No Child Here: Rise of the Heroine, #2

By Faith Cameron

In 1785 England, Logan Sandhurst, Viscount Edgewood, is hailed as London's warrior for women's rights. Patron for the abused. Champion for the oppressed and forgotten of society.

 

Lady Hannah Aldridge believes her life is about to turn around for the better the day her parents announced her betrothal to the saintly viscount. But her first meeting with Logan reveals the man she admires from afar might not be the hero he's portrayed to be. Secrets of murder and stolen children whisper to her from dark corners.

 

Lord Thomas Bryant, Earl of Pembroke, has spent the last two years searching for his missing son. He finds Lady Hannah instead and holds her for ransom in a desperate attempt to draw out Lord Edgewood.

 

The ruse works only too well, and Hannah discovers there is more to the grieving father than she ever dreamed possible and that Logan is hiding a secret which could destroy any chance she has for a family of her own.

 

In 1785 England, Logan Sandhurst, Viscount Edgewood, is hailed as London's warrior for women's rights. Patron for the abused. Champion for the oppressed and forgotten of society.

 

Lady Hannah Aldridge believes her life is about to turn around for the better the day her parents announced her betrothal to the saintly viscount. But her first meeting with Logan reveals the man she admires from afar might not be the hero he's portrayed to be. Secrets of murder and stolen children whisper to her from dark corners.

 

Lord Thomas Bryant, Earl of Pembroke, has spent the last two years searching for his missing son. He finds Lady Hannah instead and holds her for ransom in a desperate attempt to draw out Lord Edgewood.

 

The ruse works only too well, and Hannah discovers there is more to the grieving father than she ever dreamed possible and that Logan is hiding a secret which could destroy any chance she has for a family of her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Oct 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9781957228495

Book preview

No Child Here

An Antihero Trilogy, 2

FAITH CAMERON

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

No Child Here

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

712 SE Winchell Street, Depoe Bay OR 97341 U.S.A.

~ * ~

First Edition

eISBN: 978-1-957228-49-5

Copyright © 2023 Faith Cameron All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Sevannah Storm

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you for complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

www.champagnebooks.com

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To my amazing husband Jamie. I

credit the existence of this book

series to you.

Chapter One

Dorset, England 1785

Thomas Bryant, Earl of Pembroke, studied his quarry. The young woman’s attempt at hiding her sex was laughable. Indeed, the very clothes she chose to hide in only emphasized her substantial assets.

The beautiful provisions both forward and aft were on display for any buffoon to notice, and this tavern was filled to the rafters with unsavory nitwits of every imaginable dementia.

She was in imminent danger, but only had eyes for the inebriated sot sitting before her.

He should leave her to her just rewards. A woman out on her own was an invitation to scandal and ruin. It was the folly of youth to believe actions held no consequences. A misperception of life she was about to discover if left unattended.

He was here to accost the drunken dolt, not rescue a foolish girl. God only knew Thomas was terrible at rescues.

The first nitwit stepped forward, mouth askew, spittle hanging off a fat lip. The girl gamely threw back her ale, then choked on the bitter brew. Her suitor walloped her back as though a beating would make the ale more palatable. Neither noticed the approaching rodent.

Thomas’s hands itched. Tingled with the need to act. Really, why should he care what became of the naive vixen? It would teach her a needed lesson. One she would bear the mark of for the remainder of her life. Yet it would be a shame to see such spirit wither beneath the heel of that odious scoundrel. He grabbed the blade from his boot and flung it at the perpetrator’s chest, hitting square on the mark.

The man went down with a gurgle, dead before he hit the floor. All faces turned to Thomas, and he met them with a raised chin and a haughty stare that said: the girl is mine. The tavern resumed its business, the body was dragged out, and the woman was unaware that her virtue—if not her life—had been spared by a stranger.

Thomas settled back into his crude furnishings. The man finally drank himself into a stupor and his head hit the table with a thud. Thomas rose and strode over to gain an introduction to the mischievous chit. He paused where she sat; his attention riveted to the dribble of her melodic voice.

There, there, Mr. Witherby. I am certain you will think of another gift to woo Abby besides lemons. Why, your Ode to Toes was marvelously ingenious. Surely you will impress her with something else.

What nonsense was this? No man went courting with sour fruit as tokens of his affection. The woman was addled beyond redemption. Speaking a foreign concoction of words. He’d have better fortune conversing with a three-year-old.

A pair of golden jewels lifted to his face.

He cleared his throat—only to choke on his own spit. Her scrutiny was like a punch to the gut, driving the air from his lungs. The rigid set of his jaw came undone and his heart gave an unsteady thump. Never had he experienced such a physical reaction to a woman afore now. Was that sweat beading on his brow?

He groped blindly for a scrape of wood and tumbled into it with uncharacteristic haste. Who are you?

She peered at him through a narrow fringe of black lashes.

It rankled that she was not as moved by his close regard as he was of hers. Have you a name?

Henry, she said in a sweet soft voice.

Try again, little minx. And do not insult my intelligence. I can see you are no male.

Her color paled. I know not what you mean.

No matter. I find the name ‘little minx’ aptly suited.

Her pert nose wrinkled in distaste. I do not favor the name or the company. She surged onto her feet, making to leave.

Are you abandoning a man in need? He waved a hand at her inebriated companion.

She paused. Sadly, it is not the first time he has fallen asleep in a tavern. And I dare say it shall not be the last.

Two emotions warred within him. Thomas chose to act on the one he understood the most—anger. Do you often sneak into taverns dressed as a boy?

Her glare was a miniature version of his, and his had been known to bring grown men to their knees. The outfit was a good disguise until tonight.

He suppressed the sordid words unfit for a lady. Dare you blame me for saving your life?

Two delicate lines drew together. Save my life? From whom, sir?

Could she not see an entire building full of scoundrels? He took a deep breath and counted to ten. Being a naïve twit wasn’t a crime. He should get up and leave. His plans did not involve discourse with an ungrateful brat. Shoving to his feet, he managed one step forward. Almost two before a muttered remark reached his ears.

The only man I need saving from is the halfwit who won’t leave me alone.

Halfwit, was he? He whirled with a roar and heaved her into the air, slamming her face down across the rounded bulge of his shoulder. God’s teeth the woman possessed sharp knees! She pummeled him as he stepped outside, strode passed his horse, and then marched to a grassy knoll. He crested the hill with his squirming baggage, descended the other side out of view of the tavern, then dropped her onto her arse.

Ouch! You wicked, demonic goat.

Demonic goat? A chuckle escaped his lips.

My fiancé will toast your hide and eat your charred remains for breakfast.

Your threats amuse me, little minx. Tell me, who is this great guardian of misguided souls? Not the besotted fool you left behind, I hope?

Logan Sandhurst, Viscount Edgewood, brother to the Duke of Dorchester. Her chin lifted into an obstinate angle. You’ve heard of them?

Aye. All men know the tale of the Monster of Dorchester Castle and the courageous viscount who rescues women and children who go begging him to appease their lot in life.

She tossed her thick mane of strawberry blonde hair. Good. Then you will not want to incur their wrath. She bent her legs to rise.

Thomas shoved her back down with his boot. She gasped up at him, a tendril of fear skating across her wide eyes. He brought the boot to rest between the valley of her breasts, smiling as he nudged her into a prone position. You play at dangerous games, Lady Hannah, with naught but a list of vile names to defend your honor.

Her lower lip quivered once then stilled. You know my name.

Aye, and the bounty placed on your head. He stood above her as master—her welfare, reputation, and innocence were all within his power to take.

It was a heady feeling, having an enemy’s fiancée in one’s hands. He had been searching the past two years for any weakness of Edgewood’s he could exploit, and at last God granted him a kindness. When he had overheard the whispered conversation between Lord Harwood and Dorchester, he assumed the woman being bartered away was older. A spinster firmly set on the shelf.

But damn his eternal soul! She was so young. Naïve beyond belief.

Lady Hannah lifted her chin. It’s not a bounty but a dowry.

Sauce for the goose, my dear.

She was dangerous to him and his plans. Instinct told Thomas to leave her and walk away. Devise another mad scheme that would bring Edgewood to his knees. But an opportunity such as this rarely came knocking twice. Caving to the voice of the villain riding his shoulder, Thomas drew his rapier. He cut through the buttons on Lady Hannah’s waistcoat, slicing the linen shirt from her cravat to the band of her breeches.

Instead of luscious breasts, strips of linen met his perusal. Pity. He raised his gaze.

A proud warrior stared back, facing him with more courage than any man on field of battle. So, this was the spitfire Edgewood would be making his future viscountess. The man would have his hands full—in the best possible way.

Only a fool would allow such a bounty to slip through his fingers.

Stabbing the thin sword into the ground, Thomas straddled her prone body, pinning her with his weight. Daughters of earls do not venture into taverns wearing the clothes of men and swilling spirits like a pirate. Such scandalous behavior would ruin your reputation should a member of the peerage wish it.

Hannah’s face went ashen. Are you a member of the peerage?

I am. He allowed a malicious smile to emerge. It would appear you jumped from a hot cauldron into a fire. I pray you are not too delicate to bear the heat. Bastard that he was, Thomas stroked the coarse cloth over bound lumps. He would have paid good money to feel their hefty weight in his palm. My silence regarding tonight’s foray into wickedness comes with a cost, Lady Hannah.

She struggled to no avail. You speak of blackmail.

His fingers continued their lazy inspection of twin mountains, finding their peaks only by the flash of awareness in her flinch when his thumb made contact. I whisper of opportunity. To bring a criminal to justice.

He dragged his thumb over her nipple repeatedly, watching her fight the feelings he provoked within her. The crimson stain on her cheeks. White teeth biting down on the ripe flesh of her lip. The erratic pulse batting the side of her neck. What did she feel more? Fear? Arousal? Anger?

What do you mean? The hooded gaze staring up at him was beguiling in its innocence.

An innocence he had no right to claim. Release the girl, Pembroke. You are a better man than this. Thomas flinched from the putrid specter of a voice that belonged to another soul. One that once had a wife and baby who cherished his existence.

Thomas shook his head. How well do you know the lord your father intends for you to marry?

Her brows dipped. As well as most familiar with his reputation.

He leaned close to the coral lips beckoning him to a sweet, forbidden affair. What if I told you his precious reputation was built on broken maidenheads and murdered women and children?

Tension hummed between them. His attraction to her choked like a noose around his neck. A mutinous scowl formed on her mouth. I would say you are mad. Everyone knows of Lord Edgewood’s boundless generosity and demonstrations of gallantry and kindness.

Her vehement defense of his enemy was a gauntlet tossed to the grass, and Thomas accepted the challenge with a grin.

A sudden wisp of air blew across his face, carrying the scent of flowers. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight as he jerked his head up. A wooden stick greeted his vision, then pain lanced his temple.

Chapter Two

Abby! Hannah kicked herself away from the beast. Thank heavens you found me.

How dare that scoundrel force his hands upon you. Abby St. Clair glared at the unconscious man at her feet. I should have whacked him with more spirit.

Hannah stared at the man who accosted her. His features were well formed for a vicious brute. Wheat colored hair, a straight nose, stubble covering a firm jawline. Do you know this lord?

He’s a lord? Good grief. No, I haven’t seen him before in Dorset.

He claimed to have saved my life inside the tavern.

Abby grunted. On that account he spoke the truth.

He did?

Yes. Abby pursed her lips. I saw the event unfold from afar, but he threw a blade into some bloke’s chest, killing him instantly. It was barbaric. Yet, none of the patrons dared utter a protest. They looked too frightened.

How intriguing. He is a man of some repute then. A mysterious lord who commanded the respect of the commoners. No easy feat for a member of the aristocracy.

Erase that fanciful look from your expression, Hannah Aldridge. Abby thumped her quarterstaff into the ground, missing the lord’s head by a few blades of grass. This is not one of your insipid love stories. This man, whomever he is, is up to no good. I overheard a portion of his conversation with you. Come, we should warn Lord Edgewood.

You speak as if we can whisper his name and conjure the man before us. If only she could make a wish and have it be so. My parents have yet to gain an introduction to Lord Edgewood. His brother, the Duke of Dorchester, has been arranging this betrothal with my father, with nothing save the duke’s assurances Lord Edgewood will honor the agreement. It cut her to admit this truth, but there was little point in hiding behind the thin veneer of a marriage that might never come to pass. I do not believe Lord Edgewood wants me for his bride. He will not see us.

Abby grasped her hand and helped her to her feet. I understand your feelings, truly I do, but a man’s life may be in danger. We must warn him.

Hannah sighed. Very well, but the question remains—how?

Lord Edgewood is inside the tavern. Abby’s smile turned coy. Did I forget to tell you?

Yes! Hannah snatched her hand free. Why did you not tell me sooner?

The smile faltered. He’s… not himself tonight.

What does that mean?

Now it was Abby who sighed. He’s foxed.

What?

Drunk. Three sheets to the wind. Inebriated.

I know what the words mean. I just cannot believe he sat idle while another life was in peril. Male or female, a life was being threatened and her idol watched disengaged from the sordid affair, refusing to lend aid.

Her gaze strayed to the lord crumpled in the grass. Who are you? Why did you rescue me? A trickle of sympathy enveloped her heart. After a lifetime of being treated with indifference by her family, being seen for the first time by a stranger was a novelty. An even greater oddity given she wore the garments of a gentleman. As an earl’s daughter, she was invisible. Dressed as a man, a murder was committed to save her wayward honor. What other ironies would this night produce?

Abby’s hand tightened on her arm. As I have said, Lord Edgewood is not himself this night. Do not judge him too harshly.

It was no secret her friend valued Lord Edgewood’s support and protection. He had saved Abby’s life and remained ever faithful to Abby and her son, Nathan. Hannah swallowed a lump of words better left unsaid. I shall try.

Good. She glanced at the lord’s twitching fingers. Oh bother. He’s waking up. Come!

Hannah yanked together the torn halves of her shirt, shoving the flapping tails into the thick band of her borrowed male breeches as she scurried to keep up with Abby. What of Mr. Witherby?

What of him? Abby snorted. Mr. Witherby slumbers as usual when into his cups. There is something else of more pressing concern. Hurry, Hannah.

She led the way back inside the noisy tavern, skirting around bawdy wenches selling more than the drinks their heavy platters boasted. She made a beeline to a slouching gentleman seated within grim shadows beside a low fire, sipping from a pewter mug.

Logan Sandhurst, Viscount Edgewood.

The man all of England lauded as a warrior for justice had been sitting here while she was accosted by a mad brute, and flung over his shoulder and carried out of the tavern as a sack of grain. Hannah had always been a ghost, her voice too quiet an instrument to draw her family’s notice, her reddish tresses and thickened waistline not the height of fashion this season or any other. But to have her plight ignored as if it were nothing? The proclaimed hero of the people acting as a spectator while a murder and assault all happened in front of him?

How well do you know the lord your father wants you to marry?

Hannah shivered, drawing to a halt beside the sleeping American, Robert Witherby. His forehead was crushing the note Abby had written and begged Hannah to deliver. A difficult task, given the one place Mr. Witherby frequented the most. Hence, the need for disguise.

She examined the sleeping foreigner. He sought solace every night in this tavern, drinking himself to oblivion, for what imagined slight she could not fathom. She hid her loneliness behind food; his choice of veil was alcohol.

Poor Mr. Witherby. Her gaze ascended, scrutinizing the room full of boisterous voices and lascivious actions, oblivious of the two lives most in need of attention. We are two peas of the same pod, I fear. She sank into the chair beside him, heaving his half-empty bottle to her lips. Cheers, Mr. Witherby.

A burning rush flowed over her tongue and down her throat. She coughed and pounded her chest. Good grief! What horrid stuff is this?

You didn’t drink enough.

Hannah’s grip on the bottle slackened, but a man’s hand seized it before it crashed on the floor. Mr. Witherby?

The American studied her from the top of her tricorn to the bottom of her borrowed boots. His red-rimmed gaze lingered on her shorn shirt and waistcoat. Tough night for you?

You might say that.

Aye. Me too. His attention fell to the letter Abby had written him. She doesn’t love me.

The murmur ripped fresh wounds in her heart, for the agony in his tone matched the one she often gave voice to. They do not want me. She reached for the bottle of spirits at the same moment as Mr. Witherby, their fingers colliding for possession.

He offered a weak grin. Ladies first.

You … you know who I am?

I’d wager the entire tavern knows. His probing stare dipped then righted itself. A beauty such as yourself is too rare a gem to go unnoticed in the depths of Hell. He tore the bottle from her limp fingers. You should leave. I’m in no condition to fight for your honor, lass.

Hannah blinked back a pool of water. He called her beautiful. I would linger, and share a cup, while my friend tends to business. A business she could not participate in, lest Lord Edgewood see through her, as well. There was only one place to hide in a tavern full of rough company and strong drink.

She leaned forward, holding her breath. Copious amounts of alcohol did not improve a man’s breath. I must maintain my disguise. How would such a feat be accomplished?

Kissing has always been my preference. He swooped in, lips puckered.

A blade sunk into the table between their faces. Witherby!

The spectator abandoned his post and towered above her in an imposing mass of muscle and sinew. A scowl and an unfocused glower radiating contempt swept over her shorn clothing and lopsided tricorn. Have you lost your senses, Witherby? Consorting with young boys?

Hannah balled her fists. Excuse me, sir, but I am nearly one and twenty.

I might have believed one and three. Go home to your parents, boy, before I take you over my knee for a proper thrashing. Satisfied with his inane threat, he sauntered off in serpentine motions to the stairs where rented rooms were kept on the second floor.

Abby hurried over to the lumbering oaf as he tried to put one foot in front of the other, attempting to climb the steps. Hannah, help me with Lord Edgewood.

Excuse me, Mr. Witherby. She stood, swaying from her own excess of spirits, then swept to Abby’s side, the man between them eating up what remained of her good senses. What aid can a boy of one and three offer?

Abby chuckled. I told you Lord Edgewood was in a mood tonight. I fear you’re not seeing him at his best.

The lord missed a step and fell, whacking his square chin on a wooden plank.

Hannah rolled her eyes. I fear I am.

Help me settle him in his room. Then we’ll leave, never to return.

You know which room he rented? Dismay settled as a lump in her belly. How would Abby come by such information?

Abby tsked. He mentioned his accommodations to me when I tried to move him from his berth in the corner. Come, we must be quick.

Emboldened by drink and false courage, Hannah slipped under his arm, praying for strength as he leaned greater weight onto her than she anticipated. With Abby standing as the anchor, pushing his back, they staggered up the stairs. Lord Edgewood indicated a door with a fragrant grunt and a vague wave of his hand.

Together, they braced the half-conscious lord against a wall. Can you imagine doing that in skirts? Abby wiped the sweat from her brow. We would have perished in the attempt.

I pray I don’t regret giving aid in the days to come.

Give him time, Hannah. He’ll come around to the notion of marriage. A wistful tone crept into Abby’s voice. I know of his desire for a family. He’ll succumb and take a wife soon. I am certain of it. She cleared her throat, ignoring Hannah’s probing stare, flinging the door wide open to a spacious room with a low fire already warming the grate.

Hannah glared at the man she’d wasted so many daydreams on, fantasizing about a romance that would never bloom. I wish I shared your conviction. I fear I foresee a life as spinster, throwing shoes at children to pass the time of day.

Why not throw your biscuits? Such hard lumps are good for little else than artillery.

My lack of cooking skills is entirely beside the point, Abby.

Forgive me, but what is your point?

She waved at the giant slouched against the wall. His lordship snored through slack jaws, fully asleep standing up. My point is of little consequence. Let us help him to bed, and ourselves away from this place.

Hannah took one arm, and Abby grabbed his other. He stumbled and dragged his feet alongside their swaying forms in an awkward dance to the bed.

Standing before the straw mattress, Hannah moved in front of Lord Edgewood, holding onto both his arms while Abby caught her breath.

He tilted dangerously to the right. Perhaps a simple tug to the left would correct his posture. Drat!

Lord Edgewood drifted too far to the other side.

A quick pull on the right ought to do the—

Oh no. Abby, he’s heading your way.

Abby’s head snapped up. Gasping, her friend gave him a shove forward. The man came barreling at Hannah.

Aargh! They crashed together upon the hard mattress, his massive weight crushing her at the same time a searing burn lashed the inside of her right thigh.

Hannah! Hannah, are you hurt? Abby’s concerned face rose above Lord Edgewood’s slumbering form.

I’m uncertain. Her arms were pinned. I believe I have been cut. Help me.

I’ll try. Bracing her hands on the giant’s low back, she pushed and pulled.

It wasn’t working, and Hannah’s ribs were near to cracking from the strain. Go find help. She tossed her head back and forth, fighting to expand her diaphragm. Hurry!

I’ll be but a moment.

Hannah waited, caught between abject misery and morbid fascination. She was in intimate contact with the opposite sex for the first time. It was a moment of revelations, but mostly one of severe disappointment.

How many romantic tales had she feasted upon, eating up words as gallant knights rescued damsels in distress? Well, she was in distress, but one would have to stretch their imagination far to claim Lord Edgewood as gallant. Dear heavens! If he were anymore valiant, she’d suffocate beneath his heroic attempt to smother her.

She nudged him in the shoulder with the pointy end of her stubborn chin. Sir, you must move. Snoring met her demand. She bucked her hips. Once. Twice. Three times. She could not budge the man, but she was efficient at ramming herself against a sturdy stick of sorts. Where had this uncomfortable rock come from?

A sleepy male voice grated into her ear. Don’t stop.

Adrenaline spiked her blood in an explosive spurt.

The slumbering mountain roused himself, fixing his forearms on either side of her head. He stared down at her with half-masked eyes, heavy with need. I did not move to frighten you, only to encourage. His voice lowered to an intimate caress. I was enjoying your ministrations.

Heat flamed her cheeks. You mistake my intent. I only meant to shift your weight from my person so I could climb from this bed. She willed her gaze to find something of more interest to stare at, but nothing moved save her heart, pounding as if in a race with itself.

Why do you wish to leave my bed?

The husky timber melted every bone in her body. What manner of sorcery was this? Her future husband was the bedrock of her every fantasy, and he did not even know who lay beneath him. If you can tell me my name, I shall stay. There! I shall be up and out of this room in a thrice.

He teased her with the barest hint of a smile. Names are not important between angels and mortals.

They are to this angel. She’d have crossed her arms over her chest if mobility was possible.

He swept an errant tendril away from her cheek. "What meaning does a name hold when we’re about to share