The Marriage Rescue Read online

  Rescued by her enemy

  Will she meet him at the altar?

  Romani Selina Agres has despised the gentry ever since her mother was murdered by a cruel aristocrat. But she’s not sure what to think when Edward Fulbrooke, that very man’s nephew, rescues her from an angry horde. Edward may be different from other nobles, but Selina’s distrust runs deep. So she’s shocked when he proposes marriage to protect her and her people! Can she accept?

  “Miss Agres.”

  Selina had turned away from him. Standing before the fire, only her silhouette, outlined in sparks and tongues of curling flame, was visible to Edward’s gaze. He could see the tension in her back and knew it was only by sheer willpower she was maintaining her composure.

  “Yes.”

  “I think I may have a solution to your current dilemma, depending on your answers to two questions.”

  “Have you.” Her tone was flat and devoid of curiosity. “And what would those be?”

  Edward ignored how dull she sounded, his own hopes beginning to build. “The first—what is your age?”

  She didn’t turn to look at him, her eyes still fixed on the flames before her. “How is that of any relevance?”

  “Please. Humor me.”

  She sighed as though it was an effort to find the words to reply. “Very well. I am recently turned twenty.” The fire crackled, sending sparks swirling into the night sky. “Your second question?”

  Edward reached for her. At the first touch of his hand on her shoulder Selina jumped and swung around to face him, a frown of distrust clouding her features. Edward smiled as the expression in her dark eyes, at first so wary and fearful, turned to frozen astonishment as she watched him drop to one knee and take her small hand in his own.

  “Selina Agres. Will you marry me?”

  Author Note

  For this, my debut Harlequin Historical novel, I was delighted to have an excuse to do some research into a corner of social history I have always found fascinating: Roma culture, and the differences between the lives of travelers and the gentry across whose land they might have passed. I wanted to look deeper into the way of life of those on the road, their customs and traditions, and contrast them with what might be more familiar.

  Life in a horse-drawn caravan is often painted in a rosy light, but the nineteenth-century Romani would not have had an easy existence. Often facing prejudice and abuse, they had more obstacles to overcome than many in search of that happily-ever-after.

  In The Marriage Rescue’s Romani heroine, Selina, we have a combination of everything I’ve always loved most in female Romance characters—kindness, determination and enough spirit to keep the hero on his toes! Edward, a newly inherited squire in dire need of a wife, more than meets his match in his independent new bride, although both realize they have a lot to learn about the secret sorrows of the other. I hope you enjoy meeting them.

  Joanna Johnson

  The Marriage Rescue

  Joanna Johnson lives in a pretty Wiltshire village with her husband and as many books as she can sneak into the house. Being part of the Harlequin Historical family is a dream come true. She has always loved writing, starting at five years old with a series about a cat imaginatively named Cat, and she keeps a notebook in every handbag—just in case. In her spare time she likes finding new places to have a cream tea, stroking scruffy dogs and trying to remember where she left her glasses.

  The Marriage Rescue is Joanna Johnson’s gripping debut for Harlequin Historical!

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  Contents

  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

  Excerpt from The Earl’s Countess of Convenience by Marguerite Kaye

  Chapter One

  Selina Agres was going to die, and it was all her own fault. Hadn’t she been warned, time and time again, to stay as far away as possible from those upper-class English animals?

  Grandmother Zillah’s words echoed in her ears as she rode for her life, her horse Djali’s hooves pounding over waterlogged ground and leaving deep tracks in their fleeing wake.

  Stupid girl.

  It wasn’t as though she hadn’t seen the proof of their wickedness for herself, either.

  The last clear memory she had of her mother was the way her eyes had changed at the moment of her death. Many of the other details she could recall were blurred: snatches of lullabies sung on summer nights, when the rhythmic swaying of their creaking caravan had rocked young Selina to sleep; the barest suggestion of a comforting floral scent she could never quite pin down. But the memory of those eyes—so bright and sharp in life, missing nothing, holding a world of wisdom and humour—had clouded to a flat black, staring unseeing at the little girl who had gazed back, who had wondered where the light had gone from Mama’s face...

  She bent lower over the horse’s neck, urging him onwards ever faster. A swift glance behind showed her pursuers losing ground, hindered by their own far clumsier mounts. Selina grasped at a tentative new hope: stubborn and scarred he might be, but nobody was as fast as her Djali over level terrain. He had been her mother’s horse before she’d passed, then barely more than a colt, and Selina blessed Mama in that moment for training the bad-tempered creature so well. Perhaps they might survive this after all.

  The wind tore at her clothes, an autumn squall that threatened the rapid approach of winter tugging her riot of midnight curls free from their ribbon and tossing the heavy tresses into her face. She flung them aside with desperate haste, her other hand tightening its death grip on the horse’s reins.

  She couldn’t stop now. Just one more fence to jump and then it was all downhill to a thick copse of trees, if her memories of this wretched place were correct, and there she might just be able to hide—if she could only put enough distance between herself and those behind her... Twelve years had passed since she had last set foot on this land, and all she could do was pray her scattered recollections were right.

  ‘Come on, Djali!’ Her voice was loud, battling against the roar of the wind, belying the way her heart railed against her ribs like a trapped animal.

  The horse plunged onwards, his breath coming short and fast in a pattern that matched Selina’s own.

  She hadn’t even wanted to get so close. But what else could she have done? Left the poor girl alone in the forest? Perhaps she should have; look at where taking pity on a landowner’s child had got her.

  Seeing a Roma woman carrying a sobbing English child through the woods—Squire Ambrose Fulbrooke’s own daughter, no less—of course his men had jumped to the wrong conclusion. The idea that the little girl had escaped her governess and got herself lost would never have occurred to them, whereas everybody had heard how the Roma were a community of thieves and vagrants. Of course she was stealing the child; what other explanation could there be?

  Selina knew from bitter experience the prejudices that existed against her people. Shunned and almos
t feared, the Roma were well used to living on the fringes, making do in whatever ways they could. But they were strong, and that characteristic spirit was more than evident in Selina.

  Almost from her first steps she had worked hard: foraging food for the pot, fetching water, helping Papa break in horses to sell. Her hands had grown calloused and her skin tanned, and with each passing year she had become more and more like the kind, capable mother ripped so cruelly from her.

  Even Papa had commented on the resemblance once, years ago, on a camp a hundred miles from this damned estate, as he’d watched her lunge a new pony. The animal had been skittish and afraid, but with gentleness and determination Selina had brought him on well, and her father had nodded at her as he’d sat on the back porch of their wagon, pipe in hand.

  ‘What do you think, Lina? Will you make a mount of him yet?’

  ‘I believe so, Papa.’ Selina had smiled across at him and wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of a hand. ‘He’s clever, and a good worker.’

  ‘I think you might be right. You’ve a good eye for horses. You get that from me.’

  He’d pulled on his pipe for a moment and Selina had seen the smile fade from his weathered face.

  ‘Everything else comes from your mother. You’re looking more and more like her every day.’

  ‘Thank you, Papa.’

  Selina’s voice had been quiet and she’d turned back to the pony, wishing with all her heart she hadn’t noticed her strong, tall Papa quickly pat a tear from his face with his old red neckerchief. The picture had stayed with her ever since, and never failed to bring a lump to her throat.

  The fence was looming fast—a straggling construction that leaned back drunkenly at an angle that would make it difficult to jump. Selina cursed beneath her breath and chanced another raking glare backwards. They were still coming, three of them now. Two were dressed in the usual muddy colours of gamekeepers, riding out in front of a third too distant to see in any real detail. She thought she made out a flash of blue, stark against the muted grey of the sullen autumn sky. When had he joined the chase?

  But it didn’t matter how many there were. She would escape them all or die trying.

  ‘Get up, Djali—good boy!’ Clicking her teeth in command, Selina touched the horse with her heels. He was galloping flat out, lips pulled back from ivory teeth and mane flying, ready to take the jump.

  She felt the rush of air as they left the ground. It hit her squarely in the face—a stinging slap that brought tears to her eyes—but they were sailing over the lolling fence and nobody would catch them now.

  And then they went down.

  Djali struck the fence with a back hoof and veered to one side, stumbling to right himself. Selina pitched forward, tumbling from the saddle in a tangle of crimson skirts and bright woollen shawls.

  She lay gasping, winded and dazed. She’d fallen from horses before, many times, but never from one so tall as Djali—one of the reasons he had been officially given over to her ownership on her eighteenth birthday, aside from sentiment, had been his surefootedness. After the fate that had befallen her mother, Papa hadn’t wanted to take any chances with his only child.

  What a cruel irony if I were to die here, too.

  The thought crossed Selina’s racing mind before she could stop it. A fresh bolt of terror tore through her heaving chest and her head swam as she struggled to regain her breath.

  We never should have come back here, even if that murdering devil Charles Fulbrooke is on the other side of the ocean.

  Her pursuers had seen her fall. She could hear them now, the unmistakable beat of hooves growing closer as she lay prone on the sodden ground, one arm flung out and the other twisted beneath her.

  She pushed herself up, wincing as she felt a dart of pain crackle through the wrist that had borne her weight. Where’s Djali? A wild scan of the grass showed him standing a short distance away, ears back as he eyed the approaching horses.

  There was no time to reach him, Selina calculated. By the time she managed to get back into the saddle her hunters would be upon her and she would have nowhere else to turn. There was only one option open to her and she seized the lifeline with both hands.

  Selina ran.

  The copse lay mere feet away from her now; if she could reach the safety of the trees she would be able to climb high enough to conceal herself among the orange canopy of leaves that swayed in the chill wind. Djali would be fine, she knew. The obstinate creature was well capable of defending himself and would likely trot back to the campsite if she didn’t reappear to guide him home herself.

  Grandmother Zillah would be beside herself with worry when the horse came back without his rider, but there was nothing Selina could do about that now as she reached the first line of trees and plunged headlong through the rusty carpet of fallen leaves.

  ‘After her!’

  ‘Don’t let her get away!’

  Selina heard the rough shouts at her back and fought onwards, crashing through the undergrowth. Sharp boughs whipped at her face, drawing blood, but she kept running, searching for a tree whose lower branches would allow her enough purchase to haul herself up.

  There! As if by divine providence a huge oak reared up in front of her, its gnarled roots thrust out and wide boughs sweeping down to hold out their arms to her. It was the work of moments to heave herself up, and she lunged upwards, ignoring the scream of her jarred wrist, moving through the leaves just as her pursuers lurched into view, now on foot, with faces flushed red with exertion.

  ‘Which way did she go?’

  ‘I didn’t see!’

  ‘You mean you lost her?’

  Selina peered down through the branches at the two gamekeepers standing just metres from her hiding place. Secreted among the boughs, her crimson skirt blending with the autumnal colours of the leaves, she felt her palms prickle with sweat. If they looked up...

  Why hadn’t she just pointed the child in the right direction and then left? She hated the landowners for their wealthy arrogance, their hypocrisy, for the way they treated her people and, of course, for their part in Mama’s death. It hardly mattered that the Squire himself—owner of this vast estate and the imposing Blackwell Hall that sat within it—had not been directly responsible for the fate of Diamanda Agres; the upper classes were all cut from the same cloth.

  For all Selina knew, Squire Ambrose had aided his brother Charles’s flight to the Continent after the events of twelve years before that had scarred her young life so violently, allowing him to neatly avoid any unsavoury accusations. If only Selina had treated the girl with the disdain she deserved, coming from such a family, and hadn’t tried to return her to the great Hall, less than a mile away...

  Damn. Selina sighed to herself. You always were too soft.

  The sight of the little thing in her muddy gown, clutching a tow-headed doll, had moved Selina in a way she couldn’t explain. Perhaps having lost her own mother at just eight years old had made her more sympathetic. The child had sobbed as she’d called for her mama, and Selina had had only a moment of hesitation before bundling the mite up in her own shawl and making for Djali.

  It wasn’t the child’s fault she’d been born to such a man, she’d reasoned. Not that the girl’s father could do much harm now, Selina had thought grimly as she settled into the saddle. Squire Ambrose Fulbrooke had been six feet under for the best part of a month—a deadly combination of port and rich food had caused his heart to give out in the middle of a poker game, if the rumours that had reached the Romani were to be believed.

  Apparently his son was in line to inherit, but no sign of the man had yet been seen, and in the absence of a master the Romani had judged it safe enough to make camp temporarily on Fulbrooke land—a judgement that, given her current situation, Selina now regretted with every fibre of her being.

  The third man was approaching, kicki
ng his way through the fallen leaves. One of the gamekeepers groaned, just loudly enough for Selina to hear. ‘I knew he’d follow us. I said so, didn’t I? And now he’s going to see we let her get away...’

  ‘Harris! Milton! What happened?’

  Selina curled her lip instinctively at the sound of the man’s voice. Cut-glass vowels and the confidence of a man born into luxury. He was one of them—she was sure of it.

  A peep down through the branches confirmed her suspicions: the tall man standing with his back to her was the epitome of a well-bred English gentleman, dressed in a well-cut blue coat with breeches tucked into immaculate leather riding boots and with hair of a distinctive dark burnished gold. She frowned as a flicker of something stirred in the back of her mind, like a gentle breeze through long grass. That unique hair colour, so different from the Roma darkness...had she seen it somewhere before?

  ‘Well? Don’t keep me in suspense!’ The voice was deep and edged with humour. ‘I see my sister being carted off in the direction of the house by your wife, Milton, and then you two on horseback in hot pursuit of somebody—I ask again: What happened?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ began one of the gamekeepers, sounding nervous, ‘we were just doing our rounds when we saw Miss Ophelia being carried off by a gypsy woman—sobbing her heart out, wasn’t she, Harris?’

  ‘Fit to burst, sir,’ continued the other. ‘So we snatched her back. The girl tried to tell us she came upon Miss Ophelia wandering all on her own, but of course we knew that wasn’t true. Trying to steal her, she was.’

  ‘So you gave chase, did you? Two of you against one woman and she still gave you the slip?’

  The other men shuffled slightly. ‘You know what they’re like, sir, those gypsies. Eels they are. Too tricky by half.’

  ‘Yes. I can see how she would be difficult quarry.’

  Although Selina couldn’t see his face, she was sure the man was smiling. ‘Never mind. All’s well that ends well—my sister is back safely with her governess.’