BARONSFORD. A FAIRY-tale castle surrounded by farms, meadows, and forest. Riding in his hired carriage along the winding road leading to the front door, Dermot passed a shimmering loch that disappeared into a green grove.

Five days had passed since he’d last seen her. Five days since he’d abused his position in the medical profession and cajoled Millie Pennington’s physician into revealing the truth of why a patient matching her description—for she’d not used her real name—was so upset after consulting with him.

Dermot stared across the fields at the River Tweed, meandering past on its way to the sea. How many poets had written of life as a river, carrying one through the turbulence and trials of this frail existence? He knew sickness well. He’d seen it in its many forms—on the sea, in the surgery, in the hospital bed. He’d tended to the infirmities of strangers and those he’d loved dearly.

Tomorrow offered no promises, regardless of how healthy one appeared or how much worldly wealth one possessed. Change was the only constant, and the same end awaited all. What mattered was that life needed to be embraced. Today. This moment.

His mind slipped back through the years. Millie’s tear-stained face was replaced with another. Susan’s pale and sunken cheeks, and her blue eyes, filled with despair, appeared again like a wandering specter, reminding him, cautioning him about all that could go wrong. He ran a hand over his face and forced down once again the decade-old ache, hiding it from the world, keeping his pain shut up tightly in his heart.

The blur of memories cleared as his carriage approached the gated courtyard. Baronsford was alive and clearly thriving. The grandeur of the place was both inspiring and daunting.

The wealth and power of the Penningtons were legendary, as was their reputation for hospitality. The local gentry and anyone with the slightest connection to the family waited with anticipation for the two days a year when Baronsford opened its doors to outsiders. But the family was also famous for their tight-knit loyalty.

He wondered if Millie had told them. Many people in her situation often refused to share their news with loved ones. They preferred to lock their secret away. Looking at the line of carriages ahead of him, he had his doubts that she’d said anything. If the Penningtons knew of Millie’s illness, this ball would not be taking place.

A few moments later, Dermot ascended the steps past footmen and other servants, and entered a magnificent foyer. He was a first-time visitor, but he didn’t share any of the open enthusiasm being voiced by other guests around him. Before tall double doors leading into the huge Palladian-style ballroom, a crowd dressed in their finest gowns and evening clothes jostled for a better place as they waited to enter. The music of Haydn blended with the sounds of revelers inside.

Realizing he needed to put on a more festive demeanor before entering, he made his way to a window overlooking the courtyard. He was accustomed to presenting an amusing façade to those around him. Over the years, Dermot had mastered the art of hiding pain behind a persona of charm and humor. And in his experience, people saw only what he allowed them to see. Or what they desired to see. Few had any interest in finding out why a distinguished physician from the finest university in Scotland would suddenly choose to become a ship’s surgeon for a decade and then invest his inheritance and education in the founding of an asylum.

He looked away from the other guests.

Millie. He was here for Millie.

He was a doctor, he told himself. He had a duty to help if he could. Any physical ailment was a challenge, and it was natural to feel extreme sadness and even grief after learning the truth. But he knew, better than anyone, the destructiveness of grief.

In the ballroom, the orchestra struck up a waltz. The throng of waiting guests had dwindled, and through the doors, he scanned the reception line. The family was together. The mood appeared jovial. Nothing seemed amiss.

Except that Millie was not among them.

“Dr. McKendry, you’re here.”

Dermot turned around and smiled at the son of his partner, Wynne Melfort. Cuffe was dressed like a duke and exuded the confidence and self-assurance of a young man well beyond his eleven years. Though he still had a lock of unruly hair draped across his brow, he was a different person since the family had returned from Jamaica, bringing Cuffe’s grandmother back with them.

Cuffe gestured toward the door. “I can show you another way in, if you don’t care to meet the family right off. Lord Aytoun is a gruff one on the outside, but kindly as an old parson once he knows you. The viscount is exactly the same.”

Dermot knew of the men from information Jo had shared. He also knew of the duel between the viscount, Hugh Pennington, and Wynne years ago. The two stood next to each other now, exchanging friendly barbs as if nothing had ever divided them.

Dermot stared beyond the receiving line, and he could still see no sign of Millie.

“But the women folk in my family are all soft as combed wool.” Cuffe’s brown eyes lit up his face. “Lady Aytoun is the best, warm as summer sunlight.”

He wasn’t surprised to hear this. Those of her children he’d met reflected the same warmth.

Cuffe pointed to another door. “Still, if we go out the library doors, we can get in through the gardens—”

He shook his head. “Thanks, lad. I’m looking forward to meeting the family.” He paused. “But I’d like to see Lady Millie first, and she doesn’t appear to be in the reception line.”

“I heard she’s not coming down for the ball.”

“Why not? Is she unwell?”

“A headache. I heard Lady Jo talking to the doctor. She’s resting in her room.”

No one stood between Dermot and the ballroom. It was time to go in, but instead, he glanced up the wide staircase. “Can you take me up to her?”

“What are your intentions?” Cuffe glared at him. “Even I know that would not be appropriate.”

Dermot smiled, hearing Wynne’s tone in his son’s words. “I promise you, my intentions are entirely honorable. Strictly professional. You have no need to fear for her reputation.”

Cuffe shook his head and brushed the lock of hair back from his forehead. He cast a quick look at the two liveried doormen flanking the entry to the ballroom. “You need to be introduced to the family first.”

At any other time, Dermot might have laughed, confronted with this guardian of decorum. Cuffe was like a son to him. They saw each other every day. One day a week, he shadowed Dermot through the hospital wards. On another day, he read to the patients and answered mail for those who weren’t capable of writing to their families themselves. Here at Baronsford, after Wynne and Jo, Cuffe knew Dermot better than anyone.

“I’ll meet them all in good time. But if you must know, lad, I have a gift for Lady Millie.”

This news was met with a look of skepticism. “But you haven’t met her, have you?”

“Well, no,” he admitted. “But as you know, we have been communicating . . . in a manner of speaking.”

“And so far, she has the better of you.” Cuffe puffed up proudly. “I helped her rearrange your work room the last time she visited the Abbey.”

Clearly, Dermot would have to make him an accomplice. “Then you know this is my turn to strike?”

“Strike?” The lad’s gaze narrowed. “So, this is not a gift, then?”

“It’s a gift.” He tried to sound reassuring. “It’s something Lady Millie definitely can use in her life right now.”

Cuffe’s suspicions were hardly allayed.

“Very well,” Dermot said flatly. “Admittedly, there is a wee bit of retribution involved here.”

“I thought as much.”

“But if it will make you feel better, let’s do this—you take me to Lady Millie’s door, and I’ll let you personally oversee the delivery of her gift.”

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MILLIE HUGGED HER MIDDLE and gazed vacantly out the window at the streaks of red and gold coloring the western sky. Rows and rows of carriages tended by grooms and drivers filled a newly shorn hayfield by the stables. Distant melodic strains came to her with the soft breeze, growing intermittently louder and then softer.

She imagined her parents, Hugh, and his wife, Grace, and the others were probably finished receiving their guests by now. Her father, who had nearly been killed in a fall from a bluff overlooking the river in his youth, would need to be resting his leg. Hopefully, Phoebe was already sitting. Her pregnancy had not been the most comfortable for her.

She should be down there, Millie thought, but she just couldn’t face all those people.

Each of the Penningtons, young and old, was expected to attend the event. Despite the revelry and the excitement, tonight was not about the fine gowns or the impressive carriages or the rattling gossip of the ton about the family’s magnificent home. At the heart of the ball was the comingling of people from vastly different social circles.

Those with worthwhile projects had the opportunity to bring attention to their charities. And the wealthy were provided with causes they could support. A venture to provide work for immigrants in Glasgow. A new school for the children of the streets in Edinburgh. Jo’s project of developing shelters for women always needed expansion, in Scotland and in England. The endeavors were many, and the members of the ton in attendance knew that by the time the night was over, their generosity would be tested.

Despite the worthiness of the evening, Millie still couldn’t go down. She wasn’t ready to test her courage in public. Her tears had run dry before she ventured back to Baronsford, but she had so much to consider, so much to plan. If she was somewhat subdued when she arrived, her reserve caused no alarm. Her apparent tranquility was taken for granted.

The last-minute announcement that she’d decided not to go downstairs, however, had brought both her parents to her rooms. This was not the Millie they knew, and her assurance that she only needed to rest did little to alleviate their concern. Dr. Namby, always an early guest at the ball, was immediately brought up to see her. Millie had no trouble convincing the village doctor that her headache was the result of exhaustion and nothing else.

The sounds of a waltz wafted in on the scent of roses from the trellises below her window, and Millie moved back to her writing desk and picked up the book she’d been reading. Lord Byron’s tragedy, Manfred. Drawing a folded paper from its pages, she sat, studying the image of the three-masted ship at the top of the sheet. It was a handbill she’d picked up in Edinburgh. She read it over again.

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To sail 1st August,

FOR NEW YORK,

The Well-Known Packet Ship

FRIENDS

Thomas Choate, Commander

400 Tons Burthen, Copper-fastened, and newly Coppered to the Bends, (lately arrived from Charleston in 21 days), has superior furnished accommodations for Passengers; and a Cow on Board to supply them with Milk.

Shippers and Passengers are requested to have Goods or Luggage, intended for this Vessel, at Leith, by Thursday the 29th, at farthest.

For Freight or Passage, apply to:

Messrs. Stevenson, Miller, & Co., Leith;

the Captain on board;

or

JOHN FYFE & CO.

Edinburgh, 11th June, 1819

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BEFORE COMING DOWN from the city, Millie wrote to Mr. Fyfe, securing passage for herself.

She would wait until after the ball to tell her family she was leaving for America. Perhaps it would be best to wait until Phoebe had her baby next month. Everyone would be far too happily distracted to object.

New York. From there, Millie would secure passage on a mail coach or a coastal packet going to Boston, where her uncle Pierce and his wife, Portia, lived. Once she’d visited with them, she’d travel through the former colonies until it was time.

Time. She thought about a line she’d read in Byron’s work earlier. Do you think existence depends on time? Much of the physician’s words during the consultation had been lost in a fog. She did recall hearing the words six months, but also the physician asserted there was no way of knowing for certain.

The knock on the door startled Millie, and she shoved the handbill inside the book and stood. She decided it must be one of the women in her family, coming on orders from their mother to check on her.

“You may enter,” she called. “I’m not asleep.”

A moment later, the knock came again.

Any of the servants would have already come in, and her family would have shown less hesitation. Baronsford was bustling with guests. The idea of someone accidentally ending up here was a possibility, but hardly likely. For generations, the Pennington family had been a target of rumors and often malicious gossip. Millie could only imagine the stories going around in the ballroom regarding her absence. And here she was, about to “confirm” that she’d been banished, confined in her room. Another knock.

Millie tightened the belt on her dressing gown and stole a glance at her pale reflection in the mirror. Well, she definitely looked ghastly.

Crossing the room, she opened the door just as the young man was about to rap on it again.

“Cuffe? What are you doing up here? Has something happened?” she asked, reaching out and taking his hand.

Worry raced through her, and Millie’s mind immediately filled with possible disasters. She couldn’t imagine the eleven-year-old leaving the festivities unless he’d been directed to bring her a message.

“Is it Phoebe? Is she in labor? Is it my father? Has someone fallen sick?”

“Nothing is wrong.” The dark brown eyes flickered to a man standing silently nearby. “I’m here to supervise the delivery of a gift.”

Surprised, Millie noticed the tall man. The white brocade waistcoat of satin and the starched silk cravat provided a sharp contrast to the ebony jacket encasing impressively wide shoulders. She stared at the angular lines of his face, the alert dark eyes, the short but untidy hair that showed evidence of restless fingers running through it. The touch of a smile pulled at his lips as if challenging her to guess who he was. She wracked her memory. He looked familiar, and yet she couldn’t quite place when or where she’d been introduced to the gentleman.

“Lady Millie Pennington,” Cuffe said formally, ending the suspense, “may I introduce Dr. Dermot McKendry.”

Unexpected delight swept through her, and she smiled . . . for the first time in days. For a moment, all was well. Her world, as she knew it, was spinning smoothly on its axis, and tomorrow was another day, as joyful and full of hope as today.

“M’lady.” He bowed.

She smoothed the dressing gown. Suddenly, she felt awkward about how she looked and how she was dressed. For months now, she’d imagined this introduction. Dr. McKendry fascinated her. She was enthralled by what she knew of his work, of his passion for helping the forgotten and ignored.

Of course, she’d been somewhat mischievous in setting aright the chaos of his office when she’d visited her sister. And, if she were honest with herself, Jo’s description of the doctor’s boyish good looks and sense of humor had only added to her interest.

She curtsied. “Dr. McKendry. At last, we meet.”

“I was disappointed to find you weren’t well enough to be downstairs. I wanted to offer my services.”

“Thank you. My . . . infirmity came on quite unexpectedly.”

“It generally does,” he replied. “And how are you feeling now?”

Reality rushed back. Lies and lies and more lies would be her only answer. She touched the side of her head. “Already improving. I shall be perfectly well by tomorrow.”

“Excellent. Then may I call on you in the morning? I’ve been eager to—”

“I apologize, but I can’t. I’m traveling to Edinburgh tomorrow.” She spoke the truth. She’d already decided it would be much easier to hide her situation and mourn her fate away from the family. She didn’t have any desire to try and act brave amongst them. She was no stoic, and she didn’t know how long her veneer of calmness would hold up.

“That’s much better for me too.” He sounded pleased. “I was going to make arrangements to stay at the George Inn in Melrose Village an extra night. Now I have no reason for it. I’ll be going back to Edinburgh, as well, and I can call on you there.”

She couldn’t do this. Millie didn’t want to encourage a friendship that couldn’t be. She was no longer the woman who had challenged and teased him in his absence.

“Dr. McKendry, I’m afraid my schedule—”

“Perhaps,” Cuffe cut in, “perhaps if you offered Lady Millie your gift, she might change her mind.”

She’d totally forgotten about her nephew standing and listening to their conversation. Millie followed Cuffe’s gaze and saw a basket with a hinged top sitting at the doctor’s feet.

“Of course, my gift.” He picked it up. “May I carry it in for you?”

She’d organized his office. He’d created havoc with her books. Their interaction might be construed by some as having extended beyond society’s rules of polite engagement.

Millie was certain she heard something thump inside as he lifted it. “What’s in there?”

“Let’s open it and find out.”

She shook her head. “You’ll tell me first.”

“What are you afraid of, m’lady? It’s an innocent gift.”

Cuffe moved away from the door as the doctor came closer, holding the basket up. Another thump.

“It’s alive,” she exclaimed. “There is something alive in that basket.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“But he won’t be alive for much longer if you don’t let him out soon,” Cuffe chipped in.

She backed away. Dermot McKendry had already proved himself a capable mischief-maker. “Well, I don’t know . . .”

But it was too late. The doctor followed her in, dropped to one knee, and threw open the top.

A pig. A young blue-eyed pig, slathered with grease, blinked as it looked up at her. Millie stared back in disbelief. A puppy. Perhaps a kitten. Seconds ago, she’d decided those were the only gifts the man would dare deliver in a basket to her room. But a pig?

“Dr. McKendry, why on earth would you bring a . . .?” That was all she was able to say before the porker squealed and leapt out of the basket, bolting across the floor and leaving tracks of grease across Millie’s Persian carpet. “Stop!”

The pig, however, was already racing in circles around the room, clearly too young to understand her command.

She shrieked as the beast dashed by, nearly knocking her over and leaving a mark on her dressing gown as it glanced off her leg.

“Dr. McKendry, stop that animal!”

“I’m trying.” He leapt into the pursuit. “Stand there, I’ll steer him toward you.”

She wanted to kill the man. “Not toward me.”

“You’re by the basket.”

She kicked the basket away. “I’m not about to—”

The piglet ran by the fireplace, and the rack of andirons went flying, making clanging noises as the tools scattered across the hearth and the wood floor.

“You missed him!” McKendry exclaimed as the panicked creature streaked past her, grazing a candle stand.

Millie clutched for the stand as it teetered.

“You must put more effort into this,” he admonished.

She forcibly restrained herself from swinging the stand at his head. “Trust me. You don’t want me putting more effort in anything right now.”

“Fits of temper will only rile such a wee, sensitive pet.”

“My wee, sensitive pet won’t be the recipient of any fits of temper.” She positioned herself in the animal’s path, deciding it was up to her to catch it. “But you . . . you . . .”

“I know. You don’t have to say it. You are so pleased with my gift. You’re at loss for words to express it.”

Millie wanted to throw something at him.

“Here he comes again. Catch him,” Cuffe yelled.

Millie grabbed at him, but the pig squirted through her hands, throwing its slippery body at the bed. “No!”

Too late.

She staggered as she dove for the little demon, nearly falling as her slippered foot went out from under her. The troublemaking doctor’s arm was around her waist. For a moment they stood too close. Her hand pressed against his chest. Her lips were inches away from his. Her heart’s beating was loud enough that she was certain he could hear it. A delicious twist knotted in her belly, and she shot a look at his face and saw laughter. She was disappointed when he set her on her feet and stepped back.

The bedspread was marked, probably forever. As were her grease-covered hands. She was satisfied to see her handprint on his satin vest.

“My books!”

Across the room, the porker hit the small pedestal table by her reading chair and squealed bloody murder as the neat stack of books showered down on its greasy body.

“I’ll get him,” McKendry shouted as the piglet sprinted by him and disappeared under the bed.

“Come out, you beast!” she cried out, going down on her hands and knees next to the bed.

The man’s shoulder pressed against hers as he joined her on the floor. Their hips touched. “Come out, Satan!” he commanded. The man was no help.

The two of them sprawled on the floor as they both reached for the animal. Suddenly, unexpected images filled her head, and corresponding sensations, thrilling and ill-timed, pulsed through her body. His body on top of hers. Hers on top of his. Millie didn’t know what he’d done to her.

“I’ll never forgive you,” she muttered, needing to clear her head but unwilling to edge away from him. “What on earth possessed you—?”

“I must say . . . There he goes, Cuffe!” he shouted as the pig went out the other way. “If you’re not going to take better care of my gifts . . .”

Millie sat up on the floor, surrounded by the uproar of a squealing piglet and an excited eleven-year-old in pursuit, and all to the accompaniment of a waltz in the distance. Her clean and orderly room looked like a tempest had ripped through it. Her dismal mood was now a vague memory. She touched the greasy stains on her formerly immaculate dressing gown and decided she liked the contrast of colors. The absurdity of it all was too much, and laughter bubbled up inside her.

As the piglet passed them again, the doctor made a dive for him, and a rending sound came from his pants as a seam gave way.

“They probably heard that tear in Melrose Village,” she commented, unable to resist.

He sat back against the bed, and the look on his face was priceless. She couldn’t stop herself from giggling out loud, and he joined her as the pig continued to run circles around them. Millie laughed until she could barely breathe. Cuffe sank into a chair across the room.

“Perhaps since I’ve been wounded, I might call on you in Edinburgh the day after tomorrow. I’m sure by then you’ll find a suitable way of thanking me for my gift.”

Before Millie could reply, she saw the piglet’s eyes dart toward the open door.

“No!” she shrieked.

Seeing freedom within his grasp, the little devil bolted from the room and disappeared down the hallway.