Authors: Hannah Howell
“Not as much trouble as I had before. He told me the Kenwoods have very strong wal s. It is Cassandra I am not too certain about.”
“I have not met Cassandra, but Bened says she is a strong woman,” said Nigel and then he grinned. “When Bened says that he usual y means tart-
tongued and bossy.”
Julian was surprised he could do so, but he laughed. “I chose Edgar and Lady Marston.”
“So there wil be two strong women as godmothers. God help you if you have a daughter.”
“It does not trouble me. I would want her to be strong. I have recently come to realize that our mother is a very strong woman. So is Aunt Mildred.
The only time our aunt stumbled during the ordeal with Arthur was when she realized how many people he had kil ed and how many crimes he had
committed. That weighed her down with a monstrous burden of guilt, for she felt she should have seen the evil in the man and done something. She shook
it off with the help of Mother and Chloe.”
“Good to know, for she did not deserve to suffer it. And just what is wrong with Modred, aside from being cursed with that name? I asked Bened,
but he just said that his cousin is a special man.”
Julian explained what Modred’s gift was and grinned at the look of horror on Nigel’s face. “Do not look so afraid. As I said, he told me we
Kenwoods have very strong wal s.” Before there was time for him to say anything, his mother walked in. “Is Chloe wel ?”
Lady Evelyn kissed him on the cheek. “Very wel . Go and see your wife and new family.”
Julian did not need a second invitation. He hurried up the stairs, leaving his mother to tend to Anthony and the other curious children. Just as he
was about to knock on the door of the master bedchamber, a plump dark-haired woman opened the door for him, gave him a wink, and left.
“The infamous Pegeen, I presume,” he said as he cautiously walked to the bed and looked down.
Julian did not know whether to sit down or fal down. Chloe lay on the bed, her hair spread out prettily on the pil ow and a wriggling swaddled baby
tucked up in each arm. He stared at her again and then stared at what she held again.
“Two?” he final y managed to croak out.
“Two.” Chloe was tired and her body felt as someone had beaten her up from the inside out, but she felt exhilarated as wel . “One boy.” She slightly
lifted her left arm and Julian noticed there was a blue ribbon tied on the corner of the blanket. “One girl.” She slightly lifted her right arm.
He sat down on the bed, his head reeling. “Damnation, woman. Two?” He stared down into the sleeping faces of his children.
“Laurel, after my sister, and George, after my father.” She glanced at him a little uncertainly. “If that stil pleases you.”
“It does.” He suddenly grinned at her. “You certainly solved the problem of how to not disappoint at least one of the other children. The girl wanted
a girl and the boys wanted a boy. One of each wil keep them al quiet.” He kissed her. “I love and thank you for giving me this.”
“Ah, nay, thank you. I always feared I would never find the right man and never have children.” Chloe winked at him and looked at her children.
“Mayhap the Fates are just making certain that I know you are my right man. My wicked cavalier.”
He smiled and rubbed his nose against hers. “My joy.”
“We are so wel suited it is a little embarrassing.”
“No, m’dear, we are just perfect and we should glory in it.” He laughed with her and reached for his daughter, ready to introduce himself to her.
“We wil do as Jake’s wife has suggested, however, so that you do not wear yourself out having a dozen children.”
Chloe just smiled as she watched him look his children over with an adoration he did not even try to hide. She decided it would be best if she kept
what she had seen during the birthing al to herself. Julian would worry if she told him that despite the tricks Jake’s wife had told her about how to keep a man’s seed from taking root too often, they would be having those dozen children. She had seen them with them al , with Anthony grown tal and strong,
and the three children they had taken under their wing. And each one of the children she and Julian would create would be blessed with a gift. Recal ing
how big a smile he had worn on his handsome face as his flock had gathered around him, she decided he would not mind.
Please turn the page
for an exciting sneak peek of
IF HE’S SINFUL,
coming in December 2009!
London—fall, 1788
There was something about having a knife to one’s throat that tended to bring a certain clarity to one’s opinion of one’s life, Penelope decided.
She stood very stil as the burly, somewhat odiferous, man holding her clumsily adjusted his grip. Suddenly, al of her anger and resentment over being
treated as no more than a lowly maid by her step-sister seemed petty, the problem insignificant.
Of course, this could be some form of cosmic retribution for al those times she had wished il upon her step-sister, she thought as the man hefted
her up enough so that her feet were off the ground. One of his two companions bound her ankles in a manner quite similar to the way her wrists had been
bound. Her captor began to carry her down a dark al ey that smel ed about as bad as he did. It had been only a few hours ago that she had watched
Clarissa leave for a carriage ride with her soon-to-be-fiancé, Lord Radmoor. Peering out of the cracked window in her tiny attic room she had,
indisputably, cherished the spiteful wish that Clarissa would stumble and fal into the foul muck near the carriage wheels. Penelope did think that being
dragged away by a knife-wielding ruffian and his two hulking companions was a rather harsh penalty for such a childish wish born of jealousy, however.
She had, after al , never wished that Clarissa would die, which Penelope very much feared was going to be her fate.
Penelope sighed, rueful y admitting that she was partial y at fault for her current predicament. She had stayed too long with her boys. Even little
Paul had urged her not to walk home in the dark. It was embarrassing to think that a little boy of five had more common sense than she did.
A soft cry of pain escaped her, muted by the filthy gag in her mouth, when her captor stumbled and the cold, sharp edge of his knife scored her
skin. For a brief moment, the fear she had been fighting to control swel ed up inside her so strongly she feared she would be il . The warmth of her own
blood seeping into the neckline of her bodice only added to the fear. It took several moments before she could grasp any shred of calm or courage. The
realization that her blood was flowing too slowly for her throat to have been cut helped her push aside her burgeoning panic.
“Ye sure we ain’t al owed to have us a taste of this, Jud,” asked the largest and most hirsute of her captor’s assistants.
“Orders is orders,” replied Jud as he steadied his knife against her skin. “A toss with this one wil cost ye more’n she be worth.”
“None of us’d be tel ing and the wench ain’t going to be able to tel , neither.”
“I ain’t letting ye risk it. Wench like this’d be fighting ye and that leaves bruises. They’l tel the tale and that bitch Mrs. Cratchitt wil tel . She would think it a right fine thing if we lost our pay for this night’s work.”
“Aye, that old bawd would be thinking she could gain something from it right enough. Stil , it be a sad shame I can’t be having me a taste afore it
be sold off to anyone with a coin or two.”
“Get your coin first and then go buy a little if’n ye want it so bad.”
“Won’t be so clean and new, wil it?”
“This one won’t be neither if’n that old besom uses her as she uses them others, not by the time ye could afford a toss with her.”
She was being taken to a brothel, Penelope realized. Yet again she had to struggle fiercely against becoming blinded by her own fears. She was
stil alive, she told herself repeatedly, and it looked as if she would stay that way for a while. Penelope fought to find her strength in that knowledge. It did not do any good to think too much on the horrors she might be forced to endure before she could escape or be found. She needed to concentrate on one
thing and one thing only—getting free.
It was not easy but Penelope forced herself to keep a close eye on the route they traveled. Darkness and al the twists and turns her captors took
made it nearly impossible to make note of any and every possible sign to mark the way out of this dangerous warren she was being taken into. She had
to force herself to hold fast to the hope that she could even truly escape, and the need to get back to her boys who had no one else to care for them.
She was carried into the kitchen of a house. Two women and a man were there, but they spared her only the briefest of glances before returning
al of their attention to their work. It was not encouraging that they seemed so accustomed to such a sight, so unmoved and uninterested.
As her captor carried her up a dark, narrow stairway, Penelope became aware of the voices and music coming from below, from the front of the
building which appeared to be as great a warren as the al eys leading to it. When they reached the hal way and started to walk down it, she could hear the
murmur of voices coming from behind al the closed doors. Other sounds drifted out from behind those doors but she tried very hard not to think about
what might be causing them.
“There it be, room twenty-two,” muttered Jud. “Open the door, Tom.”
The large, hirsute man opened the door and Jud carried Penelope into the room. She had just enough time to notice how smal the room was
before Jud tossed her down onto the bed in the middle of the room. It was a surprisingly clean and comfortable bed. Penelope suspected that, despite its
seedy location, she had probably been brought to one of the better bordel os, one that catered to gentlemen of refinement and wealth. She knew,
however, that that did not mean she could count on any help.
“Get that old bawd in here, Tom,” said Jud. “I wants to be done with this night’s work.” The moment Tom left, Jud scowled down at Penelope.
“Don’t suspect you’d be aknowing why that high-and-mighty lady be wanting ye outta the way, would ye?”
Penelope slowly shook her head as a cold suspicion settled in her stomach.
“Don’t make no sense to me. Can’t be jealousy or the like. Can’t be that she thinks you be taking her man or the like, can it. Ye ain’t got her fine
looks, ain’t dressed so fine, neither, and ye ain’t got her fine curves. Scrawny, brown mite like ye should be no threat at al to such a fulsome wench. So, why does she want ye gone so bad, eh?”
Scrawny brown mite? Penelope thought, deeply insulted even as she shrugged in reply.
“Why you frettin’ o’er it, Jud?” asked the tal , extremely muscular man by his side.
Jud shrugged. “Curious, Mac. Just curious, is al . This don’t make no sense to me.”
“Don’t need to. Money be good. Al that matters.”
“Aye, mayhap. As I said, just curious. Don’t like puzzles.”
“Didn’t know that.”
“Wel , it be true. Don’t want to be part of something I don’t understand. Could mean trouble.”
If she was not gagged, Penelope suspected she would be gaping at her captor. He had kidnapped the daughter of a marquis, brought her bound
and gagged to a brothel, and was going to leave her to the untender care of a madam, a woman he plainly did not trust or like. Exactly what did the idiot
think
trouble
was? If he was caught, he would be tried, convicted, and hanged in a heartbeat. And that would be merciful compared to what her relatives would do to the fool if they found out. How much more
trouble
could he be in?
A hoarse gasp escaped her when he removed her gag. “Water,” she whispered, desperate to wash away the foul taste of the rag.
What the man gave her was a tankard of weak ale, but Penelope decided it was probably for the best. If there was any water in this place it was
undoubtedly dangerous to drink. She tried not to breathe too deeply as he held her upright and helped her to take a drink. Penelope drank the ale as
quickly as she could, however, for she wanted the man to move away from her. Anyone as foul smel ing as he was surely had a vast horde of creatures
sharing his filth that she would just as soon did not come to visit her.
When the tankard was empty he let her fal back down onto the bed and said, “Now, don’t ye go thinking of making no noise, screaming for help or
the like. No one here wil be heeding it.”
Penelope opened her mouth to give him a tart reply and then frowned. The bed might be clean and comfortable but it was not new. A familiar chil
swept over her. Even as she thought it a very poor time for her
gift
to display itself, her mind was briefly fil ed with violent memories that were not her own.
“Someone died in this bed,” she said, her voice a little unsteady from the effect of those chil ing glimpses into the past.
“What the bleeding hel are ye babbling about?” snapped Jud.
“Someone died in this bed and she did not do so peaceful y.” Penelope got some smal satisfaction from how uneasy her words made her burly
captors.
“You be talking nonsense, woman.”
“No. I have a gift, you see.”
“You can see spirits?” asked Mac, glancing nervously around the room.
“Sometimes. When they wish to reveal themselves to me. This time it was just the memories of what happened here,” she lied.
Both men were staring at her with a mixture of fear, curiosity, and suspicion. They thought she was trying to trick them in some way so that they
would set her free. Penelope suspected that a part of them probably wondered if she would conjure up a few spirits to help her. Even if she could, she
doubted they would be much help or that these men would even see them. They certainly had not noticed the rather gruesome one standing near the bed.