Devil in My Arms

Devil in My Arms
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A Loveswept eBook Original

Copyright © 2013 by Nancy Kattenfeld
Excerpt from
The Devil’s Thief
by Samantha Kane copyright © 2012 by Nancy Kattenfeld
Excerpt from
Tempting a Devil
by Samantha Kane copyright © 2013 by Nancy Kattenfeld
Excerpt from
Loving the Earl
by Sharon Cullen copyright © 2013 by Sharon Cullen

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House
Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the Loveswept colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.

eBook ISBN 978-0-345-54982-2

Cover illustration: Franco Accornero

www.readloveswept.com

v3.1

This book is for my husband and my

children, as every book has been and will be.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

About the Author

Editor’s Corner

Excerpt from
The Devil’s Thief

Excerpt from
Tempting a Devil

Excerpt from
Loving the Earl

Acknowledgments

I can’t forget the ones who really matter: Mom, Dad, Will, Jeri, Charlotte, Jo, Chris, John, Katie, Carson, and Brady. You all listened when I needed to talk throughout the writing of this book and your love and support mean the world to me. Hugs all around. I’d also like to include my critique partner, Julie Gupton, in that hug. She had to listen to a lot of plot angst and other complaints during the writing of this book, and I want her to know her patience and understanding are much appreciated. I’d also like to thank my editor, Sue Grimshaw and my agent, Eric Ruben, who were both supportive and encouraging. Thank you to Joanne Ross for the wonderful new website she created for me as I was working on this book. Many thanks to the Random House marketing team, including April Flores and Kim Cowser, who make it possible for writers to write. Thanks also go to the research staff of the High Point Regional Library in High Point, North Carolina, for your help with research materials. And to the many readers out there who write and tell me how much you enjoy my books: Thank you! Everything I do, I do it for you.

Chapter One

London, September, 1819

The sun was setting; dusk casting an ominous shadow over the quiet, residential square. There had been nurses and children in the central park earlier, but they had wandered back to various affluent houses some time ago, for supper she supposed. Eleanor’s stomach rumbled at the thought. She’d run out of money yesterday, and so hadn’t eaten since a greasy meat pasty purchased with her last coins from a disreputable inn along the coach line two days ago.

She kept to the shadows of the alley, tiptoeing along the wall, her side pressed to the brick. The small satchel in her left hand had grown heavy hours ago, but as it contained all her worldly possessions she didn’t dare put it down for fear of losing it if she had to run suddenly. She’d walked around these particular two blocks of London for the better part of three hours. She could see nothing suspicious, but that didn’t mean she was safe.

She bit her lip in indecision. She’d come so far. If she were to fail now, it would kill her. It really would this time. She couldn’t bear being locked in her room again for days upon days, no food or water unless she did as Enderby demanded. She’d worked on this plan for years while she’d endured her husband’s punishments. But no more. She had followed the plan meticulously, waiting the three months she deemed necessary for Enderby to call off his search. Three endless months of hoarding her money, trying to sleep in drafty waterfront inns whose other occupants were as suspicious as she. But the rooms there were always too close, with windows that often wouldn’t open. The night terrors had struck more than once as she woke screaming, imagining being locked in her room back at Enderby’s again. Three months of eating only meager fare, faint with hunger and fear and exhaustion every second.

After all that time, surely he thought her dead. She hadn’t tried to contact Harry at
all. She’d learned the hard way that to do so would be a mistake. She didn’t make the same mistakes twice. She was too clever for that. She was. He hadn’t broken her at all. She was still the same. Still smarter than he was, and at last he’d know it.

Finally, her courage bolstered by the very fear and hunger that had nearly laid her low so many times in the past few months, she ventured out of the alley. There was no hue and cry at her appearance. No one emerged from the shadows to accost her just as she tasted freedom. She kept to the sidewalk, sauntering along as if she hadn’t a care in the world, the boy’s clothes she wore making her almost belligerent shuffle believable. She’d studied the stable boys and grooms and dockworkers; this was their walk, the walk of a lad who owned the world, daring friend and foe alike to knock the chip from his shoulder. She wanted to laugh aloud at what a lie that walk was for her. Her cares were a burden weighing her down, the chip on her shoulder a simmering hatred for the man who had forced her to take such dire measures.

When she reached the walk in front of Harry’s door she casually looked around, pausing to dust off the sleeves of her ratty coat. She was hardly dressed for a visit to one of the elegant mansions in Manchester Square, but she brazened it out. If she could get past the butler she’d find Harry.

She’d just turned up the walk, her eyes glued to the door as if salvation waited beyond it, when a voice spoke from behind her. “Mrs. Enderby, I presume?”

Eleanor spun around with a gasp, her satchel flying from her hand as she reached into her coat and grabbed the cudgel she’d stolen from a drunken sailor on the docks in Lyme Regis. She faced her attacker head-on, hoping a scuffle here would be noticed. She didn’t care if she drew attention now. They’d found her. Her only hope was that Harry could prevent the miscreant from dragging her back to Enderby.

He was tall, his dark-red hair poking out from beneath a beaver hat. He wasn’t as burly as Enderby’s other lackeys. She’d never seen this one before, the better to take her by surprise, damn him. He was well dressed, which seemed discordant somehow with the danger of the situation. He didn’t look belligerent at all, merely mildly amused and relieved, but she was still wary. There was an aura of power about him that made the hair on her nape stand up. He smiled at her then and her mind spun in confusion.

“You shan’t need that, Mrs. Enderby,” he said quietly, pointing at the cudgel with
his oversized walking stick. “I am not who you believe me to be.”

“And that’s how you disarm someone who wants to knock your head off?” a voice sneered from behind her. Eleanor backed quickly to the side so she could see them both. The speaker was a young man observing them from several feet away. He had his arms crossed and his feet planted wide, blocking her exit to the street. His casual stance didn’t fool her for a second. He looked like a scrapper and had the height and weight to take her down, cudgel be damned.

“Wiley, be quiet,” the redhead said, clearly annoyed. “Now you’ve startled her again.”

“Why don’t you ask her to dance?” the Wiley fellow said sarcastically. “Maybe she’ll put down the stick and waltz.” He looked at Eleanor then. “He probably isn’t who you think he is, but keep the cudgel just in case.”

The redhead closed his eyes as if in pain. “She could just give it to you, and you could knock my head off. Would that satisfy your need to protect the lady from my dastardly charms?”

“Maybe,” Wiley said, looking thoughtful. “At least it would be a good time for me.” He addressed Eleanor again. “We mean you no harm, he’s not lying about that.”

“Who are you then?” she demanded, refusing to drop her guard at their foolish banter. Neither made a move toward her but simply stood there, watching her carefully. The redhead leaned on his walking stick with both hands as if to reassure her. It was a wasted effort. She knew better than to trust someone like him. He was a man with the power to break her and enjoy doing it.

“My name is Sir Hilary St. John and this is Wiley. We have been looking for you.”

“Of course you have,” she sneered. “How much did Enderby promise you?”

He shook his head. “You misunderstand. We have been searching for you for your sister.”

Her hands began to shake. “Harry?”

“We have been very worried about you, Mrs. Enderby,” he said kindly. He looked her up and down. “You look as if you’ve had a rough time of it, my dear.”

At that the fatigue assailing her finally took its toll. She dropped her arm and
staggered back a step. “A rough time?” She started laughing and then she simply couldn’t stop. Before she knew it she was crying, great gulping sobs. What a spectacle she was.

“Perhaps we should go in?” the red-haired stranger said. He still didn’t move closer to her, just gestured to the door.

She warily watched them, wiping her nose inelegantly on her sleeve, still unsure if she could trust them. The door opened behind her and she quickly raised the cudgel again before she finally turned to see a handsome, dark-haired man standing there frowning at them. “Hil?” he asked, looking curiously at Eleanor. “What’s going on?”

“Who is it, Roger?” A blonde, elegant, very pregnant woman came up behind him and peered over his shoulder.