Authors: Kat Martin
Heart of Honor
Heart of Honor
To my mom, who recently passed away,
for all her years of love and support.
I miss you, Mom.
England, 1842
L
eif shivered beneath the thin blanket that was all he had to warm his nearly naked body against the chill. It was not yet spring, the country roads muddy or still partly frozen. A weak sun appeared sporadically, sifting through the clouds, shining here and there for a few brief moments before disappearing again.
A sharp wind whipped the edge of the blanket and Leif pulled it closer around him. He had no idea where he was, only that he traveled through a rolling countryside marked by occasional villages, on uneven roads lined with low walls made of stone. He had been in this land for more than four passings of the moon, though mayhap he had lost track of time. All he knew for certain was that his small ship had been dashed against a rocky shore somewhere north of here, carrying his nine companions to a watery grave and leaving his own body broken and battered.
A shepherd had found him lying in the icy surf and had taken him in, nursing him through a burning fever. Leif had been barely among the living when traders came, paid the shepherd in silver coin and dragged Leif away.
They wanted him because he looked different, because he
was
different than any of the men in this foreign land. He could not speak their language, nor understand a word of what they said, which seemed to amuse them and somehow enhance his worth. He was at least five inches taller than most of the men, his body far more muscular. Though some of them were blond, as he was, few wore beards, and none as long and shaggy as his. And their hair was cut short, while his grew past his shoulders.
Leif had been weak, unable to defend himself, when he had been lifted into the back of a wagon and driven from the shepherd’s hut. As his strength began to return, the people who had taken him began to fear him, and his legs and arms were shackled with bands of heavy iron. He was shoved into a cage not nearly big enough for a man of his size, forced to crouch in the straw on the floor like an animal.
He was a prisoner in this hostile land, an oddity to be displayed to the people of the countryside, a cruel form of entertainment. They paid to see him, he knew. The fat man with a scar on his face who brought him food collected coins from the people who gathered around his cage. The man—Snively, he was called—beat and prodded him, goaded him into a violent temper, which seemed to please the crowd who had paid their money to see him.
Leif hated the man. He hated all of them.
Where he had lived, he was a free man, a man of rank among his people. His father had begged him not to leave the safety of his home, but Leif had been driven to see the world beyond his island. Since then, he had seen little outside his cage, and the hate and anger inside him gnawed like a hungry beast. Daily he prayed to the gods to help him escape, to give him strength until that time came. He promised himself it would happen, vowed he would make it so, and it was all that kept him sane.
But day after day, no chance came and the despair inside him deepened. He felt as if he were becoming the animal they drove him to be, and only in death would he ever find peace.
Leif fought the dark despair and clung to the faint hope that someday he would again be free.
London, England
1842
“I
tell you, girl, it is time you did your duty!” The Earl of Hampton’s knotted, veined hand slammed down on the table.
Krista Hart jumped at the sound. “My duty? It is scarcely my
duty
to marry a man I cannot abide!” They were attending a ball at the Duke of Mansfield’s town mansion. Through the library walls, she could hear the music of an eight-piece orchestra playing in the lavish mirrored ballroom upstairs.
“What is wrong with Lord Albert?” A tall, silver-haired man, slightly stooped—her grandfather—fixed his pale blue eyes on her. “He is young and not unattractive, the second son of the Marquess of Lindorf, a member of one of the most prominent families in England.”
“Lord Albert is a complete and utter toad. The man is vain and prissy and full of himself. He is conceited and not particularly intelligent, and I am not the least bit interested in marrying him.”
Her grandfather’s wrinkled face turned red. “Is there a man in the whole of London who would please you, Krista? I am beginning to believe there is not. It is your responsibility to provide me with a grandson to secure the line—and time is slipping away!”
“I know my duty, Grandfather. I have been told often enough.” With no direct male heirs, by special writ of the late king the Hampton title could pass through the female side of the family to the first male offspring. After her mother had died, it became Krista’s sworn duty, her family believed, to provide that heir. “I am not disinclined to marriage. It is just—”
“Just that you are too busy running that confounded
gazette
of yours.” He said the word with a vehemence that matched the ruddy hue of his face. “Your father indulged your mother in her silly desire to work like a commoner, and now he is indulging you. No decent woman of our social class holds a
job,
for God’s sake. Or associates with the lower elements, as you do in order to produce your ridiculous magazine.”
“
Heart to Heart
is not the least bit ridiculous. Our articles are educational as well as informative, and I am extremely proud of the work we do.”
He made a harrumphing sound. “Your blasted gazette aside, it is time you thought of the future, time you assumed your responsibilities as my only surviving offspring and gave me the heir I need.”
Krista walked toward him, the petticoats beneath the full skirt of her plum silk gown swishing against her legs as she approached where he stood next to the ornate table in the library. They’d had this conversation a number of times before—always with the same result—but she loved her grandfather and she didn’t want to displease him.
Leaning over, she kissed his pale cheek. “I want a husband and family nearly as much as you want me to have them, Grandfather, but I refuse to marry a man like Lord Albert. I am certain that in time I will meet the right man.”
And perhaps she already had. Last week she had made the acquaintance of a friend of her father’s named Matthew Carlton. Matthew was an associate professor and the second son of the Earl of Lisemore, just the sort of man her family wanted her to wed, and Matthew had truly seemed interested in pursuing a relationship.
Still, she didn’t dare mention that fact to her grandfather for fear he would begin to pressure her and perhaps even Matthew.
The earl looked her in the eye. “I don’t want you to be unhappy. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I know. In time, it will surely work out.” At least that was what she hoped. But she was different from other women of her social class: unfashionably taller, more buxom—more independent. She didn’t have a line of suitors waiting outside her door, and her grandfather knew it.
“Time,” he scoffed, “is something an old man like me does not have.”
She reached down and caught his thin hand. “That is not true. You are still quite robust—do not deny it.” But as she looked at him, there was no doubt he was aging, and if she didn’t marry and begin a family soon, the title might—as the earl so deeply feared—be lost to some distant cousin.
The old man sighed. “You try my patience, girl,” he grumbled.
“I am sorry, Grandfather. I am doing the best I can.”
Krista said no more and neither did he. Blowing him a kiss as she left the library, she made her way out the door toward the sound of gaiety in the ballroom, but she was no longer in the mood to dance and pretend to enjoy herself.
Still, she had promised her grandfather and the hour was yet early. Making her way through the house in search of her father and her best friend, Coralee Whitmore, who had accompanied her to the ball, she thought of Matthew Carlton and wondered at the possibilities.
Leif leaned back against the bars of his cage. In the distance, he could hear the odd, lyrical sounds of the machine that played music whenever the traveling company rolled into a village. The sun was out, warming him a little, but his cage was parked in a shady spot and an icy wind raised goose bumps over his bare skin. The only garment he wore was a spotted animal skin just large enough to cover his rod and the rest of his man parts. It did nothing to warm him.
He looked out through the bars of his cage. In the past few weeks, he had lost track of how long he had been confined. Again and again, he had attacked the men who guarded him, fought like a madman for his freedom, but shackled and chained as he was, he’d had no real chance to escape.
He reached down and plucked up a blade of straw from the damp mound covering the floor of his cage. He had wanted to see the world outside his homeland. He scoffed. He had seen any number of amazing things in this foreign land, seen animals unlike any he had known existed, seen houses larger than his entire village back home. There were people of different colors, of every shape and size. If he was not locked in this cage, he would be fascinated by the sights and places in this new and strange world, but instead, he remained a prisoner, locked up and treated like a beast.
In the days since he had been taken captive, he had been laughed at, jeered at, stoned and beaten. The people thought he was mad, and some days he believed it, too. Worse were the ones who pitied him. He had seen women cry at the cruelties he suffered. He did not want their pity, but it made him think that mayhap all of the people in this world were not like the ones who had stolen his freedom. Mayhap one day he would find someone willing to help him. If only he could speak to them, make them understand.
He said a silent prayer to the gods, as he did each day, begging them to help him.
Mayhap one day they would. It might even be today.
Leif clung to the thought as the crowd began to form around his cage.
Tonight the sky was clear, a full moon brightening the London streets. Leaning back against the velvet seat of the carriage, Krista listened to the clip-clop of the horses’ iron shoes, grateful that the evening was coming to an end.
“Dear Lord, I hate these parties Grandfather is determined I attend.” Since the night the two of them had argued in the Duke of Mansfield’s library almost a month ago, Krista had dutifully been present at every soiree and house party to which she had received an invitation. Currently, she was on her way home from a musicale given by the Marquess of Camden.
Her grandfather wanted her to find a husband. She had an obligation to see it done.
A memory arose of Matthew Carlton and his pursuit of her these past few weeks, and she thought that her endeavors might actually be succeeding.
A dreamy sigh whispered through the carriage. “I think the party was marvelous.” On the seat beside her, Coralee Whitmore, her best friend since their days together at Briarhill Academy, leaned back against the deep velvet squabs of the carriage.. “If we didn’t have so much work to do on the morrow, I could have danced until dawn.”
Unlike Krista, who was very tall and blond, Coralee was petite, with dark-copper hair, green eyes and small, refined features. She loved dancing and parties and never seemed to grow tired of them. But the weekly gazette,
Heart to Heart,
that Krista and her father owned came first for them both, even if it meant leaving one of London’s most fashionable balls just after midnight.
Though it seemed far longer, it was only six years ago that Krista’s mother, Margaret Chapman Hart, had gone against her family’s wishes and the unwritten rules governing a woman’s place in society, and founded the magazine. Three years later, she had fallen ill and died, a long, protracted, painful death that left Krista shaken and grieving and her father even more grief-stricken than his daughter.
Krista had just turned eighteen the day she stood in the churchyard next to her mother’s grave, her father weeping softly beside her. Knowing how important the paper was to her mother, Krista had taken over the operation of the gazette, which, she soon discovered, gave her a purpose and helped her to heal. She was determined to make
Heart to Heart
a success, and she would do whatever she had to in order to achieve that end.
A sound drifted toward them from the opposite side of the carriage and Krista smiled at her father’s soft snore. Sir Paxton Hart was a retired professor of history, knighted by the Queen for his contributions to the study of arcane languages. Old Norse was his particular area of expertise, the language spoken by the early Scandinavian settlers. Viking lore was the professor’s specialty, and since his wife’s death, he had buried himself completely in his work.
“You can see how much Father enjoyed the evening,” Krista said to Corrie as she studied the lump he made on the seat, his head resting at an awkward angle against the red velvet. He was a tall, thin man with a straight, slightly too-long nose and brown hair turning to gray.
“Your father gets far more enjoyment from his studies.”
Krista shifted on the seat, trying to ignore the corset stays biting into her waist beneath her pale-green, taffeta ball gown. “Father wouldn’t have gone to the ball at all if he and Grandfather weren’t so determined to find me a husband.”
“And I assume the latest candidate is Matthew Carlton,” Corrie teased. “You danced with him at least three times tonight. I gather he has asked your father for permission to court you.”
Since they had first met more than a month ago, Matthew’s interest in Krista had grown. Last week he had spoken to her father. Matthew was just the sort of man her family wanted her to marry. Aside from that, she liked him and she was flattered by his interest. Still, she needed time to get to know him. She told herself that allowing a man to court her was a long way from marrying him.
“You could do a good deal worse, you know,” Corrie said as the carriage rolled along in the darkness, the lanterns inside giving the interior a soft yellow glow. “After all, the man is handsome and intelligent and—”
“Tall?” Krista interjected with a lift of a golden-blond eyebrow.
Corrie just laughed. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
But the truth was most men weren’t interested in wedding a woman who was taller than they were. It simply wasn’t the thing to do. “I was going to say he is also the son of an earl.”
But social rank didn’t matter to Krista. It was Corrie who thrived on society and the social whirl. She was a lady head to toe, the daughter of a viscount, raised with money and position. Coralee loved beautiful clothes, parties and outings to the opera and theater.
The only thing Corrie liked more was writing, and so, when Krista had taken over the gazette, she had convinced her friend to accept a job writing about the subjects she loved. Corrie had defied her family to take the position, and was currently in charge of the women’s section, which constituted a goodly portion of the magazine.
The coach turned into a long gravel drive and pulled to a halt beneath the overhang in front of Corrie’s house, an elegant, three-story stone structure in Grosvenor Square.
“I’ll see you at the office tomorrow,” she said as a footman helped her down the iron stairs. “And don’t forget you promised to attend the circus with me on Sunday.”
“I won’t forget.” Corrie wanted to write an article on the Circus Leopold for the women’s section of the gazette and had asked Krista to accompany her to the Sunday performance. Since Krista hadn’t been to a circus since she was a little girl, she thought it might be fun.
Corrie waved good-night as the footman escorted her up the wide granite steps to the massive front doors of the mansion, then returned to his place at the rear of the carriage. The coach rolled away and Krista’s father stirred on the seat across from her, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
“Are we home yet?”
“Soon, Father. We’re just round the corner.” Like Coralee, Krista came from a family with money, at least on her mother’s side. Margaret Chapman Hart had been born the daughter of an earl, and though she had married Paxton Hart, a near-penniless scholar, her status as a member of the aristocracy gave Krista entry into the highest ranks of society.
As far as Krista was concerned, it was more a burden than an asset.
They reached the house a few minutes later. The butler, Milton Giles, opened the door and, once they were inside, helped them remove their evening wraps: her father’s silk-lined cloak and Krista’s hooded cashmere cape.