Becket's Last Stand

Becket's Last Stand
Kasey Michaels

The romantic saga of the Becket family concludes with this brand-new novel by USA TODAY bestselling author Kasey MichaelsFor years, Courtland Becket denied himself the only woman who stirred his blood, yet he could no longer ignore the lovely Cassandra. For gone was the girl he had once teased – replaced by a fully grown woman, adamant that they act on their long-denied feelings. It was time for him to allow himself a taste of the forbidden!But passion’s price could prove too high when an age-old enemy returns to wreak revenge against the entire Becket clan, leaving Courtland torn between his new-found love, and his duty to the family that means everything to him…

“Tomorrow, Callie. I’ll take youriding tomorrow. I think weboth could benefit from a fewhours away from Becket Hall.”

“Thank you, Court.” She stepped up on tiptoe and daringly placed a quick kiss on his mouth. But when she went to step away from him his arms closed more tightly around her and he lowered his face to hers, sealing their mouths together.

Cassandra closed her eyes as the strangest feeling rippled through her body, and then raised her arms to hold them around his neck as he showed her that the kiss she’d given him had been far from what a real kiss should be. She felt the tip of his tongue against her lips as he seemed to want her mouth open, and she complied, because saying no to anything Court had ever wanted from her was beyond her power.

“Callie,” he whispered against her lips, withdrawing slightly, and then taking her mouth so completely that she could only sigh, and hold on to him for dear life. This was where she wanted to be. In his arms.

This was where she was destined to be. In his life.

Praise forKasey Michaels

A Reckless Beauty “A Reckless Beauty [is] a cannon shot. Drama by the boatload, danger around every corner, and heart-wrenching emotion await readers.” —A Romance Review

A Most Unsuitable Groom “From the first page to the last this continuation of the Beckets of Romney Marsh saga is a well-crafted novel. Emotional intensity, simmering sexual tension, characters you care about and political intrigue – plus touches of humour and a poignant love story – all come together in this hugely entertaining keeper.” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The Dangerous Debutante “Her characters shine as she brings in fascinating details of the era, engaging plot twists and plenty of sensuality.” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Shall We Dance? “Brimming with historical details and characters ranging from royalty to spies, greedy servants to a jealous woman, this tale is told with panache and wit.” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The Butler Did It “Michaels’ ingenious sense of humour reaches new heights as she brings marvellous characters and a too-funny-for-words story to life. (…) What fun, what pleasure, what a read!” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

USA TODAY bestselling author Kasey Michaels is the author of more than ninety books. She has earned three starred reviews from PublishersWeekly, and has been awarded the RITA

Award from Romance Writers of America, the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award, the Waldenbooks and BookRak awards, and several other commendations for her writing excellence in both contemporary and historical novels. There are more than eight million copies of her books in print around the world. Kasey resides in Pennsylvania with her family, where she is always at work on her next book.

Becket’s Last Stand

Kasey Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

To my editor, Melissa Jeglinski,

for all her invaluable input, hard work,

friendship and support during two frantic

years of living almost daily with The Beckets ofRomney Marsh. Couldn’t have done it without you, babe!

PROLOGUE

1798An unnamed island near Haiti

IT WAS THE HEIGHT of summer, hot, crushingly hot, difficult-to-breathe hot. But behind the thick walls of the two-story house set among the towering shrubs, nestled among the swaying palms, the air was relatively cool in the large bedchamber. And that air was sweet with the smell of Isabella’s perfume.

Courtland sat cross-legged on the wide-planked floor, holding the young Cassandra in front of him, encouraging her to stand on her chubby little legs. But the child wasn’t cooperating. She was much too enthralled with the idea of pulling off Courtland’s nose, giggling as she reached for him.

“She’s too young to stand,” Odette the Voodoo woman warned him as she brushed Isabella’s long, dark curls. “Her legs will bow like Billy’s and she’ll roll when she walks, with you to blame for it all.”

Isabella laughed, a sound like the sweetest music, as she leaned closer to the large mirror, slipping sapphire bobs into her ears. “Oh, stop teasing our poor Court, Odette,” she said, “that’s not true. My sweet baby would never roll when she walks. She will glide, like an angel, and she will float in the dance in this London Geoff promises us, the belle of every ball. We will all be so grand, won’t we?”

And then she swiveled on the small padded chair and smiled at Courtland, blew both him and the infant Cassandra a kiss.

Courtland felt his heart skip a beat and knew hot color was creeping up into his cheeks, for he loved the beautiful Isabella with every fiber of his thirteen-year- old being. He didn’t know that, of course, because love had never been a part of his life before coming to the island. He only knew he lived for her, would die for her. He lived for Cassandra, and would gladly die for her, too, because she was a part of Isabella, a part of his savior, Geoffrey Baskin.

Cassandra went to her hands and knees, her favored form of locomotion, and crawled onto Courtland’s lap, stuck her thumb in her mouth, and within moments was asleep in the afternoon heat. He could pick her up, take her to her cot in the dressing room, but it felt so good to hold the small, trusting body that he leaned his back against the wall and contented himself watching Odette brush Isabella’s hair…and thinking of the past, of the day he’d first arrived on the island.

The day had begun as usual, with his seven- year-old self being roughly kicked awake by the boot of the man who insisted Courtland call him Papa. But would a father kick a son, make him sleep with the huge, bad-tempered dogs that were allowed to roam free in the shop at night, fight them for the food that was always too little and often too spoiled to eat? Courtland couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think a father should treat his son that way.

The other thing that was usual about the morning was that his papa was drunk. Mean drunk, nasty drunk. And Courtland was sick, having eaten some of the meat that the dogs had left for him, and the vile-smelling vomit on the floor beside him was his own. He didn’t want to wake up, he didn’t want to clean up his mess. He just wanted to sleep. Sleep forever.

But his papa kicked him again, hard, and began yelling about the dogs, something about the dogs. Something about the damn miserable dogs being dead and they’d been worth twice what the boy was, the useless little bastard.

That’s when Courtland had heard the worst sound, that of his father’s whip being untied from his belt, the braided leather with its several small ends, each tipped with a small lead ball, snapping hard against the floor an inch from his head. He would have cried out, but he’d learned not to do that. He’d learned not to talk at all, not to ever make a sound. It was safer that way. He could almost be invisible, if he didn’t talk. Sometimes. Not this morning.

He tried to scramble to his feet, but he was too slow, had moved too late. The whip snaked out again, this time catching him hard across the back, cutting deep into his young skin in at least a half-dozen places. Again. And again. Over and over, until Courtland thought he might die, like the dogs.

But then the blows stopped, and his father cursed, and Courtland heard another man speaking. Quietly, firmly. He dared to lift his head, and saw a tall, dark- haired man dressed in fine black clothes, holding tight to his father’s wrist, looking down into his face.

“Billy, take the boy outside. Mind his back as you carry him,” the man said as he squeezed harder, and the whip slipped to the floor. “And Jacko, my friend, man the door, if you would, please. This lump of offal and I have something to discuss, and need our privacy.”

Courtland had felt himself being picked up, oh so gently, and carried out of the shop, into the morning sun. The man holding him crooned to him, told him he was all right, that the Cap’n would take care of him, that nobody would hurt him, not ever again. That he’d be “just like the other one, most like, God help us all.”

But Courtland hadn’t really been listening, because the whip had cracked again, only this time not against his back. He heard his father yell, curse. Again, the crack of the whip. His father yelled again, but this time he didn’t curse. He had begun to plead, to beg. “Stop! Stop! You can have him—but I’ll be paid!”

The whip cracked again, three times in quick succession, and Courtland listened for his father’s voice, but it never came. He looked to the door, to the huge, smiling man who stood there, blocking it, and waited for his father to walk out, holding the whip, coming for him once again.

When the door opened, however, it was the tall man who emerged, hesitating only to throw the whip back into the dimness of the shop. He walked over to the man named Billy and held out his arms, so that Courtland felt himself being transferred.

“Hello, son,” the man said quietly. “I’m Geoffrey Baskin, and you’ll come live with me, if you want. No one will beat you ever again, I promise. What’s your name?”

Courtland remained silent, which is how he came to be Courtland, named for a sailor on one of Geoffrey Baskin’s ships who had perished of a fever a few months earlier, and he remained silent for nearly six years, until Geoffrey had brought home an angel named Isabella, whose smile and sweet ways had eventually coaxed him into speaking once more.

His very first word spoken on the island had been Callie, a gruff, rasping mispronunciation of Isabella’s and Geoff’s newborn daughter, Cassandra, who would never be called Cassie again, at Isabella’s order.

There were other children now, all of them brought to the island by Geoffrey Baskin. Chance, who had already been in residence when Courtland arrived. A newborn infant, Morgan, was brought back from another trip to Haiti. Three years later a half dozen more children, survivors of an attack on a church on another island. Finally, a wild young hothead named Spencer.

Courtland didn’t mix with the other children very often. He didn’t speak, and they seemed to think that was funny. He stayed by himself, watching, always watching, always waiting for the first sick singing of the whip before it bit into his back. But it never came.

Isabella. She had arrived instead. An angel as beautiful as his rescuer, Geoffrey Baskin, was handsome. And after years of cautious watching, the young Courtland was ready to give his trust, his heart.

“Dreaming again, Missy Isabella,” Odette said, pointing now at Courtland with the hairbrush. “Boy’s like a puppy.”

Courtland flushed once more and got to his feet, careful to hold Cassandra close as he turned his back, walked over to the open doors that led out onto the veranda that faced the sea.