breath slipped into her lungs. She
leaned away as he pulled on her, gathering herself.
John Holbrooke had been no
fool.
With no wife he’d tried hard to raise
his daughters as ladies. But he was practical enough to know that
in the dangerous times they lived in, a lady was lucky to survive.
He’d seen enough of them dying when he was fighting in the war to
know.
“Now see here my angels, I want you to
always remember who you are and where you come from. You’re
Holbrookes and must conduct yourselves with the grace and dignity
that stands for. But if it ever comes right down to it I want you
to remember one thing. Survival before respectability. You can
worry about being ladylike after you’ve made it out in one
piece.”
John had taught them dirty jokes, he’d
taught them to ride, and appreciate their freedom and strengths.
And he’d taught them never to hesitate when it came to fighting for
their lives.
If you asked anyone who lived in
Richmond about the Holbrooke girls they would tell you,
“The older girl’s a dancer, a
ballerina. You’ve never seen a more beautiful sight until you’ve
watched her spinning around the ballroom on the tips of her toes.
And the little one, Ava? She’s a painter. Takes after her poor
deceased Mother may God rest her soul....”
Her little Ava could wield either a
paintbrush or a quill with a deadly accuracy.
“Go for their soft spots Ava my girl.
The ends of those brushes are deadly things when applied to a man’s
eyes, throat, and if you’re desperate, groin.”
Ava was a painter … while Jocelyn …
Jocelyn danced.
Had he not still be been holding on to
her, she would have fallen as she put her entire weight into
leaning away from him.
Had she not been so afraid she wouldn’t
have even tried it.
But her anger and fear combined with
everything she’d been going through for the past couple of months
gave her the strength. And any other day she would have simply
struck him between the legs, but she was suddenly too livid to let
him off so easily.
He was English after all.
Pretentious bastard.
Using the leverage his strength gave
her as he continued to try and pull her into his embrace; she spun
into him in a flurry of motion. She leapt and placed her left foot
into the muscled planes of his thigh. This lifted her slightly
above his head but she didn’t stay still long enough to enjoy the
shock on his face. Lifting her other leg off the ground, she
swiveled her hips, angled her body, and drove her right knee into
the side of his face. She put everything into the blow. Her disgust
at his touch, at his words, her fear and rage at all things English
and her grief for her the loss of her father and her separation
with Ava. She punished him because he’d asked for it and he let
loose a howl that rivaled the storm as her knee crushed the bone in
his nose and his head jerked to one side.
He collapsed in a heap and Jocelyn with
him, his body landing with such a resounding crash it rattled
Jocelyn’s teeth. He was out cold, blood flowing from his broken
nose and a bruise already forming. Jocelyn was glad she hadn’t
tried to punch or kick him in the face. Her arm wasn’t strong
enough to cause nearly as much damage and she feared her sensible
slippers wouldn’t have protected her feet at all.
The dull roaring in her ears faded
enough for the sounds of the fighting to come back to
her.
She didn’t have time to lay there,
didn’t have time to shake and tremble from the
aftermath.
Her need for Damon was like a physical
thing now, boiling her blood and she scrambled to her feet and
stumbled forward into the fighting men with a new
determination.
Her legs were like water, ice was
flowing up and down her spine and she feared she might be sick but
she dodged the men as best she could. Tried not to cry out when two
thrashing bodies crashed into her and sent her
stumbling.
A loud cry came from behind her and she
turned in time to see another soldier running towards
leaned away as he pulled on her, gathering herself.
John Holbrooke had been no
fool.
With no wife he’d tried hard to raise
his daughters as ladies. But he was practical enough to know that
in the dangerous times they lived in, a lady was lucky to survive.
He’d seen enough of them dying when he was fighting in the war to
know.
“Now see here my angels, I want you to
always remember who you are and where you come from. You’re
Holbrookes and must conduct yourselves with the grace and dignity
that stands for. But if it ever comes right down to it I want you
to remember one thing. Survival before respectability. You can
worry about being ladylike after you’ve made it out in one
piece.”
John had taught them dirty jokes, he’d
taught them to ride, and appreciate their freedom and strengths.
And he’d taught them never to hesitate when it came to fighting for
their lives.
If you asked anyone who lived in
Richmond about the Holbrooke girls they would tell you,
“The older girl’s a dancer, a
ballerina. You’ve never seen a more beautiful sight until you’ve
watched her spinning around the ballroom on the tips of her toes.
And the little one, Ava? She’s a painter. Takes after her poor
deceased Mother may God rest her soul....”
Her little Ava could wield either a
paintbrush or a quill with a deadly accuracy.
“Go for their soft spots Ava my girl.
The ends of those brushes are deadly things when applied to a man’s
eyes, throat, and if you’re desperate, groin.”
Ava was a painter … while Jocelyn …
Jocelyn danced.
Had he not still be been holding on to
her, she would have fallen as she put her entire weight into
leaning away from him.
Had she not been so afraid she wouldn’t
have even tried it.
But her anger and fear combined with
everything she’d been going through for the past couple of months
gave her the strength. And any other day she would have simply
struck him between the legs, but she was suddenly too livid to let
him off so easily.
He was English after all.
Pretentious bastard.
Using the leverage his strength gave
her as he continued to try and pull her into his embrace; she spun
into him in a flurry of motion. She leapt and placed her left foot
into the muscled planes of his thigh. This lifted her slightly
above his head but she didn’t stay still long enough to enjoy the
shock on his face. Lifting her other leg off the ground, she
swiveled her hips, angled her body, and drove her right knee into
the side of his face. She put everything into the blow. Her disgust
at his touch, at his words, her fear and rage at all things English
and her grief for her the loss of her father and her separation
with Ava. She punished him because he’d asked for it and he let
loose a howl that rivaled the storm as her knee crushed the bone in
his nose and his head jerked to one side.
He collapsed in a heap and Jocelyn with
him, his body landing with such a resounding crash it rattled
Jocelyn’s teeth. He was out cold, blood flowing from his broken
nose and a bruise already forming. Jocelyn was glad she hadn’t
tried to punch or kick him in the face. Her arm wasn’t strong
enough to cause nearly as much damage and she feared her sensible
slippers wouldn’t have protected her feet at all.
The dull roaring in her ears faded
enough for the sounds of the fighting to come back to
her.
She didn’t have time to lay there,
didn’t have time to shake and tremble from the
aftermath.
Her need for Damon was like a physical
thing now, boiling her blood and she scrambled to her feet and
stumbled forward into the fighting men with a new
determination.
Her legs were like water, ice was
flowing up and down her spine and she feared she might be sick but
she dodged the men as best she could. Tried not to cry out when two
thrashing bodies crashed into her and sent her
stumbling.
A loud cry came from behind her and she
turned in time to see another soldier running towards
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