Excerpt: The Duke’s Cavalier

The Duke’s Cavalier (The Duke’s Guard, Book 15)
©C.H. Admirand September 2025
Excerpt From Chapter One

Dillon Flaherty stood a few feet away from the broken carriage wheel. The determined lad’s protective stance in front of the door had him wondering who was inside the carriage. It must be someone important to the lad for him to challenge someone nearly thrice his size.

The lad’s face was partially covered beneath his battered hat. Was he running from someone? Flaherty would show the lad that he was not a threat, but first he had to disarm him.

Pitching his voice low, Flaherty murmured, “Ye don’t want to shoot me, lad. Hand me yer weapon.”

The young man did not lower the blunderbuss aimed at Flaherty’s chest. His da’s oft-used caution echoed through his head: ’Tis always wise to take your enemy’s full measure and don’t make a move that could trigger an unwanted reaction! It went against Flaherty’s grain to wait for the lad to make the first move, but he had no desire to get shot this early in the morning.

Flaherty narrowed his gaze, and his blood ran cold. The lad’s finger was on the trigger. Likely he knew how to fire the weapon, but did he have the courage? The breeze stilled, and in the cool morning air, Flaherty swore he could hear the young man’s uneven breathing.

Flaherty studied him. From the cut of the lad’s threadbare brown coat, he wasn’t starving. It was the younger man’s pointed chin that seemed to be at odds with the fullness of the frame tucked inside of his coat. Either the lad was spending every bit of coin he had to eat, or he was wearing some kind of padding to make himself appear larger as a deterrent to ward off unsavory types. If so, why the disguise?

The breeze stilled, and yet the lad made no move. Flaherty studied what he could see of the boy’s face for a reaction that would tip him off to what he intended to do. He had a slightly pointed chin—smooth cheeks, no whiskers. His gaze dipped lower to a surprisingly full set of lips. Lower still to a slender neck with no visible…

Bloody hell!

“Show me your hands.” The young man’s voice cracked. “Palms facing me!”

The lad could not be more than five and ten summers, which could explain the lack of whiskers. But if the slender chin and the mouth of a temptress meant what Flaherty feared, the lad and whoever was inside the carriage were going to be trouble! As his mind put the odd pieces of the puzzle together, his gut screamed not to trust what he saw—but to trust in what he felt. He swallowed the string of curses and held his tongue.

Before he unmasked the lad’s charade, the wail of an infant stopped him. But it was the accompanying feminine-sounding gasp coming from inside the carriage that decided Flaherty’s course of action. “I’ll keep me hands at me sides if it’s all the same to ye.” He took a step forward and froze when the blunderbuss wobbled. “Did yer da not teach ye if ye pick up a weapon, ye’d best be prepared to use it?”

The silence irritated Flaherty, but it was the morning chill and wail of the infant that spurred him to act. He advanced. The lad took a step backward, promptly fell on his arse, and the gun went off!

Flaherty dove to the side and swore a blue streak. His side burned, and his temper shot straight to boiling as he sprang to his feet. The indignity of misjudging the lad, and getting shot for his trouble by someone half his age, pushed him over the edge. The dark side of his temper took hold of him. He grabbed the blunderbuss, tugged the lad to his feet, and shook him until his hat fell off.

Flaherty growled, “Bloody hell!”

Twin gasps of shock echoed in the still, early morning air. The faint scent of lavender surrounded Flaherty as a lock of angel-blonde hair got tangled around his wrist.

The lad—nay, lass—squirmed against Flaherty’s hold. “Let go of me!”

Flaherty stared into blue-gray eyes that held a hint of panic, and a healthy dose of temper. “Are ye on the run from the law?” he demanded, swiftly working to extricate his wrist.

Her eyes narrowed, but she remained silent.

God help him, her insolence and temper had him reacting instinctively. His heart thundered in his chest as parts a good distance south of that idiotic organ had him tamping down hard on his considerable control. ’Twas always the fiery lasses that snagged his attention.

Flaherty had no time for that now! He had a volatile situation on his hands. A broken carriage wheel, and someone with a very young infant—judging from the sound of its cry—inside the conveyance who needed his help. The lass dressed as a lad, wielding a weapon without any bloody idea how to use it, could hardly be holding them against their will. Could she?

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