Will Beth uncover the reason for her mother’s silence? Will Tristan live long enough to find the woman of his dreams? In a world where a privileged upbringing is not always what it seems and simple joys can outweigh high social standing, two people must face their past and determine who they are on their own apart from the lies their parents forced on them.
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'Abandoned & Protected - The Marquis' Tenacious Wife'
Prologue
England 1781 (or a variation thereof)
The rain pelted on the roof as her mother’s screams woke five-year-old Henrietta Turner from a rather fitful sleep. With wide eyes, she stared up at the dark ceiling, her hands curled into the blanket. Dark shadows danced around her as she lay listening.
The sounds of the storm raging outside her window almost drowned out her father’s lamentations as he berated her mother once again, his drunken slur raising goose bumps on Henrietta’s arms.
Closing her eyes, Henrietta rolled onto her side. If only she could go back to sleep, then everything would be all right!
Most nights, the small hunting cottage lay in silence as her father slept off his drunken stupor. However, that night was not one of them.
Something had roused him. Worse, something had angered him.
A chill crept up her small limbs, and Henrietta’s jaw began to tremble as she gritted her teeth against the onslaught of sounds. Her mother’s voice reached her ears, pleading, begging as she did her best to evade his anger. Her father, however, seemed oblivious to the fact that it was not an enemy he was advancing on, but his own wife.
Their voices mingled into an all too familiar dance of pain and hatred that sent Henrietta from her bed.
Despite the raging storm outside, she did not feel safe in this house, never had. For the only reason, her father, Rupert Turner, Viscount Elton, dragged his family out into the woods to the small hunting cottage on the outer border of their estate was that it gave him free reign over his family.
Out here, he did not have to hold back. Out here, he could do as he pleased. Out here, there was nothing and no one to stop him.
Least of all himself.
In her short life, Henrietta had seen it many times. In society, even with only servants around, her father did his utmost to portray the image that was expected of him. Despite his shortcomings in character and intelligence, few had ever seen him at his worst.
That privilege was reserved for his family.
Staring out into the storm, Henrietta squinted her eyes. Was that the shadow of a man? She wondered as a soft whinny mingled with the howling wind.
Then she closed her eyes. How often had her mind conjured a saviour who would come and stop her father and protect them? But he had never come, and he never would.
No one would protect her, not even her mother.
“Tristan,” Henrietta whispered, and her eyes went wide as her heart hammered in her small chest.
Tiptoeing across the wooden floorboards, she cracked open the door, relieved that the pelting rain drowned out the soft creak of old hinges.
Instantly, her father’s voice slammed into her as it echoed up the stairs from the small parlour in the front of the cottage.
Henrietta closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then she stepped out into the dark hallway and silently walked toward the far door at its opposite end. Sliding it open, she stepped inside, her cold feet carrying her toward the wooden crib by the window.
Standing on her tiptoes, Henrietta peered down at her sleeping baby brother, safely swaddled in a soft blanket, his tiny chest rising and falling with each breath. He was the image of peace and trust, and in her little heart, Henrietta knew that she needed to protect him.
Though tall for her age, Henrietta had to drag over a chair in order to take him out of the crib. Resting his tiny head against her shoulder, she cradled him in her arms, holding him tight as he slept peacefully.
Then Henrietta opened the door once more, straining her ears. Her mother’s frightened sobs reached her heart, and for a moment, Henrietta closed her eyes. As much as she wanted to help her, she knew there was nothing she could do. She glanced down at her brother.
Him, she would keep safe.
Approaching the stairs, Henrietta glanced over the banister into the small front room. When all remained clear and her parents’ voices did not drift closer, she hugged her brother to her chest and silently slipped down the stairs. Glancing out the window, Henrietta knew she could not take him outside into the downpour, and so she tiptoed past the front door and toward the back where the kitchen was located.
The smells of fresh bread and savoury stew reached her nose, and Henrietta breathed in deeply as she entered the room. She rounded the working table in the middle and walked toward the small pantry. Stepping inside, she closed the door, then pulled aside a heavy crate of potatoes and slipped behind it, pulling it back into place.
Her back resting against the wall, Henrietta sat down cross-legged, her frozen feet like ice against her warm legs. Looking down at her brother, she wrapped him tighter in his little blanket, hugging him to her chest to keep him warm. When he slept on peacefully, Henrietta rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes, her parents’ voices echoing in her ears.
A tear ran down her cold cheek at her father’s angry shouts met by her mother’s whimpering sobs.
Then her brother stirred, and Henrietta’s head snapped up.
Gently rocking him in her arms, she began to hum a lullaby. After a while he quieted down. Relieved, Henrietta continued to hum under her breath, afraid he would wake and alert their father to their whereabouts. What would he do if he found them?
Henrietta didn’t want to know.
After a while, her eyelids began to close and her head sank back. Henrietta immediately tightened her hold on Tristan, pulling up her knees to steady him, afraid her arms would slacken and she would drop him.
For a long while, only her mother’s occasional sobs reached her ears, but other than that, the house fell silent. Only the storm still raged outside, the rain drumming on the roof as the wind howled through every crack, reaching inside with cold fingers.
Out of nowhere, a scream pierced the rhythmic drumming of the rain, and once more Henrietta’s head snapped up.
Her mother.
Straining her ears, Henrietta listened, but she could not make out her mother’s voice. Or her father’s, for that matter.
Again, the house lay in silence.
An eerie sense of foreboding crawled up Henrietta’s skin, and she swallowed, her only relief the peacefully sleeping baby in her small arms.
A shot rang through the dark, and Henrietta flinched.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she stared at the closed door to the pantry, afraid of what was happening on the other side. Had her father fired a shot? She wondered. He only used his rifles for hunting. Why would he…?
Henrietta swallowed before she stepped out from behind the box of potatoes and approached the door. Her arms trembled with the effort it took to hold her brother clutched to her chest, and her legs felt like pudding, wobbly and weak.
Cracking open the door a little, Henrietta peered out into the dark kitchen, but for the moment, all remained quiet.
Then footsteps echoed from the front parlour before they hastened up the stairs, the boards creaking under their weight.
With her eyes raised to the ceiling, Henrietta followed their sound as they stepped into one room after the other before finally returning downstairs. As they reached the front room, an angry growl echoed through the silence as the door was yanked open, inviting in the raging storm for but a moment before it closed once more.
The footsteps were gone.
For a long time, Henrietta stood by the door, peering through the crack. Straining her ears, she held her breath, trying to determine where her parents were. Had they left?
Henrietta felt utterly alone.
Swallowing, she pushed open the d
oor before her courage could fail her and walked back the way she had come. As she approached the doorway to the parlour, Henrietta swallowed before peeking around the corner, hoping her father wouldn’t see her.
The moment her gaze fell on her parents, her eyes went wide and she almost dropped her little brother.
Staring at their lifeless bodies, Henrietta couldn’t help but wish that her father would yell at her, that he would glare at her with blood-shot eyes or even slap her across the face. Anything would be better than…this.
However, he never would again. He was no longer a threat to her or her brother.
Only, he had taken their mother with him when he had decided to leave this world, and Henrietta would never forgive him for that. A sweet-tempered woman, her mother had always submitted to his wishes, and yet, it had done her no good.
Henrietta would always remember the pain and hopelessness in her eyes, and she would never forget the cold disdain in her father’s.
If she wanted to live, she needed to be strong.
For only the strong survived.
Chapter One − A Heart's Desire
Twenty-Four Years Later
Feet apart to keep her balance on the soft ground of the clearing, Henrietta squinted her eyes as though focusing on her opponent. Then she lunged forward, extending her right arm at the same time, and her foil shot through the air, piercing the heart of her imagined enemy.
If only he were real. Henrietta thought, moving back into position.
A soft breeze blew through the trees bordering the small clearing, its coolness tickling her neck and soothing her heated skin. Henrietta sighed, enjoying the moment.
There were far too few of these.
With her ash-blond hair pinned up, she stood in the tall grass, her legs wrapped in loose-fitting breeches that she had taken from her brother’s closet long ago. Unhindered by her skirts, Henrietta moved across the clearing, attacking and retreating, her eyes focused, her heart beating with purpose.
Despite her frail appearance, Henrietta’s limbs were used to the exertion. She had long since passed the time when they would tremble with exhaustion, begging her to stop and rest.
With a foil in her hand, she felt strong, powerful and in control, and she cursed the day her uncle had discovered her ability.
Years ago, when her little brother had reached the age to be instructed, Henrietta had begged him to pass on to her what he learnt. Despite his initial reluctance, Tristan had complied because he loved his big sister dearly, and they had spent many wonderful days out in the woods, practising.
However, one day, their uncle had returned home unexpectedly and discovered them. He had been shocked out of his wits to see Henrietta in boys’ clothes and forbidden her from ever touching another blade.
Although Henrietta had endured her uncle’s harsh words, they had neither broken her spirit nor her determination to master the art. Tristan, however, had refused to practise with her ever again.
Ever since their father had killed not only himself but also their mother, Tristan had grown up with the sole memory of his uncle’s disapproving gaze no matter how much he worked to excel at the tasks given him. Nothing was ever good enough, and yet, Tristan desired nothing more than his uncle’s approval, the only father he ever knew.
And so he had turned from his sister, knowing that her rebellious ways would not serve him.
Rationally, Henrietta could understand why he had made that decision. Her heart, however, ached with betrayal every time she thought of her brother. All her life, she had given everything to protect him, and now, he had turned his back on her.
As anger surged through her veins, Henrietta moved across the clearing, her foil slicing the air in angry thrusts. Sweat ran down her temples, and heat burned in her limbs, but she could not stop. She would go on and on as she always did, to the point of physical exhaustion. Only then could she be satisfied with her progress. Only then could she be certain that she had done everything within her power to prepare herself.
Never would she allow herself to be treated the way her father had always treated her mother: like a possession, a worthless possession that he could use every way he chose.
No, she could not rely on the men in her family to keep her safe, especially not when they were very likely the ones who would seek to hurt her.
Cursing her brother’s name, Henrietta groaned. If only she had a real opponent to practise with!
***
After days spent travelling in carriages with his legal adviser endlessly lecturing him about the importance of etiquette when appearing before parliament in order to claim his father’s title, Connor Brunwood, future Marquis of Rodridge and new chief of the clan Brunwood, was ready to shoot himself.
The muscles in his legs trembled with the need to be off, to move and shake off the burdensome stiffness that had claimed them days ago. Ignoring Mr. Granten’s shocked expression, he swung himself into the gelding’s saddle in one fluid motion as the gigantic horse pranced nervously, its flanks heaving with anticipation. “Ye needna look so worried,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “I assure ye I will meet ye in London before nightfall.”
Then he loosened his hold on the reigns, gave the gelding a swift kick and they were off racing across the meadow toward the tree line. As the wind whipping through his dark hair and brushed over his face, Connor closed his eyes for a moment, trusting the gelding to find its way, and enjoyed the feel of freedom he had missed dearly these past few weeks.
Not three months ago, his father, Ewan Brunwood, chief of clan Brunwood, had died rather unexpectedly in his sleep, leaving his worldly possessions, including his titles, to his only son while Connor’s uncle, Hamish, tanist or second-in-command in the clan, had immediately become chief. Unexpectedly, Connor had been named his uncle’s tanist although he had never expressed a desire to be burdened with the responsibility. His cousin Alastair had long since been thought to follow in the line of clan chiefs, and to this day, Connor had no idea what had gone wrong.
Unfortunately for many reasons, Hamish had followed his older brother to the grave within a month, effectively sealing Connor’s fate. Knowing that he was not cut out for the more tedious aspects of his newly-acquired duties, Connor had immediately chosen his cousin Alastair as tanist before agreeing to his mother’s urgings to finally travel to London and claim his father’s titles.
Although he knew his duty to his family, his people, his clan, Connor was far from accepting the changes in his life. With everything that needed to be done, he had had no time to mourn his father and uncle, two men who had shaped his life like no others. Their wise words and strong hands had taught him all he knew, and a part of Connor feared he would not be able to honour their memory by being the clan chief everyone expected him to be.
Reaching the tree line, his gelding slowed down, reluctantly picking his way through the thicket of the forest. When they came upon a well-travelled path though, his horse lunged forward as though a shot had been fired, eager to run and stretch its legs.
Connor knew the feeling.
Never in his life had he sat in a chair as much as he had in the last few weeks. It was unnatural, and Connor deeply regretted the turn his life had taken. The boredom and monotony that would now burden his days would slowly squeeze the life from him. He was certain of it.
Cursing under his breath, Connor sighed. If only a little excitement would come his way!
Chapter Two − A Promise Given
As the sun rose higher in the sky, Henrietta felt fatigue wash over her limbs; yet, her heart would not let her rest. Who knew when another opportunity would present itself for her to slip away and return to her sanctuary? With her uncle currently in residence at her family’s estate, Hampton Hall, his watchful eyes following her wherever she went, Henrietta’s days were filled with countless proper activities fit for a lady.
Grunting under her breath, Henrietta lunged forward once more. Why was it that women were generally taught mind-numb
ingly useless things?
Nevertheless, a deep smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she pictured her uncle’s shocked expression should he find her like this: dressed like a man, her hair tugged up and hidden under a hat, which currently lay in the tall grass where she had tethered her horse.
If she were lucky, his heart would give out and he would die on the spot!
A chuckle escaped her throat, and she brushed a sleeve over her forehead, her sweat staining the fabric. It was not lady-like, and yet, it made her feel more alive than anything she had ever done!
A horse’s whinny echoed across the clearing, and Henrietta spun around.
Scanning the tree line, she felt the breath catch in her throat as a rider on a tall, dark horse emerged from the forest. For a moment, he stopped, head turned in her direction, before continuing towards her.
As her heart pounded in her chest, Henrietta forced herself to focus. Above all else, she must not allow him to see that she was a woman!
Returning to where she had tethered her mare, Henrietta snatched her hat off the ground, placing it firmly on her head and tugging away any loose strands. Then she slipped on her brother’s coat, hoping it would conceal the small curves of her female figure.
All the while, her eyes never left the approaching rider.
As he came closer, she could make out his broad stature, thick legs and muscular arms that spoke of strength and power. Black hair framed his face, a matching beard darkening his features, and despite his normal attire, he seemed out of place, wild somehow as though he did not belong.
Taking a deep breath, Henrietta squared her shoulders and raised her head before she remembered that it might not be a good idea to meet his eyes and allow him to look into her face. Although no one would describe her features as soft and feminine, they still might be enough to arouse suspicion.
“Good day, Sir,” the rider greeted her in a foreign slur as he pulled up his beast in front of her. “May I enquire what ye’re doing so far out here? From afar, it looked a wee bit as though ye were dancing?” A slight chuckle shook his raspy voice as dark green eyes darted to the foil in her hand.