Less Than a Gentleman

L
ESS
T
HAN A 
G
ENT
LEMAN

K
ERRELYN
S
PARKS

D
EDICATION

To my mother, Charly,

who has waited ten years for this story to be published.

Of all my books, this is her favorite.

C
ONTENTS

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

L
ess Than a Gentleman
began in 2002 as a manuscript titled
Taking Liberty
. Although I failed back then to sell the original manuscript, it served a good purpose at the time, for it inspired my agent, Michelle Grajkowski of Three Seas Literary Agency, to take me on as a client. She has always loved this story, so she is celebrating its release as much as I. Thank you, Michelle, for believing in me before I entered the world of vampires.

I would also like to thank my dear friend and critique partner, Sandy, who spent hours going over the manuscript.

My thanks also to Avon Books of HarperCollins, and most especially my editor, Erika Tsang, who has brought
Less Than a Gentleman
to life, when most publishers would reject a romance set in Colonial America during the Revolutionary War.

And finally, a big thank you to my readers who are willing to leave the vampire world they know and follow me into the unknown. You won’t find any vamps or shifters in these pages, but the laughs are still waiting to catch you by surprise, the action is still intense, and the romance is still hot. As always, love is at stake!

C
HAPTER
O
NE

South Carolina

Friday, August 25, 1780

C
aptain Matthias Murray Thomas tugged at the ropes that bound his hands behind his back. The gradual lightening of the night sky, visible through the open window, warned him he was running out of time. With the coming of dawn, he and his companions would be marched to their death.

His movements caused a drop to trickle down his arm. Either blood from his shoulder wound or sweat, he could no longer tell, for the hot, humid air was thick with the scent of both. Mosquitoes hummed over them, enjoying the feast of defenseless men.

The call of a wood warbler claimed his attention and brought back memories of his youth. His family would spend the summer months in Charles Town, then return to the plantation in the fall, where the song of the wood warbler would greet him. Every year the birds rested for the autumn months in the South Carolina marshlands before continuing their migration south.

The warbler’s song pierced the air, jolting him back to the present. He and the other captured soldiers were being held in an abandoned house just north of Nelson’s Ferry on the Santee River. In August.

The first rays of dawn crept through the open window, giving shape and form to the huddled mass on the floor. His fellow prisoners lay sprawled around him, either snoring or moaning from untended wounds. As the ranking officer, he had stayed awake all night to watch over his doomed men.

The youngster beside him whimpered in his sleep. Fourteen years old, the boy had said. Too young for a soldier and far too young to hang as a traitor.

Matthias searched the blue uniforms to locate his cousin and winced at the sight of Richard’s blood-crusted face. Two English guards, equipped with bayonet-tipped muskets, stood at the door, their red coats easy to spot in the dim light.

The boy beside him flinched.

Matthias nudged him with his boot. “Simon.”

The boy awoke with a shout.

The sound drew the attention of the guards. They frowned at Matthias, apparently holding him accountable for the sudden noise.

“You’ll hold your tongue if you know what’s good for you,” the taller guard warned him.

Matthias shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “It was a bad dream. I’m afraid of the dark.”

The guard snorted. “Yankee cowards. I’ve seen how you turn tail and run.”

A low rumble of curses grew as the prisoners sat up and responded to the insult.

“Dammit, Greville, don’t get them riled up,” the second guard warned his companion.

“Are you all right?” Matthias whispered, his voice masked by the grumbling of the prisoners.

Simon struggled to a sitting position. “I dreamed about the battle.”

Matthias nodded. The battle at Camden had been one of the worst in his experience. “Was it your first?”

Simon’s eyes filled with tears, and he blinked to keep them from falling. “I didn’t turn tail and run.”

“No, you fought bravely.”

“You saw me?”

“Yes, I did,” Matthias lied. “You held your ground.”

A hint of a smile crossed Simon’s face, then disappeared. “What will they do to us in Charles Town?”

Either kill us slowly in prison or quickly by the gallows.
“We’re not there yet.” Matthias planted his feet on the floor, and bracing himself against the wall, he pushed to a standing position. He ambled toward the guards—the tall one named Greville and a shorter, freckle-faced one with carrot-colored hair.

“Halt,” Greville ordered.

Matthias motioned with his head to the chamber pot in the corner. “I need to relieve myself.”

The freckle-faced guard shrugged. “Then do it.”

“Regrettably, in my current condition, I find myself unable to unfasten my breeches or . . . handle the equipment. If you would care to assist me?” Matthias arched a brow at him. “Seeing that you’re English, you might enjoy it.”

“The hell you say.” Freckle-face pointed his bayonet at Matthias. “Greville, tie his hands in front.”

Matthias watched calmly as Greville eased a long, gleaming knife from his leather scabbard. “Hmm, an Englishman with ten inches. Do I dare turn my back?”

“Shut your foul mouth, Yankee.” Greville jerked at his arm to spin him around.

Matthias gritted his teeth as more blood oozed from his shoulder wound. He surveyed his fellow prisoners. Dried blood and dirt etched their weary expressions with shades of rust and brown, but the early sun caught the glimmer of hope in their eyes. They were counting on him. Better to die, providing their escape, than to march with them to the gallows like obedient sheep.

Greville sawed through his ropes. “Turn.”

He pivoted and stretched his hands forward so the guard could loop more rope around his wrists. Greville’s knife rested in its leather-tooled scabbard, so damned close Matthias’s fingers itched to grab it.

Click.
Freckle-face cocked his musket.

Patience
, Matthias reminded himself
. Timing is everything.
He sauntered to the corner and relieved himself. After buttoning his breeches, he leaned over.

“What the devil are you doing?” Greville demanded.

Matthias turned slowly, clutching the edge of the chamber pot in his bound hands. Freckle-face had assumed a firing stance.

“The thunder mug is full, and the men will need to use it. I thought I’d empty it out the window.” Matthias offered the malodorous pot to the guard. “Of course, if
you
prefer to do it—”

“Dump it,” Greville ordered.

“As you wish.” Matthias paced to the open window and peered outside. Only one soldier guarded the front of the house. Damned arrogant redcoats.

“What are you waiting for?” Greville muttered.

“For the guard to pass,” Matthias said. “Or would you prefer that I douse him with
eau de toilette
? It could only improve his smell.”

The prisoners hooted and pounded the floor with their booted feet.

“Cease your noise!” Freckle-face aimed his musket at the prisoners.

They grew quiet, but their sudden misbehavior had been heard by the guard outside. He sprinted toward the window, and Matthias showered him with the contents of the chamber pot.

“Aagh!” The man jumped back. “Shit!”

“Not exactly.” Matthias hurled the pot at the redheaded guard.

Freckle-face raised his musket to deflect it, but not quickly enough. The flying pot smacked him in the face and he tumbled backward, firing into the ceiling. Flakes of plaster rained down, and the pot shattered on the floor.

“Damn you!” Greville seized his musket and rushed toward Matthias, clearly planning to skewer him with the bayonet.

Matthias leapt to the side, grasped the musket’s barrel, and wrenched the weapon from Greville’s hands. With the butt end, he smashed his attacker in the face. Greville collapsed, crying out as blood gushed from his nose.

Matthias trapped the musket between his feet, bayonet pointed upward, so he could slice through his ropes. “Richard, watch the window. The guard outside is a trifle pissed.”

With a snort, his cousin scrambled to his feet.

Just as Matthias finished freeing his hands, he noted Greville attempting to sit up. He knocked the guard out with another blow to the head, then yanked Greville’s knife from the scabbard. Possibly a family heirloom, with its ornate handle inlaid with ivory, but still a weapon he couldn’t afford to leave with the enemy.

“The other guard!” one of his men shouted.

Pottery shards crunched as Freckle-face stumbled to his feet. His musket had discharged, but it still possessed the deadly bayonet. With an angry roar, he attacked.

Matthias jumped aside as he threw his newly acquired knife. It lodged with a hideous thunk in the redcoat’s chest.

Freckle-face halted, his eyes wide with shock. He crumbled to his knees, still focused on Matthias’s face. The disbelief in his eyes glazed to a pained acceptance as if, for a brief moment, he mourned his own passing.

Squashing any sort of emotional reaction, Matthias checked the musket he’d taken from Greville. He had to remain focused until his men were free.

“Matt!” Richard lunged to the floor.

The drenched guard stood outside, his musket aimed at the window opening.

Matthias dropped to the floor a second before the shot exploded. He rolled toward the window, jumped to his feet, and pointed his musket at the guard’s face.

With a loud gulp, the guard stepped back.

“You think this is frightening, you should see what’s behind you,” Matthias said.

“Ha! You think I’ll fall for that old trick?” The guard glanced over his shoulder, then looked again as a group of armed Colonials charged toward him. “Bloody hell!” He dropped his firearm and lifted his hands in surrender.

Matthias removed the bayonet from his musket. “Stand up, Rich, and I’ll cut your ropes.”

Richard glanced out the window as he scrambled to his feet. “Who are those men?”

“Local militia, from the looks of their clothing.” Matthias cut through his cousin’s ropes, then handed him the bayonet. “Release the others.”

Grins and shouts of victory spread amongst the soldiers.

Matthias exchanged a smile with young Simon before aiming his musket at Greville, who was regaining consciousness. “This one is still loaded.”

Grimacing, Greville touched his broken nose. “You damned Yankee, you cannot hope to succeed.”

“We already have.” Matthias heard the tramping of feet as the militia moved through the house. “I’m afraid we must decline your offer of hospitality in Charles Town.”

Greville continued to curse as he sat up, but ceased abruptly when he spotted his comrade’s body. His face paled. “You
killed
him.”

Matthias winced inwardly. They were at war. It was self-defense. He’d had no choice. War was hell. There was a whole list of justifications that he repeated to himself every night so he could sleep. And be at peace. Sometimes he slept. He’d given up on peace months ago.

Greville touched his empty scabbard. “You used
my
knife. On my best friend.” He shifted his gaze to Matthias. “You bastard. I swear you will pay for this.”

I probably will
. Matthias turned as the door burst open and militiamen marched in. “Good morning, gentlemen. This room is secure.”

A short, swarthy man in the Colonial uniform of a lieutenant colonel shouldered his way into the room. “I heard a weapon discharge in this room. What happened?”

Matthias motioned to Freckle-face. “He fired it, sir. I . . . handled the situation.”

The lieutenant colonel glanced at the dead redcoat, then inspected Matthias. “And you’re the one who splattered the guard outside?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you think so highly of yourself, Captain, that you were prepared to take on twenty-five redcoats single-handedly?”

“I knew you were outside, sir.”

The lieutenant colonel narrowed his dark eyes. “How? The redcoats didn’t hear us. We took them by surprise.”

“Apparently they’re not acquainted with the migratory habits of the wood warbler.”

The officer’s mouth twisted with a wry smile. “I could use a man like you. I’m Francis Marion. And you, Captain?”

“Matthias Murray Thomas, sir.”

“You’re under my command now.” Marion turned to a man who had just entered the room. “Report.”

Dressed in the tattered and bloodstained uniform of a major, the man towered over the smaller lieutenant colonel. “We released over a hundred lads from the other rooms,” the major replied with a Scots accent.

Marion nodded. “And the British?”

“Twenty-one prisoners.” The major hooked a lock of graying auburn hair behind his ear. “Five wounded, one dead.”

“Make that two.” Marion gestured to the knifed redcoat.

“He has a name, damn you.” Greville spat a glob of blood in their direction. He glowered at Matthias as a militiaman hauled him to his feet and tied his hands behind his back. “I heard
your
name, Matthias Murray Thomas. I won’t forget it.”

The militiaman dragged Greville out the door.

“Where are you taking the prisoners?” Matthias hoped it was far away.

“North Carolina,” answered Marion. “There’s no point in staying here. After Gates’s defeat at Camden, South Carolina is lost.”

“But there’s still hope,” Matthias protested. “Colonel Sumter is doing well in the west. We should rendezvous with him.”

Marion shook his head. “You haven’t heard. Sumter was defeated two days after Gates.”

Matthias’s mouth dropped open. Gates and Sumter both defeated?

Marion motioned to the Scotsman. “The major here was with Sumter. He escaped capture and met up with us.”

A chill stole over Matthias as his spirits plunged. His men were free, but South Carolina was indeed lost. “There’s no one left.”

The Scotsman snorted. “And what are we, lad? A pack of ghosts?”

Marion paced toward the window. “Unfortunately, we’ll have to disappear like ghosts. Once the British learn of our little escapade here, they’ll retaliate. And they’ll most likely wreak their vengeance on the known patriots in the area.”

Matthias felt a twinge in his gut at the thought of his mother alone on the plantation. Unprotected. His stomach churned even more when the Scotsman leaned over Freckle-face and yanked the knife from his chest.

“Ready your men, Captain,” Marion ordered. “We march for North Carolina immediately.”

Matthias cleared his throat. “With all due respect, sir, many of my men are wounded and would not survive the journey.”

“Do you have an alternative?”

“We could hide in the swamp. Some of the wounded live nearby. I could deliver them home at night. Then they can rejoin us once they’ve recovered.”

Marion frowned as he considered. “Very well. We cannot fight the British with dead soldiers. Take care of your men.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I expect you to be more than a nursemaid, Captain,” Marion continued. “Your objective will be to sever the British lines of supply and communication between Charles Town and General Cornwallis in the west. Burn the bridges and the ferryboats. And lose your uniforms.”