Courting His Countess (A Historical Romance Novella) (9 page)

He dragged a hand through his hair. "I've
had time to think since I said that. And I know now that I cannot
hate the man who made me marry you, despite the circumstances.
You're the woman I love and—"

"Enough of this." Wallan snorted. "Any more
sentimentality and I'll lose my supper."

Rose needed to sit. She felt weak-kneed.
The woman I love
. Oh. My. He meant it too. Such an
off-handed comment could only be said by someone who thought it
obvious. Who thought she knew.

"How much?" her father said. "I want to know
the amount of the annuity before I agree to your terms."

"Five hundred pounds, paid every new year
until your death."

Wallan pursed his lips in thought. Rose's
fingers gripped her husband's hand and she swayed into him.
Finally, her father shook his head. "Not enough. It never will
be."

Thomas swore. "You're a cur, Wallan. Come,
Rose, let's see if we can't talk Her Majesty out of this together
instead."

"I thought you were going to accept your
situation," Wallan said, sneering.

"I'll accept it when the situation is
completely hopeless, and not a moment before. Does that tell you
how much I want to be with my wife?"

His words lifted Rose's heart and gave her
courage. She'd need all of it for what she was going to say next.
The thought that had eluded her moments before now demanded to be
heard. "Not yet, Thomas. I have one more thing to say to my
father."

"Bloody hell," Wallan muttered. "What is it
now?"

She held his gaze and eventually he looked
away with a sniff. "Go and tell Lord Burghley that Thomas is not
going to Ireland. And you had better succeed, because if you don't,
I will spread rumors that you have no money. Indeed, I will make
sure everyone knows you are in severe debt and your son-in-law
refuses to loan you so much as a shilling. How long will it take
them to snub you?" He blanched. She leaned closer to drive her next
point home. "How long will it take for your creditors to demand
what they're owed?"

Her words took a few moments to sink in, but
sink they did. Right to the bottom, if his wobbling jowls and white
face were an indication. "You can't do that," he spluttered.

"I can and I will. And we will not loan you
a groat." She nodded at Lord Burghley. "Tell him now."

She could see from his horrified face that
he'd grasped the ramifications. Not only would he be ruined
financially, his friends would desert him. With no money, he could
not buy the clothes and gifts needed to thrive at court and without
a life at court, Rose knew her father would rather die. It was the
only thing he cared about.

"I'll even help you," Thomas said. "There
was initial talk that I would be used as an advisor on the Irish
situation, based here. Your meddling put a stop to that. Re-plant
the idea in Burghley's head, suggest it as the better
alternative."

Thomas's arm lent Rose the strength she
needed to watch her father plod after Lord Burghley. They didn't
wait for an answer but left the great hall and made their way to
Rose's rooms.

Inside, she made love to her husband. The
man she loved. The man who loved her. He'd said so, out there in
such a casual way that she almost missed it. He confirmed it over
and over to her in bed.

"I love you," he whispered. "My brave,
strong countess. I love you and if I must leave you in the spring,
I will petition the queen and Burghley every day until they send me
back. But hear me: you are my soul, my mate, my lover and our
spirits will always be together, wherever we are."

When they awoke in the morning, they found a
note slipped under the door. Rose's heart nearly burst from her
chest when she read it.

You owe me five hundred pounds. I expect the
first installment by Saturday.

HW

Thomas drew her into his arms and held her
so hard against him she couldn't move. He buried his face in her
hair and murmured, "Thank God."

Rose couldn't speak. Her tears wouldn't let
her. Finally, when they eased, she managed to say, "It's too soon
to know if I'm with child yet. We'd better keep trying." And she
dragged him back to bed.

EPILOGUE

13 months later

Thomas watched his son's tiny finger wrap
around his larger one. It was so perfect, just like a finger should
be except in miniature. Everything about Robbie was perfect, from
the crop of dark hair to the tips of his long toes. To think, he'd
helped make him, although he'd done none of the hard work. That was
all down to his equally perfect wife. He looked up as she walked
in, a serene smile on her face that had been there ever since she'd
given birth four weeks ago.

She perched on the arm of his chair and
draped herself around Thomas's shoulders. She kissed the top of his
head then bent down and kissed the top of Robbie's. Thomas's throat
closed as it often did of late. It seemed he was turning into a
sentimental fool where his wife and son were concerned.

"He's got a strong grip," she said, teasing
Thomas's hair lazily.

He nodded because he couldn't trust his
voice yet.

They watched their son for a while longer.
His grip on Thomas's finger loosened and his lips made little
sucking motions as he fell into a deep sleep.

Thomas was so engrossed in every small
detail that Rose's question caught him by surprise. "So have you
thought about it any further?" she asked.

He knew what she was talking about. It had
been on his mind ever since he received the invitation. No, not
invitation—demand.

"I'll make up some excuse," he said.

"No, you must go."

He shook his head.

She reached down and took the baby and
placed him gently in his cradle. Then she sat on Thomas's knee and
took his chin between her finger and thumb so that he had to look
at her. She was so beautiful, the sight of her made his heart
clench. The thought of her not being with him, even for a short
time, made it crack.

"You have to go," she said.

"I'm not leaving you." Foolish woman, hadn't
he told her enough times?

"I'll come with you."

"No! You can't leave Robbie so soon and you
can't bring him. Court is no place for a baby."

"Don't fret so." She kissed the end of his
nose. "I have it all worked out. We'll rent a place in London. I'll
stay there with Robbie and you can be with us when you're not
needed at Whitehall. When I'm needed at the palace too, the nurse
will take care of Robbie. Happy now?"

It was so simple he couldn't believe he
hadn't thought of it before. He'd been so determined not to go, not
to leave them at all, but her solution was the best compromise.
"Are you sure it won't be too soon for you both to travel?"

"It's not for another three weeks."

"But it'll be cold. Robbie shouldn't be
exposed too soon."

"It'll be spring and we'll travel in a
covered wagon with more furs surrounding us than all the ladies at
court combined. It's less than a day's journey. We'll be well."

He knew he wouldn't get far in the argument.
Her mouth was set firm, her eyes daring him to defy her. "Very
well. I'll have Moon find us a suitable residence. Will you speak
to your father if you see him at the palace?"

"I don't know yet." She traced his bottom
lip with her fingertip. "Thank you," she said, huskily.

"What for?"

"For being my husband. For forgiving my
father. For loving me."

He gently took her wrist and kissed the palm
of her hand. It was warm and smooth like silk. "Loving you is the
easiest thing to do in the world. I'm going to do it every moment
that I draw breath."

He kissed her. Fiercely, passionately,
possessively. She was his and he wasn't going to let her go.

THE END

A message from the author

I hope you enjoyed reading COURTING HIS
COUNTESS as much as I enjoyed writing it. As an independent author,
getting the word out about my book is vital to its success, so if
you liked this book please consider telling your friends and
writing a review at the store where you purchased it. If you would
like to be contacted when I release a new book, send an email to
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only be contacted when I have a new book out.

Other Books by C.J. Archer:

The Wrong Girl (Freak House #1)

The Charmer (Assassins Guild Novel #1)

Her Secret Desire (Lord Hawkesbury's Players
#1)

Scandal's Mistress (Lord Hawkesbury's
Players #2)

To Tempt The Devil (Lord Hawkesbury's
Players #3)

The Medium (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium
#1)

Possession (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium
#2)

Evermore (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium
#3)

Honor Bound (The Witchblade Chronicles Book
#1)

Kiss Of Ash (The Witchblade Chronicles
#2)

Surrender

Redemption

The Mercenary's Price

How To Contact C.J. Archer:

Website:
http://cjarcher.com

Email:
[email protected]

Twitter:
@cj_archer

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An Excerpt from

(c) C.J. Archer

CHAPTER 1

Hampshire, November 1598

Orlando Holt had never killed a woman
before. He'd assassinated a bear tamer, a viscount, three French
noblemen and two Spanish ones, a knight, a painter, a physician, an
acrobat in Cathay, and five apothecaries. He had nothing against
apothecaries, but he'd come across a disproportionate number during
his three-year tenure in Lord Oxley's Assassins Guild. All the
apothecaries, and every other target, had been men and thoroughly
deserving of the Guild's justice.

Lady Lynden would be his first woman.

He watched her from his hiding place behind
a yew bush, the only shrubbery in the walled garden with enough
leaves to hide him. Aside from the dozen densely foliated trees
lined up against the brick wall where Lady Lynden worked, most of
the garden was bare. A few rust-red leaves clung stubbornly to the
roses and other shrubs here or there, but they were rare. In
contrast, the green leaves of the dozen trees seemed lush and
vibrant, and quite out of place amid the autumnal landscape.
Unfortunately, he was too far away to use them as cover. Thank God
for the yew.

That was the problem with autumn. It was
better than winter for shadowing a potential target—less chance of
freezing his balls off—but the warmer months offered more places to
hide. If he were really lucky, village women would shed their
clothing in the summer and paddle in a nearby stream when they did
the washing.

He didn't think Lady Lynden would go in
search of the nearest body of water and take a dip in her
underthings. She was a she-man, as his brother used to call women
who wore masculine clothes or liked to do a man's work. Orlando
couldn't see Lady Lynden's face from where he squatted, but he
noticed the loose calf-length farmer's trousers, the woolen jerkin,
and the wide-brimmed farmer's hat, all in dark colors for mourning.
She'd rolled the sleeves of her shirt up to the elbows, revealing
tanned forearms, and by the way she dragged around a large pail
filled with what looked to be soil, he knew she was no delicate
flower used to a life of embroidery.

Yet Lady Lynden was a noblewoman. According
to Hughe, she was the widow of a baron who had returned home to
live in the manor owned by her country gentleman father. She wasn't
supposed to be this she-man doing heavy garden work. He knew it was
Susanna Lynden because Hughe's client had said she'd be working in
the walled garden at Stoneleigh without the aid of a gardener or
other servants.

She straightened suddenly and looked around
as if she could sense him watching. But he was too well hidden,
despite crouching no more than a few feet from her. She sighed and
removed her gardening gloves and hat.

Orlando almost overbalanced in surprise. He
took it all back. Lady Lynden was no she-man. She was a beauty.
Hair of the fairest gold, braided and pinned to her head, creamy
skin, an oval face with delicate features, and large eyes. He
couldn't see their color from where he hid, but he'd wager they
were blue to go with her pale hair and skin. Where her forearms
were brown, her face was as English as the queen's.

Yet a description of her individual parts
didn't do her justice. She was extraordinary. Her face captivated
him, rooting his feet to the muddy earth, and he couldn't stop
staring. It had been a long time since he'd seen a woman as
achingly beautiful as Lady Lynden, yet here she was in a Hampshire
backwater dragging pails of earth around, dressed in men's
clothes.

And he was supposed to kill her.

He passed a finger over his upper lip just
as his target wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. She
glanced around then pressed her hands to the small of her back and
rubbed. So the hard work was not to her liking after all. What
about the clothes? Did she dress like a man because she wanted to
or because it was practical?

Orlando watched as she picked up a trowel
and began digging through the dirt in the pail, turning it over. A
few minutes later, while her back was turned, he crept quietly away
through the ivy-clad arch and out of the walled garden.

He had never killed a woman before, and he
wasn’t about to start. Not without being absolutely certain she was
the murderer Hughe's client claimed her to be. Hughe himself had
said the job probably wouldn't be the quick in-and-out that Orlando
preferred and that a thorough investigation was needed. That meant
doing something Orlando had hoped to avoid, staying.