The Trouble with Love (The Mason Siblings Series Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prolgue

  Chapter

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Pandamoon

  The Trouble With Love

  Book Two of The Mason Siblings Series

  By Cheri Champagne

  © 2016 by Cheri Champagne

  This book is a work of creative fiction that uses actual publicly known history, events, situations, and locations as background for the storyline with fictional embellishments as creative license allows. Although the publisher has made every effort to ensure the grammatical integrity of this book was correct at press time, the publisher does not assume and hereby disclaims any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. At Pandamoon, we take great pride in producing quality works that accurately reflect the voice of the author. All the words are the author’s alone.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pandamoon Publishing. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  www.pandamoonpublishing.com

  Jacket design and illustrations © Pandamoon Publishing

  Art Direction by Matthew Kramer: Pandamoon Publishing

  Illustrations by Ayush Pokharel: Pandamoon Publishing

  Editing by Zara Kramer and Rachel Schoenbauer: Pandamoon Publishing

  Pandamoon Publishing and the portrayal of a panda and a moon are registered trademarks of Pandamoon Publishing.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC

  Edition: 1

  Dedication

  For everyone that has fallen for their best friend and had their heart broken.

  The Trouble With Love

  Prologue

  Spain, late July 1812 – During the Peninsular War

  Pain surrounded him.

  Captain Charles Bradley lay on his pallet as a chorus of groans, moans, and tearful cries for help filled the air. The surgeon and a nurse hovered over him, checking on Charles’ painfully raw stitches. His teeth ground together as he fought back a groan of his own.

  The battle of Salamanca had indeed been a tremendous victory against the French, but the British, Portuguese, and Spanish had taken many losses. Part of Charles hoped he would not be one of them, but the other part wished that he had been mortally wounded on the battlefield.

  The excitement of battle had waned soon after his deployment. He had continued in his service, but any and all sense of anticipation had escaped him.

  He took solace in the letters that he received from home, most particularly from his darling Bridget. How he wished it were her administering to him rather than an aging war widow.

  The surgeon sat back after putting a new bandage around his upper left arm.

  “The stitches are no longer swollen, but they will need close observation if he is to keep his arm.” Charles squelched another surge of helplessness as the surgeon continued to speak to the nearby nurse. “His fever has broken, and his other bruises and scrapes appear to be healing well. I believe with continued care, he should make a full recovery.” The doctor shifted his kneeling position on the floor beside the pallet, still looking at the nurse. “Has he yet spoken or responded to anyone?”

  “Not that we know of, sir.” Her voice was low and rough, utterly at odds with her round, rosy countenance.

  The surgeon bent over Charles and lightly touched his cheek. “Captain? Captain Bradley, can you hear me?”

  Charles knew it was absurd, but the urge to respond or even acknowledge the doctor simply did not exist, so he continued to stare at the large tent’s ceiling above him. His heart swelled with homesickness, hopelessness, and desolation.

  Charles had tried to save so many men…but he’d failed. Their deaths would forever be marked on his soul.

  He was not fit for the field. He excelled at information gathering, at learning his enemy. Yes, his men followed and respected him, but he could not in good conscience lead them to their deaths.

  The surgeon heaved a sigh, mumbled some more words to the nurse, then turned to help the next patient.

  Charles remained unmoving for Lord knew how long before a familiar face appeared above him.

  The urge to salute warred with his self-loathing and prudence, as Lord Wellington lowered himself to his haunches beside Charles’ pallet. Charles’ years of training clashed with his newfound misery.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t the man of silence himself.” His lordship smiled a toothy grin.

  Arthur Wellesley, Lord Wellington, had become General in the year past, and was the mastermind behind the strategic placing of soldiers at the battle of Salamanca. If it weren’t for his genius, they would surely have lost the battle and the ever-important upper hand in this war against Napoleon Bonaparte.

  Charles stared back into his searching eyes, not knowing if a response was expected.

  “Still not a word, I see.” Lord Wellington nodded, lowering his voice until it was nearly inaudible. “I believe I understand. I see it in your eyes, Captain Bradley.”

  Charles blinked once in response. Even had he the desire to speak, he would not know what to say. What did Lord Wellington see in Charles’ eyes?

  “I have a proposition for you,” his lordship said in his still faint voice, “it is dangerous and happens to require a vast amount of skill.”

  A flicker of hopeful interest sparked in Charles’ chest.

  “I saw what you did on that battlefield, and I was highly impressed. You commanded your cavalry regiment with an expert hand, and your tactical placement is exemplary. You also put your life in danger to save your young second lieutenant when another man would have believed him beyond saving.” He glanced across the large tent, then back at Charles. “He would be dead now if it were not for your heroism, but he sits just across this tent playing cards with a fellow injured officer, well and alive.”

  Charles needn’t be reminded about his foolish act, as it was what had landed him in this bed with little will to live. He’d looked down at the poor, wounded teenaged boy and felt the need to help him. And in his idiocy, Charles had gotten himself shot in the process.

  “The position I have to offer you is most secret in nature.” Wellington’s gaze held hidden meaning. “I made inquiries about you, Captain Bradley. I understand that you excelled in reconnaissance work but ultimately chose to pursue the cavalry. I
also know that you are fluent in French, in addition to other languages.”

  A sneaking suspicion crept its way through Charles’ mind as Lord Wellington spoke.

  “I see the light in your eyes, Bradley. I do hope you are interested, because I have a particularly important assignment for you. If you agree to take this new position, you will be promoted to Major. Otherwise you may continue your recovery here and preside over your Light Dragoon regiment once you are well.”

  He watched Charles for another moment, then moved to leave. Charles could not let him go. This new position may very well be his saving grace, his hope for the future…his calling.

  Charles tried to speak—instead he let out a strangled garble. Lord Wellington turned his questioning gaze on Charles.

  “I…” he croaked. Charles licked his chapped lips and tried to clear his dry throat. “I accept.”

  Chapter 1

  Hertfordshire, October 1814

  Major Charles Bradley sat at his desk and punctuated the end of a missive with a harder than necessary period, his heart pumping a staccato beat in his chest.

  A groan emanated from the bloody heap on the floor, and Charles picked his pistol up in his left hand and aimed the already-cocked gun at it.

  “Move one inch and I’ll shoot you through the heart, Billy,” Charles said, his voice dripping with lethal intent. “You bloody blackguard.”

  The bastard smiled, the scarlet of his blood spreading over his blackened teeth. “Ye think us kidnapping yer sister an’ ‘er lover was th’last thing The Boss would ‘ave us do?” His gaze darkened. “Ye killed me mates. An’ even if ye kill me, The Boss knows ye, and will keep comin’ after ye.”

  Charles’ stomach knotted. He hated that the villain’s words would have any effect on him. “Save your talking for gaol.”

  Billy grimaced, then groaned at the pain. “Me fookin’ nose…” he moaned. Blood slid upwards into his eyes and he blinked rapidly, shaking his head as though to displace the liquid.

  Charles’ gaze narrowed menacingly, his pistol still aimed unwaveringly at the man’s heart. “It serves you right for stealing into my study. Did you truly believe that you would leave here unharmed?” Charles shook his head in derision. “Your pride is admirable, but foolhardy.”

  Billy tugged at the bonds on his wrists. The starched cravat was an improvisation, but it was successful.

  “Rot in hell.” Billy spat, the foul blood and saliva mixture spraying into the air.

  Charles’ brow drew downward and his gaze flicked to the bottom line of the missive Billy had brought along with him.

  You may have won against my best men, Hydra, but we have learned several interesting facts since. Now, we will not rest until we have removed your heart.

  The Boss

  Assiduously remaining calm despite the hard lump in his chest, Charles poured sand over the last sheet of vellum and tapped the side against the desk. Sealing and stamping the letters, Charles went across the room to tug on the bell pull, still keeping the gun in his left hand trained on Billy.

  The Bradley’s family butler, Tim, opened Charles’ study door, seemingly unruffled by both the copious amount of blood pouring from the stranger on the floor or the gun in Charles’ hand.

  “You summoned me, sir?”

  “Ah, Tim, my good man. Please be so good as to have these letters immediately delivered by special messenger.” He indicated the sealed letters on his desk. “I believe you know to whom they are addressed.”

  “Indeed.” Tim sidestepped Billy to retrieve the letters. “I will send these out with one of the footmen, sir.”

  “Excellent. I expect Thomson and Stevens will return to assist in the removal of Billy here.”

  “Very good, sir.” Tim bowed and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Several minutes passed in which Charles watched Billy thrash on the rug, moaning and complaining. Charles did not even mind the growing bloodstain on his rug. It was certainly worth the capture of one of Anna’s kidnappers.

  He took a deep breath. Fear gnawed at him. We will not rest until we have removed your heart, The Boss had written.

  His heart. Bridget.

  A sickening tightness gripped his chest, and he felt his hands begin to tremble once more. Since his last assignment on the continent, Charles had dreaded being again charged with someone’s protection. Now to have that individual be Bridget…

  No. He would not dwell on that now; Billy may very well sense his fear-induced weakness, and use it to escape his custody. He mustn’t allow his sudden, intense anxiety to impair his senses.

  The fire popped in the hearth, the abrupt noise barely heard over the loud groaning coming from Billy. The man had truly ruined his rug, but he’d had a mind to redecorate his study anyway. His father had used lightly coloured wood elements with hints of gold and green though the room. Charles fancied he would prefer this study to resemble the one in his London house, deep mahogany woods, dark brown and black leather upholstered chairs, perhaps blue, red, or green curtains…

  Billy flopped on the rug, bringing himself to a seated position, his gaze full of hatred and murderous intent as he moved to stand. Without hesitation, Charles pulled the trigger, grazing the villain’s ear. A howl of pain filled the room as Charles fluidly removed the second pistol from his desk’s drawer and aimed it at Billy, never once averting his gaze.

  “A warning, Billy,” Charles spoke over the blackguard’s shouted curses. “If you move again, I shall shoot the other. Be assured, I possess several loaded pistols in my arsenal.” He cocked the pistol.

  The rumble of male voices travelled down the hall from the foyer and Charles straightened his coat with his free hand. Excellent. Reinforcements had arrived.

  Moments later, his study door opened to reveal Thomson and Stevens, two of his most trusted and dedicated men. Both had contributed tremendously to the recovery of Annabel and Lane during the first of his sister’s kidnappings.

  Charles greeted them as they entered, then un-cocked his pistol and put it gently down on his desk. “I am glad that you both arrived when you did. My sister and her new husband’s family are expected shortly, and I have no desire to expose them to Billy’s current state.”

  “We will have him out of the way directly, sir.” Thomson sent Billy a glare of distaste as he placed his hands under Billy’s arms to lift him to his feet.

  As soon as Billy gained his balance, the two men flanked him, each grabbing one arm. Charles followed them as they escorted the villain from the room.

  “I will join you at the Home Office once my sister and her family have departed,” Charles said in hushed tones.

  Both men nodded their understanding, their booted heels clicking on the marble floor of the foyer.

  As they reached the front door, Tim hurried to open it.

  “Please round up the men, Thomson,” Charles clipped out, impatient with this situation and his irksome feeling of helplessness. “Once I arrive, I wish to have a discussion with everyone. There is much to be done.”

  Both men pulled on their forelocks before dragging Billy into an unmarked carriage and climbing in after him.

  Charles watched as the carriage rolled off down the drive, anxiousness churning in his gut.

  He began to turn away when another carriage, emblazoned with the Devon family crest, turned onto the drive. It seemed as though his company had arrived.

  Charles waited patiently while the carriage rolled to a halt and its passengers began to disembark. He eyed the group, a hum of anticipation buzzing through his senses.

  Lane exited first and aided his mother, the Dowager Countess of Devon out. Lane’s two sisters, Ladies Emaline and Katherine followed closely behind. Lastly, Charles’ own sister, Annabel, disembarked, and the driver rolled away with the carriage. Charles felt a sharp twinge of disappointment at the realization that Bridget had not come.

  Bridget was alone in the neighbouring estate. Could Billy have arrived with an
accomplice? Could they be infiltrating Mason Hall at this very moment, while Bridget was there, alone and defenceless?

  His heart thudded distressingly fast in his chest as the sickening possibilities ran rampant through his mind.

  No. The Boss would not have sent him that message if he intended to harm or kidnap Bridget immediately. The bastard wanted Charles to squirm.

  Naturally, however, he would send one of his fellows over to Mason Hall to keep an eye on Bridget until he came up with a plan of action.

  Shaking himself internally, Charles smiled brightly as Annabel left the group and came toward him. At approximately six months pregnant, Annabel was rather large. It was astonishing that she would grow yet larger in the next three months.

  She had become pregnant—much to Charles’ great displeasure—out of wedlock, and Charles had learned of Lane’s involvement under very distressing circumstances. Charles covered a grimace as he remembered walking into Anna’s bedchamber and seeing them slumbering post-lovemaking.

  He pushed the disturbing image out of his mind and returned his attention to Anna. She beamed at him. Her countenance, however, turned to concern as she neared him, her smile slipping with each step.

  “Whatever has happened to you, Charles? Are you well?” Her exclamation drew the attention of her fellow travellers, all of whom stared at him with varying expressions from horror to concern to revulsion.

  A slight frown touched Charles’ brow. He knew that his appearance might look slightly mussed, and he had removed his cravat, but he didn’t see that as cause for such theatrics.

  He smiled. “Nothing, dear sister. Everything is as it should be,” he lied.

  “But your clothes!” Anna pointed at his chest, and Charles looked down at himself.

  “Oh.” Blood splattered his tan, tailored trousers and coat, his cream waistcoat, and his snowy white shirt. “A slight accident. Not my blood.”