A Code of Wonder: The Code Breakers Series, #8

By Jacki Delecki

Miss Eliza Louise Lyon comes face-to-face with deception and danger when she is kidnapped in a case of mistaken identity. Using her skills as a horsewoman, she escapes the villains by stealing a prized horse. But she is unable to outrace the fierce snowstorm or the man in pursuit.

 

Lord Nathaniel "Nash" Trentham, Earl of Wessex, chases Eliza through the snow as she makes off with his most-favored stallion. Nash must now save her, paying no mind to decorum and conventions.

 

Will Eliza be forced to marry the Earl and give up her passion for horses? Or will they find a compromise?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doe Bay Publishing LLC
• Release date: Apr 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9780998527673

Book preview

Chapter One

December,1803

Rural England

Nicholas Balthasar Trentham, Earl of Wessex, sprawled in the rickety chair, propped his feet on the table, and took another swig of ale, the best the Dragon and Cock had to offer. Peering through the soiled window, he watched the clouds blowing across the sky. A winter storm was brewing. If he didn’t leave immediately, he’d be forced to spend the night. He had stayed in worse places, but, at those times, he had always been deep in his cups.

Anger and resentment swirled in his gut like the beginning snow flurries outside. The ale wasn’t dimming the memories. It had been over a year since his father, the old earl died, and he still hadn’t gone home, if you could call Wemberly Abbey a home. It hadn’t been home since his mother had died in childbirth, trying to bear a spare heir for his father.

He had impulsively decided to return to his estate after becoming thoroughly bored with the holiday parties. Bored with his last mistress, bored with his drunken friends, bored with society; he didn’t need to affect ennui to be fashionable. None of his usual pursuits piqued his interest.

What half-witted reason drove him to want to be at the estate for the holidays? Refusing any form of introspection, he sat upright, yearning for action. If any of his disreputable friends got wind that the rogue Nash longed for the holiday spirit of his childhood he’d be ridiculed out of his clubs.

Disgusted by his self-pitying thoughts, he resolved to return to town. He’d spend the holidays staggering from party to party. It was better than being alone during the holidays with no siblings, no family but distant cousins. Lady Stafford had been hinting for months, and perhaps he’d succumb to her advances since it had been a month since he ended his affair with Genevieve.

As he scanned the darkening sky, motion from a window at the adjacent inn caught his attention.

Someone was trying to escape without paying his bill.

An arse molded into tight riding breeches backed out of the open window. His rake’s eyes rapidly recognized the shape, firmness, and the perfect size for a man’s hands. If his tastes were anything to be trusted, this was not a man’s arse.

He watched her slow, slithering descent down the building, her blond curls swirling around her shoulders. His blood stirred, and his mind raced with possibilities.

This trip had just got interesting. Why was this sweet thing in breeches attempting an escape? He stood and reached for his box coat.

Despite his debauched ways, he remained a gentleman. And the little vixen needed further exploration. He needed to uncover the reasons for the lady’s hasty departure…not a lady by her costume, though. Ladies were so boring, whereas…

Swinging his coat over his shoulders, he watched her as she cautiously lowered her feet to the ground. His blood heated with the arousing sway of her hips. The vision of him peeling her out of the breeches and anything she might be wearing underneath, had him hardening.

Loud shouts shocked him out of his carnal daydream as two men rushed from the back of the inn. Like a trapped animal, she froze with her hands on the first-floor windowsill. A burly bearded man grabbed her, jerking her from the sill before backhanding her. His short wiry companion smiled as she staggered from the force of his impact.

Nash dropped his coat and ran to intervene. His need to bloody the brute who touched her beat through him in a deadly rhythm. They were dragging her by her arms toward the stable as he rounded the corner. Her head hung between her slumped shoulders. Every muscle tightened into killing mode. They would pay a painful price for hurting her.

Stop! His voice echoed in the narrow alley between the two buildings.

The men turned toward him, dropping their victim. She pushed herself upright, giving him a view of her pale, heart-shaped face bruised by the violence. Corkscrew curls hung over one eye. She and the men stared at him, creating a strange tableau in the whirling flurries. And his protective instinct roared in defense of this beautiful, fragile creature.

Her attacker spat French out of the side of his mouth as he slowly moved forward. The skinny one reached into his boot for his dagger. A little knife play with two against one. Now the fun would begin. Too bad none of his cronies were here to bet on who would be the victor. Watching the men spread out to attack from both sides, Nash rolled onto his toes and waited. This was child’s play. His fighting skills were well-honed from boxing at Oxford to brawling in the alleys of the East End.

Pea-brain sans front teeth waited, knife in hand, while his heavy-breathing partner stepped within striking distance, his ham-sized fists clenching and unclenching as he swore in French. Nash smiled to hear himself called an English "putain. He had been called a lot worse than an English whore."

Nash’s wide grin stopped the man momentarily. In the thug’s brief hesitation, Nash punched him in the face, shattering his broad nose. The man raised his hands to stop the spurting blood, giving Nash the perfect opening. Nash delivered the full strength of his fourteen stone behind his fist to the soft gut. With the idiot bent over, Nash raised his knee to finish him off. Screaming, the bastard dropped to the ground, grabbing his balls as he fell into a curled heap.

The partner lurched forward, his blade raised high to reach Nash. In one quick swirl, Nash twisted to confront him, but not quick enough to stop the fast slash across his arm. The sight of blood and a long tear in his linen shirt infuriated Nash. He charged the smaller man, wrenched his arm and twisted it with all his force to hear the brittle sound of the break.

Nash raised an eyebrow and asked in French, Do you wish to end up like your friend?

Cradling his broken forearm, the man shook his head.

Nash, maintaining his focus on the man, bent and picked up the knife.

Blood lust roared through him. He knew the perfect solution for this manly ailment, and it involved a sweet derriere and blond curls. He scanned the alley for the damsel in distress.

He strode toward the stable, ignoring the pain in his arm, and envisioned her ministering to all his pressing needs.

The sound of beating hooves echoed in the narrow lane behind the inn.

Skirting