but my father owned land and can trace his ancestry back over four hundred years. I am also an officer of His Majesty the King of England. I would not behave dishonorably.”
She blew out a breath. She knew enough of these English soldiers to know they often behaved dishonorably. The rumor was that a girl in a village a day’s ride from here had been accosted by a group of English soldiers, and now all the women in Catarina’s village were to stay indoors and not go anywhere without a male escort.
She’d disregarded that rule entirely in coming here. And she reminded herself that she’d come because she’d seen this officer and known instinctively that she could trust him. It was too late to turn back. She had no choice but to trust her instincts.
“Very well. I agree.”
He released her leg, and she found the removal of his touch and the warmth of his skin on hers more of a loss than she’d expected. Perhaps her mother was right, and she was a wanton woman who needed to marry sooner rather than later. While the soldier tied her ankles, Catarina said a prayer to the Blessed Mother, asking for forgiveness for enjoying the man’s touch.
When she was bound, he stepped back, giving her space. She supposed the gesture was to make her feel less threatened. It did not work. He was such a presence in the tent that she could not help but feel overwhelmed by him. Even the tent, which was larger than her little stone and tile-roofed cottage, seemed small when he stood.
He drew the pistol, her pistol, from his pocket and studied it. Then he looked at her and back at the pistol. “If you have actually fired this antique, you’re braver than I am. It must be sixty years old.”
“Eighty,” she corrected. “It was my grandfather’s.”
“And you planned to fire it and kill both of us?” He examined it closer then made a sound of disgust. “No, of course you weren’t. It isn’t even loaded or primed.” He looked up at her, his blue eyes narrowed in anger. “You’ve made quite the fool of me.”
“That was not my intention. If I had come here with no weapon, you would not have listened.”
“Wouldn’t I? You know me so well then?”
She only knew what she had heard about the English soldiers. They were proud and haughty and took what they wanted. She had seen him and thought he looked powerful enough to serve her purposes but also fair and honest. She’d watched him for several days and he always treated his men with dignity.
But she had never considered asking him if he would marry her without the pistol pointed at him,. Why would he, a powerful English soldier, want to marry her, a Portuguese peasant? She wasn’t even beautiful—not like the pale, flaxen beauties who resided in England. She was dark with coarse curly hair and what her mother liked to call a strong personality. She was not dainty or demure. She was not quiet or obedient. No wonder her father wanted to be rid of her.
She lifted her chin. “Very well, senhor. If I had asked you to marry me, would you have said yes?”
“The name is Draven. Lieutenant Colonel Draven.”
Draven. It sounded odd to her ears, but she liked it nonetheless.
“And to answer your question, Miss Neves, no. I am not looking for a wife at present.”
“And I am not looking for a husband. I would not have asked you to remain my husband. I do not even think the marriage would be considered legal in your country.”
“No doubt it wouldn’t. You are a Catholic, I presume.”
“And you are a heathen, but I do not hold that against you.”
To her surprise, he laughed. His face looked younger when he laughed, even more handsome. His cheeks reddened slightly and his eyes looked even bluer. “That is something then. Tell me, Miss Neves, why are you in such desperate need of a husband?”
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Here’s an excerpt from No Earls Allowed.
Neil woke and gulped in air. The acrid smell of cannon smoke burned his lungs, and the stench of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils. His hands fisted in the sheets on the bed, their softness reminding him he was not lying on a battlefield beside his dead brother but in his bed in his flat in London.
Without looking, he reached for the glass of gin on the bedside table. There was always a glass of gin on the bedside