Ruined Hearts

Ruined Hearts

by Natasha Perry

Published by

Melange Books, LLC

White Bear Lake, MN 55110

www.melange-books.com

Ruined Hearts, Copyright 2010-2016 Natasha Perry

ISBN: 978-1-61235-194-0

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Second Edition

Published in the United States of America.

Cover Design by Caroline Andrus

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Ruined Hearts

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

About the Author

Preview of ‘Tail-Tell Heart’ by Jenna M. Fox

RUINED HEARTS

by Natasha Perry

Can two headstrong people find a way to heal their ruined hearts?

Melissa Markham, daughter of an Englishman and a Chinese concubine, wants something her mother never had—respectability.

Wealthy lumber baron, Ethan Trent, a man of erotic, dominating appetites, decides he wants the exotic woman for himself.

Even though Melissa fights her attraction for Ethan, she also finds herself craving his domination. Will they find love, and discover they both want to share the same thing—an unusual passion for each other?

This novel is dedicated to my sister, Laura.

Thanks for always ‘being there’ for me.

Chapter One

London, 1875

Mei Lin had no choice but to flee Great Britain.

For the past six months, she’d been a lofty bastard’s whore; and as Charles Litton, the Earl of Windhaven’s slave, Mei Lin’d had no choice but to obey. She hated every moment as his captive. If she didn’t fully cooperate with his sadistic desires, he’d beat her.

Her loss of pride was another matter, however. For too long she had suffered this man’s abuse. Mei Lin recalled her plans to escape, vowing they would work, or she would die trying. The opportunity had finally occurred, after several months of captivity. The earl had grown overconfident, believing she’d always be obedient, and, of late, had left her unguarded. Litton controlled her body, but he would never control her mind or her heart.

All during her horrid captivity, she’d never forgotten his betrayal to her and her mother. Her mother had protected her from learning how to become a concubine; wanting more for Mei Lin. Tears ran down Mei Lin’s cheeks as she recalled the last day she saw her mother; her poor mother had told her how the earl had promised Mei Lin a better life in England. The earl had betrayed both of them.

After six months, Mei Lin had found the strength, courage, and opportunity to make her escape. She had no intentions of failing. She’d laced the bastard’s Absinthe with laudanum, praying she’d put enough in his wine glass to leave him incapacitated. Hope filled her heart when he gulped down every drop. Then later, as he slipped into unconsciousness, and once he became incapacitated, she’d rushed to her small dungeon of a room to change and gather her meager possessions, and tossing them into an old tapestry bag.

Once back in the library she stole the key to his safe out of one of his vest pockets. After opening the safe, she picked up one large, bound bundle of currency. The bastard earl owed her this much, if not more. Mei Lin jammed the money into the bag and fled the earl’s home and her bondage. Running down the road, she made a promise to herself; never again would she be a slave to any man, unless the choice was hers.

Mei Lin became very determined to make things change for the better in her life. There was no reason to return to China since there was no one there for her. Her mother had died months past, and her brother had gone to America several years ago to make a life for himself, promising to send for her and her mother once he did. They never heard from him again.

America was the only choice and there she would try and find her brother. First fury that he hadn’t sent for them tore through her, and then worry filled her heart that some misfortune had fallen upon him. Mei Lin had spent several months working as a maid to Lady Maureen Cavendish from Ireland. She’d accompanied the woman from England to her Ireland, learning how to be a lady. Mei Lin had stolen enough currency from the earl to make her way to America, but had secured the position as maid to Lady Cavendish, in order to learn proper manner of speech, dress, and style befitting a well-bred English woman. Mei Lin didn’t tarry too long in the position, for fear of being caught by the earl, who, no doubt, would be out for revenge.

Now, Mei Lin studied her reflection in the mirror of the tiny room she had rented near the docks. She’d bathed from a basin, then attired herself in a forest green silk bombazine traveling gown Lady Cavendish had helped her choose—and had purchased for her, even though Mei Lin had protested, to no avail. The Lady had assisted Mei Lin in also selecting black kid leather boots, stockings, corset, under drawers, and a cloak. Never had Mei Lin owned such beautiful clothing.

Dressed now in fashionable clothing, her transformation was complete. Her long, thick hair, swept up in the most popular style of the day, gave her face a western look. It would take some time to glance at herself and not see her mother’s eyes staring back at her. However, her father’s features interested her, features her mother had explained to her when Mei Lin first realized she did not completely resemble the woman who bore her. How she’d longed to meet the man who fathered her, but alas, it never happened, because shortly after her arrival in England Mei Lin had learned he’d died in a carriage accident.

His fair hair made hers less coarse, black–softer, and browner. His high cheekbones, unlike her mother’s round, moon face, had given Mei Lin an exotic look, one that she knew turned heads. She would take his name. No longer would she be Mei Lin Kwan, daughter of a Chinese concubine. From now on, she would be Melissa Markham, daughter of an English lord.

Mei Lin fastened the velvet ribbon around her throat, pulled on her newly purchased black silk cape and stood, ready to board the Britannica for America; ready to leave her old life behind.

* * * *

Calvin’s Saloon, Stillwater, Minnesota

September, 1875

Melissa Markham was nervous as she ambled down the boardwalk, ready to move on with her life.

She’d arrived in this small, but thriving town after having spent several weeks traveling across the ocean. After reaching New York City, a fascinating, but frightening place, Melissa quickly boarded a train for Minnesota. She’d secured information about her brother, and knew she had to avenge his death. Her brother’s murderer lived in this town, and Melissa meant to see him tried and hanged, or, at the very least, put behind bars. She spent her first few days in Stillwater learning from folks about her brother’s murderer, Ethan Trent, proprietor of Calvin’s Saloon, and now she was ready to confront him.

A late September sun strained against the windows of Calvin’s Saloon, forcing a weak band of light into a quiet, otherwise dimly lit room. It was early, too early for even the die-hard drinkers who often frequented the saloon before ten a.m., yet five men sat around a table focusing on their cards.

The feeble sunlight gleamed off a sign over the bar, announcing Ethan Trent as the new proprietor. Beneath the sign was the painting of a large breasted, full frontal nude woman reclining on a gaudy chaise. Dust motes danced in the light and the floor bore traces of the revelry from the night before—a scattering of cigarette butts, remnants of spilled liquor. Housekeeping was not high on the list of priorities, but the patrons did not seem to notice.

The door opened. No one bothered to see who it was—until the person spoke.

Ethan Trent?

The soft yet haughty English-accented words brought Trent’s gaze up from his poker hand. Five feet from his table stood a woman, holding a gun trained on his heart.

You’ve found him, ma’am. Heck of a way to introduce yourself, Ethan added as he tossed down his cards.

I dreaded the day I’d meet you, she spat, but there was no other way to gain satisfaction, you black-hearted devil!

The woman stepped closer, and he realized the weapon was a derringer, a small gun that could do significant damage.

Ethan tried to make out her features in the gloom and caught a trace of full lips, meant for kissing. Something about her stance and those tempting lips stirred a spark of remembrance.

Laughing softly, he looked at the other men at the table then at her, raising his eyebrows in surprise. You sure it’s me you want?

Yes, she seethed, I’m talking to you, you low life, murdering worm.

Ethan rubbed his hand over his face and swore. Recently retired as a U. S. Marshall, Ethan had hoped to put that life behind him. Apparently, that wasn’t to be.

Satisfaction for what? he snapped as he struggled for patience.

For the cold-blooded murder of my brother, you miserable swine.

Damn, but the woman was exceptionally good at name-calling.

Ethan’s three poker cronies leapt from their chairs and stumbled out of the saloon.

Cowards, he growled.

The woman drew nearer; that’s when Ethan recognized her as the new woman who’d arrived in town two days ago. He made it a habit to learn the name of every person, especially pretty women, who arrived in Stillwater, and Miss Markham was no exception.

Ethan studied her now. From the moment he’d set eyes on her exiting the train upon her arrival a few days ago, he’d wondered about her. Melissa Markham wasn’t pretty in the conventional manner. She was, however, unique, and passionate, at least about her brother’s alleged murder. That kind of passion often translated to heat behind closed doors. The fact that she was exotic looking with a generous dollop of something Oriental in her blood intrigued him.

Knowing he could easily have disarmed her, he remained in his chair.

Miss Markham, I remember the name of every man I’ve ever killed, and trust me, Markham isn’t one of them. The names of all his victims, and their faces, remained indelibly engraved in his soul, every one of them.

Then you’re denying it?

The shrillness of her voice grated on him. Miss Markham, like most women, in his opinion, required a muzzle. Women were easy on the eye, but many, once they opened their mouths, held little interest for him. A vision assailed him then; Miss Markham gagged and tied to his bed, limbs splayed, petals moist and throbbing with anticipation, awaiting his suckling lips and tongue. His cock hardened at the erotic image prompting him to reach down and adjust his trousers.

Hands on the table or so help me I’ll shoot you where you sit, she threatened.

Freezing at her warning, anger began to simmer inside him. Ma’am, you have me mistaken for someone else.

I’m not mistaken, and I’m not a fool! You are my brother’s murderer, and you’ll hang for the deed. Have you no defense?

Damn it, woman, I don’t need a defense for something I didn’t do.

Miss Markham narrowed her eyes, disgust written on her features. Of course you would deny it. I knew you would.

She was irritating the hell out of him. Oh? And just how did you know that?

Because any man who kills without provocation is scum. My brother was innocent. A poor, young— The woman broke off, clamped her lips together and turned away, as if suppressing a sob.

Suddenly appearing to remember her purpose, she took in a quick breath and once again aimed the derringer at Ethan—his head this time.

Mustering up more patience, Ethan offered her a false smile and nodded at a chair beside him. Listen, we’re not going to get anywhere like this. Have a seat. I would like to see this proof of yours. Join me in a glass of sherry. Then we can discuss this further, like two civilized adults.

The woman didn’t budge and looked at him with no expression. Now why would I want to socialize with the man who murdered my brother?

Ethan stifled another curse. I didn’t kill your brother.

She gave him a nasty smile. You’ve killed so many I imagine it’s difficult to recall all of them.

You’re the one who claims to have all the information. A muscle twitched in his cheek. You’ve tried and hanged me without allowing me a word of defense.

It was true that he had killed many men during his days as a federal marshal, but that was all in the past. Now Ethan was satisfied to own this saloon and, with less satisfaction, the Trent family lumber business, which he had inherited upon his father’s death, though he hadn’t wanted it. He had wanted little to do with the man who had declared Ethan dead to him long ago, yet, ironically remembered him upon his deathbed.

Melissa said nothing, just held the gun with confidence, arms stretched out in front of her, stance wide.

Please. Join me, he insisted.

No, but I will walk with you to the jailhouse where I shall present my proof to the sheriff. A story from a respectable newspaper back East labels you as my brother’s cold-blooded murderer. Get up, Trent—slowly.

Aw, shit. Ethan would eventually meet up with her and the sheriff about this mix-up, but not now—not yet. His sense of justice blared at him to teach this young woman a lesson she’d never forget. He snapped a quick glance to the right, counting on her to follow the movement. The woman didn’t disappoint him. Ethan leapt out of his chair and threw himself toward her, scrambling across the tabletop.

Damn it if the wench didn’t pull the trigger.

Chapter Two

Melissa couldn’t believe she’d missed him, and from such close range. She spun away from Trent’s big body flying in the air toward her. She took two steps but suddenly his arms were around her waist and he hauled her against his powerful body. He squeezed her wrist and pain shot straight to her shoulder.

She screamed. Reflexively she pulled the trigger again and a bullet tore into the wood floor.

Let go of the damned gun. Now! he snapped.

Her ears rang from the close sound of the gunshot and her grip weakened as he continued to apply more pressure. Melissa could smell him and, in spite of her situation, caught the heady combination of his scent—smoke, alcohol, and male. The scent invaded her lungs and she coughed.

He squeezed her wrist harder, even as he forced her arm up toward the ceiling. Melissa’s fingers were getting numb, so in one last effort she pulled the trigger twice more in rapid succession. The bullets hit the ceiling and she dropped the gun, giving up.

He shoved her to the floor, covering her body with his own as plaster from the ceiling rained down on them. When all lay quiet, he rolled off her.

Melissa sat up and coughed, straightening her black skirts. Discovering him beside her, she scrambled away, but not before his big hard hands clamped around her waist and hauled her to her feet along with him.

The murdering bastard’s dark brown hair and swarthy-colored face were white from the dust of the falling plaster. She hoped he choked on it. He held onto her wrist as he kicked the gun across the floor.

Ted, he said to the man behind the bar, get that damned gun out of here. The bartender, who’d wisely been crouched down low behind the bar, rounded it and snatched up the weapon.

Ethan’s expression of rage made Melissa’s insides quail. He still held her arm, his grip like a vice. She pulled back and to her amazement, he released her. As she stumbled away, her eyes never left him.

Keep going, Miss Markham. He started after her. I’d say you’re headed in the right direction.

His sudden calmness stunned her. Moments ago, he was so angry smoke could have come from his ears. She whirled away from him and discovered a closed door straight ahead, gasping when his big hand pressed intimately against her backside, propelling her forward.

Trent opened the door and pushed her into the room. Slamming the door with his booted foot, he locked it and pocketed the key, his enigmatic gaze on her.

He headed straight for her, wearing shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and a string tie. He was big and solid, from the width of his broad shoulders to his narrow hips, to the growing bulge in his dark blue-colored twill pants; pants that hugged his lean hips and muscular legs like a second skin. She noticed a large buckle on his belt with a silver emblem in the center—appearing to be a type of clover shape but with points instead of curves around each clover.

Now, then, about that proof you have. Let’s see it. He stood in front of her, hand out, eyes glistening with a combination of interest and humor, his anger apparently gone.

Damn him. He found her amusing. My brother’s death isn’t a laughing matter. Her hand tightened on the cord of her reticule; she was amazed she’d managed to keep possession of it after the earlier tussle between them.

I didn’t say it was. Show me your proof.

She hugged her reticule to her chest. I will only show you the proof in the presence of the sheriff. The small scrap of newsprint she carried contained the story about him, the proof she required to have him jailed. There was even a small picture of him in the paper, accompanying the story. She wouldn’t show it to him now for fear of him damaging the evidence. It was all she had. According to several stories she’d read over the last few months, he’d killed six people in the past ten years—not a man to be taken lightly. How he had managed to escape justice was beyond her.

She backed up further and bumped into the bed. Her legs trembled and she sat down hard.

He uttered a wicked laugh as he looked her over. "Normally, I would take you up on the offer to bed you, but under the circumstances—

She gasped, outraged at the suggestion. "You pompous ass! I do not intend to crawl into bed with you.

Now, now, he interrupted.

You’re about as attractive to me as toad vomit, she spat, her voice venomous. Anger and humiliation rose in her throat. Perhaps he meant nothing by it, but for too many years, men had wanted her, the last one, the earl, taking her—forcing her—with no consideration or care.

Stop. No need for name calling, he warned.

All right, perhaps she was over reacting. He had no reason to know of her background. She focused on the room, the bed’s red satin coverlet. Plump velvety pillows in pale and dark shades of red were scattered across the back. Mirrors had been strategically placed on the walls and ceiling. Several bottles of oils rested on a bedside table. Melissa narrowed her gaze, knowing well their purpose, although the earl had never used them to ease his entry with her.

Melissa had learned as much as she could about this adversary—knew he owned this saloon. She’d also learned he was well liked and respected in this community. She’d shrugged off people’s accolades about him, deciding he was making up for all of his past deeds. However, none of his good deeds now concerned her—but his past ones did, for he’d killed her brother, and he would pay.

Melissa glanced at the bastard again, able to believe a man such as he would have a whore’s bedroom, guessing he’d have kept a stable full of beauties. With a frown, she thought about how, upon entering the saloon, she saw only men, no women. Not even a saloon girl.

Bending down he propped his hands on the mattress on either side of her, effectively trapping her. Now what do we do?

She leaned back on her elbows and glared at him, her skin prickling at his closeness. If she didn’t hate the blasted man so much she’d find him attractive. What do you mean?

Let me see the proof of my alleged crime.

Melissa smiled grimly and lifted her chin. Not only have I the newspaper story, but I’ve the word of bystanders who say they saw you shoot my brother.

Sorry. Your sources provided you mistaken information. He straightened and settled his hands on his hips. I remember the names of all the men I’ve killed. Markham isn’t one of them.

"My half-brother’s name was Kuan. Shi Ming Kuan. Does that name jog your memory?"

A deep-furrowed frown marred his handsome brow. Melissa felt a moment of triumph when his quizzical expression changed to surprise. He remembered!

She glared at him, daring him to deny it, tears filling her eyes as a debilitating sadness overwhelmed her. It was bad enough she’d never met her English father, and had lost her mother a short while ago, but to lose her brother as well meant she had no one left in the world.

He couldn’t have been your brother, Trent said. He was Chinese.

As am I, she said softly.

But you don’t appear...and your name is Markham, hardly a Chinese name.

"I said he was my half-brother. I took Markham, my father’s name, when I left England to travel to America. He was English."

Silence. Melissa watched him, satisfied when his arrogance turned to discomfort. My Lord, was it possible the man possessed a conscience after all?

He was a thief, he finally said, his voice sounding low and gravelly, and a murderer. I don’t regret killing him.

"You’re