Page 1 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Chapter 1
August, 1819
The Earlof Shaldon would have glorious weather for dying.
And after so many hours in the saddle, Bink Gibson would have a sore on his arse the size of Yorkshire if he didn’t reach Cransdall Hall soon.
Horizontal rays of late summer sun pierced the foliage and raised a lather on the horse’s neck, and his own. He pulled his hat low, dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at the back of his neck.
Devil take the Earl. He didn’t need Bink’s presence for his passing. Let him die in his bed with the men who’d stood by him in life.
Bink had never had a taste for death, not even when he’d been slashing his way through the muck, and blood, and smoke of the Iberian Peninsula. And this dying…
He took a deep breath and quelled his uneasiness. God’s truth, he wished he’d ignored this summons also.
His mount snorted.
“Stop your complaining,” he said. “You’ll have your rub-down soon, lad, in the Shaldon stables. Aye, with the finest of feed, and great aristocrat neighbors nipping at you.”
While his great bloody self was led into the grand palace for what was sure to be another let-down.
A low growl emerged from his midsection. He hadn’t stopped for a meal, though God only knew why not. He was in no rush for this deathbed acknowledgement, and it was well past even the town dinner hour.
Twenty-odd years ago, all hope of meeting Shaldon had been crushed by some Frog crisis on the other side of the channel. The time since had been filled with plenty of men’s pleas for their mothers and laments about disappointments.
Last year had been Zebediah Gibson’s, may he rot at his destination.
Bink gritted his teeth and touched a heel to his mount. Best get this over with. Best ignore the ambivalence stuffing his empty belly. Best be done and get on with his plans for India.
“Paulette.”
The gelding’s ears twitched and Bink straightened. He’d heard it too—a feminine voice, raised in what sounded like anger.
At the bend in the road, he spotted a faded black and yellow dog cart obstructing the way like a downed bumblebee.
“Paulette. I’mfamishedandsweltering. I cannot abide another hour of this heat.” A woman sprawled in the driver’s perch, directing her complaints forward.
The two wheels of the cart appeared to be whole and moveable and a large cob stood peaceably in his traces. If his name was Paulette, someone had a strange sense of humor.
A rustle in the brush drew Bink’s hand to his pistol.
“Sure and it’s summat about here.” Another female voice, this one disembodied, floated up. “T’was that last rut made it fly off.”
He eased out a breath. Nothing but women here, of course. Only the stupidest of highwaymen would lurk on the road to the Spy Lord’s estate.
“Leave it,” the harpy called over her shoulder. “It’s sure to be broken in pieces anyway, and I’ll die from hunger or this heat if I must sit here much longer.”
She unfurled a fan and set a vigorous pace, while he swallowed a chuckle. A lack of food would not take her any time soon, and if the heat did, at least she’d be silent.
“We’ll find it, missus,” the bush woman said. “T’won’t take but a minute.”
A largeharrumphrumbled over the cob’s back.
An angry mistress and her clumsy servant—well, and wouldn’t he rather cross swords with the first and help out the other than stand by a bedside wringing his big stupid hands?
He cleared his throat. “May I be of assistance?”
Silence fell. The shrew’s head swiveled, puffy cheeks framing an open mouth. The bushes parted and a plump, plainly clad woman popped through.
