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Lord Crayle's Secret World
Lara Temple
A desperate highwaywoman…Holding a lord at gunpoint, Miss Sari Trevor wonders how it has come to this. One look into the icy grey eyes of Michael D’Alency Alistair, Earl of Crayle, and she knows she’s out of her depth. But then this enigmatic lord makes Sari a mysterious offer of employment…Although she challenges his rigid self-control, Sari is perfect for the secret agency of spies Michael manages. But helping to tutor this daring beauty proves to be a sensual assault Michael isn’t prepared for…and a temptation neither can resist!
She raised the pistol and waited, trying to stay calm. She felt the warmth of his body behind her and flinched slightly when his hands grasped her shoulders, moving her so that her body faced more squarely down the lane.
‘I know this will feel strange to you,’ he said calmly.
He was so close she could feel his breath, warm against her nape. His hand moved to her upper arm, closing on it gently, urging it back.
‘Move your right foot forward just a bit and lean your shoulder back. Your arm should be at an angle to your body—like this.’
She obeyed, but she could feel her arm start to shake and took a deep breath, trying to focus on nothing but the pistol.
‘Relax.’ His voice was soft and low, soothing. ‘Remember, this is easy for you.’
His hand moved down her arm slightly, steadying it. It felt warm through the thin fabric of her dress. He was mere inches behind her now, and the contrast between the coolness of the underground cavern and the warmth radiating from his body was disorientating.
Author Note (#ulink_52d2698b-3382-5132-9ac3-3607a8245177)
In my first week as a financial analyst at an investment bank I sat in a large room with twenty young men and one woman. Amidst all the information bombarding us (including an admonition to us two females not to wear trouser suits—and this was in the nineties!) I started thinking … What must it have been like two hundred years ago for women whose skills placed them in predominantly male environments? I had already spent two years in the military, and now there I was again—surrounded by confident, aggressive, ambitious men.
That evening I sat in my little flat in Fulham and began writing about a young woman thrust into the male world of espionage in Regency London—a world shaped by men like my hero Michael, Earl of Crayle, who is driven by the dark cost of that privilege and the deep scars of war.
Sari Trevor, my unconventional heroine, has no such traditions either to ground her or limit her. She has to invent herself, in a world intolerant of female initiative, so when she enters the earl’s world she is both deeply insecure and fiercely determined to succeed. The inevitable clash between them is also at the core of their attraction—it lays bare each other’s scars and needs and allows them … eventually … to find salvation together.
The first draft of this story lay dormant for many years, alongside others in my writing drawer, until my mother—a wonderful poet and editor—drew my attention to Mills & Boon’s So You Think You Can Write 2014 competition. With her inspired help I dusted it off and submitted it, and now Lord Crayle’s Secret World is about to be revealed.
Lord Crayle’s Secret World
Lara Temple
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LARA TEMPLE was three years old when she begged her mother to take the dictation of her first adventure story. Since then she has led a double life—by day she is a high-tech investment professional, who has lived and worked on three continents, but when darkness falls she loses herself in history and romance (at least on the page). Luckily her husband and two beautiful and very energetic children help her weave it all together.
Lord Crayle’s Secret Worldis Lara Temple’s exhilarating debutfor Mills & Boon Historical Romance!
Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Contents
Cover (#uebbe1c05-6f02-52d6-bb5f-d6ee5706b969)
Introduction (#u5eb02e2a-a38f-519b-aed2-f07c0853094c)
Author Note (#u03fe1b93-aebe-5333-97f8-89749c12ed86)
Title Page (#ue53724b3-c5c6-5873-b314-69c4c52b4082)
About the Author (#u047e0963-6082-565d-bf76-a293cb432fbf)
Chapter One (#ub1843710-2ee7-51f2-9a68-be53a7664852)
Chapter Two (#ua4e4e318-f7a9-5aef-95bf-b1917f47c916)
Chapter Three (#u8478f569-d8c2-5c65-aa42-fc117f507454)
Chapter Four (#u4a9ef293-471d-5add-ac91-21d0ef2ac731)
Chapter Five (#u71023dc2-e3be-5efd-8fa9-946da26c62b9)
Chapter Six (#u65acdc15-7f46-5996-8f64-9c66f1a78648)
Chapter Seven (#uf771621b-7ce0-5f09-9d4f-f239bce1f893)
Chapter Eight (#u9c5311fe-3665-5ddc-82e2-66c1aa31f30c)
Chapter Nine (#u1ef530fd-3fe0-5b92-96b2-d3af75e2fb45)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_e1a63a41-2dbb-53e5-a82d-932c5ec8dc8d)
Hampstead Heath, March 1817
Sari rubbed her gloved but frozen hands together as she and George hid among the beeches lining the London road. It was past midnight, and even as she watched the limp leaves were turning crisp with frost. She wondered once again what on earth had convinced her that highway robbery was a good idea. Madness was the only reasonable explanation for resorting to such extreme measures, no matter how desperate they had become.
It was partially George’s fault. As children, she and her brother had been captivated by his tales of the robber gangs on the Heath and he had taught them both how to ride and shoot, much to her parents’ chagrin. As she had stared at the last few copper coins in their deflated purse, the Heath had seemed a viable means of escaping debt and starvation. But now, as George stood by her side in the dark, looking as defeated as she felt, but showing the same loyal doggedness that had kept him by her family’s side, she knew she could not do this.
She was just opening her mouth to speak when she heard it—a distant rumble, separating into the staccato of hooves and the uneven rattle of wheels. George gave a quick nod and swung into his saddle as if mere days rather than twenty years had passed since his last raid. Sari scrambled into hers, her heart jerking unevenly and her body alert. This was it; there was no turning back. When the carriage was close enough for them to see the mist rising from the horses’ breath, George dug his heels into his mare’s flanks, and Sari urged her horse after him, just as they had practised.
‘Stand and deliver,’ George called out as Sari’s horse skidded to a halt in the middle of the road. The coachman, finding himself staring straight down the silvery rim of a pistol, pulled hard on the reins. The four horses twisted and whinnied in protest, but finally the whole steaming, huffing contraption shuddered to a halt barely two yards from her extended pistol.
The back rider diligently jumped off his perch, weapon at the ready, but George clipped him on the head with his musket and the man crumpled. The coachman made a futile grab for his shotgun, but Sari disabled it with a well-aimed shot. With a horrified look at the mangled wood and metal, the coachman raised his hands shakily.
Sari turned her attention to the carriage, moving her mare to cover George. She heard a muffled shriek from inside and smiled grimly. A woman. Hopefully well jewelled. Perhaps this would be their lucky night after all.
* * *
The two inhabitants of the carriage hardly shared Sari’s optimism. Lord Crayle was tired and the tedious social rituals at the Stanton-Hills’ ball had reminded him why he tried to avoid such events as much as possible. Unfortunately, his sister Alicia’s debut in society required his occasional attendance. The last thing he felt like dealing with at the moment was footpads. It was sheer ill luck that these particular footpads had chosen that night, that road and their carriage. He had spent a third of his life getting shot at by the French and would have been happy to remain on the right side of firearms for the rest of his life. Unfortunately, fate apparently had other ideas. His only consolation was that at least he was better equipped to handle this unpleasant situation than Alicia and her usual chaperon, Lady Montvale.
‘Do something, Michael,’ Alicia squeaked from the corner of the carriage to where she had shrunk at the explosion of the shot.
Michael sighed. The blinds were drawn, but he had little doubt the momentary silence would soon be rudely interrupted.
‘What precisely do you suggest I do, Allie?’
‘I don’t know. You always think of something.’
That last statement was a depressing truth. As head of the large Alistair family he had indeed always ‘thought of something’; as major in the Ninety-Fifth Rifles during the Peninsular War he had always ‘thought of something’; and now as advisor to the government and one of the founders of the Institute aimed at preventing foreign intrigue on British soil he always ‘thought of something’.
‘There is no need for heroics, Allie,’ he said reassuringly, reaching over and giving her hand a squeeze. ‘I had rather hand over my purse than get into a shooting match, especially with you in the carriage.’
‘But, Mama’s brooch! I would never forgive myself if they took it.’
He groaned inwardly as he registered the brooch pinned to her lace of her bodice. It had been their mother’s favourite ornament and the thought of some greasy footpad wrenching the delicate and very ancient Celtic cross apart for its emeralds and diamonds was repugnant.
‘What the devil did you wear that for?’ he said impatiently even as he moved into action. He tugged off his greatcoat, tossed it in an ungainly pile on the seat facing him, and plucked a pistol from the coach pocket.
Alicia was about to retort hotly when the door was pulled open and a giant of a man filled the frame, musket in hand.
‘Your valuables, if you please, sir,’ he said in a deep voice.
Michael considered how best to deal with this rather large-looking person.
‘My purse is in my coat.’ He nodded at the lump of cloth on the seat opposite. ‘If you will allow me to reach for it...?’
The giant grunted. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll do that myself. If you’ll sit well back, sir,’ he continued, keeping his musket trained on them.
Michael did not mind in the least. Polite chap, he thought sardonically as the giant cautiously leaned over to reach for the coat, allowing Michael a view of the other rider illuminated by the carriage lamps.
Michael took a deep breath before he moved. It took no more than a few seconds to slam the butt of his pistol against the back of the giant’s head with his left hand while he grabbed the man’s weapon with his right. He took aim at the other rider outside and fired the musket.
The giant slumped to the floor at his feet, but to his frustration the rider was still in the saddle, his pistol now trained straight at Michael. Michael quickly switched his own loaded pistol to his right hand, aiming back. He cursed silently. He was sure he had scored a hit.
‘It throws right, sir,’ said the rider calmly. ‘It is always risky to borrow someone else’s firearm.’
He almost faltered at the voice and he heard his sister give a faint squeak of surprise. It was deep and intentionally husky, but most definitely a woman’s voice and a cultured one... He contained his surprise and focused on the problem at hand.
‘It seems we are at an impasse,’ he said after a moment.
‘Indeed,’ the robber replied laconically, not appearing the least bit concerned. ‘Still, I am sure we can reach an understanding.’
He marvelled at the steadiness of her aim. It was no simple feat to keep a pistol firmly trained for any length of time. Nevertheless, he had little doubt he had the advantage. He heard a moan from outside, no doubt from his servant reviving. Surely she realised there was no way she could win this standoff? And yet she sat there calmly, apparently unconcerned. An ‘understanding’. An outrageous idea flickered through his mind. The giant groaned at his feet. Obviously, he had not hit him hard enough. The man must have a head like a rock.
‘An understanding?’ he queried politely.
‘It is late, sir. I have no doubt you and...the lady...are anxious for your bed.’
Michael’s hand tightened on his pistol at the insinuation.
‘You let my friend go and toss his musket after him and we will let you be on your way.’
‘That is a rather generous hand you are dealing yourself,’ he replied.
‘You have some use for a pre-war musket then, sir?’ she asked mockingly.
He paused, interested in testing this further. The idea had settled like a butterfly on a blade of grass. It was still tenuous, but it had potential.
