Chasing the Tale

A Collection of Stories Written for Newsletter Subscribers

Jude Knight

Copyright © 2019 by Jude Knight

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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For those who love to read. I hope this volume of short stories brings you great pleasure. Top up your cup with the beverage of your choice, and take a few minutes to step into my world.

Contents

A Gentleman Keeps His Promises

An Impulse Buy in Scotland

Anne Under Siege

The Fifth Race

The Hero’s Vow

Home is the Sailor

Look Into My Eyes

The Marquis Returns

The Mouse Fights Back

The Rain Dog

The Veiled Bride

Also by Jude Knight

About Jude Knight

A Gentleman Keeps His Promises

Dickon watched his wife clambering around the rigging, torn between demanding that she descend to the safety of the deck, and continuing to enjoy the sight from the shadows of the accessway.

It weighted the scales that, if Letty knew he was aboard, he’d lose the advantage of surprise and probably also his wife.

He had a list, and he'd put it into practice as soon as they were safely at sea:

Talk to Letty

Find out what she wants to do

Persuade her to stay married if she is the least inclined

Letty swung with confidence from rope to rope, her form masked but not obscured by the shapeless canvas trousers and smock she wore. Surely no one on the ship thought their second mate was a man?

She’d put on weight in the six months since he last saw her, and lost the haunted, harried look that had set his teeth on edge. She'd had reason enough, as he discovered when her wicked uncle put her unconscious in Dickon’s bed; the night he had foiled the blackmail attempt by offering her his name and his protection. She had run a week after the wedding, escaping from his London townhouse before she had even recovered enough from her injuries for him to seduce her to his bed.

* * *

That first evening at the Bellowes house party, Dickon almost passed her by; her discomfort when they were introduced rousing his pity but dousing any potential interest. This year, unlike the previous five, he had a stronger motive than the pleasures of the dance and his secret services to the Crown for his exercises on the dance floor. This year, he was in the market for a bride.

Not that he intended for any of Society's matchmakers to know that. Five years of conversation while standing out in line dances had given Dickon some definite views about the kind of bride he wanted. He had a list.

Not too proud

Not too absorbed in her own beauty

Those two disqualified most of those to whom his fellows were drawn.

Not foolish or inane

Not passionately fixated on an interest he did not share.

He would have to converse with his wife, at least occasionally. Indeed, he hoped that, if he chose well, they might become friends.

Not unpleasant to gaze upon

While he did not require physical perfection, he would, of course, have to be sufficiently attracted to the lady to do his duty by his title and estate, since an heir was the whole purpose of the exercise.

Five years of conversation had convinced him that the gem he sought was probably hidden among the wallflowers. Not an antidote, or a shy nervous creature afraid of men. But a woman whose intelligence and character had frightened off the fools who fell in love with the transitory sparkle of Society's annual stars.

Miss Fanshaw was shy and nervous. She blushed, stammered, and dropped her fan, he almost made his bow and his excuses, touching his hostess on her arm in the prearranged signal to present him to the next group.

But was that fear in the look the young lady shot sideways to the aunt and uncle who were sponsoring her? And surely he imagined the menace in her uncle's responding glare? Besides, Septimus Parker, the uncle, was one of the men he'd come here to meet. That was the other list.

Find out if Septimus Parker is the same man who, by other aliases, has been defrauding investors with false canal, bank, and shipping schemes

Prove it

Bring him to justice.

Lady Bellowes noticed his initial reaction to the young lady. "If you would excuse us, Lord Bridgethorne and I..."

Dickon ruthlessly interrupted Lady Bellowes. How she would roast him later! "May I have the honour of a dance, Miss Fanshaw?"

* * *

Until she stole away to join Lucas, Letty had never sailed; never been aboard a ship or anything more challenging than a row boat on an ornamental lake. Six months had only whetted an appetite that even two sizeable storms had not subdued.

He and Nicci were taking it in turns to teach her all she needed to know to be an effective second mate, and Nicci had other secrets to share. How to be a woman in breeches. How to help the crew ignore she was a woman by hiding the outward signs and never asking to be treated as different, while always remembering that the difference was there. When to do everything a man could do, but a little better; when to let male pride have its victory; when to make a subtle reminder of her virtue and of the Captain's stout protection.

"I could be happy doing this forever," she told Nicci, as they bound one another's breasts that morning.

It was not entirely true, for a woman couldn't share a cabin with Lucas and Nicci without at least a little yearning, especially a woman who had come so close to sharing a bed with the Earl of Bridgethorne.

She had gone stunned and fearful to her wedding, certain he would be angry at her uncle's machinations. Instead, he had been kindness itself. Even his anger when he discovered the evidence of her uncle's latest beatings was thrilling, since it was turned on someone who deserved it.

For a week, she was nursed and pampered, and courted with compliments and gentle touches that never invaded or frightened. One week of growing hope, all shattered in one overheard conversation.

When she saw that Lucas's ship was in Southhampton, it seemed like a sign from Heaven; a refuge from her uncle and Bridgethorne alike. She ran that afternoon, taking the mail coach, and by the following day they were at sea.

But now they were heading back to London, and she owed it to her husband to confront him and set him free. The marriage had been a kindness to rescue her, and she should be grateful for that, rather than hurt that he had not confided his true intent. She would be grateful. She would not be hurt.

He could, Lucas said, obtain a divorce for abandonment. But an annulment for coercion, agreed by both, would be simpler.

And surely, with her newfound confidence, she would be able to mask the truth that she was deeply in love with the husband who did not want her.

* * *

Miss Fanshaw was a little shy, but charming, and she danced like an angel. In Dickon's mental scorecard, he marked several ticks to her credit. What a pity her uncle was a fraudster and a cheat.

Even if Dickon was not committed to bringing him down before his latest scheme destroyed more lives, the way the uncle and aunt fawned on him and sniped at her would have reduced her score again. He was sorry for the tyranny that had her shrinking back behind her armoured shell, but sympathy was no grounds for saddling himself and his offspring with such connections.

A new list item.

No grasping relations

Nonetheless, he found his eyes drawn to her over the next two days of the house party. He danced with her twice more. He observed how much more forthcoming she was when her aunt and uncle were occupied elsewhere. And one morning he came in from a game of croquet seething with outrage and looking for Lady Bellowes, who proved to be in the morning room with her husband.

"Miss Fanshaw is being bullied and teased by some of your guests," he told his hostess, without preamble.

Lady Bellowes frowned. "I have heard some unkind remarks," she admitted.

"I have seen her pushed, her elbow joggled so she spilt her tea, and her dress flounce torn when Lady Clara stood on it. I was just in time to catch the poor girl when Lady Clara tripped her as she walked beside the lake. She almost went in."

"Lady Clara is a brat," Lord Bellowes opined. The lady was in her second Season, and her large court of admirers had as yet to include someone willing to chance her uncertain temper and disregard for others in order to have her beauty and her dowry to himself.

"Miss Fanshaw, despite her quiet ways, is attracting attention Lady Clara wishes to keep for herself. And the poor girl is a nobody," Lady Bellows added. "I daresay Lady Clara knows Miss Fanshaw's aunt and uncle will not protect her. I do hope you will not wish to invite them again, my dear lord."

Lord Bellowes shook his head. "No. I have decided against investing in this company of his, and so I have told him. I am hoping they will take themselves off."

So the shyster had approached Bellowes. No wonder. He had talked to most of the wealthy gentlemen at the house party, though not yet Dickon. "Canals?" Dickon asked.

"Canals, but not in an area of the country I know, and too much can go wrong. I'd need more information on what is to be moved and where too. I'd need to be certain of the geography, the landowners, the local people, and the engineers. If you are considering it, Bridgethorne, I trust you'll be careful. But no need for me to advise you, I am sure."

"I always think the character of those promoting the scheme to be of paramount importance," Dickon suggested. But Bellowes did not take the bait, just shrugging uncomfortably. "As to that, Parker was a Harrow man, I believe, and his wife is cousin at some degree to Viscount Westmacott. A gentleman, you know. A gentleman always honours his word."

Whether the gentleman was Westmacott or Parker was moot. In Bellowes' world, clearly, the upper classes did not cheat the upper classes, though perhaps peasants and tradespeople might be exempt from such courtesy.

"But possibly mistaken," Dickon said, and Bellowes agreed. "Might happen to anyone."

"I do not like him," Lady Bellowes said, "and his wife may or may not be related to a Viscount, but if so she shows little sign of breeding. Now if you said Miss Fanshaw was a lady, I would agree with you. That she belongs to the same family at all just shows how odd such things are, for they lack her..."

She trailed off, searching for the word. Dickon could have made a list. Tone. Delicacy of mind. Manners. Wit. Intelligence beyond the most basic of animal cunning. Kindness. But Lady Bellowes finished her own sentence: "Gentility. That's it. They lack gentility, Bellowes, and how that child came to be in their household is beyond me. It is like one of those gruesome German folk tales with a changeling given to trolls."

A commotion in the hall drew Lady Bellowes to the door as she finished this masterly summation of her guests' characters. "Oh dear."

Dickon, coming up to her shoulder, could see Miss Fanshaw being half-carried into the house by a footman, her aunt scurrying behind to castigate the poor girl for putting her leg in the way of Lady Clara's mallet. White with pain, tears standing in her eyes, Miss Fanshaw made no response.

Dickon suppressed the urgent desire to throw the old baggage down the stairs and sweep Miss Fanshaw from the footman's embrace into his own. Looking back, that was the moment he added another item to his lists, though whether to the marriage list or the fraud list, he could not have said.

Rescue Miss Fanshaw

* * *

In Letty's memory, the Bellowes house party was pure grey misery shot through with threads of golden joy. Of course, the golden threads were part of the misery, for Lord Bridgethorne's kindness was a direct cause of the jealous meanness of the other girls, led by Lady Clara. Still, Letty had been bullied before, and by far worse brutes than a self-centred girl. Next to the constant nagging of her aunt and the beatings from her uncle, a few snubs and nasty remarks could be ignored.

Things improved for a day or two after the croquet mallet incident. For one thing, the physician summoned by Lady Bellowes insisted that Letty sit with her foot up and allow others to wait on her. And several of the other guests had witness the deliberate attack, and refused to allow Lady Clara to rewrite history. While not going so far as to antagonise Lady Clara’s powerful father by giving her the lie direct, they abandoned the spoiled beauty's circle and made themselves part of Letty's.

Letty's sudden popularity even temporarily defanged her aunt and uncle, her uncle going so far as to suggest that he'd know the chit could be useful if she'd just put her mind to it. "Make sure you talk about the canals, Letitia. Grand opportunity for investment. These young cubs could make their fortunes."

Letty had no intention of furthering any of her uncle's schemes, but saying so would fetch her a beating, so she folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. Since he expected instant obedience on all points, that sufficed. For a day or two.

And in that small golden interval between storms, Lord Bridgethorne was her most constant companion.

* * *

"Best not let the captain catch you watching Miss Letty," said a voice from behind Dickon, the tone more caution than threat. He turned to face a sailor: canvas trousers and billowing shirt, short and wiry, with the darkened toughened skin of a man who had spent his adult years exposed to sun and storm, salt and wind.

Ah. A native guide, and willing to talk. "Your second mate is a girl?"

"Aye, and the first mate, too. Ladies, they are, mind, and not a man on this ship thinks otherwise." A touch more belligerence in the voice, this time.

"I will take your word," Dickon said, peaceably. "I was surprised," which was true, mostly about the first mate, whose short dark hair, slender form, and swift confident movements had caught his attention but given him no clue to her sex. "I mean no harm to either of the captain's ladies." The captain might be a different matter. Dickon had been aboard long enough to discover that Letty shared the captain's cabin, and had been brooding on how that fact changed his plans. Not much, he had concluded, which meant he was a fool and worse. But probably she had had no choice. The strongest protector on the ship could keep her safe from the others. If she chose Dickon over her current paramour, he would choose her, though he owed it to the earldom to consider his bloodlines.

If Letty is sleeping with the captain, wait to bed her until she is clearly not pregnant.

The sailor's next words expunged that new item on the list. "Everyone on this ship would die to protect the captain's wife and his sister. And if any other man touched one of them, Miss Letty would gut him, and Missus Nicci would geld him, and the captain would toss what was left to the sharks."

Sister! The sailor took Dickon's grin as amusement, and assured Dickon that he wasn't joking. With neither need nor way to explain his enormous relief, Dickon let it pass.

* * *

"M' niece tells me you'd like to hear more about the Great Cambrian Canal," Parker told Dickon, buttonholing him in the library one morning.

"Your niece and I have not discussed the Great Cambrian Canal," Dickon corrected, his disappointment in the girl giving his voice a chill edge.

With an internal sigh, he forced a little warmth into his next remark. It wouldn't do to send the man running before his investigation proved the Great Cambrian a complete hoax, and the brain child of this miserable excuse for a human being that stood before him. "Perhaps you might remedy the deficiency?"

Parker needed no more encouragement, launching into an enthusiastic panegyric for a canal scheme that would span Wales, bringing coal from the isolated canals in South Wales with the north, and then crossing into the industrial heart of England. He had maps and plans and costings. He named his current backers, some of whom Dickon knew had refused to touch the scheme. He prophesied profits beyond any seen in the history of canal building. He hinted at new industries just waiting to spring up along the canal banks.

Other people drifted into the library, some staying to listen. Parker enjoyed the expanded audience, and Dickon had to step on his attempts to use Dickon's influence to sway some of the other listeners.

Dickon finally promised to consider what Parker had said, and slipped away to the stables. After that ordeal of chicanery, he needed a ride.

* * *

Letty enjoyed her third day of enforced inactivity less than the previous two. For one thing, her aunt insisted on sitting with her for much of the morning. For another, her frequent visitors did not include the Earl of Bridgethorne. Just as well, she thought, for his courteous interest had stirred unreasonable hopes. As if an earl would look at a nobody like her, barely gentry and—if the truth about her aunt and uncle became known—not even respectable.

To add to her discomfort, several of those who came to sit with her told her about her uncle's presentation in the library. Surely Bridgethorne was too wise to be taken in?

It was late afternoon when he entered through the double doors that led out to the garden.

"I find you alone, Miss Fanshaw?"

Not for long, Letty imagined. Uncle had collected his wife for a hasty discussion before dinner, and even the maid who was meant to sit in the corner and play propriety had left to bring Letty a cup of tea. But someone would be sure to return in a minute. Surely it was not beyond bounds for the earl to remain for a moment? With doors open?

He seemed to guess the direction of her thoughts. "I should go, I know, but I haven't seen you all day. How is your shin? Improving, I hope."

"All kinds of colours, my lord," Letty said, then blushed the indecorous comment. Though surely it was his fault for mentioning her leg.

Bridgethorne was fiddling with the brim of his tricorne hat, turning it in his hands. "Your uncle is very passionate about his project."

"Do not invest in my uncle's project." Letty put both hands over her mouth as if to push the words back inside, but it was too late. Bridgethorne had abandoned his hat on the table and crossed the room to squat beside her couch.

"Strong words, Miss Fanshaw. Your uncle said you had suggested he spoke to me."

"Never!" Indignation ruled Letty's fear, and on the heels of that emotion came the thought that her uncle's reign was nearly over. She was of age in two days. As soon as her brother's ship was in London, she could leave, and her uncle could not prevent her. The knowledge emboldened her tongue. Bridgethorne had been kind. She would repay him as best she could.

"I beg you not to be taken in by him, sir."

"He is such a rogue, then?" Bridgethorne smiled, kindly, as if she were a ninny without two thoughts in her head. She would show him.

"I blush to say it, but perhaps you will believe me if I tell you he has, in the five years since I have had the misfortune to be in his household, sold a similar scheme under the surnames Clarke, Fletcher, Martin, and Wellingham."

That wiped Bridgethorne's smile away. "Miss Fanshaw, take a care. If your aunt or uncle should hear you..."

He knew?

He looked over his shoulder, and dropped his voice still further as he continued, "I am here to stop his scheme, and the names you have just given me will help more than I can say, but I would not have you put yourself at risk for the world."

She gaped at him, astounded that he stopped to care about her in his quest for justice, but he misunderstood, and put one warm hand over her own.

"You must not be concerned. I am certain you are innocent of your uncle's schemes, and I give you my word I will see you safe."

"Do not think of me, my lord. I shall be twenty-one in two days, and free of my uncle. Do what you must to stop him. I urge you. You cannot know..."

She lost her head, perhaps, with his closeness and his kindness. How else to explain why she let down the vigilance that had served her these five years? A shocked exclamation from the doorway was too late. Her uncle and aunt stood there, purple with fury to find Letty pouring into Bridgethorne's sympathetic ears some of the tragedies her uncle had caused.

* * *

Parker, or whatever his name was, had been spitting with fury. Dickon had extracted a promise from the Bellowes that Miss Fanshaw would be given a bedroom away from her nasty relatives, and well guarded, for Dickon wouldn't put it past the man to extract his revenge from the poor girl's flesh.

The Parkers would be expelled on the next day, Bellowes promised, it being too late that evening. Dickon would have thrown them into the driveway then and there, but it was not his house.

They kept to their rooms, and Dickon went up to bed early, to spend some time documenting the information Miss Fanshaw had given him. As soon as he got back to town, he would set a few people on to confirming facts, and Parker would be finished.

He locked his papers in his travelling case, and made his way to bed. He would sleep the better for knowing that Miss Fanshaw was out of the hands of her nasty relatives.

He woke in the dark, conscious that he was not alone.

A presence beside him in the bed. He reached a cautious hand. Yes. Skin. Soft curves. Naked soft curves.

Momentarily distracted, he returned his attention to his other senses. Breathing across the room? A rustle?

"Who's there!" he demanded, sitting up and reaching for the tinder box and candle beside his bed.

He was unsurprised when the Parkers ventured cautiously into the flickering light, the arch villain leading the way, his expression equal parts bombast and trepidation.

"You scoundrel!" Parker began. "You have debauched our poor innocent niece. You shall pay for this infamy..."

Dickon ignored the flow of words, listening only enough to confirm it took the predictable course. Innocent girl. Ruined forever. Money the only possible recompense. Would say nothing further unless Bridgethorne spoke about the scandalous lies the little chit had told him.

Dickon was examining the naked girl in the bed beside him, as well as he could without offending her modesty. She was unconscious. Still breathing, thank goodness.

He got up and tugged the bell pull, surprising a shocked outcry from Mrs Parker. He was not concerned about offending that old harpy's modesty, but he shrugged a banyan over his naked form for the sake of the footman who soon appeared to take his messages for Lord and Lady Bellowes and a physician. He met Parker's objections with a threat of physical violence and was disappointed when the man subsided into the chair to which he was directed.

"But what could I do?" Bellowes asked, when he had run out of apologies for failing to keep Parker from bullying his way into his ward. "He is her guardian."

"Only until tomorrow, which is her twenty-first birthday," Dickon informed him.

"Her twentieth!" Parker exclaimed, but Mrs Parker tugged on his arm and whispered in his ear, and he let out a string of curses no less offensive for being muttered.

"You are not obliged to take the chit, of course, Bridgethorne," Bellowes consoled him. He frowned at the Parkers. "It is clear that they drugged the poor girl and put her in your bed to try to blackmail you."

Drugged, yes, but only after beating her, or Dickon was much mistaken. Not that he could see the extent of her injuries in the poor light, and with the sheet in the way. The doctor was with her now, Lady Bellowes in attendance.

He had promised to keep Miss Fanshaw safe, and he had failed. But he would be sure to protect her now. He did not yet have enough to have Parker incarcerated. Or did he?

"You are mistaken, Lord Bellowes. That Parker and his wife beat Miss Fanshaw and drugged her is beyond a doubt, but I have no idea why. After all, this very afternoon we told him of our wish to marry as soon as Miss Fanshaw comes of age. Why would placing my betrothed in my bed be grounds for blackmail?"

The announcement had all the impact Dickon could have desired. "Your betrothed? You are to marry Miss Fanshaw? This fellow beat the future Countess of Bridgethorne?"

Yes. That would do it. A charge of assault on a peeress of the realm? Parker would be going nowhere while Dickon finished sewing up the loose ends of his investigation.

* * *

Lucas Finch, born Fanshaw, captain of the privateer St Niccolette, saluted his brother-in-law with a sip of the rum he had poured them both to lubricate this private discussion. "Then I wish you luck, Dickon. You will have to convince Letty, though. I have no idea how she feels about you, and if Nicci knows, she is not saying. Letty has a place on my ship if she wants one, for my dear wife would make my life hell if I forced my sister to do anything against her will."

"But you won't stop her," Dickon stated, and Lucas lifted his glass in another salute. "I won't force her to do anything against her will. Even to be a rich English countess, poor lass. I have given her my word, Dickon. Her and Nicci both."

Fair enough. Letty would be in the captain's cabin, Lucas said, and when he knocked on the door, the first mate, Nicci Finch, let him in and then left, saying as she passed, "Be nice to my sister, Lord Bridgethorne. We are a long way from land, and even strong swimmers can be eaten by sharks."

Dickon smiled at Letty and quirked one eyebrow. "Did she just threaten to throw me overboard?"

It released the tension a little. Letty giggled and invited him to sit. "You have gone to some trouble to see me, I think, my lord. I was planning to visit you in London."

"A visit only?" Dickon took the chair next to hers and reached for her hand, but she moved it out of the way. "I hoped you might consider returning to me, Letty."

Letty shook her head, shifting back in her chair.

"No, you did not. You did not want me to wife. I am conscious of the kindness you did me, Bridgethorne, and it would be foul of me to punish you for it by opposing the annulment you want."

"Annulment?" Dickon frowned. Yes, he had originally thought of an annulment, but he had abandoned the idea months ago, and he'd never spoken of it to Letty.

"For coercion."

Dickon was shaking his head.

"I heard you," Letty insisted. "On my last morning in London, I felt well enough to get up for breakfast, and I heard you telling someone that you married me to give you a reason to have my uncle and aunt arrested, and would seek an annulment on the grounds that I had been coerced. I am willing to give that evidence, my lord."

"But I don't want it!" Dickon could vaguely remember the conversation, with his secretary who was sending out the agents to finish the investigation. "Letty, could you not bear to at least consider being my wife? I have thought of little else this six month."

Letty allowed him to take her hand, and looked at him gravely. "Are you saying that you have changed your mind, Lord Bridgethorne?"

"I do not wish for an annulment," he replied, stubbornly. "As to my mind, do you remember me telling you that I made a list to prepare for the marriage mart?" That had been one of their conversations in the short chaste week after their hasty wedding.

Letty giggled again. "Yes, and that you had a tick against my name for each item."

He lifted an eyebrow again, and smiled. "It would be a shame to waste that," he suggested.

Letty turned stern. "Not good enough, my lord. As I recall that list, it comprised qualities you did not want in a bride." She rose and crossed gracefully to the door, swaying in time with the sea.

"You may court me, Lord Bridgethorne. We have a three-week ship journey ahead of us. Write a new list, of reasons why you wish to be married to me. And then we shall see."

* * *

The three weeks flew by. Dickon did rather well at courting, Letty had to admit. He talked the cook into baking her sweetmeats, and coaxed carved flowers from the ship's best scrimshaw artists.

Within a day, they were on first name terms again, and before the week was out she had let him kiss her, just lightly, on the cheek, and rather more scandalously on her wrist and her palm.

One night, Nicci persuaded her into one of her finest dresses and conducted her onto the deck, where Dickon met her elegantly attired in silk breeches and cloak, and shared a candle-lit dinner with her under the stars while three of the sailors played romantic music on an assortment of instruments.

The entire crew enjoyed his pursuit, all—from the captain and first mate to the cabin boy—offering advice to first the bride and then the groom. And Dickon accepted it with good humour, raising him yet again in her esteem.

Now and again, she would see him scribbling in the notebook in which he kept his infernal lists, but he would never show her what he had written.

"You should take him," Lucas said one day when he relieved her at the wheel. "You'll not do better than a rich earl, Letty, and you'll be safe with him. He's a man of his word."

"Your earl is a true gentleman, Letty," Nicci told her one morning as they dressed in the cabin. "They are few and far between, but he is one of them. I am not telling you what to do, but consider carefully. Decent men who keep their promises, like Lucas and Dickon, don't grow on every tree."

Which was all very well, and six months ago would have been enough. But didn't Letty deserve more than to spend her life grateful that the Earl of Bridgethorne honoured his word to the lowly-born bride he married as a ploy to trap her uncle? Yes. Six months earning her way as a useful member of her brother's crew said that she did.

If this was to be a true marriage, she needed to matter to him. She. Herself. Letty.

So she let him court her, and even let him tempt her into a quiet corner for a kiss that set her head reeling and her body raging. Ships were not private places, which was undoubtedly just as well.

From his smirk after that, he thought he'd won, which brought him closer to losing than he'd ever been. But she meant what she said. He wouldn't keep her by drugging her body with kisses, or by overwhelming her with kindnesses.

As they sailed into the Thames Estuary, he came to her notebook in hand, his manner as calm as ever, but anxiety sitting behind his eyes. Ah. Not too sure of himself, then. Letty suppressed the urge to reassure him, and accepted the notebook from his hand.

She turned away a little, wanting to read it without his looming presence, and he responded as always to her needs and stepped back two steps, shifting uneasily from foot to foot before he settled to lean against a bulkhead.

The first page was headed, "A Gentleman Honours His Word."

At my wedding, I promised to love my wife, to honour her, to protect her, to keep only to her for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live.

That is my earnest desire, so what does it mean? Is love not a matter of honouring and protecting, of loyalty and devotion? I thought it was. I thought it a simple thing of plighting my troth and then keeping my word.

Yes, I had a fleeting notion of making a mockery of a marriage to trap Letty's uncle, but if it still remained on the day of my wedding, the vows themselves, solemn vows before God, wiped the last of it away. I am sorry that my wife heard the sea foam those unworthy thoughts left behind in my mind.

I want a wife, and I want Letty to be that wife. And so, in these pages, I intend to write what I understand of love.

On the page after this explanation finished, he had begun a new list.

How I know that I love my wife.

Letty is beautiful

Letty is clever

Letty beat me at chess. She may be smarter than I am.

Letty faced down Silas the sailmaker, and had him blushing and stammering over a mistake. She is brave and competent. I respect her more and more each day.

On and on it went. Page after page after page of observations.

"I shall get a swollen head," Letty told Dickon, shyly.

He smiled. "Not you, Letty. You have no idea how wonderful you are." He held his folded arms stiffly, as if he was using them to keep his body from flying into small pieces.

Letty read the whole notebook. On the last few pages, each page repeated the same words.

I want Letty to be my wife because I cannot bear to live without her.

"That's my list," Dickon said. "In the end, I found I had only one thing to put on it, so I wrote it each day."

"I see." Letty's heart was too full to say more.

Dickon straightened, leaned forward, held out a beseeching hand. "Is it enough? Will you keep me, Letty? Or will you throw this poor benighted earl out and go back to sea? For I warn you, if you run away with Lucas, I shall follow, until you reject me outright or accept me forever. And on that, you have my word."

Letty tucked the notebook into her shirt, and held out both her hands, and her husband crossed the deck in a rush to enfold her in an enormous relieved hug. "Is that a yes?"

"Yes," Letty said, and was ruthlessly kissed, as the hidden spectators stood up around them and started to cheer. Letty didn't notice, until her brother Lucas grabbed her by one shoulder and Dickon by the other. "The cabin is empty, and my crew have work to do. Go below, lock the door, and I want your word I won't see you again until we dock in London."

"You have it," Dickon replied instantly, tucking Letty under one arm and using the hand of the other to shake Lucas's.

"And a gentleman," Letty reminded Lucas, "always honours his word.

THE END

An Impulse Buy in Scotland

York, 23 December 1815

Her brother was home. Megan Walsh almost rushed straight out into the evening air when her husband told her he had passed Ned's place, seen lights on the floor that Ned rented, and found her brother just going out for a loaf of bread. But Thomas persuaded her to wait for morning, and she managed it, just, though she read her brother's cryptic note another twenty times before at last it was a sufficiently civilised hour to go calling.

Yes, the landlady agreed, Mr Broderick was home, and Mrs Walsh would never guess...

But Megan hadn't waited, hurrying up the stairs to knock on Ned's door. He opened it himself, and she threw herself on him.

"Ned! I was so worried when you were three weeks overdue and then I got your note. What a note, Ned. 'On my way home. I have a surprise for you; something I found in Scotland. You told me I needed one, and you were right.' I have racked my brains, Ned, and I cannot think what you mean."

Ned took her arm, and led her through into the sitting room, and Thomas trailed behind. But they both stopped short when they found it was already occupied.

A small dark-haired woman, neatly dressed in a slightly old-fashioned gown, sat sipping tea by the fire, and she stood when they entered, looking wary.

"Ariadne, may I present my dear sister and her husband, Mr and Mrs Thomas Walsh? Megan, Thomas, please meet Mrs Broderick. Megan, I took your advice and got myself a wife."

Ned looked so proud, and the woman so nervous, that Megan swallowed the sharply worded comment that came first to her tongue and instead just said, "How?"

* * *

Ballarfrae Scotland, 12 November 1815

Mr Broderick's fever was gone, but he still slept. Perhaps Ariadne, too, could finally rest. After five days at his bedside, with sleep snatched here and there in the chair the innkeeper had reluctantly provided, she had moved beyond tiredness to a deep dragging exhaustion.

The maid had grumbled when asked to provide a pallet on the floor, and fresh linens, but Ariadne sweetened the request with another coin from Mr Broderick's purse, and added more for hot water and a bath so she could wash properly before changing into a fresh shift for bed.

She had been more liberal than she intended with her unwanted husband's money. The doctor had been expensive, and the package of powders from the apothecary. Mr Broderick could surely not complain about the costs of his own care, althoough he might well complain about paying for the rooms she and her brother had occupied before Mr Broderick even arrived at the inn. But not two hours after her wedding, after the doctor confirmed Mr Broderick was ill and not merely suffering the effects of the evening's indulgence, she had been confronted by the innkeeper and the news her brother had absconded without paying his bill.

Ariadne sighed. It was all of a piece. After what he had done, Lucas would not wish to face her. Not even in the morning when he was near sober. She had fully intended to make her own escape, but Mr Broderick's illness changed all that. She could hardly abandon him, especially when the innkeeper was threatening to put him out into the street as a fever case.

So she had gone through his travelling trunk and found a pouch of coins, and also a folder of bank notes tucked into a pocket in the lining. Surely Mr Broderick would not begrudge what she had spent to save him, and perhaps he would not object to her spending just a little on herself.

Whether or not, she would have a bath and a sleep before she had to explain herself.

* * *

Edward Broderick woke from a deep sleep to sounds of splashing. His head was clear; the fever dreams flown leaving only shreds in his memory, though he was still as weak as a kitten. He vaguely recalled driving his horse on through the early stages of his recurrent illness, hoping to reach a town large enough for an apothecary who sold Jesuit powder, his own having been lost with one of his bags during a river crossing. He remembered an inn. Had he fallen sick in the public room? He had a vague impression of shouting and laughter reaching him through the fog state that heralded the ague.

The other bizarre scenes belonged in the fever, and the fever was gone, along with the wracking pains in his limbs and the blinding headache.

Ned opened his eyes cautiously. Daylight streamed in the window under which stood his travelling trunk, an unfamiliar one beside it. The room had that slightly shabby, slightly impersonal look of an inn on a popular coaching route; with walls in a faded wash of mottled blue, and heavy dark-stained furniture that had just missed being in fashion some twenty-five years ago.

A neatly made up pallet lay along the wall near the door, with a woman's house robe laid across it. Ned turned his head to the painted screen that divided off one corner, a white shift draped over the top of one leaf. The splashing had ceased while he examined the room. Had he made a sound to betray he was awake?

He lay still, continuing to catalogue all that he could see. Some of his own possessions on the table beside the bed, together with a glass half filled with water. Other, more feminine appurtenances on the chest of drawers next to the pallet: a brush and mirror, a tangle of beads, a neat bonnet.

If he was not mistaken, the book that sat on top of the small pile next to the bonnet was his own guidebook to the walks of the Scottish Highlands. Clearly, Ned shared his room with a woman, and equally clearly, she was not sharing his bed. A nurse, hired to care for him while he was sick? A nurse might have lace on her shift and flowers on her bonnet. There was no law against it. His fever memories insisted on a face that belonged to an angel, which seemed unlikely for a woman in such a disreputable profession.

Still silence from behind the screen. Ned waited, trying to sort through the disconnected impressions left to him from the times he had come close to full consciousness. Some, he discarded. There could not have been a giraffe in his room, in or out of a top hat. Nor could he have made wedding vows to a stranger in a dark bar room. And he and his improbable bride could not have been carried off to bed by a crowd of jeering apes.

But there had been an angel, and cool cloths to wipe Ned's body, and liquids to slide down his throat. He could do with some liquid now. His throat felt raw, way beyond what he expected from the ague. As he edged himself up to sitting, Ned catalogued his symptoms. The lassitude was to be expected, and the dull throb of a fading heading. Aches in all of his muscles from the paroxysms that came with the ague. The ache was worst in his chest, and that was new. He felt bruised, as if a gang of mohocks had used him for their punching bag, and as he shifted he had to repress a spasm of coughing that brought with it the burn of remembered fire in his lungs.

Perhaps he only imagined the splashing. The woman behind the screen, if woman there was, had made no sound and no move for a good quarter hour. Slowly, carefully, Ned eased himself out of the bed, resting his hands against it to catch his balance when the earth insisted on revolving with him as the apex.

Right. Now to cross the room. But before he could take the first step, there was a knock on the door. He looked at the screen. No response. The knock came again, and he diverted from his intended direction to see what was wanted, still fighting the cough.

He poked his head around the door, conscious he was stark naked. A maid stood some ten feet down the hallway. She was a plump little thing who resembled a startled rabbit until she beamed. "Oh Mr Broderick. I am so pleased to see you awake and up. And Mrs Broderick must be so relieved. I brought her some tea and some biscuits, poor dear." She pointed at the tray, deposited near his feet and covered in a cloth.

"Mrs Broderick," Ned repeated. "Yes. I'll-- Um--" His mind worked sluggishly, adding the facts he knew. "Thank you. She is finishing her bath." He thought. He assumed. Whoever she was, this woman that claimed his name. He waited for the maid to scurry away, then bent to lift the tray, trying to pretend that each movement didn't bring him closer to collapsing on the floor, feeling a detached glee as he shut the door with his heel and managed to pivot on one foot without losing his balance.

A little table took the tray, and Ned rounded the screen, calling softly, "Cover yourself, Mrs whoever you are. I am coming to see you have not drowned in your bath."

She had not, but only because it was too small for her to slide beneath the water when sleep overwhelmed her. Even through the fabric of the screen enough light filtered to show her clearly; the window faced the West, and the summer sun --- still a hands breadth above the horizon --- filled every corner of the room with light.

Her head had fallen back against the rolled towel that softened the space between the high rim of the hip bath and the wall, exposing the length of her soft throat. Her arms rested along the rim both sides of the bath, hands drooping into the water, which was deep enough to almost, but not quite, conceal her breasts. She was wearing a shift, but the water moulded it to her shape and made it near transparent. He could see her nipples just beneath the surface, almost touching the knees that mounded out of the water.

Bony knees. If she were a whore, she was not a very successful one. The evidence argued that she was not a woman of virtue: she was naked in his room and had clearly spent the night here; she was pretending to be his wife; she had apparently nursed him, and nursing was not a profession known for its celibacy.

Despite the lingering effects of his illness, part of his body saluted his tentative conclusion about her availability. She was an attractive little piece, with even features under the careless knot of dark hair piled on top of her head out of the way of the water. A face in a classic oval, with gently arched brows, straight nose with a fetching tilt at the tip, plump lips fallen open over even teeth and a determined chin. Attractive even when underfed and with dark smudges under her eyes that spoke to the exhaustion allowing her to sleep so soundly in a cooling bath.

She was not for him, even temporarily. Especially not temporarily. Using a woman in the most intimate of ways and then discarding her without a second thought was the act of a retrobate. In his work as a solicitor, Ned had heard the tales of too many of York's prostitutes, driven to drugs, alcohol, and theft to escape the horror of their lives.

Theft! Forgetting the loveliness of the woman in the bath and his own condition, he plunged across the room, knocking down the screen in his haste, and jerked open the lid of his trunk.

* * *

Ariadne woke to a crash, followed by a thump and then a roared string of oaths that had her blushing even before she realised that the screen was gone and Mr Broderick was awake, and glaring at her from where he knelt by the window.

She reached for the towel, while trying to keep her eyes on the angry man and submerge as much of her body as possible under the chilling water.

But in the next moment a racking cough turned his attention away, and it was followed by a series of others that had him curve protectively over his chest, supporting his weight on the lip of his trunk, his naked back spasming violently.

Under the woefully indequate cover of the towel, Ariadne peeled off the wet shift and rubbed as much water from her skin as possible before quickly shimmying into the fresh shift. Mr Broderick had reached that desperate stage of being unable to suck in enough breath between coughs. He had sunk to a sitting position and was resting his head on the white knuckles that still gripped the trunk.

Ariadne measured laudanum into a spoon. A small measure, just to ease the spasm, despite the temptation to dose him to sleep and put off the looming confrontation.

"Here," she told him, kneeling at his side. "Take this. It will ease your cough."

He lifted his head enough to scowl at her, barking, "What?" between coughs.

What poison are you attempting to feed me, his pale-green eyes accused. They tilted up slightly, like a cat's, or perhaps it was just the up flick at the end of his firmly marked brows. The green fitted his fair skin far better than the near black hair he wore in a close crop.

"A very small quantity of laudanum. Not enough to induce sleep, but it will ease the cough."

He bent under another onslaught, then lifted his head reluctantly for the measure from the spoon.

Ariadne sat back on her heels, watching him warily while he caught a couple of shuddering breaths. That set him coughing again, but just a series of light barks this time; not the deep racking torture of moments ago.

Keeping far enough away that, in his current condition, Mr Broderick could not easily reach her if he had a mind to fetch her a slap or a punch, she was suddenly conscious of his nakedness. Nursing him on her own, she had found it easier not to bother with a shirt that constantly need changing. But he had been unconscious then, and covered by at least a sheet except when she was sponging him to keep him clean or to reduce the fever.

He was not unconscious now. If she blushed any deeper she would set fire to the room. She bit her upper lip, and Mr Broderick's eyes focused on it, and then dropped lower to her breasts, neatly outlined by the cotton of her shift.

Her robe. She needed to put on her robe. Ariadne whirled up onto her feet and across the room. With her back to him, and the robe on she felt safer. "Can you make it back to the bed, Mr Broderick? Lie down again and I shall pour you a brandy."

"Keep your back turned," he commanded. As if she had not washed every inch of him several dozen times in the past five days. She obeyed and was glad of it when she heard the tell-tale sound of a stream of liquid pouring into china. She had managed that service these last five days, too, but seeing him at it while awake was another thing entirely. Hearing it was enough.

The bed squeaked. "There. You may turn around."

He was sitting up against the pillows, the sheet and blanket drawn up to cover him to the chest, so that only his arms and his broad shoulders were bare.

Saying nothing, she poured a glass of brandy and pushed it towards him, taking care to stay beyond reach. He noticed. She had a feeling those cats' eyes missed very little.

Was it the cough that made his voice husky? The deep tones set her trembling; a most peculiar sensation. "Sit down and don't look so frightened. I am not going to strike you."

Ariadne would reserve judgement on that, but she sat in the chair. That put her head well below his, and she was tempted to leap to her feet again.

"Now, madam, explain to me what you have done with the money from my trunk."

"I have kept a record," she explained. She fetched her journal from her little table, and opened it to neat columns of figures with her notes for each purchase or bribe. He made no comment when she stopped beyond arm's reach; just stretched out one hand and the note she shoved it into his hand. He studied the list while she returned to the chair.

"You have been overcharged, madam." A statement, made without tone to colour it.

"Yes. Or rather you have," Ariadne agreed. "But what should I have done? Palmer --- he is the innkeeper --- he would have had us out in the street as soon as I sent for the doctor, except he was certain you were just drunk and me a fool who could not tell illness from over indulgence. When the doctor confirmed you had an ague, and inflammation of the lungs besides, Palmer was all for turning us out then and there, but Doctor McInnes threatened to have him before the coroner for murder, because he said it would be the death of you."

She shrugged. "Even then, Palmer would have done it as soon as Doctor McInnes was gone, had I not paid over the top for every tray and bucket of water left at the door; every change of sheets and towels; every slop bucket removed. I am sorry, Mr Broderick. But what should I have done?"

She waited for him to shout at her, as men did when they had no reasonable answer, but he confounded her with silence, instead reading her notes again.

When he spoke, he sounded bewildered. "You have written the dates beside each payment." It was not a question, but she nodded. He was still studying the lists. "Five days?" Now he looked up, his green gaze pinning her in place. "I have been out of my mind for five days, and you have nursed me all that time?" The gently shaken head implied disbelief, but some warmth entered his voice. "No wonder you fell asleep in your bath, madam."

"The doctor had no one to send, and the innkeeper would not let any of the servants come for fear they caught the contagion," Ariadne explained. "Doctor McInnes told him that the ague does not pass from person to person, but your lung sickness could easily infect others." She shrugged again.

"I owe you, then," Mr Broderick conceded. "You have, perhaps --- No, probably you have saved my life. I owe you, madam, far more than is in these accounts of yours." He still frowned, his head bent over the journal, shooting a glance at her from under those dark brows.

He surprised her with his next statement. "You need to eat. The maid brought a tray, perhaps ten minutes ago. I hope it is still hot. I came to fetch you, but..." He coughed again, and took another sip of brandy.

With the edge off her exhaustion and her anxiety, Ariadne discovered she was hungry, and Mr Broderick must be famished. She investigated the tray, and found a barley broth, thick with vegetables and shreds of meat, and a loaf of fresh crusty bread, still hot from the oven. She served them a bowl each, broke some pieces from the loaf and spread butter, and set Mr Broderick's share on the table beside his bed, where he could easily reach it. She retreated to the chair with her own.

She had taken two blissful spoonfuls when he pounced, his voice so deceptively mild it took her a moment to recognise the attack. "Yes. I owe you. But do I owe you somewhere in the region of two hundred pounds? That amount does not appear to be accounted for, madam. On what did you spend it?"

* * *

Dammit, why did Ned feel as if he had just kicked a puppy? She was the one with questions to answer. To be sure, she was not the low harlot he had assumed at first---her speech, her manners, and her elegant handwriting argued for an origin in the gentry, and her flustered response to his naked body and its reaction to her barely covered one suggested either an improbable innocence or an acting ability that should win her a fortune.

Nothing added up. What kind of a thief took two of the five rolls of notes he had hidden in his trunk, leaving three hundred pounds untouched? And kept careful records of the money she'd spent from Ned's wallet, correct --- as far as he could tell --- to the last farthing?

She had stayed with him and nursed him. He had only her word for that, but only a stupid woman would make such a claim if it were untrue, since he could so easily check. And she was not stupid.

That explained the exhaustion, but the semi-starvation was of longer duration. She had clearly been poor for some time, whatever her origin. The lace-trimmed shift had originally been expensive, but it was thin from constant washing, as was the robe that covered her but outlined her shape far more effectively than was comfortable.

Someone had taught her to be wary of dangerous, unpredictable men. But though she kept her distance and watched his every move, she was not so wary as to be paralysed, like some of the battered women Ned saw as a solicitor.

Except that she was paralysed now, looking at him with wide brown eyes, her mouth hanging slightly open.

"Madam? The money? It is not where I left it. Did you spend it, or have you put it somewhere else?"

There. That gave her an opening to return his client's funds, and no one but the two of them ever the wiser.

"You spent it."

Ned blinked. She was blushing, and so she should at such an audacious lie. "I beg your pardon? I spent it? What on earth could I have purchased that cost two hundred pounds?"

"You really do not remember, do you." She looked-- what? Resigned, that was it.

"I barely remember arriving at the inn. After that, just fragments, most of them impossible. Fever dreams."

"You purchased me, Mr Broderick. Bought me, wed me, and brought me up to your bed."

The statement was so outrageous he could think of nothing to say. Bought her? As a bride? With the funds he had travelled more than a hundred miles over increasingly worse roads to collect on behalf of a client?

But she met his eyes without flinching and besides, he remembered the wedding from his fever dreams. A stranger in a dark bar room. A stranger with this woman's face.

She mistook his silence for denial, lifting her chin defiantly. "The innkeeper will verify my story, and all the other townfolk who were there that night." She stood and hurried to the table by her pallet, hunting through the items there.

Ned succumbed to the insistent urge to reassure her. "I remember, I think. Bits of us making our promises. And did people escort us up to this room?"

His accidentally-acquired wife nodded, returning to hand him a paper. "My brother and his cronies, every one of them drunk."

Yes. Yabbering apes, as he remembered. And he now held all the proof he needed. She had given him a record of their marriage, and even though it scrawled a bit here and there, he recognised his own hand.

This is to certify to all whom it may concern that Edward James Theodore Broderick of York in Yorkshire and Ariadne Jane Madderley of Little Maddly in Somerset, both being here present and having declared they were single, have now married according to the law and practice of Scotland, and in the sight of these witnesses.

Two names and signatures followed, and then below them his own signature and that of his wife. Ariadne. His wife.

"I thought you drunk, too, Mr Broderick, for all you were so polite, and so definite that all must be done according to the law. I turned the screeching fools from the room and shut the door, and when I looked back, you had passed out on the bed. I was glad of it. I hope to... No matter. Once I realised you were sick, I had to stay, of course."

He sorted that through in his sluggish mind. "You were going to leave. This marriage was not of your choice. Your brother sold you. Would he have returned the money if you left?"

Her frown deepened. "He did not have it." She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Mr Broderick, my brother is a gambler, and not a very good one. There was a card game. With Lucas there is always a game: cards, dice, matches or races of one kind or another. He does not care. The more he plays the more he drinks, and the more he drinks the more he loses."

"Are you saying that I won you in a card game?" That was not possible. Ned did not wager his own money, let alone a client's.

"Not you. Another man. Mr Wilson, or so he said, though he wore a crested ring and had that--," his wife waved her hand in lieu of an appropriate word, "that air noblemen have, as if they are so far above the rest of humankind normal morals and rules of behaviour do not apply between them and us. They had been playing all day, and I could not get Lucas to come away from the table. So I went to bed. I thought he would lose everything we had, and then he would have to stop."

"But he didn't stop." Ned had seen the disease before. They never stopped.

"He had not lost everything," she said dryly. "I was not in the habit of thinking of myself as an asset, but when he dragged me down to the public bar giving me barely enough time to cover my shift with my robe, I found I was mistaken."

"He offered you for sale?"

"He offered me to Mr Wilson, and they haggled over my value." Ariadne leapt to her feet again, and strode impatiently across the floor, four steps, a turn, another four steps, another turn. She bristled with indignation.If she'd had a tail it would have been lashing. "My brother claimed a virgin was worth two hundred pounds, but Mr Wilson said he needed to discount ten pounds for every year past my fifteenth birthday."

"The villains!" If Ned found either of them, they'd not walk away from the encounter. He was admiring Ariadne more by the minute.

"I objected, of course. But Mr Wilson pointed out he could have Lucas arrested and then I would be alone and penniless, and would need to survive somehow." Her voice grew still drier, austere and arid as a desert. "Lucas told me that ruination would hardly be an inconvenience, since I was too old to marry, and I might even enjoy it."

The bastard. "Your brother is an idiot, as well as an unconscionable scoundrel."

"Yes, well. He would have regretted it in the morning, but by then it would have been too late. I appealed to the other men in the room, and some of them made a bid, but none of them matched what Lucas offered Mr Wilson. Until you, Mr Broderick."

"Call me Ned, please. What did I offer, Ariadne?"

"To cover my idiot brother's gambling debt and marry me besides. You said your sister had told you to find a wife, and here I was. One hundred and fifty guineas, the debt was. And Mr Wilson said he'd forgive the debt and add another fifty guineas, but he would not marry me. But you matched him, Mr Broderick. Ned. You matched him."

Ariadne ignored the silent tears streaming down her cheeks, but Ned could not disregard them and they tore at his heart. "Thank God your brother accepted my offer."

"Even when Mr Wilson raised his. I will allow Lucas some credit for accepting the lower amount because you would marry me and no other bidder planned to."

"I allow him nothing," Ned growled. "He should never have put you in such a position. I suppose you would object if I gave him the thrashing he roundly deserves?"

She chuckled, a slightly watery and thoroughly enchanting gurgle. If Ned did not take care, he would be infatuated with his wife. Although that might not be a thoroughly bad thing.

"I would not object in the slightest, Ned, though there are three circumstances against it. One is your physical condition at the moment, two is that Lucas, when he runs out of games of chance or money, earns a few dollars with his fists as a bruiser. I would not have you hurt on my account, whatever Lucas deserves. But it is of no matter, for circumstance three is that he ran away in the night, straight after the wedding."

"Ah." All was explained. Undoubtedly if his brother-in-law had continued at the inn, Ned would have been paying for his room these past five days instead of the single night recorded in his wife's careful accounts.

Ariadne yawned, and that set Ned yawning, which started him coughing again.

"You need to sleep, Ned. I will answer more questions in the morning, but for now let me give you another glass of brandy or another spoon of laudanum or both." She covered another yawn.

"Brandy, then," Ned agreed, "and you need sleep too, Ariadne. I have kept you too long talking." The sun was finally below the horizon, which, this far north, meant it must be nearly ten of the clock. And he no longer feared she would be gone in the morning.

* * *

York, 23 December 1815

"It is a short story, soon told," Ned said to his bristling sister, taking a protective stand beside his wife and enfolding her hand within his. He caught Thomas's considering gaze. Thomas would manage Megan if she turned difficult; he had an ally in Thomas. But first he'd play his ace; his sister's constant care and concern. "I was ill again, Megan. Much worse, this time. But fortunately Ariadne was staying at the same inn, and she fought the innkeeper to make him let me stay, and nursed me until I was well again. And during my convalescence I found that I loved her and I couldn't live without her."

"Just as well, Ned," Ariadne teased. "For by then I was so much under your spell I would have followed you home and built a willow bower at your door, which would have been most inconvenient for the carts and carriages."

Ned bent his head so he could kiss her, a rather delightful pastime he intended to enjoy as often as possible, now he had a wife to enjoy it with.

"Well." Megan was clearly at a loss. "Well. What do you make of that, Thomas?"

"I think, my love," her wise husband told her, "that your brother has discovered the benefits of listening to his sister's advice."

THE END

Anne Under Siege

A heavy frost killed all the new seedlings. Anne had planted them too early, of course, gambling on the mild weather continuing, but her luck was out. No surprises, there, since luck had deserted her little family last quarter day, when a thief accosted them on the way back from market day at Brimstead, and stole their few pieces of jewellery and all their money.

He’d been scared off by a passing carter, or it could have been worse. That’s what Aunt Hester said. Today, she’d said the same thing about the ruin of the garden. “At least you have sufficient seed to plant again. It could be worse.” ‘It could be worse’ was Aunt Hester’s response to all the troubles that had beset them for more than seven years, and Anne wanted to scream back ‘it could be better!’ She wouldn’t. She owed Aunt Hester far too much to upset the dear woman. But why could they not have some good luck for a change, instead of the endless succession of setbacks that plagued them?

Aunt Hester took Star off into the forest to look for something to add to their lunch. Even this early in the Spring, they might find some early strawberries or perhaps a squirrel’s forgotten store of acorns. This quarter, they had been forced to all sorts of shifts to survive, even trapping the earl’s rabbits, which was technically poaching, but the earl never came near Hickle and didn’t have to know. Trapping the earl’s rabbits was better than eating the hens whose eggs they would depend on the lay started after the winter’s lull.

As Anne counted the few coins her small family had left, she reflected that it wasn’t really poaching. The earl owed them those meals. He owed them — or Star, at least — far more than a rabbit or two.

The coins hadn’t miraculously multiplied since she’d counted them yesterday. How would they ever survive until next quarter day, a full five weeks away?

They could do without, as they had done before. The forest and their stores provided food. Not much in variety or quantity, but enough. As well as rabbits and acorns, the forest also provided wood to burn, for warmth and cooking. And if most of the castle in which they lived was crumbling into dust, at least the tower she and Aunt Hester had taken for their own was sturdy enough.

Anne looked around their home with some satisfaction. They lived mostly in this ground floor room, with the big fireplace in one corner and furnishings they’d recovered from elsewhere or made.

They’d carted the big wooden table in from what must once have been the castle kitchen. It had bench seats made out of tree trunks that she and Aunt Hester had sawn to shape themselves, learning the craft of it even while doing the work. The mismatched easy chairs had been reclaimed from villagers who were throwing them out, and recovered in a patchwork of material made from scraps bought for a few pennies at the Brimstead market when they went in to collect Anne’s quarterly allowance from the solicitor who managed the money reserved for her dowry, paying her only the pin money that had long ago seemed a wealth.

She frowned at an old grievance. Back before Papa’s death, all the household and clothing accounts went to him, and Anne’s only purchases were books and ribbons. Now, the same money had to feed and clothe three of them.

Again, she surveyed the room. They managed, and with some elegance. Their old dresses, once worn to rags, were transformed into bright rugs for the floors, and Aunt Hester had knitted oddments of wool, likewise purchased at the market, into rugs to wrap around them against the drafts when they sat together in the evening.

A ladder led to the next floor, which they’d divided in two with a wall made of withies and cob, so that Anne and Star could have a bedroom, and Hester another. They were warm, and safe, and comfortable. Yes. It could be worse.

* * *

“Then take the castle down,” Edward said. “Raze it to the ground.” He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. They must be nearly at the end, surely? He’d been shut in with his new steward for three days, and would give his left arm for a good gallop in the clean air. He’d give an arm, a leg, and his eye teeth not to be earl, and therefore responsible for solving all these problems.

Not that he blamed the poor steward. Mitcham had been trying for ten years to get Edward’s brother to make decisions about his properties and investments, and the wait after John’s death had made things worse. Edward had, of course, sold out and headed home as soon as the news reached him, but it took nine weeks, even so. Mitcham must have been at his wits end.

Mitcham had gone on talking, and Edward hadn’t been listening. Something about ladies. Edward sighed. John’s ‘ladies’ were legion, and Edward had no doubt he’d find a list of troubles with ladies even longer than the one he was currently working his way through.

“I’m sorry,” Edward said. “I lost focus for a moment, Mitcham. Would you mind repeating that?”

Mitcham showed no sign of impatience. “What do you wish us to do with the ladies, my lord?”

Edward’s expression must have shown he had no idea what Mitcham was talking about, because he added, “The ladies who live in the castle; or, rather, in the remaining corner tower, which is relatively sound.”

Edward massaged his temples with his fingers. Perhaps Mitcham would make more sense if Edward didn’t have such an evil headache. “In the castle tower,” he repeated. “Ladies.”

Mitcham nodded. “Yes, sir. The Misses Cleghorn.”

The Cleghorns? John let Margaret Cleghorn live in his castle? Of course. How convenient for him to have his mistress half an hour’s ride away. Edward took a deep breath, rather than hurl the first thing that came to hand across the room. It had been nearly eight years since he’d arrived home early to find his betrothed cavorting naked with his brother, but for a moment, the same rage choked him. It had driven him out the door, into a recruiting office for the local cavalry regiment, and across the world, but he’d thought it long since dead.

Mitcham was still talking. “They have lived there since before I came to be steward. Er...” Mitcham looked down at his hand, spreading it out and examining it as if it held the solution to the mysteries of the universe. He opened his mouth and then closed it again.

“Spit it out, Mitcham,” Edward advised.

“His lordship— the former earl— er, your brother said to leave them alone, sir. ‘Leave them alone and don’t bother me about them again,’ he said.” Mitcham began sorting through the folders into which he’d pasted the rare correspondence from his former master. “I have the letter here, my lord.”

Something was incongruent. Why would John keep Margaret here, in Staffordshire? “I thought you said the former Lord Hicklestone spent all of his time in London.”

“I believe he did, sir. Certainly, in all of my time as steward, he never came to Hickle or to Farley Hall. I posted down to London twice, when the press of urgent matters...” Mitcham trailed off.

Edward could imagine John’s reaction to his steward’s unexpected arrival. “I’m surprised you’ve stuck with us for so long, Mitcham. You’ve done the best you can for the estate, and I’m grateful. We’ll see it right between us.”

Mitcham blushed. “Thank you, my lord.” In the next breath, he proved his worth by returning to the point Edward was trying to forget. “What am I to do about the Misses Cleghorn, sir?”

Margaret. Edward never wanted to see her again, but he couldn’t ignore the possibility that John had made her promises. Not marriage, of course, not John, and nothing written down. Did he send for Margaret to come to London? Edward probed at the thought, and it was like pushing at a diseased tooth after it had been pulled: an absence where he had expected pain.

“I’ll visit the ladies and find out their arrangement with my brother,” he promised Mitcham. “Shelve the demolition until I have a chance to investigate. Now. What else do you have for me?”

* * *

Aunt Hester and Star arrived back with a basket full of mushrooms, a bag of acorns, a few early strawberries, and a week’s worth of gossip courtesy of the innkeeper’s wife, whom they’d met coming back through the village of Hickle, which sprawled across the valley on one side of the castle.

“Mama,” Star said, her words tumbling over one another in her eagerness to share the news before Aunt Hester, “the Hardwick’s sow has had twenty-six piglets, Mary Andrews is going to marry Matthew Wright, the blacksmith’s son, and the earl has come home to Farley Hall.”

Edward was home? Anne shot an anguished glance at Aunt Hester, who nodded, her face sober.

Star prattled on, oblivious to the silent messages passing between Anne and her aunt. Don’t panic, Aunt Hester’s eyes said.

“In the storm,” Star announced, “lightning struck the Parker’s barn, but no one was hurt.”

“Lord Hicklestone has been here for several days, and has been meeting each day with Mr Mitcham,” Aunt Hester told Anne.

Anne took a deep breath. Then he hadn’t come for Star, or to throw them out of the castle, or both. At least, not yet.

At seven and a half, Star found the twenty-six piglets far more interesting than the rest of the news. “Can I go to see the piglets?” she begged.

Anne pulled her mind out of a vortex of worry to focus on her child. “Perhaps later this afternoon, after you have finished your lessons. Now run and wash your face and hands and get up to the table. The soup is nearly ready. And I’ve made fresh acorn bread to have with it.”

Star pulled a face at the thought off acorn bread, but trudged obediently to the corner where a jug of warm water waited by a wash bowl.

Anne bit her lip. How long would it be until he came?

* * *

With the promise of piglets, Star settled quickly to her work, and by mid-afternoon she and Aunt Hester had taken the steep back path down the hill to the Hardwick’s farm. Anne carried a pile of mending out into the sunlight, settling on the bench seat that overlooked the main path up the hill to the half-tumbled arch that once topped the castle gates.

Not that she could keep Lord Hicklestone from his own land, but at least she would see his approach. She rehearsed the coming conversation a dozen different ways. In some, he began by apologising for his many sins against her sister and her family. In others, he was as arrogantly uncaring as his brother, the former earl. Given the way Edward — his lordship — had abandoned them without a word, that was far more likely.

Her head was so full of the earl that the appearance of a buggy at the bottom of the hill took her by surprise. Try as she might, she couldn’t think of an explanation that put the dashing young lord she remembered in such an unfashionable vehicle.

But when the passenger climbed down, and began the long trudge towards her, all was explained. That portly figure could never be Edward Grantham. He might have gone to fat in eight years, for all she knew, but he could not have shrunk six inches. Besides, she was reasonably certain that she recognised the mule in the buggy’s traces.

The visitor stopped to look up, giving her a good view of his face and confirming her suspicions. Sir Clarence Cleghorn. Her cousin Clarence — a very distant cousin, as he’d reminded her while turning her, Aunt Hester, and the baby out of their home after he inherited from Anne’s father. What was he doing here?

She didn’t have to wait long to find out. After three pauses to rest on his way up the slope, Clarence puffed his way to the top, stopping again to mop his red face with a large handkerchief, already damp from previous uses.

“‘Tis no wonder you have no suitors, Cousin Anne,” he complained. “That path!” He shook his head then lowered himself, without asking, to sit beside her on the bench.

“Well, I’m here to amend that, and you’re a prize worth a bit of a climb.”

He was sitting too close, his thigh pressing against Anne’s leg, and she withdrew to the end of the bench, looking pointedly at the black armband sewn to one sleeve. “My deepest sympathies for your loss, Sir Clarence,” she told him.

Clarence dabbed at dry eyes with his handkerchief. “Ah yes. A tragedy, dear cousin. My only son. Perfectly formed, you know, but it was not to be. It breaks my heart. Still, I am hoping to come about, with your help, Anne.”

The man had barely spoken to her in seven years and thought to come courting? His wife and new-born son were barely a month in their grave! Anne’s breath hitched at the thought, remember Margaret.

Clarence was leering at Anne’s chest, horrid man. Anne lifted her mending to cover the perfectly modest bodice of her dress and he jerked his eyes up. “I should have been more patient,” he confided. “I see that now. You were very young, and grieving your father. Of course, you could not see I only wanted what was best for you. I dare say you have regretted your refusal many times.” He nodded, agreeing with his own conclusion.

Not even once. Manners constrained Anne from telling the truth, so she said nothing. Not when her cousin declared that he would do his duty despite her smeared reputation, but that she’d need to get rid of the base-born brat before the wedding. Not when he convinced her father’s lawyer not to increase her allowance or give her access to any of her capital. Not when he married a girl from the town he’d lived in before he inherited from her father. Not when she saw poor timid Lady Clarence following several steps behind him into the squire’s box in the church. Not when one daughter followed another, year after year while Lady Clarence grew thinner and more silent. However hungry and cold she and Aunt Hester might be, however hard the work of surviving another winter, it could not possibly be as bad as sharing a house, a bed, and a life with this man. Even had he not been fat, bald, and thirty years her senior, he was pompous, domineering, and stupid.

To keep from saying so, she put her mending down and stood. “Can I offer you a drink of water, Sir Clarence?”

“Indeed, Anne. Indeed. That would be delightful.” He began to hoist himself to his feet.

“Please stay there. I will not be above a moment.”

She was in the little alcove they used as a larder, ladling water from a bucket into a cup, when Clarence came up behind her. “This is a terrible place. I had no idea. That the daughter of a man such as your father should be reduced to these straits, and all for stubbornness.”

“You should not be inside, Sir Clarence.” She handed him the mug. “It is not proper for us to be alone.”

He accepted the mug but waved off her objection. “Such constraints are loosened for those who are betrothed, my dear.”

“We are not betrothed, Sir Clarence, nor are we going to be.”

He chuckled. “Of course, of course. You want a proposal in due form. You ladies. I know how it is. These romantic notions. Genevieve, the previous Lady Clarence, was just the same. Very well, Anne. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? There. Now it is done. How about a kiss?”

* * *

A buggy was parked at the bottom of the hill. The boy in charge lay half asleep under a tree. He and the mule lifted their heads when Edward stopped to ask, “Is your mistress visiting at the castle?”

“Me master,” the boy said.

Edward waited, but the boy didn’t add a name. A male caller was no surprise. Margaret used to attract callers like blossoms full of nectar attracted bees. Eight years had worked quite a change if she was down to the kind of man who drove a buggy.

Edward set the horse to the hill path, remembering the suitors who flocked to court the squire’s beautiful daughter. He and his brother had been just two of a dozen, all the eligible bachelors of the local gentry vying for a word of favour from the loveliest maiden in the district. When he’d won her hand, he thought himself the king of the world, for once chosen instead of his older, wealthier, more charming and titled brother. He’d basked in his status for four weeks, before it all crashed down.

The castle ruins were much as he remembered them. The Granthams had lived here since their Norman ancestor arrived in the train of the Conqueror, but the castle was mostly torn down during their absence in France with the Stuarts. On the restoration of Charles II, the new Lord Hicklestone was rewarded for his loyalty with an earldom and an heiress. Instead of spending his good fortune on such an old-fashioned heap of stone, the new Lord Hicklestone made his home on the other side of the village of Hickle, at his wife’s manor of Farley Hall, and the castle had been left to crumble.

Edward found a shady spot for his horse, tethering it by a trough and cranking the pump at one end to provide it with water. He’d filled it a bare inch when he heard a shout of pain from inside the walls.

“You witch!” a man’s voice roared. “You stuck me!”

“Stay back!” A female, the sound shrill with fear. Edward’s legs were in motion before his brain had caught up. However little he owed Margaret, he couldn’t stand by while a woman was being abused.

“I’ve come here to make a respectable woman of you, dammit!”

Edward came to a stop by the door, unable to resist the temptation to listen to the woman’s reply.

“I’ve refused your offer, Sir Clarence. Please take yourself off.”

Sir Clarence Cleghorn, presumably, the local squire. What was he doing proposing marriage? According to Mitcham, the man had just buried a wife.

Cleghorn was not taking his dismissal in good part. “Is it the little girl? Is that it? I suppose I could let you keep the little bastard. If the new earl won’t take charge of her.” Why should Edward take charge of her?

“My refusal has nothing to do with Estelle. I don’t like you, cousin. And I have no wish to be your broodmare. Please leave my house.” In the next moment, she gave a shriek, and Edward threw open the door.

Cleghorn had the woman by the wrist, holding it high to prevent her from defending herself with the needle she brandished. His other arm was around her waist, and she was twisting her face away to avoid his lips. She wasn’t Margaret, though she had something of the look of her. Margaret had been lushly built and fair as moonlight. This woman was a dark-haired sylph, slender as a reed, though curved in all the right places.

“Get your hands off that woman,” Edward commanded, but Cleghorn did not comply. He cast a glance over his shoulder and said, “Miss Cleghorn is my betrothed. Go away.”

“Liar!” Miss Cleghorn struggled to free herself. Not Margaret, and definitely not Miss Hester Cleghorn, Margaret’s aunt. This must be Anne, the little sister. If he’d thought about her at all, he’d assumed the younger girl had grown up and married.

Cleghorn clutched Miss Cleghorn tighter, and Edward saw red. Little Anne. She’d been a shy wee thing, often hanging around the edges of the merry crowd that courted Margaret but saying little. He’d rescued her kitten once, when it had climbed a tree.

Edward grabbed Cleghorn by the arm that held Anne and squeezed till the man let go, then spun him around and punched him in the nose. Something crunched beneath his knuckles and Cleghorn dropped.

Edward stood over him. “The lady said ‘no’,” he said.

Cleghorn struggled up onto his elbows. “She’s no lady,” he scoffed. “If it wasn’t for her dowry...”

Edward pulled him up by his neckcloth and punched him again.

“The door, please, Miss Cleghorn,” he asked.

She gave the two men a wide berth, scurrying around to open the door he’d slammed behind him. Edward twisted Cleghorn’s arm up behind his back and propelled him out the door, across the courtyard, and through the ruined arch. With a shove, he sent the man the first few yards down the path.

Safely out of reach, Cleghorn turned. “You haven’t heard the last of this, Lord Hicklestone, assaulting me.”

“By all means make a complaint to the closest magistrate,” Edward told him, “and I will report how you invaded a lady’s home and assaulted her.”

Cleghorn opened his mouth. Edward took a step towards him, clenching his fists. Cleghorn thought better of what he was about to say, and set off down the hill.

Anne had followed them out, her fine eyes flashing scorn as she watched her cousin leave. No wonder Cleghorn wanted her. Edward was fighting his own entirely inappropriate response.

“A large dowry, I take it?” he asked. Margaret’s had been 10,000 pounds. If Anne’s was the same, why was she not married? Ah. The child Cleghorn had mentioned. She had, presumably, followed her sister’s path. Surely John hadn’t ruined both Cleghorn sisters? He would have, of course. John thought of nothing but his own pleasures. A pity. She had been a sweet wee girl.

“Large enough. Clarence thinks it should have been his. You didn’t come here to talk to me about my dowry, Lord Hicklestone. I am grateful for your intervention, but I would like you to state your business.”

“My business. Yes. Well. May I sit down?” Edward gestured towards the bench. Sitting would help him disguise his body’s enthusiasm for getting to know her better. This was Margaret’s little sister, for crying out loud! He forced himself to remember the scene that had sent him fleeing England: his betrothed, her eyes shut in ecstasy while his brother pounded into her. Sure enough, the thought helped to shrivel his interest. However lovely she looked, however ladylike she appeared, Anne was of the same blood as the deceitful bitch that had ruined his life.

“Yes, of course.” Anne nodded. Edward took a moment to remember the question, but when she took a seat at one end the bench, he sat at the other. She was certainly more direct than her sister, no subtle hints, no flirting glances. He would do her the courtesy of being direct in return.

“I came to let you know that I plan to complete the demolition of the castle. It is not a safe place to live, Miss Cleghorn, so you and your sister will need to make other arrangements.”

Her jaw dropped as she stared at him. The colour drained from her face then flooded back in. “Make other arrangements? You mean to throw us out?” She blinked rapidly.

Were those tears? Edward shifted uneasily. “It is not safe,” he repeated.

She lifted her chin, and her voice was cold when she said. “We have lived here more than seven years, Lord Hicklestone. None of us have been injured.”

Her glare was so potent, he almost looked down at his chest to see if his coat was smouldering. The rumble and thud of a falling rock on the other side of the wall strengthened his determination. “Nevertheless, I could not reconcile it with my conscience to allow you to continue to put yourself in danger, Miss Cleghorn.”

For some reason, that sent her fury up another notch. “You and your conscience ignored us for many years, sir, and we have managed just fine without you. Or your brother.”

What the hell did that mean? “I did not know the condition of the castle or that you lived here. Not until this morning.” His own temper flared. Why was he defending himself to her? She was living rent free on his land! But hold on. Perhaps she could not afford to move?

He needed more information. Mitcham was not able to answer his questions, and he’d ridden over without asking anyone else. How long had they lived here? Why did John allow it? And now another one. Who had fathered Anne’s daughter? What promises had John made to them – promises he had no intention of keeping, probably, but Edward was not such a louse.

“I will give you four weeks to find other accommodation,” he conceded. Four weeks to find out their story. Four weeks to discover something that would relieve him of his irrational conviction that Miss Cleghorn was as innocent as she pretended, and the answer to dreams he thought long turned to dust.

* * *

Anne hoped her loathing for the earl showed in her eyes. Edward might have saved her from Cleghorn. He might once have been the embodiment of chivalry and grace to the young child she had been, the only youth in Margaret’s platoon of suitors who gave any attention to the schoolroom miss who haunted the edges of the crowd. He might be more handsome than any man ought to be, with a look in his eyes that made her want to melt. But he had proved himself callous and uncaring, and she’d do well to remember it.

Far below, Clarence climbed into the driver’s seat of his buggy, relegating the boy to the back. He whipped the mule, but it ignored him, taking its own sweet time about getting underway. “A donkey driving a mule,” Hicklestone murmured, the chuckle in his tone inviting her to share the joke.

She turned away before he could see her smile. She would not let him charm her. “Very well. You have given me your ultimatum. Now go.”

He stood, but he didn’t take his leave. “I would like to tell your sister myself.”

Anne looked at him then. “That would be difficult, Lord Hicklestone. She is more than seven years in her grave.”

Her scowl must have been potent, because Edward took a step back, but he recovered quickly. “My sympathies, Miss Cleghorn. I had my own troubles with Margaret, but I would not have wished her dead.”

“Really?” Anne could hear her voice growing shrill. “Your concern was not evident when you abandoned her without a single word; when you publicly shamed her by running away; when you ruined her, and the rest of the family with her. My sister died of a broken heart. My father, too. Your wishes are clearly not as potent as your actions, Lord Hicklestone.”

He even looked handsome when he was bewildered. How could he possibly be oblivious to the impact of his desertion? “Miss Cleghorn…” he began, but before he could finish the sentence, Star skipped towards them, talking flat out.

“Mama, I held a…” Star trailed off on seeing Edward. “I beg your pardon, sir. I did not know Mama had a visitor.” Anne stood, fighting the urge to put Star behind her. He wouldn’t want her. He had no right to her.

Aunt Hester rounded the corner of the castle, puffing slightly. The climb up the steep narrow path behind the ruins had clearly tired her. Anne saw the falter in her step when she recognized Edward, but she kept coming.

Anne barely spared Aunt Hester a glance, unable to take her eyes of Edward. Edward’s eyes narrowed as he intently examined Star’s face. He could not mistake the resemblance.

Aunt Hester curtsey was shallow and her voice cold. “Lord Hicklestone.” Like Anne, she had thought Margaret preferred the older brother, and had been relieved when she chose the younger. Fools that they were, they thought Edward kinder and more trustworthy.

Edward wrenched his eyes from Star and bowed in return. “Miss Cleghorn. It has been a long time.” He challenged Anne with his eyes. “Will you introduce me to your… daughter?”

Dear Lord. Anne could not faint now. “Lord Hicklestone, may I present Miss Estelle Cleghorn.”

Star curtseyed beautifully as she had been taught. “Have you ever heard of a sow having 26 piglets, Lord Hicklestone?” she asked, oblivious to the emotions swirling around her.

“No, Miss Estelle, I have not.”

“Well, the Hardwick’s sow did, and I have been to see them. Hardwick is having to move them to other sows, and I was allowed to carry one!”

Edward had crouched down so his head was on the same level as Star’s. “How exciting,” he said, sounding as if he meant it. “I must see this phenomenon for myself. Do the Hardwicks live nearby?”

Star pointed back in the direction she’d come. “Just on the other side of Hickle,” she explained. “Are you from Hickle, Lord Hicklestone? Because you have the same name.”

Aunt Hester squeezed Anne’s hand, then turned to the child. “Come and wash up, darling. It shall soon be time for supper.”

Star heaved a large sigh. “I always have to wash,” she mourned. “Even when something interesting is happening.”

“Now, Star,” Anne warned, and — apart from another hearty sigh — Star went without protest.

“She is Margaret’s,” Edward said. It was not a question.

Anne’s response was a fierce hiss. “She is mine now.”

“And John’s,” he continued, without acknowledging her challenge.

That stopped her. He was denying responsibility? She shook her head. “Yours.”

“No, Anne. That’s not possible. I never touched her — she wouldn’t allow me even a kiss, and I’d not have taken more. She was to be my wife!”

His eyes held only truth, and her heart accepted it while her brain was still trying to argue. She sank back onto the bench, her legs unwilling to hold her.

“Did she tell you the child was mine?” The indignation in his voice would have convinced her if she had not already accepted his claim.

“She would not tell us who the father was. But she was betrothed to you. She would not have…” Anne was measuring Edward’s certainty against the events of that dreadful time. Edward had disappeared overnight. A few days later, the earl had left for London and never returned. Margaret had seemed unconcerned at first, but then one morning, they woke up to find her gone. She’d left a note: “I have gone to London. I must talk to him. I love you all.”

She returned three weeks later, pale and silent. She said little; only that she was with child and the father refused to wed her. And four months later she gave birth to Star, turned her face to the wall, and died.

“It was the earl all along,” Anne said. Another thought struck her, and she reached out a hand to clasp Edward’s. “Dear Heavens, Edward. She must have known she was with child when she accepted your proposal! Poor Margaret. How she must have suffered.”

* * *

Anne had called him Edward, as she used to when he expected to become her brother. He sat beside her, still holding her hand. It felt right in his, as if it belonged. In all his anger and hurt pride, he had not realized that Margaret, too, was a victim in all this. A victim of John’s selfishness, and his own, he had to admit. He’d always blamed Margaret equally with John, and had not given Anne or Hester a single thought.

At least he could explain his reasons, even if there was no excuse for his actions.

“I came home a day early and found Margaret and John in the folly together,” he told Anne.

“Together?” She frowned and then the frown cleared as her eyes widened. “Oh. You mean ‘together’.” She blushed. Edward wondered how far the blush went and had to fight the urge to check. She didn’t notice.

“How dreadful, Edward. How could she? I am so sorry. All these years, I have been blaming you…”

“Shall we make a bargain?” Edward asked. Suddenly, he could see the solution to his problem with the castle and the unexpected complication of a surprise niece. “Let us forget the past and start again? Miss Cleghorn, I have a difficulty that I hope you will consent to assist me with. My castle is crumbling and presents a danger to anyone nearby. Why, a wall could crumble and topple down the hill onto the Hardwick’s piglets! Yet the tenants in the castle need a place to live, and I feel honour bound to give it to them. I also just found out I have a niece for whom I am responsible—”

Anne tried to pull her hand from his but he held on tight and continued talking, “—jointly with her lovely aunt, who has raised her since she was born. Miss Cleghorn, would you help me solve both my problems? Will you move into Farley Hall, where I can get to know my niece and give her the lifestyle she is entitled to, as a member of my family? Of course, Miss Hester Cleghorn would need to come as chaperone.”

“And what are your intentions towards my niece, Lord Hicklestone?” Miss Cleghorn the elder was frowning at him from the gateway, little Estelle beside her.

“I will treat your niece with every respect, Miss Cleghorn,” he promised. The respect due to a woman he was courting, he silently amended, which — if he was fortunate — would include kissing. She would need time to get to know him again, but he had seen enough for his own mind to be made up. She had faced terrible trials with dignity and courage, and retained the kindness and humour he remembered from when she was a child.

Add to that his physical reaction to her, and Edward was convinced. Marrying the older sister would have been a terrible mistake; marrying this one would be a dream come true.

“Then you had better stay for supper,” Miss Cleghorn declared. She turned and ushered Estelle back into the courtyard, saying over her shoulder, “you can let go of her hand now.”

Anne looked up into his eyes, and whatever she saw there caused her to blush further. Greatly daring, afraid he was rushing his fences, Edward said, “I would like the right to hold this hand forever more, Anne.”

She lowered her lashes, but she did not remove her hand, and a moment later she raised her candid eyes to his. “I will consider it, Edward.”

So, he tucked her hand into his elbow, put his own over it, and they went in to supper.

* * *

Four weeks later, the villages of Hickle and Farley, gentry and common folk all shoulder to shoulder, crammed into St Chad’s church in Hickle to see their earl marry.

The ceremony went off mostly without a hitch, except that the daughter of the happy couple let go of the ribbon (a deep vibrant pink to match her new frock) by which she held her pet piglet, and the little fellow made a bolt for the door, followed by Miss Estelle and most of the local children.

The congregation, as they trooped out onto the village green to enjoy a feast and toast the newly -weds, agreed that this had added something special to the flavour of the day.

“One of the famous Hardburn litter, so a local piglet, which is quite appropriate. She’s the squire’s daughter, you see. Not this squire,” the innkeeper’s wife explained to a visiting friend. “A waste of gruel, that man, and he hasn’t dared show his face at the wedding, not with the way he treated dear Lady Hicklestone. No, she was the daughter of the former squire, and a sweeter man never breathed. Why, just look at the way he supported his daughter. Not this daughter, who is a respectable woman, as anyone knows who has lived here this past eight years. And now she is a countess! Just think.”

Anne, who was walking behind the two women at that moment, looked up at her new husband, her eyes dancing. Edward raised a brow and she shook her head, pulling him away from the gossipers.

“I do not care what they say,” she told him. “It could be worse. Most of them are kind, and those who are not are miserable people who want other people to be as unhappy as they are.”

“They won’t say anything unkind about you to me,” Edward growled, clearly ready to march into battle to defend Anne and her reputation.”

“What a pity you are having the castle demolished,” Anne teased. “We could pull up the drawbridge and defend ourselves from all comers.”

“I quite like the idea of having my new wife all to myself, with everyone else locked out.” Edward had a glint in his eye that promised some of the pleasurable experiences to which he had been introducing her in the weeks since she consented to his courtship.

Tonight he would complete the act, he had promised. She gave a delighted shudder at the thought, and pressed closer to his side.

“That’s it, Anne,” he said. “There’s only so much a man can stand. We’re leaving. And don’t tell me it could be worse, for I am determined it will be better.” He waggled his eyebrows, attempting a leer. “Much better.”

The carriage was waiting by the inn, and with a wave to Aunt Hester and a blown kiss to Star, who was trying to keep her piglet from the food tables, they were off.

“And to think,” Anne said, when she surfaced briefly from a long kiss that managed to both satisfy and inflame, “only four weeks ago, I was prepared to live in that tower forever, and throw you off it if you tried to prevent me. Edward? Where is the carriage going? He has turned the wrong way.”

Edward smiled. “I have a surprise for you, my love. Will you shut your eyes so you don’t see it too soon?”

Obediently, Anne closed her eyes, and Edward bent to kiss her once more so that she lost track of time and did not even think of peeking to spoil the surprise.

The carriage stopped, and Edward leapt for the door before the footman could open it. Anne stepped down, looking around her, her eyes widening.

“It is the castle,” she said. She took a few paces forward. “You’ve had most of it pulled down, but not all.”

“We’ve kept the sturdiest walls to form shelter for the gardens.” Edward was beaming.

“Edward, most of the tower is still there.”

He nodded. “The lower floors were sound, as you said four weeks ago. We were able to save the next one up, and we’ve reroofed the structure there. Lady Hicklestone, this is your wedding present. Your tower. Your gardens.”

Anne turned in a full circle, her smile even broader than Edward’s. The footman had clambered back up onto the carriage, and the coachman gave the horses the signal to pull away.

“You said you would like to spend tonight in the castle,” Edward reminded her. “Only the tower, but if that will do, my wife, our bed, our luggage, and our food await us within. Will it do?”

A touch of anxiety in his voice tempted her to tease him. “It could be worse, I suppose,” she said, but she couldn’t hold the mournful tone, and finished on a giggle.

Edward pulled her into his arms for another kiss.

“It could hardly be better,” she admitted.

Edward swept her into his arms and headed towards the tower. “On the contrary, Lady Hicklestone, it is about to get a great deal better.”

THE END

The Fifth Race

Southern England, 1815

One more race, and Rhi would be free. No horse in all of England could catch Atlanta. By the terms of her agreement with her father, she had merely to win next week, and he would sign the new will and rip up the old one.

Her resentment rose, all the more fierce because she understood that Father acted out of love. He wanted to see her married to protect her, he said. She was too young, too inexperienced, too female to own and run the finest racehorse stud in Great Britain. And Father was dying, fading a little more with each day, which she resented more than all the rest.

Atlanta tossed her head and whickered, sensitive to her rider’s mood. Rhi took a deep breath, and another, letting the anger drain from her with the air she exhaled, emptying herself of everything but the joy of the horse’s movement, the freedom of the gallop, the love of the wild heath across which they raced for the sheer glory of the speed.

* * *

Cen watched from the shelter of a copse of trees. The mare lived up to all he’d read about her, and the rider too. Rhiannon Enright had more than lived up to the promise she had shown as a child. Back then, she rode astride — and the gossip in London that had sent him here said she did so still, in the races held once a month for the past four months. Today, she was properly and sedately side-saddle, but the way she rode had nothing proper or sedate about it.

She flowed with the horse, the two moving as one beast, all grace, power, and beauty.

The horse was magnificent, but Bucephalus was better.

As if on cue, Bucephalus whickered. Cen had tethered him upwind of the mare, and out of sight, but that meant every breeze blew the mare’s scent to his stallion. Unlikely that Rhi would hear, but better to play it safe. He’d come to find out if Atlanta was as good as they said; if the heiress was as appealing. Although he had already known the answer to the latter. She had won his heart when she was a baby just old enough to toddle to the stables. He had been Titch the foundling stableboy then, perhaps a year older, if they’d guessed his age right. She had been thirteen and his affection beginning to turn carnal when her father exiled him.

No point in dwelling in the past. The army had given him a new name, new skills, friends and a future, and now he had come full circle to the place where he began, able at last to reach out for the prize he had once believed beyond him. He had made up his mind, as if there had been any doubt. He would enter the race, and win her for his bride. Yes, and the stables where once he had been the lowliest of stableboys.

But as Cen stood, taking care to stay behind the undergrowth and to move smoothly and slowly, something caught his eye on the valley floor.

There. Beyond the racing mare. Movement in a hollow screened by bushes. He frowned even as he squinted to refine his focus. Horses; two, no three. And men preparing to mount.

And there! Caught in his peripheral vision, two more horses on a hillock like his own, but on the opposite side of the valley. One of the riders raised his hand in a signal to the men in the hollow, and they mounted, keeping low over their horses’ backs.

A threat to Rhi? Cen made up his mind, whistling the signal that told Bucephalus to pull at the tether and come to him. In the time it took for the horse to trot up the hill, and for Cen to adjust the tack and mount, all five of the stranger riders were ahorse and heading on an interception course for the lone female rider. What was she doing out without a groom?

Rhi had noticed her pursuers, and Atlanta was lengthening her stride, aiming for the gap between the two groups. She had the speed, if she was fresh. But Rhi and Atlanta had been racing the well-formed track across the heath for an hour. The other horses were gaining.

Cen and Bucephalus, coming from a different vantage, might be able to put themselves between the chasing men and the woman, if they were fast enough, if she continued in the same direction. At the very least, the rogues might hesitate if they knew he was watching, though men who would assault a woman would not hesitate to dispose of an inconvenient witness.

Atlanta faltered. Ah. Rhi had seen him. He pointed to the other riders and gestured her to keep coming, and after a moment, she nudged her horse on. But the hesitation had the nearest of her pursuers right on her heels.

The look of mingled panic and determination on Rhi’s face as she approached removed any lingering thought that the scenario might have an innocent explanation. Cen pulled the cudgel he kept in a holster hanging from his saddle, holding it aloft as Rhi passed him, and swinging it down on the shoulder of the man immediately following.

The man behind swung wide as the first rider fell, and kept after Atlanta, but Cen faced two more, and beyond them another, muffled in a greatcoat and scarf, shouting, “It’s only one man. Get rid of him.”

Cen grinned. Only one man and his horse. More than enough, though they were coming at him with guns. At the signal from his guiding knees, Bucephalus spun around and caprioled, his hind hooves connecting solidly with one of the attacking horses as Cen ducked a bullet and threw the knife from his sleeve at the rider of the other.

A shout from the direction Rhi had fled caught his attention. A party on horseback, and known to Rhi, apparently, for she continued her wild gallop towards them. And the would-be assailant who had followed her had pulled up, and was looking back for directions.

In moments, the attack was over, the fallen men collected by their companions and the group fleeing back the way they had come. Cen let them go. A sting in his arm hinted that he hadn’t entirely evaded the bullet, but it was no more than a scratch. He looked up from wrapping a handkerchief around it as a temporary dressing to find the lady and her horse had departed with her rescuers, and he was now alone.

He gave Bucephalus the signal to walk. Time to register for the race.

* * *

The clerk at Enright’s insisted on reading the terms and conditions in full before Cen was permitted to sign himself into the roll of competitors.

Cen had already heard the main points.

The location of the race – here, at the stud. The date – just over a week away. The distance – four laps.

The horse and rider registered must compete together. If either dropped out, the other was disqualified. Substitutions would be permitted only with the agreement of all other competitors.

Both horse and rider were expected to stay at the stud for the night before the race.

By taking part, the would-be groom gave his sworn word that no impediment prevented his marriage to Miss Rhiannon Enright, and that he would marry Miss Enright should he win the race.

The would-be groom must be the rider, and must own the horse.

The rider must be a gentleman, and a man of honour.

And the prize. The prize was exactly as had been reported. Miss Enright’s hand in marriage, and with it ownership of everything Enright had built up over his lifetime: the land, the stables, the horses, the reputation.

At last, the clerk wound to a close, and Cen was permitted to take up the prepared pen and enter his name and his horse’s name. And his signature to acknowledge agreement with the terms and conditions

The next step, apparently, was to parade his horse in front of the Enright stable master, so that any distinguishing features could be noted for future identification. Of them both, presumably.

He collected Bucephalus from the shaded water trough and led him into the stableyard where Jake Clemow was waiting for him. Clemow was a decent person and a good horseman, but Cen wondered where old Tom Merrick was. He had been stablemaster the whole time Cen lived here, and as close to a father as Cen had ever had. Somehow, Cen had imagined him still here, still the same.

It has been upward of ten years, he reminded himself, as he stopped in front of Clemow, raising one brow as his only greeting. He’d copied the arrogant gesture from his commanding officer, who had been born to privilege and understood its uses.

It had the usual effect. “My instructions are to examine the horse, sir,” Clemow explained humbly. “I will not keep you above five minutes.”

Now for the move called Being kind to one’s inferiors.

“You have your job to do,” Cen acknowledged, graciously, waving a hand to give him permission. Clemow would hear only the purest upper class intonations. His fellow officers had schooled him rigorously, at first amused at the groom who aped their accent, and later — after his riding skills won them all free from an ambush and he received his first field promotion — caught up in recreating him as a gentleman.

Bucephalus copied his master’s tolerance, or recognised an experienced hand. He stood calmly as the stable master circled, and occasionally touched him.

“Well, sir, I’ll know him again. A fine stallion, if I may say so.”

Cen inclined his head. “I am always happy to receive praise of Bucephalus, especially from a man with your knowledge and experience.”

“He is magnificent,” a new voice said. Rhi had come up quietly behind him, and was eyeing Bucephalus with a mix of longing and anxiety. Up close, she was both familiar and unfamiliar; the hazel eyes and rich chestnut hair Cen remembered, her features a more womanly cast of the girlish face he had carried in his heart for a decade. He managed to keep his eyes from roaming the subtle curves that her habit lovingly hugged. No wonder each race was fully subscribed. What a prize!

Cen bowed. “Miss Enright. I am honoured.”

“It is Mr Lawrence, is it not? I saw your name in the roll. Mr Alexander Lawrence. And this is Bucephalus.”

The stallion, lucky fellow, placed a soft mouth in her waiting hand.

Clemow hovered, uncertain. “You can leave us, Clemow,” Rhi said. “I am not likely to come to harm in the middle of our own stable yard, surrounded by our own men.”

Interesting. What did she have to say that she did not want the stablemaster to hear? Cen kept his eyes on his horse, watching Clemow from the corner of his eyes. After another doubtful look at Cen, the man muttered, “If you are certain, Miss.”

* * *

Mr Lawrence was caressing his stallion, not meeting her eyes. He was smaller than she had expected — perhaps an inch taller than she was herself. The caricatures and drawings that accompanied stories about him in the papers had exaggerated his height and his shoulders.

Most of them had, however, captured his classically beautiful features, the Grecian nose and well defined eyebrows, the firm line of his jaw and the amused tilt to his lips. He was fairer than the papers implied, and his eyes were an unusual shade of green that she’d only seen once before, long ago.

The Centaur, they called him; one of an elite troop of soldiers all bearing the nicknames of beasts. Mr Lawrence won his name because, or so they claimed, he could ride anything even vaguely horselike, as if he was more than half horse himself.

She should have expected a true horseman’s build: fit, with muscular thighs and strong shoulders arrowing down to slim waist and hips. Which she was not looking at. Not at all.

She wrenched her eyes back up to his head, and found him watching her, his eyes amused.

To cover her fluster, she blurted, “Thank you for your intervention on the heath.”

He bowed slightly. “It was my honour to serve you, Miss Enright. Do people often try to abduct you?”

Her cheeks heated. “Never. Or, at least, never until today. Do you think I would ride alone if I thought there was danger?” She had ignored her father’s warnings, thinking them ridiculous. Adbuction happened in Gothic novels, not in her quiet corner of England. It was the nineteenth century, after all, and she was not a beauty to madden men’s hearts.

Defensive, she attacked.

“Why were you on the heath, Mr Lawrence? So conveniently placed for a rescue?”

A slight lift of one brow was his only reaction to the near accusation. “I was spying on you, Miss Enright. I wanted to see what Bucephalus and I would be facing should I put our names on your roll.”

His honesty took the steam from her indignation. “And yet you have signed up. You underestimate us.”

Again, the quiet smile. “Perhaps. Or I overestimate our own speed and heart. We shall see. Atlantis is a fine mare, and you are an incomparable rider.”

She softened at his praise, and caught herself doing so. “Then who were those men, if not yours?”

“Not mine,” he confirmed. “I should like very much to know the answer to that question.” His voice, quiet and meditative, still had something lethal in it that sent a shiver down her spine. This man was more dangerous than he seemed. She must remember that he had been at war for a decade, though he hardly looked old enough. For much of that time he had been an exploring officer, constantly putting himself in danger behind enemy lines.

Casting about for something more neutral to say, she suddenly noticed the stained handkerchief tied around his arm.

“You have been hurt! Was that on my account?”

He glanced at his arm, both brows raised. “This? I had forgotten it. A scratch, Miss Enright. One of them took a shot at me and I did not manage to quite avoid the bullet. But it is a mere nothing. Do not trouble yourself.”

Nonsense. Horses — yes, and men, too — could die of an untreated scratch. “We will need to get it cleaned and dressed. I have a poultice...”

They were interrupted by Merrick, the retired stablemaster who nowadays spent most of his daylight hours in Father’s parlour, reminiscing about the glory days of their youth. “Mr Lawrence? Miss Enright? Mr Enright has heard about the incident on the heath, and wishes to meet his daughter’s rescuer.”

If she had not been watching Mr Lawrence, she would not have seen the shutters come down, a wilfull imposition of calm and control over the eyes that had moments before been alive with humour and interest.

He turned to Merrick and bowed slightly, an odd reverence for a gentleman to give a servant. “I would be honoured to meet Mr Enright,” he said.

* * *

Merrick had shrunk, and so had the house as Cen was ushered in through the side door and up the chief staircase. He had been threatened with a beating last time he had used that instead of the servant stairs, following Rhi. He had been nine, and summoned by her up to the schoolroom to see her latest drawings. All horses. From the time she could hold a drawing implement, horses and riders had flowed off her fingertips onto the paper.

Enright was smaller, too, and it was not just an artefact of Cen’s own growth. Ten years ago, he had been a full-figured man, not tall but burly. Now, he was naught but skin stretched over bone, the imminence of his death another presence in the room. He lay semi-reclined on pillows on a sofa by the fire of his private parlour, wrapped in a blanket. Old and sick, yes, but his eyes still alive with the intelligence that had built his stud and his fortune.

“This is Mr Lawrence, Father,” Rhi said. “He helped me today when some riders attempted to accost me on the heath.”

Enright frowned. “I warned you, Rhiannon. Perhaps now you will listen. Mr Lawrence, thank you for rescuing my headstrong child.” His voice was a shadow of its former self, the slow words rasping past some obstruction.

Rhi bristled silently beside Cen: at the public admonition or at her father’s description, or both.

Cen bowed, more deeply this time. “I was of but small service, Mr Enright. The lady rescued herself, with the help of the stablemen who rode out to meet her.”

“That is not the story I heard,” Enright argued.

“Had Mr Lawrence not chanced along and slowed them, even Atlanta’s speed might not have been enough to allow me to escape,” Rhi admitted. “I will not ride out alone again, Father.” She had seated herself on a footstool close enough to take the invalid’s hand, and to bend over to kiss his papery cheek.

“Father, Mr Lawrence was shot in the altercation.” She pointed at Cen’s arm. “He came straight here to enroll in the race, with no more treatment than a handkerchief.” She sounded irritated, but the eyes that met Cen’s were concerned.

“I need to see to it,” she insisted.

Not a good idea for Rhi to see my elbow. Not yet. “It is a mere scratch,” Cen repeated. “It can wait until I’ve found a room at an inn, and settled myself and my horse.”

Enright’s face set in the lines that said he had made up his mind. “You will stay here. We have the room, and it is the least I can do for the man who took a wound for my daughter. And Rhiannon, Tom will see to the man’s arm, and not with you in the room, either. There is enough talk about the work you do, as it is.”

Rhi was the only person who ever argued with Enright when he was in this mood, and she must have decided this was not the time, because she nodded. “Very well, Father. I will go and give orders for Mr Lawrence’s room, and we will leave you to rest.”

Enright patted the hand that rested in his, and smiled; the tender look he reserved for his daughter and new-born foals.

“Go get that wound seen to, lad,” he advised Cen. “I would like to talk to you again, later.”

Cen followed Merrick from the room, and back down to a small office on the ground floor. He remembered this, too. He had played on that floor when he was barely old enough to toddle; had learned his letters at this old man’s knee from the stud books on the bookshelves that lined every wall; had begun keeping his own ledgers for offspring from the matings he had been allowed to suggest. All interrupted when he was sent away.

As Merrick pointed him to a chair by the desk, pulled a basket of medicinal herbs from a shelf, and sent a passing maid for warm water and rags, Cen wondered if there was any way of avoiding showing Merrick his elbow, with the distinctive ragged scar he had received when he put himself between a maddened stallion and Rhi.

Merrick would recognise it, as would Rhi and probably Enright. Did it matter? He had good reason not to disclose his identity to Rhi before the race; he would not have her wondering later if he had used their history together to influence her. But surely honour required that he inform her father?

He smiled at the distance he had come. The boy known as Titch knew nothing of a gentleman’s honour, though he’d been raised as a boy by men who had a rough and ready honour of their own. Cen’s mentors in the art of being a gentleman had refined that teaching, but never replaced it. Cen had received his first lessons in honesty, loyalty, and respect from Merrick. Today, he would trust those lessons.

***

Merrick and Father were treating Mr Lawrence like a long-lost son. It was very irritating, and not at all ameliorated by the fact that Rhi liked him, too.

Only Mr Lawrence’s perfect manners kept Rhi from disgracing herself by taking her ill temper out on him. Unlike several of her other more importunate suitors, gathering now for the race, he did not subject her to flowery and unlikely compliments, or try to take over tasks around the horses, or ignore her opinions with — at best — an indulgent smile.

He was much more dangerous to her peace of mind, admiring her riding and her handling of the young stock, working alongside her, and truly listening to what she said — even arguing when he disagreed.

It would not be terrible, perhaps, to lose to Mr Lawrence. No. She could not begin to think that way. She would win the fifth race, and her freedom from her father’s demands. Then, perhaps, it might be time to reconsider her position on marriage.

She found herself, two days before the race, defending a position in which she no longer had confidence. She and Mr Lawrence were walking their horses to cool them, after a training run in which both had let down their guard and given their horses free rein. Atlanta had won, but only because she and Rhi knew the ground, and not by much.

They had been strolling in comfortable silence when Mr Lawrence asked, “Are you set against marriage, Miss Enright? Or against being forced into marriage for the sake of your father’s dream?”

It was an excellent question, and one that she had been asking herself. “Marriage is a gamble fraught with danger for a woman. And being married for one’s inheritance rather than one’s person makes it more risky, I think.”

“A gamble?” Mr Lawrence considered that for a moment. “I agree, but most women seem keener on the risk of it than men, from what I’ve observed.”

“Because they have few other choices,” Rhi insisted. “With few exceptions, women of our class are allowed only one role in life, as a wife and mother. Had I been born a boy, would my father hesitate to make me his heir? And yet I have done all that a son could this last decade and more. I have worked with the horses all my life, and I have kept the accounts since I was fifteen and the stud books these last three years. But because I am a woman, he thinks that men will not wish to deal with me; that they will take their business elsewhere, even though our horses are the best in England.”

“You are right. It is unfair.” Mr Lawrence took another few strides before adding. “But your father is also right. Men will try to take advantage of you because you are an unprotected female, and when they fail, they will prefer to deal with someone else, and they will lie to their friends about the reason because they will not want anyone to know that they attempted to defraud you.”

His dispassionate observation stopped Rhi in her tracks, and Atlanta nudged her to keep moving. “You are the most unaccountable man,” she told him. “And yet you would have me put my life and my future — yes, and my horses, too — into the hands of such a creature?”

“Not at all, Miss Enright. I would have you choose a champion who would love and respect you, support you in your endeavours, and work alongside you to meet life’s challenges.”

Someone like you, I suppose. The words hovered on her tongue, but she swallowed them, afraid they would emerge sounding like an invitation rather than the sarcastic repudiation she intended.

Instead, she asked, “But how can one know? Men — yes, and women, too, I suppose — wear the mask that pleases, but who is to say what happens when the vows are said and it is too late to change one’s mind?” She chewed her upper lip, thinking about the two female friends she had made in her one unsuccessful Season, when her relatively plebian origins and her outspoken ways had put her on the sidelines, watching the romances of others. Hearing how those friends fared after marriage had left her grateful she was ignored.

“It is a risk for everyone, you say. But men risk less, for society does not expect even the appearance of fidelity from a man, and if a man beats his wife, or wastes her inheritance on drink or gambling or other women, the wife has no redress and no way to stop him.”

“That is true. But is this way wiser?” Mr Lawrence hesitated, glanced back at her, then grimaced. “You have great faith in your horse, but risking your future on her speed? And leaving your choice of mate to the speed of another rider’s horse? That is a greater gamble than choosing for yourself, if you will forgive me for saying so.”

Forgive him for putting into words her own thoughts? “It was that, or accept the husband my father chose for me,” she growled. “I saw a chance to be free. And I am almost there, Mr Lawrence. One more race.”

“The fifth race. Yes. I wish you well, Miss Enright. I hope you know that. This suitor your father chose. Has he entered the lists for your hand?”

She shot him a glance, smiling, sure he would enter into her amusement. “He was a great disappointment to my father, choosing a wife of his own before Father could enter negotiations. It was only his defection — though, to be fair, the poor man knew nothing of Father’s plans — that made Father willing to agree to the races.”

Mr Lawrence laughed with her. “He is still annoyed that Atlanta was much better than he realised,” he said.

Not my fault. If Father had listened to me, he would have known exactly how good Atlanta was.

“He knows now,” she said.

* * *

On the night before the race, Cen took a blanket down to the stables to sleep with Bucephalus. He wasn’t about to trust to gentlemen’s honour; not when Rhi and her fortune were at stake; not when at least one so-called gentleman had already tried to abduct her.

He had also warned Clemow, who had put two grooms on night duty in the separate stable where Atlanta slept in preparation for tomorrow’s great effort.

Cen, Merrick and Clemow had made no headway in discovering the would-be abductor’s identity. The attackers Cen had seen well enough to recognise did not show their faces, nor were their horses now among those thronging the stables.

Cen would lay odds on one of two competitors, both of whom already regarded the stables with a proprietary air. Major Kentworthy, who insisted on the honorific and still wore the uniform two years after leaving the army, was the kind of braggart Rhi feared; a bully and a womaniser. His horse was good, but any six of the others in the field would leave it in the dust. An abduction, had it worked, was his only chance.

Lord Durridge was the other; a smooth, smiling man who was wise enough to flatter Rhi for the things she valued: her horsemanship, her intelligence, her business skills. Perhaps Cen was imagining the sneer Durridge wore when he thought no one was watching. Certainly, Cen could not deny that jealousy played a part in his wish to find Durridge guilty.

Durridge had a superb horse, delivered two days ago and already recovered from his travel. Baring accidents, it would be a three-horse race: Atlanta, Bucephalus, and Durridge’s King.

Cen’s privileged position as a house guest had been noted, with several of the competitors complaining to the two local landowners, both peers, who had been appointed as stewards to see fair play. Without success, for the stewards ruled that Enright’s clear preferences were irrelevant, since the outcome depended on the performance of the horses and riders on the day.

After that, several people tried to goad Cen into a fight. He ignored their veiled insults, dodged their ‘accidental’ shoves and attempts at tripping him, and sent to his former commander, Ruthford, for a trustworthy groom to stay constantly with Bucephalus when Cen couldn’t be there.

Tonight, the last night before the last race, he would not leave the groom, however trusted, alone in that guardianship task to a groom.

He wrapped himself in his blanket, but his mind was too full to allow sleep. If he won, all he had ever wanted would fall into his hands. If the winner was Rhi, she would at least be free to choose, and he dared hope she would choose him. Though either way, he would have to admit to having once been the stable boy, Titch. He couldn’t predict what she would say about him continuing to hide the secret even after Merrick and her father knew. He hoped she would understand his reasons.

And if Durridge won?

He couldn’t let her go to that man. Surely, it was the part of a gentleman to place the wellbeing of his beloved above all other considerations? Rhi had promised to marry the man who won, but if it came to the point, Cen would simply have to abduct her himself.

Bucephalus shifted, lifting his head as if to catch a noise or a smell.

“What is it, lad?” Cen rose to soothe the big beast, and from his new position could hear the rumble of voices, Rhi’s rising above the others.

Cen nudged the groom awake with one foot, then sat down to pull on his boots. “Something is going on at Atlanta’s stable. I’ll check it. You stay here with Bucephalus, and don’t let anyone in except me.”

He let himself out into the aisle of between the loose boxes. The stable building was dark and quiet, the competitors mostly asleep in the guest wing of the main house, and their grooms probably upstairs in the grooms’ loft. If any others had followed Cen’s example, they did not stir as he passed between the stalls and made his way out into the night air.

A purposeful murmur drew him towards the other building, where he nearly bumped into Merrick coming from the house. “What has happened?” he asked.

Merrick pushed in front of him, tossing back over his shoulder, “Someone tried to nobble the horse.”

Outside Atlanta’s loose box, a couple of men hovered over a groaning groom, who was curled around his stomach, which — from the smelly bucket at his feet — had recently revolted. Another groom lay pale but conscious further down the aisle, with two more men attending him.

Clemow and Rhi were in the loose box with Atlanta. The mare lay on her side, her eyes shut, and for a moment Cen feared she was dead. When her flanks heaved, he shot up a prayer of thanksgiving, and another that she would continue to breathe.

It was touch and go. Merrick ran out of ideas, and Cen had to dredge up something he’d seen tried only once before, by a gypsy in Spain. But the mare had a great heart, and Rhi would not give up, and at last Atlanta stood drooping, but firmly on her feet. Once she had accepted a drink of water, Cen took his first deep breath for hours.

Merrick put their hopes into words. “She’ll make it.”

Rhi, pale and looking fragile in a hastily wrapped morning gown, her hair hanging in plaits down her back, leaned back against the stall wall, her head tipped back and her eyes shut. She was exhausted, and the race was in just a few hours.

The race! She must have remember it at the same time he did, because she straightened suddenly and met his eyes, her own swimming. “I’ve lost, Centaur. Atlanta cannot race tomorrow.”

She had turned to him in her distress. How could he resist helping her? “No, but you can ride. You can ride Bucephalus, Rhi.”

* * *

It was simple enough. The stewards, horrified at the attack on the horse (and the men, but they were clearly a secondary consideration), described the outrage to the assembled competitors and praised Mr Lawrence for his sportsmanship in giving up his own chance at the prize in order to provide Miss Enright with a mount. “Of course,” the spokesman said, “the rules make it clear that such a substitution must receive the unanimous agreement of the competitors. I believe I can take it as a given that no gentleman among you will disagree?”

Put like that, what were they going to say?

Mr Lawrence, Merrick, and Clemow escorted her to Bucephalus, and then walked beside the stallion as she rode to make her salute to her father. He was in the owner’s box beside the track, in a heavily cushioned chair, well wrapped against the wind.

“I’ll wish you luck, then, girl,” he rasped. “I hope you know what you are doing, lad.”

“Giving your daughter her heart’s desire, I hope,” Mr Lawrence replied.

Her on his horse, about to face the race that would decide her fate, Rhi acknowledge that a future not including Mr Lawrence would be a bleak one. She had to win her freedom. More than any race before, it mattered, because she couldn’t marry another rider when the one she wanted had dropped out of the race.

Thirteen competitors faced up to the start line. Lord Durridge was well to the left of Rhi, with six lesser challengers between her and him. “Durridge is the one to watch,” Mr Lawrence warned her, as he checked the horse’s girth, stirrups and reins one last time. “Do not trust him, Miss Enright.”

Not an inch. Something about the man made her skin crawl.

“Bear the lady to victory, Bucephalus,” Mr Lawrence commanded his horse, before he obeyed the commands of those who were clearing the track until only the competing horses and their riders remained.

The course was flat, and they would circle it four times — a total distance of just over a mile. A single heat would decide all. Bucephalus quivered with eagerness to be off, and Rhi bent forward over the saddle, waiting for the signal.

There.

Before the flag had finished dropping, Bucephalus responded to her shifting weight with a leap forward, leaving most of the field behind him. A glance to each side showed three of the other horses keeping pace, but she’d be a fool to discount those behind her. In four laps, anything could happen.

***

Cen was leaning on the rail, watching Bucephalus show his heels to the horses that had the impertinence to think they could keep up with him. A huge crowd had gathered to watch this last race of Rhi’s, and the news of the night’s attacks had them excited and restless. It would be over in minutes. Here they came again, around for the third lap of the course, Bucephalus still in the leading group, which was now down to four horses.

“Look. It is true,” said someone behind him. “She rides astride. How disgusting.”

In a split skirt that covered her as discreetly as any gown, she was almost a part of the horse, or the horse of her, beauty and power and grace in perfect harmony.

“She is magnificent,” he said, not bothering to turn around.

He didn’t get an answer, and didn’t care. The horses were turning at the far end of the straight and would be behind trees for a minute. He stretched to see a last glimpse of them, and something caught his eye. A glint in one of the trees. Probably some jackdaw’s treasure, but his brain screamed ‘gun’ and his body was already moving, pushing his way through the crowd to where a rotund gentleman in his middle years sat on his horse, peering over the crowd at the disappearing trailers in the race.

“I need your horse, sir,” Cen demanded. “There’s a gunman in the trees at the far end of the course.”

The man brows met in a suspicious glare. “I do not know you, sir,” he said.

“My apologies.” Cen resisted the urge to pull the fool down, and forced his voice to calm. “I am Alexander Lawrence, and the woman I love is in danger. I know I am asking a lot—”

But the stranger was beaming, and already moving to dismount. “Lawrence? The Spanish Centaur? But of course. And in love, you say? Go on then, Centaur. Go and save your lady. Clear way! Clear way!” He hurried ahead of Cen, pushing people to either side, as he explained the urgency of Cen’s errand.

The horse was a stolid cob, but it took the rail into the raceway in a neat, collected leap. Cen ignored the oncoming horses in the race, the excited screeching of the crowd, and the angry shouts of the stewards’ track watchers, and sent the horse flying again, over the rail on the other side of the track.

The race thundered past him. He would not make the trees before Rhi passed them again. Yes. He must. He leaned forward, whispering in the cob’s ear, begging it for an extra ounce of speed. He was being pursued now. Good. Perhaps the certainty of capture would deter the sniper.

He was almost under the trees, and the leading horses in the race, Bucephalus still at their head, had turned the curve and were about to pass him. He risked a glance upward, to see the sniper drawing aim before him. On Rhi?

In desperation, he whistled the swerve command, just as the sniper fired. Three men on horseback pulled up beside him, but Cen had eyes only for Rhi, who had stuck to Bucephalus’s back even as the stallion dropped and shifted sideways.

The move had let two of the other horses get ahead, and Bucephalus, with a great push from his hind legs, was after them in a moment. The fourth horse — the one that had been almost level with Bucephalus — was down; his rider, too, tossed as the horse fell.

“He’s been shot,” Cen told those with him, “and the sniper is above us in the trees.”

* * *

After the check on the turn, Lord Durridge and one other rider were ahead, with less than one hundred yards to go. Bucephalus threw his heart ahead of him and hauled in their lead, one stride at a time, with Rhi leaning forward to murmur encouragement.

They passed the other rider, then gained on Lord Durridge. He turned as they drew level, his teeth bared, his eyes burning with anger. The whip with which he had been belabouring his horse suddenly flashed out, striking Bucephalus on the neck, then again, aimed at Rhi.

She felt the sting on her shoulder, then Bucephalus was ahead, and Lord Durridge had missed his chance. “Just a few yards more, my hero,” she told the horse, and with that, they were around the last curve and on the straight, heading to the finish line.

The yelling of the crowd, which had faded almost to nothing as she focused on the race, returned full force as she slowed her winning stallion to a walk. Mr Lawrence, mounted on a gelding that Bucephalus snorted at, and no wonder, met her just before she turned back to the stewards’ box.

He was grinning. “You did it, Rhi!”

She could feel her eyes widen. Father had told her such a tale this morning, that she could not believe it. But that was precisely what Titch had said when she won her first race. Yes and each after that. If it was Titch, he had changed almost beyond belief. But the eyes. The eyes were the same, and Father said he had the scar on his elbow.

She had no time to challenge him. Durridge was before them to the stewards’ box, and he turned as they approached, his triumphant smirk transformed quickly into a concerned half frown. “Miss Enright, are you hurt? I cannot apologise enough for the way my hand slipped.”

Mr Lawrence put a hand on hers. “What did he do, Rhi?”

“Never mind that,” one of the stewards said. “Lord Durridge has lodged an objection, Miss Enright. The rules say that each rider must own the horse he rides. He is asking for you and the horse to be disqualified.”

Which would leave Lord Durridge as the winner. He was attempting to look neutral, but a smug smile kept breaking through.

“Did I not explain?” Mr Lawrence said. “Miss Enright is the owner of Bucephalus. I gave him to her last night.”

The surrounding crowd had hushed to hear what was being said, but that statement set off a loud buzz. Rhi ignored them, took no notice of Durridge’s hastily suppressed oath, turning to search Mr Lawrence’s eyes. She was looking down at him, the cob being shorter than his— no, her— stallion.

She wanted to argue, but she couldn’t spoil his moment. Besides, he was smiling.

“You’ve won, Rhiannon!” That was Father, throwing all his energy into one glad shout, and collapsing back against his cushions.

Rhi forgot everything else in her need to be with her father, tumbling off the stallion and tossing Bucephalus’s reins to Mr Lawrence so she could climb the stand to where he half sat, half lay.

* * *

Cen had returned the cob to the excited gentleman and was thoughtfully examining the whip cut on Bucephalus’s neck when Clemow joined him.

Mr Enright had been carried inside, a doctor in attendance, and Rhi had gone with them. The contestants had dispersed, Durridge after further expostulations to the stewards and a thunderous glower at Cen.

Their grooms were attending to their horses, but no one would see to Bucephalus except Cen. “If things do not turn out as I wish, this may be goodbye, my friend,” he was telling the stallion as Clemow came hurrying up.

“You’ll want to hear this, sir.”

“Can it wait, Clemow?”

“One of the grooms, the one that got coshed, recognised the man who shot at Miss Enright and wounded Lord Beckfoth. The same man hit the groom, sir, and he cannot talk fast enough to save his own neck. He was hired by Lord Durridge, sir, and he was in on the plans for the attempted abduction.”

Lord Durridge was stopped before he could leave the estate, and the local justice of the peace, having recently acted as steward for the race, was on hand to order him taken into custody. Durridge accused his hireling of lies, pointed out that no one had been killed or even seriously injured, and argued that — as a peer — he could not be arrested. But the justice was indignant at the interference with the horse race, and was in no mood to listen to Durridge’s false assumptions of privilege.

“He was more annoyed about the attempt to poison Atlanta than the assault on the stableboys or the attempt to shoot you,” Cen told Rhi when he reported to her after Durridge had been taken away. “Durridge will not find a sympathetic ear.”

“They will let him go in the end, though,” Rhi complained. “Father says we should investigate his financial situation. Only someone arrogant would have thought he could get away with such acts. Only someone desperate would have tried.”

“Your father is better?”

“Just tired, the doctor says. He informs me that he will live until we are married.” Rhi blushed then, a beautiful shade of pink, and put her hand over her mouth as if to take back what she’d just said.

Cen measured his words, afraid of spooking her into a retreat. “You won the race. You are free to choose, Rhi. You must know I hope you will choose me, but the choice is for you to make. Not me, and not your father. And you must let me tell you my whole story before you decide.”

She took a deep breath, and reached out for his hand. “I made my choice when I was twelve. I am so pleased to have you home at last, Mr Lawrence. Or should I call you Alexander? Or Centaur? Titch no longer fits you, does it.”

He was bereft of words. She knew? “How long have you known?”

“My father told me this morning. I didn’t believe him, but then I looked into your eyes. No one has eyes that colour, except you. And after the race. You said what you always say, ‘You did it, Rhi.’ I was certain then.”

He was still catching up. He was all prepared to explain his absence and the reasons for hiding his identity when he returned, and apparently she needed none of that. So where did that leave them?

“Will you marry me, Rhi?” he asked.

“On one condition,” the woman replied, twinkling a smile at him, which saved his heart from diving into his boots.

“Name it.”

“For the love of all things holy, man,” she scolded, as she slid her hands around his waist, “will you tell me what I am to call you?”

He wrapped his arms around her and touched her lips with a featherlight kiss. “Whatever you please, my heart. But I mostly answer to Cen, from my friends.”

“Cen,” she said, caressing the syllable as she spoke it.

He closed his mouth on hers, and no more was said for some time.

THE END

The Hero’s Vow

At first, Jules thought the blow on the head had robbed him of his sight. But as he surfaced from the weight of the enormous headache that pinned him to the stone floor where they’d left him, he decided darkness was a more likely explanation. He moved cautiously, with protests from the bruises and aches from various kicks and blows the scurvy smugglers had landed.

His sword was gone, and his purse. But they’d left the bun and cheese he’d shoved in his pocket for later, and they’d missed the tiny knife in the sheath built into the soles of his boots. It didn’t take long to feel his way around the small uneven rock cave — with a sturdy wooden door — in which they’d placed him. It was empty, and he was alone.

Time crawled by as he waited for something to happen; time enough for hunger and thirst to gnaw away at his usual blithe disregard for his own mortality. The bun weighed heavy in his pocket, but eating it would increase his thirst. He’d wait, and see if they brought him something to drink.

He was sitting with his back against the wall, contemplating the mistakes that had brought him here, when he heard other humans, so close they were almost in the room with him.

A groan. Then a girl’s voice, light and high. “Are you awake, Papa?”

The light came as a surprise, shining like a beacon from the other side of a barred opening set high up in one wall. Standing, Jules managed to reach the bars and pull himself up, to look through into another cell very like his own. A man lay still, curled on a mess of rags and clothing. His eyes were shut, and he had not responded to the girl who crouched beside him. She was a skinny child, still boyish in shape, but Jules did not suppose that would discourage the smugglers from making use of her body or selling her to someone for that purpose. He made an instant vow to save her, whatever the cost.

The girl held the candle she had lit away in one hand to cast its light without dripping its wax, and brushed back the hair that fell over the man’s forehead.”Oh, Papa,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Miss,” Jules hissed. The girl startled back from her father. Her face, already white, turned whiter as she faced the door, putting her body between herself and the unconscious man.

“I’m a prisoner,” Jules reassured her. “In the next cell.”

The girl held the candle high as she stood, peering towards the sound of his voice. He kept talking to guide her. “Lieutenant Julius Redepenning of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, at your service, Miss. I am going to get out of here, and I’m going to take you and your father with me.”

The face turned up to him was just leaving childhood behind, but the eyes shone with intelligence and her response indicated more maturity than he expected. “I hope you can, Lieutenant. But if your cell is as sturdy as mine, I beg leave to reserve judgement.” She sighed. “I am sorry for your predicament, but I will not deny I am glad to have company.”

“May I borrow the candle?” Jules asked. Her eyes widened in alarm and he rushed to add, “just for long enough to check my cell. They left me without light.” Without food or drink, either, but he would not tell her that. Perhaps the smugglers intended to supply him, and if they didn’t, he would not take the supply she needed for herself and her father.

She passed the candle up, her worry palpable, and he hoisted himself higher with one hand so he could stretch the other through the bars. “I will be careful, Miss, I promise.”

“Mia,” she said. “Euronyme Stirling, but formality seems out of place, here.”

He returned her smile. She was a brave little girl; he had to find a way out for her. “Call me Jules,” he offered, “as my friends do.”

He rested the candle — a stubby bit of wax with a rope wick — on the sill between the bars and dropped, shaking the ache out of the shoulder that had taken most of his weight. When he reached the candle down, Mia let out an involuntary whimper at the loss of light.

“I have it safe,” he said. “You shall have it back in a minute.”

“I do without it most of the time,” she replied. “It’s just — I have always known I could light it again.”

Most of the time? “How long have you been here?” Jules asked, keeping his voice light and casual against the lump in his throat at her gallantry.

She answered a question with one of her own. “What is today? Tuesday? Or later?”

“Tuesday, probably. It was late Monday evening when I came across the smugglers. They knocked me out, but surely not for long.”

“The tenth of June? It was the seventh when Papa and I...” she trailed off, a small gulp the only sign of her distress.

Three days. Perhaps four. “How long has your Papa...” Surely she had not been nursing a sick man all this time?

“They hit him when they attacked us, but I think — I wonder if he has had an apoplexy, Jules.” She took a deep shuddering breath and spoke again, her voice once more under her control. “He has not woken since that day. I have managed to get some water into him, but...”

“Nothing to eat,” he guessed.

“They have given us nothing to eat.”

Bastards. They’d left her mostly in the dark, with no food, little water, and a dying father. He had been exploring his cell while they talked, and found no comfort in it. The door was firmly set, it’s hinges on the outside where he couldn’t reach them, though he ran his knife through the gap between the wood of the door and the stone of the walls, and guessed the hinges were iron by the sound they made. The door had a small hole, just big enough for someone outside to peer in, or for food or a small drug to be passed through. He pushed the shutter that blocked the hole from the other side, but it didn’t shift.

The only other gap in the stone was the high barred window between his cell and Mia’s. He put the candle up on the sill, and then added the bun, still wrapped in his handkerchief. That meant pulling himself up by the bars at the other end of the window, and the one closest to the edge shifted slightly as he put his weight on it.

“I think I’ve found a weakness,” he said cautiously, then picked up the wrapped bun and held it out through the bars. “Here, Mia. Something to eat.”

She took the package eagerly and unwrapped it, then looked up at him. “I will save you some,” she offered.

“It’s for you, Mia. But make it last. We don’t know how long it will take to get out.” He dropped back down on his own side and stretched his arms, flexing his muscles before lifting himself up again.

Yes. The loose bar wobbled when he pulled it again, and a closer examination by candlelight showed that it and the next one had wider sockets than the others, the edges crumbled as if someone had patiently chipped them away. An earlier prisoner? Hoping for what? This would get Jules access to Mia’s cell, but they would still be trapped.

Still, the smugglers would be expecting her to be unprotected and vulnerable. He might be able to take advantage of that.

He wriggled the bars again, but they weren’t loose enough to slip out.

A rattle at Mia’s door had him handing the candle down to Mia and dropping back on his own side, listening hard.

“Water, girlie.” Jules could have stayed. From the sound, the water carrier had not entered the cell, but was using a hole like the one in Jules’s cell door.

“My father is very sick. He needs a doctor,” Mia begged.

The only answer was the rattle of the shutter sliding back into place, blocking the hole in her door.

Jules waited, but apparently watering the naval officer was not the list of tasks for the day.

He pulled himself back up on the bars, to find Mia waiting for him, lifting up the candle so he could reach it.

“I have been thinking, Jules,” she said. “How did they get the bars in?”

He frowned at them. She was right. How did they get them fixed top and bottom when the bars were longer than the gap? He could see no cement.

Mia was still a step ahead of him. “Try lifting the bar,” she suggested.

Of course. He gripped the loosest bar and lifted it, and it worked! It slipped up into the socket above, giving him just enought leverage to slide the bar out of the bottom hole. He passed it down to Mia. It would make a hefty weapon.

The next one took a stouter tug, the bottom hole being less chipped, but he managed it. The third wouldn’t shift. Perhaps if he had not been dangling from one arm while lifting and tugging with the other — but two bars might leave him enough space to wriggle through.

It took some contortions, and he didn’t make it without scrapes and bruises, but at last he was through the small gap and dropping down beside Mia, who threw herself into his arms and kissed his cheek, then drew back flustered.

“I beg your pardon. I do not know what came over me.”

Jules reassured her. “We’re celebrating our win, Mia, and quite right, too. Have we not already decided we shan’t stand on ceremony?”

He knelt down beside the man on the floor. Up close, he could confirm what his ears had already told him. Stirling was not long for this world, his breathing shallow and irregular, his skin pallid and cold. Jules shrugged out of his great coat and placed it over the poor man, tucking it around him. It wouldn’t help, but it might make Mia feel better.

“He is dying, isn’t he?” Mia said, a catch in the last words betraying the matter-of-fact tone she attempted.

He honoured her courage with the truth. “I’m sorry, Mia. I believe he is.”

She bit at her lip, then said, “We should blow out the candle to save what is left.”

She settled next to Jules, holding her father’s limp hand, and suited action to words.

In the sudden darkness, Jules reached for her other hand.

“Tell me about yourself, Mia. Do you live around here?”

Bit by bit, they shared stories. Mia and her father rented rooms in Margate, but were seldom in residence, since Dr Stirling was an archivist, making his living — a meagre one, Jules guessed — by applying his knowledge of books and the classics to the book collections of the great houses of South East England.

It must be a lonely life for a girl; three months in one house, four in another, two in a third; not part of the family nor one of the servants. She was used to it, she said, and sometimes the people were nice.

Jules talked about what he was doing in England instead of on the other side of the world, where he had been posted for the past eight years with the Far East Fleet. His trip home as master and commander of one ship in a fleet of captured vessels had let him catch up with his father and sister, but he was anxious to get back to Madras, where his mistress waited.

“Kirana was with child when I left, and will have given birth before I arrive home,” he fretted, and then apologised, remembering too late that he shouldn’t be discussing his informal relationships with a woman of his own class, and a child at that.

But Mia brushed off the apology. “We are friends, are we not?” she reminded him. “Kirana — is that a Hindi name?”

“Indonesian,” he explained, and he found himself telling her about rescuing the daughter of a Dutch official and his Indonesian courtesan when the Dutch pulled out of Ceylon, leaving the English to take over.

“And you...” Mia paused, searching for words. “You made a home with her.”

He smiled in the dark at her delicate tact, but corrected her assumption. “She was little more than a child. My captain of the time said he’d make sure she got back to her family.” A bereaved little girl, who had watched her mother and her twin sister die in a vicious attack. Very like Mia, whose father was dying as they sat here beside him. He silently repeated his vow to rescue this child, and see her safe. Safer than Kirana had been after he abandoned her to the non-existent mercies of his captain.

“Then how did she come to be in your keeping?” Mia wondered. “I know. You never forgot her, and when she was old enough, you went looking for her.”

Not quite, but he couldn’t tell the whole story. Mia didn’t need the ghosts that haunted him crowding into to this darkness. The short version, then. “My captain lied, Mia. Shortly after, I was moved to another ship, and I didn’t know he took her as his mistress. Not until I was posted back to Ceylon during the war with the Kandians five years later. By then, she had a son and was on her own again.” And still not yet twenty.

They were both silent for a while. Jules was thinking of all that he’d left out — a heap of painful detail that had resulted in him facing disciplinary action for punching a senior officer. He’d do it again, too, under the same circumstances. But maybe not in front of a flotilla of fleet captains, next time. His righteous indignation at the man’s callous treatment of Kirana and her babies had not impressed his superior officers, though his connections into the highest levels of the Admiralty, the Horse Guard and the aristocracy had seen his punishment commuted from dishonourable discharge to demotion and a posting to a packet ship sailing the tedious mail route around the Indian subcontinent.

He’d installed Kirana and her surviving child in Madras, and come home to her between voyages ever since. And her warmth and support had kept him striving to rebuild his career until the incident two years ago was nearly forgotten.

Mia hadn’t spoken for some time. Had he shocked her, speaking of his beloved Kirana? Most of his class regarded kept women with contempt, even those men who were more than happy to take advantage of the comfort they offered. “She had no choice, you know,” he told her, his voice stiff. “She is a gentle, loyal person, and a good woman.”

But this unusual girl surprised him again. “I was just thinking how close I am to sharing her fate, and hoping that I fall into the hands of a kind man.”

Jules wasn’t sure if the lump in his throat was admiration at her courage or pain at his memories of the suffering he had seen — and not just Kirana’s. War was hard on unprotected women. Hell. Life was hard on unprotected women.

He put his arm around Mia and squeezed her shoulder. “I will get you out of this,” he promised.

“Thank you. I trust you to try, Jules. But you must not blame yourself if you fail. Papa and I were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

They had been fossil hunting, she explained. “Papa has frequently managed to sell some of the curiosities we have found in the cliffs and on the shore.” She sighed. “It has been several months since our last engagement, and the rent must be paid regardless.”

They had found a whole skeleton of a large toothed creature, and stayed late to dig it out. Too late, as it transpired, because when they looked up from their digging, they were surrounded. “Why did they not just leave us alone?” Mia asked Jules. “If they had just stayed out of sight, we would have gone home none the wiser.”

“I think they must have something important planned,” Jules told her. He’d wondered the same about his own capture — he’d stayed too long in Essex visiting friends, and thought to cut the travel time in half by borrowing a sailing skiff to skim around the coast to the mouth of the Thames. Had the vessel that cut him off just sailed past, he’d not have given it another thought. “If so, they’ll be waiting for a dark night.”

“A smugglers’ moon,” Mia commented.

“Which is to say, no moon at all,” he agreed. “Soon, in fact. If it is Tuesday, the moon will be a mere sliver and won’t rise till after midnight, and if it’s Wednesday, tonight will be perfect for them.” If it was Wednesday, he would be in trouble for failing to report for duty. But he couldn’t worry about that now.

Mia yawned. The poor girl had probably slept little, if at all, in days. “Put your head down and sleep, Mia,” Jules invited. “You’ll need your strength for our escape.”

She obeyed, curling into a ball and using his thigh as a pillow. “I have my toes tucked under your coat,” she confided, and yawned again. “Good night, Jules. I am so glad you are here.”

With no way to mark time in the darkness, he could not have said whether hours or minutes crawled by as he listened to Stirling’s irregular breathing, and felt the girl shifting softly against him in her sleep. He sat and let his mind wander where it would. Kirana. The ship he had sailed to England and the one he would be taking back to Madras. The friends he had seen in Essex. His father, sister, and brothers, who would be upset if he disappeared without a trace.

Catching a gang of smugglers would help mitigate his failure to rejoin the fleet in time. They were west of Margate, Mia had said. His godmother had a residence somewhere near, which might be helpful if they could get free.

He began to turn over plans, none of which had the least chance of working if he couldn’t get that door open.

Deep in thought, it took him a while to notice the change. Stirling had stopped breathing. He fumbled for the man’s hand, which Mia had been holding when she fell asleep. Yes. There it was. Sure enough, he could not feel a pulse.

“Jules?” He had disturbed Mia.The weight of her head lifted from his thigh. “Jules, what is happening? Papa?”

“I’m sorry, Mia. I think he is gone.”

Jules could feel her touching the hand that held Stirling, and feeling across it to find her father’s cold wrist. He waited silently while she searched unsuccessfully for the pulse he’d already failed to find. She moved again, and he heard her fumbling to strike a spark to light the candle. There. The flame lit her face, tears running disregarded down her cheeks.

She ignored Jules, leaning over her father, placing a thread teased from the seam of her coat across his open lips and watching to see it lie still, unmoving. “Oh, Papa.” It was almost a wail, and she turned into Jules’s waiting arms, burying her head on his shoulder, letting the tears flow.

She cried almost silently, her shoulders shuddering with her grief, and he held her, patting her back but saying nothing. What words could he offer her, locked with her in the dark, not knowing what tomorrow would bring? But he would not deny her any comfort she took from his touch.

After a while, she cried herself to sleep, and she didn’t disturb as Jules set about making them both more comfortable, retrieving the great coat from Stirling to keep the living daughter warm, wriggling a foot or so backwards until he could lean against the wall. At last he relaxed, and slept himself.

They woke and talked, slept some more, and woke again. “What chance do we have?” Mia asked.

“Our best opportunity will be when they come to get you out,” Jules said. “I’m hoping they’ll come for you first, and won’t be expecting me. We have weapons — the bars and my knife. They won’t expect that, either.”

He and Mia would have the advantage of surprise. Whether that would tip the balance in their favour would depend on the number of men sent to fetch Mia. Once again, Mia showed she was following the same train of thought. “Perhaps most of them will leave with the shipment. After all, how much fight will they expect from a sick old man and a little girl?”

“We’ll show them, won’t we, Mia,” Jules said.

She managed a chuckle. “And then what?” she asked. “Where will you go when you are free? Back to Madras?”

“That’s the plan,” Jules agreed, accepting the change of subject. “Back to the Far East fleet.”

“And your family there.” He could feel Mia’s hair brush his cheek as she nodded. “Kirana will have had her baby, you said. When was it due?”

“Some time this month.” It was his turn to sigh. “I wish I was with her. I left money, and I made arrangements for her to get more if anything happened to me. But I should have told my father about her. He might not approve of me keeping a native mistress, but if I was gone, he would make sure she was looked after, she and the children.” Mia had made such a valiant effort to choose a cheerful subject, and he’d turned the mood gloomy again. “Don’t mind me, Mia. We’ll get out of here.”

“We must,” Mia agreed. “You need to go home and look after Kirana.”

Brave girl. Jules hoped she had people who would look after her.

“Where will you go when you are free?” he asked. “Do you have family?”

“Do not worry about me, Jules. I will think of something.”

That would be a no, then. He changed the subject. “What would you do if you could do anything in the world?”

“Travel,” she declared, without hesitation. “I would love to see the places I have only read about in books. Greece, and Rome. Egypt and the pyramids. Persia, where Alexander went with his armies. India! Jules, tell me about India?”

He was in the middle of a story about a tiger hunt from elephant back when the now familiar rattle came from the door, and the grating voice. “Water, girlie. Come and get it.”

Mia stood and made her voice tremulous. “Please. Won’t you help? My father... he is very sick. He needs food, and blankets.”

Clever girl. If her plea worked... Jules slipped his knife from his boot before taking station beside the door, hefting one of the bars in his other hand.

“Won’t be long, girlie,” their jailor replied. “We’ll have you out of there in the morning — you and your Pa.”

“Even just a blanket,” Mia pleaded. “I’ll do anything.”

Muttering from beyond the door. Two of them, arguing in low tones a few paces from the door. Jules heard a word, a phrase, another word. “Cap’n said...” “won’t know” “virgin price”. Then the original speaker, just outside the door again. “We won’t spoil the little skirt. Just have a bit of fun. Are you in?”

Jules offered a quick prayer Mia had no idea what these sea-sweeping had in mind, though without much hope. Her ungoverned reading through the classics and her own sharp intelligence gave her more knowledge than his mother would have considered suitable for a young lady.

“Girlie? We’ll give you a blanket if you’re nice to me and my mate.”

Mia’s voice cracked when she tried to reply, and she gave a hard gulp before asking. “Just the two of you?”

“Aye,” the jailor agreed. “Just the two of us.”

If he told the truth, Mia and Jules were luckier than Jules expected.

“Blanket first,” Mia bargained. “If I’m not worrying about my father, I can...” she trailed off.

“Fetch a blanket,” the jailor instructed his mate. “Fetch two. We can leave one with the little skirt after.”

Moments later, the scraping of metal on metal spoke of bolts being drawn back. Jules stood ready. He’d have to let them both pass, and attack fast enough that no sound escaped to alert others in the cave system.

Light flooded into the cell ahead of the two smugglers — a lamp, bright after the extended darkness. A quick glance in Mia’s direction showed her standing just beyond her father, her hands clenched at her sides, half hidden in her skirts. Jules’s greatcoat was nowhere in sight, and his admiration of the girl’s quick thinking went up another notch.

“See, now, girlie,” the jailor’s voice was wheedling. “A blanket for your Da. There’s a good sweeting.”

“What...?” Mia’s voice cracked again. “What do you want me to do?”

“Got more’n one ‘ole, ent she?” the other man, suggested, coarsely. “Pull up yer skirt, lovey, and bend over.”

Mia blanched and swallowed, then began to gather her skirts as the two men crowded into the cell, the rear one putting down the lamp without taking his gaze from the girl. Anger fueled the sweep of Jules’s dagger across the coarse man’s throat. The leading man swung around at the escaping gurgle, throwing himself at Jules while Jules was still entangled with the coarse man’s body.

Jules swung the bar, but the smuggler shrugged off the glancing blow and grabbed Jules by the neck. A moment later, he crumpled. Mia stood over him, the bar she held in both hands matted with hair and blood.

Jules leant over the collapsed smuggler. “Not dead,” he said, resisting the urge to complete the task she’d started. He wasn’t a cold-blooded killer to slit a man’s throat when he was already unconscious, whatever the man had done. Instead, he bolted the door shut after they left the cell, and for good measure turned the heavy key in the lock and withdrew it, putting it in his pocket.

Hand in hand, they crept through the tunnels, following the hint of light to a large cavern that showed signs of recent occupation. A cooking fire, boxes for seats, crates and barrels in stacks around the edges. But no other people.

A rivulet run from a pool on one side of the cavern and out through another tunnel, where it bordered a well-worn track.

“Let me go first,” Jules said, and he led the way with his bar in one hand and his knife in the other.

But they encountered no one as they crept down the slope from the cavern, finally turning a corner to come out through a tall slit opening onto a small sandy area with sky above, and rock ahead.

The path skirted the rock, and brought them out to the beach. Mia doused the lamp before Jules had time to give her the instruction. Somewhere ahead of them in the darkness, the low hum of voices competed with the soft sound of waves brushing the shore. Here and there, a light glowed for a moment and went out. A crash followed by an oath, quickly shushed, told the story of something dropped.

As their eyes adjusted, they could see the dark shapes of the smugglers at the water’s edge and in a cordon across the beach to the right. Not that way, then. Wordlessly, he took Mia’s hand and led her to the left. They hurried as fast as they could, keeping in the shadows of the cliffs, careful to make no noise, until Mia stopped and pulled at his hand. He bent to let her whisper in his ear.

“I think I know where we are. I used to play on this beach with my friend Kitty when my father was cataloguing the Duke of Haverford’s library. That’s Haverford Castle up there!”

She pointed up to the bluff that rose above other cliffs and curves, and the dark geometric shape that crowned it, dominating the coast line for miles in both directions. He knew it well. The lady of the castle was a close friend of his father’s and his own godmother.

“If we get separated, go there and seek help,” he ordered. She squeezed his hand, but nodded. “The path should be just up here,” she said, leading the way.

“Oy!” The shout came from ahead, and in moments Jules was fighting a burly man with a club — one, furthermore, who was shouting for help. Absorbed in the fight, he still spared a moment to hope Mia had got past, that she would obey him and keep going to the Castle, that someone there would listen to her and look after her.

As footsteps thudded behind him, and blows began to rain on his shoulders and head, his last thought was to hope he had bought enough time for Mia to get away.

* * *

Jules surfaced to pain. Someone was beating his head with a mallet from the inside, his shoulders and hips throbbed with dozens of bruises, and so did his torso. He’d have guessed that several ribs were broken even without the tightly bound bandages. He cautiously cracked open one eye. The room was dim, and he opened the other. He was in a clean bed, and he knew the man seated beside it reading by the light of a lamp that was considerately shielded so he did not see the direct flame. If the Marquis of Aldridge was here, he must be in Haverford Castle, for the Merry Marquis was the Duke of Haverford’s heir. Which meant that Mia had succeeded.

“Mia?” he asked. Croaked, rather, his dry throat adding a burning sensation to the catalogue of his other ills.

Aldridge looked up from his paper work. “Miss Stirling is in bed. Asleep, I hope. She has had a trying time.” A trying time! That was a typical Aldridge understatement.

“The smugglers?”

Aldridge put his papers to one side and crossed to the bed. “A drink? The doctor left laudanum to help you sleep, but I thought you might prefer brandy. Your choice.”

Turning his head, Jules could see a glass, a bottle, and a decanter waiting on the table beside the bed. “Brandy,” he confirmed. “The smugglers, Aldridge?”

Aldridge poured a generous serve of brandy into the glass. “We captured most, and their cargo. I’ve men out searching for the rest.”

Jules voiced his suspicion. “French spies?”

“As you say. I’ve sent messages to the Admiralty and the Horse Guard.” He helped Jules to sit up against the pillows, and offered the glass, then rescued it when Jules’s grip faltered. “And I have both smugglers and their passengers locked up in the Haverford Castle dungeons, though I had to gently remind the Preventatives of the social and political order here in our lands.”

Jules sipped from the glass held to his lips wishing he had witnessed what had probably been a fiery confrontation. The Preventatives could be prickly about their authority, but they’d be no match for this duke-in-waiting claiming the ancient rights that had long since lost formal power; the rights that had made the Haverford ancestors all but kings in this corner of England.

“So all is well,” Aldridge assured him. “Relax. Sleep. You have nothing further to do tonight. Your Miss Stirling is safe, your villains are captured, and the threat to the realm has been neutralised.”

As he spoke, the Marquis helped Jules to drain the glass, and moments later the darkness claimed Jules again.

Next time he woke, the room was flooded with daylight. His bladder woke him, screaming to be drained, a more insistent pain among dozens of others. Jules tried to swing his legs out of the bed, and sucked in a deep breath when the pain ramped up a notch.

His near whimper made Aldridge look up from the meal he was eating at a table by the window, and protest, “What are you up to, Lieutenant? Ah. You need the convenience?” He collected a gourd-shaped china receptacle from the cupboard of the room’s wash stand, and brought it over to the bed, handing it to Jules. “Can you manage? I will hold it for you if you wish.”

“No need,” Jules insisted, and was pleased to find it was true.

“How is Mia— Miss Stirling?” he asked once Aldridge had removed the full receptacle and dealt with it by the simple method of replacing it in the cupboard.

“Still asleep. I will be informed when she leaves her bedchamber. Do you know, that has been your first question both times you have awoken?” Aldridge sat back at the table by the window, but kept his attention on Jules. “I don’t blame you, mind. She is a revelation, that child. Smart as a whip, and will be a beauty in a year or two. Brave, too. Her only fault appears to be her belief that you walk on water and pull swords from stones.”

Jules dismissed that piece of exaggeration with a shake of his head. “She had as much to do with my rescue as I did with hers. Did she tell you that she lured our guards into our cell, and she knocked out the man who was trying to strangle us?”

“And you locked him in with the two dead bodies, where we found him. Mr Stirling is laid out in the family chapel, by the way, and we will hold his funeral tomorrow. No, she didn’t tell us the part she played in your escape.”

Jules smiled, remembering her courage. “And she fled when I told her, and came to get you. Lucky for us you were here, by the way. I thought she might have trouble convincing anyone at the castle to take action.”

“Hmmm.” Aldridge picked up his fork and then put it down again. “Lucky for you, certainly. I could have wished she had not arrived in the middle of a — er — a garden party, shall we say?”

Jules couldn’t make sense of that through the throbbing of his head. “A garden party? In the middle of a night.”

Aldridge raised an elegant eyebrow, his lips curving in a saturnine smile. “Indeed. It was not the usual kind of garden party, you understand. Indeed, Miss Stirling’s common sense first impressed itself upon me when she refused to be distracted by the — er — activities taking place around her, and insisted on gaining my unfocused attention to her need.”

Oh. That kind of a garden party. The kind that got the Merry Marquis his reputation. “Her father was a classics scholar,” Jules explained. “She is rather more widely read than most fourteen-year-olds.”

“That may explain it,” Aldridge agreed. “It is unfortunate, Jules. I wish I could be confident that neither the servants nor the guests would speak of her arrival, but...” he waved one hand. “You know what people are.”

Jules frowned, but before he could comment, there was a knock on the door, followed by the entrance of a maid, who curtseyed to the Marquis and said, “The little Miss is awake, my lord. She is asking after Lieutenant Redepenning.”

“Of course she is,” Aldridge agreed. “Tell her that the Lieutenant is awake, and is about to have breakfast. You would like breakfast, would you not, Jules?”

Would he? He wasn’t sure, but perhaps the hollowness in his middle was a desire for food rather than incipient nausea. Jules nodded as the servant scurried off, and Aldridge went to the door to speak to someone outside. A footman, probably. As Jules knew from previous visits, Haverford Castle lacked a modern bell system, but had a wealth of footmen to wait patiently in every inhabited corridor in case someone needed something fetched.

Aldridge helped Jules to put an ornate brocade dressing robe on over the bandages that wrapped him from under his arms to his hips, and that were all he wore. “For I can’t have you offending the sensibilities of my mother’s maids,” the Marquis explained, every bit as if he had not been holding an orgy in the garden just a few hours ago.

“Where are your ‘garden party’ guests?” Jules demanded. He would not have Mia subject to insult.

Aldridge grinned. “Protective of our little lady, aren’t we?” he mocked. “It’s all right, Sir Galahad. I sent them into Margate. Miss Stirling is quite safe.”

A succession of servants interrupted before Jules could respond, bringing in enough food for a small army. Aldridge had them set it on the table, and was beginning to serve Jules a plateful when Mia arrived, the maid who had been watching over her fluttering in her wake.

Mia gave Jules a huge smile, and curtseyed to the Marquis. “My lord,” she said, “Polly here said you and Lieutenant Redepenning were having breakfast, and that I was to have breakfast too. So here I am, ready to have breakfast with you.”

Aldridge cast his eyes up to the ceiling. “It is probably too late to make a difference,” he observed, then fixed Polly with a stern look. “Polly, you will stay with Miss Stirling at all times.”

In just a few bites, Jules decided that eating had been a bad idea, and lay back on the pillows, his stomach lurching as his head reeled. Mia noticed first, and instructed him to go back to sleep, abandoning her own breakfast to come and take his plate. “You need a lot of rest when you are healing,” she said. She placed a hand on his forehead and he closed his eyes, revelling in the cold touch of her palm. “He is burning up, Lord Aldridge,” she said.

Jules felt another hand brushing his check and then Aldridge spoke. “Send for the doctor, Alfred. The lieutenant is unwell.”

The voices come and went, now at a great distance and then loud in Jules’s ears. “I could stay here and watch over him.” That was Mia, once again holding his hand.

“I do wish you would not require me to preach propriety,” Aldridge complained. “I am quite unsuited to the job. No, Miss Stirling. You may not stay in a gentleman’s bedroom. Do not fret for your Lieutenant, however. He will have someone with him at all times.”

“I do not see the sense in that,” Mia objected. “We were alone together for a day or more in the smugglers’ caves.”

She should not have said that in front of the servants, Jules thought, but he could not remember why. His thoughts scattered, and the voices, the bedroom, even the pain all faded away.

He swam in and out of consciousness, not always sure what was a fever dream and what was really true. Kirana could not be here in this cold English castle. Mia could, holding his hand and anchoring him to the world. Aldridge, too, joking with a man who examined him with swift competent hands. Fleming, one of the captains assigned to the fleet he was meant to part of, must be halfway to the Canaries by now, not at Haverford. Nor would his father or his sister be here. What would they be doing in Kent, all the way east nearly to Margate?

But when his head cleared at last, he recognised the voices before he opened his eyes a slit to see Aldride, Father, and Susan, his sister, talking quietly by his window.

“Mia sees that marriage is her only chance of surviving the rumours with her reputation intact, but still refuses.” That was Susan. Jules frowned, trying to make sense of it. Mia was to be married? But to whom?

“What is her objection?” Father sounded bemused. “She clearly adores the boy. Thinks the sun rises and sets in him.”

“That is why,” Aldridge suggested.

None of this made sense, and nor did Jules’s surge of protective jealousy. What boy did Mia adore? Whoever it is, he had better be worthy of her.

“Aldridge is correct, Papa. She thinks marrying would spoil Jules’s life. She told me all about his mistress and children in India, and wants him to be free to return to them.”

Jules squeezed his eyes shut, thinking about that. He was the one Mia adored? And so she wouldn’t marry him? Wait. She was ruined without marriage?

Father was replying to Susan. “She cannot think he plans to marry his mistress. A native woman at that. Perhaps he could carry it off without the black marks already against him, but as it is? It would be the end of his career.”

Jules hadn’t thought of marrying Kirana. He hadn’t thought of marrying anyone. He liked his life as it was! And Father was right. Twenty years ago and more, many Englishmen in India took local wives, and still remained part of society. But increasingly, they and their children were isolated and ignored. Worse, he would have to go wherever he was posted. Could he bring Kirana to England as his wife? He didn’t doubt his father would accept her for his sake, however he might disapprove. But the rest of his social class?

Nor did Kirana think of marriage. Her history — wouldn’t that give the gossips a field day if it came to light, and that foul sewer-swimmer who’d debauched her was alive to tell the tale so it would come to life — her history had made her, in her own mind at least, unfit for a life more respectable than the one he tried to give her.

But then what of Mia? The twisted mess made his head pound again.

“Nothing can be decided until your son returns to the land of the living, Uncle Henry,” Aldridge said. “We have a bride, a license, a chaplain, and a chapel. It is for Jules to decide whether we have a groom.”

“Tell me about the rumours,” Jules demanded.

The three gathered around his bed, Susan fussing over helping him to sit up then leaving the room so that the men could see to his comfort. She returned with the news she had sent for breakfast. “Just a coddled egg and some thinly cut slices of bread, Jules. Nothing to inflame your fever again.”

“Tell me,” Jules repeated.

“Eat first,” Father suggested, “and get a little of your strength back.”

From what he’d heard, Jules would need it.

The egg and bread came with a few mushrooms, some bacon, and a cup of warmed milk flavoured with honey and spices. Jules rejected the drink and demanded some of the coffee that had been fetched for the other three. “Now tell me what they are saying about Mia,” he demanded.

It was worse than he’d imagined. Rumour had painted her as his lover. He had expected that, since she had been missing for days and found in circumstances that made it clear the two of them had been trapped together. But it also gave her two other mutually conflicting roles.

Some said she was a member of the smugglers’ gang (and whore to one or more of those ruffians). “She fell in love with your pretty blue eyes and killed several of the smugglers, including her lover, to free you,” Aldridge explained. “The number of people she killed in order to get you out of your cell grows with each repetition of the story. The latest round has her father cast as the smugglers’ secret leader, and accuses her of patricide.”

Jules and his sister made sounds of disgust, and the marquis quirked one corner of his mouth in a twisted smile. “People are idiots,” he agreed.

“The other story has her providing entertainment at Aldridge’s party,” Susan added. “Some have to invent a whole new messenger to tell Aldridge about the smugglers, and some knit the two stories together to say she sold herself to Aldridge in return for help to rescue you. Either way, she purportedly accompanied the Marquis to the rescue, on his horse, semi-clad.”

“Partly true,” Aldridge conceded. “Not the semi-clad bit, obviously, but she did come on my horse.” At identical glares from Lord Henry and Jules, he held up defensive hands. “She insisted, and I certainly couldn’t leave her at the castle until my guests had departed. Not those guests.”

“Jules,” Father said gravely, leaving the point, “her father appears to have been her only family. She has been left near destitute and with her reputation in ruins. But she refuses the remedy that would save her.”

“I heard,” Jules said. “Marriage to me. Because of Kirana.” He met his father’s gaze, his own solemn. “Kirana and I have two children, Father, if all went well with her lying in. I cannot desert them. My life is in Madras. I am posted to the Far East fleet, and should have been on my way back days ago. And Mia is a child — just fourteen, and though her peculiar upbringing has made her mature in many ways, she is not ready for marriage.”

“Mia is...” Susan began, but Father waved her to silence, leaving Jules to finish his own arguments for and against.

He was thinking about what his life might look like with Mia as his wife. He could think of worse fates. She would, as Aldridge had implied, be a magnificent woman when she grew up. “Can I leave her with you? If I marry her... Would you take her in as a daughter and look after her until I come home?” Which could be years from now, and anything could happen. He was going back into the war. He might die. Any of them might.

Yes. He would marry Mia and let the future look after itself.

It happened quickly after that. Mia argued when he proposed, but he assured her he was not being coerced. She looked gravely at him as he explained the arrangements he had made to leave her in England, and agreed. “That would be best, I expect. Kirana would not like if you arrived home with a wife.”

Would Kirana be upset? He worried about that for a moment, then put the thought aside. He was doing the best he could for everyone, and they would just have to accept it.

Fleming, who turned out to be here in person and not just in his dreams, claimed the right to stand up as his best man. “My ship is anchored off Margate, Redepenning. The Admiralty will give you your wedding night, and then we’ll be off to catch up the rest of the fleet.”

“We’ll go straight after the wedding, Fleming,” Jules declared. “My wife is fourteen. A wedding night would be premature.”

“Mia is fifteen,” Susan corrected. “Yesterday was her birthday.”

So then Jules had to send a footman to Margate after Aldridge, whom Jules has commissioned to buy Mia a wedding present, with instructions to buy a birthday present as well. Aldridge returned triumphant with a pretty wedding ring, a locket, and a carved dressing table box.

By early afternoon, Jules was standing in the chapel, with Fleming and Father ready to catch him if he collapsed.

Mia didn’t keep him waiting, walking down the aisle with Susan as her attendant, to put her hand in Aldridge’s. He smiled down at her, and Jules soothed the possessive desire to punch the rake with the assurance that Aldridge’s smile was fatherly.

In a grown up gown hastily altered to fit Mia’s slender form, she looked older than fifteen, a little sprite in silver lace over gold silk, with a diaphanous shawl across her shoulders. She wore the locket he had sent up to her ten minutes ago, and touched it with her other hand as she gave Jules a tremulous smile.

Aldridge declared himself the person who was giving the bride to be Jules’s wife, and passed the little cold hand into Jules’s keeping.

A stray sunbeam shone through the windows down the side of the church, striking Mia’s hair and touching the brown with shades of auburn and gold. Jules looked into her eyes as they repeated the vows that would bind them together for life. He had promised to keep her safe. Now he made more promises, wondering how on earth he was going to keep them. Later. He would be a good husband to her later. When she was grown.

It was done. The Haverford chaplain had pronounced them man and wife. “You may kiss your bride,” he said, and Jules pressed a kiss to Mia’s forehead, then turned to accept the congratulations of his friends and family, blinking to hear Aldridge and Fleming address Mia as Mrs Redepenning.

He and Fleming left shortly after. Mia stood at the top of the steps with Father on one side and Susan on the other. “Will you send me a painting of you to keep in the locket?” she asked.

“I will,” Jules agreed. “And you send me one of you. You will write and let me know how you go on?”

“And you will write back and tell me more stories of the wonderful places you are seeing.” Mia managed a beaming smile, though tears stood in her eyes. She had buried her father not three days earlier, lost everything she knew, and been handed over to strangers. And still she smiled. His heart full, Jules promised to write and gave her a hug. Another hug for his sister. He shook hands with Father and Aldridge.

“Coming, Redepenning?” Fleming shouted from the carriage.

Jules gave Mia one more kiss, stooping to plant this one on her cheek.

“Look after her,” he charged his father, and hurried down the steps as fast as his healing ribs would allow. He stopped at the carriage door and turned back to wave. “I’ll be back, Mrs Redepenning,” he promised.

As the horses drew them down the carriageway, he repeated the words in his own head, making them a solemn vow. “I’ll be back.”

This short story takes place seven years before the novel Unkept Promises, which tells what happens when Mia goes to the Cape Colony at the foot of Africa, where Jules is now posted. It became the first two chapters of that book. Chapter 3 starts when Mia arrives at the house Kirana shares with Jules in Cape Town.

Home is the Sailor

Commander Stephen Fletcher had reported to the Admiralty, resigned his commission, and shared a drink with the survivors from the Mercury, before they returned to the ships on which they would now serve the King. He had one more final task.

He had left this to the last, though he had been a week in London, and the address he had seen so often at the top of Hector Pembroke’s letters was no more than a thirty-minute walk from his boarding house. Fletch had no appetite for his errand, and who would? But he would do it, nonetheless. It was the last tribute he could pay to his dead friend, to pay his respects to Hec’s family.

Afterwards, he would be set adrift, for what he would do with himself now he was no longer fit for the King’s Navy was a mystery he had not been able to solve. He had bent his mind to it for most of his waking hours these past three months, as the ship that picked up their torn and ragged remnants beat its way around the Horn of Africa and up the long stretch to home. The navy was all he knew. He had joined as a boy of twelve, and served fifteen years, climbing to his current rank without any rich patronage or noble connections. All blown away with his foot.

Fletch dressed for the last time in his best uniform. He'd ordered some civilian clothes, but they had not arrived. Anyway, they would not do for this visit. He owed it to Hec's father and sister to present himself at his best.

He spared a coin for a hackney. His crutches were hard enough to handle in dry weather, but persistent drizzling rain made the way treacherous. Through the cab window he watched the bustling centre of London turn to quieter residential squares where gentlemen’s townhouses framed a railed garden for the residents. But after the third such square, they came out into a street of little shops, and it was in front of one of them that the cab stopped.

“This is the place, captain,” the cab driver said. “You want I should knock for you?” For the place was closed up, boards across the window, a wreath of black ribbons on the door to the shop and another on the door to the stair leading to the living space above.

Fletch nodded. “Wait,” he said, and pulled a stub of pencil from a pocket to write his name and a message on a scrap of card he found in another pocket. Oddly, it had not occurred to him until this minute that the family might not be at home. He watched the driver through the window of the cab, and when the little serving maid who opened the door closed it in the cab driver’s face, his heart sank. But the man turned with a grin and a cheerful wave.

No more than a couple of minutes passed before the door opened again, and the person who emerged had Fletch sitting up straighter and reaching for his crutches.

Surely that could not be little Diane? His mind raced. He and Hec had visited Hec’s father and sister once, but that was years ago, when they were midshipmen. If she were ten then, she must be—

Fletch opened the door and manouvered himself to put the crutches into the road and swing down. Diane must be in her early twenties. All these years, as he read her letters to his friend and penned Hec's response, he had picture the pretty child. Not this woman; this lovely, desirable woman.

The eyes turned up to him, wide with excitement, were Hec’s sea blue, and the curls that escaped the cap she wore were as brown and as unruly as Hec’s, but some parts of her were all her own. The sweet curves of her, clearly defined by the apron she had forgotten to remove in her haste, the heart shape of her face and the plump lips made for kissing.

Fletch frowned. What kind of a man lusted after his friend’s sister, and she mourning the loss of her dear brother?

“Miss Pembroke, I am Stephen Fletcher.”

* * *

Diane knew who he was. Hec, for whom writing was torture, could draw like a master, illustrating the letters he sent with sketches of places his ship visited and life at sea. Through Hec's letters, she had seen his friend Fletch grow from the shy youth who had been kind to a girl child one summer's day long ago.

She had seen him bent over his books, one black lock falling into his eyes, intent and serious; strolling down a foreign street with his arm around a dark-eyed woman who curved into his hold; commanding a team in a rowboat on tossing waves; laughing over a card game, a glass of something at his elbow.

The tendre she had developed on Fletch's brief visit had grown as she devoured the letters, traced her fingers over the drawings. She had imagined him returning one day, and sweeping her into his arms, swearing that all those beautiful women in the drawings had meant nothing; that he thought only of her.

Foolish dreams, to console her for long days in her father's bookshop; long evenings on housework and the shop's accounts. As she dwindled into a spinster, her only suitors men with an eye on the shop, she dreamt of romance, and of Fletch.

She had been afraid that, with Hec gone, she would never see him again. And yet, here he was, like a gift for the Christmas that was racing towards her like a runaway carriage, and even Hec's artistry had not conveyed the sheer presence of the man.

He was not above average height, but he seemed taller, with broad shoulders under the epaulettes of his rank. His eyes, so dark they were almost black but for the gold glints, caught hers and held, and she was suddenly breathless with longing. His thick arch of brows tilted; compressed into a shallow 'v'.

"Miss Pembroke, I brought you Hec's sea chest."

Diane took a quick breath. She had been gaping like a loon. Letting the air out slowly through her nostrils, she composed herself.

"Commander Fletcher, how good of you to call. Will you come up?" Her voice faltered, as she glanced at his crutches and down to where his left boot should be, and he turned red even as his jaw tightened.

"Thank you. Yes."

His voice was arctic, his words clipped, but his eyes told a different story. His injury humiliated him? How could that be? He had lost his foot in service to the King. Still, she would remember his embarrassment for next time.

"This way, then." Diane waited while he paid the cab driver and gave the man an extra coin for carrying the sea chest to the little apartment on the first floor. She went ahead with the driver and could hear Fletch making his way slow way one step at a time up the steep stairs to the Pembroke's little parlour.

The cabbie brushed by him as soon as he had cleared the landing door, touching his cap as he passed.

"Return for me in half an hour," Fletch commanded.

Diane could not stop her protest. "No, please!" Both men turned to her, the cabbie curious; Fletch wary.

She moderated her tone. "If you do not have another engagement, Commander Fletcher, can I not persuade you to stay for a while? I long to hear..." She lost her way in the sentence, unable to think of an argument that might keep him with her for another hour before she was alone again.

He straightened, his eyes wary. "No. That is, no I do not have another engagement. Thank you, Miss Pembroke. An hour then, cabbie."

"Three hours." Diane's blush burned all the way down her chest and up into her hairline, but she ignored it. "You shall take a bite to eat with us, Commander. My father will wish to see you, and he is sleeping at the moment." And how she was to explain that one, she didn’t know. But surely she could tell Fletch the truth?

His wariness increased, but he agreed to the three hours, and took a seat while she hurried into the little kitchen to put the kettle on the brazier. She measured the tea into the warmed pot with a recklessly liberal hand, and sliced all of the bread left in the house. She didn't care if she went hungry for the rest of the week, if she could just have this time with Fletch.

She spread the slices with the last of the butter, added cheese and pickle, and counted out a few carefully hoarded pennies for Betty to take to the bake shop for a pie.

Once Betty had left on her errand, Diane put out another plate for slices of the cake she had made as a defiant nod to the Christmas that promised despair rather than hope or peace.

But she would not think of that now. She poured the hot water onto the tea and measured a small quantity of milk into a jar to keep for her morning porridge, before putting the jug and all the rest onto a tray and carrying them through into the parlour.

"You must tell me..."

"You will want to know..."

Fletch bowed his head and waved his hand. "You go first, Miss Pembroke."

"Please," Diane begged, "won't you call me Diane?"

He pokered up, those alarming brows dipping even more dangerously over his elegant nose. "That would be unseemly, Miss Pembroke. The two of us alone..." He looked around the room, his startled eyes screaming that his own words had brought him to shocked awareness. "Is there no one else here? Where has the little maid gone? Where is your father?"

Diane was taken aback at the accusation in his voice. "Betty has gone shopping and will be back any minute, and Dadda is asleep just through that door. You need not fear you will be compromised."

* * *

Dear God. The images that flooded Fletch's mind at the thought of compromising Miss Pembroke had him shifting uncomfortably, grateful for the small measure of cover offered by the plate of sandwiches she had handed him.

She was angry with him, and no wonder. Did he have to bark at her, just because he was indignant at her circumstances? How could Hec have let his father and sister sink to this? The shop boarded up; the space above shabby and almost empty. The greenery spread along the mantle in a brave attempt to herald the coming of Christmas almost made him weep.

He gentled his tone. "I did not mean to offend you, Miss Pembroke. Are you in trouble? What can I do to help?"

She turned her face away, but not before he saw the tears in her eyes. "Just sit with me a while, Commander, and tell me about my brother."

But before he could answer, they heard steps thumping on the stairs, and the intruder opened the landing door so precipitously that it slammed back against the table, half-hiding Fletch until he shoved it closed with his crutch.

A tall man, the kind that came half a man wide and a man and half tall, advanced menacingly into the room, so intent on Diane he did not see Fletch. He was of middling years, his gaunt neck turning to turkey folds and his carrotty hair receding from his forehead.

"Alone, Di? I'll..."

"How dare you enter without an invitation." Diane faced him like the brave lass he knew her to be, her face white, her eyes wide with alarm.

"It'll be my place soon enough, Di. And you'll be mine too, or out in the streets taking your old father with you."

Fletch had heard enough. He hoisted himself to his feet, the clatter as he pushed back his chair drawing the scoundrel's eye.

"Will you introduce us, my dear?" he asked, in his coldest drawl, "Or shall I throw him down the stairs without any courtesy?"

Diane, bless her, rose to the occasion. "Commander Fletcher, this is Thomas Bentworth. He was just leaving."

Bentworth's eyes widened so far the white's showed all around. "The man you are betrothed to? But you won't want him now he is a cripple." His words were for Diane, but he had not taken his eyes off Fletch. "I'll not abandon you to go sailing either. You can be sure of that."

"Out." Fletch’s shipboard bark, guaranteed to set a crew jumping, and Bentworth took two steps backward before he stopped. "She's mine, Fletcher. I'll have her and the shop as soon as the rent falls due on the quarter. She can't pay it, that's certain."

"Out." Fletch advanced one swing on his crutches. He could see Bentworth consider whether to stand his ground, and reject the notion. "Don't think you'll escape me, Di. I'll forgive the debt when my ring is on your finger and the vows are made."

Fletch's crutch, crashing against the bully's calf, brought a screech of protest. "Miss Pembroke to you," Fletch growled. "If you ever have cause to address her again." He leant away from the incompetent wave the man thought was a punch and swung the crutch again, this time putting more of his weight behind it. Swing by swing, he drove Bentworth out the door, slamming it behind the man.

"Once we're sure he's away, lock the downstairs door, Diane," he instructed. Suddenly, he felt more alive than he had in months, with a problem to solve, a boarding party to repel and a maiden to save.

Diane sank back into her chair as if her legs could no longer hold her. "You called me 'Diane," she said, as if that was the most surprising thing about the entire interlude.

"We are, after all, betrothed," Fletch told her, as he returned to his own chair. "You had better call me Fletch. Can you explain to me the problem that led you to claim me as your own, and what I can do to help?"

* * *

"There's no better person in a crisis, Didi," Hec had told her. "He is so calm and logical, and he never panics."

His attack on Mr Bentworth had thrilled her, shameful though that might be. She would pay for it in time, no doubt, when Fletch had gone and her father's debts remained. All the more reason to enjoy it now.

But where to begin? "You don't know, for I never wrote of it, that my father has been failing in health for some time, Fletch."

And in mind, as she had discovered in the past three weeks. While she had been working all hours of the day and night to run the bookshop and keep house, he had been investing in speculations a fool could see through. Fletch didn't need to know the details. Just the bare outline so he understood why she had taken liberties with his name and honour, and that she did not expect him to make good on her lies.

"When the letter came from the Admiralty, telling us about Hec, he took an apoplexy, and was sick for several weeks. Mr Bentworth came around then, and I found that Dadda had used all the money we had to buy shares in a cargo Mr Bentworth told him about, and some other things. Mr Bentworth said Dadda had even borrowed money."

Bit by bit, under his gentle questioning, she told Fletch the whole story; how the vultures began to gather as soon as word spread about Hec's death and Dadda's illness, how Bentworth had threatened her and Dadda with eviction, how she had claimed a prior betrothal to keep the man at a distance, how she had worked even harder in the shop until a few days ago when vandals broke the windows and set a fire that destroyed many of the books.

"Bentworth?" he asked, which was what Diane believed, but could not prove. The constable was shocked she would accuse a reputable businessman and she could not afford a thief taker to investigate.

Betty returned with the pie for tea, wrapped in a towel and still hot from the oven. Diana set it in the kitchen and sent the girl home to her family.

"She does not live here?" Fletch asked. Diane shook her head. She could not afford a live in maid, especially now she was practicing the deception she had yet to explain to Fletch.

She told him how Dadda had gone to the bank, and her voice faltered as she explained what happened after they refused him a loan. Thank goodness she had been with him that day.

Fletch's calm didn't fracture as she explained what she did when her father died.

"It occurred to me, as I sat there in the back room at the doctor's house, that very few people knew what had happened. The apoplexy, yes. He had fallen in the street, and London is full of gossipers who will tell tales. But if they saw me bring him home, and if I nursed him myself, who was to know what really happened."

Fletch had somehow possessed himself of both her hands, and was stroking them gently with his thumbs.

"How could you hope to keep up such a deception?"

"I could not, of course. But I thought I could at least have one last Christmas in my own home before the neighbours found out I was alone. The doctor promised to say nothing, and the coachman who helped me carry in the blanket stuffed with clothes thought me careless at packing."

"But now you have come, Fletch, and brought me Hec's sea chest. Perhaps there is something in there to save me?"

"Perhaps. We shall think of something, Diane." His voice was reassuring, but distant, as if he was turning ideas over in his mind. Then those dark eyes came back into focus. "May I stay here with you? I know that it is not conventional, but I am concerned that your persecutor may be prompted into early action now that your betrothed threatens to snatch his victory from him."

"We should eat the pie while it is hot," Diane told him, flustered at the thought of having her dream hero sleep in the room next to hers. Thankfully, Fletch allowed the change of subject, but after they had eaten and he had helped her clean and dry the dishes, he insisted she fetch her pelisse and come with him.

When she saw Mr Bentworth lurking in the street watching her lock the door, she was glad she'd let Fletch take command, and she climbed into the cab with a sense of relief.

* * *

Fletch installed Diane in a private parlour at his boarding house, and commissioned one of the other residents to stand outside the door and chase off anyone who might wish to enter. It did not take long to pack a bag with what he needed for a few nights stay, and by the time he’d finished he had replies to the notes he’d dashed off when he first arrived.

Bentworth and the bookshop would be watched. That was all he could do tonight. Tomorrow, he would pay the rent, and the debt as well if it was within his means. Not that he would tell Diane that. If only she were really his betrothed, he would have the right to provide for her and protect her. But he would do it any way, whether she protested or not. For more than half his life he had pretended she was his sister, and brothers cared for their sisters. This day had turned his feelings to something far from brotherly, it was true. But he would not burden her with that.

Back at her apartment, he settled into the little bedchamber that had once belonged to Hec. But sleep eluded him as he ignored the phantom pain in his foot and thought about Diane.

In the morning, he would ask for details of the financial mess; papers if she had them. And he'd take a look at the shop to see if anything could be salvaged. She had mentioned a thief taker, too. He'd hire one to see if Bentworth could be caught in wrongdoing.

The night passed slowly as he thought about his plans, slipped into lustful dreams of his pretend betrothed, and woke to plan again. He was awake when she rose with the dawn, and dressed himself as quietly as he could before joining her in the little kitchen. She’d clearly heard his clumsy approach, because she was just putting a second cup out to join her own.

"Take a seat in the parlour, Fletch, and I will bring your tea. Will you have porridge?"

She served a spartan breakfast and he made a mental note to send the little maid to market with a fuller purse than Diane could afford.

"Shall we take a look at Hec's sea chest and see if there is anything to help?" he asked.

The few coins in Hec's chest would buy them a Christmas dinner, but not much more. The chest also contained Hec’s clothes, a bundle of Diane’s letters, a few other personal possessions, and a whole stack of drawings, which she put aside to look at later.

Fletch looked at the letter from the solicitor stating the amount that Mr Pembroke owed and the deadline by which Diane must pay Bentworth, who had bought up the debts, and he also read the tenancy agreement.

Then they went downstairs to check out the bookshop.

“Most of this is smoke damage,” Fletch decided, and he sent Betty for buckets of water and cleaning rags.

* * *

Fletch was a wonder, Diane decided as she washed that evening. Somehow, her bookshop had become overrun with out-of-work sailors, and a day’s scrubbing and carpentry had transformed the smoke-blackened space almost back into a bookshop again. Meanwhile, he’d taken reports from a thief taker, whom he’d set on Mr Bentworth’s heels, and several other men—more sailors—who had been commissioned to drink in the nearby taverns and coffee shops, and listen to the gossip.

Several of the other residents in the row had dropped by to ask after Diane’s father and—so Fletch said with grim amusement—to check out her betrothed. Not Zedekiah Bentworth. He hovered in the street, but he kept his distance.

Betty set out the dinner: another pie, and this time fresh bread and a large cake that Fletch must have sent for, because Diane had certainly not ordered it.

As Betty left for home, Fletch emerged from his room, looking as splendid in his dress uniform as he did in the rough clothes he had worn to work in. He maneuvered smartly across the room, agile on his crutches. “Fish pie, tonight,” Diane told him, ignoring the sudden tightness in her chest.

They were eating when a crash sounded from downstairs, and then shouting. “Wait,” Fletch commanded as Diane hurried to see what was happening. “Let me go first.” He proved his agility by reaching the stairwell ahead of her, and swung down three steps at a time in his haste.

Even so, the altercation was over by the time they arrived in the street. Two bullies struggled in the grasp of four of Fletch’s sailors, and another sailor looked out of the newly broken window. “Bastards… sorry Ma’am. Them sorry devils started another fire, Commander. But I’ve got it out, and we saw them at it.”

Matter resolved swiftly after that. The constables came for the bullies, who were falling over one another in their eagerness to blame Bentworth for their attempt to fire the building. “Not to damage it too much, like,” one insisted. “Just to frighten the woman.”

Fletch growled at that, a low satisfying rumble, and the constable in charge sent two of their number off to arrest Bentworth. The magistrate, hauled from his dinner, went home, and Diane and Fletch returned to theirs.

* * *

“So that’s it,” Fletch reported, two days later. “Some of the debts Bentworth claimed were frauds from start to end, and the magistrate says that the swine doesn’t have sufficient proof of the others, so with the rent paid, you are safe, Diane.”

Diane had been working in the bookstore while Fletch was at the magistrate’s court, but she would not open until early January. She had finished early and come upstairs to decorate for Christmas, which was the following day. “I was thinking of putting some of Hec’s drawings around the room,” she said. “Then he can be here for Christmas with us.”

“Good idea,” Fletch said. Was he keen to be on his way? As soon as Bentworth was arrested, he had suggested leaving, but she had persuaded him to stay at least until St Stephen’s Day.

Diane began to lay the drawings out on the table. “I adored the drawings he used to do in your letters,” she said. Hec loved to draw people. Places, too, and animals. But mostly people. A few economical lines, and she was swept from the dark of her bed chamber to a sun-baked village square where exotic people bargained for vegetables, or a battle on board ship where a fierce-eyed marine drove back monstrous pirates with a sword in each hand, or a row of half-naked girls danced on a beach while tattooed men watched jealously.

Fletch was watching her examine the drawings. “Why do you say ‘your letters’?” he asked.

“Hec’s letters, too,” she conceded, “but you wrote them for him, Fletch. Hec never willingly wrote a letter in his life, and certainly he did not learn to spell within three months of leaving home. Besides, you always addressed them ‘Dear Diane’. Hec called me Didi.”

“How long have you known? Did Hec realise?”

“I suspected from the first, but I didn’t ask Hec until his shore leave last year.” Hec had been taken ill and had stayed in Portsmouth while the Mercury patrolled the North Sea. He’d managed a fortnight in London at the end of his convalescence. “He said that the words wriggled on the page as much as they did when he was a boy and got beaten for it, and the letters changed places. If it were not for you, he said, he would never have passed his exams.”

And Hec had told her that, over the years, he’d stopped dictating letters to Fletch, leaving him to spin the words around Hec’s drawings. She looked back at the stack of drawings as she admitted, “I loved your letters, Fletch. Thank you for writing to me.”

Just then, Diane came to images of Fletch, and lost all power of speech. Picture after picture of him stripped to the waist or entirely naked. Swimming, rowing, sword fighting, climbing the rigging. In one drawing, he lay asleep, a girl cradled in one arm, her legs entangled with his. Diane could not meet Fletch’s eyes. How could she have been bold enough to claim him as her betrothed?

“Diane? What have you there?” He moved so he could see. “Ah. I had forgotten that one.”

If she blushed any hotter, she would set her hair alight. “She is very pretty,” she managed.

“She was. And very available, which is not something I am comfortable discussing with a lady, Diane.”

Diane looked up at that, and was somewhat comforted to see the high colour in Fletch’s cheeks. “Is there a—do you have a—“ She wasn’t sure how to ask her question, but somehow Fletch understood her.

“No one is waiting for me, Diane, and I have made no promises. Which is just as well, as it turns out.” He gestured to his foot. “Who would want me now?”

“Any woman with eyes in her head and half a brain,” Diane protested, hotly.

Fletch quirked her a smile. “Half a brain is right. A woman with a whole brain would wonder what kind of a provider I would make. I’ve never thought of any career but the navy, Diane. Would you take on an ex-Navy officer with only one foot and no future?”

Suddenly, the room had insufficient air. He didn’t mean it as a proposal, of course. But… Before she could think better of it, Diane rushed into speech. “If that is a proposal, then the answer is yes.”

Fletch gave a bitter laugh. “You should be careful, Miss Pembroke. I might hold you to your word, and then you would be stuck with me.”

“Would you hate it so much?” Diane asked, trampling over her own sense of dignity. Regretting what she’d said would be much easier to live with than regretting something left unsaid.

He raised his eyes to hers, and they burned. “It would be heaven. But you cannot want me, Diane.”

Silly man. “I can,” she assured him. “I do. I always have. The question is, do you want to run a bookshop, Fletch.”

“Damn the bookshop. I want you. If you mean it, Diane. If this is just some… You don’t owe me; you know that. If you are offering out of pity…”

She halted him with a finger on his lips. “I owe you my freedom and my life. But I wouldn’t marry you for that. I wouldn’t marry you for pity either. And before you ask, I wouldn’t marry you to save myself from being the boring old spinster lady who keeps the bookshop and talks to her cats. I want you, Fletch. I want to wake up every morning and spend every day with you.” She blushed but continued, determinedly not looking at the scandalous drawing. “I want to sleep beside you at night. I want to give you children. I want…”

Fletch pulled her towards him, sweeping the drawings off the table in his haste, and stopped her words with his kiss. It was quite some time until she could think again, and even longer till she lifted her head from its snug position on his shoulder to ask, “Is that a ‘yes’.”

* * *

Fletch gave her a peck on the corner of her beautiful lips, reddened and slightly puffy with his kisses. “In His Majesty’s Navy, my darling, I was known for my strategy.”

He kissed the other corner. “I cannot understand why you would want this broken-down sailor.”

The next kiss was for her nose. “But I am not quite a fool, I hope, though I find it hard to think when I have you in my arms.”

Her chin. “And if you are willing to have me, then I am yours. I have loved you, I think, for more than half my life, and I want you more than I want to breathe.”

She was following his kisses with her own lips now, and in moments he would be unable to speak. “And by heaven our funds had better stretch to a special license for I will have to bed you soon, my Diane, and I don’t want Hec to haunt me for ravishing his sister.”

THE END

Look Into My Eyes

The Dowager Duchess of Fambrough speaks

Lord Charming is a liar. Everything about him is a deceit except his exceptional beauty. I have been watching him for weeks, ever since I came back up to London after several years out of the social circle. At event after event, I have watched him, moving from group to group, from person to person, turning the beacon of his charm on those he was with.

I know how it is done. I was there when he was taught, a pupil in the same lessons. Unwavering attention. The body angled forward, as if to catch every word, every movement. Warm smiles, little jokes, casual touches — oh, nothing that would offend the most rigorous of dowagers. But everything designed to deceive; to convince his audience that, for at least one little moment, they are the most important people London.

In this way, he makes perfectly respectable love in public to every female he meets, of any age, class, and marital status. The number he takes to his bed when they are private is less well known, but rumoured to be large. Indeed, if it is true that he seldom sleeps alone and never with one woman more than once, it must be enormous.

Like all good tricksters, he is convincing because he is convinced, pursuing the current object of his passion with ardent sincerity — until the female is caught, at which point, he suffers a revulsion of feeling.

Even then, his charm comes to his rescue. Those who have loved and lost remain convinced that he ended the liaison for their own sake. He cannot, he says, stand between a wife and husband (most of his lovers are married). He cannot give false hope, and will never marry because of his tragic past (that, for the widows). He somehow manages not to become enamoured of respectable maidens, whom he might be forced to wed.

He is very good at turning on the charm, but not so good that I don’t recognise his tricks. For one thing, I have had the opportunity to observe him from the sidelines, since we have not formally met. I am still in the mauves and greys of half-mourning, re-entering society only because my stepson has put off mourning for his first wife to seek a second. Those brought to request the favour of an introduction are those with a daughter or a sister or perhaps a female cousin of sufficient birth, education, and reputation to be eligible for the role of my successor.

Yes, I am aware of the irony. Indeed, I am one of only three people in London — in all of England, I hope — who knows my true history. My dear stepson is one. Viscount Charmly, known to all as Lord Charming, is the other, though he has not yet realised who I am. Or so I hope. But with a liar, who can tell?

He has the edge on me in one way. He has a right to his name and his peerage. Frederick Samuel Charles Wellingham, 7th Viscount Charmly, born to the blood blue as they say. His life is not a lie; only his behaviour. The story, as I’ve heard it a dozen times, is of an English couple lost with their son during la Terreur, when Madame Guillotine ruled Paris. Then the miracle, six years later, when the child thought dead is discovered and saved by his uncle, stolen away from the respectable if poor couple who had protected hm. Returned to his family and his name, he went to the best of the English schools and served honourably in the late war.

Some of this is true.

Almost all of my story is false, up to my wedding. People like me seldom marry, but the Duke of Fambrough decided to make sure the child he had engendered was born in wedlock. Three wives, twenty-seven mistresses, and fourteen lovers had managed two conceptions between them as a result of dear Fambrough’s tireless efforts.

Fortunately, his second and third wives had produced one of those triumphs, and the second wife had even managed to produce a boy, so the ducal succession was assured, as long as the young man remained healthy. Which he did, and even married and produced two sons of his own by the time of my connection with his father.

Even so, Fambrough was too delighted with my pregnancy to allow the small matters of my totally unsuitable birth, my scandalous education, and my deplorable reputation to stand in the way of adding another legitimate scion to the ducal quiver.

I am pleased and proud that I gave him first a daughter and then, just a few months before he died, a second son. They are his children, whatever others may say about a man in his 70s siring two babies when all those other women failed. From the day he purchased my services from the Italian count who was my protector at that time, I gave my body to no other man. From the day I fully understood that he intended to raise me to be his wife and duchess, I gave Fambrough what remained of my heart. My life is largely a lie, but my behaviour is true.

Lord Charming and I are mirror images. Yet I sometimes see the boy Rick in a gesture, an expression. He was my dearest, my only friend. What I am today, I owe in part to him. I do not wish to remember, but when I am alone at night, alone in my bed, I relive the pain and the fleeting joys of those days and, yes, the hope. I remember my first and only love.

* * *

Viscount Charmly speaks

It took me a while to see the widowed Duchess of Fambrough; the Paragon, they call her. I was aware of her, but only in the way I am always aware of anyone in my vicinity. It is an old habit, and one that has, countless times, helped me to avoid or at least prepare for danger. At first, I did not associate the duchess with the watcher, whose eyes I felt, but whom I could not detect.

Even when I narrowed down the source of the feeling, it could have been any of her group of ladies. Two of them were old and seldom left her side; unwed sisters of the deceased duke. One was much the same age as her – a companion, or so I was told -- and one, her stepdaughter, much younger. Perhaps it was one of them, looking for a turn at Lord Charming?

Several evenings confirmed that the eyes continued to watch from the duchess’s corner when her young ladies were dancing. Besides, I had been the target of lustful and wishful looks before. This felt different — more personal, in a way; more intense, even; but somehow dispassionate.

The current duke came and went from his stepmother’s side, so it was not him. I could not imagine that the Ladies Imogen and Estella had any purpose for a somewhat shop-soiled Viscount less than half their age. The duchess was the only one it could be. What could a woman so virtuous as to be dubbed the Paragon want with Lord Charming?

I saw her then, and I liked what I saw. She is beautiful — more beautiful than I, or at least to my eyes. Dark to my fair, a few inches shorter than me (and I am a tall man), richly curved. Intelligent, too. They tell me she speaks several languages: English, of course, her native Italian, French, German. Others, as well, or so they say.

The former duke found her in Italy when he was there during the Peace of Amiens. Opinions are divided on the rank of her father, but one need merely to see her grace and dignity to know he must have been at least a count, and perhaps a duke or a prince. A person could learn languages, they say, and even the accent of the highest classes, but the manners of a peer, a courtier, a lady; these are things one must absorb from the cradle.

I think perhaps my deepest mind had already solved the conundrum, for that clue was all I needed to leap to a ridiculous conclusion. Yet more and more, I am convinced it is the true one. Her interest in me is another clue. Even her physical appearance, allowing for her youth when we parted, and the seventeen years between.

By all accounts, she has been happy, at least for the decade of her marriage. The old duke doted on her. (Old is the right word — he was eighty-four when he died, and she has just celebrated her thirty-first birthday.) His sisters are her ardent admirers. The current duke and his sister are her good friends.

As to what happened before that, I know the start of it, and can guess the rest. She was an expensive bauble for a succession of wealthy men. She has been fortunate beyond all measure to arrive where she has, and it eases my soul to know she is safe and cherished.

I went back to the place we knew one another, hoping to find her. It was during the Peace of Amiens, nearly six years after that night when they found me with her and sold me to the man who proved to be my uncle. They intended punishment, and in some ways (though not the way they intended), they were right. I was his heir, and he was determined to make an English gentleman of me, despite my recent history, despite the ways I had been used.

Harsh words, the whip, even his fists were tools to gain my compliance. Females were my reward. He feared that my experiences had turned my appetites in a forbidden direction, so thought to turn them back by overwhelming them with pleasure of the more convential sort, in all its variety.

I was already adept at avoiding giving offence. I learned to project the image that he wanted, while all the time waiting for the opportunity to go back for her. I was twenty and at Oxford when the Peace was signed. I took the ransom I had saved from every card game I had won, every favour I had earned, every penny I had saved with hard bargaining. I worked my way across the channel on a fishing boat, and to Paris as a carter’s extra hand.

I was too late by years. She had been purchased by an Austrian count a month after we parted. I followed her to Austria, and along the way found myself involved in passing information to an Englishman in Switzerland who collected information for the Foreign Office. She had left Austria long before, and I could not pick up the trail.

My facility with languages — she and I used to compete to see how many we could learn from those of our patrons who wished to talk — was useful to the gentleman in Switzerland, as was my ability to sense trouble and slide quietly sideways. I wanted to travel, so I continued to work for him through eight years and seven countries. I was useful to my country, or so I am told, but I did not find the girl I was looking for.

I returned to England when my uncle died in a fire that destroyed Welling, the country house where I’d spent so many miserable years. Ascending to his title was one duty I could not slide out of. Rebuilding the principle house of the family holdings was also a duty, but one in which I took great pleasure, for I could create the house and garden of which I had long dreamed.

Wherever I go, the memories follow. I do not wish to remember, but when I am alone in my bed, which is considerably more often than gossip assumes, I relive the pain and joy of those days. I remember only girl I have ever loved. I remember the promises we made.

* * *

Retrospective

Two people huddle for warmth and comfort in the narrow garret bed. Physical pleasure has soothed some of the girl’s agitation, but she is still distressed. In the house below, he is called Pretty Boy, and she is known as Jewel, but here in her tiny room, they use endearments and, rarely, the names they were given as infants. Rick, for him. Marie, for her.

“I do not know how I shall bear it if the colonel meets Madame’s price.” Marie returns to the worry that consumes her.

“Hush,” her lover says, kissing her lips to still them. “It shall not come to that. He doesn’t have the money for more than one week of exclusive use. He has had to return you, has he not?”

She draws back so she can see Rick’s eyes. “But he is rich. His mansion is magnificent. He eats like a king every night. He has just promised the first consul a regiment of hussars in return for the rank of colonel.”

He kisses her nose, and tells her the news he charmed out of his own patrons. Rick is the play thing of several high-ranking men, all of whom delight in his beauty and his intelligence, and all of whom underestimate him. “He is poor, my beloved. He spent a fortune on outfitting his hussars and has lost another fortune gambling with the clerks who serve The Directory. His house is mortgaged, and he spent all he had left on his week with you.”

Marie gives a sigh, and cuddles back into his arms, pressing as closely as she can to his naked body. “You are certain?”

“Certain.” The colonel must give her up, but Paris was full of men who had made fortunes from the changes in the political climate. Her sale was inevitable; his less certain, since the market for boys was smaller. Still likely, though, and they could do nothing to prevent it.

“One day,” Rick says, “we shall be adults and free.”

She accepts the change of subject, entering into the dream that they shared. “We shall be together.”

“I will take you to England.” He kissed the soft hair on her head, his words a vow. “We will own a house, and no one will ever make us do things we don’t want to do, ever again.”

“We shall have a garden and grow flowers. Roses.” Marie had been given some roses once, and had kept them till the last petal dropped.

“A conservatory, where we might sit on blustery days, and fruit trees to give us fruit whenever we want it.”

Rick is caressing her now with some purpose, and she responds, eager for the pleasure he brings and the moments of glory when her paroxysm comes, but more eager still to be as close to her beloved as humanely possible. Trained to pleasure others, they have learned a different lesson together: pleasing one another is a joy beyond even the release they find in their intimacy.

It is almost, as Marie murmurs to him when the summit is reached and they have coasted to peace on the other side, enough to make her pity the men — and even some wealthy women — who seek the mere physical satisfaction of a whore paid to pretend willingness.

“I should go.” Rick’s reluctance, his willingness to be persuaded to stay, prompts her to offer the rationalisations that will keep him in her bed.

“It is morning. No one will be awake for hours. Stay, my love. No one will know.”

A clatter on the stairs gives her the lie, and Rick hurls himself from the bed, gathering his scattered clothes, searching and rejecting the possible hiding places, none of which are large enough for a boy his size.

Too late.

The door bursts open, and two of Madame’s bully boys grab the naked boy, an arm each, punching him and dragging him towards the stairs. She rushes to catch the punishing hand of one, hanging on it to protect him, and they swear at her and hurl her off.

“Stay back or it’ll be the worse for you,” they warn, and she cowers from the lust that burns in their eyes more than the threat of violence.

The boy speaks sharply, though his lip bleeds. “Bruise her, and Madame shall have the price of it from you.”

The rougher of the men goes to strike him on the head, but the other man stops him. “Leave that for the buyer,” he commands. His grin holds no humour. “Madame was unsure whether to sell you to him, given his requirements. She’ll do so soon enough when she finds out where we found you.”

The girl falters. “A buyer?”

The man sneers. “Say goodbye to Pretty Boy, little Jewel. You’ll not see him again.”

Rick draws himself up, ignoring the men and his own nudity. “Look into my eyes. Remember me as I will remember you. We will meet again one day.”

The two men guffaw as they drag him away, not even allowing him the dignity of clothes.

Marie is left alone to contemplate her own punishment for seeking love in this forsaken hell. “I will remember,” she murmurs. “I will always remember.”

* * *

The Duchess accepts roses

The end-of-season ball thrown by the Duchess of Fambrough will be the talk of Society long after the Season ends. Not for its appointments, or the excellence of the supper or the musicians, though these were fine, indeed. Not for the quality of the assembly, though the invitations had gone out to everyone of significance, and many who merely hoped they were. Not even for the long-expected announcement of the duke’s betrothal to a young lady as well born as he.

No, the defining moments of the Fambrough ball came shortly before the supper waltz, when Lord Charming, arriving late but as elegantly dressed as ever, strolled down the stairs into the ballroom, his arms full of roses, and marched straight across the floor, his eyes fixed on the Paragon herself.

Some say he had hailed the duke when that gentleman was riding in Hyde Park that morning, and that the two of them had spoken earnestly for close to half an hour, their horses pacing side by side.

Others report he visited during the time for calls, carrying even more roses and attended by two footmen similarly burdened. The ducal house was not receiving, being consumed with preparations for the ball, but he left the roses behind when he departed.

That made tonight Lord Charming’s third encounter with the ducal household, and the assembled onlookers held their collective breath in order not to miss a moment of the drama that played out before them.

The duke was between the viscount and his stepmother. His Grace moved to one side as she stood. The scandalous gentleman approached close enough to touch, and those close enough heard him say, “I promised you roses, Marie.” Those who murmured at his familiar address were shushed by those around them. His lordship ignored them all as he handed her his roses. “These are from the rose garden at Welling. The plums are ripening on the trees. I had hoped to bring you cherries, but my gardener says they will be next week.”

These were not the lover like words we expect from Lord Charming, and his expression was unexpectedly open. Serious, too, as was the lady’s.

“What of the conservatory, Rick?” she asked. Another murmur at the intimacy of first names, again subdued by ferocious gestures.

“We are owed clement weather, are we not? But it stands ready, Your Grace, to protect us through storms.”

The duchess looked up from her roses and their eyes met. Lord Charming moved to take Her Grace in his arms. “Will you honour me with a waltz, Marie?”

Without taking her gaze off him, she passed the roses to her step-daughter, and stepped into the viscount’s embrace. He stepped back, then twirled her in the patterns of the waltz, and those crowded around scurried out of the couple’s way.

They did not appear to notice. They waltzed to the floor in time to their own silent music, as the musicians picked up their instruments, hurrying to catch the rhythm. The rest of the assembly stood silent, as if frozen in place, watching Lord Charming and the Paragon, sweeping across the floor in graceful swirls, looking intently into one another’s eyes.

THE END

The Marquis Returns

Willa played the Virgin Mary in the Christmas tableau every year for three years; ever since she arrived in Micklesham. She was, as Vicar Matthew Fulkley explained, the highest ranking young lady in the district, and so no one else had a better right to the part. It was not because she was both wife and virgin. The vicar could not possibly know such an intimate detail. Willa noted the irony, but in previous years had given it no further thought.

This year was different.

For one, this year’s tableau had been enhanced with a real baby to replace the rag doll that had done service for the previous three years. Holding the vicar’s little newborn son in her arms, Willa felt a desperate yearning for children of her own, and not for the first time. Her cousin had rapidly married after ascending to her father’s title, and had soon filled his nursery. The arrival of. Bagshot’s fourth sweet cuddly little bundle of joy, as much as the desire to be mistress in her own house, had driven her to Micklesham, to take charge of her own life and possession of her dower property.

For two, she had celebrated her twenty-first birthday this year. No longer a minor, she now had the right to decide for herself whether to remain in this farce of a marriage to a man she knew only through letters, and who had not been in England for nearly seven years.

Which brought her to reason three. Hal was coming home. His latest letter, delivered three months ago, said he expected to be home by the new year, or before the end of January at the latest.

“My lady?” Her friend and companion, Eliza Cotton, touched her arm. “Willa? The vicar is ready for you to take your place.”

“Of course.” Willa stood still while Eliza adjusted the blue veil that covered her hair and streamed down her back—a shawl woven in silk so light she was not conscious of its weight; only of the pins that anchored it to her coronet of plaits. At first glance, it was plain, but it changed as it caught the light—from a rich dark hue like the twilight sky to the shade of a starling’s egg to a deep sea green. Hal had sent it after she wrote of her first appearance in the Christmas tableau, and her private thought was that it was too rich for a carpenter’s wife who gave birth in a stable. But the vicar liked it, and she liked wearing it, so there they were.

She smiled at her friend as she took her place in the chancel beside the manger. Willa was still cuddling the baby. The plan was for his mother to feed him just before the tableau so he would not object to being placed in the manger. They hadn’t tried it yet—all previous rehearsals taking place without the baby,

But the tableau would be presented tonight, as the congregation arrived for Evensong, so this morning they were rehearsing in full costume and with all props, including young Master Fulkeley.

Clara Fulkeley hovered anxiously at her husband’s shoulder, her eyes on her son.

The four sheep chosen for their phlegmatic natures chomped blissfully on whatever treats their shepherd had provided, while the shepherd himself marshalled the three youths who had been roped in to be struck by awe at the message from the angels.

The angels massed on the other side of the tableau, Eliza among them. She had been Willa’s maid since Willa left the nursery. When Willa’s mother died and she decided to leave her childhood home, she proposed elevating her to companion to meet the demands of propriety. Her cousin and his wife argued for a relative who would be their spy. The Marquis of Gamford, her husband’s uncle, demanded that she accept his spinster sister, a sour old maid who disliked Willa as much as the marquis. Willa wanted Eliza, the one person who had always been loyal to her, and not to her mother and then her cousin.

She didn’t need their approval, and so she told them all. The only person with authority in this matter was her husband. He had written to his solicitors saying she was to have the full running of the dower house and the surrounding estate, could hire and fire her own servants, and could take Eliza Cotton as her companion.

“You all look wonderful,” Matthew said, and Willa wished she could see the tableau from the nave and judge for herself. Each year, Matthew added more creatures and people. Three cows chewed their cud behind this year’s Joseph. A donkey stood, asleep to all appearances, on the other side. A throng of villagers dressed in approximations of foreign costume crowded both sides of the chancel.

Willa smiled at the man representing Joseph, but his eyes were all for the angel Eliza. Hal could not come home soon enough. Eliza refused to leave her mistress, but Adolphus Fortescue-Browne had fallen in love with Eliza years ago, on his first visit to Willa, and Willa was determined to see her two friends happy, whether or not her marriage survived her husband’s return.

The fear that he wouldn’t like her wouldn’t go away. She had been a shy child and an unprepossessing girl on the previous occasions they’d met. The years had cured her shyness, at least outwardly, but she was not convinced that she looked much better. Different, but not better.

She was tall; taller than most men, even those of her own class. Furthermore, the body fat that had overtaken her around the time her courses first arrived had redistributed itself in lush curves. Eliza assured her that men liked such things, but Eliza was of medium height and slender, just as the current fashion demanded. Willa looked, in fact, like a light woman: a bar maid, or even a courtesan. She knew this, because her own mother (another short, thin woman) had told her so, bemoaning the fact and declaring that they might as well resign themselves to the marriage with Harold Patton, since Willa was unlikely to ever get an honourable offer from anyone else.

Willa set her teeth. She would not hold Hal to his promise if he wanted to be released from it. They had become friends through their letters over the past seven years, and friends did not doom other friends to unhappiness. Not even for the sake of babies.

She lifted little Michael Fulkeley high enough for her kiss. He was asleep, bless the mite.

“If you would put Michael into the manger, my lady,” the baby’s father said, and Willa shook off her sudden melancholy and carefully set Michael down on the blanket laid ready for him. She smiled out into the nave, as was her duty as the highest ranking female in the district. If the smile didn’t reach her eyes, no one except Eliza would know, and Eliza’s gaze was fixed on Adolphus.

It was Christmas Eve in the season of joy, and Willa expected nothing but grief.

* * *

Today was Christmas Eve. Today would also be Hal’s seventh meeting with his wife in nine years, the other six times all in the first eighteen months.

He’d probably glimpsed her from time to time before that. Their fathers had been the closest of friends since childhood. Their mothers were nodding acquaintances, any closer relationship banned by the resentment each bore to the other’s husband.

Hal’s first real meeting with Wilhelmina was in the library of Barshot Hall, on the occasion of their betrothal. Willa was brought down from her schoolroom and informed that her father had arranged her marriage, and she and Hal chatted for a few minutes. She was not quite thirteen, and Hal was four years older.

He met her again on their wedding day, six months later, and twice more in the next week, at the funerals. Their fathers, after a night of heavy drinking to celebrate the union of their families, had dared each other to a curricle race. Their deaths came too late to stop the wedding, but before Hal’s family had taken possession of the bride. “Let her stay with her family,” said Hal’s uncle and new guardian. “At least until after the funeral.”

In death, the two men were at last separated, as they had not been in life, each family choosing a different church, a different day, a different cemetery. Hal had seen his wife, swathed in black, on the other side of his drawing room and then hers.

They hadn’t spoken, and he had no idea what she thought about the agreement between his uncle and hers that Wilhelmina would remain at Barshot while Hal moved to London.

In the next year, he thought of her often. He even wrote to her several times, though she never replied. His uncle refused to discuss her, except to say the marriage was foolish and could be annulled when they were of age, as long as it was not consummated.

The fifth meeting was held in the face of adult opposition. When Uncle proposed a grand tour, Hal wanted to tell Willa, but by now he was wary of allowing the grownups any wind of his intentions. He arranged to stay with a friend who would lie for him, and rode down to Somerset determined to see his wife.

Lady Barshot would have liked to refuse him the door, but didn’t quite dare, especially after he hinted that he was within his rights to put Willa on his pommel and carry her off. Lady Barshot sent for her daughter, but also for Willa’s cousin, the new Lord Barshot, and mother and cousin insisted on remaining in the drawing room while Hal told Wilhelmina he was leaving for an indefinite time.

In the year since he’d seen her, Willa had grown nearly three inches and gained far too much weight. Her skin had broken out, too, and when he looked straight at her, he couldn’t help but focus on a particularly large eruption on her cheek, just to the right of her nostril. She didn’t notice, looking only at her hands, not speaking unless he asked her a direct question.

He need only be married for three more years, he assured himself, and then they could both be free. His conscience reminded him that there would be a scandal, and that Willa would bear the brunt of it. Uncle had assured him he could settle a dowry on her and she would find another husband easily enough, but Uncle hadn’t seen her since she’d changed from the enchanting child in her wedding finery to this plain, pudgy maiden. How could he, as a gentleman who owed her his vows, abandon her to spinsterhood? But how could he take her to wife in truth?

Willa said little, answering direct questions in as few words as possible, murmured so quietly he had to lean forward to hear them. But when he stood to leave and offered his hands in courtesy, she placed hers in his and smiled sweetly, before reaching up to grant a kiss on his cheek. Lady Barshot’s frown promised a scold for Willa when Hal left, but at least her attention was focused on the kiss, and not on the note Willa had slipped into Hal’s hand.

The smile transformed the girl’s face, and the spark of mischief intrigued him, and so he committed to the sixth meeting, the secret one. As instructed, he returned to Barshot Hall after dark, and met her in a little garden shed in the Barshot apple orchard.

Willa was there before him. She sat on an upturned pot, her face lit from below by the candle lantern that was the shed’s sole illumination, a cloak making the rest of her a dark mass of no particular shape. “You came,” she greeted him, smiling a welcome.

“Of course,” he said. “You are my wife.”

That fetched him a pair of lifted eyebrows and a disbelieving compression of the lips. “I thought you had forgotten that fact, Mr Patton. You have responded to none of my letters, and my mother and cousin assure me that you live as if you are a single man.”

She made it an observation, not a complaint or an accusation, but her eyes met his in a bold challenge and the shy whisper had disappeared. He ignored the lack of trust; what reason had she to trust a man she didn’t know?

“I was right, then. They’ve been keeping our letters from one another. How dare they!”

She gave one short nod. “I thought so. Your uncle is not pleased with this marriage either, then.”

He felt he owed her an explanation. “I am my uncle’s spare,” he said, “and Uncle feels he should be the one to choose the bride who might be the next Marchioness of Gamford. Is it your cousin who disapproves?”

“My mother and cousin both. They did not like your father, Mr Patton, and fear you will be as poor a husband to me as he was to your mother.”

Hal’s eyes widened. “Plain speaking, indeed, Mrs Patton. Then I need not scruple to say my Uncle Gamford holds a similar opinion of your father. Have I said something funny?” For a broad grin had spread across the unaccountable girl’s face.

“I am Mrs Patton, am I not? No one has called me that since our wedding day. It is as if the marriage never happened, and I fear they mean to make a truth of that fiction.”

She feared? She wanted to be his wife, then? Hal wasn’t sure how he felt about that, though he liked this outspoken female far better than the shy mouse she’d seemed. “Do you want it to be truth, then?” he asked.

Her eyes — rather fine hazel eyes shot through with green — flashed. “I want it to be our choice. Not my mother’s or cousin’s. Not your uncle’s. We are wed, whether they like it or not. It seems they are determined we should not be together; not even in the same country. I would like to know you and for you to know me before we decide that this marriage was the mistake they all think.”

He smiled at her intensity. Who could have known that the demure exterior hid such simmering outrage? “We shall need to outwit them, then. I have to go on this trip, Willa. My uncle insists, and he is my guardian. But we can write, if we can find a way to send to get the letters past them.”

Her face had gone still. “What did you call me?”

“I beg your pardon. Should I have said ‘Wilhelmina’? “Mrs Patton sounds so formal.”

Willa shook her head, a soft smile curving her lips into a bow. “Willa. I like it. May I call you ‘Harold’?”

“Hal, if you please, my lady. My uncle calls me Harold. Harold Matthias Patton, when he wishes to scold.”

Willa’s smile broadened. “Hal, then. I would like to write to you, Hal.”

Hal stopped staring at her lips and put his mind to the problem. “I’ll be moving around. If I find out where the mail office is in each place I stay, and let you know, I can make sure to collect my own mail. Uncle’s man will have nothing to say about it. But how can we get my letters past your mother?”

“Send them to my maid, Eliza Cotton, care of her father’s inn in the village,” Willa suggested.

Hal thought letters addressed to a country maid from all over Europe and maybe further afield would raise a few eyebrows, and said so.

Willa’s whole face drooped in disappointment, and Hal wracked his brains to think of a solution so she would smile again.

“The same applies to me sending letters from the village.” Willa heaved as sigh. “I do not suppose you know any maids who could correspond with mine.”

“That’s it!” The scheme burst fully fledged into Hal’s mind. They’d write through his best friend from school, Adolphus Fortescue-Browne, whose nickname was Dolly. Letters from Eliza Cotton and Dolly F-Brown should go unremarked at both ends.

It worked beautifully, even when—several years later—Dolly exceeded his remit and made an excuse to visit Willa. “She’s a stunner,” he wrote to Hal, and Hal, reading the letter in a wretched village in the Caucasus mountains, felt the first stirrings of the need to quit his wandering life and return home.

Home to the responsibilities that had landed on him when his cousin died, making him heir to the marquisate. Home to familiar plants and landscapes; familiar accents and customs. Home to the wife he’d befriended through letters.

The desire to go home grew when Willa wrote asking for his support to move to her dower property, where she could have some independence. It made sense. The property would remain her own even if he didn’t. Still, it didn’t escape him that the property set aside for her use was within thirty minutes ride of Dolly’s estate. The urge to defend what was his almost had him packing his bags and booking a passage on the next ship to England.

By then, though, he’d been recruited by the Crown to make some use of his peripatetic lifestyle. His master in the silent world behind diplomacy turned a deaf ear to Hal’s suggestions he wasn’t needed. Until six months ago, when word reached him he was now Marquis of Gamford, and the greater responsibilities overturned the lesser.

It took time to hand his duties over to his replacement, time to make the trip back to England. Stopping in London would have taken more time, with duties to his title and social responsibilities. He wouldn’t do it. He took a ship bound for Plymouth, where he hired a horse and headed for the Somerset village of Micklesham where Willa now lived.

His first duty was to see what he could make of his marriage, but the nearer he came to Micklesham, the more his doubts crowded in. Was she in love with Dolly? Or with some one else? Hal had no right to complain if she’d found the desire of her heart in the years he’d been absent. Her letters had meant the world to him, but he couldn’t assume she’d felt the same. If she loved elsewhere, he’d have to permit the dissolution of the marriage that had come to mean the anchor that held him in an uncertain world.

What a fool he was. He had no idea what she even looked like. But he knew her; knew her thoughts, her dreams (some of them), her integrity and strength. What did it matter if she carried a little extra weight or was taller than normal? She’d bemoaned both in her letters, but he just didn’t care. Hal hadn’t fallen in love with her looks, but with her character. Today, he might have his heart broken, and he was ashamed to admit that his fear of her rejection was the real reason he hadn’t returned to England before now.

Now. When she was 21 and he had no more right to hold her. If he didn’t risk all, he would lose all, and so here he was, as the afternoon wore away to early evening, riding through a light dusting of snow into the village where she lived.

He stopped at the inn and bespoke a room; somewhere to prepare for their meeting; somewhere to retreat and lick his wounds if she didn’t want him. He was writing his name—his new title, rather—into the inn register when someone came up beside him.

“Hal? Gamford, I should say. Why, this is marvellous.”

The speaker was a slightly built man of his own age. It took a second look to recognise the merry eyes in the much matured face. “Dolly!” Hal’s first pleasure in meeting a friend turned to suspicion. “Visiting my wife, Fortescue-Browne?”

Dolly grinned, ignoring his tone. “How famous that you’re home at last! I thought you’d never come. She won’t marry me, you know, until you and Willa work things out between you. Have you been up to the manor yet? No, but of course not. Willa would have insisted on you staying, I expect. Well. This is of all things what I wanted for Christmas. How about having a drink with me, you prodigal, you.”

Hal saw red, and only years of controlling his temper in tough places kept him from smashing his friend’s grinning face. “You think I’d drink with the man who wants to marry my wife?”

“Eh?” Dolly blinked rapidly. “Willa? You think I want to marry Willa? But she’s already married, Gamford. To you. Remember?”

Of course Hal remembered. He only hoped Willa did. He took a deep breath and then another. “Then how do Willa and I stand in the way of your romance?” he asked, managing to keep his tone reasonable by a huge effort of will.

“Because my Eliza won’t leave her with all undecided. How about that drink, Gamford? But first you should send a message to the manor to let them know you’ve arrived. Hey, Thomas!” He called out to the innkeeper. “Paper and ink, please, and a boy to run a message up to the manor. Lord Gamford has come home at last.”

Hal found himself bundled into a parlour and provided with the means of writing. “Shouldn’t I just go up there?”

“It wouldn’t do to surprise the ladies,” Dolly said firmly. “Besides, they’ll be preparing for the Christmas tableau.” He pulled out a fob watch and checked the time. “Yes. We’re to be at the church in less than an hour. No time for reunions. They’ll be running about like mad things, what with the tableau and the supper for half the village after. Send her a message and tell her you’ll be there for the tableau and Evensong.”

Hal let himself be persuaded, but not without questioning his old friend further.

Dolly had taken a room at the inn too, the better to change for the tableau, and when he left to perform that task, Hal went up to his own room, to hunt through his baggage. Dolly had assured him that Willa was not attached. He could still win her, and he would start tonight.

When he made his way to the church, he wore the gloves she had sent him last Christmas, the muffler she had knitted for the Christmas before. His pocket bore two of the handkerchiefs she’d embroidered with his new crest; beneath the muffler, a tie pin she’d given him fastened his cravat. He was one of the early arrivals. The manger, the seat for the Virgin Mother, and a couple of rails on posts stood lonely in the transom, waiting for the players. Word of who he was must have spread, however, for friendly villagers escorted him to a chair near the front of the nave, and a dozen people made the opportunity to stop by and tell him he had a wonderful wife.

The sheep came first, herded into place by the shepherd and his helpers. Then someone led out the cows and tethered them to one of the rails. A crowd of angels processed solemnly through the nave, hands in prayer position, heads bowed, eyes dancing. Finally, the moment Hal had been waiting for, Dolly led a donkey up the aisle, and Hal’s heart stopped at the sight of the woman on its back.

Dolly had been right. She was stunning. She was looking down, so he could see little of her face beyond a white forehead and dark brows and lashes. The blue shawl he’d chosen for her in Kowton was fixed to her head by a wreath of flowers, crafted in silver, that he’d found in Baghdad. The shawl flowed over her shoulders and down her sides, but it was so light it clung to a form that dried his mouth and brought his baser self to painful attention. He’d married before sowing any wild oats, and then kept his wedding vows, waiting to return home to Willa. The part of him he’d thought under perfect control wanted to wait not another minute longer.

Hal shut his eyes, and gritted his teeth, and once he knew he would not run roaring up the aisle to carry Willa off, he opened them again.

She had taken her seat in the transom, and was staring straight at him.

* * *

This was going to be a disaster. When she’d received Hal’s message, she had very nearly panicked. Only Eliza’s good sense kept her from taking a horse and riding away into the night. Instead, she had donned the veil that was part of her costume for the tableau, fastening it in place with a silver circlet he had sent her and putting on the matching necklace and earrings. Not, perhaps, appropriate for a carpenter’s wife, but the marquis’s wife wanted him to know she treasured his gifts.

She’d known who he was immediately, though he was at least six inches taller and considerably broader. The eyes hadn’t changed, though. Besides, he’d said he’d be there, and no one else was a stranger. He’d stared straight at her, then shut his eyes, his jaw stiffening, a grimace passing over his face. He hated her on sight. She wanted to run, but she wouldn’t spoil the tableau. She dismounted, as they’d rehearsed, and collected little Michael from Clara, and then took her seat before looking again at Hal.

He opened his eyes and her gaze was caught. Everyone else disappeared from her consciousness. Only Hal existed. Willa was inexperienced but not stupid. That was heat in his eyes. He desired her, and his desire sparked her own. She shifted uncomfortably, uncertain whether she liked the feeling Hal had set alight. The baby sucked in a deep breath and let it out again, and she looked down, feeling both relieved and bereft to be released from Hal’s thrall. She refused to look at him again until the tableau was over, though she could feel that the weight of his gaze never left her.

After the tableau, she and Eliza left to change in the vicarage. Willa half expected Hal to be waiting to escort them to Evensong, but instead Adolphus was there at the door, with an arm for each of them. They were at the front of the church before she realised she meant them to sit with Hal, who stood to greet her with a slight bow and another hot look. She cast one glance at the door, but then surrendered to her fate and took the seat next to his.

They had no time to talk before Evensong began. How could it possibly last forever and at the same time be over in a wink? She only knew that his gloved hand touched hers as they shared a prayer book; that his resonant baritone echoed through to her bones, that his size made her—her—feel dainty.

Evensong over, she had only enough time for to say, “Will you come up to the house for supper, my lord?” and for him to agree before her neighbours descended on them, all keen to meet Lord Gamford and tell him how important his wife was to the village.

He tucked her hand over his arm and kept her close beside him as he drew on the stories she’d told in her letters and all his native charm to thrill and delight.

“This must be the blessed event my lady wife wrote about,” he said to the vicar. “A boy, is it? Congratulations, Reverend. A Christmas blessing, indeed, though your two little girls are utterly charming.”

“Mrs Watson, I am so pleased to make your acquaintance. Lady Gamford tells me you make the best Christmas gingerbread in the world. I do hope I shall have the opportunity to try some.”

“Your daughters, Mr Fincham? Laura and Lillian, I believe. My marchioness says she can tell them apart, but I feel as if I have been knocked on the head and am seeing double. In just a year or two, they shall stun entire regiments, and we villagers shall have to form a guard to defend them against their admirers.”

They walked the half mile to the manor, surrounded by a laughing crowd, all nearly falling over one another in their eagerness to take their turn to talk to Hal. At home, it was more of the same; Hal was easily the centre of the celebration, and the whole assembly revolved around him. He let her leave his side to speak to the servants, though with every sign of reluctance. Crossing the rooms that had been thrown together to accommodate the event, she was stopped a dozen times to receive congratulations on the return of her husband

Her husband. For three months she had been expecting him, wondering about how this reunion would be. She’d imagined a dozen scenarios, but the reality was something completely different. She had not expected to be bowled over by his physical presence. Every time he said ‘my wife’ or ‘my marchioness’, she thrilled. The hot possessive glances he kept tossing her, sizzling even across the room, set her heart pounding and her core melting.

How could she make a rational decision about their future when he consumed her common sense and set her aflame?

The respect he showed her was even more seductive. From what he was saying to her neighbours, he had her letters by heart, and as she walked up behind him, he was telling her most difficult tenant farmer that the man would have to resolve his planting schedule with Lady Gamford, whose property this was. “Indeed, I will place myself in my wife’s hands to learn what I must about my other estates,” Hal went on. “I have been travelling since I was a boy, and was never meant to be marquis, while she has been here in Somerset, making a huge success of managing her own land.”

* * *

Willa came back to Hal’s side, slipping her hand into his arm. He never wanted her to leave again, not even to go to the next room. How could a woman he’d done without for eight years leave a gaping hole only hours after he met her again.

He’d come home prepared to make a friendly marriage with the clever, capable, interesting female he’d come to know through letters, and then he had seen her and been lost fathoms deep. His glib tongue rattled on, as it had in countless places around the globe, saying little of substance, while his mind reeled.

He couldn’t bear lose her, but he wouldn’t keep her against her will, either, and he hadn’t missed her tension. Others might see just the charming smile, the easy hospitality, but Hal was close enough to feel how stiffly she held herself, to see the slight lines that kept trying to form between her brows, only to be smoothed away as she caught herself and composed her face.

He both dreaded and yearned to talk to her alone, and as if she heard his thought she deftly extracted them both from their current conversation by asking for them to be excused. “I need a private word with the marquis,” she explained, and led him out into the hall.

“Adolphus says you are staying at the inn, Gamford,” she said, without preamble, “but there’s no need. I’ve ordered a room made up. May I send a servant to collect your things?”

“Hal,” he told her. “You have always called me Hal in your letters.”

Her smile was a nervous trembling of her lips, and even that sent a wave of lust straight to his groin. “Hal, then.”

“I didn’t want to presume my welcome, Willa,” he explained.

Her eyes widened. “Of course, you are welcome. You are my husband.” Her voice dropped to a husky purr on the last sentence, and he couldn’t miss the desire in her eyes. If several people hadn’t spilled out into the hall at that moment, he would have kissed her then and there. Not that kissing Willa would be a scandal. He was, as she said, her husband.

The intruders were saying their farewells, and their departure signalled a general exodus. Hal wrestled his lust into submission and stood with Willa to send them cheerfully on their way until only Dolly and Hal remained of all the visitors.

“I’m going to walk to the inn with Adolphus,” Eliza said, “and collect Lord Gamford’s baggage. Adolphus will bring me back in his phaeton on his way home.”

Hal drew Willa into the parlour and closed the doors so they were private. “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he warned. “I don’t want to force your choice, Willa, but I’m having the greatest of difficulty keeping my hands off you.”

“Our choice,” she corrected, but he shook his head.

“I have made mine. I want you for my wife, and I’ll do whatever it will take to win you. But I won’t have your decision forced, Willa. I know how much you’ve enjoyed your freedom these past few years. I’ll not take that from you.”

He held his breath, hoping for a similar declaration, but his wife put her head to one side and regarded him gravely. “Why?”

So he was to put his heart on the table, was he? For a moment, he baulked. Then he caught the glimmer of hope in her eyes as she held herself stiffly, as if waiting for him to wound her. He knew from casual comments in her letters that she’d been berated all her life for not measuring up to her family’s expectations, and he’d heard for himself tonight how she dismissed the praise of those who knew and loved her here in Micklesham.

Only the truth would do, then. “I admired the child I met in the orchard shed all those years ago. I liked her determination, her intelligence, her sense of humour. Ever since, I’ve met her only in letters, but I’ve seen her grow, and my admiration has grown with her. Willa, I came here knowing I couldn’t wish for a better friend, partner, and mother to my children. Even before I saw you, I was jealous of Dolly because he had been in England and I hadn’t it. And then there you were.” He ran out of words, though his tongue had never failed him before. All he could do was step back and make a female shape with waving hands. “I could never have dreamed...”

“I am too tall,” Willa whispered.

“Just the right height for me.”

“My—” she indicated her torso with her own waving hand. “I’m too big everywhere.”

“Too big? You mean your breasts and hips? Good God, Willa, have you any idea how much I want to worship them? Yes, and every other man that was here tonight, though most of them are too polite to let it show. I cannot comprehend how Dolly could possibly prefer that little wisp of a chit your companion.” He shook his head in disbelief.”

“Adolphus is six inches shorter than me,” Willa pointed out, moving closer. “And he lets me boss him around.”

Hal’s throat dried. “I thought you liked being in charge,” he said. He’d imagined they’d fight over decisions, for he liked being in charge, too. Since he’d first seen her this evening, he’d been looking forward to their first argument, because disagreeing meant making up.

A thoughtful look crossed Willa’s face and she pursed her lovely lips. “I don’t want a husband I can control any more than I want a husband who thinks he can control me.”

She was within reach now. Hal took both her hands, and placed them one by one on his waist, then clasped her shoulders. “What do you want, Willa?”

She gave him back his own words. “The boy who conspired with me to be my friend. The man in the letters. A man of integrity and courage. A partner. A father to my children. The man who has shaken my world by being more handsome than I ever could have imagined. You, Hal. I want you.”

* * *

Eliza and Adolphus took their time coming back from the village, but they could have taken even longer, for the lord and lady of the house had gone up to bed. To my lady’s room, the housekeeper confided with delight, though another room had been prepared for my lord on my lady’s orders. Furthermore, my lady’s door was locked and she had left orders she was not to be disturbed.

“You’d better put his lordship’s bags in the room you prepared then,” Adolphus told her, handing them over to the footman who stood ready. “He’ll need them in the morning. Or possibly the afternoon.”

The servants headed up the stairs, leaving Eliza and her swain alone.

“Well, Eliza?” he said, pulling her into his arms. “It looks like your lady has made her choice, and thank goodness for that. If they start calling the bans next Sunday, we can be married in three weeks. How about it, my love?”

She didn’t answer in words, and neither saw the housekeeper peep over from the upstairs landing then order the footman down the other staircase at the back of the house.

But no one was surprised when Lady Gamford and Mrs Fortescue-Smith, who had always been the closest of friends, gave birth to a son each in September, a bare nine months after the marquis returned.

THE END

The Mouse Fights Back

Tiberius thought of his wife as Mouse.

He'd had a mouse once; a little wild creature that he'd rescued from his step-mother's cat and carried off to the little folly in the wilderness garden. He had made the building his own, because his stepmother did not care for wildernesses.

In the folly, he'd nursed the mouse’s wounds and released it, and for the rest of his long summer holiday, Mouse had eaten the food he left for it, occasionally even venturing from hiding while he was still in the room, though it would scurry away if he approached.

He was introduced one evening in a ballroom. “Miss Mouse, allow me to present Lord Millchurch,” he heard in the noise of the room, and it suited her, but not the fat sleek cat she was with. Chausse was the real name. Mrs Chausse, it was, and Miss Chausse her niece, standing frozen and frightened at her torturer’s elbow, afraid to move lest the feline stopped pretending to ignore her and return to her vicious games.

He wasn't here in Society to rescue mice, however, so he moved on to the next lady on his list. With his uncle determined to step into his shoes, Tiberius needed to fill his nursery, and he couldn't make a start on that without first obtaining a wife.

The search went poorly, not least because Mouse kept intruding. Not by design. She did her best to remain invisible. But Tiberius noticed whenever she was present and looked for her when she wasn't.

Wondering at himself, at the next event he asked her to dance, but the experiment was not a success. She wouldn't look at him, stumbled when he spoke, and mumbled when she answered his questions. Still, she was graceful when he gave up conversing, and he fancied she gentled to his touch as they moved through the figures of the quadrille.

He might have tried again, except that he saw the fear in her face when he returned her to her aunt; saw her shrink into herself when another gentleman took his example and asked her to partner him. The aunt's verbal onslaught when she returned from this second set left Mouse white-faced and fighting to hold back tears.

Tiberius could not solve her problems. He had troubles enough of his own, and needed a strong-minded wife who could protect and defend the new earl if one of the murder plots succeeded before Tiberius could prove that his uncle was the mastermind behind them. He and Lady Bowden, Tiberius’s stepmother, who had been hand-in-glove for as long as Tiberius could remember, certainly since before Tiberius’s father died. Lady Bowden had been widowed twice more while Tiberius was overseas. And through both marriages, Demetrius Feldonwood, heir presumptive to the Earl of Millchurch, had been her constant companion.

The two seemed to be everywhere that Tiberius went, often in company with Mrs Chausse, her niece trailing in her shadow. Tiberius watched Lady Bowden and the Mouse’s aunt, heads together, and then turning as one to berate the poor little lady, who bowed her head and accepted the abuse. It was not for Tiberius to interfere. It was not his business.

Still, he stepped in to rescue Miss Mouse from the claws of some cats-in-training outside the ladies' retiring room one day, and watched her from afar in case he could come to her aid again.

Then, one evening, out on the terrace for a breath of air before continuing his bride hunt, he saw her disappearing into the shrubbery with a known debaucher. Rage carried him down the steps in their wake, crested when he saw Mouse struggling in the man’s arms, and fueled the punch that ended the scoundrel’s attack and his evening.

He was still shuddering at what might have been when he offered Mouse his arm to escort her back out of the garden.

"You should not have been out there alone," he scolded, keeping his voice as calm and gentle as he could with the anger and outrage still surging in his veins.

"My aunt–" Mouse coloured and stammered. Her aunt would be angry?

"I will not tell her, Miss Chausse." He meant to reassure, and instead received an indignant glare.

"She took me outside. She left me with... that man."

His hand convulsed on hers and she trembled, impelling him to gentle his touch. "The nasty old cat!"

His indignation must have given her courage, because she burst into an explanation, admirably succinct. "She is afraid I might marry, and remove my money from her grasp, and so she seeks to have me ruined. She has not thought about how that might curtail her social life, though. Aunt is not clever, just cunning."

The speech was the longest he'd heard from her; full of intelligence and even a certain bitter humour. "But surely…" Tiberius stopped, uncertain how to say that she must be in her mid-20s, with the spectre of marriage behind her.

"I am twenty-two, but my inheritance is in trust until I am thirty. And no one has shown any interest in me in the years since my come out until you… That is, until this year."

Ah. Tiberius had put her at risk by dancing with her. How our good deeds come back to haunt us.

"I am sorry," he offered.

Mouse did not pretend to misunderstand him. "You are not responsible. You did not make Aunt a bully or my trustee a thief. Or me too much of a coward to stand up to them."

She led the way up onto the terrace, where a score of other ball goers were already taking the air, and was several paces ahead of him when her aunt accosted her, Tiberius's stepmother and uncle at the scold's elbow.

"Where have you been, you wicked girl?" The aunt raised her voice, turning heads all over the terrace. "Out in the garden? Alone? Or with a man?"

Tiberius moved quickly up to take Mouse's elbow. "After you were called inside, ma'am, Miss Chausse allowed me the privilege of escorting her." He smiled down at Mouse, permitting his face no sign of the internal earthquake that had just rearranged his entire mental landscape. Mouse was his to rescue, and therefore, his to marry, plans be damned.

As the aunt had, he pitched his voice so it carried to the onlookers. Let them chew on this! "I will, if you permit, Miss Chausse, beg the honour of calling tomorrow afternoon. I have a particular question I wish to discuss with you."

For a moment, he was caught in her eyes, which widened and then narrowed in speculation. Then a splutter from Uncle Demetrius turned his attention back to Mouse's unpleasant relative and his own. The man had turned an unhealthy shade of puce. "Claudia must have my permission to wed, Millchurch, and you shall not have her."

Thankfully, that piece of nonsense was hissed in a tone too low for the avid listeners to hear. Tiberius ignored his uncle and spoke to Mouse, a statement rather than a question. "Lord Demetrius has guessed the question, of course. You are of age, so it shall be for you to decide. We shall talk tomorrow."

Lady Bowden had one restraining hand on her lover's arm and another on that of her friend. "Hush," she admonished them both. "We shall not entertain the ton with our family quarrels." She lowered her voice. "Millchurch will undoubtedly reconsider when he finds that dear Claudia comes penniless. You may not be aware, Millchurch, that Claudia's husband must be approved by her trustee before her inheritance is released."

And Tiberius's treacherous uncle was her trustee. Of course. He gave Mouse's hand a gentle squeeze, while staring his stepmother down. "It is a matter of supreme indifference to me, Lady Bowden. I have more than enough to keep and protect my wife and family."

* * *

It was a satisfying encounter, he decided while he prepared for bed at a ridiculously late hour—or an early one, for dawn already lightened the horizon. He had danced once more with Mouse, and taken her into supper, then walked with her on the terrace talking of his estates and what he planned for them now he was home.

So why did he lie sleepless, feeling certain he should have taken her from the ball then and there, and not allowed her to go home with her aunt? It would have caused a scandal, and Mouse would find the position as his countess challenging enough to her shy nature without the extra pressure of living down gossip.

What could the aunt do, after all? Mouse was of age, and though he had not yet asked his question and she had not answered him, he was confident of acceptance. Marrying him had to be a better alternative than living with her aunt, under the thumb of Lady Bowden and her accomplice.

He tossed and turned, unable to shake the niggling feeling that he had made a mistake.

He was up and breaking his fast by eleven o'clock, reading the newspaper as he ate. How would having a wife change such habits? Presumably he would need to talk to her during meals? That would be no hardship, and seeing her across the breakfast table would be pure pleasure. He was smiling at the thought he had conjured when his secretary entered with the late morning edition of the other paper his house took, the pages folded to highlight a notice.

"You asked me to point out any news about Lord Demetrius, my lord," Jasper said, handing him the folded sheets.

The notice sent him calling for his boots and hat, and his horse. 'Mrs Bartholomew Chausse, widow of the late Bartholomew Chausse Esquire, announces the betrothal of her niece, Claudia Margaret Chausse, daughter of Pelham Chausse (deceased) and Margaret Chausse (deceased) to Lord Demetrius Feldonwood, son of the Earl of Millchurch (deceased).'

Like hell she was marrying his father’s younger brother and would be usurper. Mouse was his.

* * *

Claudia had no idea when she fell in love with Tiberius. Millchurch. The earl.

Perhaps the first time they danced. Perhaps when he was so indignant on her behalf in the garden, or later, on the terrace, when he faced down her aunt. Certainly, she was completely smitten by the time he climbed into her room on the day of her betrothal to the loathsome Lord Demetrius.

She had been locked in all day, refused company, books, and even food. They intended to have her consent to the marriage, they told her, and she need not expect Millchurch to save her. He had always run away from trouble, even as a boy, and the announcement ensured any fuss he made would cause enormous trouble.

Even so, she heard the racket when he banged on the front door around noon, demanding admittance, and twice again in the afternoon. So when she heard tapping on the window, she already half expected to find him clinging to the wall outside. His fingers and face were white with the strain of clinging to tenuous holds in the crumbling brick, and she was quick to help him inside, shaking more with fear for him than with the strain of his weight as he hung momentarily from her arm while swinging his leg over the sill.

She closed the window behind him, and was glad she had when the key scraped in the door.

The earl slithered under the bed, and she was glad for the heavy hangings that normally so oppressed her. Just in time, because all three of her tormentors had arrived to berate her for a wicked, ungrateful girl, an unnatural niece, and deficient in any personal charms to make up for her lack of intelligence and beauty.

Claudia, as always, had nothing to say. Countless beatings since her mother's death had taught her that any answer would be wrong, so she stood, head bowed, and waited for the storm to end. She hoped the earl would have the sense to stay hidden, for he would stand no chance against the two sturdy footmen who stood either side of the door, witnessing her humiliation.

She would, she was told after ten minutes of ranting, be left to think on her deficiencies until the morning, by which time she would be wise to realise her good fortune in being selected by Lord Demetrius as his bride. As the door locked behind them, she took her first deep breath since Lord Millchurch had tapped on the window.

The earl emerged, pale with anger, his eyes blazing, but he did not comment on his horrid relatives or hers. Just unwrapped coil after coil of rope from around his waist and set to tying one end to a leg of the bed.

Satisfied with the strength of the knot, he opened the window and let the rope down outside. Only then did he turn to Claudia. "What do you wish to take with you, Miss Chause?"

A vague resentment stirred. In fairness, it must be obvious to the meanest intellect that she could not want to stay to be bullied into handing her inheritance and her person over Lord Demetrius. But surely Lord Millchurch did not expect her to climb out a window and run away with a virtual stranger, without even being asked her opinion.

"Where?" Her voice squeaked through a dry throat.

He echoed her thoughts. "You do not want to marry my uncle, do you? And they will hound you until you do if you stay here. Take only things you cannot bear to leave behind. We can replace anything else once I have you safe."

‘Safe’. That word carried her through packing her mother's bible, the few bits of jewellery that her aunt had rejected as cheap, and some other personal keepsakes. The earl advised her to leave her tooth stick and most of her clothes, so in minutes she had made a bundle of her essential belongings in a spare petticoat, which he wrapped into a parcel with one of her sashes and dropped out the window.

‘Safe’, she told herself again, as he let her down the wall supported by the rope. She needed to cling to the handholds, reach for the footholds, each movement a struggle against the terror that tried to lock her limbs. But he held the rope tightly, and let her down steadily, while all the time her skin crawled with the knowledge she was exposed to view, should anyone of the household wander around to this quiet corner of the house. Never mind that the staff were not welcome in the private garden, and that the wind was too cold for pleasure walks.

‘Safe’. It became the repeated chorus in her head as the earl climbed out of the window and walked down the wall leaning out into the rope, making it look as simple as strolling in the park.

‘Safe’ took her to Lord Millchurch's London townhouse, where his secretary, Jasper Garthorn, immediately deployed a small army of large men to keep the house secure and prevent entry by anyone without the earl's express invitation.

Jasper frightened her at first. He was large and scarred, with a nose that had been broken more than once and a way of changing his normal casual prowl into a threatening strut at the least sign of danger. Introduced to his new mistress, he nodded politely then turned his light blue eyes to Lord Millchurch. "You are marrying your mouse? Will it serve, Tiberius?"

Claudia flinched, and Lord Millchurch pressed the hand he held on his arm.

"If she will have me, we will make it serve, and mind your manners, Jas."

Claudia and Tiberius talked far into the night. Perhaps that was when she fell in love with him; when she found that he listened without judging as she told him about living in the quiet corners her mother created at the edges of the contentious and aggressive lives of her father and his sister; about her certainty that her aunt, her trustee, and her trustee’s lover were living on money they stole from the inheritance left in trust to her by her mother's father.

Lord Millchurch—he said to call him Tiberius, and she did inside her head, but her mouth would not shape the sounds—Tiberius told her about his maternal uncle, and their adventures in exotic countries; about the threat from Lord Demetrius that sent them fleeing; about the dangers he still faced, and why he needed a wife, and soon.

When he offered her a choice, he stole what remained of her heart. He wanted to marry her, he said; had intended to ask in proper form. But if the idea didn't please her, Tiberius would still protect her. He had friends with whom she could live, whose titles and estates would protect her, or she could stay on one of his estates and he would find her a companion.

"That may be less dangerous, Claudia," he said. "My wife and the mother of my children will be at risk as long as my uncle is free to plot against me. But I have the resources to guard you well, I promise you. I will keep you safe."

Before she had time to think, they were married by special license. Tiberius had a varied and surprising acquaintance, all people he had met on his travels, and several contributed to her wedding day. An unspoken service performed for the Archbishop of Canterbury when he had been a travelling prelate shortened the time required to procure the licence. Tiberius had saved the modiste from bandits in Spain, and Claudia's wedding dress was his reward. And the witnesses numbered dukes and earls and barons Tiberius had known overseas, as well as their spouses, all eager to support their friend and his new bride.

Jasper arranged it all. Claudia learned that he was not just a secretary, but Tiberius's closest friend, having shared her husband's travels since the day Tiberius purchased him off an auction block in Tunisia, saving him from the pirate galleys. He would, he informed Claudia when he told her the story, willingly lay down his life for the friend who had given him his own life back.

Jasper ate his meals with them, accompanied them when they went out, sat with them in the evenings. And he continued to run the household as he had when Tiberius was a bachelor. Several times, Claudia opened her mouth to ask to take over those wifely duties, but closed it again for fear of offending either man.

At least she and Tiberius were alone when she performed one particular wifely duty. Marital relations proved to be highly enjoyable, both in themselves and in having her husband to herself, at least after they went to bed at night. He had been honest about his need for an heir, so the activities were a necessary duty, but when he covered her with caresses and kisses, when he devoted attention to her physical response until she lost herself in pleasure, when he lost himself in his own release, burying his face in her hair and murmuring, "Mouse, my darling Mouse," it was easy to imagine that he felt something beyond mere obligation to the wife he had rescued.

Easy, and foolish. During the day, when he was out about his business or closeted with Jasper in his study, she thrust such misplaced hopes back into the realm of fantasy where they belonged. She was safe, and that was all he had promised.

Then suddenly she wasn't.

* * *

They were trying to kill his Mouse.

The runaway carriage might have been an accident. Such things happen. Mouse was shopping, with Jasper and two footmen in attendance, when it careened down the street, and only Jasper's quick thinking and quicker action saved her from injury or worse. He thrust her into a doorway, protecting her with his body, and the carriage passed close enough to tear the back out of his jacket. The footmen both jumped clear. Hampered by her skirts, Mouse could well have been killed.

The shot that just missed her in Hyde Park must surely have been deliberate, though the magistrate called to investigate insisted on regarding it as carelessness at worst. "Some foolish young man making bets with his friends. Not at all the thing. Your wife could have been hurt, and how would they feel then?" Tiberius's own investigators found a trampled spot in the bushes, probably the place where the assassin had waited to make his shot.

Tiberius doubled the guard on Mouse when she went out, and thought about confining her to the house, but couldn't bear to curtail the freedom she was enjoying so much as she visited the art galleries, shops and museums she'd been barred from when she was under her aunt's paw.

His own estate, his investigation into his uncle and stepmother, and Mouse's affairs kept him busy during the day, and he couldn't escort her as often as he wished.

As her husband, he now owned her inheritance, but extracting it—or, more likely, what was left of it—from Lord Demetrius's hands was proving to be difficult, with his uncle's lawyers throwing up one obstacle after another. Tiberius didn't need the money, but he would be damned if Lord Demetrius was going to have it. Besides, as Jasper said, if they could prove the wicked uncle had stolen from Mouse's trust, they would have a reason to have him arrested, and the whole sorry saga could be put to rest.

And then he could spend time with his delightful, fascinating, sweet little wife, who was blossoming like a rose away from the bitter atmosphere of her aunt's home. The old harridan's oppression had not suppressed Mouse's intelligence or her sense of humour. It had made her afraid of almost everything, and every day he saw more reason to admire her courage as she fought through her fear and faced the world with a cheerful smile.

He dodged five more suspicious accidents and outright attacks, but none of them bothered him as much as the crowd of drunken slum dwellers who mobbed Mouse and her footmen in the street as she emerged from his house. He sallied out with the rest of the household and drove the attackers off. She was shaken, but not hurt. This time.

"You need to send her to Redfern," Jasper scolded, after Tiberius had hugged her, examined her for injury, and handed her over to her maid so she could wash and change. "Every time she goes out in London, she is in danger."

He was right. At the earldom's principal estate, Tiberius could control every inch of ground for acres around. He had purged Redfern of the few servants who owed allegiance to Lady Bowden, and those who remained had either been born and brought up on the estate, or were people of his own. She would be far safer there. But he hated the thought of staying in London alone.

He laughed at himself. As if any earl was alone, and Tiberius shared his house with no fewer than two Bow Street Runners and four armed guards, as well as the usual complement of maids, footmen and other servants. And Jasper as well.

None of them, though, lifted his heart with a shy confiding smile. None of them waited in his bed to provide a soft loving haven from the troubles of the day.

If just one of the leads they were following gave them the leverage they needed, Lady Bowden and Lord Demetrius would be neutralised. "I have hopes of the investigation into Lady Millchurch's trust," Tiberius told Jasper, but his old friend shook his head.

"It could take months, Tiberius."

In the end, the conspirators made the decision for him by casting incendiaries into the house. Tiberius and Mouse were woken from a deep sleep by a crash as the window facing the street broke and a flaming bottle exploded, sending shards and fire flying across the room. Other explosions sounded—some in the street and some elsewhere in the house—before shouting indicated the counter attack of the household guards.

Tiberius and Mouse were busy dousing fires for several minutes, and both were hobbling from cuts on the feet by the time Jasper flung open the door. He took two strides into the room before spinning around and covering his eyes. Tiberius picked up his wife's robe and draped it around her naked shoulders. "We have these fires out. What of the rest of the house?"

"We are still fighting the blaze in the countess's room." Jasper remained turned to the hall, his back stiff. "The device burst against a bed post, and the hangings caught."

In an instant, Tiberius's mind flooded with images of what might have happened had he and Mouse not slept together in the master's bed, and in that moment he resolved to send Mouse into the country. Not sometime. Not soon. Tomorrow, or rather, later today. It was the only way to keep her safe.

* * *

Keeping Mouse safely in the country had freed Tiberius's mind of worry, even if it meant he spent three weeks a month longing to be with her and wondering how she was. She had blossomed in the country, surprising him with more confidence every time he went home. The first sign was when Jasper returned from his weekly visit highly amused at being ousted as the household steward. "My lady informs me that she will be instructing the housekeeper from now on," he told Tiberius.

The butler began reporting to her next, and then the gardeners, and soon Tiberius had placed the whole refurbishment in her hands, leaving Jasper free to focus on the case against Lady Bowden and Lord Demetrius.

It had been worth the effort. With Christmas fast approaching, they had a case with only one or two loose ends; probably enough to press for an arrest, but the information that should arrive in London any day would tie it up for certain. And Tiberius didn't need to be in London for that.

"Jasper, I'm leaving you to wait for our messengers, and coaching down to Redfern," Tiberius said. He chose the servants that would travel with him, in case of a last-ditch attack by his family villains, leaving some to still watch the house and protect Jasper.

Jasper was unhappy about Tiberius splitting his forces. "Don't leave me any guards," he insisted. "No one is interested in me. I can finish up here and ride down in a few days, and none the wiser."

They were probably not interested in Tiberius either. After all, he had evidence of fraud, theft, and extortion, and witnesses who would swear that his stepmother and uncle had procured at least some of the attacks against him. They must know that killing him wouldn't make that information disappear. They were finished, waiting only for the arrest and prosecution.

As always when travelling to Redfern and Mouse, his heart lightened with the miles, and he whiled away the time thinking of places he could take his sweet wife once he no longer feared for her safety, and things they could do together while they waited for that happy day.

Would she be pleased he planned to stay at Redfern until she could travel with him? He found it hard to tell how she felt about him. When they joined at night, he could believe he knew her through to the bone, but in the daytime, she would slip away into some mental hiding place, speaking with shy reserve if their duties brought them together, but otherwise busying herself around the house and garden. She was turning Redfern back into a home, and her servants adored her without reservation. As did Tiberius.

At least now that he had destroyed their enemies, he would be free to court his wife.

He was making a mental list of ways to please her and to show her he loved her when the carriage lurched and then sped up. Moments later, he heard gunfire, and a cautious peek out of the nearest window showed that he and his outriders were under attack.

* * *

On fine days, Claudia insisted on walking in the park, taking pleasure in the fine vistas and the sense that the walls of her luxurious cage were, for a time at least, rolled further away. Not that she disliked Redfern; far from it. In the six months since Tiberius had whisked her away from London, it had become the home she hadn't known since her mother died. Better, for no father or uncle arrived without warning to disturb the peace with demands and shouting. Only her husband, who never raised his voice or his hand, and who praised the progress she was making on repairing their home. Only Jasper, who had become an ally and, dare she think it, a friend.

Even so, the most beloved home can be oppressive when leaving is forbidden, and Tiberius insisted that she stay, at all times, within the house or the acres of the park in the vicinity of the house. Patrols roamed the perimeters of the park, and guards watched every entrance. Others crossed and recrossed the whole estate and the surrounding area, looking for strangers, looking for any activity out of the ordinary.

Even within the house Claudia was followed everywhere except within her private suite by another guard, this one dressed as a footman. A whole platoon followed her on her walks. She knew what he feared, and she appreciated his concern for her safety and that of the child he intended to give her, but she had been confined all her life, and yearned to be allowed some freedom.

Tiberius was taking no chances.

He brought her anything she asked for: books to replenish the much-diminished library; plants to help bring the garden back from wilderness; wallpaper and upholstery patterns for his trusted workmen to put into use as she directed the refurbishment and redecoration of neglected room after neglected room; even a carefully guarded vicar to say Matins in the Redfern chapel once a week when she protested missing Divine Services.

"When all is safe, you and I shall visit the neighbours. Yes, and invite them here to Redfern," he promised. Meanwhile, he visited the local gentry on his own—and the nearby village and his tenants too—during the one week each month he spent at the estate. He was devoted to her at night, his week carefully chosen to coincide with the time she was most likely to be fertile. But during the day, he worked in his study with Jasper or travelled the countryside.

Claudia wondered how Tiberius spent his nights during the three weeks of each month he spent in London, but she did not ask.

Today, a week before Christmas, she was walking to the knoll that overlooked the main gate to the estate, fretting. Tiberius had sent a note to say he was coming; that he would stay at least until Twelfth Night; that if all turned out as he hoped, Lord Demetrius and Lady Bowden were finished and would need to flee the country before the end of the Yuletide. Ever since, she had been in a fever to know the details, but two days had passed and he had not arrived.

She wanted to tell him the arrangements she had made to decorate the house in the old-fashioned way, with greenery and ribbons, mistletoe and holly; to burn a Yule log; to give a feast for the entire household. Ever since they had discussed the Christmases they had never had, each deprived by the circumstances of their upbringing, she had wanted to make a Christmas for the pair of them to remember. And on Christmas Day, she would tell him her secret.

Climbing the hill, she made her way to the bench placed at the best viewing point for the estate. The carriageway curved around the hill and through a long avenue of trees to the gates, small in the distance, beside which rose the gatekeepers' lodge, a gothic fantasy in miniature built by the previous earl.

Tiberius would undoubtedly hedge her about with even more restrictions once he knew she carried a child who could well be his precious heir. She would explain that long walks could only help her, or so said the midwife who was sister to the housekeeper, and who had been smuggled into the house to confirm Claudia's condition.

Christmas Day was the latest she could leave telling him her condition. He would find out soon enough, and better that she told him than that he guessed for himself.

Heaven forfend that he guess why she kept her state a secret as long as she did not show signs; that she feared he would not bother to visit even once a month when he knew he had attained his objective. She was, after all, a means to an end, and however considerate and courteous he was, however passionate at night, she would do well not to forget he had married her to secure the earldom away from his uncle.

These facts did not dissuade her from loving him, tumbling a little further every time they were together, but she need not embarrass herself by letting him know.

Where was he? She peered into the distance, pulling her shawl a little more tightly around her against the chill wind. There. Something was coming. A carriage and outriders. No. More than one carriage, and... Wait. That couldn't be right.

Claudia was not conscious of rising to her feet, of her guards crowding behind her, all venturing to the very edge of the steep bank down to the park below. The two carriages thundered towards the gates, and the riders that surged around them grappled with one another or tried to stop or turn the racing carriage horses. On top of the leading carriage, a man stood and then fell. Shot? How frustrating that the wind blew towards the action so they could not hear, but surely there must be gunfire to go with what was clearly an ambush and pursuit.

“The gatekeeper is firing from his windows, my lady,” one of her men pointed out, “And see, reinforcements are on their way.”

Sure enough, men were emerging from across the park and riding or running towards the gate.

“Go and help,” Claudia commanded. “It is the earl’s carriage, and he may be hurt.”

The men shook their heads, and the spokesman explained. “It could be a trick, my lady, to draw people away so they can attack the main house. We’ll not leave you.” And nothing she could say would persuade them otherwise.

As it turned out, they were not needed. The attackers were driven off, and the defenders split into two groups, one to stay on guard at the gates and walls, and one to escort the damaged carriages through the park to the house.

This time when Claudia proposed descending the hill to the carriageway, to meet the slow procession, her guards agreed. “Better be with the main force, my lady, in case the house has been taken,” said the spokesman gloomily.

That dire circumstance hadn’t come about, but by the time Claudia arrived at the house she had more urgent concerns. Tiberius was the man she had seen fall, shot in the chest but caught by one of his guards before he could plunge from the carriage. He was still on top of the carriage, unconscious but breathing.

Claudia climbed up beside him and looked at his wound, as well as she could. Wounds. The one in the chest still seeped blood. Another furrowed his scalp, and one in his thigh showed in a large bloodstain marring his pantaloons. Claudia sent one of her own men riding for a doctor and settled herself with her husband’s head on her lap before she would let the others explain what had happened.

They had been in a running battle with a gang of mounted ruffians for the last five miles of their journey. Outnumbered, outgunned, and with tired horses, they had nonetheless almost reached sanctuary until another party joined the first. Without the help from the estate, all would have been lost. As it was, five of their number had fallen somewhere along the way.

Claudia ordered another group of guards to fetch a cart from the stables and retrace the path of the battle. “Bring them home,” she instructed. “We will treat those we can and honour those we have lost.”

By now they were at the house. Tiberius needed to be lowered to the ground and brought inside. The other wounded required some battlefield care while they waited for the doctor. Anderson, the butler, hovered anxiously, wanting to know what had happened. She had dubbed him the general, since Tiberius and Jasper had placed him in charge of defending the estate,. He would need to redistribute his men to ensure Tiberius was kept safe. And she must send a note to Jasper, telling him about the attack and his friend’s condition.

Tiberius first. And she would get to the rest. She could do this.

* * *

Jasper arrived with the dawn, hurrying into the bedchamber without knocking, then stopping abashed as he saw Claudia hovering over the bed, sponging her husband’s damp forehead to try to keep the fever down.

She interrupted before he could apologise for rushing straight to his friend’s side.

“The doctor says the bullets hit nothing vital, and Millchurch has spoken, which is a good sign, the doctor said, though we are concerned he has not yet fully woken. The danger is infection. He already has a fever. But he is strong, Jasper, is he not? Fever will not take him from us?”

“When will he be well enough to travel?” Jasper asked. “I need to get you and him into hiding.”

Hiding? Away from Redfern? “Travel where?” Claudia asked.

“Somewhere that your husband’s uncle won’t find you. I promised Tiberius that if anything happened to him I would keep you safe.”

Something shifted. It was as if she had passed from deep darkness into sunlight, or woken in her own bed after going to sleep in a carriage, or found the walls that had surrounded herself all her life suddenly faded away, leaving her with endless directions she could walk.

“No,” she heard herself saying. “No, Jasper. Safe is not enough. I cannot and will not accept safe.” She cupped the abdomen where her precious cargo travelled. It was too early to feel the flutter of movement, but she imagined, nonetheless, her own strength flowing into the baby and a steady stream of courage and love returning to her.

“I want safe and free. For me, for Tiberius, and for our child. And I think I have an idea for getting what I want.”

* * *

Jasper argued. And when she had convinced him, each of the powerful peers he fetched to Redfern raised further objections. “We are concerned for your safety, Lady Millchurch,” explained the Marquis of Aldridge, who had come in the train of Redfern’s eccentric and dissolute neighbour to the West, the Duke of Richport. Aldridge had a brother with whom Tiberius had travelled all one summer, from the Hellenes to Russia. And Tiberius had performed a favour for the Earl of Sutton in some middle Eastern mountain, been guest to the man who was now Earl of Chirbury in a cabin in the North Canadian forest, and persuaded a tribe of gypsies to smuggle the Earl of Ruthford out of enemy hands in Spain when the earl was an exploring officer for Wellington.

The local magistrate, Sir Percy Westren, was the only non-peer, and the only person who did not have a personal reason to help her and Tiberius. He had also heard the gossip that named Tiberius as insane and Lord Demetrius as an innocent victim, and was the only one to believe it. In any case, he was inclined had morbidly decided that the current earl was not going to live, and that supporting Lord Demetrius was therefore wise.

Richport and Aldridge had proven surprisingly helpful, the surface charm each rake affected no disguise for the privilege and authority bred into their bones. They had swiftly squelched Sir Percy.

“If Lord Demetri and Lady Bowden are innocent, Sir Percy, Lady Millchurch’s trap will remain unsprung and no harm will be done,” Aldridge had explained. Richport had muffled a laugh and shaken his head.

“Innocent is not a word I would associate with that poisonous pair,” he had commented, managing to sound both wickedly suggestive and ducal.

“Yes, we must be concerned for Lady Millchurch’s safety. And the safety of the little heir, should she be carrying a boy,” Sir Percy said now, ready to support any argument that would turn Claudia from her plan. The disclosure of her condition had made the group both more determined to see justice and more protective.

Girl or boy, she hoped to win the child many years with his own Papa. Three days after the attack, the fever still burned, and Claudia struggled to retain her own hope, buoyed by his brief periods of lucidity and dashed as he spent hour after hour struggling to escape unknown dangers to reach her side. “Mouse. I must keep Mouse safe,” he kept muttering, and would calm only when she or Jasper assured him that she was safe. Jasper was sitting with him now, leaving her to manage the nobles she had called to her aid.

“You will be in the next room,” Claudia reminded the five on whom she could rely. Sir Percy had no choice but to support what they decided, and could safely be ignored. “I will be in no danger. My child will be in no danger.”

“One of us must remain with you, Lady Millchurch,” Aldridge insisted again. The notice announcing the death of the Earl of Millchurch had been sent to the London newspapers yesterday. Beyond a doubt, it would fetch Lord Demetrius, eager to take his nephew’s place. Her supporters had even agreed to the next part of her plan; a meeting between Claudia and the usurper, in which she would manipulate him into admitting his guilt. But they objected strongly to her meeting the man alone.

Claudia shook her head again. “Lord Demetrius despises me, and will not guard his tongue. But he would be wary in front of any one of you.”

“But not a servant,” Richport suggested. “I would make a handsome footman, do you not agree? The whole world knows that Lady Millchurch does not move without a footman at her elbow.”

They argued about who should perform the role, with Sutton, Chirbury, and Ruthford claiming prior experience as fighting men, and Richport assuring them that this disqualified them. “You cannot help but look dangerous,” he explained. “Aldridge and I are used to seeming harmless.” He raised an elegant brow and exchanged a glance and half a smile with his friend. “But believing that appearance would be a mistake.”

They had not resolved the question by the time Claudia was ready to take over the sick-bed watch. She stood and gathered her sewing and her temper. “Gentlemen, I beg you give me leave. I must see to my husband. I shall consent to the company of the Duke of Richport, disguised as a footman. I expect Lord Demetrius no later than tomorrow afternoon, so we must be ready then. Your Grace, Anderson will see to a livery. I bid you all good night.”

And as she left the room, she was gratified to hear Richport say, “Aldridge, I thought you said they called her the Mouse? They certainly have that wrong!”

* * *

The wicked trio must have left London as soon as they read the news, and stayed somewhere overnight on the journey, for he arrived before noon. Claudia saw them from the bedchamber she shared with Tiberius, in which he now lay sleeping after a restless night. Lord Demetrius descended first, turning to hand down first Lady Bowden and then Aunt Chausse. So they had all come, and the play was about to begin.

Claudia choked back the nausea that threatened, breathed deeply in and out until her heart rate slowed and the panic gripping her lessened. She had to do this. She could do this. For Tiberius. For the baby.

The silence of the room was broken by the knock on the door, and Jasper entered at her call. Silent as he always was, she didn’t miss her husband’s murmur. “Mouse. Dear little Mouse. Will you ever love me as I love you?”

She crossed the room to rest one hand on his and lay the other on his brow. The fever seemed less this morning. “You love me?” she asked.

“Of course he does,” Jasper confirmed. “He speaks of you constantly. He misses you every day you are apart. He longs for the time he can remain with you instead of leaving you behind when he must travel. And you love him, too, do you not? I have seen the way you look at him; how hard you work for his comfort.”

She examined Jasper’s face and saw nothing but truth in it. “He loves me?”

“Mouse?” A firm squeeze on her hand drew her attention back to Tiberius, who was looking up at her, his eyes open and lucid. “Mouse, you must go with Jasper. Keep you safe. My fault. Thought we had won. Let down my guard. Must keep you safe.”

She returned the pressure, and kept her tone calm though her heart wanted to sing great soaring hymns of joy and praise. “I am safe, Tiberius. Jasper is guarding me. We are winning, my dearest love, and you will get well. We will have many happy years together.”

He was slipping back into sleep, his eyes closing. “Good,” he muttered. “Tha’s good. Love you, Mouse.”

Claudia bent to kiss his cheek, her eyes filling with unexpected tears. She had happiness almost within her grasp. She had merely to face the demons who had tormented her for so many years, and who still haunted her every action. For love, she could do this.

“They are here, my lady,” Jasper told her.

“Claudia.”

“My lady?”

“We are friends, are we not? You call my husband Tiberius. I would be pleased if you called me Claudia.”

One side of Jasper’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “Claudia,” he conceded. “When we three are private. I will look after him, Claudia. You go down to your battle. You are stronger than you know.”

* * *

Anderson had shown the three visitors to the parlour next to the study, over Lady Bowden’s protests that Lord Demetrius was now Lord Millchurch, and Anderson’s employer.

Aldridge and Chirbury, who were waiting to reassure her before she entered the lists, said Anderson had merely repeated, “My lady gave me my orders, my lord,” and backed the insistence with four large footman who said nothing, but only loomed.

She gave the two peers a ghost of a smile and accepted a peck on the cheek from the naughty marquess. “For luck,” he said. “We will be right next door, Lady Millchurch.” He and Chirbury disappeared into the study, where the other witnesses waited, the door between the two rooms left open behind concealing draperies.

Another deep breath to calm her nerves, but in truth the knowledge that Tiberius loved her was too all-consuming for fear to take hold. She straightened the black widow’s weeds she had donned for the charade, and lifted her chin, then remembered her role and let her shoulders slump. A nod to Anderson, who opened the door.

There they were. The three who had tried to rob her of everything she held dear. For a moment, tears of rage blinded her and she hesitated in the doorway.

“Well, Claudia, this is a sad state of affairs,” Lord Demetrius intoned.

So he was going to pretend to mourn, even to the black armband. The two women also wore black, though trimmed with flounces of lace that made the display indecently frivolous.

Claudia took another deep breath. Rage would not serve her. From behind the three villains, a footman, anonymous in his livery, grinned and tipped her a saucy wink. Richport? In his powder, with padding to change the shape of his face and some subtle alteration in posture that combined subservience and pride, she would not have recognised him.

The distraction was enough to steady her, and she drooped a little more, taking tiny timid steps to a chair set far enough apart from the others that none of them could reach her without rising.

“Why have you come to torment me?” she sobbed.

Lady Bowden reply was impatient. Good. They saw her still as the victim they could coerce. “Where else would we be? Family should be together at a time like this.”

“Order some tea, girl,” Aunt Chausse commanded. “We have had a long journey.”

Claudia ignored her and spoke to Lady Bowden, on whose temper she was counting. “You have come to gloat. You had Tiberius killed, and now you undoubtedly wish to kill me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lord Demetrius spluttered. “You have been listening to my nephew’s lies. Why should we want to kill you?”

Claudia put her hand on her abdomen and said nothing, waiting until all three followed the gesture then exchanged glances. “If she is with child, that changes everything,” Lady Bowden said, at last.

Claudia threw back her head. Time to be defiant. “Yes, because Lord Demetrius cannot hide behind his peerage until he inherits. The case my husband pressed against you will still continue. And the evidence against you, Lady Bowden, and you, Aunt Chausse, remains. I am told they pursue you with warrants for your arrest.”

“You know nothing!” Lord Demetrius thundered, making Claudia flinch in reflex. Good. Best they think her easily cowed. He turned anxiously to Lady Bowden. “Dearest, they cannot arrest me, can they?”

“We have control now, Demetri,” she soothed. “We can find the boy’s evidence, pay off his investigators. Yes, and the magistrates if we must. We can dispose of that impudent secretary and anyone else who doesn’t cooperate,” Her eyes narrowed as she glared at Claudia, “and deal with this chit and her brat.”

Claudia moved to her next scripted words. “Please. Let me go. I will disappear. I won’t make a fuss. I will let you have the title and the estate. Just let me and the baby live. Please. Have mercy.”

She could see the three of them relax as her words stilled their panic. Once again, Lady Bowden spoke for them all. “Do you think us stupid? You can blame Tiberius, Claudia. He should have left you in ignorance, but it appears he told you far too much, and we cannot afford to have you gossiping about it. No. We will not let you go.”

“Please,” Claudia begged, “do not hurt me. Do not hurt the baby.”

Lady Bowden stretched her lips in a cold mirthless smile. “Have a daughter, Claudia. That is my advice.”

“No,” said Lord Demetrius. “I won’t do it. I have waited twenty years for the earldom, and I’ve done everything you said, Lucella. My brother died just as you promised, but not his nuisance of a son. And look what he has done? We finally succeed in killing him, and he cheats me once again. It will be a son, I am certain of it. Just to spite me. I am not waiting months more, I tell you flat. The chit has to die.”

“Mouse?” Tiberius stood in the doorway, pale and trembling but upright.

Over his shoulder, Claudia could see Jasper leaping down the stairs, three at a time, running to his friend’s aid. Focused on them, she missed the moment when Lord Demetrius leapt roaring to his feet, pulled a knife from inside his coat, and flung himself at Tiberius, screaming, “Back to hell, you fiend. The earldom is mine.”

An explosion, loud in the confined space, drew all eyes to the silent footman. Lord Demetrius dropped in his tracks and Tiberius swayed, caught just before he could fall by Claudia from before him and Jasper from behind.

Lady Bowden and Aunt Chausse were on their feet, watching the curtain as Aldridge lifted it and stepped into the parlour, followed by Chirbury, Ruthford, Sutton, and Sir Percy. Lady Bowden stood cold and proud. Aunt Chausse collapsed into tears.

Richport was examining Lord Demetrius’s body, the small pistol he had used to drop the villain dangling negligently from one hand. “Dead?” Aldridge asked.

Claudia was only half listening. Jasper had helped her bring Tiberius to a sofa, where he had her folded in his arms and was smothering her with kisses, while brokenly repeating “Mouse, Mouse. You are safe. Oh Mouse, do not frighten me so.”

She could hear the grin in Richport’s voice as he answered his friend. “Do you doubt my aim?” He added, in a more ducal tone, “Shot in protection of Lord and Lady Millchurch after confessing to multiple attempts at murder and threatening harm to the lady and her child, possibly the heir to the earldom.”

“So the record will show,” Chirbury agreed solemnly.

“Child?” Tiberius tipped up her chin. “Child, Claudia?”

She smiled through sudden tears at the wonder and delight in his tone, in his eyes.

* * *

By Christmas Eve, the household was back to normal, Tiberius’s uncle had been hastily interred after an inquest, at which Richport was absolved of all blame and hailed as a hero. The two women had been hauled off to prison to be held until the next Assizes.

Sir Percy had hailed the return of the Earl of Millchurch from the dead, and assured him of Sir Percy’s full support. The duke and the marquess took their leave for some bacchanal, and the Earl of Chirbury went off to join his family in Gloucestershire. The Earl of Ruthford was the only one who remained, invited when he disclosed that he had no plans for Christmastide. He and Jasper were currently out collecting the Yulelog, and Claudia was overseeing the maids and footmen who were tying ribbons and evergreens to every available banister and mantlepiece, hanging mistletoe in every doorway, and garlanding every standing table and window ledge.

Every few minutes, she checked on Tiberius, who was comfortably ensconced on a sofa in the large drawing room, with a pile of books, a plate of cook’s shortbread, and a glass of eggnog. He had been regaining strength by leaps and bounds. So much so that her morning had begun most pleasantly. She had protested that he should avoid any activity likely to cause him pain, but he overruled her with tender but persistent kisses, to the satisfaction of them both.

There he was, looking up from his book with his love naked in his eyes.

“Claudia. You are not overdoing things, are you? Come and sit with me and let me tell you again how much I love you.”

But when she succumbed to the lure, he produced a twig of mistletoe, held it over her head, and demanded a kiss.

“You love me that much?” she teased, when she emerged.

“More,” he assured her, and kissed her again.

“That’s two berries,” she told him. “You will soon run out if you spend them so liberally, Tiberius.”

“My Mouse has found her teeth,” he observed. “I like it. I like it very much.”

Claudia rested her head on his shoulder, enjoying the moment’s peace alone with her husband.

“By next Christmas, we shall be three,” Tiberius mused. “By midsummer, in fact.” He rested a gentle hand on the curve of her stomach. “Hello, little one.”

“Perhaps your heir, Tiberius.”

“A son to raise in the home you have made us, my love. Or a little girl with your lovely eyes and your gentle ways, whom you can raise to be a warrior like her Mama.”

She smiled against his neck. A warrior mouse.

“Claudia?” The laugh in her husband’s voice warned her a moment before he held up a bag of mistletoe branches. “I bribed a footman,” he explained, extracting another and holding it over their heads.

“Enough for the whole twelve days,” she suggested, approvingly, but her lord disagreed. “Enough for today, sweet Mouse, and after that I shall be in your debt. For I’ve no wish to denude England of every mistletoe berry, and I shall never have enough of kissing you.”

Which was, Claudia thought to herself while she still could think of anything but Tiberius’s drugging kisses, was entirely satisfactory.

Safe was all very well, but happiness was even better.

THE END

The Rain Dog

"It's too dangerous," Wakefield reported as he approached, shouting to be heard above the wind and the sound of the brook. Not a brook today; twenty yards of seething roiling water stretched bank to bank, branches and entire trees rolling and colliding in their frantic race to the distant sea.

Jake had waited with the horses while the other two checked whether the bridge was safe to cross. He frowned across at the far bank, just visible between gusts of rain. So close! Natching Brook marked one boundary of the Collingwood lands; another twenty minutes would have seen them at the manor.

But the twenty yards might as well be miles. They'd not end their journey today. Even from here, he could see the bridge shuddering as its piles were battered by the water and its contents: trees, bits of fence post or building or boat, the occasional pathetic corpse of an animal swept away by the flood. And more. That constant grumbling rumble was boulders washed from the banks and rolled by the force of the brook, a giant watery hand playing at bowls.

The third member of their party joined them. "The bridge at Stenforth may still be passable. The river is wider there."

"Stenforth has a decent inn," Jake remembered. "Stop there and carry on in the morning?" He made a question of it, and added a belated "my lord." Baron Collingwood was eager to return to the ancestral estate that had ejected him so violently nearly eight years ago, but it would be rank foolishness to carry on in this weather at this time of day. He and Col had not survived so much and for so long just too lose all in the last few miles.

Col nodded, and within minutes the three of them were mounted and heading back up the river. Col led the way, Wakefield next, and Jake brought up the rear, his eyes scanning constantly for threats.

There was another corpse, washing towards him on a flat section of planks; a sheep perhaps. No; a white dog, lamb-sized and woolly. It was almost level with him when it lifted its head. Alive? Not for long, in this torrent.

Jake did not stop to think. In moments, he had his horse wrenched around and galloping back to the bridge. He hurled himself onto the rickety structure, stretched full length to distribute his weight, and reached down into the current just in time to grasp the poor beast by handfuls of fur.

Limp and sodden, dragged by the water, the dog was a dead weight in his hands, impossible to lift. And then Col was there beside him, adding his strength to Jake's, and together they heaved the half-drowned creature onto the platform of the bridge.

"It won't hold," Col shouted, as the bridge juddered under the onslaught of another downed tree. Together, they crept back towards the shore, lifting the dog between them. It struggled feebly, but subsided.

Wakefield waited with the horses, and made no comment as Jake and Col rejoined him. Soon, they were back on their way to Stenforth, the dog tucked inside Jake's coat soaking him to the skin as it slowly dried and warmed.

* * *

Helen paced the room. Five strides to the door and five more back to the window. She must have made the trip a hundred times, only just enough aware of her surroundings to skirt the pair of chairs that flanked the hearth, to keep her footfalls silent. Olivia had cried herself to sleep, and it would not take much to disturb her.

The door would be impossible; that fiend had set a man to watch outside. The window? Dare she risk her daughter in the climb? But dare she risk staying?

Damn Nathaniel Collingwood to hell.

As if her curse had called him up, she heard his voice in the hall outside the door. Not words, just the sound of his voice talking to the man he'd set to watch the door. Then a click and a rattle. The key in the lock. It opened a fraction, then stopped, blocked by the chair she had jammed under the handle, the legs carefully placed on a groove between the floorboards so that, push as he might, he couldn't shift it.

"Let me in," he demanded. "We need to talk."

Talk! As if talk was what he intended. He had attempted to force a kiss in the carriage just before they arrived at the inn, ignoring Helen's protests and Olivia's screams. He would not have stopped except for little Blanche. Olivia's dog had hurtled to the rescue, sinking her teeth into the blackguard's leg.

"Open the door!" He was banging on the door now, and his noise had disturbed Olivia, who was sitting up bed, reaching for Helen.

"Don't let him in, Mama. Don't let the bad man in."

Helen hastened to the child's side. "He cannot get in, my love. You are safe here. He will get tired of shouting and go away." For the moment, but they could not stay in this room forever. Tomorrow Olivia would be hungry and thirsty, and Collingwood would be waiting.

The innkeeper would not help, for Collingwood was a notable local landowner. Or had been. Helen felt a moment's vengeful glee that his reign was coming to an end. The true heir had reappeared, and would soon be home, which partly accounted for Collingwood's temper, perhaps.

The window drew her gaze again. Later. When the inn was quiet.

"He threw Blanche into the river." Olivia kept repeating the observation, as if she could not believe it. She had known little cruelty in her seven years, and Collingwood's punishment of the dog had prompted an attack of hysterical crying so bad that even Collingwood had taking pity, or more likely had not wanted to share a room with the noise. Whatever his reasons, he had sent them straight up to this room while he sought treatment for his bite.

"Dogs can swim, darling. We must hope she has found safety further down the river." Another lie. The river was in flood, worse than Helen had ever seen it. Nothing could have survived. Helen hated lying to her daughter, but what harm could it do for Olivia to believe in the dog's safety, at least for tonight?

Outside the room, the shouting had stopped. She could hear the hum of men's voices, but not their words. At least Collingwood had stopped banging.

* * *

The inn at Stenforth was crowded with other travellers waylaid by the storm, the man and boy who served in the stables were overwhelmed by the unexpected traffic. Jake sent Wakefield in to secure rooms, and he and Col tended to the horses themselves.

The dog, warm and dry now, lay in the corner of the stall they'd been assigned, its muzzle on its paws, its eyes bright as it followed Jake's every moment.

"Looks like you have yourself a dog," Col commented.

Jake's hands stilled on the horse's flank, then he resumed brushing. "I wouldn't mind," he discovered. "We're heading for a settled life now, old friend. We'll be able to keep pets." He pointed at his rescuee with his chin. "That little lady has good manners, and a friendly nature. I'd be happy to keep her."

"We still have to deal with Cousin Nathaniel," Col reminded him, "and find out what became of Miss Waterman."

That silenced Jake. He did not expect Nasty Natdy to present a problem. Wakefield had soon found the evidence to clear Jake and Col of the charges that had caused the then Baron Collingwood to exile them, one step ahead of the Bow Street runners, but not enough to convict the new baron’s cousin.

Wakefield's visit here a month ago had provoked someone to send enough evidence to justify turning the man out, if not enough to hang him; a package containing one man's careful records of every observation, rumour, and speculation to circulate around Nathaniel Collingwood for the past ten years. Including suspicions of murder. The records provided a list of possible victims, including the eldest Collingwood son, the local vicar, and most recently of the former baron himself. Which was why they had come like this, without announcement and with an extra trick or two up their sleeves to draw Nat out.

No. Nat would get what was coming to him. But Vicar Waterman's beautiful daughter had disappeared on the night of her father's death, and had not been seen since. Dead too, Col thought. But Jake didn't believe it; didn't want to believe it.

"The inn is full." It was Wakefield, shaking his head to rid it of the water that had drenched it in the short dash between the main building and the stables. "I've managed to secure one room, but that's it. Big bed, though, and a trundle. We'll be comfortable enough."

"As long as it has a fire and dinner." Col slapped his horse on the flank, and ducked around it to reach for his coat, grimacing as he put it on.

Jake picked up the dog and tucked it inside his own wet coat. It protested at the damp, but settled. "Yes, and some of the landlord's ale, if he has the same reputation for brewing as his father before him," he said.

"I've ordered a meal up to our room, since you'll want as few people as possible to see you," Wakefield told them, then led the way back into the rain and then up the back stairs to the topmost floor, just below the attics.

They heard the shouting and swearing before they reached the top of the last flight. A burly man was pounding on a door while describing to an audience of two other large men and the woman inside what he planned to do once she let him in.

Hardly an inducement, Jake thought. He hoped she kept the door blocked until the bully left the inn.

"No point in wasting your breath," one of the ruffian's companions commented. "She'll have to come out sooner or later, though, or she and the little bitch will starve. Leave off, Mr Collingwood."

Nat? He had put on weight and lost most of his hair while Jake and Col had been overseas, but sure enough, their quarry was in their sights.

The three on the stairs exchanged glances, and then Col took the lead, Wakefield at his shoulder. Jake hung back in the stairwell.

"Why, cousin Nat," Col said. "Fancy meeting you here."

Nat turned at the greeting, all the ruddiness draining from his face. For a moment, he swayed on his feet, and then he braced his shoulders and the colour flooded back. “Cousin Oliver? Is that you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but surged forward, a broad grin stretching his lips below eyes that narrowed in a glare. “Welcome home, Oliver. It is good to see you.”

Inside Jake’s coat, the dog stirred, its chest trembling with a silent growl.

Col ignored the outstretched hands, clasping his own behind his back.

“Is it, cousin? Somehow, I doubt it. Oh, but I forget my manners. Wakefield, allow me to introduce Nathaniel Collingwood. Nat, my enquiry agent, David Wakefield. He has heard all about you.”

In the stairwell, Jake grinned. Nicely done. The introduction was a calculated insult, a warning, and a provocation all at once.

Nat picked up at least some of the meaning, paling again and taking a step back. He forced his lips into another smile, this one even meaner than the last. “Staying the night are you? No wonder. Dreadful weather out there. Perhaps we could have a drink later?” He sneered, leaning forward to threaten Col with his bulk.

He’d catch cold at that. Jake and Col had been striplings last time Nat bullied them. In the past decade, they’d gained inches on the scum-sucking murderer. And while he’d been running to seed, they’d been building muscles and skills, at first just staying alive and then in the army for seven years.

“We could talk over old times,” Col countered, letting amusement flavour his voice. “Discuss old acquaintances. Weapons close to hand.”

Nat’s eyes slid sideways to the door he’d been abusing, and then sharpened on the two men with him. “Another time.” He punched one of the men in the shoulder. “Come on. What are you waiting around here for?”

Without another word to Col, he trudged off, the other two grumbling as they followed.

Col raised an eyebrow in question as Jake joined him, but Jake spoke to Wakefield. “It should have been me.”

“We have discussed this, my lord,” Wakefield reminded him. “We are backing your cousin into a corner. Having your friend pretend to be you gives us an edge.”

Jake shook his head. He had not liked the idea from the first, but had allowed himself to be persuaded. Now? Nasty Nat was a rat, and who knew which way a cornered rat would jump?

“He’ll not get near us tonight,” Wakefield said, “and we’ll be on watch tomorrow.”

The little dog whimpered, and wriggled inside his shirt. Jake murmured soothingly to it.

“Don’t fuss, Jake,” Col told him. “You’ll make sure I come through this in one piece. Now. What about that piece of dinner?”

* * *

Helen sat holding Olivia until she fell asleep again, and only then tucked her back into the bed. Helen should try to rest herself, but her fears and her plans kept her awake, chasing one another around inside her skull as she lay in the dark staring towards the slightly lighter rectangle of the window.

Eventually, she got up and lit a candle. She wished she had a book to read. If she had known Collingwood had intended to abduct her, she could have put one in her basket. The foolish thought brought a wry smile. If she had known, she and Olivia would have sought her step-son’s escort to the village, or stayed at home. She had thought nothing of the carriage that crept up behind her on the road, just moving to the grass beside the road, while trying to keep Olivia under her umbrella. She had not noticed the two bullies until they seized her and hurled her into the carriage where Nathaniel Collingwood had waited.

It was only the second time she had seen him since she fled her aunt’s house after her father’s death. The first time had been at her husband’s funeral six months ago. For weeks after, she had waited for him to storm in and claim her, though Rick said he would not let it happen. “My father left you to my care, Helen,” he assured her.

The Bancrofts owned their own farm, and were not answerable to the local baron. Dickon Bancroft had married her to protect her and Olivia when Nathaniel uncovered her hiding place with her aunt. But she doubted he could have prevented Nathaniel taking her if Nathaniel had known where she lived. The Collingwoods were gentry, and no-one, common or gentry, had ever held Nathaniel Collingwood accountable for his misdeeds except his cousin Jacob, who had suffered for it when his own father and brother took the villain’s side. The former Lord Collingwood had exiled Jacob because of Nathaniel’s lies. Yes, and Colin Marfield, Jacob’s closest friend.

Helen had always known that staying hidden among the yeoman farmers’ wives was her greatest protection. Who would have thought that paying her last respects to the man she had married would be her downfall?

The inn was quiet. Helen snuffed the candle and stood at the window to study the inn forecourt. The rain had eased to a drizzle, but the creeper-clad walls still dripped their burden of water. All the better. This late on so foul a night, no-one would be tempted into the outdoors, to witness Helen and Olivia as they made their escape.

She eased up the window, taking care to make no noise. She could hear the angry grumble of the river that churned between her and Bancroft Farm, but no matter. It was not worth risking the bridge tonight. Her home this past six years was no longer safe.

Helen had no idea where to go next, but time enough to worry about that. She could only plan as far ahead as she could see. She would get them safely out of this room. She would take shelter somewhere hidden, and wait for the storm and her enemy to go away.

* * *

The whining woke Jake. The whining and the tugging on his shirt. He surfaced slowly, fighting his way through a heavy ache across his temples and behind his eyes. “Quiet,” he ordered the dog. The air he sucked in after the command tasted of smoke and ash, and the burst of coughing helped clear the fog from his brain. Fire. He could smell it.

Swiftly, he shook Col awake and then Wakefield. They took the door at a rush, expecting an ambush, but none came.

The need to wake the inn warred with the need for caution. They compromised by staying together as they ran down the hall, pounding on doors, shouting the alert.

Just in time. The inn’s inhabitants spilled out into the forecourt as the flames spread, and by the time a bucket brigade from the river had been established, they had to focus on stopping the fire from spreading to the outbuildings. The main building was beyond saving.

Jake put the dog down to help fight the fire. “Now don’t run off,” he told it, but as soon as he let it go, it raced barking into the shadows.

“She won’t go far,” Col said.

Jake has his mouth open to answer when a gunshot sounded. The bullet missed, but by so little that he heard it passing between him and Col. He was already moving, charging the shadows after the dog, Col and Wakefield close behind him.

It was Nat, one hand flailing at the dog that had his other wrist in its teeth. That hand still held a pistol. A single-shot flintlock, so a spent force, except as a club. Jake barreled into his cousin, setting him flying, and in moments the man was secure, on his face on the ground with his arms pinned behind him by the weight of Col’s body.

“That should do it.” Wakefield gave Nat a shove with one stocking foot, his boots being still in the burning inn. “Firing on you will be reason enough to hang him, Lord Collingwood, let alone the rest.”

Jake squatted so he could meet Nat’s gaze. “He’ll answer for more than that, Wakefield. My father. My brother. Mr Waterman.”

Nat spat. “Your shadow, was it? Pretending to be you? Marfield?” Unaccountably, he sniggered. “Pity I missed. I should have rung that mongrel’s neck before I threw it in the river.”

Jake grabbed Nat’s chin, not gently, wrenching the man’s head up to face him. “Where is Miss Waterman?”

Another snigger. “This last six years she’s kept warm in someone else’s bed. But she’s even warmer now. I heated her up for you.” His giggle was not entirely sane, and even with his chin held, he swiveled to look smugly at the flames across the forecourt.

The woman in the locked room! Nat’s head crashed into the ground as Jake let go to rush back across the forecourt. It was no use. That corner of the inn was engulfed in flame, the stairs impassable.

Col touched his arm. “It was a lie, I’m sure. He just wants to get under your skin.”

Two men under the supervision of Wakefield were locking Nat in the stocks that sat across the road from the inn. Jake frowned. Perhaps it was a lie, but the glee he’d seen in Nat’s eyes said otherwise.

The little dog began to bark again. Nat’s accomplices, perhaps? But no. A little girl crept out from a lean-to shed beside the stable and feel to her knees to clasp the dog, which was yipping, whining, and wriggling with ecstatic glee as it licked her face.

Jake turned away. There was a fire to put out, and the dog didn’t need him anymore. But movement in the lean-to caught his eye, and he turned back in time to see a woman crouch beside the happy child.

In a moment, he had joined them, falling to his knees heedless of the mud.

“Helen?”

It was her. Older, but even more beautiful than he remembered.

“Jacob!” Her glorious eyes lit, and he thought she was about to fall into the arms he held ready, but at the last moment she recollected herself. “Jacob! Your cousin is about here somewhere, and he intends the worst of harm.”

“He’s vanquished, Helen.” Jake gestured to the stocks and their occupant. “He won’t trouble any of us again.”

The child looked up, and her gaze followed his gesture. “Mama, the bad man is caught,” she declared. “Are we safe now? Can we go home to the farm?”

Mama? Jake looked from the child to Helen and back.

“Yes, Olivia, we are safe.” Helen returned Jake’s gaze, then lowered her eyes, blushing.

“Olivia?” he repeated. His mother’s name. His heart, which had sunk at what seemed evidence that Nat’s calumny was true, soared again.

Helen glanced up, her lips curving slightly.

* * *

He was home. Jacob had come home at last, and—oh glory—already had his wicked cousin in custody. For the first time since she last saw him, she was safe, truly safe.

She had explanations to make: Olivia’s birth, her flight from Nathaniel, her marriage and widowhood. And Jacob needed to explain his long absence. Nearly eight years without a word! They both had changed in that time.

But Helen hugged Olivia to her side, her heart in her eyes as she smiled at her returned lover. They had the best of reasons to work things out; to find out whether they could build a future together.

Jacob smiled back, his own eyes warm with memories.

They were interrupted. A dark-haired, dark-eyed man, neatly dressed. “Lord Collingwood, I take it we are no longer searching for Miss Waterman.”

Jacob stood, and took her hand to help her to her feet. “Helen, may I present Mr Wakefield? And you already know my friend Col. Gentlemen, this is…” he hesitated.

“Mrs Bancroft,” Helen offered, then amended her name. “The Widow Bancroft.”

She could not miss the squeeze of the hand Jacob had not yet relinquished and the flare of hope in his eyes. Yes. They could work things out.

THE END

The Veiled Bride

1

The injured knight drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain a constant, the sparely furnished room coming and going, interspersed with lurid scenes of battles past.

The room became an anchor to return to — the room and the woman who nursed him. At first, she was all he saw, her lovely face framed by her wimple, level brows, high cheek-bones, sumptuous lips, eyes the colour of the sea in the deepest part of the loch at home.

By the cross she wore and the prayer beads at her belt, she was a bride of Christ, and he’d be damned to Hell for the thoughts he had about her perfect mouth. But he was undoubtedly damned already. He couldn’t quite remember his crimes, or even his name, but he knew he was a rogue and a sinner.

The pain dragged him under again, but she was still there when next he swam to awareness, his mind teaming with questions his body was too weak to verbalise. Where was he? Who was he? How did he come to be here? Who was she?

He managed to produce a dry croak, and the nun held a glass to his lips, lifting his head from the pillows enough that he managed to gulp a mouthful. He was as weak as a kitten, and naked under the sheet with not a weapon in sight. Both facts alarmed him, but distantly, as if danger was on the other side of a thick fog.

The nun used a cloth to pat dry the excess that had spilled before he could sip it. Magic, his dazed mind suggested, the glass and cloth appearing and disappearing at her will. Some measure of logic suggested a table beside the bed, hidden by his pillows.

The simple movement — lifting, then dropping his head — drove a stake into his chest and a club onto his skull. He lay still until the pain settled enough for him to take in the rest of the room. A cross on the whitewashed wall opposite the foot of the bed. The upright wooden chair in which the nun sat. An open door to the left and a small slit-like window to the right.

“Where?” The one word was all he could manage, but she understood.

“The Abbey of St Mary the Mother of Compassion,” she replied, her voice a low musical hum that spun along his nerves, soothing them into peace before the name set them jangling again. The Abbey of St Mary the Mother of Compassion? He knew of it. Endowed by the Macintosh clan, and the abbey of choice for their devout daughters, it was a spiritual stronghold for that clan. Yes, and with the Abbess committed to the cause of her family, it was also a source of much of their temporal power.

With the force and impact of an ocean wave, his lost memory crashed over him. He was Liam, the Cameron, cemented in that role by the repeated treachery of the loathsome Macintoshes. He was in the hands of the Macintoshes, and he was the laird of the Camerons. He’d been skirting the Macintosh lands on his way to home, and then to the King’s council and his own wedding, when he and his warriors turned aside. Bandits had ambushed a party of less fearsome travellers: a lady riding pillion on a palfrey, others on donkeys, attendants armed with no more than staves and daggers.

He and his men had won, he thought. He remembered looking around at the dead and wounded, as the last of the bandits fled. He heard again the voice of the lady, now descended from her horse.

“Good knight, are ye well?” Her voice and her sea-green eyes, followed him into oblivion as the wave sucked him under.

* * *

Jonetta felt her patient’s forehead and his throat. The fever had not returned. The surge under her fingers on his pulse told her that his heart beat was strong and true. He’d lapsed into sleep, which he needed to heal, and she could take heart from the brief moment of awareness.

Her aunt the Abbess would castigate Jonetta if she knew that this patient’s recovery mattered more to her than that of any other. Jonetta had not made the vows of a religious, but she was expected to live as one, separating herself from all attachments to the world, including favouring any individual of the many who came into her care.

“We serve the Christ, Dame Johan,” Mother Abbess had said many times. “In all who come to us for care, food, or healing, we see Christ, and we treat them all the same.”

Jonetta would have given the man sanctuary even if she’d not recognised him. “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares,” she quoted to herself. Mother Abbess loved that verse from the Bible, and insisted that the Abbey practiced the virtue of hospitality.

Unless they were Camerons, she might have added but didn’t. If Mother Abbess knew his identity—this man who’d rescued Jonetta and her escort in the forest, and been injured in the rescue—Mother Abbess would put him out of the abbey to die. Or, worse, send for her brother, laird of their clan. Gillebeart Macintosh would be delighted to have the Cameron at his mercy.

Jonetta had unpicked her patient’s clan emblem from his clothing and ordered his squire to silence. She’d have done the same for any Cameron to whom she owed her life. How much more, then, for Uilleam Cameron who would — without her uncle’s and brothers’ scheming — have long been her husband?

She sat to watch him sleep, her lips moving in the old familiar prayers while her hands told the beads; her mind far away from the meditations that ought to occupy it. Uilleam had been a stripling of twelve the day she met him in the court of King Raibeart at Scone Abbey.

A month of simmering tensions between the two clans had erupted one time too many for the king’s patience. He’d decreed a wedding to unite the families, and insisted on the betrothal ceremony that very day.

Jonetta had liked the look of the husband her monarch had chosen for her, and liked still more his kind quiet way of speaking, so much pleasanter than the scornful criticism and loud demands she could expect from her own brothers.

But before she could be handed over to her betrothed’s clan, to be raised alongside him until she was old enough for bedding, her uncle had her spirited away and hidden in the Abbey of St Mary where she was neither fish, nor fowl, nor good red meat. Not a true bride, nor free to wed. Not a professed nun, nor entirely a lay person. Not a prisoner, nor free to leave.

They’d told her that the Camerons planned to ruin and repudiate her, and that she must stay hidden for her own safety, so she’d carved out a place for herself, at first serving Dame Moira, the abbey’s infirmarian and healer, and later assisting that great lady. Jonetta had been, by courtesy, Dame Johan since the day she passed her eighteenth year and took over her mentor’s duties in the small infirmary attached to the abbey.

In her decade of incarceration, she’d come to believe that her family lied. She’d heard and seen enough, especially on her brother’s rare visits, to suspect she was being held as a weapon in the long feud between the clans.

She wondered what her family had planned for her, and what God required her to do in response. Obey and support her family, said old habit and all her training. But surely the vows she made at her betrothal gave her another allegiance? In all her imagining, she did not expect to find the focus of that allegiance unconscious and in her care.

Uilleam was no longer a stripling of 12. Jonetta blushed slightly at the memory of removing his clothes to treat the many cuts and bruises he had received in her defence. He and his men had been riding lightly protected, wearing padded jacks rather than mail armour, but the quilting had blunted all but the most direct of blows. The scars that crisscrossed and in no way marred his magnificent body showed how often he fought with little protection.

Jonetta shuddered to think how closely he had walked with death, given some of the long-healed wounds. Her usual patients were more likely to have an ague or apoplexy, or to have stepped too near the fire or dropped an axe on their foot. She had seldom treated battle wounds.

Still, few of the blows Uilleam had taken required stitches and nothing was broken. Even the blow to his head that had knocked him unconscious and bled fiercely was not, in itself, death threatening.

She’d been more concerned about infection and, sure enough, he’d fallen into fever and given her and his squire more than one sleepless night. Today, the fever was gone. Before, it had been unsafe to move him. Now, she needed to decide how long it would be safe for him to remain.

The bells rang, summoning the sisters to Sext. Jonetta pursed her lips. Ulleam’s squire, Dàibhidh, had taken leave when she arrived, not long after Terse. She assumed he’d gone into the forest to where Uilleam’s band waited anxiously for news of their laird. She’d forborne to ask, not wanting her loyalties further stretched than they already were. What had taken him nearly two hours?

As she got up to pace, not wanting to leave her patient but not wanting to draw attention to him by being late for prayers, Daibhidh flung aside the skin that protected the doorway, and hurried into the room, full of apologies for the delay.

Jonetta cut him off before he besmirched his soul by lying to her. “He woke and spoke to me. He is sleeping well. Do not disturb him, but check him for fever from time to time. If he wakes again, he will be thirsty. There is water here. If the fever rises again, this mug has a tisane of willow bark. Ye know how much to give him. I will look in again after Vespers.”

* * *

When Uilleam next awoke, the nun had gone, and Daibhidh sat in her place, bent over Liam’s surcote, which he was mending.

“Dai,” he whispered. The boy dropped what he was doing and took two paces to Liam’s side.

“Liam! Dame Johan said ye had woken. I am to give ye water.”

Liam struggled to raise himself on his elbows, but only Dai’s strong arm, quickly slid under his back, prevented him from collapsing back on the bed.

He drank from the cup held to his mouth, and let Dai settle him back down, before trying to talk. “Report, lad. We won, I remember. The others? Are we prisoners?”

“We won,” Dai confirmed. “Just a few scratches, laird. We drove them off after a merry fight. But the leader fetched ye a mighty blow on yer head, and the lady we rescued brought ye here. She is the healer here, laird.”

“That was the lady who was here before?” Liam asked. “Is she a Macintosh? She told me the name of the Abbey, and this is a Macintosh place.”

“It is, laird. But Dame Johan bade me keep me name and yers, and our clan, a secret. She had me take away anything that might give us away. We’re safe for the moment, and Sir Alasdair has the men in the forest, waiting until ye are able to ride.”

The woman wasn’t a Macintosh then, or she was a nun first, or she had some cunning Macintosh trick that involved winning his trust. Liam did not trust easily, especially outside of the clan.

The sooner they could leave, the better. With that in mind, and with Dai on guard, he let himself slip back to sleep.

2

After None, Jonetta saw to her other patients. Four of her escort had been wounded defending her, and three of them lived to be brought back to the infirmary and treated. Only one remained in her care. She changed the dressing on his thigh, pleased that the incipient infection she’d treated with a poultice had retreated. “Stay here where I can check that for one more day, Bran,” she told him, “and then ye can go home to yer own place. The broken arm will heal in its own time.”

It was a pleasant afternoon, and a brief excursion to her herb garden turned into an hour as she weeded and tidied. In a hurry to wash for supper, she took the short cut through the courtyard and the church instead of going the long way around through the cloister.

A party on horseback clattered into the courtyard behind her just as she was entering the church. She stopped in the shadows, curious to see who might have arrived. The knight at the head of the troop flung his reins to one of his men as he slipped off his horse. She drew further back into the shadows as he looked in her direction. Her eldest brother, the Macintosh laird! What was Gillebeart doing here?

“I must see Mother Abbess, immediately,” he told the porter who came running to attend him. She ushered him inside.

Had he heard the Cameron was here, and near helpless? She hurried across the church and through the choir screen, turning left towards the abbess’s house, rather than right to the refectory. No one would question her absence from supper — at least not for a while.

She moved quickly but quietly through the short passage that led from the church, and opened the door cautiously, before letting herself into the empty room at the other end. Her aunt would be seeing Gillebeart in the guest parlour. Most of the household would be at supper, but Jonetta would need to be careful. Each room led into the next; in the third room, one from her destination, she heard someone coming, and squatted behind a table as the sister who served on the door hurried past, muttering about ale, bread and cheese.

It would take the woman at least ten minutes to make the journey to the kitchens, fill a tray, and return. Better still, she had left the door to the guest parlour slightly open. Jonetta put her ear to it.

Gillebeart gave a short laugh. “’Tis time for Jonetta to serve the family as we planned ten years ago. We leave on the morrow.”

Ten years ago? When she was first stolen away? Was Jonetta at last to find out the true reason?

“Ye put me at risk, taking Jonetta from the Abbey, instead of the forest, as we agreed.” That was her aunt.

“We have no time to set up another ambush,” Gillebeart replied, “and the last cost me four men dead and six with injuries that will take them out of battle for weeks.” The last? Gillebeart was behind the ambush in the forest?

“Did ye find the miscreants who rescued the fool girl?” her aunt asked.

“Nay. Passing bandits, I do not doubt. They escaped with their wounded, I’m told, after they’d beaten back me men.”

“One dead in the escort, and Jonetta brought four back to the infirmary, two badly injured.” The Abbess clicked her tongue in irritation. Good, Jonetta thought. The Abbess had still not discovered that Uilleam was one of the rescuers, not one of the escort.

“Blame the bandits, not me men,” Gillebeart said. “The escort only began to fight after they interfered. No one would’ve been hurt if not for those interlopers. But ’tis done, and we must move on. I’ll take me sister tomorrow.”

“Ye’ll make sure she does not tell where she has been,” the Abbess commanded. “I’ll not have the abbey in trouble with the king.”

“She’ll not need to speak at all. The mere sight of her the morning after the Cameron’s new wedding will be enough to make the man a bigamist and a break-troth.”

The Abbess sounded contemplative. “It would be best not to tell the girl she’s leaving until ’tis time to go. She has her attachments here. To her patients, if no one else. Ye leave me without an infirmarian, nephew.”

“Me sister will obey her laird.” Gillebeart’s response was a harsh growl. Then he relented, “Let it be as ye say. Time enough to school her on the way.” This time, his laugh sounded more amused. “Not that we need her cooperation.”

Mother Abbess laughed too. “I wish I could be there to see Uilleam Cameron’s face. It was a fine plan, Gillebeart, though I’d not expected it to take so long.”

“Aye, who would’ve thought the Cameron would delay securing his line for a full decade, especially since he is the last of his father’s sons.”

Because the others had died in the feud with the Macintoshes, Jonetta thought. In the distance, she heard the door to the church shut. She mustn’t be found here. She retreated a room and hid behind the same table, until Sister had scurried through with her tray. Jonetta made her way back to the infirmary, keeping to the shadows. They would need to escape tonight. Even if the Cameron was not fit to travel, she couldn’t leave him to be discovered after she left.

Fortunately, when she reached Uilleam’s room, the squire told her that he’d been awake, that he conversed, that he showed no signs of fever. “We must leave tonight,” she told the lad. “How far to yer laird’s men? How far will we need to carry him?”

The boy stammered and stuttered, repeating, “the men?” like an idiot, which he decidedly was not.

“We have no time for coy lies, Daibhidh. The Macintosh is here and means to take me away. Whoever takes over me role will soon discover who yer master is. We must go, and we must go tonight.”

Before the squire could resolve his loyalties, a voice spoke from the bed. Uilleam sounded much stronger, and his words showed that he had his wits about him. “Why does Gillebeart Macintosh mean to take ye away? And why does yer Abbess intend to permit it?”

She met his intent dark eyes, wondering what to tell him. The truth was simplest. “I am Jonetta Macintosh. I’ve been kept here these past ten years since last ye and I met. I was told it was for me protection, since yer clan planned to repudiate the betrothal after I was ruined.”

Uilleam’s eyes widened even as he frowned. “’Tis a lie!”

Jonetta raised her eyebrows in question. “Ye were twelve years of age, me laird. Were ye in yer father’s council? Still, I’ve had much time to think, and I am inclined to believe ye. It was by me uncle’s plot I was taken away and kept here. I had no idea why until I overheard the Abbess talking to me brother. He means to present me to the courts the day after yer wedding. I take it that this event is close?”

The boy gasped. Her betrothed gave no outward reaction, apart from his narrowed eyes. “I see. And why should I trust the word of a Macintosh?”

“Do ye have an alternative?” she asked.

One corner of his mouth twitched as if he would smile. “Fair point. Ye’ll stay in this room until we leave, however. I gather me sword is in the forest with me lieutenant, but Dai’s dagger will suffice to encourage yer cooperation.”

She glared at him. “I’m trying to help ye, idiot.” Her irritation would not help, and his suspicions were to be expected. She shrugged. “I will tell the servants that yer fever has risen and I must stay with ye. But if me brother or me aunt send for me, I had best go, lest they come to see who has me undivided attention.”

She moved towards the door to call a servant, but the squire got in her way. “I’m sorry, milady, but the laird says ye have to stay here.”

Jonetta heaved a sigh. “Then ye go and tell a servant that I’m staying here with yer master, and that ye and I will take our supper here.”

“Go on, Dai,” Uilleam said. “Ye can keep an eye on the door to ensure that the good sister does not escape us to give the alarm.”

He was a very annoying man. She let her breath out in an exasperated huff as she crossed to the bed and laid the back of her hand on his forehead. Still no fever. He watched her calmly, his dark brown eyes intent.

“Will ye let me check yer wound and change yer dressing?” she asked.

Uilleam inclined his head in agreement. “I pray ye’ll forgive me, Lady Jonetta, for me suspicions. Dai tells me that I owe me life to ye twice over, for yer nursing care, and for hiding me identity. Yet I am at yer mercy, as is the lad, and we do not know one another, ye and I.”

The room’s bench held a basket of rags for cleaning cloths and dressings, and a pitcher of clean water, some of which she poured into a bowl. She brought what she needed to the bedside. “In yer situation, Uilleam, I would doubtless feel the same.”

“Liam,” he interrupted. “My family and friends call me Liam.”

She began unwinding the bandage that protected his head wound. “Consider, Liam, that me family kidnapped me and imprisoned me here. Consider further, for I can assure ye I have, that ye became me family on our betrothal. I have no intention of betraying ye. This is healing nicely. I shall replace the dressing and recommend ye keep it on while we are travelling. But when we reach wherever we are going, ye should leave it off to complete the healing.”

“Are not yer loyalties to the Christ?” asked Liam. “Or no.” He pursed his lips and nodded as he thought it through. “Yer family’s plot to make a fool and a liar of me requires ye still to be me betrothed. They have not allowed ye to take the veil, have they?”

Jonetta gave a short laugh that held little amusement. “They’ve not allowed me to profess me vows as a nun, and nor have I wished to. I fear I’ve not the calling to obedience.”

Her betrothed met the twinkle in her eye with a grin. “To me benefit, me lady.”

Dai slipped back into the room, shoulder first, carrying a tray with two bowls full of fragrant of stew and a jug of cider. Jonetta transferred some of the stew into a spare bowl and they sat and ate. Liam insisted on feeding himself, and managed quite well, downing nearly half the serving and washing it down with watered cider.

Jonetta was on edge, listening for a summons to her brother. After they’d eaten, Dai accompanied her on her rounds of the other five patients, Bran, two nuns suffering the infirmities of age, a new mother recovering from a difficult birth, and a boy who had broken his leg. The boy was being nursed by his mother, and none of them required her attention as a healer. The servants would care for them well enough until the Abbess appointed another infirmarian.

The bells for Compline rang as they returned to Liam’s room. Soon, all the abbey would be asleep. Soon, they could make their escape.

* * *

In the end, the escape was an anti-climax. No one saw them as they left the infirmary, Liam with his arms around Jonetta’s shoulders and Dai’s. They took the path around the edge of the herb garden, and down to the stream that marked the boundary of the abbey.

They waded upstream a little, past the wall, until they came to the ford and were able to cross into the forest. At the top of the bank they paused to give Liam time to recover from the climb.

“Now where?” Jonetta asked.

Dai responded by putting his free hand in his mouth and letting out a piercing whistle and then another and another; three short bursts.

“Now, we wait.” It was Liam who responded, lifting his head to smile at her, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Jonetta looked around, then eased Liam’s arm from her shoulders and strode to a fallen log conveniently near the path. As she brushed it free of debris and broke back a couple of branches that encroached on it from bushes, she said, “Then let us wait in comfort.”

Liam had recovered enough to make the short distance with only Dai’s help, but he heaved a sigh of relief as he took a seat beside her. They didn’t have long to wait. One moment they were watching an empty path lit by moonlight. The next, two sturdy warriors stood before them, each with an unsheathed blade, battle-ready.

“’Tis the laird,” one of them said. He sheathed his sword, relaxing, but the other remained warily alert. “What is yer will, laird?” that one said.

“Take me to Alec,” Liam commanded. “We need to travel tonight. We have the moon, by the grace of God, and can be half way to Dubhbraigh Castle before they raise the alarm at the abbey.”

He put his hand over Jonetta’s. “This lady is me wife. Ye’ll protect her as ye would me. Lady Jonetta, meet Ruaf and Adam, cousins of mine.”

Adam, the one with the sheathed sword, bowed and said, “Me lady.” The other man gave her a cautious nod before saying, “We’d best be hurrying then. Are ye fit to travel, laird?”

Liam made an impatient gesture as if to brush off his clansman’s concern. “I should be fine.”

“Me husband should not be travelling,” Jonetta said, “but needs must. If ye’ll help Dai, Adam, we’ll make the best time we can. When we reach this Alec, perhaps we can arrange a horse litter?”

“I can sit a horse,” Uilleam protested.

“’Tis no more than a day since ye were unconscious with a fever,” Jonetta told him. “If ye are to make it in one piece to this castle, ye’ll let me care for ye. I am yer healer, remember, as well as yer wife.”

She’d had much practice at keeping inner turmoil from showing on her face, but she was quivering with what had just happened. They’d been betrothed, and now they’d declared themselves man and wife before witnesses. They were wed. If he took her to bed, there would be no going back. She heated at the thought of that magnificent body under the covers with her. She was not so naïve that she didn’t recognise desire when it shuddered through her.

Liam noticed. “Are ye cold? Ye’ll warm as we walk. Come, Adam, the lady commands, and in truth, I would appreciate yer shoulder.”

Ruaf led the way, his sword at the ready, with Jonetta following, and Liam and his two supporters in the rear. It was perhaps a quarter mile, and the trail was not hard, but Liam’s face was white and his jaw set hard when they turned off the path, through some undergrowth that Ruaf moved out of the way, and into an empty clearing. It was only empty for a few seconds, before men approach from every side, putting away their weapons as they came, all of them smiling and greeting Liam.

Jonetta’s experienced eye saw he was near the end of his strength. “Let the laird sit down and rest for a bit,” she commanded. “Which one of ye is Alec?”

A man even taller than the rest, nearly the proportions of her new husband, pushed the way to the front, his thunderous frown heralding his angry growl. “I am Sir Alasdair of the Camerons, and who the hell are ye to be commanding me men?”

Adam answered. “This is the lady Jonetta, the laird’s wife. She is a healer, Alec.”

Alec’s scowl did not diminish. “Who says she is the laird’s wife? Her? She has the look of a lying thieving Macintosh.”

To Jonetta’s surprise, Ruaf stood up for her. “Says the laird, Alec.”

Alec looked as if he would argue more, but Jonetta, turning to see why Liam said nothing, found him drooping as Dai and another man lowered him onto a hastily spread cloak. She hurried to kneel beside him. “Liam?” She felt for the pulse at his neck. It was beating strongly, and he struggled to lift his eyelids at her touch. “So tired,” he mumbled. “Sorry.” He raised his voice just a thread above a whisper. “Alec? Guard her.” His eyes closed again and he was asleep.

3

They arrived at Dubhbraigh Castle late in the evening after two days of hard travel. Liam had slept most of the time, cocooned in blankets on a hastily-made stretcher slung between two horses. Jonetta had been permitted to attend him, leaving his side only on those rare occasions that Alec allowed her a modicum of privacy to attend the demands of her bladder.

At each stop, her first thought was to check Liam. Each time he woke, he smiled at her. Though this trip might be putting his recovery on hold, at least he was no worse. Most of the time she rode beside him, pillion to Adam. Two other clansmen shadowed her every footstep and watching her every move. Alec was taking the command “guard her” literally.

Adam, Ruaf, and Dai had tried to convince Alec that Jonetta was not an enemy. Alec refused to listen. “Ye may have bewitched them, woman,” he hissed at her during one brief pause for them all to see to their comfort, “but I know ye for a Macintosh.”

Which she was or rather she had been. She held onto the thought that Liam would unravel all when he awoke, and so she was pleased to see the sharp lines of the castle rearing up from the hill ahead of them. A day or two and a comfortable bed, and Liam would be well enough to bring his henchman to heel. At least she hoped so, and that his inclination to trust her, even to take her to wife, had not been a symptom of his head injury.

That was one worry. The other was how she would be treated while they waited for Liam to recover. That concern, at least, was soon resolved. She was shut in a room, and prevented from caring for Liam, but at least the room was warm and comfortably supplied with bedding and hangings to keep out the cold.

“But who’ll care for me husband?” she asked Alec.

He sneered at that. “There are females enough here to fetch and carry for him. The Cameron doesn’t lack for those who wish to meet his every need.”

Jonetta refused to rise to his baiting. Indeed, Liam’s main need now was good food and plenty of sleep. Thankfully, the maid sent to serve her was willing to carry a message to Dai, and through him she was able to order good meaty broth and other foods that would help to return the strength leached from Liam with his blood.

After that, she had nothing to do but wait.

* * *

Liam woke to eat and wash. Dai’s mother served his food, and one of the servant lads attended him in his bath. He briefly wondered where Jonetta was, but assumed she must be sleeping somewhere. Certainly, she must have been tired — the long ride, coming after days and nights of nursing him while keeping up with her other duties.

She was his wife! When they left the Abbey, he’d intended merely to keep her from sounding the alarm, leaving the question of their long-ago betrothal for a later time. But when Rual and Adam had looked at her threateningly, the need to claim and protect had overwhelmed him.

He drifted back to sleep again, his dreams full of her lips and the shapely waist he’d felt when he clutched at her for support. He woke again in the night, just for long enough to attend to his bodily needs. The same lad leapt up from blankets spread on the floor, but Liam waved him back to bed. For the first time since his injury, the room stayed in place around him, instead of tipping and swaying like a boat in a storm. His various wounds and bruises barely caught at all, and even the headache that had pounded him since the fight in the forest had faded to a dull ache.

Still no Jonetta. She must’ve been more tired than he thought, for a wife’s place was with her husband. Unless she meant to repudiate the marriage? He felt a clutch of panic at the thought. It was not too late. If she denied her adult consent to the betrothal; if she claimed duress in her public statement that he was her husband; the marriage could be annulled.

He lay in the dark thinking that over. It would solve the problem of the Macnabs, who were expecting him to wed their laird’s daughter when the King’s Council met at Scone Abbey later this week. He should be relieved. He should be making his own plans to seek an annulment, and welcome the embarrassment to the Macintosh clan.

He couldn’t find any enthusiasm for that path. Whether it made sense or not, he wanted Jonetta for his wife, and there must be a way he could convince her to agree. He turned one plan after another over in his head until he fell asleep.

He woke determined to send for her. They had been here at Dubhbraigh Castle at least a day and two nights by his reckoning; surely enough time for a healthy women to catch up on her sleep? He would not allow her to avoid him any longer.

“Fetch water for me to wash,” he told the lad, “and tell me wife that I wish her to breakfast with me.”

The boy looked at him, his mouth open. “Yer– wife, laird?”

Liam’s heart sank. So, he was right. She was already denying the marriage. “The Lady Jonetta, who rode on with us. Tell her I wish her to breakfast with me.”

The servant scurried out the room while Liam tried to interpret the man’s expression. Puzzled. That was it.

Liam wasn’t left for long to wonder what was going on. Within minutes, Alec burst into the room, glowering mightily as only Alec could. “What’s this I hear? Ye’ve ordered that woman brought here while ye are still weak? Are ye mad? Have ye a brain fever? Did the blow take yer senses?”

Liam sighed. He and Alec were first cousins and of an age, but Alec was and always had been a hothead. Where Liam looked at all sides of an issue before deciding how to act, Alec rushed in, brandishing his sword and shouting. Liam waved to the trunk under the window. “Take a seat, Alec, and tell me what Lady Jonetta has done to light a fire under yer backside.”

The question knocked some of the indignation out of his cousin. “She claimed to be yer wife. She wanted to be left to tend ye.”

Then her absence was not her choice. “What have ye done with her, Alec?”

Alec reared back, offended. “Nothing! I shut her up under guard as ye told me.”

“I did not tell ye to lock her up.”

Alec shook his head. “Guard her. That’s what ye told me. That’s what I did.”

Liam sigh was deeper this time. “I hope ye at least gave her a comfortable room. I meant for ye to protect her, Alec, not to make her a prisoner.”

“Well, how was I to know? She is a Macintosh, and her claims –”

“Are true. She is me wife.”

Alec rubbed a hand over his face. “Ye sound normal enough, but there must be something still wrong with ye, Liam. Ye are not making sense. Ye’re promised to Fiona Macnab.”

“I was promised ten years ago to Jonetta Macintosh,” Liam said, patiently.

“Aye, but… This is that Jonetta?” He stood up to pace. “Where has she been all this time? And why has she appeared now?”

“Good questions. Let us invite her to breakfast and ask her.”

* * *

Alec went off to fetch Jonetta, and a short while later Dai arrived with the message that the lady would be half an hour. It was closer to an hour when Alec arrived back, preceding several servants carrying trays. Two others brought extra chairs to put at Liam’s table.

Liam tore off a bit of bread to stay his hunger while he waited. “What is taking Jonetta so long?” he asked.

Alec looked a bit shamefaced. “She said she needed to wash and change, so then we needed to find clean linen for her to change into.”

Liam grimaced. Locked up, without the means to wash or change her garments. “I hope ye at least fed me wife,” he said.

“Me meals have been adequate,” Jonetta said, as she was escorted into the room by Adam, who took station next to the door.

Liam stood, and after a moment Alec stood also. “Me lady,” Liam greeted her. “I apologise for the poor welcome ye received. Alec misunderstood. Please, sit down, join us.”

Gone where the dull clothes of the nun. Someone had found her a sea-green kirtle that she wore under a sleeveless overgown in a soft rose pink. Both kirtle and overgown fitted to her shape, which was as lush and as lovely as he had imagined. Best of all, she had left her long fair hair to flow from her head into long braids, which swung as she walked to the table. The shoulder-length indoors veil with which she had covered her head was kept in place by a narrow roll of fabric, embroidered with flowers that circled her crown and was tied at the back with narrow ribbons.

Her expression was guarded as she took the seat Liam had indicated. “I am pleased to see ye up, Laird Cameron. Dai’s mother tells me the wounds show no sign of redness or rotting. How is the headache?” She pointedly ignored Alec.

“Me friends call me Liam,” Liam told her.

That fetched raised eyebrows. “Am I a friend? Sir Alasdair does not think so.”

“Ye’re a Macintosh,” Alec grumbled, “and the Macintoshes have forever been enemies to the Camerons.”

“Alec,” Liam warned. “That’s enough. Lady Jonetta saved me life twice over. Nay, thrice: as a healer, by hiding me identity, and by helping me to escape. Aye, and proved her loyalty by telling me what the Macintoshes plot. So, stop sniping at me wife, and help us to decide how to deal with the Macnabs — aye, and the king, too.”

“That is it?” Jonetta asked. Her voice was calm but her eyes stormy. “This man imprisons me? He keeps me from looking after ye when ye’re ill from the travel? And all ye have to say is stop sniping?”

She had a point, but then so did Alec. His cousin was responsible for the well-being of the clan when Liam was unavailable. Liam had, himself, been uncertain whether to trust Jonetta when she first told her story. He’d wondered if it was some kind of trick; to be honest, some part of his mind still thought it might be.

But the escape spoke well of her intentions, and she had willingly put herself in their power. Besides, his instincts said she was true. Alec’s suspicions would serve the clan by making them watchful, but he could not be allowed to treat his laird’s wife with anything less than full respect.

Alec and Jonetta were both waiting for him to speak. “Me lady, as me lieutenant, Alec was in command. I will not fault him for doing what he thought right for the good of the clan. Alec, ye now know that we owe me life to Lady Jonetta. Further, she is me wife. Ye will treat her with every respect. An insult to her is an insult to me. Now, shall we have breakfast?”

4

There he went again, claiming her as his wife. Not that Jonetta had grounds to complain, since she had been making the same claim for days. Nor was she going to contradict him in front of Alec, especially after his speech in her support.

Alec met her eyes and inclined his head. “It shall be as me laird commands.” He looked down at his trencher and up again. “I asked pardon, Lady Jonetta, for any insult.”

Well! That took the wind out of her sails. Jonetta inclined her own head in return. “If me husband does not fault ye, nor shall I.”

“Good,” Liam said, and began to take the covers off the pots that had been brought to the table, asked Jonetta what she favoured, and served her a generous helping. Alec served himself.

“I assume Dai told ye what me wife overheard?” Liam said to Alec, as he filled his own plate. “Jonetta, will ye go through it again for us? We need to decide what to tell the King, who is expecting to witness me wedding.”

Jonetta wondered where to start. Right at the beginning, perhaps.

“I was raised to hate the Camerons as Alec here hates the Macintoshes,” she started.

Alec protested. “I would not have said ‘hate’. And is this to the point?”

Jonetta turned to Liam. “May I tell this me own way, without interruption? And I will answer any questions ye might have when I am done.”

At Liam’s nod, she continued. “We will say ‘fear and distrust’, then. I was raised to fear and distrust the Camerons. They were liars and thieves, and not to be trusted. They broke their word, and, for all I knew, ate babies for breakfast. Of course, I was just a child, and little of this was said. I picked it up, as children do, as much from the silences of the adults around me, as from their words.”

Alec surprised her again with a nod of agreement.

“Then I was told I was to marry into that clan.”

“Is that why ye ran away?” Liam asked.

“I did not run; not by me own choice. I was frightened, of course, but me mother, who had been a Fraser, told me Camerons were men like any other, and that yer mother was her cousin and had once been a close friend. On the day of our betrothal, laird, ye were kind to me — kinder by far than any of me brothers or cousins had ever been. Yer mother, too, spoke gently and remembered me mother with affection.”

She sighed. “Then me uncle and his men stole me away from Scone Abbey, that very same night, and delivered me to me uncle’s sister, who is abbess at the Abbey of St Mary the Mother of Compassion. They said it was for my protection. I have lived there since that day, not allowed to take vows, not allowed to leave, except for short distances to neighbouring hamlets, under guard, as I gained skill as a healer.”

Liam’s eyes had softened as she spoke. “Ye were on such a healing mission when the brigands attacked?”

“I was,” she affirmed. “I was returning from delivering a shepherd’s child. But they were not brigands, Liam. They were me brother’s men. I heard him tell me aunt.”

“Aye.” Liam addressed his henchman. “Alec, Jonetta overheard the Cameron and the Abbess planning to take her from the abbey and present her to the King the morning after me wedding to Fiona Macnab.” He took Jonetta’s hand. “Jonetta, can ye tell us everything ye heard?”

* * *

After breakfast, Liam escorted Jonetta downstairs, insisting that Alec came with them. The laird shrugged off Jonetta’s concerns about him overdoing things on his first day out of bed.

“Me people need to see that I am up and well,” he explained, “and they will accept ye more easily if Alec and I show that we trust and respect ye.”

Alec had more or less interrogated her over breakfast, but had relaxed the more he heard of her answers. They were now on first name terms, and if Alec still had reservations — well, so did Jonetta.

In the main hall of the castle, Liam introduced Jonetta to a tall dark-haired woman whose brown eyes were flecked with green. “This is me sister, Elena. Elena, I’d like ye to meet me wife, Jonetta.”

Jonetta was braced for hostility, but Elena took both her hands and gave her a warm smile. “We have met; do ye remember? The day of the betrothal. Ye said ye were looking forward to having a sister, because brothers were not very nice.”

Jonetta laughed. “And ye said yer brothers were very nice, but ye would like a sister anyway.”

“Jonetta will be taking over as chatelaine, of course,” Liam said. “Elena, I’ll leave ye to give her the keys and to introduce her to the senior servants.”

While Jonetta was pleased to know that he intended her to be his wife in every way, she did not want her residence in the castle to start with offending his sister — and, no doubt, all of the women of the household — by making such an abrupt and unexpected change.

But when she said something of the sort, Elena said she would be leaving once Liam made a match for her. “I never expected to be mistress here. Indeed, I was ready to hand over to Fiona Macnab. Do not worry, Jonetta, we are all pleased to know ye still live and are here with us at last.”

Perhaps not all, but as Elena showed her around, Jonetta met mostly with smiling welcome. Any hostility was confined to sour looks, mostly seen from the corner of an eye rather than displayed in open defiance of the laird’s express commands.

The castle was very different to the abbey. Jonetta was used to silence and rigid scheduling, and a hierarchy in which professed nuns of good birth were at the top, lay servants at the bottom, and Jonetta without any clear place. The kitchens and workrooms of the castle hummed with conversation. The women laughed and sang as they worked.

Elena showed deserved pride at well-stocked storerooms, meticulously tidy larders, a highly functional storeroom, and other evidence of her skills as chatelaine. “Ye set a very high standard,” Jonette said. “I hope yer assistants will be patient with me as I learn what I must know. I have run an infirmary, and helped to manage the guest house, but this is a much larger place than either of those.”

Elena waved off her remark. “Don’t worry, Jonetta. I will help ye until Liam finds me a husband.”

They were entering the great hall again, at the end of the tour. Jonette’s eyes were drawn to the dais, where Liam sat at ease, Alec at his side, and others of his knights around him. When he saw her, his eyes lit and he beckoned her over, ordering one of the others to fetch chairs for the two ladies.

“These are the men that Alec left to watch yer brother and the Abbey,” he said, introducing two warriors whose travel-stained and weary state stood out among the better grooming of the others. “The word in the village is that Dame Johan ran away with her lover, whom she’d smuggled into the Abbey disguised as a wounded man.”

Jonetta raised her eyebrows. “Surely Gillebeart does not believe that. He knows ye were injured in me rescue, because he was responsible for the ambush. Besides, me escort helped me to put ye in the cart and bring ye in. They saw yer wounds.”

“The abbess has put out the word it was all a sham; that ye organised both ambush and rescue, and were never in danger. Ye escaped, or so they say, because yer brother arrived and was about to discover yer perfidy.”

“What do they hope to achieve?” Elena wondered.

Jonetta took the seat that had been fetched for her, pondering the same point.

Liam sat forward, his elbows on his knees, and his hands steepled in front of his chin. “Macintosh has lost ye, so he needs a story for the king to explain why he does not produce ye as evidence of me bigamy. He has the Abbess as witness that ye were living in the Abbey all this time.”

“So, he intends to go ahead with his plot?” Jonette asked. But it made sense. Gillebeart could not know that the man she ran away with was Liam Cameron, and that all Gillebeart’s scheming had come to nothing.

“They don’t know who ye are,” she concluded.

Liam laughed. “Thanks to Alec, and his skill at disguising his trail.” He clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “Gillebeart’s men cast out in every direction, and questioned every soul for miles, but they have no idea who we were, where we came from, or where we went.”

“Good,” Jonetta said. “’Tis over then.”

“Not quite. I have yet to explain meself to the Macnabs. I owe them that, Jonetta, and the King too. In fact, I’ll have to leave tomorrow. We’ll need four days to get to Scone, three, if we push. I was to be wed the day after this coming Lord’s day, in five days’ time.”

Jonetta protested. He was barely recovered. After their last journey, he had slept thirty-six hours. And now he planned an even longer ride? Could he not just send Alec with a message? But Liam said he needed to be there himself, lest Fiona Macnab’s father took offence.

“I am recovered, wife. Ye have no need to worry. I’ll come safely back to ye after the council.”

“If ye are going, husband, I am coming with ye,” Jonetta insisted. “I can do everything possible to keep ye well. Besides, what better proof then me presence that ye have not reneged on yer promise, but given way to a prior claim?”

Liam’s dark eyes widened thoughtfully, and he said, “What better proof that Gillebeart Cameron stole ye away in despite of the king, and knew yer whereabouts all this time? Ye can be sure that he doesn’t plan for the king to know it was yer family that defied his order for peace and hid ye until he could strike back at me through ye.”

How had Gillebeart planned to gain her cooperation and her silence? Several scenarios occurred to Jonetta, each worse than the last, and none of them beyond her brother’s will and temperament. All the men in her family—aye, and her aunt, too—had seen her as nothing more than a pawn to be moved around the board in the interests of checkmating their family’s enemies.

“Then I must be grateful he no longer has me.”

Elena rose gracefully to her feet. “If yer lady wife is to attend the Court, brother, we have much to do. She must be dressed according to her station. Ye will excuse us.”

Liam nodded, thoughtfully. “Well thought, sister. He stood and bowed to Jonetta. “If such is yer will, me lady.”

Jonetta would rather sit here with Liam a while longer, but Elena was right. She placed her hand in the one Liam held out to her, and watched as he lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss inside the palm and folding her fingers over it.

With a shiver running through her, she followed Elena from the great hall, refusing to look back at Liam. What was that kiss about? Did he intend to seduce her? She was his wife; she had no right to refuse him her favours. So why the kiss? And why did such a simple gesture leave her weak at the knees and yearning for more.

5

Elena carried his wife off, and Liam didn’t see her again until the castle folk gathered in the great hall for supper. He had planned to spend the day seducing her. He wanted her to be willing when they consummated the marriage tonight. He wasn’t going into his meetings at Court without first making sure that the marriage was beyond any question of annulment, and tonight would have to be the night. She deserved to be taken in a bed her first time, and not in a bedroll beside a campfire with a score of his warriors within earshot.

He wouldn’t have admitted it to Alec or any of his other advisers, but Liam was nervous. Jonetta was a complete innocent; a virgin who’d lived in a convent since she was ten. Rushing her could give her a distaste for the marriage bed, which would not enhance their domestic harmony. He was sure he’d seen evidence of desire, but it might be wishful thinking. Beyond a doubt, he desired her, and that was likely to be a problem in itself, since she’d need his kindness and patience, while the rutting beast within roared to be released to satisfy itself between her thighs.

When she took her place beside him at the high table, he took his chance and her hand. He would not embarrass her or himself by ignoring his duty to his people, but he could and did stroke her palm with his thumb under the edge of the table. He could arrange for them to share a trencher and select the best morsels to feed to her, allowing his fingers to linger on her lips. He could drink from the same goblet, turning it so that his mouth rested where hers had.

His former seductions had all been of experienced women who wanted nothing more of him than his body. Whispered hints of his carnal imaginings had formed part of his arsenal in persuading them to his bed. He had carnal daydreams of Jonetta aplenty — had done even before she accepted his claim that she was his wife. As his wife, she could be expected to fulfill them, and he’d caught hints of a fire in her that suggested she’d enjoy doing so — if he took his time now. He was afraid of frightening or even disgusting her, so kept his whispered remarks to comments about the others who shared the meal with him, telling her their names, positions in the household, and a little about their families.

His one compliment, a sincere appreciation of her lovely eyes, was met with a sidelong look of such confused disbelief that he didn’t try another.

When the hall became rowdier towards the end of the meal, and Jonetta refused further servings of either food or wine, he suggested that she retire. “We will have a long few days, and would be wise to go to sleep early,” he said. He had not expected to have no time alone with her all day, and had had no chance to warn her of his intentions, but it was only fair to give her a hint. “Go on up and get ready for bed and I shall come to ye soon.”

Her eyes flared wide, but she made no objection, just curtseying politely to him and less deeply to Alec and Elena. She understood his meaning, though, for a deep flush coloured both cheeks. Would she colour like that in her passion? He could barely wait to find out.

* * *

Liam meant to join with her tonight. As Jonetta climbed the stairs to her chamber, a maidservant going ahead with a bucket of hot water for her wash, she examined her mixed feelings.

Relief was foremost. He meant to put their marriage beyond question. He had said he wanted her for his wife, but many men considered a promise to a woman as so much hot air, and not binding on his behaviour as a promise to a man would be. A more ruthless, less ethical, man would keep the option of annulment open until he had spoken with the king and the father of his other intended.

She had to admit to some trepidation at the act itself. Had she gone home with him after the betrothal ceremony, as intended, she would have known him for years before her women’s courses began and they could consummate the marriage. By now, at least six years would have passed; they would probably have several children, and would have grown into the affection of a long-settled relationship.

Instead, he was very nearly a stranger, and she as ignorant as a healer could be, her status as a pseudo-nun making even her patients and their families wary of offending her ears and her chastity with bawdy talk. In the language of touch, she was a complete novice. None had hugged or kissed her since she left her nurse and her mother. None had ever employed the subtle teasing touches with which Liam had bedevilled her at dinner.

She understood what the act required. He would lie on top of her, place his man piece — the priapus, as her medical texts called it — inside her woman’s channel, and release his seed. Men, she knew, sought the activity, often heedless of all but the consummation of their lust. Perhaps women, too, from what she’d heard some of the village women say when they didn’t know she was present.

She had never understood what drove them until Liam came into her care. For surely her hot tight bothersome reaction to his body, his touch and the heat in his eyes was the desire of a woman for a man? If so, she was not at all sure she liked it.

She had the maid unlace and unpin her, and undressed until she wore only her chemise. She then dismissed the girl and washed as swiftly as she could, anxious to be finished before Liam arrived. Now what? Should she remove the chemise or leave it on? Wait in the bed or by the fire? She had no piece of handwork to take up; no psalter or receipt book to read.

She climbed into bed and took the chemise off, then changed her mind and put it on again, then got out of bed to put another log on the fire, since the night was cool and she — or Liam — might remove the chemise later.

She startled at a knock on the door. Her first attempt to speak came out in a croak. She swallowed and tried again. “Who is it?”

“’Tis I,” said Liam’s voice.

“Come in.” She was inordinately pleased that her voice was loud enough for him to hear and it didn’t shake or squeak.

Liam entered, nudging the door shut behind him. In one hand, he held a bladder and two goblets, which he put down on the table by the door. He gave her one scorching look before putting up the bar to deny entrance to anyone from outside.

“Will ye have a drink of mead with me, wife?” he asked, picking up the bladder and pouring a little of the mead into each goblet.

Jonetta took the goblet he passed her. Did he not plan to bed her, then? She wasn’t sure how to ask.

“Let us sit and talk,” he suggested, and led the way to the settle by the fire. She followed, and sat beside him, embarrassed to be awaiting him in nothing but her chemise.

Perhaps he noticed. “I am overdressed,” he commented. “Will ye hold me goblet, Jonetta?” He stripped off his robe and cotehardie, and sat again to remove his boots before standing to remove his braes and hose. In just his shirt, he reached for his goblet and took the seat beside her again.

“That’s better,” he said. “We start even, Jonetta.”

Jonetta could not speak past her dry mouth; could not take her eyes from his strong legs, visible more than halfway up his thighs.

Liam didn’t wait for a reply. “We would be used to this, if not for the interference of others. Ye would long have been me wife and me chatelaine; would likely have children, little boys and girls with yer beautiful eyes."

Jonetta looked up into his dark eyes. To her, they were beautiful because they were kind. “I was thinking the same. They have stolen those years from us, but we shall not give them the victory.”

His smile was a gift, warm and approving. “We shall not," he agreed. “Jonetta, were it not for this trip to Scone, I would give ye time — both of us time — to become familiar with one another. I would woo ye with flowers and compliments that I —"

She interrupted. “I understand, Liam. We must consummate the marriage, so it cannot be broken should me brother get the ear of the king.”

He nodded, “Just so. Ye’re a clever woman, Jonetta, and I am proud to have ye for me wife. I will be gentle. Ye need not be afraid.”

Jonette managed a short laugh. “I am not afraid, precisely. Nervous, a little, because I do not know what to expect or what to do. But I trust ye have the knowledge that I lack.”

He gave her a wry smile. “Ye may say so, but Jonetta, if it concerns ye, be assured that I mean to be true to me wife. As to what ye do in our bed, it will please me if ye do what pleases yerself. We shall find our own way in this and in all things. We are partners, me wife.”

She had been sipping her mead as they spoke, but now he held out a hand for the goblet, and set it to one side. “May I remove yer chemise? Shall I go first and remove me shirt?”

Jonetta nodded, and watched as he lifted his shirt over his head. Her eyes followed the shirt up and then dropped back to the place between his thighs where his priapus arched up against his belly, his coillons hanging below. The priapus had grown larger since she washed it while he lay unconscious. Much larger. She took a shuddering breath. Logically, she knew it must fit, for did not all wives accommodate their husbands? Still, it was an alarming sight, but somehow also thrilling. She dragged her attention from it, and let her gaze drift up his body, taking in the arrow of hair that pointed down below his waist, but thickened across his chest. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, lovelier even than the statue of St Michael subduing the serpent that the novices giggled over in the abbey gardens.

“May I kiss ye, Jonetta?” he asked, the heat in his eyes setting shafts of desire sizzling through her core to her most secret places. She nodded.

* * *

She had that deer and the hunter look again, as if she thought he was about to grab her, hurl her on the bed, and take his pleasure without any thought to hers. Her apprehension helped to steady him: a needed warning that this was all new to her. Remembering her innocence gave him the strength to ignore the intense pressure of his base self.

He put one arm around her and lifted her chin with his hand. Jonetta pursed her lips and Liam covered them with his own, keeping his touch gentle. At first, he used only his lips, caressing hers until he felt her relax.

He drifted his tongue along the seam of her mouth, but she had no idea what he was requesting. Her own lips stayed firmly shut until he nibbled on her lower lip so that she opened with a gasp, letting his tongue sweep victoriously inside. Gently, he reminded himself and was rewarded when Jonetta tentatively touched her own tongue to his—even followed when he retreated, to explore his mouth as he had explored hers.

Now that she was fully engaged in the kiss, as they explored one another, he let a hand drift down to rub over her nipple. He rejoiced when he found a hard nub that indicated her arousal, but she stiffened, a slight retreat from the sensual spell he was trying to weave. He brushed the sides of her breasts: first one, then the other, while still intensifying the kiss.

One subtle step at a time, he encouraged her further and further into ever more intimate caresses until she was yearning towards him, responding to every touch; until he had her chemise above her knees, his fingers and thumb performing the intimate dance that soon he and she would recreate together.

When he drew back from the kiss and lifted her into his arms to carry her to the bed, her glorious eyes were hazed with passion, but not enough to still the question that rose, unspoken but obvious, from their depths.

"The bed,” he told her and was pleased when no hint of trepidation marred her relaxation in his arms. Before she could lie down, he lifted her chemise and, though she blushed, she allowed him to take it over her head. She made no move to cover herself as he stood back to take in her glory: her broad hips and narrow waist, the breasts upon which he had been feasting. A man privileged to enjoy those breasts could die happy.

She was blushing. “Ye are very beautiful,” Liam told her, and his innocent bride blushed still further, which strengthened him to ignore the clamourings of his own body. He would see to her pleasure first, for he had been told that a maid’s first time was easier if her lover made sure she was well-pleasured before her lover entered her.

She coloured still further under his gaze, and shifted as if to cover herself. He put out a hand to stop her. “No, beautiful Jonetta. Here in our bedchamber, let us be naked and unashamed like Adam and Eve before the Fall. He gathered her back into his arms, and lay down to return his mouth to hers, whispering, “Let me see to yer pleasure.”

6

Jonetta lay watching Liam sleep. He had taken her twice to a peak of sensation she could not have imagined, the second time with his man’s part deep inside her woman’s channel. She’d felt a sharp pang—barely more than a pinch—when he entered her, but he had stopped to allow her to adjust, though he quivered like a leashed hound that scented its quarry.

He reached his own peak shortly after her second time. Alongside her awe at the response he had coaxed from her own body she felt a deep satisfaction at the pleasure he found in hers.

Afterwards, he rolled on his side but did not let her go, and he gave way to his exhaustion with Jonetta held closely in his arms, her head on his shoulder.

Even after he relaxed in sleep, she remained in his embrace, merely pulling back enough to see his face. He was still too pale, and the dark bruises under his eyes showed he needed more sleep to finish his healing. She wanted to argue with his decision to travel on the morrow, but she understood his reasoning. His absence would be considered an insult: to McNab and to the King.

He would put his duty to his people first, and she had been bred in the same tough school. She could not fault him for acting with honour. It was his honour, surely, that led them to this bed. If he had not claimed her as wife in front of Ruaf and Adam, they would not have stood up for her when Alec objected to her presence. Now she knew Alec better, she did not think he would have cut her down where she stood, as she feared at the time. But he might well have left her there in the forest within easy reach of the abbey, and she would now be back in her brother’s hands.

Even if he had taken her with them, would her imprisonment while Liam slept have been as comfortable? Perhaps it would. She had learned that Alec’s blustering hid a kind heart.

She trusted Liam and his people more than the Abbess and her brother, and wasn’t that strange? All her life she had accepted that, in the long feud between the Macintoshs and the Camerons, the Camerons were wrong.

Even here at the castle, Liam could have repudiated his words to Ruaf and Adam. Instead, he again claimed her as wife, and made sure to put their marriage beyond doubt. She coloured all over again at the memory of their joining, and the tender flesh where her thighs met heated and throbbed. What a pity they would be travelling for the next few days. Now that she knew what a lass could find with a lad, she was anxious to try it again.

* * *

The weather held good for their trip, but their way wound along mountain sides, in and out of gullies, through tangled forests, and across deep streams and rivers. It was hard, particularly on Liam, though he made no complaint.

Riding pillion behind him. Jonetta could feel when he began to flag. She and Alec entered into a silent conspiracy— Alec would call a halt whenever Jonetta signaled, the stop giving Liam time to rest and recover. Liam let them, which concerned Jonette more than the tension in his muscles or the whiteness of his clenched jaw.

They avoided settlements, went by less travelled ways, and hid the emblems and banners that marked them as Camerons in their baggage. They arrived late in the afternoon of the day before Liam was supposed to marry the McNab’s daughter. Liam called a halt on the hill above Scone when he saw a man leaning against a large oak. The man stepped into the road, a large grin spreading across his face. “Laird! I was about to give up for the night. Come on down. I have rented a house. If cousin Alec will take me up behind him, I’ll show ye where. Let us make haste before night makes the guards wary.”

As they made their way down the hill, Liam introduced Jonetta. “Lady, this scapegrace is yet another cousin. Iain, make yer courtesy to me lady wife, Jonetta Macintosh.”

Ian’s eyes widened, and he must have tightened his legs or flinched, because the horse danced sideways, kicking out at mirages. Alec cursed as he brought the animal under control. “Ye might have broken the news to him gently, Liam. After all, he was expecting ye to wed an ally not an enemy. Begging yer pardon, me lady.”

Iain shrugged, and then bowed as gracefully as he could from horseback behind another person. “I am pleased to see ye alive, me lady. We have thought ye dead this past ten years. I assume, at some point, someone will tell me the story.”

“Certainly,” Liam agreed. “For now, I need to see McNab and then the King.”

They had ridden through large double doors into a courtyard. A two-story L-shaped building formed part of the square, with stables along another side, and behind them a wall in the gates through which they had ridden.

“Give me the McNab’s direction, and I’ll go to see him now. Alec? Ye will be with me.”

Jonetta protested. “Not until ye have eaten, laird, and rested a spell. It will do our cause no good if ye collapse, leaving us leaderless. And take me with ye. I am the best evidence ye have that ye avoid this marriage, not by yer own will, but by the machinations of the Macintoshes.”

Liam frowned, but subsided when Alec agreed with Jonetta, though, as they were shown to a room where they could rest and eat, he murmured in her ear, “It was by me own will just a little, loveliest of wives.”

* * *

The sun was just setting as they were admitted to Scone Abbey, where McNab had been given rooms, and where the King himself occupied the Abbot’s apartments. Liam had sent Dai with a sealed note, to be given directly into the hands of McNab, and they were met at the gates by one of his knights, which meant they could enter without announcing themselves openly as Camerons.

They kept their party small; Liam and Iain taking the lead, and Dai walking behind with Jonetta, bundled into an anonymous and concealing cloak, and heavily veiled. Gillebeart Macintosh could walk right past her and not recognise his sister, or so Liam hoped. He hoped the Macintoshes would go on thinking he was walking into their trap.

Laird McNab greeted Liam with relief. “Cameron. I was beginning to worry. Ye’ve cut it fine. Ye’d have a good reason, nay doubt, or so I would hope.”

Liam had asked for a private meeting, and McNab showed his trust by having none present but his eldest son, Dowglas, who was his closest advisor.

Liam drew on all his skills as a storyteller to explain what had happened, starting with the betrothal all those years ago in this very abbey, explaining his reluctance to contract another betrothal when he had no evidence that Jonetta Macintosh was dead, and touching briefly on his reasons for agreeing to at last marry. “After ten years of silence, the maid was surely gone for good.”

So far, the McNabs, father and son, had said nothing. Liam went on to describe his journey home from the far north, and the planned abduction he had prevented on the outskirts of Macintosh land. He talked about the healer who hid him at the abbey without naming her. McNab cast a shrewd glance at Jonetta, who had not been introduced, but he said nothing. Liam explained that the healer had overheard Gillebeart Macintosh plotting with the Abbess to ruin Liam, and incidentally, McNab’s daughter Fiona.

The younger McNab let out an explosive oath, but the older retained his calm. “What was this plot?” he asked

Liam took Jonetta’s hand and drew her forward. “Sirs, this is Jonetta Macintosh, hidden for ten years so she could be used against me when at last I wed another. I owe her my life, for ’tis thanks to her skills as a healer and her kindness in keeping me concealed that I stand before ye today. I owe her my honour, for without her, I would have been foresworn tomorrow, and yer daughter ruined the day after.”

He lifted Jonetta’s hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “McNab, I must ask yer forgiveness and to that of yer daughter, for I cannot marry her. I have claimed the Lady Jonetta as me wife, because it was the King’s command, and to repay my debt to her.”

McNabb grumbled that a marriage was a marriage. “Ye had no choice, I suppose,” he conceded. “Well, we shall make the best of it. Ye’ll speak to Fiona yerself, the pair of ye, and then ye and I shall go to the King, Cameron.”

Jonetta had been right to come, for it was her presence that convinced King Raibert. The King was furious that his plans for peace ten years ago had been so subverted. “I’ll have the Macintoshes rounded up immediately,” he said. “And what are we going to do about this marriage?”

Liam was about to protest that his marriage with Jonetta pleased him very well when MacNab got a glint in his eye. “As to that, yer majesty, I have an idea... “

7

It was a small private ceremony in the abbot’s personal chapel. Only a handful of people were allowed in—the King, the MacNab and his son, Uilleam and Alasdair Cameron, Fiona MacNab and one attendant, both veiled.

Afterwards, one of the women was escorted to the Camerons’ rented house, and the other to the MacNab’s apartments. Neither was seen again that day.

After sharing a dram or two with the MacNab men and the King, Uilleam Cameron also returned to the rented house, slightly the worse for wear, and talking loudly in the street about his new lovely wife and his hopes for the future. He was heard to tell his cousin that he planned to retire with his wife to make the most of the time left until the King’s Council met the following afternoon.

Every person coming and going from the Cameron house was watched, and the movements reported to Gillebeart Macintosh, until Uilleam Cameron himself left for the great council chamber in the abbey. He took his wife with him, and Fiona MacNab’s brother walked on her other side, but at the abbey, Dowglas MacNab escorted the lady off to the room where the Queen waited with her ladies.

Gillebeart watched in delight as Uilleam took his seat at the great table. Soon. Soon the plan he had inherited from his uncle would come to fruition, destroying the new alliance between the Camerons and the MacNabs and ruining Uilleam Cameron’s credibility for a lifetime.

He waited impatiently through the Abbot’s prayers, the King’s welcome, and at last the Council was declared open. Gillebeart was the first on his feet, shouting over others who had stood at the same time.

“My king! My king, I demand justice for an insult done to me family.”

The council room hushed. Gillebeart’s chest expanded as he felt all eyes upon him, and he had to fight to keep his expression sorrowful when the glee he truly felt bubbled inside him.

The King raised an eyebrow, and his herald shouted, “The Council recognises Sir Gillebeart Macintosh, Laird of the Macintoshes.”

“My king, me lords,” Gillebeart continued, “the Laird of the Camerons has done me family a great wrong; yes, and the MacNabs, too. Yesterday, Uilleam Cameron was wed to Fiona MacNab, daughter of the MacNab laird. But the marriage is a sham, and the Cameron foresworn, for ten years ago, in this very abbey, in the presence of yerself, my Lord King, he made his betrothal vows to my own sister, Jonetta.”

The council room erupted with comment on questions. The King waved for quiet. “I witnessed those vows, and the wedding yesterday. But I have been told that the Lady Jonetta was believed dead.”

“Not dead,” Gillebeart proclaimed, and with a dramatic wave, continued, “as my aunt, Mother Abbess of the Abbey of St Mary the Mother of Compassion, can tell ye.” His aunt stepped out from the group of Camerons standing behind Gillebeart’s chair. Gillebeart opened his mouth to continue, but the King held up a hand.

“We will hear the nun,” he said.

Gillebeart shot a glance at the Cameron, but the man’s face was impassive. No satisfaction there; not yet.

“’Tis true,” said the Abbess. “Jonetta was brought to me for safe keeping ten years ago when me brother had cause to doubt the goodwill of the Camerons. She has been with me ever since.”

The King inclined his head. “And does the girl still reside at the abbey?”

The abbess looked anxiously at Gillebeart. They had discussed this. He frowned at her, impatiently.

“Aye, yer majesty,” she said.

The King stood, and a moment later, the rest of the Council followed his example. “My Queen,” he said, as Queen Elspeth came into the room, followed by her ladies, “what think you of the Macintosh’s claim?”

“I believe the Abbess speaks truth when she claims that Jonetta Macintosh still walks this earth.” She stepped to one side, and indicated the lady behind her with one hand. “Behold the wife of Liam Cameron.”

The Council chamber was still and silent, all in it leaning forward, their breath held, as the lady raised her veil and showed Gillebeart the death of all his hopes.

His aunt struck the last blow when she took a step forward, meeting the bride’s eyes, saying, “Jonetta.”

Epilogue

The three ladies watched their bairns tumbling together on the wolf skins that warmed the floor of the solar. Jonetta had given birth first, and young Will was a sturdy lad of nine months, already crawling and usually impossible to keep in one place. But his fascination with his younger cousins meant he was currently content to orbit where the two little girls lay, admiring him, each other, and their toes.

Fiona and Elena had married in the one ceremony at Michaelmas a year and a bit ago: Fiona to Alec Cameron, and Elena to Dowglas MacNab, and had given birth within a few days of each other in late summer, four months ago.

“I am so glad ye could stay with us for Hogmanny,” Jonetta told Elena. Fiona had become a dear friend, but Elena was the sister of Jonetta’s heart. Since the MacNab lands were not far away, they still saw a lot of one another, and when they couldn’t travel, they wrote letters back and forth.

Jonetta curved one hand protectively over her abdomen. It was too early to show, but she’d not be travelling much come midsummer. Having seen her friends’ husbands with their little girls, she hoped for a daughter this time, though no one could be prouder of a bairn than Liam of little Will.

“Lady?” It was the servant she had set to watching the two travelers that the men had found in the snow yesterday while they were out hunting. An elderly couple, they’d had little wrong with them apart from cold, age, and exhaustion, but all the castle knew that the weary and the injured would find a welcome at the castle.

“I had better go and see how me patients are,” Jonetta told the others.

“We’ll watch Will for ye,” Fiona promised. “Ye’re good to take the old couple in, Jonetta.”

“And why would I not?” Jonetta asked. “’Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’”

“First time I’ve heard my brother called an angel,” Elena teased, which gave Jonetta a smile to carry downstairs with her. The smile broadened still further when Liam, on his way up, swung her into his arms for a warm kiss, but faltered when he turned in his tracks to come with her and asked, “They are awake again? I’m told ye had a long chat with them this morning.”

She nodded, and stopped on the curve of the stairs so she could see his eyes when she told him what she had discovered. “They are crofters from the hills. They were coming to see me, since they had heard of the infirmary ye built for me. The man has heart pain, and the woman a lump.”

Liam smiled, proudly. “Yer reputation is spreading, my clever wife. Can ye help them?”

“Perhaps. We shall have to see.” Jonetta swallowed and told him the rest. “They are Macintoshes, Liam, distant cousins of mine — not part of the laird’s plot against me and the Camerons.”

Liam shrugged. “Then they are twice welcome, as family and as yer patients. What? Did ye think I would turn them out in the snow for the misfortune of their relatives? Ye forget, Jonetta, my wife was a Macintosh until I made her a Cameron, and my son carries Macintosh blood.”

Jonetta had to kiss him again for that. “Ye’re an angel to me, Liam, whatever Elena says,” she told him, and touched her finger to the eyebrows he drew in puzzlement. “Come on, then. Come and let us entertain our strangers.”

THE END

Also by Jude Knight

Regency books

The Golden Redepennings series

True love is rare and elusive, but they won’t settle for less

Candle’s Christmas Chair (A novella in The Golden Redepennings series)

They are separated by social standing and malicious lies. He has until Christmas to convince her to give their love another chance.

* * *

Gingerbread Bride (A novella in The Golden Redepennings series)

Mary runs from an unwanted marriage and finds adventure, danger and her girlhood hero, coming once more to her rescue.

* * *

Farewell to Kindness (Book 1 in The Golden Redepennings series)

Love is not always convenient. Anne and Rede have different goals, but when their enemies join forces, so must they.

* * *

A Raging Madness (Book 2 in The Golden Redepennings series)

Their marriage is a fiction. Their enemies are all too real. Uncovering the truth will need all the trust Ella and Alex can find.

* * *

The Realm of Silence (Book 3 in The Golden Redepennings series)

Rescue her daughter, destroy her dragons, defeat his demons, return to his lonely life. How hard can it be?

* * *

Unkept Promises (Book 4 in The Golden Redepennings series — published July 2019)

Mia hopes to negotiate a comfortable marriage. Jules wants his wife to return to England, where she belongs. Love confounds them both.

* * *

Other regency novels

A Baron for Becky

She was a fallen woman. How could the men who loved her help set her back on her feet?

* * *

Revealed in Mist

As spy and enquiry agent, Prue and David worked to uncover secrets, while hiding a few of their own.

* * *

House of Thorns

His rose thief bride comes with a scandal that threatens to tear them apart.

* * *

Other regency novellas

A Suitable Husband

A chef from the slums, however talented, is no fit mate for the cousin of a duke, however distant. But Cedrica can dream.

* * *

Lord Calne’s Christmas Ruby

One wealthy merchant's heiress with an aversion to fortune hunters. One an impoverished earl with a twisted hand. Combine and stir with one villainous rector.

* * *

The Beast Next Door (novella in the Bluestocking Belles collection Valentines from Bath)

* * *

Forged in Fire (novella in the Bluestocking Belles collection Never Too Late)

* * *

Lunch-length reads: story collections

Hand-Turned Tales and Lost in the Tale

A double handful of short stories and novellas, free from most eretailers. Try the range of Jude’s imagination one bite at a time, in a lunch-length read.

* * *

If Mistletoe Could Tell Tales

A repackaging of six published Christmas stories: four novellas and two novelettes. Because nothing enhances the magic of Christmas like the magic of love.

* * *

Hearts in the Land of Ferns

Five stories all set in New Zealand: two historical and three contemporary suspense. All That Glisters has been published in Hand-Turned Tales. The other four have all been published in multi-author collections, but never before in a collection of Jude Knight stories.

* * *

Victorian books

Never Kiss a Toad (with Mariana Gabrielle)

Caught together in her father’s bed, Sally and Toad are wrenched apart, to endure years of separation. But neither distance nor malice can destroy true love.

* * *

God Help Ye, Merry Gentleman (with Mariana Gabrielle)

A Christmas collection: two purpose-written short pieces in the world of Never Kiss a Toad, showing Sally’s and Toad’s childhood and youth. Plus some other published pieces from blogs, newsletters, and books set in the same world.

* * *

Forged in Fire (novella in the Bluestocking Belles collection Never Too Late)

Burned in their youth, neither Tad nor Lottie expected to feel the fires of love. Until the inferno of a volcanic eruption sears away the lies of the past and frees them to forge a new future.

* * *

Post-apocalyptic fiction

A Midwinter’s Tale (novella in the Speakeasy Scribes collection Resist and Rejoice)

Verity Marchand is an orphan of time, her family tavern under the ice that grips Boston. When Verity’s dreams lead her into a nightmare, she’ll need a miracle—or the family cat—to save her.

* * *

Contemporary

A Family Christmas (novella in the Authors of Main Street collection Christmas Babies on Main Street)

Kirilee is on the run, in disguise, out of touch, and eating for two. Trevor is heading home for Christmas, after three years undercover, investigating a global criminal organisation. In the heart of a storm, two people from different worlds question what divides and what unites them.

* * *

Abbie’s Wish (novella in the Authors of Main Street collection Christmas Wishes on Main Street)

Abbie’s Christmas wish draws three men to her mother. One of them is a monster.

* * *

Beached (novella in the Authors of Main Street collection Summer Romance on Main Street)

The truth will wash away her coastal paradise.

About Jude Knight

Jude Knight writes stuff and then tries to figure out how to slot the story into a genre category. Historical romantic suspense? Yes, mostly. She’s mad keen on history, enjoys what happens to people in the crucible of a passionate relationship, and loves to use a good mystery and some real danger as mechanisms to torture her characters.

Since publishing her first fiction book in 2014, Jude has published six novels and a heap of shorter stories, and plans to keep going till she runs out of years.

Website and blog: http://judeknightauthor.com/

Book blurbs and links:

http://judeknightauthor.com/books/

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http://judeknightauthor.com/newsletter/

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