Wedding Night With the Earl
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Authors: Amelia Grey
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There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will,—
—Hamlet,
act 5, scene 2
Early Winter
Northern Coast of England
Adam Greyhawke supposed there were worse deaths than being shot by an irate husband. He’d looked down the wrong end of a clumsily held pistol barrel more than once in his thirty years. Fear wasn’t something that ever crossed his mind.
For the past two years he’d welcomed death. Maybe he’d even longed for it, because guilt was a hell of a friend. Now that the moment was actually close at hand, perhaps it would have been more acceptable if he had met his end saving the life of an innocent child from the path of a runaway carriage or something equally heroic, but Adam had seldom had the opportunity to be so noble.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your head off your shoulders right now,” the short, slim man barked.
“I can’t think of one,” Adam said calmly.
Though his eyes were blurry from all the brandy he’d consumed and his head was pounding, Adam noticed the man’s gaze dart to the young woman standing beside him in the dimly lit upstairs room of the tavern and inn. They exchanged furtive glances. Clearly they hadn’t expected him to be so accommodating. Adam really didn’t give a damn whether the man pulled the trigger.
Somehow, it seemed fitting that today would be his demise. It had been hellish. Not only had his wife and child died on this day two years ago, this morning he’d received word that a young cousin had succumbed to consumption a few weeks ago and Adam was now the eighth Earl of Greyhawke. Once, that would have meant something to him. When Annie was alive, when life meant something to him. Now, it meant nothing. The thought of being an earl without all that he used to hold dear was excruciating.
“If I agree to let you to live,” the husband challenged, “how do you plan to repay me for the harm you’ve done to me and my wife?”
Adam’s feet were well planted, yet he swayed and grunted a hollow laugh into the stale air of the chilled room. So now they were to the heart of this unsavory matter. Money. The infuriated man before him wasn’t a cuckolded husband after all. He and his partner were tricksters and Adam was their prey for the evening.
Obviously the nodcocks didn’t know Adam’s state of mind.
It bothered him a little, and a very little, that he’d been caught in a snare laid by a duo of schemers out to pad their pockets by pilfering his for what they could get. Adam’s intuitive senses were sharp, and he was usually quick to know when he was being set up. Maybe it had been the overindulgence in drink or the fact that he hadn’t been with a woman in a very long time. Perhaps he’d deliberately shaken off the pervading sensation that something wasn’t quite right about the woman’s story of being a widow and in need of warmth and comfort to see her through the long night. And then, just maybe this unpleasant end was the best he deserved.
Whatever the reason, he wouldn’t complain. Fate had been good to him in his youth, saving him from more dangerous escapades than his ill-spent life warranted. It was only recently that fate had taken a disliking to him. And he no longer cared. Everyone knew that life stopped, bowed, and paid homage to some and rolled right over others, leaving them to gather up the broken pieces.
“I’m afraid there is nothing I can do,” Adam remarked, indifference dripping from his words while he tucked the tail of his shirt into the waistband of his trousers. “I’m in her chamber with both of us in a rather accusing state of dishabille. Her reputation is already ruined beyond any suitable repair I could suggest.”
The man’s eyes widened, and his face flushed with a sudden flash of anger. He took a menacing step closer to Adam and glowered fiercely. “I demand you do something for this injury.”
Adam swayed again. He glanced at the barrel of the pistol, then looked back at the man. “Perhaps I could apologize for not knowing the young woman was happily married and not a lonely widow after all.”
The two flimflam artists exchanged panicky glances once again. Apparently, Adam wasn’t the first quarry in their game of chicanery. No doubt they had expected him to quiver, deny any wrongdoing, and jump at the chance to buy his way out of a bloody and most assuredly painful death.
Most gentlemen probably would.
Not Adam.
He should have known this would not be a good evening to find a tavern, drown in a bottle of brandy, and console himself with a willing woman. At the time, the thought of one more lonesome evening in that cold, godforsaken cottage was more than he could bear. Death could not be worse than the utter feeling of despair that had gripped him for two years.
Though Adam and the woman had barely made it past a few uninspiring kisses and several hastily felt caresses, he liked to think he was on the verge of forgetting his torment for a few moments and simply enjoying the lust of being a man.
“You can bloody well give us your money, and be quick about it, too,” the trickster demanded, rolling his right shoulder, making the pistol bobble carelessly in his hands. “You’re a wealthy gentleman. She heard you talking in the tavern. You’ve a big estate north of here. Now hand over your purse.”
Adam had willingly given up his wild and undisciplined behavior of bachelor life when he’d met and married Annie. He’d left the proper, respected life of a gentleman after she died. For two years he’d been just a man. An ordinary man who looked after his estate and occasionally astounded his tenants by herding his own sheep. But what he’d never left behind was his honor.
He would die with that intact.
He turned his weary attention back to the threatening man and his conspirator. “I’d rather be shot.”
“You don’t believe I’ll do it, do you?” the crook said gruffly, almost poking Adam in the chest with the barrel.
“On the contrary,” Adam said. “I’m asking you to.” He held out his hands palms up. “My pockets are empty,” he said unapologetically, even though it was a bold-faced lie. “I came up here believing I was going to pay the lonely widow with a shot of brandy and an evening in a soft bed enjoying my favors.”
“Oh, you despicable brute!” the woman screamed at Adam, and then whirled to confront her husband. “Give me the pistol, you coward! I’ll shoot him myself!”
She pulled him toward her and grabbed for the gun. The man jerked away and shoved her to the floor.
Despite his unsteady legs, Adam lunged for the husband and quickly deflected the weapon from his chest with his hand. The ball exploded from the barrel with a crack loud enough to wake the dead and landed harmlessly in the wall.
Adam was head and shoulders taller than the thug and outweighed him by at least two stone. It really wasn’t a contest to take the spent firearm away from him, toss it to the floor, and flatten him against the wall. Adam pressed a forearm against the man’s throat and gazed into his shifty, frightened eyes.
A frown tugged at the corners of Adam’s mouth and he released the culprit and stepped back. It didn’t look as if this were going to be his lucky day to die after all.
Who alone suffers suffers most i’ the mind.
—King Lear,
act 3, scene 6
Late Winter
It was seldom warm on the northern coast of Yorkshire and the breeze never completely died away. Sunshine wasn’t a regular visitor to the area, either. It didn’t matter. Gray skies and cold, damp wind suited Adam.
His cottage was less than a half hour’s trudge from the craggy cliffs that lined the shore below. He knew the way as well as he knew the back of his hand. Over the past two years, he’d made the trek to the water so many times that his footsteps had beaten a path across the stony, uneven ground. Looking out across the vast North Sea brought him a measure of peace he’d found nowhere else.
The first time Adam had made the short journey, it had crossed his mind to jump into the turbulent waves below. But he had never been a coward. And leaving this world would have been the easy way out of his pain. Living meant bearing the agony and misery of his wife’s death and his part in it.
He reached down and patted Pharaoh’s warm back. The large blond Pyrenees had been his faithful companion since Adam and his friends had saved him from a cruel shopkeeper’s whip a year ago. Adam could still feel the scars across Pharaoh’s shoulders from the deep lashes he’d received before they’d rescued him.
Several times a week, he and the dog would make their visit to the sea. Most often he would let Pharaoh set the pace. The tall, lanky dog liked to run. Pharaoh was still a pup at heart and always eager to stretch his legs with his master. But while on the peak of the cliff, Pharaoh never left Adam’s side to sniff, scratch, or hunt. It was as if he knew they were there to stand, to think, and to remember.
“Come on, boy,” Adam said, patting Pharaoh again. “Time to head back and see what Mrs. Leech left for us to eat tonight. I’d wager it’s mutton stew again, wouldn’t you?”
The dog barked once and then dutifully turned around and they began their journey to the cottage at a slow walk so Pharaoh could wander the landscape.
When Adam topped the ridge, he saw a black-lacquered coach trimmed in red and gold paint sitting in front of his house. A handsomely liveried driver and guard sat high on their perches. It was close to the time his friends Bray and Harrison had visited him for the past two years, but they wouldn’t come all the way to Yorkshire in a carriage. It would take that conveyance more than twice the time to make the journey as it would on horseback.
Pharaoh saw the coach about the same time as Adam. He stopped, bristled, and barked a loud, low-toned warning.
“Easy, Pharaoh,” Adam cautioned, rubbing the dog’s head. “I don’t like strangers either, but I can’t see trouble coming out of anything that fancy. But since you’re dying to find out who it is, go on ahead and check it out. Just don’t frighten anyone until I get there.”
The dog loped down the hill, barking as if he were a terrifying hound from hell. Adam picked up his pace, too. More than likely it was someone who had lost his way while looking for an estate. Adam would help them if he could and then quickly send them on their journey. By the time he made it to the vehicle, Pharaoh was standing in front of the carriage door, alternating between barking and growling.