The Return of the Prodigal

The Return of the Prodigal
Kasey Michaels

From the nightmare of battle… Being in the care of lovely Lisette, who tended to his every need, helped Rian Becket to forget the horrors of war – although his intuition led him to believe there was more to the seductress than she revealed…To danger close to his heart If Lisette was aligned with the enemy, and endangering the Becket clan, how would he ever bring himself to stop her? Especially when she was beginning to mean more to him than life itself…

Praise for Kasey Michaels

A Reckless Beauty “A Reckless Beauty [is] a cannon shot. Drama by the boatload, danger around every corner, and heartwrenching 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

“I didn’t think you were coming,” he said quietly, returning her look.

“I said I would. I don’t lie, Rian Becket.”

“I didn’t remember.”

“Do you remember this?” Lisette asked, as she untied the satin ribbons at the throat of her dressing gown and then shrugged back her shoulders, sending the dressing gown sliding to the floor, revealing her sheer white night rail.

Rian sat up higher against the pillows, smiled.

“Vaguely.”

“You try to be amusing? And this?” she continued, slowly walking towards him as her fingers worked the small front buttons of the gown. She stopped, smiled, eased one wide strap from her shoulder, then the other. She looked straight into his eyes, and allowed the night rail to join the dressing gown on the floor.

“Oh, yes. I believe I remember now. A white witch or an angel. I’m never quite sure.”

“Does it matter which I am, Rian, witch or angel? As long as I am here, yes?”

USA TODAY bestselling author Kasey Michaels is the author of more than ninety books. She has earned three starred reviews from Publishers Weekly, 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.

The Return of the Prodigal

Kasey Michaels

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

To Karen Solem, who makes it all happen.

With love.

CHAPTER ONE

HE SAT IN THE GARDEN because that’s where Lisette had put him, and Rian Becket had already learned that arguing with the strong-willed, determined Lisette was as equally productive as attempting to joust with the moon. And as fruitless as wishing his left arm back.

Strange, though, how he seemed to simply do whatever Lisette wanted him to do, almost without question.

Perhaps it was because she reminded him somewhat of his sister Fanny. That same sort of tall, lithe body. That same shimmer of blond hair, although Lisette’s was devoid of curl, more of a silky curtain that fell past her shoulders than the unruly mass Fanny was forever cursing. More sunlight to Fanny’s moonlight.

And most definitely that same unshakable belief that they were completely in charge of him.

Fanny had always believed herself his keeper, had always attempted to order him about, nag at him. Lisette was her equal, if not even more unwavering in her belief that she had been put on this earth to tell him what to do, and he had been placed on that same earth to obey her.

That might be the reason.

That, or the fact that he truthfully couldn’t muster much interest in where he sat, what he ate, or even where, precisely, he was. He was existing, floating above the everyday, and the feeling was rather pleasant. He could almost hear Fanny crooning to him, as she would to any of the horses that might be upset in a storm, or whatever, “Nothing to fear, now is there. Nothing to see, nothing to worry such a fine brave soldier like you.”

Yes, he thought, chuckling at his sudden insight—simply not caring, that also might be the reason.

Rian closed his eyes against the late afternoon sun that would soon drop behind the high stone walls of the French manor house, amused at his own amusement. Wasn’t that strange?

He was a lucky man, lucky to be alive. That’s what Lisette told him, had harangued him with during the long weeks and months of what she insisted upon calling his recovery.

Recovery? His wounds may have healed at last; the sword swipe to his midsection, the leg bone shattered by rifle shot, whatever in hell had happened to his head that kept him from remembering anything beyond the first few hours of the battle Lisette told him was now known simply as Waterloo.

But unless Lisette knew of a way for him to regrow most of his forearm and all of his hand below his elbow, he was not recovered. He was far from whole, far from alive.

“And again, alas, far from caring,” he muttered, believing his mind was now running in a circle, repeating itself, but still not entirely unhappy as he looked up at the blue sky. After all, the sun did still shine, the sky remained blue. “Green grass, pretty pink flowers…pretty Lisette.”

Yes, pretty Lisette. Her accent was French, although her English was rather adorably precise. Odd in a servant girl, but Lisette had told him that her father had been English, a teacher, and her mother French. Both of them had died, one within months of the other, and Lisette had been forced into service, having no other way to earn her bread and cheese.

Her employer had been a childhood friend of her mother’s, a minor French aristocrat who had somehow survived the Terror and even flourished, his sympathies all with England and the French monarchy, although only inwardly. Outwardly, he had been a loyal supporter of whatever faction in power in Paris at the moment demanded of the citizenry. He’d been imprisoned twice, Lisette had told Rian, once years ago by Robespierre himself, once again by Bonaparte, but he had always found a way to survive.

Rian remembered all of this through the dint of repetition, as Lisette had told him, and told him again, and again, until he was finally able to remember every word. Such a sad story. Such a pretty girl.

He would be eager to meet this clever man, if he cared. Which he probably didn’t. Besides, that would mean the two of them would have to indulge in polite conversation, and that prospect was too fatiguing to contemplate.

He knew that the man had found him among the prisoners some escaping French had taken with them, hoped to use to trade for their own freedom if the chasing English caught up with them. He’d rescued Rian, brought him to this place, and left him in Lisette’s care as he traveled south, to Paris, to watch Napoleon Bonaparte be expelled from France one last time.

Surely that was all he needed to know.

There had been other English soldiers brought here to safety, Lisette had told him, although he had never seen them. Two, she’d said, who had recovered and then been returned to troops passing by on their way to march triumphantly into Paris. Two others who had died of their wounds.

He was the only one still remaining at the manor house, the château, whatever this place was called, and strangely reluctant to be deemed well enough to leave.

Did Lisette have anything to do with that reluctance? No. Impossible.

Well, now, he was doing his share of thinking today, wasn’t he? He wasn’t sure if this was something to celebrate. It was much easier, drifting.

But, as long as his brain seemed to be waking up, he might as well think about Lisette. Much better to think of her, than to push down an almost overwhelming need to scratch the itch on the back of the left hand that was no longer a part of him.

Was it pity he saw in her eyes when she came to his bed? Never revulsion, bless her, but then, she was at heart a simple girl, attempting to unravel a complex man.

“Or a very thick man,” Rian said, smiling slightly, feeling ashamed of himself once more. Perhaps this was good. At least shame was an emotion. Perhaps he was beginning to wake up from the months’ long slumber he’d allowed himself, indulging his pain, both the physical, and the pain that he felt only in his heart.