Enter the Hero - Softcover

Like most writers, I knew early on that I wanted to be a writer. Well, almost. Actually, writing was the third choice on my short list of career possibilities, right after Fairy Princess and Prima Ballerina. The first two didn't work out. So after college I moved to New York, where I worked for Seventeen Magazine. Not only had I never really been to New York before, but I believe I was the only editorial assistant in the magazine industry who still wore knee socks. Soon I was promoted to Editor of the "Letters to the Editor" department. Yes, there really IS an editor for the letters to the editor column. But it allowed me to write articles, answer the personal problems of teens (boys and zits were the big topics of concern), and rummage through the back files of the magazine. I found Sylvia Plath's original carbon of a short story she submitted while still in high school. There were articles on up-and-coming talents with names like Judy Holiday, Marlon Brando and Elvis. And very occasionally I was employed as a last-minute makeover subject. That was me looking miserable after getting the "Brideshead Revisited" bob.

Then I lucked into a fabulous job - as a jacket copy writer at a publishing house called Pocket Books. There I first read Jude Deveraux, Judith McNaught and Julie Garwood in manuscript form, and from those I would compose the blurbs for the book covers. It was heaven. I would read straight through my lunch hour, thus accounting for the chicken salad and iced tea on the returned manuscripts. But as much as I loved reading those marvelous stories, what I really wanted to do was to write one. Just one. Just to see what would happen.

Life interfered. I went back into magazines, this time at Self as an editor and writer. I got married, then had my son. I was still on maternity leave, writing general health articles while bouncing a newborn on my knee, that I began to dream once again of writing a romance novel. So that is exactly what I did. And I modestly claim to have written the most horrendous first three chapters of ANY book, in ANY genre, at ANY time in history. Unfortunately, still addled by the turmoil of being a new mom (hey, it's an excuse), I actually sent the wretched chapters to agents and publishers.

The rejections were polite form letters. Dozens of them. I shoved them into a bottom drawer and stuck to articles, becoming a free-lance writer and full-time mom. A few years later I gave romance writing another try. This time I sent it to only one person, Linda Marrow, with whom I had worked at Pocket Books years earlier. I certainly did not expect her to accept the manuscript. But I did hope she would let me know which editor at whatever house just might be interested in my time-travel romance.

Instead, I received a call from Linda three days later, offering me a two book contract.

Now I am a single mom. My son is twelve. I live in Brooklyn. And I'm lucky enough to write romance novels for a living. So please excuse me while I slip into something more comfortable. Such as Civil War Atlanta, or Tudor England, or Georgian Ireland, or....Did I mention how much I love this job?

Chapter One

Lucius Ashford bitterly regretted the last couple of brandies he had imbibed the night before.

At the time it had seemed such a good idea, to celebrate in advance, basking in the friendly lantern light of a local tavern. Now, however, with the sun rising with inconsiderate strength and blinding brightness, he wasn't so sure.

Even though he had been abused by the choppy journey across the sea from England to Ireland, then further assaulted by brandy of dubious origin and suspicious quality, he was still breathtakingly handsome. It was not so much his features, which were strong and even -- with hair that was very nearly black and eyes that were very nearly the color of dark chestnut -- or his physique, which was splendid, much to the vexation of the bucks who spent brutal hours with fencing masters in order to avoid the indignities of wearing a corset. Instead, there was an elusive quality to his character that both intrigued and disturbed all those who claimed acquaintance with the man. In truth, no one seemed to know him completely, even his present companion, Lord William Ogilvie, who was counted as his closest and oldest friend.

For all of Ashford's apparent openness, there was something yet hidden, perhaps even from himself. He was of a good family, that was certain from his manners and bearing. But unlike other men of excellent lineage, Ashford was fascinating and unpredictable. One never knew exactly what to expect from the man, from a witty, if scorching comment to an almost antique defense of chivalry. And that single perplexing attribute of the unexpected, combined with an easy charm and an expertly cut and maintained wardrobe, allowed him access to the best parlors and assemblies.

Furthermore, he was the most popular second in the land. Many a hotheaded argument was lessened or even forgotten by virtue of his skillful reasoning. For Ashford was as known for his abhorrence of dueling as he was for his striking appearance and his smooth manners.

"I thought it was supposed to be cloudy in Ireland," Ashford observed, squinting at the intrusive light. His cravat was tied more loosely than usual, his dark green double-breasted superfine morning coat was not as well brushed as was the owner's custom, and the cream-colored waistcoat was misbuttoned. He had removed his hat a few moments earlier, hoping the fresh air would ease his headache.

"Cloudy in Ireland? Ah, that is a commonly held fallacy," replied Lord Ogilvie from beneath his top hat, which was covering his face and muffling his voice. He, too, had partaken of the extra brandy, and was slumped against the trunk of a large tree, his legs splayed out before him. Although Ogilvie was of an age with Ashford, a certain deliberation in his manner made him seem older. Every movement seemed to have been pondered and calculated, every gesture precise, every word carefully selected for its meaning.

"So you've been here, Ogilvie? You've never mentioned Ireland before."

Ogilvie snorted. "Of course I've never been here. I've never been in ancient Greece either, but I do have a fair idea of how they lived and thought. All those hours with books have been most helpful. I happen to possess a vast store of knowledge of the most eclectic sort."

"In that case, sir, I bow to your superior intellect. And with all of your vast, eclectic knowledge, do you know where on earth Edgar St. John is this morning?"

"If he is a man of any wisdom, he is still abed," Ogilvie mumbled, keeping his motions to a bare minimum.

Ashford, by contrast, was all movement and impetuosity, which was why in the twenty-odd years of their acquaintance, Ashford had stood as Ogilvie's second for nearly half that same number of times. Indeed, Ogilvie had been called out with as much frequency as he had been called a charming partner for the less lively country dances.

"Ogilvie, I do wish you would at least stand in an upright position. St. John is liable to believe you are an easy mark if you are incapable of rising to your feet."

"I will stand when it is necessary, sir," was the reply. "At the present time, I believe it would be folly. Why are we here, by the way?"

"We are here because Edgar St. John requested it, because we are gentlemen, and because we both thought Ireland would present a pleasant change."

"Do we know anything of this St. John fellow?"

"Nothing. Do you recall the conversation last night?"

"I will thank you not to mention the events of last night."

"It was with the tavern maid in that village over the hill. What was its name again? Balleen-something."

"I have not the faintest clue."

"In any case, no one has ever heard of their most illustrious citizen, Edgar St. John. I find that most curious. After all, he's quite the man-about-town in London. Seen everywhere. But I have yet to make his acquaintance, nor do I know anyone else who has. Most curious indeed."

"I do not feel well, Ashford."

Ashford sighed and shook his head, realizing that any additional conversation was pointless. It mattered little what sort of man Edgar St. John was. In his mind he had already dismissed St. John as a social fop, a middle-aged country squire with a talent for composing clever, inflammatory plays. Since Ogilvie had made his anger at St. John known, more than one gentleman had confided a desire to meet the playwright on just such a field. His only surprise thus far had been St. John's willingness to be met, although as the minutes ticked by, Ashford wondered if the man himself would actually have the nerve to appear.

Perhaps, for once, Ashford would not be required to halt yet another foolish duel. That would present a pleasant change indeed.

"If he fails to show, I shall consider it a severe breech of etiquette," Ogilvie stated flatly. "This has been a most inconvenient journey, and the least St. John can do is have the decency to show. The threat of death is no reason to display poor manners."

"Thank you, Mr. Brummell," smiled Ashford. "But I believe I see a pair of mounted figures in the distance. Do you suppose you could find it in yourself to rise to your feet? Barring any unusual bloodshed, this whole affair should be over rather swiftly."

Ogilvie grunted once and, with a wince and a groan, hoisted himself into a sitting position.

"Where? I see no one, Ashford. Oh. Yes. Here come the vile demons of death."

Ashford held his hand over his eyes to get a better view. "They may be vile demons of death, but their mounts are magnificent. Look at that chestnut on the right."

"How splendid. The horses no doubt have more breeding than their country-cousin riders."

The rumble of hooves was now discernible as Ashford straightened his cravat and swallowed. This was always the most difficult moment in a duel, the long seconds before the actual face-to-face meeting, before the measured steps to decide each other's fate. Usually he had been offered the chance to stare into the opponent's eyes before this point, to divine any hints there. Excessive redness usually meant either illness, eyestrain or debauchery -- all good bets for Ashford's side. Clear and unblinking indicated a cool calculation or religious fervor, both of which were to be avoided at all costs. St. John was a complete unknown, making Ashford more than uneasy. A man as clever with words as St. John could indeed be a dangerous combatant. Ashford himself had taken this whole affair with Ogilvie too lightly, and they were both likely to pay for his foolishness. Perhaps pay very dearly indeed.

And then he smiled at his own poetic fear. He had always managed to stop a duel, or at least lessen the severity of the outcome.

"Really, Ashford. Must you grin so? It's damned irritating, especially given that we are both under the weather and there is a slight chance that I shall soon be under the ground." Ogilvie rose unsteadily to his feet, then stopped. "Good God."

"What is it?"

"Look. Squint if you must, but take a good look at the men approaching. They appear to be riding sidesaddle."

"Good God." Ashford stared in disbelief. "Those men are women." He quickly rebuttoned his waistcoat.

"No, I'm afraid you're wrong there. Those are girls. Straight from the schoolroom, if I'm not mistaken."

Emily Fairfax and her sister approached slowly, eyeing the two men with wary hesitation. They returned the gaze with perplexed interest, Ogilvie stroking his chin and shifting uncomfortably in his boots. Ashford remained motionless, although the tension in his body seemed almost palpable.

Emily glanced from one man to the other. Suddenly this was no longer such a lark, she realized with a sickening flip to her stomach. These were actual men, and one of them was particularly large and fit.

This was real, not a scene in one of her plays that she could crumple up and toss aside should the outcome displease her.

In fact, this was all too real. She was alone, with her twelve-year-old sister, in the middle of nowhere, having told absolutely no one of their whereabouts, and facing two armed men. One was well-formed, the other rather pudgy, like a wad of kneaded dough. This was not simple folly, but actual danger, and she had placed Letty squarely in the center.

How very different this was from writing a daring scene, or even a duel to the death. Instead she was living it, and had absolutely no power over the outcome.

Even in the midst of panic, Emily hoped the tall one was Ashford. Not only because that would make him the mere second, but because she so very much liked his looks.

When they were within earshot, she squared her shoulders and willed her voice steady. "Lord William Ogilvie," she called. "Which one of you is Lord Ogilvie?"

Neither man responded, although the tall one crossed his arms, and she could not help but notice how very large and muscular those arms were.

Ashford stared at the girl who had spoken, realizing that she was older than he had at first assumed, perhaps five and twenty. She did not wear a riding habit, but instead seemed dressed for a country fair, all muslin and freshness and springtime. She most certainly did not seem dressed for a duel.

From beneath her chip bonnet were blond curls, and her face, even in the concealing shade of the bonnet, was strikingly beautiful.

"I am Ashford, Lord Ogilvie's second," he said at last, after concluding that her figure, buttoned into a light blue spencer, was indeed as lovely as her face.

And then she shifted in her saddle, a gesture at once elegant and childlike, and Ashford felt an odd jolt to his midsection.

"Actually, I am Ashford," blurted Ogilvie, wishing to avoid any blame for the situation, and hoping the comely older sister would look at him with the clear admiration she bestowed on Ashford. "And I wish to apologize for my brutish friend here. Ogilvie, how could you possibly call out a young lady? Despicable. Utterly ungallant. I am most dreadfully appalled at your behavior."

Emily glanced between the two men before Letty spoke.

"I think you should let me pick, Emily. I'm your second, so it is us up to me to do these things."

Ashford placed an arm on his hip. "What sort of jest of this? St. John must be a coward of the worst degree to send two..." -- he looked first at Emily, then at Letty -- "ladies ahead of him. What delays him? This is most awkward."

Letty preened at being included as a lady.

"So you are annoyed that certain death is to be delayed?" Emily blurted. Even as she spoke she recognized the line from one of her earlier plays. Oh Lord, she thought. What have I done now?

"Are we to expect an ambush then, madame?" growled the tall one. His hands had clenched into fists, although there were no other outward signs of his anger. "Where is St. John? I demand to know."

"Well, sir," she began. "You see, I fear..." her voice wavered slightly. With added confidence, a great deal more than she felt, she repeated, "Well, sir..."

"Miss," he spoke with dangerous softness, grabbing the reins of her horse. "I repeat, where is St. John? We have not journeyed from England for the sport of two schoolgirls."

Letty's face fell before Ashford continued.

"If you do not reveal the whereabouts of St. John, I will be forced to return to London with the news that St. John is an utter and complete coward. To send a woman in his place is the most despicable act I have yet to -- "

"His nose fell off!" Letty exclaimed.

Ashford turned to her. "Pardon me?"

Letty grinned. "It is most dreadful, sir. Truly. Poor Mr. Edgar St. John was most brutally, gruesomely and revoltingly taken with a rare illness from America which caused his nose to fall off." She straightened with pride. "Right in the middle of tea."

The stunned silence was broken only by the cackle of a bird overhead.

Letty's smile faltered. "Well, it dangled for a moment before it fell."

Ashford was the first to recover. "Where, miss, did he acquire this illness?"

"Why, in America, of course. They have hideous, untamed things there." Letty twisted the reins. "Where else would one acquire an American disease of such a morbid variety?"

"So Mr. St. John has been in America of late? And ill? Then how did he respond so robustly, and in such a timely manner, to this issue?"

"Please, Letty." Emily began to dismount, and with only a slight hesitation Ashford stepped forward to assist. Her hands rested on his shoulders for a moment before he set her down. She curtseyed and extended her right hand for his clasp.

With a deep intake of breath he shook her hand. "So please tell me more of Mr. St. John's unfortunate nose condition." He peered into her face. Up close her features were even more extraordinary than from a distance, finely cut without being sharp.

"Thank you. Oh, and please allow me to introduce my youngest sister, Miss Letty Fairfax."

Letty, who had jumped to the ground with Ogilvie's belated assistance, bobbed her best curtsey, then beamed. "Pleased to meet you. Shall I fetch the pistols, Emily?"

"Not now, dearest. You gentlemen seem a bit perplexed. I am Emily Fairfax, and have been sent here by Edgar St. John."

Ashford was beginning to recover. "Why did he send a woman?" He bowed to Letty. "Forvive me, women."

Letty flushed with delight.

"Because he doesn't know."

"He doesn't know?" Ogilvie bit out. "God's blood, is the man blind?"

"No, I mean he has become so ill that he does not quite realize this was to be the date of the duel. You see, we conduct all of our business matters through the post. So he is unaware at present of this meeting, although he would most certainly approve. You, sir, I assume, are Lord Ogilvie?"

"Forgive my manners." Ashford stepped aside. "Lord William Ogilvie, this is Miss Fairfax, also known as the emissary of Edgar St. John, and her sister, Miss Letty Fairfax."

They smiled and nodded at each other, as if meeting over a punch bowl.

"So just what matters, Miss Fairfax, do you handle ...