Rory's Prince Charming

By Patricia S. Otto

Ian McKenna is on his way home to the family Kentucky horse farm when he acquires indentured servant Rory Worth. The feisty woman has one year left on her contract and jumps at the deal he offers to cut it in half--Pose as his wife to prove to his family that he has settled down.

The 'newlyweds' arrive home to discover Father is dead and has left a will keeping Ian from inheriting the farm unless he can prove himself. Attraction grows between Ian and his business savvy "pseudo-wife". But Rory has promised to free a slave friend and has been stealing from her owners to finance it. Ian wants her to want to stay more than she wants to be free. Rory wants to keep her promise and spare Ian heartbreak. Can love make it all possible?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781590880562

Book preview

Wings

Rory’s Prince Charming

by

Patricia S. Otto

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Historical Romance Novel

Wings ePress, Inc.

Edited by: Sara V. Olds

Copy Edited by: Celia Collier

Senior Editor: Sara V. Olds

Managing Editor: Crystal Laver

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: Pat Casey

All rights reserved

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

http://www.wings-press.com

Copyright © 2001 by Patricia S. Otto

ISBN 1-59088-056-0

Published by Wings ePress, Inc. at Smashwords

Published In the United States Of America

December 2001

Wings ePress Inc.

P. O. Box 726

Lusk, WY. 82225

Dedication

To my husband

for his excitement and devotion to the person I have become.

To my son, John

for showing me that nothing is worth doing unless it’s done with passion.

To my daughter,

Sarah for showing me the depth of perception and joy for life that she revels in.

Prologue

1824-Farningham, England

I can’t breathe. The bodice of this dress is so tight. Surely, I did not hear her correctly for all my gasping. ‘You’ll be staying here,’—that couldn’t be what she said…yet, she did. I wonder what she meant by that?

Shifting in her chair, Aurora Worthington tasted the metallic warmth from where she had bitten down on her bottom lip. She curled the lip over her teeth and sucked away the blood. Aurora cleared her throat. I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly.

In the chair opposite Aurora’s, her mother, Elizabeth, sat prim and unemotional. As always, Elizabeth was the very portrait of highborn British poise. To Aurora, her mother resembled a dainty statue wrapped in black silk, modeling, the latest fashion Paris could offer the genteel for mourning. Not at all like Aurora expected a person grieving the loss of a loved one would look. A widow should look more vulnerable, filled with sadness and questions. Instead, her mother appeared endowed with all the answers.

This is not an ideal situation, Elizabeth said. We all have to do what we can to help the circumstances. Sir Rufus has made a very generous proposal.

Mother and daughter sat in the library of Baronet Rufus Edmund’s country estate. When they had pulled up in the Baronet’s carriage that morning, Aurora could tell the manor had all the inherent dank gloom of an ancient castle. Once they were inside, Mother had gone with Sir Rufus, and a pinched-faced butler had escorted Aurora to the library. It was a huge room with tall heavily curtained windows and shelves crammed floor to ceiling with books. The proportions of the room dwarfed the fireplace she sat before.

Aurora drew her chair closer to the hearth. Proposal? She glanced down at her hands and noticed she was drumming on her thighs. In an attempt to keep from looking nervous, she laced her fingers together and squeezed so hard, her knuckles turned white.

Her mother inhaled a protracted breath. Since your father’s death we have suffered great adversity. We are almost out of money and drastic action had to be taken. I have signed an agreement with Sir Rufus that will afford me a goodly sum…enough to participate in the Season. I will surely be able to find a benefactor and our finances will be in order once again.

Elizabeth’s voice sounded so composed to Aurora’s young ears. She unlaced her fingers and went back to drumming. Agreement?

A contract of marriage.

Aurora tilted her head. So, you are marrying Sir Rufus to attend the Season?

Elizabeth sat up straighter and drew her lips into a thin line. The contract is not for me.

Like an icy hand on the back of one’s neck, her mother’s disturbing demeanor hastened Aurora’s complete understanding.

Aurora jumped to her feet. Me! she shouted. You have bound me into marriage? Sweat dampened her forehead and she clenched her teeth to stop the muscle from twitching under her right eye.

You are to be the wife of a baronet and stepmother to Sir Rufus’ daughter.

I am sixteen!

You are the only one suitable.

What about you?

Her mother lowered her gaze to the floor. Sir Rufus was not interested in marriage to me, Aurora. There was a long period of silence before she spoke again. I must be able to attend the Season or face the humiliation of being destitute. I must provide for your brother and sister.

I don’t understand.

Aurora’s mother did not lift her gaze. Sir Rufus has offered a generous dowry—

At that moment, Sir Rufus burst through the door. I trust you have explained the details to your daughter? he asked, approaching the fireplace.

The idea of running flashed through Aurora’s head. She gathered her skirts then took a sideward step. As if reading Aurora’s mind, Elizabeth stood and took up a position next to Sir Rufus, effectively blocking all means of escape.

Elizabeth tilted her nose into the air. I must prepare for the Season.

You sold me for a new wardrobe?

Now, Miss Worthington, Sir Rufus said, do not take on such theatrics.

I have not sold you! Elizabeth said, You are not a slave! I realize this is a bit early for marriage but you have always been sensible beyond your years. You will be the wife of a baronet, Aurora. It is more than we could ever hope at present.

Aurora closed her eyes.

Obviously her mother had been planning this for some time. Disbelief that her mother could be so shrewd clouded the normally quick mind she had inherited from her father’s side of the family. She had also acquired the Worthington candor and ready temper.

Aurora placed her hands on her hips as her eyes narrowed. Well, we certainly can’t have you missing a Season can we, Mother?

There is no need to be rude, Miss Worthington, Sir Rufus said, striking his cane on the floor. You will find this manor quite suitable and being the mistress of it less than strenuous. Really, it is quite a satisfactory situation for all concerned.

Is it? Aurora said adding an unladylike snort.

Sir Rufus twisted the end of his mustache. I know what you must be going through, dear lady—

Do you? You’ve had your freedom contracted away from you then, Sir Rufus?

Aurora! Elizabeth said bringing her hand to her throat. Apologize to Sir Rufus this instant! I will not have you upsetting this agreement. All of our futures are at stake.

Though mine is quite a bit more muddled than yours, isn’t it Mother?

Elizabeth squared her petite shoulders and heaved a sigh. Aunt Marie has agreed to take your sister and brother for the Season, if I pay her. So you see, I must consider the needs of all my children. Elizabeth reached her hand toward her daughter’s shoulder. Aurora stepped back to avoid the contact. Aurora, please. I need your help in this matter. You are the eldest and we must provide for your siblings.

Aurora looked from her mother to Sir Rufus, then returned to her chair by the hearth. She leaned forward suddenly feeling the dank coldness of the manor deep within her body. She rubbed her hands together then extended them toward the flames.

Some of what her mother said was true. Their lives had gone from privilege to want in the months since Father’s unexpected death. Mother had sold all their possessions and used what little savings her father had left just to get by.

Perhaps, it would be nice to sleep in a feather bed with thick blankets now that the weather was turning cold. Even if it meant staying in this dreary manor full of strangers. A variety of foods in decent quantity might be a pleasant change, even if it meant sitting across from Sir Rufus, a man old enough to be her grandfather.

Aurora lowered her gaze to her lap. All right, Mother, I will honor this contract you entered. I will stay here and prepare for marriage to Sir Rufus.

Splendid, Sir Rufus said, his bushy mustache lifting with his smile.

Thank the saints, we are saved, Elizabeth muttered in a low whisper she likely intended no one else to hear.

Aurora glimpsed over her shoulder then returned her gaze to the fire. Don’t thank them, Mother. Thank me.

One

Six years later-Virginia, America

I’ll see your ten and raise you with this. Clayton Patrick reached into his vest pocket. A yellowed parchment fluttered to the center of the table to mingle with the specie and bank notes.

What is it? said the only man still in the game.

It’s the contract for my wench here. Patrick jerked his head to the right to indicate the woman standing behind him.

Ian McKenna looked in the direction implied. A tall slender woman of perhaps twenty stood with her hands on her hips and her dark gray eyes glaring at the back of Patrick’s shiny head with enough hatred to cause damage. Her hair was a mass of blond waves hastily caught up in a ribbon. Her blouse was worn and the smudge on the front of her equally worn skirt matched the one on her left cheek. His gaze returned to Clayton Patrick. Wench?

The woman snorted and rolled her eyes. Yup, Patrick said, she’s my maid. Almost like a gentleman’s gentleman, so to speak. The stout, older man raised his nose in the air.

Ian all but laughed out loud. Patrick had no need for a maid, or maybe he had a desperate need for a whole army of them. Ian’s card playing associate looked as if he had just blown in on a tornado. That’s no man, gentle or otherwise, he said with a chuckle.

Aye, but she does good work. Clayton Patrick smacked his lips in a way that Ian found indecent.

All right, how much do you think the contract is worth?

She’s got a year to go on it, so let’s say two pounds.

Ian leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankle onto his knee. He looked around at his fellow players. They were all pretty much strangers, save for what they had learned about each other over the last three hours of poker. Clayton had not bluffed during the game so Ian figured the man must be holding decent cards.

He elevated his gaze to scan the spectators in the tavern. Men smoking cigars were elbowing one another and whispering side-bets. Others had their arms draped around the shoulders of some of the local courtesans trying to steal a kiss or two. His gaze stopped on Patrick’s maid. The expression on her face was vague. She stared at the parchment in the middle of the table as she gnawed her bottom lip.

Right then, Ian decided he needed a maid of his own. All right, I call. He dropped the money into the pot. Three ladies, he said, fanning his cards on the table.

Patrick chuckled. Not good enough, McKenna. Full house. He revealed his hand then leaned forward sweeping his winnings over to his side of the table.

Ian glanced up at the woman just in time to see her eyes moisten before she lowered her gaze to the floor and let her shoulders droop. He thought he heard her whisper an oath before wiping the back of her hand across her mouth.

Patrick stood. Mr. McKenna, gentlemen, it has been entertaining, but we really must be going. He secured his winnings in his left breast pocket. Come along, Worth. We have a lot of riding to do if we are going to make Charlottesville by dark.

The young woman remained stationary as she watched Patrick take a few steps then turn back to her.

The muscles in Patrick’s face tensed and his gaze sharpened. I said, come on.

She looked from her boss, to Ian and back again. Then, as if suddenly remembering her dignity, the woman pushed back her shoulders, lifted her chin and walked through the crowd.

~ * ~

Ian knew it was crazy. Clayton Patrick had fairly won and retained the contract. The guttersnipe was his to control as he pleased. Ian had barely looked at the woman, hadn’t spoken to her, didn’t even know her full name. So why was he following them? What was it about her that compelled Ian to chase after her?

He jabbed his roan quarter horse with his boot heels. Come on, Gallant, up the pace. The stallion responded with his usual zeal.

The road from Richmond to Charlottesville was little more than a cleared path. Ian knew it would be slow going even for a seasoned travel mount like Gallant. Since Ian had spied Patrick and the woman leaving Richmond astride the same horse, he knew their progress would be even slower.

Ian pressed his hat more securely onto his head.

What was Clayton Patrick doing with his own bondservant anyway? A slave maybe, but a bonded white woman? He didn’t look or act like a man of means, though Ian knew he was not a commoner. Something wasn’t right about the whole thing. Ian recalled the look he saw on the woman’s face when he lost the poker hand. Her reaction approximated utter failure more than mere frustration. It seemed as though she had been counting on getting away from Patrick.

A scream followed by the angry tone of a deep voice wrenched Ian from his thoughts. He headed for the disturbance. In a clearing not far off the road, he found Clayton Patrick standing over his bondservant, his open hand raised to deliver a slap, his raised voice shouting obscenities.

Ian maneuvered Gallant to hinder the blow, sending Patrick tail over top hat. He bellowed a string of profanity as he sought to regain his footing.

Mr. Patrick, such language in front of a lady, Ian said, reining Gallant to stand between Patrick and his bondservant.

McKenna, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Patrick sputtered, rearranging his dusty clothes.

Ignoring the question, Ian looked toward the woman still seated on the ground. You all right? he asked. She nodded and before he could order Patrick to assist her, the woman scrambled to her feet.

This doesn’t concern you, Patrick said, she is being defiant and it is my right to punish her.

Ian jumped from the saddle and glared at the corpulent man. You’re twice her size.

I’ll ask you again, McKenna, what are you doing here?

Ian paused before walking a few steps toward the woman. His gaze locked to hers, Ian directed his words to Patrick. I was heading to Charlottesville to find you. I planned on negotiating the sale of your servant. The woman gasped. He gave her a quick smile before turning to Patrick. "After what I just witnessed, I think I will set the terms of sale instead of haggling with the likes of you."

Clayton Patrick stepped toward Ian. You think so, McKenna?

Grabbing the lapels of the man’s coat, Ian raised Patrick almost off his feet. Glowering, Ian released his temper. Yes, I do, Mr. Patrick. Where I come from, we do not mistreat our servants and we never strike a woman. Either I escort you to the nearest lawman and press charges against you for battery, or you give me her contract. I’m willing to pay you for it, though it’s something you don’t deserve.

Patrick wrested his coat from the younger man’s grasp. You can’t charge me with battery, she’s my property.

True, but just now you struck me and my horse.

You drove your horse into me.

Yes, but you struck the first blow.

Patrick yanked the parchment from his vest and thrust it under Ian’s nose. Here, take it. She’s more trouble than she’s worth anyway.

Ian took the paper and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. Glancing over to the woman, he said, Can you ride?

Yes, she whispered.

Good. Take Mr. Patrick’s horse.

The woman looked from one man to the other. All right, just let me get my things. She grabbed up a ragged cloth bundle.

Patrick approached Ian. McKenna!

Ian cut him short with a hand gesture. We are only borrowing him. You’ll find him tied up about a mile down the road. That will give us a sufficient head start. He drew a wad of bank notes from his pocket, peeled off a few and jammed them into Patrick’s hand. Here. Consider us square and the matter, settled. Ian backed away from Patrick and mounted Gallant. With a casual salute, he bid the man good day. He looked over to the woman. "Go, I’ll follow you,’ he said then pressed his heels into his horse’s sides.

When Ian was certain they had gone at least a mile, he pulled up beside Patrick’s horse and told the woman to stop. She hesitated a moment before pulling the reins.

He pointed to an oak sapling. Tie the reins to that tree.

The woman dismounted and did as he asked. She secured her bundle onto her back using two dirty straps then turned and glared up at Ian, unmoving and silent.

Ian glowered back. He slipped his foot from the stirrup and extended his hand toward her. Your choice is simple. Sit behind me or I will toss you across the saddle in front. Either way, you are coming with me.

She remained in place, her gaze slowly scanning him from head to boot heels. I’m not afraid of you.

I can see that. Ian nudged Gallant toward her. You are, however, wasting our lead, Miss—?

After a long pause in which it seemed to him that the woman was weighing alternatives, she heaved a sigh, jerked her skirt up to her knees, then put her foot in the stirrup. Taking the offered hand, she pulled herself up to sit behind him and locked her arms around his waist.

Good choice, Ian said, let’s put some space between us and your former employer.

Ian decided to skirt around Charlottesville to the south. He made his way over the crude trail. He could feel her arms around his waist and her chest pressed against his back.

What on earth was he going to do with his newest acquisition? He was sure that getting her away from Clayton Patrick had been the right thing, but now that Ian had his own maid, he wasn’t sure what came next.

On the far side of town, Ian left the main road, opting for a path into the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Dusk was gathering in the hardwoods when he finally stopped. By then, Ian had formulated a plan that would put his purchase to good use.

Ian unclasped her arms from his waist then supported her forearm to help the woman dismount. We’ll spend the night here, he said, alighting beside her. The woman shook out her skirt and walked around stiff legged.

When she turned to see Ian watching her, she folded her arms across her chest. I’m not afraid of you.

Yes, I know. You mentioned that. Ian copied her pose. What you haven’t mentioned is your name.

She jutted her chin at him. Rory Worth.

I’m Ian McKenna. He gave her a tiny smile followed by a quick bow. Rory? What’s that short for?

It doesn’t matter. She looked down at her worn shoes.

All right, if you say so. Hungry?

Rory shrugged. A little.

Then why don’t you get some wood for a fire. I have a few things in my saddle bags—salt pork, coffee, flour—I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with something.

Rory stood immobile.

You do cook, don’t you?

She paused a moment before moving away to gather twigs and fallen branches. Ian unsaddled Gallant and led him over to the edge of a nearby lake, allowing the horse to drink and graze.

When Rory had built a suitable stack of wood, Ian lit the dried leaves and kindling using the flint from his saddlebag. Within minutes, the campfire was blazing. Within an hour, they were sharing a meal of coffee and flapjacks cooked in pork grease. He watched her eat, making him certain this was her first meal in days. When was the last time you had something to eat?

Rory swallowed her mouthful before answering. Yesterday.

Ian scrutinized the woman. Realizing how thin and pale she was, he handed her his last pancake. Here, you have this, he said in a soft voice. When she gave him a peculiar look, he assured her that he was full.

Rory gave a shy nod then ate the pancake without delay. When she finished, Rory stretched her arms over her head and yawned. Thank you for the food, Mr. McKenna. And, I suppose you want me to thank you for saving me from Mr. Patrick.

Yes, that would be the courteous thing to do. Ian leaned his back against a tree stump and waited.

If you really want my thanks, tear up my contract. Rory stood and put her hands on her hips.

Ian remained quiet and watched her jaw muscles clench.

I didn’t think so. You can keep expecting then, because it makes no difference to me who owns that paper.

Ian got to his feet and approached her. It should.

It doesn’t. Rory turned away. Ian took hold of her arm and ordered her to look at him. She returned her gaze to his, revealing her steel gray defiance. Yet, the defiance was edged in something else. Suspicion? Fear?

Her look squeezed Ian’s heart and took the air from his lungs. I won’t hurt you, Rory, he said softly. Slapping a woman around is not my way. Rory opened her mouth, but Ian cut her off with a wave of his hand. I know, you’re not afraid of me. When her lips curled up into a grin, he added, What’s this? A smile?

Rory looked up at the man holding her captive. He was much taller then she, at least six or eight inches. Muscular arms and shoulders made him look very strong, though his hands held her gently, and his thumbs caressed her skin through her sleeves. He had a youthful, clean-shaven face with a cleft in his chin and sky blue eyes that seemed to twinkle with his smile.

Finally rid of his hat, she could see his hair was the color of ginger. He wore it pulled back and secured at the nape with a leather thong. Her new owner was, at the very least, a more pleasant sight than Clayton Patrick. Let me go, Mr. McKenna, she said.

Ian released her arms.

No, I mean, give me my freedom.

I can’t do that, he said.

Rory exhaled, took a step back and turned away from him.

How did you end up a bonded servant anyway?

When it serves a purpose, some people still use it as a means to an end.

What was your end?

It makes no difference now, Mr. McKenna.

Call me Ian.

Rory lowered her gaze.

From the day she fled England, she had never been asked by any of the people that held her redemption contract to be so familiar. From the moment she arrived in America, she had been bonded and treated as a servant.

He touched her shoulder. How did you end up with the likes of Clayton Patrick?

It’s a long story, very long and very boring. Rory added a forced chuckle and looked toward the fire. I suppose I should start earning my keep. She retrieved the few dishes and headed for the water. Her mind swirled with questions she was too proud to ask. Or, maybe too afraid.

Why did he come after her? What did he want from her? Would he let her go and at what price?

Ian watched as Rory put the enamel plates near the fire to dry then added a few more pieces of wood to the flames.

Something about this bedraggled waif played on his emotions. He found her stubborn grip on her dignity laudable and in spite of her ragged state, she didn’t appear rough around the edges. She was well spoken and had obviously been educated to some degree.

The more he watched the more convinced he became that she would fit nicely into his plan. All he had to do was persuade her. Clearing his throat, he approached the fire. I have a proposition for you.

Rory glanced at him then returned to her work stirring the embers. I’m listening.

He crouched beside her. You do something for me and I’ll make this last year of your contract very pleasant.

She looked at his face, blinking several times. Who do I have to kill?

No one. All you have to do is pose as my wife. When Rory shot to her feet, Ian rose too. I am on my way back home. My family owns a farm near Lexington, Kentucky. I’m the eldest and my father has been after me for years to return home and take some responsibility for the place. If I return with a wife, it just might convince him I’ve settled down.

Rory stooped to toss a log into the fire then brushed off her hands. What’s in it for me?

He grinned. An easier time than being a bondservant.

Rory narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. Not good enough. My contract has a year left, make it three months and you’ve got yourself a deal.

Nine. And only if you make a convincing Mrs. Ian McKenna.

"Four. And you pay my way to North Carolina when it’s over. And I’m not sleeping with you!" Rory gave him her back.

Ian came around and stood before her. "Six and I alone decide if and when we sleep together." Ian held out his right hand.

She hesitated for only a moment, then accepted his offering. Deal.

When she tried to withdraw from his touch, Ian held on. Then you agree to be my wife—in every way that I desire—for six months?

And then I’ll be free. Her dark gray eyes looked cold and haunted.

Your freedom means that much to you?

It means everything to me. She lowered her head.

Taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, Ian brought her gaze back to his. He scanned her countenance in the firelight. Her expression was aloof and closed, something Ian was sure she did as a means of self-preservation. Let’s get started right away.

Ian felt Rory tense as if ready to defend herself. Ian released her hand and walked away. He rooted through his saddlebags then returned. First things, first. He took hold of her hand again. Bending forward, Ian drew her body over his shoulder like a poke of potatoes.

Her fists pounded his back. What are you doing? Let me down!

With long strides, Ian walked into the lake almost up to the tops of his riding boots.

Put me down.

Gladly, he said, swinging her off his shoulder and dropping her into the shallows in one easy motion.

Rory squealed as the not-yet-warm April water reached her skin. You bloody cad! She clamored, trying to regain her footing. You rude—

Ian laughed. "Now, now, Mrs. McKenna, He pressed her shoulder and hooking his foot behind her ankles pulled her feet from under her. No name calling."

Rory stopped flailing and glared up at him. Through chattering teeth, she said, W-what is the m-meaning of this?

Ian looked down at the drenched ragamuffin scowling up at him and suppressed a laugh. He was unable to keep the smile from his lips as he said, You, my dear, are filthy. And, quite frankly, you smell. Tossing her the soap he had retrieved from his bag, he added, Here, use plenty of this.

I’m not removing my clothes!

Good, because they need a scrubbing, too!

Rory fell silent and, head bowed, grasped the wet soap he offered.

Ian saw her humiliation and wanted to kick himself. In a softened tone,