Hope Tarr Read online

  PREVIOUS ACCOLADES FOR HOPE TARR’S

  VANQUISHED AND ENSLAVED:

  “A touching story of salvation and renewal in authentically depicted Victorian London.”

  —Best-selling author, Madeline Hunter

  “Sizzlingly sensual and rich in historical detail—put VANQUISHED on your must-read list! A passionate storyteller.”

  —Kathryn Caskie, author of LOVE IS IN THE HEIR

  FIVE BLUE RIBBONS!

  “VANQUISHED by Hope Tarr is absolutely wonderful! Her characters are very real…. VANQUISHED is a must-read, and I anxiously await the next book.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “Against an incredibly textured backdrop of Edwardian politics and social change, Tarr pens a vibrant tale of love’s ability to heal scars of the past. And not unlike the era itself, the genteel veneer of Hadrian and Callie’s awareness of each other gives way to highly sensual passion churning beneath. Fans of intelligent, sexy historical romance in the style of Jo Beverley will take to VANQUISHED.”

  —Nina Davis, Copyright ©American Library Association

  “… moral dilemmas, past hurts to overcome, real villains to vanquish, ideals worth fighting for, and vengeance to be had in VANQUISHED. Readers will be entertained…. Don’t miss it.”

  —Jane Bowers, Romance Reviews Today

  “VANQUISHED is an intriguing historical romance…. Filled to the brim with intrigue, sabotage, secret agendas, hate, love and betrayal, VANQUISHED is a book that should fulfill anyone’s criteria for an enjoyable — and memorable — read.”

  —Elizabeth, Novelspot

  “VANQUISHED is an emotionally charged story where the drama leaps off the pages. Hadrian and Callie endure so much. Hadrian’s past is particularly dark and there are some moments in the story that are heartbreaking to read. My heart went out to them as they struggled to fight the demons of their pasts. In each other’s arms, they find a peace and love that neither felt was possible. VANQUISHED is a beautifully written story full of passion and peril.”

  —Nannette, Joyfully Reviewed (www.joyfullyreviewed.com)

  2006 BURIED TREASURE

  “VANQUISHED is worth searching out. This is a very rich book. The historical background isn’t wallpaper, instead we get a real feeling for the historical events of the time period and how they shaped the attitudes of Caledonia Rivers and Hadrian St. Claire. I love the late Victorian and Edwardian period and VANQUISHED really captured the atmosphere of that time. Booklist called it an intelligent, sexy historical romance. I agree totally.”

  —All About Romance (www.likesbooks.com)

  FIVE BLUE RIBBONS!

  “Hope Tarr is simply amazing. With ENSLAVED she has written another story that sucks you in and won’t let you go.”

  —Heather M. Riley, Romance Junkies

  “Wicked sensuality and witty dialogue reach out to capture the reader’s attention and hold it throughout the book.”

  —Tara & Deb, Review Coordinators,

  Romance Designs, Historical Romance Writers

  “The likeable lead couple makes for a fine Victorian romance that will have the audience rooting for the pair to find a way to remain together. Character driven … an enjoyable tale.”

  —Harriet Klausner, The Midwest Book Review

  “I can easily recommend ENSLAVED. Thoughtful and well-written historical romances are scarce on the shelf and this book is too good to pass up.”

  —Ellen Micheletti, Like Books

  “Tarr pegs Victorian-era London perfectly in this delightful tale of delayed love. This story of four orphans banding together through trials and tribulations at a young age and their relationships after they become adults is poignant and romantic.”

  —Faith V. Smith, Romantic Times

  DEDICATION:

  To Sandra Durfee, “world’s best” English

  teacher, a former mentor and forever

  friend, with affection and respect.

  Published 2008 by Medallion Press, Inc.

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO

  is a registered tradmark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 2008 by Hope Tarr

  Cover Model: Kelly Hartman

  Cover Illustration by Adam Mock

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Untamed is the final book in my “Men of Roxbury House” trilogy. Closing the chapter on the series affords me many satisfactions, as well as the opportunity to thank those special persons I may have missed acknowledging in the previous two books.

  To Paul Lewis, executive director of the Fredericksburg Athenaeum housed at the Wounded Bookshop, 109 Amelia Street, Fredericksburg, Virginia, my heartfelt thanks for your friendship and support over the past six years (and counting) and for all you do to keep the arts and letters not only alive but thriving in our historic downtown.

  Also to Beatrice Paolucci and Hamilton Palmer, Raymond and Dana Herlong, Rudi and Elsa Van Leeuwen, and Paul O’Neill, my friends and fellow Fredericksburg “rabble-rousers,” for fighting the good fight, as well as stepping out to read their first romance novels—mine. Thanks to you all, I’ve learned that in the end it’s not winning or losing that counts, but the friendships forged along the path.

  Finally, to the fabulous folks at Medallion Press for their ongoing commitment to excellence in turning out yet another splendid package, as well as their patience in waiting for the manuscript to be “born.” By way of embracing what my buddy Kim Castillo of Romance Novel TV calls “shameless self-promotion,” I hope readers who enjoy Rourke and Kate’s story will look for the previous trilogy books, Vanquished and Enslaved, on bookstore shelves. Excerpts are posted online at www.hopetarr.com.

  Wishing you fairy-tale dreams come true …

  Hope Tarr

  Fredericksburg, Virginia

  October 2007

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  ourke’s Rules

  Rule Number One: ne’er let them see you cry. If they do, they’ll only hit you that much harder, pound your body and will into bloody pulp.

  Rule Number Two: watch, listen, and wait. Sooner or later your luck is bound to change, so mind you keep a sharp eye out and a canny ear cocked.

  Rule Number Three: when your chance comes, take it. Cut loose and run as if hell’s own hounds chased you. And dinna ever look back.

  Never look back.

  CHAPTER ONE

  �
�… the law is a ass …” [sic]

  —CHARLES DICKENS,Oliver Twist

  London Central Criminal Court Old Bailey Sessions House, 1875

  rom the front of the courtroom, the judge called out, “Bailiff, read the final case if you please.” Heads swung to the back of the room.

  The defendant, thirteen-year-old Patrick O’Rourke—Rourke—swallowed against the twist of fear knotting nooselike about his throat. Unlike the poor blubbering bugger called up for sentencing before him, who’d pissed a steady stream to the prisoner’s stand and then promptly puked, he swore to hold onto his tears, his bladder, his breakfast—and above all, his dignity.

  Never let them see you cry.

  The bailiff nodded. “The defendant is one Patrick O’Rourke, late of St. Giles parish but no known address. The accused is a minor child aged thirteen years or thereabouts, and orphaned. Two prior arrests, the first for vagrancy and the second for petty thievery; for the latter, he was sentenced and did receive fifty lashes.”

  Rourke gritted his teeth as he had six months before when they’d tied his hands to the whipping post and laid into his back. The humiliation and pain were branded on his brain, but lest he forget, the cross-hatching of white scars scourging his shoulders was there to remind him. The whipping had been good preparation for last night.

  Seemingly satisfied, the judge nodded. “Let the prisoner come forward.”

  Having been brought up two times before, Rourke recognized his cue. He stumbled out into the aisle between benches, the robin’s egg-sized lump beating a tattoo on his forehead, the scabbed blood forming a cowl over the left side of his face, the shouted questions ricocheting like cannon shot inside his brain.

  “What made you set out to off the prime minister?”

  I didn’t know he was the PM, and I didna set out to off anybody.

  “Are you in league with the Fenians?”

  I’m not a Fenian. I’m not even Irish. I’m Scots! If I’m in league with anybody, it’s Johnnie Black, but his game’s running street scams, no politics.

  “Did Disraeli’s supporters put you up to this?”

  Who the devil is Disraeli?

  “Are you counting on the court to show mercy because of your youth?”

  Mercy for the likes of me—fat chance of that!

  Sweat broke out on his forehead. The room suddenly seemed to sway. He drew a steadying breath and willed himself to keep moving. By the looks of it, half of Fleet Street had turned out to pack the court, and he had too much pride to let himself be written up as a fainter. Finally he reached the front of the room. Stomach pitching, he sidestepped the puddle of vomit. Even with his left eye swollen shut, the latter was recognizable at close range as that morning’s prison porridge. The bailiff grabbed hold of his sleeve and guided him up the few slippery steps to the prisoner’s box. The hinged door slammed closed, sealing him in like a coffin.

  “Order in the court. Order, I say!” The gavel’s cracking down muted the din to a murmur. The judge settled back into his thronelike seat and reached up to right his crimped periwig. “Let the charges be read.”

  The bailiff cleared his throat. “Mr. Rourke stands accused of robbery and assault, possession of a deadly weapon with intent to harm, and possibly treason, though the latter charge remains to be answered.”

  Treason! He’d entered the courtroom fully expecting to forfeit some portion of his future to picking oakum, beating hemp, or working the water pump, but treason was a capital crime, a hanging offense. How was he to have known that the mark whose pocket he’d set out to pick the night before was none other than William Gladstone, the prime minister? Gladstone hadn’t looked particularly ministerial. Traipsing about in the greenish haze of fog swathed in a top hat and caped greatcoat, he’d appeared much like any other well-heeled older gent out for a twilight stroll about St. Paul’s, not the most advisable after-hours trek, but no doubt he’d reasoned the walking stick he carried would protect him.

  He’d been wrong.

  Rourke’s partner in crime was Johnnie Black. The flash-house leader was a scarecrow of a man in his early twenties with a fringe of black hair that hung over his eyes in greasy strings and a gold front tooth he liked to polish with the pad of his thumb. They’d shadowed the mark for several streets, and then taken cover against a boarded-up building to size up the situation.

  Johnnie turned to Rourke, his voice a low rasp. “I’ll distract him, and you pinch his purse. Got it?”

  Back flattened against the bricks, Rourke whispered back, “Piece o’ cake.”

  And so it should have been. The mark was an older gent, tall and solid-looking, but then there were two of them to his one. The walking stick worried Rourke a bit, but with Johnnie running interference and his own nimble fingers, he’d be in and out before the gaffer even knew his pocket had been picked.

  Seemingly satisfied, Johnnie shoved away from the wall and beckoned for Rourke to follow. They started down the street, walking out in the open this time, Johnnie shoving his hands into his pockets and keeping up a low whistle.

  They caught up with the mark at the lamppost, and Johnnie sidled forward. “Begging your pardon, guv, but my little brother and I were wondering if we might trouble you for the time.” He followed the request with a toothsome smile.

  The man didn’t smile back. From beneath bushy brows, his gaze went from Johnnie’s pocketed hands to Rourke, who barely reached his big “brother’s” shoulder. Apparently deciding they were harmless, he reached inside his coat for his timepiece. Lifting it to the lamplight, he squinted as if struggling to make out the numbers on the face.

  The action brought his coat pocket gaping. Rourke moved in, sliding his right working hand inside the gap. Wool tickled his palm. Using his index and middle fingers pincer-fashion, he clamped onto cold, smooth metal cinched about wadded paper—a money clip? Holding onto his prize, he started to withdraw.

  The man’s gloved hand snapped out, banding Rourke’s wrist like a prison manacle. “What the devil do you think you’re about?”

  Rourke shot up his head. The thunder in that jutting brow had him trembling in his shoes. Next to him, Johnnie let out with, “Bugger it, we’re screwed,” and peeled off. Cold panic struck him. He was all alone.

  “Leave off!”

  Rourke ducked, ramming his head into the mark’s middle. The man fell back. He hit the post hard, cracking his crown. His hat flew off, and he folded to the ground. Rourke stared down at the slumped figure at his feet. Knocked out cold—blimey, what luck! Home free, he picked up the dropped money clip and turned to run. A dripping sound stalled him. Blood? Dread threatened to turn his bowels to water. Crikey, had he just killed a man? Even though he was breaking the cardinal rule of street boys—no looking back and no going back, either—he had to know.

  He swung around to have a look. “You all right, guv?”

  The mark didn’t answer. Blood ran down the side of his craggy face, trickling through his salt-and-pepper side whiskers and collecting in a puddle on the pavement. Rourke dropped down beside him and laid two fingers along the pulse point at the side of the whiskered neck. The thrumming beneath his fingers was steady and strong. Relief flooded him. He wasn’t a murderer! For a moment, he considered celebrating his good fortune by nicking the timepiece, too, but then decided to let the gaffer keep it. If he snaffled it, he’d only have to turn it over to Johnnie, and the gang leader’s desertion didn’t sit well with him.

  The blare of a bobby’s whistle sent him shooting to his feet. His head whipped around. The two blue-suited policemen stood a street away, pointing. Shoving the money in his pocket, Rourke turned and ran. Huffing breaths and pounding footfalls sounded behind him. He picked up his pace, running faster than he’d ever run before, his lungs burning and his heart poised to pop. It was no use. They were closing in. His fleeting attack of conscience was about to cost him dearly. He’d broken the sacred rule of street boys.

  Never look back.

  Before he knew it
, the pair was upon him. The heavyset one twisted his arms behind his back while the other cracked the club down upon his head, the butt opening up his forehead. Nausea hit like an invisible fist. He spiraled to the ground. Hard hands patted down his limbs, torso, and groin, and then slid between his legs and squeezed.

  “Take your filthy mitts off me!”

  Bright lights danced before his eyes. Warm stickiness ran down his face, lining his mouth with the taste of metal. Laughter rumbled above him. He tried getting up, but it was no use. They had him pinned. They yanked off his boots and then his stockings, and the object he’d until then forgotten all about clanged onto the pavement. His knife, they’d found it.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” The gloating face of the club-wielding officer he recognized as Taggert hovered above him. “I have you red-handed, Rourke. This time it’s sure to be prison stripes for you, my lad.”

  “Have you anything to say for yourself, Mr. Rourke?” The judge’s voice called him back to the present.

  Rourke thought for a moment. “The name’s O’Rourke, milord.” If he was doomed to swing, then at least let the papers print his name proper. “And I’m no traitor.”

  The judge’s bland look suggested innocence was a trifle with which he preferred not to be troubled. He looked to the bailiff. “Before sentencing commences, is there any evidence to be considered?”

  The bailiff replied, “We have the sworn testimony from the two police officers who made the arrest, as well as this knife recovered from the prisoner’s shoe.” He picked up a box from the evidence table.

  The judge nodded, and the bailiff carried the box over to Rourke, tilting it so he might see inside. Rourke’s blade lay on the green baize lining. He swallowed hard.

  The judge shifted his gaze to Rourke. “Officer Taggert has gone on record as stating that this weapon is yours. Do you deny it?”

  Heart thumping, Rourke hesitated. Perspiration broke out on his forehead and pricked his pits. He carried the knife for protection only. He’d never so much as shown it to a mark. He’d never set out to hurt anyone. Until last night, he never had hurt anyone.