Free The Virtuous Widow by Anne Gracíe Page A

child’s toy, smashing it to bits. He kicked the shattered remains into the fire.
    Ellie gasped with fright and rage. She watched the flames devour a little girl’s dream world. Amy was upstairs, still asleep, she hoped. She did not want her daughter to witness what would come next. She would kill the squire before she let him touch her.

    “Mama, Mama!” In bare feet and nightgown, Amy came hurtling down the stairs. She flew across the room to her mother, but in a flash the squire reached out and grabbed the child by the arm. Amy shrieked with fear and pain.
    “Let go of her!” screamed Ellie.
    Amy squirmed in the squire’s grasp, then, unable to break free, the little girl suddenly turned and fastened her teeth in the hand of the man who held her. The squire let out a bellow of rage andAmy wriggled out of his grasp and fled.
    Ellie darted forward and grabbed the poker. She lifted it, but before she could bring it down on the man’s elegantly curled and pomaded head, a strong hand grabbed the squire by the collar, whirled him around and flung him across the room.
    It was Mr. Bruin, dressed in nothing but a shirt and breeches, thick, dark stubble covering his jaw, blue eyes blazing with fury.
    “Get out!” he said. “And if I ever find you bothering this lady again—”
    “Lady!” the squire spat. “Some lady! You’ve obvious tepent the night in her bed, but don’t assume it’s anything special! Half the men in the county have been under those skirts—and she’s not fussy about class—in fact, she enjoys a bit of the rough—”
    A big, powerful fist cut off the rest of the sentence. “Enjoy a bit of the rough, yourself, do you, Squire?” said Mr. Bruin softly, punctuating each word with a punch.
    The squire was a big man, thicker and more solid in build than Mr. Bruin, but he was no match for Ellie’s barefoot avenger. She winced at the sound of flesh punishing flesh, even as part of her was cheering.

    “Now get out, you piece of carrion!”
    The squire wheezed, sagged and scuttled out the door, looking much smaller than when he had arrived. His nose was bleeding and from the crack she’d heard, it was probably broken. His face bore numerous marks from the fight and his eyes were swollen half-closed. They would probably be black by the afternoon.
    Mr. Bruin, on the other hand, was unmarked and not even winded.
    “I’ll have you for this!” the squire swore from a safe distance. “I’m the magistrate around here. I’ll have you transported, you ruffian!”
    “I’m sure the court will enjoy hearing how a lone virtuous widow and child were forced to defend themselves with a poker from the unwanted attentions of a prancing, pomaded, middle-aged Lothario. Yes, I can just see you admitting to the world you were bested by a woman, a poker and a little girl,” said Ellie’s defender in a deep, amused voice.
    The squire swore vilely.
    “Need another lesson in manners, do you, louse?” Mr. Bruin bunched his fists. “Or shall I leave you to the tender mercies of Mrs. Carmichael and her poker?”
    Ellie watched as the squire fled, still cursing and muttering threats. He had made her life almost unbearable before: after this humiliation he would make it impossible. She would have to leave this place, but she didn’t regret it one iota.
    “That saw him off!” she said with satisfaction.
    “You’ve dealt with this before,” he said slowly.
    She nodded. “He was one of my husband’s closest friends, you know. When the magnitude of Hart’s indebtedness became known, he offered me help.” She laughed, bitterly. “I was an heiress when Hart married me. I was a pauperess when he died. I knew nothing—then—about the cost of living. None of our friends wanted to know me, so when the squire offered to help his dear friend’s widow and child…I believed him. It seemed all perfectly above board.” She shrugged. “I was stupid.”
    “A little naïve, perhaps,” he corrected her, his gaze