Page 1 of The Rebellious Countess
Prologue
Dear Sir Williamson,
Much to myhorrorchagrin, I find myselffacing a firing squadmarried. The Scotch merchant would not allowa Sassenach piratean Englishman to purchase his liquor. He said, and I quote, “Tek yer honkin’ Sassenach arse away til ye marry a wee bonnie lass of good breeding.” Translation,if I didn’t marry a Scottish lady and quickly, I would not be able to purchase the Scotch needed to bribe thewicked witchtavern keeper at The Happy Hag. Without that Scotch, thedamnableHag refused to set up my meeting. Without ablasted virginbride, the entire plan to recover the package would be ruined.
In this particular region, ladies of quality arebloodydifficult to find. When I happened across one in town, Iknocked over two lads and their grandfathermanaged to obtain an introduction. As gratuitous as it may sound, it turned out to be adisasterminor problem. I did not know the identity of her brother-by-marriage until after I proposed, and by then it was too late to find another bride. Yet with no alternatives, I had to make a decision whichwouldcould create awar violent enough for Robert the Bruce to dig out of his grave to fightbit of a scandal.
The young lady’s sister is the Duchess of Ross, bride to none other than NashfordbloodyHarding,the bastardDuke of Ross. Unfortunately, the duke and I are previously acquainted.He broke my damned nose when he discovered me in a compromising position with a lady. I will leave the details of our acquaintance to your imagination, but it is safe to say it was overhis mothera woman he held in the highest esteem.
I have no doubt the duke will be in contact with you shortly, if he has not already. Please know, the plan was to leave her in Dumfries,disappointedlyuntouched, but then the seller wanted to meet the lass at the docks and I had no choice but to take mybloodywife aboard The Maribelle. When we arrive in Le Conquet, I will send thetemptressyoung lady to Plymouth immediately.The sirenShe may be a bit confused as to her identity, since I had to use an alias. She will probably shedfathoms ofa few tears and claim to be Lady Máira Collins, Countess of Dorset. If you couldtake the damned shackles off my anklesarrange for an annulment upon her return, I would greatly appreciate the assistance. I will keep her safe from the crew and myselfhopefullythroughout the voyage. She is apassionatespirited girl who could use some assistance finding a husband after everything she has enduredfrom mefor her country.
My apologies for theblack eyes the duke will deliverdifficulties this will create. You have my word as arogue who wants nothing more than to introduce Miss Blair to the sweetest carnal delights this side of heavengentleman, she is untouched.
When our package is secured, I will send word.
Pray that I can honor my word,
Regards,
E
—An edited draft report to Sir Robert Williamson, War Office London, England from an unidentified agent of the Crown, Dumfries, Scotland. It was written while the agent angrily awaited a Scottish smuggler, and edited later that night as he stared at his wife’s unconscious form lying across his captain’s bunk aboard his ship, The Maribelle. Her undefiled breasts nearly bursting from the neckline of her wedding gown were a display that would tempt the best of men—especially men like him.
This was her life. She was on the honeymoon trip of a debutante’s dreams. Passionate kisses, festive glasses clinking, raucous laughter spilling through the seams of the building and…
…A drunken sailor falling at her feet.
“Ummpf.” His fetid breath filled the air, and the condition of his rotting teeth made a shudder crawl through her body when he rolled over and grinned at the sight of her. “Beggin’ yer pardon, missy.” Suggestive eyebrows waggled, and thegentlemantipped an imaginary hat on his head, his two front teeth displaying more filth than she’d seen in her lifetime.
She cringed and scooted further under the table. Cheap ale spilled over the edges, filth covered the floor where she cowered like a…a rat? A gasp was torn from her lips. Was that a rat?
Drat and double drat! She crossed her arms over her knees and brought the skirts of her soiled wedding gown closer to her body. Her safe haven should have been the strong arms of her gorgeous husband wrapped around her body as she playfully dodged his public advances. Instead, she was shooing away a beady-eyed rodent who only stared at her as ifshewere the one who needed to vacate the premises.
The rat, on second thought, was much more appealing than the two-faced, good-for-nothing blackguard she’d married. Thatrathad abandoned her on the docks with no money, no luggage, and no way to find her way home. Just some cryptic message passed on by a member of his crew as he’d pointed down the street of the dockside town.
“Talk to Hag. She’ll give you passage.”
It was as if Ellison had dropped her off in a foreign land, to be rid of her once and for all. She hadn’t even had her wedding night…
No. The only passionate kisses she’d witnessed were between the buxom barmaid and the beaver-toothed sailor currently crawling on his hands and knees toward the exit. Máira winced as a handful of the barmaid’s strawberry blonde hair dropped to the floor and got lost in the shuffle and scuffle of the men fighting throughout the tavern.
The woman cursed, glass shattered and sprinkled to the floor in a storm of profanity. “May the devil take ya, ya dirty ol’ rum gagger.” A man staggered in front of her, his boots kicking the ball of hair closer to Máira.
“How did my honeymoon end in The Happy Hag tavern in France? France! Aren’t we at war with France?” Máira asked.
Her question went unanswered. No shock there. Like the last several days, she was the last person on anyone’s mind. From the time she awoke aboard a ship, she had one alarming experience after another. There had been no plans to board a ship on their honeymoon. There had been no plans to meet a pirate. And there certainly had been no plans to end up in the middle of a brawl in a bloody tavern in France.
To make matters worse, every rotten thing that occurred to her could be traced back to the moment she had said “I do” to the Earl of Dorset, the bloody blackguard who’d ignored her the entire voyage to France. A voyage that should have taken less than a day, but had been interminably long. On the very first day, she’d been lost and disoriented. With each roll of thewaves, her stomach had done three. When lightning cracked and thunder roared, she’d sworn her head split in two and bounced off the walls. Her roaring megrim evidence of her being stuck in a hellish nightmare. She’d finally crawled out of the cabin and to the ladder to make her way to the deck. The rain then pelted her face and soaked her dress like a second skin to her body. As she’d shielded her face with her hands and looked up to the where she thought a captain of a ship might be—therehestood, wearing pirate clothes.Pirate clothes.
If her face had any color to it at all, it leached from her cheeks when she looked around and saw the hard men manning the decks. It only proceeded to get worse when her husband’s beautiful head of hair turned in her direction and his handsome face delivered an angry scowl. His icy glower held enough menace to pierce her heart with ten daggers, like the one he wore strapped at his waist. In that moment, she felt a fear like nothing she’d felt in her life, and she’d felt plenty of fear before boarding that ship. Her life had not been made of tea cakes and fripperies.
Yet the gorgeous, strapping, sweet, doting Earl of Dorset who had worshiped the ground she walked while they’d been on dry land in Dumfries, had turned into a cold, arrogant bastard pirate aboard ship. A bastard who leapt over the railing onto the deck in front of her before she could run back to her cabin and bolt the door.
“What the hell are you doing up here?” he’d bellowed. It could have been rain splattering on her face, but she’d imagined it to be angry spittle. That along with her sudden memory of her older sister Iseabail lecturing her. “You can’t possibly know him well enough to marry him!” had been enough to make her toss her accounts all over his shirt. She’d waited for a backhanded blow that never came.
Instead, he’d looked down at his shirt, rolled his eyes, and ripped it from his body. One minute it was there, and the nextshe was staring at the broad expanse of a naked chest with too much muscle. Flawless skin sculpted into the ideal embodiment of the male species. Michelangelo would curse his perfection.
“Bloody hell,” she cursed his perfection.
