Lara Temple - Lord Crayle's Secret World

She raised the pistol and waited, trying to stay calm. She felt the warmth of his body behind her and flinched slightly when his hands grasped her shoulders, moving her so that her body faced more squarely down the lane.

‘I know this will feel strange to you,’ he said calmly.

He was so close she could feel his breath, warm against her nape. His hand moved to her upper arm, closing on it gently, urging it back.

‘Move your right foot forward just a bit and lean your shoulder back. Your arm should be at an angle to your body—like this.’

She obeyed, but she could feel her arm start to shake and took a deep breath, trying to focus on nothing but the pistol.

‘Relax.’ His voice was soft and low, soothing. ‘Remember, this is easy for you.’

His hand moved down her arm slightly, steadying it. It felt warm through the thin fabric of her dress. He was mere inches behind her now, and the contrast between the coolness of the underground cavern and the warmth radiating from his body was disorientating.

Author Note

In my first week as a financial analyst at an investment bank I sat in a large room with twenty young men and one woman. Amidst all the information bombarding us (including an admonition to us two females not to wear trouser suits—and this was in the nineties!) I started thinking … What must it have been like two hundred years ago for women whose skills placed them in predominantly male environments? I had already spent two years in the military, and now there I was again—surrounded by confident, aggressive, ambitious men.

That evening I sat in my little flat in Fulham and began writing about a young woman thrust into the male world of espionage in Regency London—a world shaped by men like my hero Michael, Earl of Crayle, who is driven by the dark cost of that privilege and the deep scars of war.

Sari Trevor, my unconventional heroine, has no such traditions either to ground her or limit her. She has to invent herself, in a world intolerant of female initiative, so when she enters the earl’s world she is both deeply insecure and fiercely determined to succeed. The inevitable clash between them is also at the core of their attraction—it lays bare each other’s scars and needs and allows them … eventually … to find salvation together.

The first draft of this story lay dormant for many years, alongside others in my writing drawer, until my mother—a wonderful poet and editor—drew my attention to Mills & Boon’s So You Think You Can Write 2014 competition. With her inspired help I dusted it off and submitted it, and now Lord Crayle’s Secret World is about to be revealed.

Lord Crayle’s Secret World

Lara Temple

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LARA TEMPLEwas three years old when she begged her mother to take the dictation of her first adventure story. Since then she has led a double life—by day she is a high-tech investment professional, who has lived and worked on three continents, but when darkness falls she loses herself in history and romance (at least on the page). Luckily her husband and two beautiful and very energetic children help her weave it all together.

Lord Crayle’s Secret World is Lara Temple’s exhilarating debut for Mills & Boon Historical Romance!

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk.

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Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Hampstead Heath, March 1817

Sari rubbed her gloved but frozen hands together as she and George hid among the beeches lining the London road. It was past midnight, and even as she watched the limp leaves were turning crisp with frost. She wondered once again what on earth had convinced her that highway robbery was a good idea. Madness was the only reasonable explanation for resorting to such extreme measures, no matter how desperate they had become.

It was partially George’s fault. As children, she and her brother had been captivated by his tales of the robber gangs on the Heath and he had taught them both how to ride and shoot, much to her parents’ chagrin. As she had stared at the last few copper coins in their deflated purse, the Heath had seemed a viable means of escaping debt and starvation. But now, as George stood by her side in the dark, looking as defeated as she felt, but showing the same loyal doggedness that had kept him by her family’s side, she knew she could not do this.

She was just opening her mouth to speak when she heard it—a distant rumble, separating into the staccato of hooves and the uneven rattle of wheels. George gave a quick nod and swung into his saddle as if mere days rather than twenty years had passed since his last raid. Sari scrambled into hers, her heart jerking unevenly and her body alert. This was it; there was no turning back. When the carriage was close enough for them to see the mist rising from the horses’ breath, George dug his heels into his mare’s flanks, and Sari urged her horse after him, just as they had practised.

‘Stand and deliver,’ George called out as Sari’s horse skidded to a halt in the middle of the road. The coachman, finding himself staring straight down the silvery rim of a pistol, pulled hard on the reins. The four horses twisted and whinnied in protest, but finally the whole steaming, huffing contraption shuddered to a halt barely two yards from her extended pistol.

The back rider diligently jumped off his perch, weapon at the ready, but George clipped him on the head with his musket and the man crumpled. The coachman made a futile grab for his shotgun, but Sari disabled it with a well-aimed shot. With a horrified look at the mangled wood and metal, the coachman raised his hands shakily.

Sari turned her attention to the carriage, moving her mare to cover George. She heard a muffled shriek from inside and smiled grimly. A woman. Hopefully well jewelled. Perhaps this would be their lucky night after all.

* * *

The two inhabitants of the carriage hardly shared Sari’s optimism. Lord Crayle was tired and the tedious social rituals at the Stanton-Hills’ ball had reminded him why he tried to avoid such events as much as possible. Unfortunately, his sister Alicia’s debut in society required his occasional attendance. The last thing he felt like dealing with at the moment was footpads. It was sheer ill luck that these particular footpads had chosen that night, that road and their carriage. He had spent a third of his life getting shot at by the French and would have been happy to remain on the right side of firearms for the rest of his life. Unfortunately, fate apparently had other ideas. His only consolation was that at least he was better equipped to handle this unpleasant situation than Alicia and her usual chaperon, Lady Montvale.