Excerpt: A Lyon’s Vow of Honor

Chapter One

Alasdair Cameron delivered a lethal right cross to his opponent’s jaw and swore. “Bollocks, Tremayne! Ye’re supposed to fall at my feet unconscious!”

Tremayne grinned. “Face it, Cameron, you’ve gone soft since leaving the dragoons.”

Cameron stared at his friend, a man who carried an identical scar to the one he bore on the right side of his face—forehead to chin. Each man had attained the rank of lieutenant in the King’s Dragoons, having fought bravely and with honor, before their last battle and the slashing blow that nearly ended their lives. Both men stood over six feet tall, and were evenly matched in muscle and strength in a bare-knuckle bout.

Cameron delivered an uppercut that had the other man’s head snapping back, dazing him for a moment. The Scotsman taunted him, “Soft, is it, and a fine Welshman such as yerself isn’t? I’m not the one at the Duke of Wyndmere’s beck and call.”

Gryffyn Tremayne rallied, aiming a jab to Cameron’s throat. Cameron blocked it, irritating Tremayne. “I answer to Captain Coventry, which you know, as he’s been trying to recruit you.”

“I’ve found my calling,” Cameron reminded him.

“As a healer to the less fortunate?” Tremayne asked as the men circled each other.

“Miss Michaela needs my skill—and my protection.” Cameron got a solid punch in beneath Tremayne’s guard, pleased when the other man winced. “I don’t have time to back up the duke’s illustrious private guard.”

Tremayne’s eyes narrowed, and Cameron slowly smiled. “Take yer best shot, then I’ll deliver the final blow!”

To his surprise, Tremayne dropped his guard and stepped back. “Colonel Lord Merriweather is dying.”

Eglantine!

Cameron never thought the day would come when he’d be called upon to honor the vow he’d made a six years ago. He raked a hand through his hair. “How much time do I have?”

“Not long, though Coventry was not certain. He was hoping I could knock some sense into you, and convince you to join our ranks, before you present yourself on the colonel’s doorstep.”

The memory of dark lashes, dreamy green eyes, and silky hair, a warm, rich brown, entrenched Miss Eglantine Merriweather firmly in his mind. “What of her betrothed, Lord Pottshire?”

“Cried off a sennight ago after Miss Merriweather demanded he give up his vices.” Tremayne walked over to the stall door, grabbed two linen cloths, and tossed one to his friend. “Decided he’d rather dedicate his life to gambling and his trio of mistresses than marry her.”

Cameron caught the cloth, bracing himself as the memory of the lassie demanding he leave the King’s Dragoons sliced through him. Serving king and country was not a vice, but a duty and an honor.

After wiping his face and chest, he donned his shirt. “Did she ask for me?”

Tremayne wiped the sweat off himself before answering, “She’s has her hands full, caring for her father and younger sisters.”

“His lordship cannot believe she’d change her mind. Look at me! I’m not the man I used to be.”

Tremayne laid a hand on Cameron’s shoulder. “If anyone understands that sentiment, it’s me. But we’re both decorated former members of the elite King’s Dragoons. We have beaten the odds and survived a near-killing blow. And, from what you’ve said, you’ve put away a sizeable amount of blunt, though you’d never know it looking at your worn frockcoat and tattered trousers.”

Cameron met his friend’s direct gaze. “Ye know I cannot wear a finely tailored frockcoat, or my prized dragoon’s coat, when I’m working with Miss Michaela. I’d end up fighting off those who’d challenge me for my coat instead of helping heal the poor lassies who need us.”

“Aye,” Tremayne agreed. “I’ve dressed similarly when I’m in the bowels of London.”

Cameron slipped into his coarse linen shirt and donned his frockcoat. “What if the lassie refuses me again?”

“With two younger sisters just out of the schoolroom, begging for their first season?” Tremayne snorted. “She’ll need a strong man to bring a sense of balance to their lives—and to protect them.”

“What makes you think I’d marry her and take on the burden of her hellion sisters?”

Tremayne grinned. “As to that, Coventry and the colonel came up with a plan. You’ve heard of the Lyon’s Den?”

“I cannot believe the colonel would allow Miss Merriweather to set one foot inside of that establishment! They’d circle the lassie like wolves before they go in for the kill—her innocence…and her inheritance!”

“She would be incognito.”

Cameron scoffed. “Wearing a veil like the Black Widow of Whitehall?”

Tremayne shrugged. “Captain Coventry mentioned Captain Broadbank and his brother met their perfect matches there.”

“Didn’t Broadbank inherit a title recently?”

“Aye. On the death of their eldest brother. He’s the new Viscount Moreland, though titles don’t matter as much in the Lyon’s Den as they do to the ton.”

“I still cannot believe the colonel would even consider it,” Cameron muttered.

“There is another consideration,” Tremayne said, capturing Cameron’s attention. “I understand invitations will be going out soon to a very select few to attend Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s birthday Mystère Masque. Guest cannot enter unless they wear a mask. These invitations are coveted, and feted as the golden ticket—akin to receiving a voucher to Almack’s, if you were one of the ton’s matchmaking mammas.”

Cameron digested that last bit of information, all the time wondering how in the bloody hell he’d fulfill his vow to his former superior officer: to protect his eldest daughter and her sisters with his life, should anything ever happen to him. “Ye don’t think she’ll receive an invitation because of her father, do ye?”

“Colonel Merriweather’s request added to Captain Coventry’s will pique Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s interest. She’s partial to men who have served in the military—her husband Colonel Sandstrom T. Lyon served king and country.”

Cameron’s heart clenched, and his gut roiled at the thought of anyone laying a hand on his Eglantine. “Dinna think I’ll allow her to attend a masked ball in that den of iniquity! She could be ravished behind a potted plant and no one would be the wiser. Worse, the bastards attending will be foxed on brandy and champagne and more likely to place wagers on whether or not she truly is an innocent before they roll the dice to see who goes first!”

Would she accept him now that he was no longer a member of the King’s Dragoons—her reason for refusing his offer for her hand? His gut roiled at the realization. While he no longer served the Crown, he’d forever carry the reminder of his time in the dragoons—the ugly raised scar that marred the entire right side of his face.

“A word of advice, Alasdair.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Aye?”

“Merriweather’s daughters are as honorable and stubborn as he is. Though she hated his dedication to king and country that kept him away from home for years, Miss Merriweather would never dishonor what could be his last request.”

Cameron held out his hand to Tremayne, who shook it. “Oh, and Cameron?”

“What now?”

“I have a decent coat and trousers you can borrow.”

Cameron snorted. “Bugger off!”

 

 

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