox revolver.

  Extinguishing the light, she closed the door and waited in the darkness, out of sight. With any luck, the person who’d seen fit to invade her home would pocket a bit of silverware or a crystal candlestick and make their exit.

  Boot heels pounded against the planks. Heavy, lumbering footfalls. The intruder was a man of considerable size. The footsteps grew louder. He was near. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

  Keep going. There’s nothing in this room of interest to a thief.

  Unless the intruder had not come for something so mundane as silver or her modest jewelry.

  The amulet flashed in her thoughts.

  Her pulse raced. She pulled in a steadying breath. Then another. Professor Stockwell had been adamant that the artifact not fall into the wrong hands.

  She had to protect the relic.

  The footsteps slowed.

  Stopped.

  The intruder was there, just beyond the door.

  Fear careened through her. Standing in stark relief against the gaslit hallway, the man’s towering form nearly filled the doorway. If only the dim light would fall upon his features—as it was, she could not make out even a rough impression of his face.

  Light glinted on his hair, silvery gray like moonlight, though the intruder was not advanced in years. Broad, unbowed shoulders and a rigidly upright posture made that evident. Whoever he was, he was powerfully built. Her fingers curled tight around the grip of her pistol. Her aim must be precise. If not, the Sharps would slow down—but definitely not halt—such a massive figure of a man.

  Devil take it, she should have been prepared for this. It wasn’t as if she had not received fair warning. The professor’s most recent letter had alluded to a threat—a very human menace that had nothing to do with superstitious tales of evil. At the time, she’d convinced herself the wary old scholar had allowed fear to get the better of him—the theft in his residence at Cairo had seemed nothing more than a simple burglary.

  Pity she’d been mistaken.

  A peculiar scent wafted to her nostrils, a strong blend of bitter herbs, as if in a medicinal tonic applied to the skin. With an almost casual lack of haste, the stranger roamed her study. The intrusion was an affront. This was her private space. He was violating her personal refuge. How dare this man boldly move through her home?

  Tempted to call out and order him away, she bit back the words. Confronting the man would be a fool’s mistake. With any luck, he’d find nothing of worth in a room filled with books and documents and leave just as quickly as he’d come.

  The intruder stepped toward the window and paused. Was he considering his next move?

  With a rough motion, he pulled the curtains closed.

  Alex’s heart thudded against her ribs. Why had he covered the windows?

  Keeping to the shadows, she watched the intruder. Lamplight flickered over his pale hair. Seemingly oblivious to her presence, he moved past her.

  Without warning, he turned. Rays of gaslight from the corridor illuminated stark features.

  His attention dropped to the pistol in her hand. “There’s no need for a weapon, Miss Quinn. I mean you no harm.”

  She took a step in retreat. “How…how do you know my name?”

  His mouth quirked at one corner. “I came here to offer you a proposition—the terms will be most favorable.”

  “You’ve entered my home uninvited—at this ungodly hour, no less—and you t
hink to discuss an arrangement of some sort?”

  “If I’d seen another way, I might have employed a more conventional method. But my options are rather limited. You see, time is short.”

  Anger firmed her chin. “Why are you here?”

  “You have something I need.” His voice went low, a harsh rasp. “But I suspect you already know that.”

  She forced a bland tone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “They say you are brilliant. Odd, then, that you would foolishly put yourself at risk.” The unexpected venom in his tone chilled her to the bone. “A young, unmarried woman…living alone.”

  She leveled her gun at his midsection. “If you’ve come to pilfer the silver, take it now and be on your way. If you think I won’t pull the trigger, you are making a grave mistake.”

  He laughed, a raw, surly sound. “You don’t have it in you, luv. Shall we discuss what you can do to keep yourself alive?”

  “I have no intention of bargaining with you.”

  “You will, Alexandra. Even if you don’t know it yet.” The sound of her name on his lips repulsed her.

  He stalked toward her, each step slow and stealthy. Even though she could not see his face, she felt his heated gaze rake over her. She heard the rapid acceleration of his breaths, the sickening excitement he made no effort to conceal.

  “You are far more interesting than what I’d anticipated,” he murmured, malice infusing every word.

  Bile rose in the back of her throat. A scream lurked just below the surface of her fear, but she resisted the instinct. Even if her neighbors heard her cry out, the elderly barrister and his wife would only put themselves in harm’s way should they rush to her assistance. No, she’d have to repel this scoundrel herself.

  “Stay back.” She retreated yet another step, holding her voice steady, as if facing a feral animal. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

  “You think I’m afraid of that puny little gun?” His gaze was fixed on her, a predator studying his prey.

  Taking another step back, she felt the edge of the desk against the back of her legs.

  No further retreat.

  Nowhere to go.

  “Go. Leave this house.” The restrained terror in her voice sounded foreign to her own ears.

  “You won’t kill me, high-and-mighty lady that you are. We both know you haven’t got it in—”

  Courage. The word broke through her terror.

  Her breath hovered in her throat. He’d left her no choice.

  She uttered a silent prayer. Her finger tensed against the trigger. Squeezed.

  The gunshot exploded against her ears.

  He staggered back. His mouth fell open, wide with shock, as his sausage-thick fingers splayed over his chest. His animalistic bellow sickened her.

  Bracing herself with a wide stance, she held her gun trained on his chest. Her heartbeat thundered against her ears.

  Why hadn’t he collapsed?

  He gave his head a rough shake, as if to work off the pain of a blow. The foulest of epithets erupted from his mouth. He stood before her. Enraged. And even more dangerous.

  “You’re only making this harder on yourself, Miss Quinn.”

  She stared at him. “No,” she whispered. This could not be happening. The shot had been true.

  How…how can this be?

  The bullet had plowed into him.

  Or had it?

  She glanced to the floor. In the dimness of the pale gaslight, a telltale metal slug glinted at the base of a massive bookcase, atop the thick pile rug.

  The bullet had ricocheted off his chest.

  Dear Lord. The scoundrel is wearing body armor.

  Desperation pulsed wildly in her veins. She didn’t dare turn from him. If he tried to capture her, she’d do whatever it took to escape.

  “I would’ve treated you like a lady.” He settled his furious gaze on her. “But now…I am going to enjoy breaking you.”

  He lunged forward, his movements jerky and awkward, clumsy with pain. She darted to the side, but his paw of a hand clamped over her right arm. Manacle-like fingers dug into her flesh.

  Keeping a frenzied hold on the Sharps, she fought his brutal hold. His eyes hardened as he wrenched her captive arm. Pain shot through her. She choked back a scream.

  The gun angled lower. Biting her lip, she struggled against the panic and the pain.

  She pressed her finger to the trigger.

  She fired.

  The bullet plowed into his upper leg.

  A metallic ping blended with the gun’s report, betraying the shield beneath his trousers.

  His mouth curled at one corner, even as an evil gleam colored his eyes. Wrenching the gun from her hand, he dragged her to him.

  “You will pay for that, you little shrew.” At this angle, gaslight from the corridor illuminated the sharp planes of his features. A jagged scar bisected his left cheek. “I’ll kill you with my bare hands. Now tell me…where is it?”

  Fear enveloped her.

  Her breaths came in ragged gulps. His unnatural scent sickened her. She had to find a weapon—something…anything—she could use to free herself.

  A fountain pen lay on her desk. Close. Not quite in reach.

  She had to reach it…

  “I don’t know…what you’re talking about,” she said, stalling for time.

  She edged backward along the edge of the desk. An inch or so. Then another.

  “I’ve run out of patience. Tell me where it is.”

  “I can’t.” Slipping her left hand behind her, she extended her arm. “What is it that you want from me?”

  “Do what I tell you… Or I will choke the life out of you. Here and now. I have nothing to lose.”

  Her fingers closed around the pen.

  “I have nothing for you,” she cried.

  He cupped her chin in his rough fingers. Revulsion rippled through her.

  “Liar.” His words seemed a low growl. “I need the bloody map.”

  “Map?” She pulled in a gasp of air. “I…I don’t know what—”

  “Give it to me.” His fingertips dug into the tender underside of her jaw. Holding back a cry, she winced against the pain.

  His thick neck offered a vulnerable target. Her pulse roared in her ears at the sickening thought.

  Clutching her makeshift weapon tight in her hand, she hesitated. For a heartbeat, no more.

  She had no choice.

  With a quick, savage motion, she plunged the pen into his flesh.

  At the last second, he jerked away. The silver nib pierced his skin. Slammed into his collar bone.

  Blood bubbled up around the weapon as a hoarse cry escaped his throat.

  Suddenly, he stilled. Silent. Dazed.

  His lids shuttered his eyes.

  Alex battled the horror that threatened to overwhelm her.

  God above, have I killed him?

  Uttering a raw cry, he opened his eyes and clawed at the implement, wild as a beast in a snare. A horrid sound escaped his throat, a cross between an animal’s cry of misery and a moan of despair.

  His fingers closed around the pen.

  He tore it from his body.

  Hurled the bloodied barb to the floor.

  Adrenaline and terror coursed through her veins.

  Slamming the heels of her hands against his chest, she gave a hard shove and bolted past him. He reared around, capturing her in an unyielding hold.

  Her arms pinned to her sides, she struggled wildly to escape. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a shadowed figure prowling noiselessly into the room.

  A man. Tall and lean, he moved stealthily toward her. Keeping to the periphery of the room, away from the faint light streaming in from the corridor.

  Darkness obscured his features. Even in silhouette, it was clear from the breadth of his shoulders and the boldness of his movement that he was a powerful man. Carrying a long, blunt object in his hand, he stalked soundlessly toward the oaf w
ho imprisoned her in his rough hands.

  Moving closer with each stride.

  Near enough to strike.

  Alex went still. She didn’t question the stranger’s motives. Didn’t care who he was. If he’d come to stop the hulking bastard whose fingers bruised her flesh, he was an ally.

  She had to ensure her captor’s attention remained firmly on her. Biting her bottom lip, she drew closer and angled her body to emphasize the swell of her fully clothed bosom. Wiggling one arm partially free, she pressed a hand to his shoulder, sweeping her fingers over the rough wool of his jacket. He reeked of filth and liquor and God-only-knew-what scented his foul breath. Shuddering disgust rippled through her.

  She forced a gentle tone and a deliberately coy smile. “Perhaps, we can work out an…arrangement.”

  “I’ve no need to bargain with you,” he said in a harsh tone. An ugly grin pulled his mouth wide. “I’ll take what I—”

  The lean man raised the object in his hands. A cricket bat. A crude weapon. But efficient.

  He swung.

  Slicing through the air, the wooden plank slammed into the brute’s head.

  Her captor’s eyes went wide with shock. His hands fell away. Alex darted from him, a breath before the brute collapsed to the floor.

  Holding the bat at the ready, the second intruder watched the larger man. The tense posture of his body made it clear he was taking no chances. Seconds passed. The hulk who’d threatened her lay still, his face plastered to the carpet. Faint stirrings of his body betrayed he still possessed life.

  But for the moment, he did not pose a threat.

  The lean man turned to her.

  Alex’s heart stuttered, though fear had nothing to do with it.

  This evening is indeed the stuff of nightmares.

  “Oh, it’s you.” Tasting the flavor of contempt in her words, she hiked her chin to meet the man’s intent gaze.

  Of all the men who might have come to her rescue—armed with a cricket bat, of all the blasted things—it had to be him.

  Deep inside, she’d always known Benedict Weston—the newly minted Viscount Marlsbrook—would one day slither back into her life.

  Perhaps fate did indeed possess a wicked sense of humor.

  …

  Benedict Weston, Lord Marlsbrook, had never considered himself a hero. His actions bore no resemblance to those of chivalrous knights and other protectors of defenseless women. Quite truthfully, he could not describe coming to the rescue on this particular occasion as altruistic or selfless. As such, he had not expected a hero’s welcome. But he had not anticipated the cool disdain in the eyes of the woman he’d just saved—from the clutches of a stinking bear of a man, no less.