The Widow and the Rogue Read online

  Published Internationally by Lachesis Publishing Inc.

  Rockland, Ontario, Canada

  Copyright © 2014 Beverly Adam

  Exclusive cover © 2014 Laura Givens

  Inside artwork © 2014 Giovanna Lagana

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication

  reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means,

  electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,

  or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, Lachesis Publishing Inc., is an infringement of the copyright law.

  A catalogue record for the print format of this title

  is available from the National Library of Canada

  ISBN 978-1-927555-46-0

  A catalogue record for the Ebook is available

  from the National Library of Canada

  Ebooks are available for purchase from

  www.lachesispublishing.com

  ISBN 978-1-927555-45-3

  Editor: Joanna D’Angelo

  Copyeditor: Giovanna Lagana

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For my parents, John and Diane, who always have a book in their hands. I hope you enjoy this one.

  Acknowledgments

  To the wonderful team at Lachesis Publishing. Thank you for your creative contributions to this book and to the entire Gentlemen of Honor trilogy. Your work made each story a better one. Bravo!

  Also available

  Gentlemen of Honor Series

  The Spinster and the Earl (Book 1)

  The Lady and the Captain (Book 2)

  THE WIDOW AND THE ROGUE

  Chapter 1

  Urlingford, Ireland: 1816

  Lady Kathleen Langtry awoke with a gasp. The sound of a high-pitched scream had startled her out of a deep slumber. Bracing herself, she sat up, pulling back the heavy gold bed curtains. . . .”

  Heart pounding, she slipped out of bed and opened wide the wood shutters. Peering out, she tried to locate the cause of that heartrending cry. A sudden gust of cold wind blew across the lake below, rippling its dark waters. This eastern red wind, the Irish said, was capable of blasting trees and skinning flesh off men. It was dangerous, believed to be magical and powerful.

  She looked down the green slope to the water. She noticed a small cluster of white beech trees lit by the moon’s pale light. Their leaves rustled noisily in the wind. Legend said the daione sidhe, the fairies, used the small arbor to create a magic ring of power. It helped them to conjure up enchantments—spells used to control and interfere in the lives of ordinary mortals.

  Suddenly, a dense mist rose up from the water. A ghostly form began to take shape. It appeared to be a heavily veiled woman. The figure stood forlornly by the lapping water of the lake’s rocky edge, and then began to wail in a chanting, plaintive moan, “Dead . . . dead . . . dead . . .” The unearthly specter quivered, its pale arms raised in a gesture of grief. In front of her astonished eyes the shrouded being glided forward, long strands of silver hair floating behind it. Its translucent limbs moved slowly, drifting up to the moon’s bright light. In midair the spirit groaned. Its mouth opened wide to emit a soul-piercing wail. The cry escalated into a terrifying scream . . .

  Kathleen shuddered, watching. She could feel her heart pounding with fear. Frightened, she hugged herself for comfort. If another person had been present, she would have undoubtedly clung to him.

  The apparition’s long robes billowed in the wind. The veil covering its face glowed eerily beneath. With one final moan of pronounced doom, it cried, “Dead . . . ” one final time, then evaporated into the moonlight.

  “A ban-si.” Kathleen breathed, recognizing the unearthly being. She rubbed her eyes, not quite believing what she had just seen.

  A real banshee . . .

  The female spirit was a well-known harbinger of death. The spirit held secrets only immortal beings possessed, her wail a foretelling of a person’s imminent demise.

  Kathleen, like everyone else, knew that the banshee’s name was derived from the Irish Gaelic word, van, meaning “a woman of beauty.” For the Irish reasoned death could be both horrific and beautiful as the frightening ban-si spirit, signifying both an end and a new beginning.

  But why was she wailing? Was someone at the manor about to die or already dead? Goosebumps rose up along her arms in alarm. She didn’t know, and it was a disquieting thought.

  Chilled, she took a paisley shawl from a chair and draped it over her shoulders. She’d just been a witness to the announcement of someone’s death. It was a dreadful foretelling. And there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

  The Catholic monastery, Dovehill Hall, was built upon what had once been a sacred Druid burial ground. It had been taken over by the apostatizing Roman Catholic monks centuries ago. But Kathleen had never before seen evidence of the legend that connected the hill and lake to the powerful fey . . . until now.

  * * *

  Placing slippers upon her feet, she left the safety of her bedchamber, but she was not alone. A few of the servants were holding candles aloft in trembling hands. They wandered around the dark corridors seeking each other out. Frightened, they too had been awakened by the spirit’s soul-piercing screams.

  Oddly, the one person she had expected to see did not make an appearance. Where was Mrs. O’Grady, the domineering housekeeper? She should be there dourly glowering at everyone to remain calm. But she was not.

  “Lady Langtry,” said one of the young maids, hurrying up to her. “You are t’ come quick, ma’am. There’s been a terrible accident. And I was told to fetch ye. Please, come with me, my lady.”

  She nodded dumbly, not thinking to ask what had happened. But she could tell from the tremor in the girl’s voice that something had. She wondered if it was connected with the banshee’s wailing. This last thought sent her heart pounding with worried anticipation.

  “Lead the way,” she said and gathered her shawl more tightly around her.

  The girl ran ahead through the crowd of servants standing in the corridor. A few had already begun weeping. Sensing the urgency of the situation, she started to run as well, pursuing the girl through a series of corridors and doors leading to the oldest part of the hall. She slowed as they entered the east wing. It connected to the ruined monastery and its nearby round stone tower.

  The girl stopped, opening wide a heavy door. They crossed a flag-stoned terrace. On one side, it overlooked the ruins and on the other, the lake. Kathleen spotted a group of people clustered in a tight circle below. Some of the servants held candles or lanterns, casting a glow over a figure. A body lay on the ground. But who it was, she could not see.

  “Be careful,” the girl warned as they descended a narrow staircase.

  She took heed. The steps leading down were well-worn and slippery. They were once part of the ruined monastery. There wasn’t any protective railing to keep one from falling—only open air.

  A brisk wind whipped through the nearby trees, scattering dead leaves in a swirling motion. She wore a thin chemise under her shawl. She shivered. It would be a wonder if she did not catch a chill—the night air was bitingly cold and damp.

  She leaned into the thick wall, her hands touching the stone for support. She didn’t wish to lose her balance. She glanced down. The ruins below housed a cemetery and a medieval chapel, both built in the Eleventh Century. The marble crosses and raised tombstones of dead monks glowed forebodingly in the moonlight. If she missed a step, she would quickly be jo
ining them.

  Carefully, she descended, step by step . . .

  She breathed a small sigh of relief upon reaching the last one. Her feet rested again on solid ground.

  “Here we are, ma’am,” said the girl, leading her to the circle.

  The servants drew back. She entered the enclosure. Immediately, she recognized the person lying in the center.

  It was her husband, the elderly Lord Bangford Langtry.

  * * *

  The local surgeon approached. He put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry . . . he’s dead, Lady Langtry” he said, shaking his head. “He must have fallen backwards into the chapel. Heavens knows why a man in his fragile condition should decide to try and use those unsafe stairs. It is quite beyond my understanding.”

  He pointed to the staircase located on the other side of the terrace.

  It was similar to the one she had used to come down. There was no protective railing. It led from the top of the high, round tower, one of the oldest buildings connected with the hall and ruins, to the monastery chapel below.

  The cloigtheach tower, as it was known in Irish, soared three stories above the ground. It had a conical-shaped roof and was higher than the tallest tree in Urlingford. It was built to protect the monks from fierce Viking raiders.

  Local legend said the tower held mystical qualities associated with the positioning of the moon and stars. It was much like the ones stargazers used for astrology, mapping out the future through constellations, but until tonight she had experienced no unearthly connections. This was the first time a powerful spirit had made its presence known. And it appeared in order to make a terrifying prediction. One connected with death.

  Shattered glass lay around her dead husband’s body. Bangford had lost his balance and fallen straight through the huge, stained-glass window of the chapel. He’d been impaled by thousands of shards—a sudden and gruesome ending to his life.

  She walked into the sanctuary. Glass crunched beneath her slipper-clad feet. An angel’s smile looked up at her from the chapel floor. Try as she might she could not conjure up any feelings of grief. She was in shock, overcome by jarred nerves and fright. An enveloping numbness possessed her.

  Standing before the chapel’s simple wooden cross, her thoughts dwelt upon the first time she’d met her husband.

  Lord Bangford Langtry had been a collector of rare and beautiful objects. At the age of fifteen, she attracted the attentions of the wealthy connoisseur. Much as he did with his other valuable objects, his lordship obtained her through a third party, her greedy uncle, Squire Lynch.

  For years the unfeeling spendthrift had been acting as her legal guardian. Little by little he recklessly squandered away her inheritance. When he sold off the last of her deceased parents’ silver, any remaining shred of moral sensibility he possessed had vanished along with her inheritance.

  Unfortunately, he discovered a new way to pay off his many debts. And this scheme involved her, his only living relative. He decided to sell her off to the highest bidder as a child bride, giving a feeble excuse.

  “Because you’ve become too costly to clothe and feed, m-m’dear,” he stuttered as his tailor placed the finely embroidered waistcoat around him. “I’ve decided to find you a husband. One who will be able to t-take care of you p-properly.

  “But, Uncle, I am but fifteen,” she reminded him. The minimum age for legal wedlock in Ireland was sixteen.

  “And-a-half . . . I’m f-fair certain we can find some way around the issue of your tender age. Nay, there is no need to thank me,” he said, waving a heavily bejeweled hand in the air. “I am only doing my duty as any good guardian would. On the m-morrow I have arranged for you to meet your prospective groom.”

  “But I—”

  “It is settled, Kathleen. You are to be married to the man I have chosen for you. I am your legal guardian. I know what is best for you.”

  Refusing to hear another word, he strode off to meet his solicitor. There in the legal chambers, he signed the binding marriage contract, coldly inking in her name.

  Lord Bangford Langtry was the parish’s elderly magistrate. With nary a look of regret on his pasty face, Uncle Lynch introduced her to the decrepit old man.

  “My good sir, may I present to you my ward and niece, Lady Kathleen Dargheen,” he said, giving a low bow. The braces supporting his artificial muscles audibly squeaked beneath his yellow silk coat.

  She remembered her uncle practicing for hours in front of the mirror, the perfect serpentine S for the bow. She stood beside him at the entrance to the hall’s oriental salon in her simple, gray walking gown.

  She curtsied to the old gentleman, eyeing him warily. Surely he must be my prospective groom’s grandfather, she told herself reassuringly, not imagining for a moment that her uncle expected her to wed this relic of decaying manhood.

  She’d thought long and hard about her fate, and reluctantly she’d accepted it. She had no choice. Running away was not an option.

  Orphaned, alone, and friendless, she was entirely at the mercy of these two men. She had no monetary resources, proper education, or ability to do anything but what was expected of her. She had no choice. The law, she knew, would not help her. Legally, she was under her uncle’s care, and therefore his thumb. And now she was about to become his unwilling sacrifice.

  No words were spoken. Lord Langtry, seated in an ornately carved walnut bishop’s chair, waved them into the silk-tented room. The chair upon which he sat had once belonged to a Roman Catholic bishop.

  The original monastery had been ransacked and burned to the ground by Oliver Cromwell in 1641, during the notorious massacres. The chair, along with the monastery and the lands surrounding it, had passed into Protestant hands and eventually into the wealthy English lord’s.

  He had the monastery transformed into Dovehill Hall, a Regency Gothic mansion situated on a high knoll, overlooking a bucolic lake. The hall was designed by an Italian architect who’d attempted to emulate James Wyatt’s and Robert Smirke’s graceful and refined medieval styles. But instead of a whimsical Gothic structure, a glum, square building arose, a four-towered monstrosity unsuccessfully incorporating the old with the new.

  The old lord removed a gold monocle from his smoking jacket. Squinting through it, he looked her over from head to toe.

  “Take off your bonnet,” he commanded.

  She released the faded blue ribbons with trembling fingers. Careful, so as not to disarrange her hair, she removed it. Her uncle had warned her beforehand that the old lord was particular about appearances.

  The gold-colored strands shone under the room’s candlelight. Her hair was considered to be one of her most remarkable features. There were not many women who had the unusual color. In the past it had been much commented upon, along with her large china-blue eyes.

  She, however, felt wretched.

  She was ill at ease standing there in front of the old man as he minutely inspected her. She did not have the comfort of being well-gowned for this important meeting. The walking frock she wore was outdated and fitted poorly.

  Inwardly, she sighed, thinking about all the beautiful clothes she had once owned. They’d been sold off long ago to pay for her uncle’s many gambling debts.

  The faded attire was an embarrassment. Her ankles showed immodestly below the hem. And adding to her unease was the tight bodice. Her young bosom filled it to almost bursting . . . it was discomforting.

  She stood in this imposing building, the home of her future groom, dressed in castoff clothes like a lowly scullery maid. What must his grandfather think of me? She wondered miserably as his watery eyes observed her.

  She pulled her shawl tightly over her exposed bosom.

  He must surely think me the most immodest of women, not fit to marry his grandson . . . and I would not blame him if he refused to accept me.

  But the old lord said nothing about her attire as he carefully looked her over.

  His baldin
g head was covered by a round Turkish cap with a dangling gold tassel. He held in one hand a long polished walking cane with the head of a roaring lion carved in gold. He looked as if he were leaning forward. This, she noted, was due to his humped back. A deformity brought about by the ravages of old age.

  “She is as you described her, Squire,” he said at last, nodding.

  The gold tassel on his cap swung back and forth like a pendulum. “She is quite splendid to look at, young, delicate of bone, with dainty ankles, a fine bosom, and a trim figure to match. Aye, she may very well do as my future bride. Many men, including those much younger than I, would envy me.”

  Upon hearing the old lord’s pronouncements concerning herself as his future wife, she suddenly felt lightheaded. A roiling, sick feeling entered the pit of her stomach.

  Three servants standing discretely in a corner of the room noted her reaction.

  The oldest servant, a woman with graying hair, wearing a black-striped house dress, openly glowered at her. Her slanted eyes sparkled dangerously. It was as if she was silently daring Kathleen to faint. The other two, a teenaged serving girl and a footman, looked over at the young beauty with unspoken compassion.

  The salon was cluttered with ivory miniatures, marble-white pedestal tables, sandalwood pagodas, painted white elephants, as well as silk wall coverings. But she cared not a wit for any of these exotic ornaments. It felt as if she was standing on the edge of a damning abyss instead of in a silk-covered salon.

  She took a horrified step back.

  One thought repeated itself in her mind . . . my uncle expects me to marry this dreadful old man . . . my uncle expects me to marry . . .

  Stunned by the terrible realization she was being given to this leering, old codger, her face turned ashen.

  Lord Langtry made a bored circling gesture with his cane. It reminded her of the local auction hawker. When he was selling off horses, he prodded the animals into a galloping motion using a sharp stick. She was being treated in the same uncaring manner.