Marquess of Fortune: A Lords of Fate Novel Read online

  Marquess of Fortune

  A Lords of Fate Novel, Volume 3

  K.J. Jackson

  Copyright © K.J. Jackson, 2016

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any forms, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  First Edition: February 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-940149-13-4

  http://www.kjjackson.com

  – For my favorite Ks

  Contents

  { Chapter 1 }

  { Chapter 2 }

  { Chapter 3 }

  { Chapter 4 }

  { Chapter 5 }

  { Chapter 6 }

  { Chapter 7 }

  { Chapter 8 }

  { Chapter 9 }

  { Chapter 10 }

  { Chapter 11 }

  { Chapter 12 }

  { Chapter 13 }

  { Chapter 14 }

  { Chapter 15 }

  { Chapter 16 }

  { Chapter 17 }

  { Chapter 18 }

  { Chapter 19 }

  { Chapter 20 }

  { Chapter 21 }

  { Chapter 22 }

  { Epilogue }

  ~ Author’s Note ~

  { Chapter 1 }

  Norfolk, England

  January, 1821

  His head jerked up.

  The crack startled him, echoing through the woods, petering out. Silence.

  Crack.

  Loud. Low. A smash. Something solid hitting something immovable.

  Garek Harrison cocked his head. He had almost been asleep, his horse plodding along the trail. Looking to the sky, he found the edge of the moon through the tree cover just before a grey cloud slipped in front of it.

  Crack.

  A wail. A harpy from the bowels of hell wail. The anguished sound bounced off the trees, suffocating the air about him.

  Crack.

  Wail.

  Crack.

  Garek shook a shiver from his spine. Lost. He was utterly lost in this blasted forest, it was still four hours until daybreak, and now he had haunting wails echoing through the woods to contend with.

  Nicking his horse forward, Garek searched ahead on the little-used path, hoping against hope that the forest would open up in front of him, producing a village. A cottage. A farm. Anything that would tell him where he was.

  Wail.

  Crack.

  Wail.

  The last wail choked off in mid-screech, a sob swallowing the sound.

  Hell.

  Garek shook his head. A woman. Definitely a woman—not a harpy ghost haunting the woods.

  Against his better judgement, he tilted his head as he pulled his great coat tighter against the chill, trying to pinpoint where the sound originated.

  Crack.

  The wails had disappeared, but the cracking didn’t cease.

  Crack.

  He tugged the reins to the right. Six more cracks to lead him, and Garek knew he was going in the right direction, the sound much louder, no longer just remnant echoes.

  The cracking continued, methodical now. Evenly spaced with no wails, no other noise. It took a half hour before Garek broke through the low brush at the edge of a clearing. A structure stood in the middle of a flat, round area carved into the woods, the ancient white stone glowing in the moonlight.

  An abbey of old. Vines attacked the building, leafless thick roots blanketing the walls—fingers from the earth reaching up, slowly returning the stone back to the ground.

  Garek pulled up on the reins, halting his horse as he spied the origin of the sound.

  He hadn’t known what to expect—he had just been following the instinct that set him forth after realizing it was a woman in trouble.

  This, though. This he never could have imagined.

  In the light of the cloud-dotted half-moon, a woman stood, legs wide and braced, swinging with both hands a large blacksmith hammer at the corner stones of the abbey. The flat-topped hammer she held was heavy, and he could see her arms dip with the weight every time she pulled it back over her shoulder to swing.

  She seemed to pay no heed to the cold, her black dress thin with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. A cloak sat bunched on the ground a few paces away from where she beat upon the building. The handle of an even larger sledgehammer was propped onto the stone next to her cloak.

  Her hair—not quite blond, but not a dark brown—was pulled away from her face into a half-knot at the crown of her head, a ribbon holding it tight. It fell halfway down her back, long waves that tangled with the hammer every time she set it over her shoulder.

  Garek could only see her profile, but even that slight bit told him this woman was beautiful—and trouble.

  He stared at her from the edge of the forest for some time—too long for his own liking—debating.

  A woman slamming a hammer at an abbey in the middle of the night constituted a firm walk away. Any sane man would agree. Leave her to her hammering. Move on.

  But something held him in place. Held him in place and would not let him tug on the reins. Would not let him turn his head—even as he winced every time she swung and hit immovable stone, sending shocks reverberating down her body.

  And then he saw it. Saw the very reason that he had stayed in place, attempting to figure this scene out. The clouds had slid off to the side of the moon, casting more light down onto the clearing and reflecting off the thin layer of white frost on the ground.

  Blood. Blood dripping from her hands.

  How long had she been out here hammering, bleeding?

  Garek slid off his horse. He set the reins to a nearby branch and walked into the clearing, keeping a respectable distance from her.

  “Excuse me, miss, do you need help?”

  She jumped, spinning, the hammer dropping to her side and hitting her calf. She looked down at the hammer, annoyed, and then up to Garek. The annoyance didn’t leave her face. It also did nothing to mar her obvious beauty. Beautiful, but then, he was accustomed to spending his days looking at gaping flesh and broken bones. Still, he could not deny that she possessed an ethereal quality—a glow that rudely awakened his loins.

  Wiping one of her bloody hands on her skirt, she turned back to the building, heaving the hammer up over her shoulder. “No, no. No, thank you. I am doing quite well. No assistance needed.”

  Garek noted a hint of sharpness in her words, yet her voice was soft and light—almost lyrical—as though she sat in one of the finest London drawing rooms.

  She swung.

  Crack.

  Tiny shards of stone went flying, sparking—progress that Garek had not been able to see from the forest. He took a step closer to her.

  “Can I ask why you are attempting to destroy this abbey in the middle of the night?”

  She heaved the hammer to her shoulder. “I am tearing it down.”

  Crack.

  “May I ask why?”

  “No.”

  Crack.

  Garek took another step toward her. He was now within her swing. If she so chose, she could bash him, but he was somewhat assured she wasn’t completely crazy and wouldn’t try to hurt him.

  No—her anger seemed to be directed solely at the building in front of her.

  “Your hands, miss. They are bloody.”

  “They are.”

  Crack.

  “Perhaps you could stop for a moment so I may look at them?”

&nbs
p; “No.”

  Crack.

  “If I cannot convince you to stop—”

  “You cannot.”

  Crack.

  “May I help you with your destruction?”

  She stopped, her arms falling as the hammer slid from her shoulder. She turned to him, and for the first time, truly gave him her full attention. “You would like to help me?”

  He shrugged, suddenly questioning his own offer. It was quite clear this woman was a little addled. And fascinating. And set upon injuring herself.

  “Yes. If it will lighten your burden. I noticed you also have a sledgehammer with you.” He pointed down the wall of stone to the large black iron hammer. “I see you have already made progress—half of this stone is gone. Perhaps I can work on this corner while you take a moment of rest?”

  “I do not want to rest.”

  “Then I could work on the corner opposite you?”

  Her eyes narrowed at him, searching his face. “Why? Why would you help me? You do not know me.”

  “I am Garek. Garek Harrison. And your name?”

  “Lillian Silverton.” Her head cocked to the side, suspicion still deep in her furrowed brow.

  “And now I know you, Miss Silverton.” Garek walked to the sledgehammer, removed his great coat and then picked up the long wooden handle. He moved back to her, lifting the hammer to balance it on his shoulder. “Shall I start here?”

  Her bottom lip jutted out, staring at him. “Over there.” She pointed to the other corner at the front of the abbey. “You can start there. This one is mine.”

  With one nod, Garek moved to the other corner.

  And he started swinging.

  ~~~

  Garek’s eyes went once more to the dark sky. The moon had long since disappeared, and he had never waited so anxiously for daybreak, as he did in those predawn hours.

  He had sorely underestimated how much energy swinging a sledgehammer took.

  Thoroughly soaked with sweat, his clothes hung heavy, sticking to his skin. With every swing, he would steal a glance at Miss Silverton. She was drenched as well, her hair matted to her neck, but it didn’t slow her any more than the blood dripping from her hands did. If anything, her swipes at the stone only became more ferocious throughout the wee hours of the night.

  And then finally, a ray of light broke above the trees.

  She dropped her hammer.

  His muscles on fire, Garek gave one last stone-shattering swing, and paused, turning to her as he let the black iron head of the sledgehammer rest on the ground. “We are done?”

  She didn’t look his way, her eyes travelling up her corner of the abbey and then making their way to Garek’s corner of the building. A quarter of the lower stones from the corners now sat in rubble.

  Her eyes flickered to him, then down to the stone on the ground. “For now.”

  He nodded, using the moment of her averted eyes to stare at her, truly take her in.

  He hadn’t been wrong earlier. She was beautiful—even with sweat rolling down her brow. He could see in the morning rays that her eyes were a peculiar light blue—set against dark lashes, which made them appear even lighter. The softest waters of the ocean.

  Her brown hair was light, giving way to blond in many places. The hammering, combined with the cold, had flushed her cheeks, even turning the tip of her nose rosy.

  Garek’s eyes travelled down her functional black dress and stopped on her hands. The blood he had seen her wipe off on her skirts over and over again throughout the night was now smeared up onto her arms, past her wrists. She had ignored him every time he had mentioned stopping to look at her hands. And he had mentioned it often.

  Her chin lifted as she looked over to him, her blue eyes questioning. Caught in his obvious assessment, Garek coughed, dropping the handle of the sledgehammer.

  “Would you like payment for your services, Mr. Harrison?”

  He walked to her corner of the abbey, stopping in front of her. “Only one thing.”

  Hands clamping into fists, her arms crossed over her belly. “And that is?”

  “Come with me to some water. Let me look at your hands.”

  Startled, she looked down as she pulled her fists free and opened them. “My hands?” Her fingers ran over her palms, quickly trying to clear the blood.

  He grabbed her wrists, stopping the motion. “Yes. And you need to stop rubbing them. I would like to look at them. Make sure there are no stone shards embedded deep into your skin. They will fester if not taken care of, and you are digging what I presume are shards deeper into your skin every time you touch them.”

  “Oh.” She gently pulled her wrists from his grasp, letting her hands fall to her sides. He could see her fingers twitching, aching to rub at the itch of the wounds.

  Her head tilted to the side as her bottom lip jutted out once more. “That is all? You want to look at my hands? No coin?”

  He shook his head. “No coin.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, judging, and then reluctantly, she nodded.

  “Is there a stream nearby? Running water would be helpful.”

  “A short distance through the woods this way.” She pointed, her feet already moving toward the water.

  Garek stopped by his horse for his satchel and then followed her through the trees. Finding a large boulder near the water’s edge, he guided her elbow, moving her to sit. She fought the motion for a mere second, and then exhaustion won out and she sank, setting her hands into her lap, bloody palms upward.

  Stepping down to the edge of the stream, Garek used his heel to crack through the thin sheet of ice that had formed along the bank. Several more stomps of his boot, and the ice floated away, leaving a small eddy of water swirling in front of them.

  He turned back to Miss Silverton. “I would normally dab away the blood, but after the hours of your hands being unattended and gripping the handle of the hammer—not to mention the scabbing that has already happened—it will be most efficient to immerse them into the water to clean the blood away.”

  “Are you scolding me?”

  “Possibly. This should have been done four hours ago.”

  She sighed, shaking her head as she stood, and moved to balance on her heels at the edge of the water.

  Down on his knees, Garek grabbed her left wrist. “This will be cold—freezing.”

  “It is fine.”

  He didn’t repeat the warning, just pushed her hand into the stream, letting the running water wash away the blood with only a few gentle dabs of encouragement from his handkerchief. It took longer, but he didn’t want to drive any stone shards deeper into her skin.

  She suffered the shock of the freezing water—admirably so—until she yanked her hand from his grasp, clutching it to her belly. “Bloody hellfire. I cannot feel my blasted fingers. You did not say it was that cold.”

  Garek had to hide a smile. The swearing and the sweet voice belonged nowhere near each other.

  “We can wait to do the other hand until I take care of this one.” He motioned to the rock, and Miss Silverton moved backward to sit.

  Settling onto his knees in front of her, Garek pulled free a white linen shirt from his satchel. His last nice shirt, but also his only clean one. He shook it and then bit the edge, tearing it into thin strips.

  Linen ready, he rummaged through his satchel until he found the thick leather wallet deep in the bottom. Flicking open the silver catch on the wallet, he unfurled the four leather flaps and pulled free sharp, pointed tweezers and a small scalpel from the silk lining. He set both of them on top of his bag, the silver gleaming in the morning light.

  Garek paused, staring at them. Months. It had been months since he had looked at them.

  “What? What are those for?” Miss Silverton’s left hand flew up, tucking under her upper right arm to hide.

  “Just a scalpel and tweezers. I am not about to dig into your skin with my fingernails.” His fingers wagged in a curl, motioning her to him. “Your
hand.”

  “But that is a blade.” She glared at him, her hand solidly buried and not moving.

  “This will not hurt.”

  “No?”

  Garek shrugged. “Possibly a little. But it is better than leaving a shard in your hand and having it fester, then move up your arm and eventually kill you. That happens, and who will tear down the abbey?”

  Her frown deepened, but her hand slowly appeared. Garek grabbed it, tilting it to the bright ray of sunlight that was fighting through the tops of the trees.

  Just as he suspected, a multitude of grey shards were embedded into her palm. Some were stuck half out, some he could only see below the surface of her skin. Cradling her hand, he picked up the tweezers and made quick work of the shards that could easily be pulled free.

  Garek set the tweezers on the rock next to her and picked up the scalpel. Her arm twitched away, but his fingers clamped onto her wrist, holding her hand in place, resting on the inside of his forearm. “I will not cut deep. Just surface skin to get to the stone. This should not hurt too much.”

  With a deep sigh, she nodded, swallowing hard enough for Garek to hear. Her face scrunched, turning from him the second the small blade went onto her skin. Garek gently peeled away layers of skin above one shard until there was enough stone to grip.

  He continued on—five, six, seven shards freed without a whimper from Miss Silverton. She stayed as still as the boulder she sat upon until her face turned back in his direction.

  “Your hands are delicate, Mr. Harrison. I would not have thought it for how you swung that sledgehammer.”

  Garek didn’t answer, his concentration solely on capturing the tip of the last stubborn shard. If he didn’t get it, he would have to slice deeper, and that, he wanted to avoid. He clamped the tweezers and yanked.

  “Uuh. I rescind my comment. That was not at all delicate.”

  He looked up at her. “But the pain was short?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then my hands were delicate.” He stood. “Come down to the water. I need to clean this to make sure I got all of them, and then on to your right hand.”

  Miss Silverton’s left hand checked and the other hand washed, Garek was halfway through pulling the stone shards from her right palm when she squirmed. He paused for a moment but kept his eyes on her hand, giving her a chance to resettle.