For Love and Honor Read online

  For Love and Honor

  CATHY MAXWELL

  LYNNE HINTON

  CANDIS TERRY

  Contents

  Dear Reader …

  The Bookish Miss Nelson by Cathy Maxwell

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from Lyon’s Bride: The Chattan Curse

  The Curse

  Chapter One

  Letters from Pie Town by Lynne Hinton

  Excerpt from Welcome Back to Pie Town

  Chapter Four

  Home Sweet Home by Candis Terry

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from Second Chance at the Sugar Shack

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Return to the Sugar Shack

  About the Authors

  Also by Cathy Maxwell

  Also by Lynne Hinton

  Also by Candis Terry

  Operation Paperback

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Dear Reader,

  We all honor the work that the heroic members of the military do and have done through the ages. With that in mind, I’m thrilled to present For Love and Honor, three novellas by three wonderful writers.

  This collection came out of a brainstorming session. We wanted stories revolving around the theme of “military men.” With that in mind, we approached three authors and told them to take the idea and run with it. What resulted are three unique romances, each special in its own way.

  New York Times bestselling writer Cathy Maxwell tells a Regency-set tale. Lynne Hinton and Candis Terry’s works are contemporary. But what they have in common is that they are deliciously romantic stories that I know you are all going to love.

  Best,

  Lucia Macro

  Vice-President, Executive Editor

  Avon Books

  The Bookish Miss Nelson

  CATHY MAXWELL

  Chapter One

  Spain, 1812

  “AN OFFICER UNDER my command does not brawl like a common criminal, especially with the Irish.” Colonel Medford hurled the words at Captain William Duroy as if they were rocks.

  Heat flushed William’s face. He had no regrets for jumping in the fray. The Irish had insulted his men, who had no choice but to defend their honor with their fists. They’d been outnumbered, and the Irish were not gentlemen. The fight had not been going in their favor until William had joined them, and then they had routed those sorry Irish bastards and taught them manners.

  The Irish had been artillery men, and so the victory for the cavalry had been doubly sweet.

  What William had not anticipated was for word to reach the prissy Medford. Even though Medford was his superior officer, he was of the same age and the two did not mesh well.

  Medford was a younger son of a duke who had purchased his son’s advancements. William’s father was rich, having made his money in the service of the East India Company, but he was proud of his commoner roots. He believed his nine sons should work for their livings. For William, that meant earning field promotions.

  “Suffice it to say there must be repercussions for your poor judgment,” Medford said. He came around his desk to stand before William. He was a short man and had to look up to face William.

  “You are hot-headed, Duroy. An officer under my command controls his temper. I want level heads around me. So, I’m going to have you cool your heels by undertaking a special mission.” Medford placed his hands behind his back. “You will organize a small party of your men to escort our envoy to Spain’s daughter back to Lisbon, where she will be sent home to England.”

  “No.” The word burst from William before he had time to think clearly.

  Medford’s chin shot up in affront. William hurried to explain, “With all due respect, sir, we are preparing to meet the French any day now. I’m certain my presence, and that of my men, are needed here.” Otherwise, he’d not have a chance at promotion. Thanks to Medford, he’d been a captain far too long.

  The French and British armies had been shadowing each other for months. The event of it was in the air. Fortifications were being built and men moved with more purpose in the hot Spanish sun. After months of waiting and planning, the time was close at hand. He could not miss it.

  “I want to fight,” William said, the words hard to speak because he was begging.

  “You have had your fight, Captain,” Medford said, moving around his desk to his chair. “You chose to squander it on some Irish drunkards. I’ve already sent word to General Wellington that you will be escorting Sir Hew’s daughter.”

  “Sir Hew Nelson?” William asked for clarification. “I’m to escort Miss Pippa Nelson?”

  Medford smiled, the expression unpleasant. “I believe you unmarried lads refer to her as Bookworm Pippa, because she prefers having her nose in a book than admiring any of your antics.”

  William had never met her, but he’d heard plenty about her. She was her father’s hostess and overly proud of her intellect. William didn’t mind strong women. His mother was very independent. However, they said Pippa Nelson enjoyed showing men the sharp side of her tongue.

  He’d also heard that her father had left her at Wellington’s headquarters and departed on some mission without instructions on what was to be done with her. Apparently, the general had made his own decision.

  “You are dismissed, Captain,” Medford said, returning his attention to the papers on the desk in front of him.

  And it was done. There was nothing else William could do. He was being banished days before what might be one of the most important battles against the French. He about-faced and walked out of the tent.

  Medford’s aide, Lieutenant Harris, was waiting for him outside with further instructions on the men he could take.

  William listened in shock. The aide was an officer William considered a friend. He finished his instructions by advising, “The sooner you cart her to Lisbon, Duroy, the sooner you may return.”

  “I’ll be too late for the battle,” William said. “I can’t believe this.” The promotion was only a small part of why William wanted to return. He was a soldier. Soldiers fought. It was what they did.

  “Well, if we vanquish the French in one battle and Napoleon surrenders completely, then yes,” Harris said. “But I don’t see that happening. It’s possible you might make the battle if you return in time.”

  Could he make the trip to Lisbon and back in four to five days’ time? Yes, if he pushed his men.

  Determined now to make the best of the situation, William ordered Harris to send word to Miss Nelson to prepare to leave immediately.

  He then picked a party of eight of his men to accompany him. He briefed them himself. “We don’t want to miss our opportunity at Boney on Spanish soil, lads. We will make this trip to Lisbon and back inside a week. Choose the best horses and be prepared to ride in an hour.”

  Mounting his horse, Valiant, William rode over to Wellington’s headquarters. The area around the building was a hive of activity, with aides hurrying this way and that. As William rode up, a huge, heavy overland coach pulled by two tired nags was driven in front of the building. Behind it came a groom holding a very pretty chestnut mare and a serviceable bay.

  William took one look at the coach and had a sinking feeling. “What is t
his?” he asked one of the ostlers driving the coach.

  “The possessions of Miss Nelson,” the driver said. He glanced around and then confided, “It’s nothing but books.” He spit on the ground.

  William had nothing against books. He was quite a reader himself. But he could not make good time to Lisbon with this overladen coach.

  “Are you my escort?” a woman’s imperial voice asked from the headquarters doorway. “You did not allow very much time for myself or Lilly to prepare.”

  Turning, William found himself face-to-face with Bookworm Pippa. She was not what he’d expected. He’d pictured her a lean, shriveled spinster.

  Instead, he faced a petite, brown-eyed redhead with an abundance of freckles over her nose and cheeks. She wore a dashing green riding habit and a wide-brimmed hat set at a jaunty angle.

  Lilly was obviously the name of her maid. She, too, was dressed to ride.

  William bowed. “I am Captain William Duroy of the Seventh Light Dragoons. I am to be your escort, Miss Nelson.”

  She looked William up and down with the expression one usually reserved for rat catchers. It was a novel experience for him. A woman had never reacted to him in that manner.

  Instead of being insulted, he found himself amused.

  “I do not go willingly,” she announced with all the martyred drama of an actress on the stage.

  “Neither do I, my lady,” William said candidly.

  Her lips parted in surprise. “Then don’t take me,” she said.

  “We both have orders and very little choice. Shall we make the best of matters, Miss Nelson?”

  Her expressive brows came together. “What if I chose not to go? What if I stayed right here and waited for my father? He expects me to be here.”

  William was aware that many were listening to this exchange. He had no doubt that Miss Nelson with her high-handed ways had created a good deal of uproar in a military headquarters. She was a lovely woman but seemingly unaware of her allure. There was too much combativeness in her stance, like a horse that had been mistreated and now expected the worst.

  He found himself wondering what, or who, had hurt her to make her so distrustful.

  Or what sort of man would go off and leave his daughter in a military encampment?

  However, he was not in the mood to cure Miss Nelson of her problems. Keeping his voice pleasant, he said, “Then I would have to pick you up and carry you to that coach.”

  A hint of challenge came to her eyes. “You would not dare.”

  “I have orders, Miss Nelson. I most certainly would.”

  She took his measure, and then said, “I’m not riding in the coach. I shall ride.”

  “Excellent,” William said. “I was going to order the books removed from the vehicle anyway.”

  “No. My books will come with me. They go everywhere I go.”

  “Except this time,” William said, putting steel in his voice. “We must make good time to Lisbon.”

  “They go or I will not go,” she replied, throwing down the gauntlet.

  William felt his temper rise. “That is not an option.” He turned to the driver. “Take the coach away. See that Miss Nelson’s books are stored someplace safe—”

  “There is no place safe,” she interrupted him. “The French are coming.”

  “The French don’t want your books. The command will see they are stored.”

  Her gloved hands formed fists. “I have collected these books over years. They are invaluable to me.”

  “Your life is invaluable to me,” William answered. “Do as I say,” he said to the driver. “Have a horse prepared with the ladies’ possessions. Make it a good one. We have a hard ride ahead of us.”

  “Stay where you are,” Miss Nelson said to the ostlers who had moved forward to obey William. They ignored her and followed his instructions.

  William felt satisfaction, until he noticed the tears welling in Miss Nelson’s eyes. He understood all too well just how frustrating it was to not have control over one’s fate.

  She reached and swiped the tears away, her stubborn chin rising. Only then did she see that he’d noticed. She scowled her opinion of him and went over to mount her horse with the help of a groom. He was not surprised to see she would be riding the chestnut.

  William told himself he shouldn’t be concerned about Miss Nelson. She was merely being head-strong. He would make Lisbon and back in time to fight. He would.

  He just wished he hadn’t seen her tears, because he had a feeling she was not the sort to give up easily.

  And if Medford had planned to make William pay for his sins, he could not have found a better way than by saddling him with Miss Pippa Nelson.

  Chapter Two

  PIPPA NEVER THOUGHT she could so intensely dislike someone as much as she did the arrogant young officer tasked with marching her to Lisbon.

  He was a bully, like so many of them. Men, especially young ones, were hard-hearted and selfish. They didn’t understand her. No one did.

  She had no trouble keeping up the bruising pace the officer had set. Her maid Lilly was not as fortunate. Lilly didn’t like to ride, another crime Pippa placed at the officer’s feet.

  Oh, he was handsome with his dark hair and blue eyes that seemed to go right to the heart of a person. But Pippa’s experience was that the more handsome the man, the more conceited he was. And this Captain Duroy was probably the worst of the lot. Her father had warned her about those sorts of men. He’d told her they could be beasts.

  She was so busy engaging her mind in a litany of dislikes about him, she was surprised when he broke out of the riding formation to bring his horse in step with hers.

  She kept her gaze on the road ahead.

  “How are you faring, Miss Nelson?” he asked. “Are you still put out with me?”

  She bit her tongue to keep from answering him. She’d learned early on that men thrived on attention. If she kept silent, he would leave her alone. That’s what her father had advised her to do.

  It was also easier to hide her own tongue-tiedness.

  “I’m sorry about your books,” he continued as if she had spoken. “However, the French are breathing down our necks, and we must move you to Lisbon with all due haste.”

  That was enough. Pippa had never been good at biting her tongue. It was her besetting sin. She had to speak her mind.

  “We are traveling southward, Captain,” she informed him coolly. She knew what was going on. She’d grown up in diplomatic and military circles and she listened well. “The French are nowhere close to here.”

  To her pleasure, his smile tightened.

  “I have been around this war for a long time, sir,” she said. “Do not patronize me. We were perfectly safe to bring my books with me. What I sense is that you wish to be done with the care of me and hurry back to your command so that you don’t miss the fight. Am I wrong?”

  “That is my purpose,” he conceded.

  “Yes, well, your purpose was against mine.”

  “And perhaps I understand you more than you believe.”

  That provocative statement caught her attention. “I doubt that. If you did, you would not be taking me to a ship that will deliver me to England.”

  “It’s your homeland, Miss Nelson. You will be safe there. We want to see you protected.”

  “Save me from being protected,” she declared. “You are a man. You don’t know what it is like for a woman. My aunts and cousins have all these rules and are always lecturing me. I was born in Calcutta, raised in the Orient. When I return to England, I can’t go anywhere without permission and I must always watch my tongue. I say the wrong things. Even here, amongst the soldiers, I know they believe I’m odd.”

  “They find you original,” he corrected. “And you shouldn’t let that bother you. My own mother is eccentric, independent and fiercely proud of it. There are women such as yourself in England. You just haven’t met them yet.”

  “I doubt if I’ll ever meet one. Eng
land can never provide the freedom my father gives me,” she announced with a touch of defiance.

  He appeared as if ready to challenge her statement, but then decided against it. Instead, he said, “I like your mare. She’s an Arabian breed.”

  Pippa willingly changed the subject with him. “Tatiana is from Russia. A gift from one of my father’s friends.”

  “Tatiana? What sort of a name is that for a horse?”

  She was caught off guard by his criticism, but then thought she saw laughter in his eyes. He was teasing her… she thought. People rarely teased her.

  “It’s the name of the fairy princess in A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” she said, and immediately regretted her words, realizing she sounded haughty. He was English. He would know the name. However, she had come off sounding superior and stiff.

  Usually, at this moment, people would start to withdraw from her. Young men would frown, pout even. Young women would giggle at her. She never knew how to hit the right tone.

  “I know who she is,” he said, without taking offense, “but a mare like that should have an English name.”

  “Like what?” Pippa asked, still uncertain.

  “Buttercup.”

  “Like the flower?” Pippa frowned.

  “And very English,” he answered.

  “Oh, and what English name do you have for your horse?” she questioned, something that was always tight and distrustful inside of her unwinding a bit.

  “Valiant. Very English.”

  “Very heavy,” she answered.

  “So is Tatiana.”

  “But poetic,” she demurred.

  “Valiant is poetic.”

  “And a mouthful.”

  “Says the woman who named her horse Tatiana.”

  Pippa laughed, realizing the conversation had come full-circle back to her. Captain Duroy was very clever and entertaining—and she must beware. Her father had warned her of just his sort. Keep them at a distance.

  He noticed her change of mood. “What is it?”

  She looked at him, at his easy good looks and the effortless way he rode. He was a horseman through and through. A dashing man. A dangerous one. A man much like the one who had run off with her mother.