Love Unbound

Prologue

Saint Kitts, Caribbean, 1829

The house, like the rest of the island, could have been beautiful. It should have been with its elegant, white columns stretching to the roof of the second story and the wide veranda that encircled the entire building on both floors. Palm trees flanked the large, square plantation house, their brown trunks and green leaves a stunning contrast to its yellow paint and the brilliant blue sky beyond. 

So different from the smoke of London. Little wonder Katherine had stayed, had loved it here. He had loved it, too, on his last visit, over two years ago. Why didn’t I return sooner? A lump lodged itself in Graham Murray’s throat as he thought of his sister in this place, imagined her smiling and happy, waving to him from the balcony as she’d welcomed him at long last—after years of begging him to visit. 

Various flowering plants—none of which he was familiar with—boasting red, orange, and yellow blossoms, lined the long drive. Yellow had been Katherine’s favorite color. The pit in Graham’s stomach told him he’d probably detest it for the rest of his life now. Just as he’d be loath to remember these moments, and this house—where she had died—forever. 

The ancient, withered handler pulled the phaeton to a halt at the top of the drive. Graham hadn’t expected him to actually get them here and would not have been surprised had the old man keeled over en route. Fortunately he hadn’t, so Graham paid him twice the quoted fare, thanked him, and asked him to wait. Then, with heavy heart and steps, he made his way up a half dozen stairs to the double front doors and knocked.

“Mas’r not home,” a Negro woman informed him before the door was even halfway open. A bright red wrap encircled her head, and her apron sported several green stains, as if she’d been shelling peas or snapping beans over it. She kept one hand on the door, as if prepared to slam it in his face.

“I’m not here to see the master,” Graham said, his teeth grating at the term. So much the better if he didn’t have to see the man who’d wrongfully taken over Katherine’s plantation, claiming it as his own. There was much to be settled in court later, but all of that could wait. “I am looking for two children. A girl, Ayla, and a—”

“Mas’r not home,” the woman repeated, her eyes darting to the left as she spoke this time.

He’s right here. Graham’s jaw clenched, refusing to utter such a declaration. No man should be another’s master, and he’d no intention of taking on that role, no matter what his supposed rights were. “I don’t care where he is,” Graham said, impatient with the woman and her still-shifting eyes. “I am here for—”

The sharp crack of a whip, followed by a scream, cut off his response.

The Negress’s hand clenched in her apron, and tears flooded her eyes as they sought his imploringly. A second crack sounded, the scream that followed piercing his heart. Graham pivoted and ran the length of the veranda. 

He rounded a corner and vaulted down a set of wide steps to a side yard where a tall post had been erected. A recent addition. Not Katherine’s doing. A child hung by bound wrists, her back exposed by the vicious lashes that had torn her dress.

“Stop!” Graham shouted as he ran, then immediately regretted it. Years of experience with his father had taught him the futility and foolishness of asking a bully to desist. He’d only given his adversary warning of his presence. 

The man spared Graham half a glance over his shoulder before the whip cracked a third time, sending its victim into a jerking spasm of pain. 

Graham reached the man wielding it, grabbed the hand holding the whip, and twisted it behind the man’s back, jerking the arm upward until he heard a satisfying snap. 

The man writhed and cursed, bucking against Graham. “I’ll have your head for this. Just like I had your sister.”

Higgins. With a powerful surge of anger and hatred, Graham shoved the previous foreman away a split second before his head could slam backward into Graham’s jaw. Higgins stumbled forward, his arm hanging. The hateful man deserved far more than a broken arm, and Graham dearly wanted to pummel Higgins’s face until it was unrecognizable. To shatter every single rib. To— 

A pitiful cry from the girl still hanging at the post silenced Graham’s violent thoughts. He drew his gun and started toward her as Higgins caught himself and whirled around, a pistol in his good hand. 

 A shot echoed through the yard, ricocheting off the surrounding buildings. Bright red blood seeped through Higgins’s linen shirt, over his heart, as he crumpled. 

Finally gone for good. Katherine had dismissed him immediately upon her husband’s death, ending the reign of terror he’d inflicted upon all who lived and worked here. 

Or so she had believed. What part did Higgins play in her death?

Graham strode forward, bent, and swiped the gun from the dead man’s hand. Keeping it drawn, his eyes darting in every direction, he tucked his own weapon into his belt as he ran to the child. 

He pulled a knife from his boot then tucked Higgins’s pistol beside his own. He cut the girl free, catching her as she fell. She cried out again as his arms connected with her torn flesh. Graham crouched, lowering her gently to the ground. “Can you stand?”

She nodded and lifted her face to his. Two light blue eyes peered up at him. Graham startled. Ayla? It had to be.He took in her features—hair long and sleek, pulled into a tight plait that wound around her head, and her skin a beautiful mix of color. Not nearly as dark as the driver’s or the woman’s at the door, but also not as fair as his. Perhaps the most beautiful child he had ever seen—exactly as his sister had described in her many letters. And exactly what he had thought of Ayla when they had met two Christmases ago. 

Her beauty was still evident, though there was a hardness to her that had not been present before. Her childlike features were still there, but the innocence was gone. She looked far older than her years—weary, worn, and wise now to the cruelties of the world. Or at least of the island. There would likely be more cruelties in life ahead of her. He hoped they would be significantly less than those she’d endured already.

“Where is your brother?” Graham asked. 

Ayla’s lips pressed together and her small chin lifted defiantly as she took a step back from him and nearly fell. 

Graham reached for her, holding her arm briefly until she’d regained her balance. 

“I’ve no wish to harm either of you,” Graham said. “I’ve come to take you both far away from here. My sister wished that. She asked it of me. I have her last letter.” As he reached toward his pocket, Ayla’s eyes widened and flashed upward.

Graham whirled around, and a shovel connected with his cheekbone, slicing his skin and shooting pain up the side of his face. “Run!” he shouted to Ayla, blood trickling down his cheek as he faced this new assailant.

A tall, burly man held up the shovel and circled him. “You’ll pay for this.” As he inclined his head toward Higgins’s body, Graham reached for the gun at his waist, the one that hadn’t been fired yet, but it wasn’t there. 

A screeching noise and laughter sounded to his right. A boy, only slightly taller than Ayla, pranced around, both weapons in his hands.

How— It didn’t matter. Graham was facing a giant, weaponless. I’m not dying here. Even more important, he wasn’t leaving his niece and nephew here to suffer. He’d let Katherine down in many ways, but not in this. 

The shovel swung toward him again, and Graham jumped back, barely avoiding a strike to his head. He ran to the side and ducked, avoiding a second swipe. How long before his attacker gave up and made use of the more efficient weapon the boy held? Or maybe the boy himself would shoot.

“I’m here to help you,” Graham called as he ran past the child and the other boys clustered around him. “I want to free you as my sister did.”

The laughter ceased. The man holding the shovel barked a command, and the boys scattered. 

Sweat beaded on Graham’s brow as he studied his attacker, noting the similarities to Higgins. His son? A younger brother?

 The blood trickling down the side of Graham’s face made it into his mouth. No time to spit. He tried not to swallow. He backed up again as the man wielding the shovel stepped closer.

He intends to pin me against the house. Graham glanced quickly in either direction. A wood pile. A chopping block. A calculated calm descended, and he staggered back, feigning confusion and fear as he took one more look, moving his head back and forth as if panicked and desperate. 

An evil glint shone in the madman’s eyes as he moved closer. Almost within striking distance. “I can’t wait to dig your innards out and feed ’em to the dogs.” 

Three steps. Reach. Throw. “I didn’t come here for trouble,” Graham said, hands out in front of him as he moved back, his body angled so the axe remained unseen. Just a little closer. “I came to collect my niece and nephew—there.” He nodded to a spot behind his attacker, where Ayla had stood. It was vacant now. 

The man didn’t quite turn, but in the half-second he hesitated Graham snatched the axe and threw it. It flew one turn, end over end, just missing the shovel and striking its target in the center of his forehead. A howl rent the air. The shovel clattered to the ground, the man crumpled, and Graham ran. Behind him a shot rang out. He whirled around and caught sight of the boy with his gun, standing on the balcony above, the smoking weapon aimed at the unmoving body of the man with the axe in his head. 

The boy raised his hands high. “Make free!”

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Chapter 1

London, England, 1831

Miss Sophia Claybourne was a practiced flirt—a disappointing observation that Graham ascertained in the first five minutes he followed her every polished move around the overcrowded drawing room of her father’s London townhouse. She never conversed with any one man too long before becoming caught up in conversing with another, only to leave that gentleman in favor of another’s company, and yet another’s after that. An age-old ploy to encourage jealousy. 

Graham had seen it previously, and he’d seen enough tonight to know that he disliked what he saw. His position behind three potted palms—trees Lord Claybourne had imported from Saint Kitts, no doubt—afforded him an excellent viewpoint while keeping him out of sight. Lord Claybourne had invited more guests to this little soirée than his townhome could comfortably accommodate, and thus far that had worked in Graham’s favor, both in his ability to enter on the coattails of his friend, Lord William Fitzgerald, and to remain unseen. Dinner would likely prove more challenging, but Lady Claybourne had arranged for him to be seated at the far end of the long table, among the lowest of the fifty or so guests and hopefully out of sight of her husband, who would no doubt be preoccupied impressing those guests of greater importance seated near him. 

But remaining anonymous until later was at present the least of Graham’s concerns. What to do about Miss Claybourne was the far more pressing matter. He’d been led to believe, by one of her previous suitors, that she was a bookish woman. Graham saw no signs of that now but instead saw only the insipid demeanor so prevalent in females of the ton, whose only thoughts most often involved which titled and wealthy men they might ensnare to elevate their own statuses and fulfill their every desire for jewels and gowns and the like. If that was the case with Miss Claybourne . . . Newsome can have her. They deserved each other. 

But the men and women of Saint Kitts who would suffer because of such a union did not deserve that. Graham’s jaw clenched. No matter what he saw in Miss Claybourne, he had to steady the course. In addition to fulfilling his own purposes, he’d given his word to her mother as well. 

Her mother . . .Graham’s eyes strayed from Miss Claybourne to Lady Claybourne, busy in her own gossip circles. She appeared about as intelligent as her daughter, yet the letter she’d written to him had definitely sounded otherwise. Could it have been a ploy? Was a viscount perhaps not good enough for her daughter, and Lady Claybourne had hatched a plot to snare a duke instead—even one with as dark a reputation as his?

Graham mulled this over as he searched the room for Miss Claybourne once more and could not find her.

“Ill-mannered, loathsome toad,” a female voice muttered behind him. 

“Beg pardon,” Graham said gruffly as he turned and discovered the object of his thoughts standing with her back to him, speaking under her breath all manner of egregious insults as she rubbed her hands up and down her arms, as if to rid them of something unpleasant. He was used to being called names—several of them—but not usually so early in the evening and not before he had made someone’s acquaintance. It seemed his reputation preceded him more and more. 

Had the chit’s mother alerted her to their plans? He reached a hand between the palms and snagged two flutes of champagne from the tray of a passing footman. It would not do to start out poorly with Miss Claybourne, no matter how much he already disliked her. Guessing that she had not heard him before, he cleared his throat.

“I understand congratulations are in order, Miss Claybourne.” He held one of the glasses out to her as she turned to face him. 

 Suspicion flashed in her eyes, and she frowned, making no move to accept his offering. “I do not believe we have met.” She tilted her head slightly, looking up at him, and he noted the magnificent blue of her eyes and the hint of intelligence behind them.

“We haven’t.” 

The bell announcing dinner rang, signaling that he had but a minute to complete his business and discover whether or not she was already betrothed. Formalities would have to wait. “I hear congratulations are in order,” he repeated.

Her brow furrowed and her frown deepened. “I am not certain for what, unless you wish to congratulate me on keeping my temper thus far this evening. I am rather proud of myself for not smashing a glass over any of these fops’ heads.” She snatched the glass from his still outstretched hand and raised it to her lips but did not drink. “Oh, dear.” She sighed heavily. “I did not mean to imply that you were one of them.” Her gaze drifted over him, as if fully seeing him for the first time, and she took a step backward, as if preparing to run. 

“No offense taken,” Graham said, offering her a lazy smile. “I am not one—not a gentleman at all, or so many say.”

“What a relief.” She sipped her drink. “Then my father would not approve of my marrying you, and I have no need to fear that our conversing will lead to your interest and another unwanted proposal.” Miss Claybourne returned his smile, and he felt sudden pity for all those fops. He realized that she had not been flirting but attempting to avoid encouraging anyone’s affections and to shake the pack of pups that had been following her about. And still were, he noticed as he glanced through the space between the palms at a room of searching gentlemen.

 He could hardly blame the men for wanting to be in her company. If women of the ton were guilty of chasing men with money, the men were equally so, and Lord Claybourne had provided ample incentive. But men also chased beautiful women, and Miss Claybourne was not lacking in beauty either. Rich, honey-colored hair was swept back on either side by a set of jeweled combs, before being caught up in a mass of curls that revealed a slender, elegant neck and bare shoulders. Those glorious eyes were topped by long lashes and defined brows. Her skin looked not porcelain white, as so many of the women’s of the ton did, but had a healthy glow, as if she walked outside frequently and often forgot her bonnet. 

But he sensed that her beauty was perhaps more burden than blessing. Certainly her unusual dowry was.

“We should probably go in,” she said, looking past him to the doors that had opened to a large dining room.

Graham gave a little bow and stepped aside so that she might pass. “My many congratulations on your betrothal, Miss Claybourne.” He said her name again, so there could be no doubt that he was talking to her, about her. 

Her gaze snapped back to his. “I am not betrothed.”

The intensity of his relief took him by surprise. He feigned confusion and then regret. “My apologies. I had heard that Lord Newsome—”

“Lord Nuisance and I?” She shook her head, and her nose crinkled as if she’d encountered a foul odor. “He is annoying, to be sure—mostly to our beleaguered staff—but he is merely my father’s business partner. Nothing more. We have spoken less than a dozen words to each other over the past weeks since their arrival from Saint Kitts.” She shook her head again. “He is not interested in me.” 

Graham lowered his voice and spoke with urgency as she moved past him. “He is more than interested. Lord Newsome visited with your father last week and offered for you. Announcing your engagement is the reason for this gathering.” 

Miss Claybourne’s gasp of revulsion and utter expression of horror told Graham all he needed to know. She had not been aware of her father’s plans. She did not wish to marry Newsome. 

Miss Claybourne turned back to him, arms wrapped around herself protectively even as she shook her head in denial. “No. No, he wouldn’t.” 

“I am afraid that he already has,” Graham said somberly, imagining how it must feel to be a female, whose fate depended upon the whim of her idiot father. His sister had suffered similarly. 

“You’re wrong,” Miss Claybourne insisted and stepped out from the shelter of the palms. Her chin lifted as her eyes landed on Lord Newsome—a slight, slimy worm of a man, in Graham’s opinion. 

Newsome caught sight of her as well and started toward her, a smug grin plastered across his ugly face. Miss Claybourne swallowed, then closed her eyes briefly and brought a delicate hand to her throat.

Graham imagined she felt as though a noose rested there.

He took a step closer, and his fingers brushed her elbow briefly before they parted. “Don’t lose hope.”

He wasn’t certain she’d heard him until she glanced his way once more, her magnificent blue eyes glittering, not with tears, but with determination. 

Oddly enough, he was the one who left their brief encounter more hopeful than he had been in some time.

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