 |
Excerpt from "The Improper Wife"
A Warner Forever Release
November 2004
ISBN: 0-446-61437-8
©2004 by Diane Perkins
~ May, 1814 ~
The pounding of French cannon thudded in John Grayson’s brain. Acrid smoke stung his nostrils while his horse’s hooves dug into the dry Spanish earth. Screams of dying soldiers assaulted his ears. The battle raged around him, and Gray lost his bearings. He swung his horse toward a clearing. From the mist a figure ran toward him, a woman clad in a gown as yellow as the sunshine, raven hair billowing behind her. Rosa? What was she doing in this ungodly place? He spurred his horse toward her. The fool. He’d told her not to follow him.
"¡Vete!" he yelled. "Go back!"
Oblivious of the carnage around her, she stretched her arms toward him. Her bright-colored dress fluttered behind her like wings of a butterfly, molding against her rounded belly as she ran.
Canister continued to shower from the incessant guns, its shot spattering the ground around him. He opened his mouth to bid her take heed, but an explosion of cannonade drowned his words. In the sky where threads of blue still peeked through the smoke, the canister arced and headed directly toward her.
As the canister tore her apart, sending pieces of her skittering through the dirt and flying into the trees, Gray heard amused laughter.
Leonard Lansing’s face loomed before him, grinning as Lansing so often did when scorning the rules. "What luck! Free of the leg-shackle, old fellow."
Gray woke in a sweat, half sprawled on his bed, panting as if the French cannon had been pelting his dingy London rooms. It had not been real. It had merely been The Dream. The only battles he waged these days were with his own demons.
The pounding continued, more urgent and coming from his door. The sound echoed in his skull like ricocheting musket balls. Gray clutched his head and forced his body into an upright position. A sharp pain in his side made his breath catch. He’d moved too quickly for his still healing wound.
"Stubble it!" he growled. "I’m coming."
Ah, his head! How many bottles of brandy had he consumed? He could not precisely recall. In fact, he barely recalled staggering back to his rooms.
Something caught round his feet and he stumbled, grabbing the back of a chair to keep from falling. His coat, thrown in a heap on the floor. At least he’d not slept in it, though he still wore the clothing he’d put on the previous day. His waistcoat flapped open and his shirt hung out of his trousers. Both reeked of stale alcohol and cigarillos.
More pounding. Who the devil would call at this ungodly hour?
Gray flung the door wide.
The bright midday sun poured in from the hallway, blinding him and throwing the figure standing in the doorway into silhouette. For a brief second he thought it was Rosa returning to haunt him. He clamped his eyes closed, rubbed them with his fingers, and cautiously opened them again.
"Are these Captain Grayson’s rooms?" The woman’s voice was tight and her breath rapid.
Gray’s heart pounded so hard he could not speak. But this was not Rosa. Too tall. Too English. Skin too pale, like French porcelain.
He forced his mouth to move. "One might say."
She stepped forward, grabbing the doorjamb and leaning against it. "Please. May I enter?"
Gray stepped back. Her face was taut. She nearly fell into the room.
"Have . . . have I made your acquaintance?" He did not recall her, though she looked the sort a man would not likely forget. Her fair skin was framed by hair the color of polished mahogany. Her large eyes were the blue of a clear spring sky, but they were rimmed with red. Her rosebud pink lips were compressed into a thin line.
She wrapped her arms around her waist, a gasp escaping that perfectly formed mouth. It was then Gray noticed the swelling of her belly.
By God, she was with child.
Next page >>