Declan’s Tale

[This story takes place contemporaneously with Lorelei and Stand Fast’s house party at Granton Castle]

Declan McElroy had a headache that was so damned painful there needed to be another word for it. Perhaps a headquake, or a mindsmash or a brainshatter.

Bloody. Hell. Whatever it was called, it was fucking ferocious. It vibrated through him like a dull, constant, teeth-grinding thud thud thud, the metallic taste in his mouth the perfect vile accompaniment.

Fooking. Hell. He must have crawled all the way into the bottle and drained it dry this time.

“Here you are, sir.”

He shuddered at the sound of his valet’s voice. “Not so bloody loud, Harker,” he whined.

“I apologize sir,” Harker said, making no effort to lower his bloody voice.

Declan opened his eyes a crack and saw his bland-faced-imp-from-Hell valet holding out a glass of something. “That had better be whiskey.”

“There is whiskey in it.”

Declan snarled. And then whimpered from the pain it caused. He reached with a shaky hand toward the glass.

“Allow me to help you, sir.”

Before Dec knew what the valet was doing, Harker had lifted the rim of the glass to his mouth, pinched his nostrils closed, and then poured the entire damned glass down his throat.

Declan had the choice of either swallowing or choking to death.

He chose the former. As the foul liquid scorched his throat, he wished he had chosen the latter.

Harker released him and leapt back, dodging Declan’s fist before he even realized he’d taken a swing at the valet.

The momentum of the punch carried him right off the edge of the bed onto the floor. He landed with a crash, bringing the nightstand down with him. Glass and metal clanged and smashed and bounced across the wooden floor.

“Ugh,” Declan moaned. And then he curled into a tight fetal ball and prayed for death.

An indeterminate time later…

“Harker?” Declan called out, wincing even though he’d barely raised his voice.

“Right here, sir.”

He lifted his head enough to see over the bed, realizing that he was still on the floor. Harker stood by the door holding his hat and wearing his overcoat.

“Where the devil are you going?” Declan demanded.

The valet gestured to the steaming ewer of water on the dressing table and then to the foot of the bed, where there was a fresh outfit of clothing laid out. “You have hot water and clean clothing.” Harker set his hat on his head and then pulled on his gloves.

“Where—where are you going?” Declan repeated, sounding querulous and weak to his own ears.

“I am leaving your employ, sir.” Harker reached down and picked up two medium sized valises.

“What? Don’t I pay you enough? You must earn more than—”

“Your wages are exceedingly generous.”

“Then…why?”

“I refuse to watch you kill yourself.”

Declan’s jaw dropped.

The valet nodded, as if he’d spoken. “Yes, sir, that is what you are doing daily, by increasingly larger degrees: killing yourself. I have watched for five years and have done all I can to help. But I cannot help you, sir. Only you can help yourself.”

Declan’s head was too cluttered to respond.

Harker turned and walked toward the door, which Declan noticed was already open.

“Wait!”

The valet turned and regarded him with such a look of pity and disgust that Declan gritted his teeth and worked up a sneer. “Don’t let the door hit you in the arse, Harker.”

***

Declan felt grand. It was a sunny day, his head no longer ached, and he was going on a journey. He loved journeys. Although riding atop a stagecoach was not his favorite way to travel, there were some benefits. Benefits like plenty of fresh air, freedom from the judging stares, pinch-faced looks of those people inside the coach, oh—and there was also the opportunity for…diversion.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his purse. “Oi!” he called to the coach driver, a stout, harried looking man who appeared to be about ten years older than Dec’s nine-and-thirty odd years.

The driver turned toward him, his leery expression telling him that he already knew what Dec wanted.

“I’ll have a go at the reins,” Dec said, shoving aside the drunk who’d been sitting beside him so that he could clamber toward the driver.

“Company policy forbids—”

Dec held up a large denomination note.

“Well…” The driver chewed his lip. “Perhaps just for a short time. Er, you ain’t jug bitten are ye?”

“Hardly.” Dec gave the man the money and dropped onto the seat beside him. “Hand over the ribbons, my good friend.”

Twenty minutes later…

“Calm down or I’ll cuff ya!” the bigger of Declan’s two captors barked.

Dec had done his damnedest to fight off the two men who’d been dragging him away from the driver’s bench, but they were big blokes who, judging by their clothing, spent every day working with their bodies. Declan, while a large man, had grown soft and fat from easy living.

“Fine. I’m calm,” he lied, ceasing his thrashing.

The men looked at him, then each other, and then asked the driver, “Should we let ‘im go?”

The driver spared a glance from his badly lathered team to fix Dec with a murderous look. “Are ye going to behave?”

“I’ll behave,” he lied again.

After a long, tense moment, they released his arms.

He immediately reached for the flask inside his coat and took a pull, draining the last of the whiskey. Damnation! How had he run out when he’d just filled the bloody thing. He scratched his head; or perhaps he hadn’t filled it. That had always been Harker’s job, after all.

“When do we stop next?” he asked, slipping the empty flask back into his coat.

“Elton is the next stop. Just ahead it is.” The driver gave him a heated look. “You’re paid up to there—so that’s where you get off.”

“No—that’s not my stop.” Declan squinted, as if that would help him recall the name of the village. It was the same as the castle—Cranston? Cranford? Grandford—no, Granton, that was it! “I’m paid until Granton.”

“Not according to my manifest. Elton is what it says, and Elton is where ye’ll get off.”

“How many more stops is Granton?”

“That don’t matter.”

“I have money and I want to pay to stay on to Granton.”

“There’s no room for ye.”

Dec glanced around at the other three men on the roof with him. “You can easily squeeze another few bodies up here. I know you can, because I’ve seen it done countless times in the past. I’ll pay—”

“There is no room for the likes of you,” the driver snarled.

A fight, that’s what Dec needed to clear his head. He lurched to his feet, and then staggered when the coach rolled through a pothole. He grabbed the shoulder of the man next to him—one of his former captors—to steady himself.

“Now, see here,” he shouted at the driver.

“Sit yer arse down,” the brute he was grabbing ordered.

Declan ignored him and glared at the back of the driver’s head. “Oi! I know you can hear me. I’m talking to you.”

“Sit down or I’ll sit ye down,” the man he was using for balance warned.

Declan shoved him away and recoiled to evade the meaty fist that shot out. Declan turned fully toward the man, forgetting all about the driver. If this arshole wanted a mill, Dec would bloody give him one.

“Get up, you sack of shite,” he ordered, raising his fists.

The coach rolled through a dip in the road, and he lost his footing again, his bootheels sliding on the slick surface of the coach.

“Mind yer head!” the driver shouted.

Declan’s arms windmilled and he grabbed for the nearest shoulder.

“Mind yer head!”

“Sit down you bloody fool!” the bulky gent shouted, his eyes suddenly wide and staring at something behind Dec.

“Wha—” Dec turned to see what it was and his head exploded with a deafening crack. Stars filled his head and his body went strangely weightless.

And then everything went black.

The Village of Elton

“I am sorry, Miss Graves, but I cannot extend more credit. Not until you have at least paid off the balance.”

Esther regarded the shopkeeper’s red face and knew this was not Mr. Baker’s decision. No, the order had come from his wife, a stern-faced, joyless woman who had never liked Esther nor any of the others who lived with her in what the villagers called the Quaker House, even though it was no such thing. Esther took in anyone who needed shelter, not only those who belonged to the Society of Friends.

None of the people near Elton particularly cared for Quakers, but Mrs. Baker seemed to take particular delight in needling Esther whenever she had the opportunity. She was a very unhappy woman.

“Please, Mr. Baker,” Esther pled, gesturing to the sack of flower and side of salt pork. “I do not ask thou to extend my credit so that I might purchase ribbons for my hair. The children will go hungry if I leave here empty handed today.”

The poor man squirmed, casting a glance over his shoulder to where an open doorway led to the back of the small store, where the couple lived. He opened his mouth, his expression torn.

Esther’s heart leapt; his resolve was crumbling.

But then a floorboard creaked beyond the open doorway.

Mr. Baker sighed and shook his head. “I am deeply sorry, Miss Graves. But I cannot.”

Esther felt unfamiliar burning in her eyes. How long had it been since she cried? Years. Almost seven of them, in fact.

She refused to cry today. Instead, she nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Baker,” she said, and then walked from the small store, her vision blurring even though she had not given her eyes permission to cry.

What am I going to do? What am I going to sell? Everything that is left of any value is gone.

Not everything, a sly voice pointed out.

Esther shuddered at the vile implication. It was the sort of thought that would not have entered her head until several months before, when the squire’s son had cornered her down by the stream where she had been washing clothes.

“You’re a lovely little thing, Esther,” Mr. Sebastian Callow had said, backing Esther up against the trunk of a nearby tree, his hands pinning her at the waist. “Why do you slave for those ungrateful brats when you could earn your living in a much easier—and more pleasurable—way?”

“Please unhand me, Mr. Callow,” she had demanded, her voice quavering badly.

He’d laughed. “I have only begun to put my hands on you, girl.” He had leaned forward and ground himself—that part of himself—against her. “I’ll take care of you—buy you pretty dresses and trinkets.” He thrust suggestively. “All you have to do is show a bit of gratitude with this sweet little body of yours and—”

“Esther?”

Mr. Callow had stumbled back at the sound of the youthful male voice and Esther had seized the opportunity to run toward Kevin, who was standing with a basket of dirty linens, his handsome face too youthful to be wearing such a thundering, knowing scowl.

“Get behind me, Esther,” he’d ordered, sounding far older than his sixteen years.

Mr. Callow had laughed. “Now, now, young cockerel. No need to get your tailfeathers in a twist.”

Kevin had dropped the basket and taken a menacing step toward the older man.

Esther caught his arm and held tight. “No. Please, Kevin. It would not be worth it.”

“Listen to the girl,” Callow counseled with an obnoxious sneer. “You lay one finger on me and you’ll not be living the easy life having a woman look after you. You’ll be in the workhouse where you belong.”

“You bleating, pompous—”

“Shhh, Kev!” It had taken all the strength in Esther’s five-feet-three frame to hold Kevin back. “Just go!” she barked at Callow.

Surprisingly, he had obeyed. But not before giving her a last, nasty look and saying, “This is not over yet, my girl.”

He had eyed her every single time he’d seen her since that day and Esther knew his lust had not abated but had only become more powerful the longer he was thwarted.

If she went to him—if she gave him what he wanted—would he give her the money for that flour and pork? She swallowed down her revulsion. Surely things were not yet—

“Mind your head!”

Her head whipped around at the familiar shout of the stage driver as he approached the low hanging sign of the Pig and Truffle Inn.

Esther frowned; one of the passengers on the roof of the coach—a large man who appeared to be standing up was turned away and did not see the approaching sign.

“No!” Esther cried out just as the sign struck him full on, the crack of a body meeting a thick slab of wood sickening. Her feet were already in motion even as the big man hit the street in a puff of dust.

Pandemonium erupted all around her as the driver reined in his six-horse team. People spilled from both inside the coach and atop it.

Esther was the first to reach the unmoving body and dropped to her knees and felt for a pulse. She sagged with relief when she felt the regular, strong beat of his heart. He was a big man and turning the body over was not easy work, but she managed it. She shuffled closer and her knees struck a hard leather bundle.

Time seemed to slow down as Esther’s brain recognized the thick leather pouch for what it was: a man’s purse, heavy with money. It could only have come from one place, the prone man’s coat.

Voices erupted around her and people drew closer.

Before Esther could think twice, she shifted her skirt to hide the purse.

Esther! a voice shrieked in her head. What are you doing?

Esther could barely hear the question her heart was pounding so violently, her blood whooshing in her ears.

The coach driver’s feet skidded to stop beside her and he dropped into a crouch as others milled around them, the air thick with chatter.

“Lor’! I told the fool to mind ‘is head! Twice, I did,” the driver insisted, his terrified gaze on the body—an extremely expensively clad body, she could not help noticing.

The unconscious man suddenly belched and Esther’s eyes watered.

“His is a disgusting drunk.” This pronouncement came from a spare, spinsterish looking woman garbed in serviceable, but well-made clothing that proclaimed her profession as that of a nurse or governess. The woman turned her bitter, assessing glance from the man on the ground to the driver. “And you allowed him to drive the carriage not far back. Do not even attempt to deny it!” she snapped when the driver’s face flushed darkly, and he opened his mouth.

“Summon the constable,” the woman coldly advised Esther, as if she were somehow in charge. “He will know what to do with him.”

“Ach, woman!” an older, white-haired stranger said, cutting the spinster a disapproving glance. “Ain’t no cause for the law. The big lad just needs a good sleep,”

“He is no lad!” the woman retorted.

“He is from where I’m standing,” the man said, earning some chuckles from the growing crowd.

The two commenced to argue and the driver cut Esther a questioning look. “What should I do with him?”

Why are you asking me? she almost asked. And then recalled the money beneath her skirt.

“Check his pockets and see if he has anything that might identify him, perhaps a calling card,” one of the other people—a passenger by the looks of her—said to Esther.

The driver nodded. “Aye. Go on, then.”

Now is your chance! Move your skirt, Esther. Esther!

But Esther did not move her skirts.

Instead, under the gaze of at least two dozen people, she carefully unbuttoned the man’s coat just enough so that she could check his pockets.

But all she turned up after her uncomfortably intimate and thorough search was a half-eat packet of boiled sweets and an empty flask. She unscrewed the lid on the flask and winced. “Spirits,” she said, although she did not have enough experience to know which one.

The crowd responded with a mix of tolerant chuckles, disgusted gasps, and unsolicited suggestions as to what should be done with the man.

All the while, Esther thought about the purse she was hiding. Was there a card inside it?

The discussion around her had begun to get louder when John Bixby, the mayor, constable, and owner of the inn, all wrapped into one, joined the milling crowd.

Esther met his glance. She liked Bixby, he was a generous widower who had more often than not given Esther day old food that had not sold. He also employed two of her boys, even though neither had really possessed any skill for the jobs. She saw a hint of worry in his warm brown eyes and knew he was thinking not only of the injured man, but the fact that it had been his sign that had injured him.

“I can take care of him until he is conscious,” Esther blurted.

Oh, Esther.

Bixby’s relieved, grateful smile told her that is what he’d hoped for. Otherwise, he would need to keep the man in one of his rooms at the inn.

“That is kind of you, Miss Graves. I’ll send Rob and Kev with the gig so that you can take him back to Mrs. Porter’s house. Er, your house,” he amended. His confident voice quieted most of the voices around him. Except one.

“The scoundrel should be put in your root cellar, Bixby.”

Esther cringed at the sound of Sebastian Callow’s nasal voice and saw that he was astride his horse, looking down at the proceedings, his expression as odiously condescending as ever as they slid from the body to Esther, his eyes kindling.

“That hardly seems necessary,” Esther was startled to hear herself say. Bixby’s root cellar was not only cold and unpleasant, but it also doubled as a gaol cell.

Callow smirked and opened his mouth.

“I agree with Miss Graves,” Bixby said, cutting the squire’s son a glance that held only the minimum of respect.

Callow snorted but kept his peace, his gaze settling on Esther.

“I will send the doctor out, Miss Graves,” Bixby said. The offer was a generous one as the innkeeper would probably have to pay Doctor Sheldon’s fee out of his own pocket.

Because you have stolen the stranger’s purse.

Esther swallowed at the thought and glanced around, afraid she’d somehow said the words out loud. But only Callow was watching her.

“This seems most unusual,” the governessy woman’s voice rose above the general murmur. Several other people nodded in agreement. Esther noticed it was only the people on the carriage who looked unconvinced by Bixby’s kinder solution.

“John Bixby is our mayor. And what he decides is what we will do.” Mrs. Barker’s voice came from behind Esther. The shopkeeper spared a sharp gaze for Esther, making sure she knew that it was not Esther she was approving of, but Bixby.

“All right, ladies and gents,” Bixby said, making shooing gestures to the crowd. “Move along now, the show is over.” He turned to the driver, who still looked worried. “I daresay your team has already been changed. You’d best be off.”

The driver nodded slowly.

“A free pint for everyone whose journey has been disturbed,” Bixby said, his words setting most of the crowd in motion.

“I don’t want ale,” the fussy woman complained, but fell into step with the others.

The last thing Esther heard was Bixby promising her tea instead.

“You’ll make sure he knows it weren’t my fault, eh?” the driver asked Esther, torn but clearly eager to be on his way.

“I saw it all happen and it was not your fault,” she assured him. “He was standing even after you shouted the warning.”

“Thank you, miss.” He trotted off just as Bixby’s gig rolled out of the inn courtyard, Rob and Kev running alongside the vehicle while Ned, the giant ostler from the Pig and Truffle, handled the cob’s reins.

“What an angel of mercy you are, Esther.”

She gritted her teeth at Callow’s voice and cut him an impatient glance. Why was the man lingering?

Kev reached her first, his hazel eyes huge as they took in Esther and the fallen man. “Who is he?” he asked, dropping to his knees beside her.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I told Mr. Bixby I’d care for him until he awakens, and we can learn who he is.”

And then he—whoever he is—can discover that his purse is missing. And that you suddenly have money to buy food and—

“Will you help lift him into the gig?” Esther asked the cluster of people, mostly men, still loitering.

The men scrambled to help—all except Callow, who smirked and said, “I must be on my way,” and rode off—which was all the time Esther needed to slip a hand beneath her skirt, close her fist around the purse, and then shove it into the side-slit in her gown, dropping it into petticoat pocket while pretending to beat the dirt from her skirts.

The men lifted her patient into the back of the cart and Ned climbed back into the seat. “You’ll need help unloading him at the other end,” he explained at Esther’s startled look.

“Oh, of course,” Esther said. “I will ride in the back beside him.”

Ned turned to the boys. “I’ll need your help, Kevin, so you come along with us and help me unload the bloke when we get to Miss Esther’s. Rob, you go on back. Mr. Bixby will have need of you.”

It gave her a pang to hear the old cottage, for years called Mrs. Pringle’s place, now referred to as Miss Esther’s. She had lived with the old lady for six years, never expecting until the very end that Mrs. P would leave the house and all its contents—and the care of the other vive residents—in Esther’s care.

Just think how proud she would be about what you did today.

Esther firmly shut the door on her conscience and climbed up into the back of the cart and sat beside the unconscious stranger.

As the cart rumbled along, she studied him. There was no denying he was an extremely attractive man. His bright auburn hair was striking, his features sharply chiseled, except for his lips which were full and curved up at the ends even in repose. The deep lines around his mouth attested to the fact that he smiled often.

He had a vicious goose egg on his forehead. Really, it was a miracle he was not dead he’d hit the sign so hard. His clothing was expensive and must have been well-tailored at some point, although now it fit him poorly, the bulge of his belly straining the buttons of his coat.

He was not only bruised from the sign, but his face bore the puffy, bloated skin of a man who drank too much.

Esther told herself that stealing from him at least would keep him from drinking for a day or two, but the argument was less than convincing.

You still have time to give the money back, he doesn’t even know you took it. Nobody knows.

Nobody but me.

Esther sighed and stared at the rutted path as the wagon rumbled home, her hand resting on the large lump in her skirt pocket. Even if the coins and bills were small, it was probably far more money than she’d ever had in her life. It would feed—

“Ughng.”

Esther’s head whipped around, and she stared down into the greenest pair of eyes she had ever seen.

“Stop the wagon, Ned!”

The ostler reined the old horse to a halt and both he and Kevin turned.

“My name is Miss Graves,” Esther said quietly. “Thou were struck in thy head and fell from the top of the stagecoach.”

The man merely stared; his pupils swollen even though it was a bright day outside.

“Canst thou hear me, sir?”

He gave a slight nod and then winced.

“What is thy name, Friend? Tell me, we can send for thy people.”

He sucked in a deep breath and his eyes narrowed in pain. “My name is—” He frowned, his forehead creasing. “My name is—” Fear, terror, and utter surprise flickered across his face. “Bloody Hell! I can’t remember my name!”

***

I hope you enjoyed this free sneak peek into Declan’s story, THE SPIRIT OF LOVE. If you would like to pre-order a copy, you can order one HERE.

If you have not read the rest of the series, I recommend starting with THE MUSIC OF LOVE, which you can check out HERE.

Have you read my other series?

Click HERE to read about my BELLAMY SISTERS series. The first book in The Bellamy Sisters, Phoebe, is a reader favorite.

Happy reading!