The Widow and the Rogue Read Online Free

She’d merely to remember how the law had overlooked her being underage when she was forced to marry at fifteen to Lord Langtry, to know rules were easily broken by such men.
    And she knew he could be at times ruthless—even in her small country village, rumors of his exploits were repeated by the gossipmongers. They discussed with avid interest, the duels he fought when challenged by those who lost their cases to him in court. In anger, the losers chose to settle the matter again with drawn swords, fruitlessly hoping to achieve a more favorable end. But that never happened. Master Powers had always been the victor. And any man with a bit of common sense would not dare to challenge such a skilled fighter, unless he had a secret death wish.
    She shuddered, thinking of his piercing eyes when she’d spoken to him and the earl about the kidnappers. His had been filled with deadly intent. Faith, she would not want to be the man facing him at the sharp end of a sword.
    But what was he doing here? She wondered, peeking up at him through her heavy widow’s veil . His solicitor’s business was located in Tipperary—why was he attending her husband’s funeral? To her knowledge her late husband and the handsome Corinthian were not known to one another.
    Could it be he was here because of her? Her heart pounded a little at the audacious thought. But she quickly dismissed it as an improbability.
    For who was she to him? No one.
    She hadn’t seen him since the kidnapping of Lady Beatrice. It was the only time they’d ever met. And she knew he’d not known who she was back then.
    She glanced back to take a better look at him. What purpose had brought him to Dovehill Hall? Did it involve her husband’s death? Or was he here for some other reason?
    Unbeknownst to Kathleen, he was there for all three—she was soon to discover the reason why. And it very much involved her.
    *    *    *
    When the short service ended, Kathleen’s uncle led her back to the hall. He was acting very solicitous of her, which she expected given the size of her husband’s estate, and her uncle’s greedy nature. A hearty repast had been laid out for the wake, but she didn’t partake. She had no appetite. Her stomach was in knots, so she merely fidgeted with the plate of food a servant handed her. It was time for the reading of her husband’s will. She was finally to learn her fate.
    Either she was to continue the controlled life she had been leading until now, dominated by the housekeeper and her in-laws—or perhaps, and this next thought caused her a surge of hope—her late husband’s relatives would inherit Dovehill Hall and she would at last be set free to live an unencumbered life.
    That was indeed wishful thinking. She sighed.
    She’d noticed the leering manner in which her nephew, Henry, inspected her. His watery eyes deliberately stared at her well-covered bosom. It was as if he were mentally undressing her—waiting for the moment until he could lay his pudgy hands upon her.
    Feeling a wave of sickness overcome her, she handed the untouched plate to a passing servant. The idea of Henry touching her was repulsive—a continuation of the nightmare she’d been living. From past experience, she recalled how Henry had treated her . . . like a woman of easy virtue. Despite being his uncle’s wife, Henry would reach out and touch her in an unwelcome manner whenever she passed him in the dimly lit corridors of Dovehill Hall. In the dark she would gasp in shocked surprise at his audacity. He would laugh, enjoying her obvious discomfort.
    She had mentioned these humiliating moments to her husband. But he’d paid no heed. He’d dismissed the episodes as nothing more than boyish pranks. He told her she had an overactive imagination and had mistaken Henry’s intentions.
    “He’s just having a bit of high-spirited fun. Do try to be less of a country innocent,” he’d say and that would be the end of it.
    Grimly, she decided she would run