Fallen Angel. Sophia James

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      “Who did this to you, Brenna?” he asked.

      She threw his hands away. Unshed tears of hot shame shone brightly in her eyes now that he had seen the badges of that which she had tried so hard to hide.

      “I shouldn’t have come in here,” she began uncertainly, heading for her own room and cursing herself for not realizing earlier the state of her night attire. But she was not to be so lightly let off, for Nicholas Pencarrow had had enough and he was at the door before she was.

      “Now, Brenna,” he said softly. “You are going to tell me how a girl well cosseted in a family of unquestionable name came by such abuse.”

      “I won’t tell you!” He would hate her now. Hate her and despise her and expose her. Everything was finished, over. Black despair spiraled inward. “Please, Nicholas, let me go.” Her voice was an aching whisper.

      “I can’t,” he returned. “Damn it, I can’t.”

      Fallen Angel

      Harlequin Historical #171

      Fallen Angel

      Sophia James

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Available from Harlequin Historical and

       SOPHIA JAMES

      Fallen Angel #171

      To Peter, Karen, Tim and Anne

      for their love, patience and expertise.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter One

      Airelies, Kent—August 1861

      Brenna stood still, stock still, head tilted at the low sounds of a fine summer evening, and listened. The river ran behind her and the plane trees rustled in the light night winds, just as they always did. But something was different; Mars and Bellona, her hunting dogs, stopped with their hackles up stiffly along bony spines as if they had felt it too. Brenna’s hand went quietly to her gun before going forward, shaky fingers pushing the flintlock guard up and inserting a steel-tubed charge. The trees were thicker now as they entered into the wooded copse a half a mile from Worsley, bordering on the Northern London Road, and she had to thrust the leafy branches aside to push through towards the sounds which she could now identify with more clarity.

      Voices. Men’s voices. Low and soft and dangerous. A spurt of fear leapt into her heart, making it beat hard, and she stepped back in retreat, signalling her dogs to do the same, crouching in the undergrowth to get a look at what it was the men were doing before she left.

      Two men came into her vision, dragging a third barely conscious man between them, his head bloodied, a blindfold tied roughly across his eyes, the fine linen of his shirt and the cut of his trousers strangely out of place against the rough homespun of the others.

      ‘My God, highwaymen,’ Brenna thought, one hand moving unbidden to her mouth as if to stop the words that might come; the other one tightening on her weapon. Mars growled suddenly from behind her and Brenna held his muzzle, willing him into a calmness she herself was far from feeling. She watched the blindfolded man being tied roughly to the thick bough of an elm tree, then the two men walked away.

      Listening, she tried to determine their movements. They’d be going back to the coach without doubt, for it was a robbery here in progress. She wondered at the fate of his lackeys or outriders and at the audacity these robbers had to strike on such a well-travelled portion of the road. Creeping forward, almost at his back now, she rounded the tree to his left, watching all the time for the return of the others whose voices she could hear as indistinct rumbles further out of view. Crouching as she reached him, she sensed his knowledge of her being there for his head turned in her direction, bandaged eyes sightlessly looking for the source of sound. She spoke then, quietly, in the lowest whisper that she could manage. ‘You have two men with guns, busy now with the spoils from your carriage, I think…’

      He stiffened and broke across her words. ‘Can you loosen the ropes and this thing across my eyes?’ His husky voice was deep with anger.

      ‘I’ll get your ropes first. It will be safer if they should return.’ He nodded and she fumbled with the cords knotted across his wrists, cursing herself for the time it was taking and watching all the while for the reappearance of the others.

      She just had them loose as boots crashed back into the small clearing, and as the man beside her whipped the cloth from his eyes she dropped down to her knees and sighted her gun, shooting it low into the leg of the first robber and ramming the charge into the barrel to take the second shot. Rough arms, however, pulled her behind the protective bough of a tree as a bullet whistled overhead, and she was held down firmly against a broadly masculine chest, the shirt gaping open to reveal all that lay within. Fury and shock hit her simultaneously, along with the echo of a more unfamiliar emotion. For a moment she felt safer than she ever felt before as the hard lines of his body rippled beneath her fingers. Strength, energy and unblemished brown smoothness. And heat. Then her dogs crashed between them, fearful of her closeness to this stranger. Blushing furiously, she pulled away from his grasp and crouched down beside him, careful to leave some space.

      ‘Give me the gun and get out of here,’ he ordered. When she did not move, his eyes met hers in question.

      ‘Get out of here, Princess,’ he repeated quietly.

      ‘You are practised with weapons…?’

      His smile was unexpected as he took the gun and she felt her heart lurch with choking excitement. Instinctively she drew back from him. She must never let anyone close. She knew that. She had always known it.

      ‘I’ll keep them at bay until you are safe,’ he returned, jamming in the next flintlock and resighting the gun. She noticed the crested gold ring on his little finger and the threads of the same colour in his hair and then she ran, lifting the skirts of her hunting habit and fleeing across the forest into the safety of the fields, glad of the dogs at her side. The sound of gunshots echoed through the glade behind her: three, four, five and then silence. Biting at her lip, she imagined him falling, gold-green eyes sightless and still, and she was winded by the feeling of loss and worry.

      ‘Please, God, let him live, let him be safe.’ The words became a litany tumbling in her breath as she hurried down the paths to Airelies Manor and threw open the door, her heart pounding loudly in her ears as she leaned back against it. Mrs Fenton came from the kitchens to investigate the noise and, amazed at Brenna’s appearance, was at her side in a moment.

      ‘What on earth is wrong, love?’ she burst out, wiping flour-powdered hands on her large apron.

      ‘There’s some highwaymen in the woods. Lock the doors and windows and get the guns from the study. If the gentleman they’re trying to rob gets shot, they’ll be up at Airelies