The next day, Charlotte rode Angelica deep in Balesboro Wood, taking random paths, some made for horses, some little more than trails fashioned by wild animals. The going was slow, but neither she nor Angelica cared. Overhead, the sun filtered through the branches and splashing onto leaves until they shone emerald, and mint, and every shade in between.

It was a luscious day, the sky a bright blue, the scent of summer heavy in the air and on the skin. She took a deep breath, sucking in the freshness of it, the calmness of her beloved Balesboro.

She loved these woods. She never felt safer than when she was here. It was both ironic and tragic that Caroline had died on one of these paths.

She shook away the thought, refusing to think about anything sad. She’d had a productive few days since she’d talked to Aunt Verity in the sitting room, and each day brought Charlotte closer to where she was before the tragedy that had changed her life. Each day she felt stronger and far surer of herself, and less as if she were walking on the egg shells of the expectations of others.

With that came a peace she hadn’t felt in months.

Angelica whickered softly, and then abruptly turned onto a path Charlotte had never seen before. She allowed the horse to take the lead, for no animal knew the woods better, and sure enough, the pathway widened, the sound of rushing water lifting over the rustle of leaves. A few moments later, they entered a small clearing by a stream that was so picturesque that Charlotte pulled Angelica to a halt.

Charlotte patted the horse’s wide neck. “Good girl.”

Angelica whickered in return.

Before them, a wide stream bubbled over silvery moss that waved across copper colored stones. Clumps of blue and purple flowers grew entwined with emerald green grass. Overhead a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves, the sound merging with the rushing water. Even after all of these years, Balesboro still had some surprises.

Charlotte was charmed. She glanced up at the sun and wondered if she had time to stop. She was due back at Nimway in an hour, for the vicar’s wife was visiting and Aunt Verity had begged Charlotte to be there. If there was one thing Aunt Verity hated more than expending herself, it was exchanging small talk with a pious woman given to denouncing the very sins Aunt Verity enjoyed the most.

Charlotte grinned and then kicked the stirrups free. An hour would be better than nothing. With a lithe move, she slid off Angelica’s back and looped the reins over a tree branch near a thick patch of grass. The horse munched contentedly as Charlotte hung her hat on a shrub, and then went to the stream. A large outcropping of rock hung over a quiet pool, the stone surface invitingly smooth.

She sat down, pleased to find the stone warm. She tugged off her boots and tossed them aside and then peeled off her stockings. She tossed them over her shoulder so they would be well away from the damp stream. Barefoot at last, she sat on the rock, pulled her skirts up over her knees, and dangled her bare feet into the quiet pool.

Cool, fresh water rushed over her feet and she wiggled her toes happily. She only wished she had time to undo the cumbersome skirts of her riding habit and swim in the quiet pool. But the memory of Aunt Verity’s horrified expression when Charlotte had mentioned their tea guest killed the thought. Another day then, if Angelica can be bribed into finding this place again.

Humming to herself, Charlotte planted her hands behind her and tilted her face to the sun filtering through the branches. It had been three days since she’d had her conversation with Aunt Verity. Three days of solitary rides while she decided who she was, what she wanted, and all the reasons she shouldn’t think about Marco di Rossi.

She wasn’t sure what she should do about him. Her life was at a crossroads, and she was ready for something to happen. Something exciting. Something wonderful. Something like him.

But it couldn’t be him. She knew the price he’d have to pay if he ‘crossed the line,’ as he put it. And, knowing her mother, there would be a price. Mama was loving and kind, but she always, always put family first. Charlotte had no illusions how her mother would see a flirtation between her daughter and the sculptor commissioned to make an unforgettable fireplace for the family home.

There was no winning this one. If she pursued him, or he her, which was a thrilling thought indeed, they both stood to lose. He could lose his reputation and career, and she would have hurt her mother’s feelings in a way that might never heal, especially after the harm caused by Caroline’s death.

She sighed and closed her eyes, letting the sun warm her face. It was a problem, this attraction she had for Marco, but she couldn’t seem to give up. Not yet. There had to be a way around their problems, a way that would free to them to at least explore the attraction between them.

She kicked at the water and watched it arc into a line of splashes, each smaller than the first. Caroline would have known what to do. There was nothing she’d like better than a puzzle. If only—

Angelica lifted her head and snorted loudly, prancing nervously.

Charlotte lifted up on one arm. Somewhere close by, and coming closer, a large animal crashed through the shrubs. She started to rise, but the noise was instantly followed by a muttered curse in a deep voice she recognized far too quickly. She didn’t have time to do more than sit up and push her skirts over her knees before Marco burst from a dense patch of shrubs. His face was dark with irritation, a small branch was caught in the torn shoulder of his shirt, a smattering of leaves tangled in his long, dark hair, a red scratch bright on one cheek.

His gaze found hers and surprise replaced his irritation. His gaze moved over her, taking in her tossed aside hat, her bunched skirts, and her bared feet dangling in the pool of water.

She waved. “Hello.” It was a weak greeting, but she was too startled to do else.

He scowled, swiping at his hair, leaves showering down. “This cursed wood will be the death of me. If I find that damned owl, I’m going to throttle it, have it stuffed, and make a hat of it.” With a disgusted look, he yanked the twig from the tear in his shirt.

“What owl?”

“The one I was chasing.”

“You were chasing an owl.” She tried to keep from laughing, she really did.

His lips thinned. “The damned thing stole one of my sketches and flew off into the wood and then just dropped it, as if he’d seen enough.” Marco bent to dust his pants, pausing to yank a torn vine which had wound itself around his knee. “It wasn’t very far inside the woods. A few yards, at most. But after I reached the tree where he’d dropped the paper, it wasn’t there.” He straightened, his brow lowered. “I don’t understand how that could be. I saw it on the ground, but . . . Damn. I don’t know.”

Fascinated, she prodded him on. “What happened then?”

“I started to go back, but the damned thing hooted at me again. When I looked up, there he was, ten or so more yards into the woods, and he was holding my sketch.”

“How did he get it from—”

“Woman, how would I know?”

She bit her lip at his roar. When she could keep the giggle from her voice, she said, “You wouldn’t, of course.”

“You’re damned right I wouldn’t. It makes no sense, but there he was. So I ran at him as fast as I could and grabbed at the sketch. My fingers closed over it, but—” He shook his head. “He flew off. It was like he knew just when to take flight.”

“So you chased him some more. And tried to grab your paper some more.”

“And every time I reached him, he’d show up somewhere else, hooting at me, and I— Eventually, he stopped hooting, but it was too late for I was good and lost by then. I’ve been wandering in these woods for nigh on two hours now and—Good God, woman, will you stop laughing!”

“Sorry.” She gulped back another chuckle.

He put his fingertips to the cut on his cheek. “I’m glad I found you. You do know how to get back to Nimway?”

“Yes, and so does Angelica.”

“Thank God for that, at least. That owl . . . Dio, I sound crazed, even to my own ears.”

“No, you don’t. Anyone who knows Balesboro would know you’re not crazed.”

Marco thought he detected real sympathy in Charlotte’s voice, which was infinitely better than the laughter that she’d so far showered him with. “Thank you.” I think.

She turned back to the pool and gently slapped her feet on the water, smiling at the noise. “Balesboro is an odd wood. The villagers swear there’s magic here. I’ve seen a few things that have made me believe it, too.”

He took a step closer to the stream, looking around him for the first time. He was struck by the beauty of the place, although as beautiful as the water and trees and moss were, none compared to the vision in blue who even now was wiggling her toes in the still pool.

It was so idyllic here, and yet he’d sworn he would stay away from her. But he was hot and tired, and the stream – and she – looked so comfortable and idyllic that he wandered closer. “What magic have you seen in Balesboro?”

“Nothing any odder than an owl luring you ever deeper into the woods, but even that—” She pursed her lips, and he couldn’t help but admire the fullness of them. “When Caroline and I were young, we played all through Balesboro and we saw many inexplicable things. Lights that flickered, music playing where there were no instruments, and odd shadows that would flitter at the edge of your eyesight making you think you’d seen something impossible.”

“If I saw or heard any of those things, I would run all the way back to Italy and never return.”

She smiled and patted the rock on which she sat, her blue riding habit tucked around her. “Come and sit.”

He shouldn’t sit. He should go home and get back to work. But his cheek stung from the cut, and one knee had been sadly wrenched when he’d landed from his last leap at that blasted owl, so he came and took his place on the warm rock, close to her, but not too much so.

Instantly, the world seemed . . . better. It was the oddest thing, but all of his irritation, all of his fury, all of his worries about his work, his tormented feelings for Charlotte, and everything else seemed to seep out of him and into the warm rock. He patted it absently as he looked around. “This is nice.”

She smiled. “It is, isn’t it?”

“No. I mean it’s really nice. And nice isn’t even a strong enough word.” He considered it for a moment and then announced, “This is blissful.”

“It is. You should take off your boots. The water feels wonderful.”

“I’m fine just sitting, thank you.” He tried not to look at her bared legs, and failed miserably, and could only be happy when she didn’t notice.

They were silent a moment, the sound of rushing water and the buzzing of bees harmonizing around them.

Marco looked up at the green trees swaying overhead. “People always talk about how green England is. I never understood that until I came here.” He looked back at Charlotte, thinking that she looked as if she belonged here, a wood nymph with hair the color of the sunset and eyes like the deepest night sky.

He leaned her way the slightest bit, his shoulder brushing hers. When she didn’t move, he hid a smile. “So . . . you’ve never been lost in these woods?”

“Never. My mother says Balesboro knows those of us from Nimway and protects us.”

“Yes, well, it tortures those who are not.” He showed her one of his hands, which was streaked with scratches from brambles that seemed to grow out of nowhere as he’d lurched through what had seemed like a hundred walls of thorns.

She winced at the sight of his scratched hands. “Oh dear.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a kerchief, and then bent down to dip it in the water.

“There’s no need for that. I’ll be f—"

She placed the wet kerchief on his hand, the pain instantly easing.

Well. That was something. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She looked back at her feet where they were dipped into the water and she wiggled her toes. “One time, when I was a child, I got in an argument with Papa and was so angry with him that I ran away. I packed a clean chemise and a pillow in a hatbox, stole an apple from the larder, and left.”

“How old were you?”

“Six.”

“And you came into these woods alone?”

She laughed softly. “I had the wild idea that I would live here until winter. By that time, my Papa would have decided he was very, very sorry for having been so stern with me.”

“One apple wouldn’t have lasted that long.”

“Oh, it didn’t last the hour, for I hadn’t had my breakfast yet. But the Wood seemed to know I wasn’t yet ready to return home. I found berries and nuts, and I spent the whole day here, chasing butterflies, and red song birds. I found a heart shaped rock that’s still on my dressing table. Oh, and two bright blue feathers.”

“I’m surprised you bothered to go home.”

A soft smile touched her mouth. “I might not have, but Caroline came. I don’t know how she found me, but she did.”

“Did you argue with her about returning home? It sounds as if you were having a wonderful time.”

“I didn’t argue. She said it was time to go back, so I went.”

“And was your Papa cured of his irritation by then?”

“He was very happy to see me, but not as happy as I was to see him.” She kicked at the water, the droplets flashing a faint rainbow over the green hazed rocks.

God, but he would love to sculpt her as she was now, her prim habit covering her to her neck, her rumpled skirts pulled up to reveal her delicate ankles and lush calves. He would call it Propriety In The Wild, he decided, drinking her with his gaze. “Why did you come today? Are you angry with someone this time, too?”

She held her feet before her and pointed her wet toes, water dripping back into the pool. “When you came, I was just thinking about Caroline.” She frowned and then kicked the water. “I miss her.”

The words, so simple, held a world of heartbreak. “That’s understandable.”

“She was to be the guardian, you know.” Charlotte reached out and plucked a flower from a nearby clump and tucked it behind her ear. “Now, we don’t know who that’s to be.”

“I don’t understand. She was to be the guardian of what?”

“Nimway Hall is always in the possession and care of a female of the line. My sister was to be the next one.”

He shrugged. “So now it will be you.”

“It can’t be me. I don’t have the mark.”

“What mark?”

She sighed. “You sound just like my aunt.”

He frowned. “I am just asking a normal question.”

She slanted him a measuring look, as if she were deciding how much to tell him. He must have passed muster for she said in a serious tone, “Every Guardian of Nimway is born with a mark on their shoulder, an oval. My sister had that mark.”

“And you do not.”

She shook her head, and another strand of hair fell from her bun.

“Do you wish you did?”

Her brows rose, as if his question surprised her. “I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose . . . yes, I wish I did, although it would mean I’d need to stay nearby. I’m not sure I want that.”

“You’ll have to leave once you marry, anyway,” he pointed out.

She plucked another flower, holding the stem between her palms. She moved her hands slowly, rolling the flower back and forth. “I don’t want to talk about Robert.”

Neither did he, Marco decided. In fact, he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to talk about less. Still, he was here. And so was she.

He dived in. “I’ve been here for almost two weeks and I have yet to see this man.”

She didn’t answer.

“But if you’re going to marry this – what did you call him? Roberto?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Robert, not Roberto.”

“Whatever it is. You’ll leave Nimway once you marry him, so it’s for the best you aren’t the guardian.”

She twirled the flower a little faster.

“That is, if he plans on taking you away. Perhaps he will want to live with you and your parents here.”

The flower was almost a blur.

“Where is he now, anyway?”

She stopped twirling the flower and sent him a flat look. “I told you, I’m not going to talk about Robert. After we became engaged, he had business to attend to, and he left to take care of it.”

“Business. What business is that?”

“I’m not sure.”

“He didn’t tell you? What sort of man—”

“For the love of heaven, will you stop talking about him!” She glared at him, the flower a ragged pulp in her clenched hand.

He covered her hand with his, the poor flower now hidden from sight. “Charlotte, if I were engaged to you, I would not leave you alone. When a di Rossi marries, it is for love and it is for life.”

Her eyes widened, her lips parted. “That’s . . . I’m not . . .” She took a deep, shuddering breath, and then she shook her head, as if banishing cobwebs. “You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

She pulled her hand from his and threw the broken flower into the water. It floated in the quiet pool, swirling with the current.

They were silent, and it seemed that the forest was quiet now, too.

Marco hated that he’d crushed what had been a beautiful moment. What in the hell is wrong with me? I could have sat here in this beautiful grotto with this beautiful woman and talked about all sorts of things that might have pleased her.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He couldn’t afford to please her. He rubbed his knee where it still ached. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking to you about this man. I just . . .” He turned to her. “I don’t understand why you are marrying him. If he doesn’t care enough to stay with you, then he is not worth your efforts.”

She lifted her chin, two more strands of hair falling from her coif to land on her shoulder. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but you’re being annoyingly persistent. I haven’t even told my aunt yet, but—” She gave an irritated sigh. “For your information, I’m not going to marry Robert. I wrote him several days ago and told him so. He should get the letter tomorrow, perhaps the day after, but soon.”

“When did you decide this?”

Her gaze met his. “The kiss we shared.”

“You and I?”

She nodded. “I couldn’t marry Robert after that.”

Marco could have shouted his pride. Ah ha! There. He’d solved her problems and had removed her from an onerous situation, which had bothered him since he’d first heard of it. Try as he would, he couldn’t see this wild spirited girl trapped in a cold, English marriage. “You were too good for him.”

She brushed some of her fallen hair from where it clung to the side of her neck, her lips downturned.

Marco’s smile faded. She didn’t look like a person whose problems had all been solved. If anything, she looked even more unhappy, her eyebrows knit, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

“It wasn’t that I was too good for him,” she finally said. “He was too good for me. Much too good. I’ve known him since I was a child and he’s always been kind to me.”

“You’re worried you’ve hurt him.”

She nodded.

“You would hurt him more if you married him and it wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Some of the hurt left her face. “It is for the best.”

Marco had to fight the urge to sweep her into his arms for a hard kiss. God, but she was delectable. Right now, she looked like a fluffed kitchen, her hair mussed, her feet bare, and her hackles raised by his questions. Sadly, he was fairly sure that, if he had been so audacious as to try and kiss her, she would have scratched him and bitten him like an angry kitten, too.

He had to settle for a compassionate nod, which seemed weak indeed.

She placed her hands flat on the rock behind her and leaned back, looking up at the trees. “Life is so complicated. All we want is to be happy, but no one knows what that really means.”

“Love is happiness. I know that.” Marco reached past her to pluck a flower. It was cornflower blue, the center a deep purple, the smell indescribably sweet. “In his time, my father painted hundreds of portraits of people, many of them wealthy beyond belief.”

She watched him, her long lashes shadowing her blue eyes.

“He was in many different homes and saw many different people’s lives. He says that of the houses he visited, he never once witnessed happiness close to the kind he and my mother shared.” Marco dropped the flower in her lap where the petals rested on the folds of her skirts. “Not once.”

She picked up the flower and looked at it. “You’re saying love is rare.”

“Most people will never get so much as a taste of it. But when they have it, they will know it.”

“My parents have that kind of love, too.” She pursed her lips and brushed the flower along her cheek. “You’re right. They do know it, and if you saw them together, you would know it, too.” She sighed, her breath making the flower flutter helplessly. “My parents will be upset when they find out I’ve ended my engagement with Robert.”

“He will tell them?”

“I wrote my mother at the same time I wrote him. I thought it only fair.” She dropped the flower back into her lap. “Mama wanted me to marry Robert. She’s been worried about me since Caroline’s death. I think she thought marriage might anchor me some way.”

“If she thinks you need to be anchored, then she hasn’t seen you when you’re mad. You are a force, then. Even I fear you and I can pick you up with one arm.”

A reluctant smile touched her lips, but then quickly left. “I can be rather forceful at times, but it has been a while since I felt I could be forceful, or even honest, with my mother. She’s been so sad since Caroline died, that I can’t . . . I couldn’t.” Charlotte kicked one foot high, sending an arc of sparkling crystal water drops across the stream, her skirt sliding back to expose a shapely calf.

She glanced up at the sky and then grimaced. “It’s getting late and I need to get back.”

Blast it. He didn’t want this moment to end. He considered what might happen if he convinced her to stay. He could build a home of some sort in the clearing where Angelica now stood, and they could eat the berries and nuts from the woods. He had no idea which were good and which were poison, but she might know.

It was a ridiculous thought, and yet . . . damn, why couldn’t life be as simple as deciding you don’t want to leave a certain moment.

Sighing, he watched as she collected her riding boots and limped to a nearby tree stump. She sat down and dried her feet with her skirts, and then picked up her stockings. It wasn’t easy, for her voluminous skirts were very much in her way and the stockings stuck to her damp feet, but she managed to tug her stockings back on.

She reached for her boots, her billowing skirts obscuring her view. She tugged the skirts to one side, only to blow out her breath in irritation when they fell back in the way.

“Here. Allow me.” He arose and picked up her boot. He knelt on the one knee that didn’t hurt and held out his hand. “Give me your foot.”

“I can do it.”

“Of course you can do it, but I am trying to be a gentleman, which – as you know – does not come easy to me. Give me your foot.”

“No gentleman has ever offered to assist me with my boots.”

“I’m no gentleman, so I don’t have to follow the rules.”

Her lips flattened into a straight line.

“For the love of—Fine. Fine. I’m not being chivalrous. Instead, you may consider this a payment for the help you are about to give me.”

“What help is that?” She couldn’t have looked more suspicious.

“To be blunt, if you and that monster horse of yours don’t lead me free of these trees, they will find my body in a few days, a thorn vine wrapped around my throat.”

A reluctant chuckle bubbled from her. “Balesboro has been very cruel to you.”

“So make it right. Be kind to me, instead. Save me from this vile forest.” He held her out his hand. “Your left foot, please.”

With a grin, she plopped her stockinged foot into his hand.

“Thank you.” He slipped the boot over her foot, tugging it firmly into place. He lowered her foot to the ground and picked up her other boot. “Now your other foot.”

She was less hesitant this time, so he lingered, admiring the roundness of her calf and the perfect turn of her ankle. The feel of her damp skin through her stockings sent sparks up his arms and into other, more insistent parts. There was something about this auburn-haired waif that piqued his senses, and he had yet to figure out what it was.

He finished settling her boot in place and rocked back on his heels. “There.”

“Thank you.” She stood and went to collect Angelica. “We can both ride her, if you’d like.”

“Thank you, but no. That horse has no love of me. I’ll help you on, and then I’ll lead you. Come.” He stood by the horse and cupped his hands. “I’ll give you a lift.”

Charlotte held her riding skirts to one side, placed a hand on his shoulder, and settled her boot on his laced fingers.

But he had other, better plans. The second her boot settled, he unlaced his fingers, grasped her by the waist, and lifted her into the saddle.

Her lips parted and she blushed, but there was nothing she could say. Her horse, who’d been watching, turned her head back toward the trail as if satisfied all was as it should be.

“There. We’re ready.” He took the reins, making sure he left plenty of loose leather between him and Angelica on the off chance she decided to nip at him. Satisfied she wasn’t already eyeing him like a large apple, he glanced back at Charlotte and smiled. “Which way do we go?”