Munro slept soundly and awoke at dawn the next morning feeling better. His fever seemed to have broken.

He and Sarah had made some difficult decisions together, which boded well for the future. His heart was at peace with the prospect of fostering Giles. He’d taken to the lad from their first meeting. God had seen fit to make Sarah barren, which he deemed a cruel fate. She would have been a wonderful mother.

Like most men, Munro had assumed he’d one day sire sons. The orphaned Giles was the answer to a prayer.

He’d made a flippant remark about Luke, but mayhap his destiny was to provide a secure home for boys like him. It was a way to fulfill his resolve to make a brighter future possible for bairns with no hope.

Gathering the linens around his hips, he swung his legs out of bed and planted his feet on the planked floor. Encouraged when the room didn’t spin around him, he fashioned a toga from the sheet and stood.

He wasn’t sure how Luke knew he had risen, but the boy was suddenly peering around the open door after tapping. “I’ve brought thee a tub.”

Munro’s mind filled with images of the deep bathtub at Kilmer. He’d have a difficult time fitting his large frame in the galvanized washtub Luke dragged in. Nevertheless, it was better than nothing, and he desperately wanted to be clean. “Will the kitchen bring up hot water?” he asked.

“I’ll fetch it for thee,” the urchin replied before disappearing.

His impatience growing, Munro watched the boy lug one pail after another and empty it into the washtub. At this rate, the first bucketful would be cold before he dipped a toe. He blamed the innkeeper for expecting a bairn to fulfill such an arduous task. After five pails, he called a halt. “’Tis sufficient.”

Luke wiped a sleeve across his brow and reached into his pocket for a tiny cake of soap. “Best Castile,” he said breathlessly.

Munro doubted the veracity of the statement, but kept his thoughts to himself. “I thank ye.”

The boy nodded. “I’ll bring thee breakfast in a while.”

“Take yer time,” he replied, dropping the toga to the floor before stepping into the washtub.

The color drained from Luke’s red face. “I forgot yer towel,” he gasped before rushing off again.

Munro sat down, relieved the water was still warm, though he had to tuck his knees to his chest to get the soles of his feet wet.

It was far from luxurious, but he soaped and rinsed his body, inhaling the faint traces of wintergreen—remembering Sarah’s touch. He was grateful for the boy’s efforts on his behalf. It dawned on him the landlord likely didn’t even know.

The water cooled quickly. Resigned to using the sheet as a drying cloth, he stood, sluicing the water off his body.

Luke hurried in with a towel and gave it to Munro. “Sorry, sir. I had to serve customers in the dining room.”

“Is there aught ye dinna have responsibility for in this inn?” he asked, drying off his legs.

Luke furrowed his brow, evidently searching for the answer. “I don’t brew the ale,” he finally replied. “Mrs. Richards does that. I hope my legs grow long like thine. The stairs won’t seem as steep then.”

And with that he was gone.

Munro dressed slowly. He felt refreshed now he was clean, but bathing had taken more energy than he anticipated. Sarah would likely scold him for getting out of bed. However, there were many important tasks to accomplish and he’d have to pace himself. It was a day for new beginnings, but he couldn’t rid himself of the appalling reality of a bright lad resigned to a lifetime of menial servitude. How many years of drudgery would it take to turn an innocent bairn into a sullen, resentful youth?

He finally managed to pull on his boots. Clad in cloak and hat, he made his way downstairs, mentioning to the landlord he’d take care of his own breakfast. There was no need to trouble Luke.

“It’s no trouble for him,” Richards replied. “The boy’s taken a shine to thee.”

Munro itched to reply that Luke was a friendly soul who would respond to anyone who treated him well, but there was no point antagonizing the jovial landlord. “I’m off to St. Martin’s,” he said instead. “To make arrangements for a wedding.”

His host’s eyes widened. “Thee and Mrs. North?”

“Aye.”

Richards extended a hand. “Wait till I tell the wife. I suspected as much. She deserves a good man after that Reginald. All the best to thee both.”

Munro accepted the hearty handshake. “I thank ye.”

He left the inn and walked towards the shop. Richards wasn’t a cruel man like Caradog who deliberately exploited his employees. It just seemed to be universally accepted that orphaned waifs were fair game for any task at hand. Society apparently thought it was doing them a favor condemning them to a hard life of long hours and menial labor.

The shop door was locked, as he’d anticipated. He tapped lightly, eagerly hoping he was early enough to break his fast with Sarah and Giles.

The boy appeared at the window, bleary-eyed and hair run amok, but his face lit up with a grin when he saw Munro. He ran off to get the key, throwing himself into Munro’s arms once the door was unlocked. “You won’t regret it. Taking me to Scotland, I mean. I’ll work hard. Much harder than I do now. You won’t regret it. I promise.”

Munro maneuvered them both inside, his heart filled with a sense of rightness. “I ken, laddie. Now, is Mrs. North up?”

Giles took a step back, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. “Before dawn. She’s making preparations to visit you.”

Munro grimaced. “I hope she willna be too annoyed when I arrive upstairs unannounced.”

Giles’ grin returned. “Mum’s the word,” he whispered.

They chuckled like two naughty boys engaged in a conspiracy.

Sarah thought she heard someone knocking at the door. Hopefully, Giles had told the early bird it wasn’t yet opening time. If she didn’t get a move on, it would be too late to visit Munro. “Oatmeal’s ready,” she shouted to Giles.

“I hope there’s enough for three.”

She whirled at the sound of Munro’s voice behind her. How could a man of his size move so quietly? “What are you doing out of bed?”

He took the empty bowls, put them on the table and gathered her into his arms. “I couldna stay away from ye another minute.”

“But—”

He nibbled her lips. “But naught. I want to go to St. Martin’s today.”

“You’ll make yourself sick again,” she murmured half-heartedly, secretly elated to see him looking much better.

“Being with ye is the best medicine. If we hurry, we can both go to see Reverend Grove and get the process underway.”

“I’ll mind the shop for the first while, if needs be,” Giles offered, appearing at the top of the stairs.

Strictly speaking, it was against Guild rules to leave an apprentice in charge, but Munro’s obvious burning desire to wed the undesirable Sarah North overcame her resistance. She might never understand why, but she accepted that he loved her. “I’ll make more porridge,” she replied.

Munro had always been an independent fellow who enjoyed his own company. Walking briskly down Edgbaston Street with Sarah on his arm, he realized he was half a man without her.

They found Reverend Grove in the entryway of the church engaged in conversation with a gentleman clad in expensive raiment.

“Mr. Addison,” Sarah whispered.

Judging by the broad smile on the iron magnate’s face, the news about his son must be good.

“Mrs. North,” Addison gushed, taking her hand in both of his in order to lavish kisses on her knuckles. “How can I ever thank you?”

Munro tamped down the possessive jealousy that suddenly seized him. “I dinna believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said, offering a hand. “Munro Pendray.”

Addison accept the gesture with a limp handshake. He was clearly more interested in talking about his son.

“Justin has been spared the noose,” he told Sarah. “A few months in Peck Lane prison, but I’ll make sure it isn’t too harsh. Of course, Battersby has expelled him, but we’ll find another school.”

Munro couldn’t resist. “I hear there’s a fine institution in Shrewsbury.”

Addison looked directly at him for the first time. “Yes. You’re right.”

Blushing, Sarah squeezed Munro’s hand, but he was unrepentant. The man had said nothing about the other boy implicated in the poisoning.

Grove broke the silence that followed. “And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company so early in the day?”

It was irritating that Addison lingered. However, there was no choice but to continue. “Sarah and I would like you to marry us.”

He swallowed his annoyance when Addison slapped him on the back.

“Wonderful. A fine choice, young man.”

Grove smiled broadly. “It will be my honor. We can announce the first banns Sunday morning.”

“I’d prefer we procure a license.”

The cleric hesitated. “Of course, of course. Licenses are issued by the bishop. I can—”

“I’ll see to it,” the iron magnate announced. “The bishop and I are old friends.”

Munro itched to tell the pompous fellow they didn’t need his interference, but Sarah interrupted. “We really appreciate your help.”

She was right, of course. “Aye,” he agreed. “My thanks.”

Addison raised an eyebrow. “You’re a Scot.”

Munro clenched his jaw. Had the man just noticed his brogue?

Sarah came to his rescue again. “Yes. We plan to move to my fiancé’s estate in Scotland after we’re married.”

Clever lass.

“Estate?”

“Aye,” Munro replied smugly. “I’m Viscount Glenheath of Kilmer.”

Addison gaped, his eyes darting here and there, clearly calculating how this revelation might work to his advantage. “What about the shop? That will only leave your apprentice—”

It gave Munro immense satisfaction to declare, “We intend to foster Giles and take him with us.”

Grove beamed. “God will bless you for your generosity of spirit.”

Munro got carried away. “And Luke as well,” he added, relieved when Sarah linked arms with him and nodded.

“Luke?” the minister asked.

Munro realized he didn’t even know the boy’s surname. “At The Swan.”

“Ah, the Harrison boy.”