Read The Lady Who Came in from the Cold Online
Authors: Grace Callaway
Tags: #regency historical romance
The Lady Who Came in from the Cold
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The Lady Who Came in from the Cold
© Grace Callaway, 2015
ISBN
: 978-1939537171
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
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A Wife Disgraced
A spy during the Napoleonic Wars, Lady Pandora Blackwood gave up espionage for love. She has shared everything with her husband… except the truth of her past. Twelve joyous years and three children later, her dark history rises to threaten everything she holds dear. Now she must face her greatest fear: can her husband love her for who she really is?
A Husband Wronged
Former officer Marcus Harrington, the Marquess of Blackwood, didn’t believe in love until he met his beautiful Penny. His devoted marchioness by day and his sensual wanton by night, she’s everything he’s ever wanted… until her betrayal shatters him. When his world comes crashing down, he is left to question: was their perfect marriage real or just a dream?
’Tis the Season for Miracles
As a cold winter grips Regency London, the estranged lovers come together in a heated reunion. Sizzling passion paves the way toward forgiveness, yet buried secrets and hidden enemies block the road to redemption. This Christmas, a wife will stop at nothing to win her beloved back… and a husband will discover that love’s reality exceeds his wildest dreams.
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Praise for Grace’s Books
“
Her Husband’s Harlot
is a pleasing, out of the ordinary read.”—
Dear Author
“Erotic historical romance isn’t as plentiful as many would think, but here you have a very well-written example of this genre. It’s entertaining and fun and a darn good read.”—
The Book Binge
“
I devoured this book in a couple of hours!…. If you love a story with a heroine who is a wallflower with a backbone of steel or a damaged hero then you will love this one too.”—5 star review from
Love Romance Passion
on
Her Wanton Wager
“I found this to be an exceptional novel. I recommend it to anyone who wants to get lost in a good book, because I certainly was.”—A Top Pick from
Night Owl Reviews
“I thoroughly enjoyed this story. Grace Callaway is a remarkable writer.”—
Love Romance Passion
on
Her Prodigal Passion
"The depth of the characters was wonderful and I was immediately cheering for both of them."—
Buried Under Romance
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Explore other books by Grace:
HEART OF ENQUIRY
The Widow Vanishes
The Duke Who Knew Too Much
M is for Marquess
The Lady Who Came in from the Cold
The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (2016)
MAYHEM IN MAYFAIR
Her Husband's Harlot
Her Wanton Wager
Her Protector's Pleasure
Her Prodigal Passion
CHRONICLES OF ABIGAIL JONES
Abigail Jones
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Chapter One
France, 1813
At the sound of her bodice ripping, Pandora clenched her teeth and pushed away the soldier’s groping hands.
Blooming hell. My mission’s going to be foiled—by a bleeding foot wabbler?
It was her own dashed fault. She should have been more careful. Her disguise as a trull—a camp prostitute—was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it gave her access to the army encampment; on the other, it made her appear fair game to the lusty, drunken foot soldier presently accosting her. She’d chosen the dark path at the edge of the camp to avoid such pitfalls, but the bounder had stumbled out of nowhere.
“Let’s warm ourselves with a tickle, eh dove?” he leered, his words puffing in the wintry night. “Share some real Yuletide cheer?”
In the cold moonlight, she saw his glazed eyes and unshaven face, and her stomach lurched at his stench of liquor and unwashed flesh. Memories of another time rose like a dark tide, but she pushed them back. At nineteen, she was no longer a helpless girl. She’d killed men far stronger and cleverer than the bastard in front of her.
In fact, she’d done so not a quarter hour ago.
Which left her with a problem: she couldn’t afford to leave
another
dead body in the camp. One fatality might be attributed to natural causes (certainly the poison she’d used was designed to mimic death from a heart ailment). Two corpses, however, would definitely rouse suspicion.
A good spy leaves no incision
, Octavian always said.
In and out.
Octavian was her mentor, the man who’d plucked her from the gutters and given her a new life and purpose—and the tools with which to practice her new trade. He’d even given her a new identity:
Pompeia.
She was the only female agent that he’d recruited into his elite espionage ring, and it was an honor and privilege she did not take lightly.
No, she wouldn’t let Octavian down… which meant no more killing for the night. She’d have to brazen her way out of the situation. Luckily, she had some skill at dealing with the opposite sex.
Planting her palms firmly against her attacker’s chest, she used the Cockney of her childhood. “Another time, luv. Got a couple o’ brats in me tent squallin’ for their supper.”
Nothing like the mention of children to throw ashes on a man’s libido.
“Let ’em wait. I’ll feast my fill, then they can ’ave theirs, eh?” Smirking, he cupped her bottom and squeezed.
Disgusting.
She slapped his hand away, moved out of reach.
Feigning an apologetic look, she said, “’Fraid there’s another problem, sir. I’ve a fire on board.” She waggled her brows. “Wouldn’t want your mast to get burned by the flames.”
If the threat of venereal disease wasn’t enough to stop him, nothing was.
“Only one thing to lower my mast tonight. Fire or not, I’m coming in,” he slurred.
He launched himself at her, and she took an instinctive step backward, only to trip on a blasted rock. Her breath left in a whoosh as her back hit the frost-hardened ground. He wasted no time in clambering atop her, fumbling to push her skirts up.
“No,” she gritted out. “Stop it. Get off me, you bastard.”
He didn’t take any notice.
Blast it.
He left her with no choice. She’d have to choke him unconscious; mayhap when he came to, he’d forget what happened, think he’d passed out in the dark. It wasn’t the clean exit she’d hoped for, but it was a damned sight better than getting raped in the dark. Digging the heels of her boots into the dirt, she readied to leverage her strength, to reverse their positions so that she could plant her arm against his windpipe and cut off his supply of air.
Just as she tensed to act, her attacker’s weight suddenly disappeared. Blinking, she watched him hurtle backward into the darkness. The next second, she scrambled to her feet and saw that another figure had materialized: this one was tall, broad-shouldered—and strong, by the looks of how easily he subdued her assailant. After a brief grapple, he twisted his opponent’s arm and used it to drive the other to his knees. The soldier cursed and moaned but couldn’t escape.
“I could have you court-martialed for this,” the stranger snapped.
His captive stopped struggling instantly. “Lieutenant-Colonel Harrington.
Sir
.” Though still slurred, the soldier’s voice now held a note of fear. “I-I didn’t know it was you. B-beg pardon—”
“Bradley, is it?”
Even in the dimness, Pandora saw the reluctance of Bradley’s nod. “Y-yes, sir.”
“It isn’t my pardon you should be begging.” Harrington released Bradley with a shove, his gaze locking on her. “Are you all right, miss?”
“I’m fine,” she managed.
She’d seen too much, known too much to be surprised by anyone. But Lieutenant-Colonel Harrington was unlike any man she’d ever met. She knew his name, of course; anyone who kept abreast of England’s struggles with Napoleon did. Over the past few years, he’d become one of the nation’s heroes because of the courage and valor he’d shown on the battlefield. Just twelve days ago, he’d been part of Lieutenant-General Hill’s valiant efforts to stave off the French attack at St. Pierre. It was rumored that Wellington planned to bestow a commendation upon Harrington.
What surprised Pandora wasn’t just Harrington’s youth (he looked to be in his mid-twenties—young for an officer of his rank and achievements). No, it was also the fact that this much-lauded hero was addressing her as courteously as if she were some Mayfair debutante and not the painted strumpet she was currently disguised as. His fierce eyes—she couldn’t tell their color in the dimness—stayed on her face and didn’t wander to the expanse of flesh displayed by her torn bodice.
“See? N-nothing ’appened, sir.” Stumbling to his feet, Bradley rubbed at his arm, his voice just short of a whine. “We were just ’aving a bit ’o fun—”
“It didn’t sound like fun to me.” Harrington’s tone had a dangerous edge that raised the hairs on Pandora’s skin—and, intriguingly, not in a bad way. “I heard the lady tell you no. She told you to stop.”
Blanching, Bradley nonetheless said unwisely, “But she’s just a trull—”
“And that gives you the right to assault her?” Harrington demanded.
“N-no, sir, I didn’t mean… that is…”