Prologue
December 1814, somewhere in Southern England
“I shall be sorry to miss the wedding.”
“As will I. But you know the number of guests coming down from London might well prove to be a risk we dare not take.”
The woman on the chestnut horse glanced at her traveling companion and nodded. “Yes. But it is still sad.” She looked forward again, over the head of her mount. Her cloak of dull brown wool covered most of her, but the lace of her cap peeped out from beneath her hood. She wore thick woolen gloves and every now and again the movement of the animal revealed a serviceable boot in the stirrup. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Of course it’s a good idea. It’s mine.” The man grinned across the distance between them, holding the reins of his black mount firmly. “We only have a couple more miles to travel, and then we can truly breathe.”
“Nobody will know where we are?”
“Not unless we tell them.”
“I see.” She looked to one side at the darkening sky. “Snow soon, I think.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But with luck there will be plenty of firewood. I’ll have the place warmed up before you know it.”
“I hope so.” She sounded dubious. “You’re good at building a fire, are you?”
“The best.” He tried to appear modest. “I have awards.”
“Paul DeVoreaux, you are the biggest liar I have ever met.”
He smiled as he heard her laugh ring out into the silence around them. “Of course I am. Didn’t you know?”
Harriet Selkirk shook her head. “Incorrigible. A pirate. Have I not told you that before? You would make Blackbeard’s beard turn white.”
“Why thank you. A rare compliment indeed.”
About to utter another rejoinder, Harriet paused as Paul held up his hand. “Look.” He leaned over to grasp the reins above her hand and brought both horses to a standstill. He pointed to an opening in the forest not too far ahead.
The sun was setting, glorious in an assortment of pale golds through rich deep reds, reflecting off a gathering of threatening clouds and the snow that had fallen just the night before. Just to its right was a modest country house, no more than three stories high, tucked into the edge of the forest, its sloping roof and tall chimneys reminding Harriet of fairytale images she’d seen in her childhood books. It sat as if guarding a much larger assemblage of stones that might have been an ancient church, or some kind of ruined castle, lying off to one side. The whole scene was surrounded by snow laden fir trees.
“Oh,” she gasped. “It’s…magical.” She had never been to a hunting box, but if this was an example, she’d make a point to rectify that omission.
“It’s where we’re going. And it’s probably full of mice.”
“I still think it’s lovely. It looks like it’s protecting the past.”
“Good God, woman. You have a brilliant gift for expressing unreal ideas in terms that make sense.”
Harriet turned and looked at him. “Do not tell me there’s no room for magic in your piratical soul, sir?”
He looked back, warmth lurking behind his dark eyes. The kind of warmth that could give a woman ideas if she wasn’t very careful. Harriet knew she had to be careful.
“Anyway,” she hurried on, “perhaps we should not linger here. I’d much rather be off this horse before darkness falls and hides the road beneath her hooves, especially if those snow clouds reach us before we arrive.”
“Agreed.” Paul released her mount and moved his own forward, risking a trot as she followed.
She was ready to get there now, no matter what it was like. Their destination had resulted from a conversation with an acquaintance of Miss Letitia Ridlington’s future husband, Sir James FitzArden, who had a friend with a convenient empty property he seldom used…and a few letters later the arrangement had been signed and sealed.
Paul and Harriet thus presented the appearance of two servants heading to a small hunting box. If asked, they would state that their intent was to prepare it, and the associated surroundings, for the arrival of a small party of guests from London for a few days, and then their master after the Christmas season. There might be chance for a shoot if the weather stayed cold and crisp.
That was the story they had developed between them. She was the maid, and he was the servant.
Only that was so far from the truth as to be absurd.
Harriet felt as if she were in some ridiculous romance novel. When that thought crossed her mind, she suppressed a laugh, since the novel she’d much rather be in was the quite scandalous one her friend Letitia had written. It was to be released early in the new year and Harriet was relatively sure there would be a great deal of shock attached to its debut.
With luck, she’d be away from it all. As would Letitia, who would be Mrs. James FitzArden by then and immune to all things shocking. Besides, nobody but family knew she’d written a book at all, and even fewer knew what it was about.
Yes, she’d rather be a heroine created by Letitia…provided she could have a hero to match.
She glanced ahead at Paul, riding his horse as if he was born to the saddle, tall and so masculine in every tiny detail. He was the perfect hero for her imagined romance novel.
She sighed.
A shared kiss or two didn’t indicate a desire for a deeper or more intense involvement. She’d told herself that several times after the eventful night during which such embraces had occurred.
It was a pity she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it.