Preview of Who Rescued Who by Victoria Schade
Preview of Who Rescued Who by Victoria Schade
I love having the opportunity to share a preview of upcoming books with you. Who Rescued who by Victoria Schade is scheduled to come out on March 24, 2020. To get you excited about the release, the publisher offered me this exclusive excerpt from the book! Take a read, and if you like it you can pre-order your copy today through your favorite local bookstore or using my Amazon affiliate link below.
The party raged on with such force that the first raindrop felt like a mistake, and no one took the weather seriously until the wind whipped a few tablecloths off empty tables, sending dinnerware crashing to the ground.
Elizabeth started to follow the throng to the largest tent when a gust yanked the Hargrave hat from her head. She turned to run after it and collided with a gorgeous Regency romance chest. James Holworthy steadied her with his free hand, then jogged a few steps after the hat as it cartwheeled away.
“Stay there, I’ll get it,” he said to Elizabeth over his shoulder. He set his pint down on a stone wall and took two giant steps after the hat, and when it danced out of his reach he dove for it like he was stealing home. He ended up on one knee and stretched to grab the hat, snagging it by the delicate tulle. He stood up and held the hat over his head in triumph as the rain pelted him, exposing a sliver of his stomach beneath his white shirt.
Wet Regency romance James Holworthy looked positively pornographic.
James picked up his pint on the way over and handed the hat back to her. She stared at one of his ridiculous muttonchop sideburns because she was afraid to look directly at him, like he was a solar eclipse that might blind her with his perfection.
“My hero,” Elizabeth said and instantly regretted it.
“At your service,” he replied with a heel click and bow.
She plopped the ruined hat on her head in a trance, not caring that it looked like a dishrag. “You’re …uh,” she realized that if she said his name he’d know she’d been stalking him.
“John Constable,” he offered his hand to her.
She tilted her head. The name was familiar, but he was James Holworthy, not John Constable. Then it hit her. “The landscape artist. I see it now. Nice to meet you, I’m Elizabeth Barnes, aka Morning Mist.” She reached out and shook his hand. The shock of his warmth in the cool rain felt like foreplay.
“You’re the American Barnes. Yes, Reid mentioned you, of course. Nice to meet you.”
The accent sounded different coming out of James Holworthy’s mouth. Deeper. More mysterious. It was the first time she understood what people meant when they talked about the sexy British accent.
“I guess everyone in this town knows everything?” she asked as they followed the crowd to the tent even though the rain was letting up.
“Basically yes. Except I don’t know that much about you. Reid only mentioned how you met. Great first impression, by the way,” he grinned at her and it looked wicked.
Elizabeth worried what else Reid might have said to James. Had he already called dibs? Would James step back if Reid bro-coded that she was spoken for?
“I’m going to be working with Reid,” she stressed the word “working.”
“Fantastic! Reid needs all the help he can get.” It sounded more like a brotherly jab than a true insult.
They walked along in silence for a few minutes, and Elizabeth felt James staring at her feet.
“Shoe accident. Probably a good thing I’m barefoot,” she shrugged and pointed up at the drizzle. “My heels couldn’t handle a Fargrove typhoon.” She was convinced that he was disgusted by her muddy toes.
“No, your leg. You’re bleeding.” James put a gentle hand on her arm that stopped her like a jolt of electricity and then knelt beside her. “Cripes, what happened here?”
The rain had dislodged the bandage and turned the trickle of blood from the scrape into bright red modern art on her calf.
“It looks worse than it is. It doesn’t hurt,” she lied. The area around the scrape was already turning black and blue.
“I don’t have any plasters on me but I do have this,” he unknotted the white scarf from around his neck.
“Oh no, don’t ruin your costume,” Elizabeth protested as he unwound it.
“Costume? This is cut from an old shower curtain. This whole outfit is thrifted and thrown together. These are my dad’s old riding boots. Pretty convincing, huh?” He held his arms out and did a half-turn with the shower curtain scarf trailing from his hand.
“Yes, you look incredible,” Elizabeth replied more breathlessly than she meant to. “I mean, the outfit is really impressive. Sideburns, even.” She willed herself to shut up.
James knelt beside her and Elizabeth realized that he meant to bandage her himself.
“No, no, I’ll do it!” She exclaimed, jumping away from him. As much as she wanted to feel James caressing her leg, she didn’t want him getting up close and personal with blood and filthy feet.
He handed the scarf to her and watched as she mopped up the mess with a quick swipe, hastily triple wrapped it around her calf and tied it with a bow.
“That’s not going to stay,” James said with concern in his voice. “Are you sure you don’t want me to do it?”
“It’s fine,” she waved her hand to dismiss the idea. Elizabeth was desperate to change the subject from blood and bandages to something more flirty. “So, what do you do?” She cringed after she said it. Since she hadn’t been able to assemble a James Holworthy profile it was all she could think of, and it was such a San Fran thing to ask. In Fargrove it was probably the equivalent of asking how much he made.
They were near the tent, standing at the back edge of the throng of people trying to squeeze beneath the meager shelter.
“Me? I do this.” He held a full pint up in front of him as if he’d conjured it from the air. “I’m the co-owner of Lost Dog Brewery, so I do a little of everything. Selling, promoting and lots of drinking. Now to you.” He shifted his stance. “What do you do for a living, Bess?” His take on an American accent was laughable.
She accepted his unspoken challenge and responded in perfect Fargrove-ese. “Well, when I’m not in Blighty I faff about with computers.”
“Whoa,” he responded with eyes wide. “You sound native. I’m impressed.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting for everyone to find space under the tent. Elizabeth hoped they’d wind up at a table together in a dark corner. Based on the way his arm kept grazing hers, it seemed likely.
The were nearly under the tent when a rogue gust swept through the crowd and ripped the Hargrave hat from Elizabeth’s head again. The rain picked up and the people around them surged forward so that James was propelled farther into the tent as Elizabeth fought her way through the crowd to chase the hat. She ran after it and looked to where she’d left James, throwing a “one second” finger in the air so he’d know she was coming back to him.
She fumed as she chased after the hat, the scarf-bandage slipping down her leg with each step. Was it the Georgina Hargrave curse at work, ensuring that she would also end up lonely and alone? By the time she made it back to the tent she’d not only be a swamp creature, she’d probably have to compete for James Holworthy’s attention with a perfectly dry duchess or countess. Or a pack of them.
The hat finally came to a stop tangled in low branches at the edge of the field. The rain was starting to come down harder, but she refused to turn back until she’d recaptured it. She untangled the netting from the branches, swearing under her breath as she heard the delicate fabric rip.
She started to jog back to the tent with the hat clasped against her chest, her bare feet slipping on the wet grass, when a shrill noise stopped her. She couldn’t place it. Was it one of the sheep? She waited a moment, standing under the meager shelter of a tree, but heard nothing. She started to move and once again heard the desperate sound. The single note was impossible for Elizabeth to ignore. She waited to hear it again and had almost convinced herself that she was imagining it when the keening sounded off closer than before. She squinted into the darkness at the base of the tree, peering into the twisted roots and gulleys that would trip the most surefooted sober person. The noise repeated, beckoning her to locate it.
Then she saw it.
Huddled in the gnarled roots was a tiny filthy puppy, soaking wet and trembling. When they locked eyes the puppy took a tentative step toward her and rolled onto its side into the mud. Elizabeth looked around, unsure of what to do, but there was no one nearby to help.
She considered running away and pretending that she hadn’t seen the thing. Perhaps the mother dog was nearby and would be back soon? Based on the puppy’s sorry state, it didn’t seem likely.
She stood a few feet away from it. It looked helpless, head down and shuddering. It tried to make its way over to her but seemed too exhausted to move more than a few steps. Elizabeth walked to the puppy slowly. It seemed to understand what was happening and froze in place so that she could pick it up without a struggle. It was freezing and trembling uncontrollably, and she knew she had no choice but to take it back with her.
Elizabeth held it under its front legs with her arms outstretched, and it dangled from her hands like a frog. Its tiny legs swam through the air and its little body shook as she ran through the rain back toward the tent. They bounced along awkwardly until Elizabeth realized that the whole production would go more smoothly if she held the animal against her chest. She stopped under another tree, adjusted her hat so that it was tucked more securely beneath her arm and moved the dog so that it rested against her chest, mud and all. It immediately stopped trembling, as if all it needed to be comforted was contact with another living being and adjusted its tiny body so that its nose rested against the bare skin on her neck.
The dog let out a shuddering sigh and surrendered against her body. Elizabeth ran on, wondering what other drama the Hargrave curse had in store for her.
