Page 1 of The Duke's Improper Bride
Prologue
Corisca, Spring 1886
Ahearty dose of Mediterranean sun might have been just what Isaac needed when nursing another broken heart. But the bullets flying in his direction would cancel any effects if the shooter’s aim improved.
He ducked as another shot ripped through the dense sea air. He threw his body through a small hole, tumbling headfirst into a dark cavern.
Could he not go anywhere without someone shooting him?
The rough rock scraped his palms as he pulled himself forward into the darkness, searching for the source of the light flooding overhead just beyond another craggy obstacle. There was a ledge that skirted the cavern’s interior, dropping into absolute darkness below.
Isaac preferred Corsica’s blue waters without a side of murder. Especially his own. But since he started the day with a gun pressed rudely into his temple, he doubted the rest of this trip would be for pleasure. Then again, he was a spy.
He had known there would be trouble when he took the assignment six weeks back in London. But he would have done nearly anything to leave Burton Hall and the suffocating bliss between his partner, “The Devil” Bly Ravensdale, and Bly’s new wife, Clara.
Second chances were hard fought and won, and the pair were so disgustingly in love Isaac could no longer stomach it—Isaac, the infamous Romeo, the man whose heart was easily captured, and most predictably, lost.
In between the waves battering the cliffside, faint shouts echoed outside the cavern. But they grew closer. Closer still as the voices echoed within. Isaac stilled.
Two men bellowed as another fired a shot into the air.
At least they were kind enough to warn him. He smiled to himself, skirting further along the thinning ledge within the cavern. If he could make it to the source of the light a little ways ahead, he could find a way to climb out and slip away without any harm done.
He would have the map and could leave for Italy. A few weeks on the Amalfi Coast might do him good. He was quite done with the gloomy English moors.
The ground crumbled under his feet as the sound of footsteps approached. Isaac’s heart picked up its pace. He couldn’t see any other way except to hide, attack, or press forward.
The sloping rock face grew slippery as he went. He glanced over his shoulder, just in time to spot the black shadow of a man holding out a pistol. The shot rang out before he could reach for his own.
“You’re done,monsieur,” a voice said from behind him.
Isaac grinned to himself, anticipation coursing through his body. “I’m not done. We’re simply having a disagreement.”
“If you hand over the map, then there will be no disagreement.”
The sharp blade of a knife pressed against Isaac’s neck. This was considerably more than a disagreement.
He raised his hands as if to surrender, then twisted to view the men ruining his plans to continue onto Italy.
“Shoot him,” a man snapped in French, approaching from the shadows.
“I thought I had this morning,” the other barked, refusing to let go of the knife.
Isaac volleyed his attention between the men, eyeing their weapons. Blood trickled down his neck as he slowly turned to his left. “I’d prefer discussing this without the knife to my neck.”
But these weren’t the kind of men who dabbled in the art of conversation. No, they weren’t peers like Isaac Barnes, Duke of Ashbornham. They were hired hands, strongarms, with one mission and one mission only—to retrieve the map strapped to his chest. He nearly escaped Corsica with it.
What his friend Bly lacked in charm and grace, he made up for in grit and brawn. He was a powerhouse. Isaac could only stand next to him, using his sharp wit to talk his way out of trouble. Isaac excelled at gauging social situations and being covert. He hid in plain sight of society, spying on the most powerful men and women of the world. His title bought him luxury; his family passed on that legacy.
It was a burden.
Isaac swallowed, closing his eyes as he reached for his gun. Two bullets for three men, and a knife pressed to his throat.
The knife’s blade plunged into his back before he could draw. He staggered as the third man approached, the largest one of the bunch.
Damn it all to hell. Why did Clara Dawson ever walk into Burton Hall and break his heart?
The third man’s fist connected with Isaac’s jaw. Or what was left of his jaw. The cavern faded from view as he balled his fists and threw a punch. But the air was quick to leave his lungs. Metal pierced his ribs, then a snap. The pain blinded him for a moment then dulled as he struggled to keep his eyes focused.
