The foul scent of murder hung in the air.

Trying to ignore his churning stomach and Penn’s cooling, blood-soaked body mere feet away, William slowly, soundlessly got to his feet behind the large chaise he had fallen beside. He only had one opportunity to take Claremont by surprise. Then it would be a fight to the death, and his enemy knew every dirty tactic in the book.

Taking one last deep breath and whispering a quick prayer to any deity that might be listening, he launched himself toward the earl, slamming hard into his back and wrapping his arms around him in a tight bear hug. It hurt like fiery hell, and the stitches in his shoulder pulled and ripped free, but Claremont grunted and fell forward, the pistol he’d been holding clattering loudly onto the blood-smeared floor. William’s advantage only lasted a moment, and soon they were rolling around, arms and legs flailing as each tried to gain the upper hand. Both grabbed for the pistol, but thanks to the blood that had spurted from Phillipe’s wrist wound it was like a bar of soap, sliding and flipping away each time one of them got close.

“Bastard,” Claremont snarled as they both struggled to their feet, before pulling back his fist and slamming it into William’s abdomen.

It robbed him of breath, but William gritted his teeth and responded with a right uppercut hard enough to snap the earl’s head back. He recovered frustratingly quickly, and they began to trade vicious, bone-crunching punches to face, eyes, chest, and stomach, each trying to land the blow which would be the difference between survival and death. Despair soon crept in—while he was technically far better than Claremont, the earl had two working arms, while William only had one.

“Stop playing with the marquess, Claremont,” Phillippe slurred from where he lay slumped against the chaise, cradling his blood-soaked arm. “Just kill him.”

The earl looked away for only a heartbeat, but it was all the time William needed for a fierce right hook to the jaw which left the older man temporarily reeling.

The world slowed to a snail’s pace.

As if he swam through treacle, William threw himself back down onto the floor. Half-sliding, half-crawling forward, his palms and knees burning at the friction and his wounded shoulder screaming, he slapped the ground in front of him until he felt the pistol. Snatching it up, cursing as he fumbled it briefly, William twisted his body into a sitting position, cocked the weapon, and fired.

The thunderbolt of sound echoed through the parlor for eternity. Gunpowder burned his hand, and black spots danced at the edge of his vision. Then Claremont laughed.

His heart sank. He’d missed.

He’d failed.

“William!” shrieked Samantha, from somewhere behind him.

“Stay back,” he snarled, scrambling onto his knees and frantically searching for another weapon. If Claremont found one first, it was over. The earl would have no hesitation in killing him, Samantha, and the child she carried.

Her cold, clammy hand closed around his, but he brutally shook it free. Did she not understand the danger she was in? Would another exceptional woman be murdered by these criminals because her man couldn’t protect her?

“Bloody hell, Samantha, get back!” he choked out. “Claremont will kill you and I couldn’t bear—”

“No! You shot him!”

William froze, unable to comprehend her words. Then he peered harder at the earl, finally seeing the crimson stain blooming under his dark jacket, and the shocked fury etched on the man’s face.

He’d actually managed to do it?

Equal parts relief and jubilation surged through William as Claremont staggered forward. There was no sweeter sight than the evil bastard reaching out to steady himself on a high-backed chair but missing and falling heavily onto his knees. Yet instead of just fucking dying, Claremont scrabbled on his belly to open the satchel still resting on the floor and retrieve the last remaining pistol.

Triumphantly he pulled it out, his arm shaking as he tried to aim and cock it.

“First rule of battle, Standish,” the earl said, sneering even as he coughed and spat out a mouthful of blood-flecked spittle. “Ensure your opponent doesn’t live to fight another day. You are living proof of how useless some shots are—the bullet must go through the heart or between the eyes. So pleased I’ll now be able to demonstrate…”

But before the earl could pull the trigger, Samantha rushed forward and gathered the dagger she’d used to maim Phillipe. A moment later she’d embedded it in Claremont’s chest. The man made a harsh gurgling sound, jerked once, then twice, and stilled.

“My uncle w-was right,” Samantha whispered unsteadily. “It does have to b-be the heart.”

Slow, weak applause began.

“Bravo, Lady Samantha,” Phillippe rasped. “You are far smarter than your lover’s parents. Richard was an idiot to think he could play our game and win. He might have fooled us for a little while with his stirring words and fervent promises...but I never truly believed he wanted to join us. As for his pretty wife, we were vastly disappointed when she sacrificed herself to try and save him. Who knew Englishwomen felt such grand passion? She would have been one to savor, over and over.”

Cold rage overwhelmed William. Bending down, he ripped the unused pistol from Claremont’s death grip, then walked over to the pale and bleeding Frenchman.

“How fortunate the ledger always balances itself in the end. My father and mother will rest in peace forever. You, however, will rot in hell. Once you have given up all your secrets to the British government, of course. And they will take great pleasure in coaxing you to talk. But for now…this is my gift.”

Then he cocked the pistol and fired the bullet at close range, shattering Phillipe’s knee. The man screamed, and collapsed unconscious.

Now that the last risk had been dealt with, Samantha ran over to her mother and crouched beside the chaise. “Mother? Mama?”

William swallowed hard. “Is she…?”

Samantha placed two fingers on Eva Claremont’s neck. Then she sagged. “No. There’s a pulse. Faint, but there.”

“Thank God,” he replied. Emotion overwhelmed him, grief and elation and relief, and his eyes grew damp as he threw the weapon away, and walked over to join her.

“I’m so very glad you shot them both,” Samantha said softly, taking his hand and rising to her feet. Her skin was damned cold, and she was shivering, but she was the bravest of women. “After what they did to your parents.”

“Yes.”

“I’m also glad that Phillipe will be brought to trial.”

“Me too,” he choked out, pulling Samantha into his arms and burying his face in the curve of her neck. “But I thought I’d lost you. Just because you’re as fierce as a warrior queen does not mean you have permission to leap into danger any time in the future. My nerves couldn’t stand it.”

A watery giggle escaped her. “That’s because you’re aging. P-practically in your dotage. Luckily I am quite p-partial to anxious old men, and have decided to keep you and love you forever.”

“Thank God. I’ve no chance of happiness with anyone else. I love you, Samantha.”

“You do?” she asked, smiling up at him, the radiant joy on her face indescribable.

“For eternity, at least.”

They held each other tightly for several long, blissful minutes, until the parlor door swung open and a plethora of armed men led by White and Trudy invaded the room.

“What on earth?” said Samantha. “Trudy?”

“Er, hello, my lady,” said the woman, a hint of color in her cheeks.

William leaned down. “May I introduce White, intelligence coordinator at the Home Office, and one of his lady operatives.”

“Such exquisite timing,” Samantha said irritably. “Only showing up after matters have been taken in hand.”

“Indeed. The poorest of form,” he whispered back. Then, “White, we need a physician to attend to Lady Claremont at once.”

Surveying the bloody carnage in the room, White folded his arms and glared at him. “Of course. By the by, your employment with the Home Office is hereby terminated, Standish.”

“What? No congratulations on the efficient and successful conclusion to a long and delicate operation while only sustaining cuts and bruises?”

“Wipe that smirk from your face. Do you have any idea of the trouble you’ve caused? The paperwork I’ll now have to complete? Don’t ever darken my door again, and keep that dagger-wielding lady of yours on a firm leash or she’ll be working for me between births.”

“Don’t even think about it,” said William, tightening his grip around his fiancée’s waist.

“I wouldn’t do it anyway,” added Samantha. “Your organizational ability leaves a lot to be desired, and I believe the pay is terrible.”

White’s eyes glinted. “Don’t know where you heard such scandalous falsehoods, my lady. But feel free to visit if you ever get bored with the quiet life.”

“Thank you, but no,” Samantha said crisply, lifting her chin as they walked arm in arm toward the door. “We have far nicer duties in our future.”

“I guess you do at that, I guess you do.”

* * *

Two days later, Samantha and William sat side by side at the foot of his bed, while Dr. Murray finished his work. A tray of steaming tea with lemon, sugar-dusted apple tarts, and a pile of carefully ironed broadsheets waited nearby, and Samantha kept glancing over longingly. Today her stomach was in definite food-accepting mood, and William might be lucky to get even one of the delicious-looking tarts.

The physician eventually stepped back and folded his arms. “Lord Standish, your rambunctious exertions damaged the delicate tissue around your shoulder, so you’ll need to wear that sling for at least a week to limit movement and allow the stitches to do their duty. I will leave a pot of Victoria’s salve for your cuts and bruises.”

William inclined his head. “Very well.”

“Lady Samantha, I am rather relieved to report that apart from your wrists, you are quite well. Apply the same salve twice daily. However, for the sake of your delicate condition and the distress you suffered, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that bed rest is imperative. At least a week.”

“We were planning to travel shortly to Standish Castle, to be married,” said Samantha, glancing at her fiancé. “Country air would be better than city, surely.”

“I’ll be going to see the archbishop to secure a special license,” added William.

Dr. Murray gave him a look which silenced any further words. “As I was saying, rest is absolutely necessary. A week, then you may travel. I’m sure I don’t need to advise on the avoidance of any trouble until after the baby is born. That goes for the both of you. Even healthy bodies cannot continue to undergo such distress, and I would regard any situation involving weapons as distressing! You will take the air, stroll sedately, and eat nourishing food. But strictly no riding hell for leather, no gallivanting around the countryside chasing criminals, and no encounters with people who want to kill you. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Dr. Murray,” Samantha replied very, very meekly. William glared at the physician, but eventually nodded curtly.

“Good,” the older man said, apparently appeased. “I shall call again in a few days to check on you both, although you know where to find me if you have any concerns. I’ll now go and see to Lady Claremont, but as I said after my initial examination, I’m convinced she will walk again. Good day to you, my lord, my lady.”

Bowing, he collected his brown medical bag and left the room.

“If Geoffrey Murray wasn’t the best doctor in England,” William growled, “I would have thrown him out on his aggravating backside hours ago. Victoria must have the patience of a saint, working with her father every day. He never thanks her. Or offers a word of praise, and she’s so skillful.”

Samantha rolled her eyes. “While I completely agree about Victoria, some might call avoidance of criminals and murderous plots sensible advice rather than a tiresome lecture.”

“Ha. I should have known from the start those rosy cheeks meant warrior cherub rather than maidenly shyness. God help me if we have a daughter; I suspect she’ll have a double dose of minx to go with her untamable hair.”

“I think we’re going to have a boy. Mischievous, and untamable hair.”

He sighed. “I’d best purchase shares in a hairbrush factory, then. Between the throwing and the snapping…”

“They’ll all need to be proficient with a hairbrush before moving onto a dagger,” said Samantha sweetly.

William groaned and covered his face with his hands. “I shall purchase archery boards as well. No cushion or chaise arm will have to sacrifice itself.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Do not take that innocent tone with me, madam. Stephen found your stabbed cushion collection at Forsyth House. Or should I say, a maid found the chaise with gouges in the arm and cushions all turned around the wrong way and swooned. A sharp lesson for miscreant furnishings.”

Her cheeks heated, and she jumped up from the bed to walk over to the tea tray. “Speaking of miscreants…let’s see if there is anything in the newspapers regarding the other day. Oh, these tarts look good. If I don’t have one now, I’ll start gnawing on you.”

William grinned. “Then by all means eat. Licking, sucking, and kissing I’ll permit, but gnawing does not sound like fun for me.”

She poked her tongue out at him, and selected a newspaper from the top of the pile. There were a few articles, but the items and newspaper headlines announcing the death of her uncle and his butler were surprisingly lacking in fanfare or gruesome details.

“Listen to this, William. It just says that the Earl and Countess of Claremont were set upon by housebreakers. Tragically, the earl and his butler, Mr. Joseph Penn, lost their lives. The countess received serious injuries, but is expected to make a full recovery. It was concerned neighbors who summoned help, and the housebreakers, a man of foreign birth and his female accomplice, were subsequently removed from the address. London residents need not be concerned about similar incidents.”

“A mildly factual account.”

Samantha nodded. It was strange to think of the man she had called Papa being dead. But while she would never forget the terrible things she’d seen and done, far stronger was the relief that John Buchanan could never again threaten William or their child, not to mention countless others with his traitorous activities.

Returning to the bed with the tray, Samantha arranged herself on top, then pulled the tray onto her lap. William joined her, settling on the right hand side of the bed so he could slide his uninjured arm around her shoulders. She tilted her head to rest it on his chest, cuddling close to his warmth and strength as she nibbled on a tart. “There is only one problem with the mildly factual account. While I’m glad there will be no stain of treason on my mother or Aunt Jane and Stephen, no one will ever know how brave you were coming to rescue me, or how you bested two of England’s most wanted traitors.”

He laughed. “Now who’s telling a mildly factual account? Several times I thought we were defeated. And then you reduced Phillipe to an observer role with a perfect throw to pin his wrist and nick his artery. I might have shot Claremont, but who finished him off? You are a dangerous woman, my lady.”

“We are a dangerous duo, my lord.”

“Indeed. One thing I have been wondering…where on earth were you hiding your dagger?”

“I’ll show you when we are married.”

“That is at least a week away. I’m crushed.”

Samantha snorted. “Crushed like an autumn leaf under your boot?”

He froze. “Uh…excuse me?”

“I thought I was losing my mind, wanting to stay close to that wicked old reprobate. Then I swooned at Aunt Jane’s ball and felt his remarkably sturdy arm. And finally, the way he mysteriously vanished right when you returned…really, William. I certainly hope there will be no wardrobe modifications and stage makeup in our future.”

“None. I swear,” said William, his cheekbones highlighted with a dull flush. “I’m so sorry about that.”

“So many lies. But I understand why. And…I think I might always have a soft spot for David Underwood. The false one, anyway. His naughtiness amused me no end.”

“Is that right, Sam darling?”

“Wipe that leer from your face, my lord. You’re injured…think of the apple tarts…oh, very well. Perhaps we could manage…”

And they did.

* * *

At nearly three hundred years old, the Standish Castle chapel stood as an architectural testament to Tudor glory, with mahogany wood paneling, exquisite damask hangings detailing biblical scenes, and antique carved pews. The far end of the building even boasted an enormous, priceless stained glass window of the angel Gabriel visiting Mary.

And yet nothing in the world was as beautiful as the sapphire-gowned angel walking down the aisle toward him on Stephen’s arm. His foster brother had taken on the mantle of guardian to Samantha after Claremont’s death, and had given his instant approval for a wedding—well, after a few threats of extreme bodily harm if William cocked anything up. Not that that was even slightly likely. He was too happy.

“Was that a sniffle?” Alexander hissed beside him. “Buck up, man. No bride wants to see a groom with dewy eyes.”

“I don’t bloody well have dewy eyes,” William lied. “Just a little dust. Or maybe I’m lightheaded from my wounds. You’ll be pleased to know it is your duty to catch me should I start to fall.”

“Catch you? I think not. One of the ladies might have some hartshorn, though. I can ask the congregation right now, if you like.”

About to reply something highly unsuitable for chapel, William stopped when Stephen and Samantha made it to the altar, and his foster brother transferred her hand to his.

Turning to Samantha was an absolute pleasure, and he rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles. She beamed back up at him, and that damned dust returned to his eyes. Although, to be fair, there were plenty of people in the congregation with a similar affliction. Several members of the royal family and senior peers sat in the front pew, nodding with approval. Aunt Jane and Caroline sat behind them along with George and Louisa. They all looked delighted, unlike Thomas, who was rather ill at ease and kept glancing at the ceiling, as though expecting to be hit by a lightning bolt for actually stepping inside a chapel. The only London Lord who wasn’t here was Robert. Alexander had passed on his brother’s regrets due to his injuries, but his friend was so curt, it made him wince. It seemed that the usual friction between the brothers had returned in full measure, and then some. Further back and to the side in a Bath chair was Eva Claremont. The rest of the pews were filled with his household staff and nearby residents who had all been permitted to attend if they wished.

Samantha shivered slightly, and he frowned in concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “The royals are making me nervous.”

“Don’t be. You look beautiful, even your hair is behaving…” He broke off, as if to spite him, two of the pins holding her undisciplined curls in place conceded defeat and slid slowly down the side of her head.

Her gaze narrowed. “Your fault.”

William bit his lip to stop from laughing. The bishop cleared his throat in warning, and opened his bible.

“Dearly beloved, we join together on this joyous day to celebrate the marriage of William David Richard Hastings, Marquess of Standish, and Lady Samantha Charlotte Buchanan...”

The ceremony flew by. Before he knew it he was strolling back down the aisle, his new wife on his arm, and a grin so wide that no one would ever let him forget.

Hours later, after they’d about talked themselves hoarse with a line of well-wishers that seemed to stretch for miles, consumed enough champagne to launch a ship, and eaten their weight in wedding feast, he led Samantha to their chamber so they could change for the small, intimate supper they were going to have with close family and friends.

As they passed a set of rooms, Samantha came to an abrupt halt, stepped back, and peered inside. “What on earth is going on in there?”

William hesitated, embarrassed. “I ordered a complete refurbishment of the nursery. Do you want to see?”

Eyes wide, she followed him inside. Half a dozen men were busily measuring, sawing, and painting. He wanted the rooms to be ready as soon as possible, despite the fact that the baby wouldn’t arrive for many months. Some might call him irrational, he called it being prepared.

“Excuse me, Lord Standish, where would you like these to go?” asked a footman, nearly staggering under the weight of the items he carried.

“Everything needs to stay in one corner until the repainting is finished, so put the cradle over there and the baby clothes into those three chests in the side room. Then you and the others may go and join the kitchen staff for ale and pasties.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you. Oh, and congratulations, my lady!” the young man said. In seconds the place had emptied.

Hands on hips, William surveyed the large area. It was easy to imagine the bright, sunny room alive with children laughing and playing. He’d certainly encourage that, for as long as possible. Life might burden them with obligations and expectations, but his sons and daughters would be safe, with two parents who loved them very much.

A gentle arm slid through his. “You’re looking very serious all of a sudden, husband,” Samantha said softly.

“Redecorating is a serious business, wife.”

“So is toy shopping, by the looks of it. How many arrived today?”

“One or two,” he said, shrugging.

Samantha raised an eyebrow. “One or two, or one or two hundred?”

“Now you’re exaggerating.”

“William, I’m standing next to a rocking horse the size of a real pony and an easel with three trays of oils. Why does the baby need those? I can’t claim to be any sort of expert, but I thought infants slept and ate rather than rode and painted.”

His cheeks flushed. Perhaps he had gone a little over the top, but prior to leaving London he’d visited several toy shops after being lured in by their jaw-dropping window displays. How could anyone be expected to choose between lavishly-outfitted dolls, battle-ready tin soldiers, and intricately carved animals?

“I don’t want the baby to get bored,” he replied, trying not to sound defensive and failing utterly.

“Bored?” she said incredulously.

“Yes, bored. When he or she marches up to you aged six months and says rattles are incredibly childish, you will be very glad I planned ahead.”

“Walking and talking at six months? That is…amazing.”

“Not really. All Hastings children have done so.”

“Oh,” Samantha muttered. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s documented somewhere. Alongside a proud history of preparing palace architectural designs, and writing Shakespearean prose by our second birthdays,” said William, grinning.

“Why, you...” she growled, her hand flying up and smacking his chest.

“Such violence! I count myself fortunate there is no brandy around.”

“You deserve it!”

“Have mercy, Lady Standish,” he pleaded, almost rocking with laughter as she attempted to cuff his ear. “How would I explain new bruises to the dinner guests?”

“I’ll tell them you drank too much champagne and walked into a wall.”

“After recent events, that seems a very tame way to be injured.”

Samantha sighed. “I am strongly in favor of tame.”

“Yes, well, it’s to be expected with aging. You are approaching your twenty-first birthday, after all. Practically a matron now.”

“I see. Do let me know when it becomes official, as so many things will have to change.”

“Change?” he said, startled.

“Of course. Everyone knows matrons prefer shopping and gossip to being naked with their husbands. Separate beds would be just the start, although I might agree to intimacies on our wedding anniversary, Christmas, and perhaps...your birthday?”

“You misheard me. Not matron, but siren. Sirens are extremely wicked, and naked is their favorite state. They would think nothing of seducing their husbands, or being seduced, any time…any place.”

“Here? Now? But guests are assembling downstairs for dinner,” Samantha protested rather weakly, if he did say so himself.

“They can wait,” he said, ushering her over to the window seat.

Settling on the thick cushions, he sat her astride his lap, and cupped her face for a long, hard kiss. Samantha moaned, and he trailed his lips across the soft skin of her neck, nipping and tasting until she gasped and arched her back. The movement brought the perfect lushness of her breasts to exactly the right height for dedicated attention, and dropping one hand from her face, he tugged aside the bodice of her wedding gown to bare a taut pink nipple. Leaning forward, he alternately circled it with his tongue and scored it with his teeth before sucking it deeply into his mouth.

His wife whimpered, rubbing herself against his rock-hard erection. He slid a hand under her gown and along her inner thigh, until he reached the crisp hair shielding her quim. She was already hot and damp, but it wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted her soaked and begging. Again and again William rubbed her clitoris with his thumb, while he inched his middle finger inside her. In and out, back and forth, he teased her mercilessly until fragrant juices coated his hand, and she was writhing and panting for breath.

“Please, now,” she gasped.

Groaning, William tore open his trousers, fitted himself to her entrance, and thrust home. Her quim clamped around him, the searing wet tightness so exquisite he had to bite his lip to stop from coming instantly. Samantha rocked against him, and he gripped her hips, plunging harder and deeper inside her until she came, burying her face in his neck to muffle her scream of release. Only then did he give in to his own powerful need, shouting hoarsely as his seed gushed inside her.

“See? Definitely a siren,” he said, kissing her cheek and holding her tightly against him.

Samantha laughed. “A siren who will lure you into temptation any day.”

Christ, he adored this beautiful, brave, giving woman. It might have been a hell of a ride to get to this point, but the prize of having her by his side was worth it.

Life couldn’t get any better than this.