Exile's Return
Authors: Alison Stuart
Exile's Return
Alison Stuart
Exile's Return
Alison Stuart
The breathtaking conclusion to Alison Stuart's English Civil War trilogy introduces a heroine with nothing left to lose and a hero with everything to gainâ¦
England, 1659: Following the death of Cromwell, a new king is poised to ascend the throne of England. One by one, those once loyal to the crown begin to return â¦
Imprisoned, exiled and tortured, fugitive Daniel Lovell returns to England, determined to kill the man who murdered his father. But his plans for revenge must wait, as the King has one last mission for him.
Agnes Fletcher's lover is dead, and when his two orphaned children are torn from her care by their scheming guardian, she finds herself alone and devastated by the loss. Unwilling to give up, Agnes desperately seeks anyone willing to accompany her on a perilous journey to save the children and return them to her care. She didn't plan on meeting the infamous Daniel Lovell. She didn't plan on falling in love.
Thrown together with separate quests â and competing obligations â Daniel and Agnes make their way from London to the English countryside, danger at every turn. When they are finally given the opportunity to seize everything they ever hoped for, will they find the peace they crave, or will their fledgling love be a final casualty of war?
Award-winning Australian author Alison Stuart learned her passion for history from her father. She has been writing stories since her teenage years, but it was not until 2007 that her first full-length novel was published. A past president of the Romance Writers of Australia, Alison has now published seven full-length historical romances and a collection of her short stories. Many of her stories have been shortlisted for international awards and
By The Sword
(Book 1 in the
Guardians of the Crown
series) won the 2008 EPIC Award for Best Historical Romance.
Her disposition for writing about soldier heroes may come from her varied career as a lawyer in the military and fire services. These days when she is not writing, she is travelling, and routinely drags her long-suffering husband around battlefields and castles.
Readers can connect with Alison through her website (
alisonstuart.com
), Facebook, Twitter, or Pinterest.
Exile's Return
marks the end of a long journey that began in my childhood on that fateful visit to Harvington Hall that inspired
By the Sword
. There have been so many people who have helped me along the way and supported my passion to write.
I could not do what I do without the long-suffering support of my husband, David, who makes all things possible and seems to have no objection to being dragged around castles and battlefields. He also takes a sadistic delight in correcting my rough drafts and providing all sorts of advice, whether I have asked for it or not.
I would like to acknowledge one particular friend, Carol H. (to whom this book is dedicated), who fell in love with Jonathan and Kit (Kit in particular!) in their earlier incarnation and has nagged me for years to write the conclusion to their stories. She was right â although both
By The Sword
and
The King's Man
stand alone, without the restoration of the King, there could be no happily ever after for the characters in those books.
And then there is my writers group, the Saturday Ladies, without whom
Exile's Return
would still be in draft form. They put their collective shoulders behind me and nudged me over the line with cajoling, advice, and downright nagging when needed.
Finally, to my editor Kate Cuthbert and the team at Escape Publishing; thank you for having faith in me and my boys and allowing Daniel's story to be told at long last!
To my dear friend, Carol H, for having the faith that Daniel's story would one day be told and for being there through thick and thin over the years â¦
Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishingâ¦
Barbados
12 February 1654
âEst-il mort?'
Is he dead?
The voice came from a long way above him. As Daniel's battered mind made the translation into English, the words were followed by a well-aimed boot to the ribs.
Daniel groaned, his fingers digging into the sand. A shadow fell across him and someone seized a handful of his hair, jerking his head up from the warm beach.
âWhat's your name, boy?' This time the interrogative was made in heavily accented English.
Daniel struggled and failed to bring the bearded face into focus. He licked his cracked lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood. He could not even produce the spittle he felt the questioner deserved.
He considered his options. Beg for his life? Plead not to be returned to the plantation? Or he could muster what little strength and pride he had left and keep silent. He would die anyway, and here and now seemed as good a time as any.
âQu'il soit!' The second voice held the tone of authority.
The first interrogator, obedient to the command to let him be, released his grip on Daniel's hair and let his head fall back onto the sand.
Daniel turned his face to the ocean where the gentle sea lapped on the shore. A ship's longboat had been pulled up on the golden sand and beyond it, nestled into this hidden bay, a frigate, its sails furled, bobbed serenely on the azure water.
Such a beautiful place to die
, he thought. God in his wisdom had sent angels to release him; strange angels, definitely from the rougher end of Heaven.
âHe's more dead than alive,' the first man said in French. âReckon he's a runaway?'
âLook at the state he's in. Bound to be,' the second man responded and squatted down beside Daniel. He wore only a shirt and breeches and a pair of well-worn and unpolished bucket top boots. A short sword and a pistol had been shoved through his belt.
He pushed a shapeless, broad-brimmed hat to the back of his head and scratched his bearded chin.
âSomeone hated you, boy,' he said in English.
âKill me if you must,' Daniel murmured, âbut if you've a Christian heart, don't send me back.'
âAh, there we have a dilemma, my young friend,' the Frenchman replied. âNo man in my crew has a Christian heart, and a reward, if there is such a thing for your mangled hide, is tempting. However, it is fortunate for you that I'm not willing to risk putting my crew in the way of temptation for the sake of whatever paltry amount you would fetch when there is a reward of 100 English pounds on my own head.'
Daniel's gaze drifted to the pistol in the man's belt. He wondered if he had the strength to seize it. One shot to his temple would be all it would take and he would be free.
The man let out a heavy sigh.
âSeems to me the choice is yours, boy. I can leave you here to die or, if you're unlucky, the search parties will find you first. Or ⦠' he paused, â ⦠I can take you with me, as an insurance, you understand, against such a time as I may need to have something of value to trade with the English.'
Daniel closed his eyes. âWhoever you are, sir, my fate is in your hands.'
The man chuckled. âMy name is Broussard and I am captain of
L'Archange
, a ship in the service of His Most Gracious Majesty Louis of France.'
He'd heard of
L'Archange
. Visitors to Pritchard's plantation had lamented its attacks on their own ships. His angel in unpolished boots had turned out to be a French privateer. A small spark of hope flared in his chest.
âTake me with you,' Daniel murmured.
The Frenchman rose to his feet.
â
Allez!'
he ordered, and then added, almost as an afterthought, âand bring him with us.'
London
October 27, 1659
Agnes gripped the windowsill as a distant clock struck twelve, marking the fall of the executioner's axe. James Ashby, third earl of Elmhurst, was dead.
She closed her eyes and prayed that death had been swift.
Taking a deep breath, Agnes turned to face the room. The cold draught that rose between the ill-fitting floorboards of the inn lifted her skirts as she walked across to where the two children were playing a noisy game of knucklebones.
âYou cheated!' seven-year-old Elizabeth, the eldest of the two, exclaimed.
Four-year-old Henry hurled himself at his sister, issuing a loud and high pitched disclaimer that rang in Agnes's ears, jarring her nerves.
âStop it!'
Something in her tone made the two children fall silent.
They looked up at her, their eyes wide and mouths open in surprise. Agnes rarely raised her voice.
âWhy are you crying?' Henry asked.
Agnes dashed at her cheek, where the betraying tears streamed from her eyes. She dropped to her knees and gathered the two now-silent children into her arms.
Dear God, what is to become of us,
she thought.
âYour father ⦠' A sob caught in her throat.
Lizzie stood rigid in the circle of her arms.
âHe's dead?'
All Agnes could do was nod in reply to Lizzie as the tears coursed unchecked down her cheeks. Henry began to wail and burrowed his golden head into Agnes's shoulder.
They had gone to visit James yesterday, a last visit permitted by the authorities. Perhaps, she had thought, as James went down on his knees to hold his children for the last time, it would have been easier on them all if they had stayed away. The memory of James's fair head bent over his children filled her eyes again.
He had risen to his feet and taken her hands in his. âAgnes, dear Agnes,' he had said. âTomorrow I die, and you must be father as well as mother to the children. You must fight for them. There is no one else.'
No one else except his cousin, Tobias Ashby, but for once Tobias's malevolent shadow stayed away. Even he had the decency to allow father and children this last farewell.
There had been so much she wanted to say to James, but the words stuck in her throat. He smiled, a soft sad smile, and picked up a book from the table.
âTake this,' he said, pressing it into her hands. âA memento of me, and of our affection for each other.'
“Our affection for each other.” Agnes had never been under any illusion that James loved her. She had given herself to him willingly, seeking the comfort and reassurance of his presence but knowing she could never have his love. She wondered now if James Ashby had been capable of loving anyone but himself.
He had kissed her, a soft kiss on her forehead, and she had gathered up the children and walked away from him. He would never know how she had longed for him to take her in his arms, and for the kiss to be that of the lover she had known, not a dear friend.
The tread of heavy boots on the gallery outside the room brought her back to the present. Agnes jumped to her feet, wiping the last of the tears from her face and straightening the children's collars. She waited for the knock on the door.
Three burly soldiers entered, followed by someone she had come to know well in the past few years; Captain Septimus Turner, Tobias Ashby's ever-present captain of horse. Turner scanned the room before bringing his gaze to rest on the woman and the two children who cowered behind her skirts.