Addicted to the Duke (Imperfect Lords #1)
Bronwen Evans
Foreword
In the early 1800s, no one, not even doctors or surgeons, understood how addictive opium was. In fact, the word addict in terms of narcotics did not come into use until 1909.
So, Alex, our hero in Addicted to the Duke, kept using opium because he did not understand addiction and he had no idea what an addict was.
Alex was captured in 1807 and became an opium pipe addict. On his rescue two years later, his doctor prescribed the use of laudanum to help him sleep. He therefore thought it was fine to use. The laudanum eased his nightmares. No one understood that laudanum was just as addictive as opium, or that it is a derivative of the parent drug.
Women who were given laudanum for headaches and menstrual cramps and children who were given it for teething and stomach upsets and other ailments soon became very ill from opium addiction.
Opium could be bought over the counter like a tonic until 1864, and was not restricted as a medicine until 1901.
My story is set during the Regency period, when opium addiction was not understood and many did not understand that there was no difference between opium smoking and taking laudanum. Both were highly addictive.
Prologue
THE GREEK ISLE OF MYKONOS: AUGUST 1811
Alexander Sylvester Bracken, the Marquess of Tavistock, heir to the Duke of Bedford, on no account considered himself a hero. In all his twenty-five years, he’d never rescued anyone, let alone a young girl. Her sorrowful cry filled the still night air, unsettling creatures both big and small. The sound drifted down the stairs from the rooms above with fear imbued in every note. It was as if she was desperate to be heard over the din from the drunken men in the tavern below.
The girl’s father thought he was here simply to repay a debt of honor. And that was true, but Alex was also here for vengeance.
He knew who would be coming for the girl.
Slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself, he moved his head, easing muscles now corded with tension as he lay on the stained tabletop pretending he was comatose from drink. His tattered clothes were soaked with sweat. At three in the morning the cicadas haunting the evening air were adding to the night’s disturbing symphony. The smell from the nearby dock was overpowering. From under semiclosed eyes, he studied the activities within the tavern. To any casual observer, he appeared to be just another seafaring pirate well into his cups.
It wasn’t until dawn began to set the sky on fire that Paval, the tavern owner, began dispatching all the patrons from the bar. Alex was counting on the Greek being too lazy to bother moving the drunken sailor—him—from the back pew.
Paval glanced Alex’s way, took in his drunken snore, and walked past him to lock the door out onto the dock. Alex silently heaved a sigh of relief: so far, so good.
Within seconds of the door closing, Sultan Murad Bayezid, accompanied by two of his fierce Turkish warriors, entered through the rear.
Alex swallowed the bile threatening the back of his throat and let his consuming hatred at the sight of Murad dressed in his white flowing robes infuse his soul. His hands itched to bury the dagger he had hidden in his palm, deep into the empty cavity of Murad’s chest. He knew from firsthand experience that the sultan had no heart. He would never, for as long as he lived, forget Murad’s cruelty, reflected now in his cold, dead eyes. Alex had a score to settle with the sadistic man, and the opportunity to do so had been a long time coming.
Murad had held him captive three years ago now, and Alex could remember the hell as clearly as if it was yesterday.
His nemesis gestured toward the stairs and one of the warriors bounded up them two at a time. He heard the sound of dragging feet overhead, a muffled slap, and a small, piteous cry. He swallowed his fury; the thought of what could have already happened to the young girl clouded his mind.
The warrior arrived back downstairs with the girl slung over one shoulder like a sackful of grain. Without ceremony, he dumped her on the floor at the sultan’s feet.
Dressed in what had been a virginal white nightgown, now dirty and torn, she looked up from the floor, and her eyes filled with dread. He watched as she gathered herself together and, with more grace and pride than he’d expected from a girl of only six and ten, she rose from the floor like an opening flower to stand tall and erect. Terror was clearly visible on her exquisite features, but what really captivated him was her look of courage. The intake of breath in the room was audible.
He watched Murad’s evil smile break across his thin lips, causing his thick mustache to twitch comically in his fever to possess her. Alex’s hatred for the perverted sultan almost choked him. He was a man built like a gorilla—stocky, solid, and as ugly as one.
The Turk approached the girl and viciously wrapped his hand in her flowing fair tresses. Her silky hair hung so long it looked as if she were wearing a protective mantle of angels’ wings down her back. Cruelly, the sultan tilted her head into the light. His accent was more pronounced in his desire. “Paval, you have outdone yourself. She is indeed a rare beauty. But a face can be misleading. Let us see the rest of her.”
Dropping his hand from her hair, he gripped the top of her white nightgown and ripped it from top to bottom, then threw back the edges, leaving the torn pieces to flutter to the floor.
She gasped in horror and tried to cover herself, cringing where she stood. She attempted to flick her waist-length hair forward to cover her small breasts, but Murad maliciously pulled it back.