THE DUKE OF Blackthorne was sitting in a wing chair at his gentleman’s club in London, drink in hand, staring absently out the window, when his best friend said, “It’s the girl, isn’t it? You’re thinking of the waif you rescued from that savage.”
“What if I am?” It irritated him to be so predictable. And embarrassed him to have his late wife’s brother point out his preoccupation with a girl he’d barely known, rather than the woman who’d been his wife for a year, before she’d died bearing his son.
“It’s been two years,” Seaton said. “You need to forget about her. You have more important things to consider, if you want to rescue Blackthorne Abbey from ruin. You need to find a woman with means and marry her before the month is out.”
Blackthorne made a face. Within a month of marrying Fanny, which was to say, within a month of his return to London from America, he’d learned that the Blackthorne estate was badly strapped. His father had made a number of risky investments that had not paid off. Then his younger brother, Montgomery, had died in a carriage race, and Blackthorne had been pressed to settle his brother’s outrageous gambling debts and find somewhere for his brother’s two sons to live, since Monty had died not only destitute, but a widower, whose late wife had no family.
Blackthorne had done his best to economize and had put Fanny’s dowry to good use, but it soon became apparent that, without an infusion of capital, land that had been in his family for eight generations was destined to be lost forever.
He’d spent the months of Fanny’s pregnancy filled with hope that she would bear him an heir to the dukedom, and with despair that he might be leaving his child an estate with only a glimmer of its former glory.
Unfortunately, things hadn’t improved in the year since Fanny’s death. In fact, they’d gotten worse. Now there was some doubt whether he could keep anything at all.
After his terrible experience losing Fanny and their son, he hadn’t been inclined to marry again. Now circumstances demanded it. He needed a rich wife, and he needed her in a hurry.
The New York Times lay open on his lap, so he could see the text of the advertisement his solicitor had inserted in all the major American newspapers several months ago—along with the London Times, of course, in order to catch any American heiress who might already have crossed the pond to secure a British title in exchange for a bit of her father’s wealth:
WANTED: American heiress for purposes of matrimony to titled gentleman.
The notice then gave the name of the Blackthorne solicitor, in an effort to make the duke’s search for a wealthy bride somewhat anonymous. Not that everyone in Society didn’t know the straits to which he’d been reduced. His grandmother had paraded a number of eligible English heiresses in front of him, but he’d insisted that, if he was forced to marry for filthy lucre, he wasn’t going to do it among the ranks of his peers.
There was another reason he’d advertised for an American bride. Although he hadn’t admitted it to anyone, he kept imagining that, somehow, the mystery woman he’d rescued all those years ago would show up again in his life.
Blackthorne thought more often than he ought to of the girl he’d nursed on the sea voyage across the Atlantic. He knew so little about her, not even her name. Perhaps that was why she’d remained so intriguing. Where was she now? How was she? He could have left her with an American family who’d been willing to take her in, but he’d refused to let her out of his sight. Why? What was it about that suffering girl that had so captivated him that he’d insisted on taking care of her himself?
Was it the courage that had kept her from begging for mercy at the sting of the lash? Was it that stubborn chin lifted in defiance of the pain the savage had inflicted upon her? Or was it the enormous strength of will that had kept her alive in spite of the terrible wounds she’d endured?
A doctor had straightened her nose as best he could, but it would always have a bump where it had been broken. Her battered face and her blackened eyes, which had remained mere slits for the balance of the journey, had left her unrecognizable. Blackthorne had feared that infection would kill her on the voyage across the sea, but she’d survived, although fever had plagued her all the way to England.
Day after day, she’d remained out of her head with pain from her ravaged back, but she hadn’t complained, hadn’t screamed or cried. She’d hissed when a hot cloth touched her flesh. She’d thrashed as Blackthorne held her still for the doctor’s examination. Sometimes, she released a moan that was almost a sigh. He’d talked to her to keep her mind off the agony he knew he was causing, when he tended her ragged flesh.
“I’ve never seen a girl so brave,” he’d told her as she bore his ministrations. He’d waited anxiously for her fever to break, for her to speak intelligible words, to say something—anything—to prove that what she’d suffered hadn’t driven her mad.
“You have to let the physician mind the girl,” Seaton had admonished him. “He knows best. You’re liable to cause more damage, if you try to manage her treatment yourself.”
He’d barely looked up from the girl’s face, as he sat vigil beside her bunk in the captain’s cabin, while the fever raged. “I bought her. She’s my responsibility.”
“Listen to yourself,” his friend chided. “You rescued a damsel in distress. Your duties as knight in shining armor are over.”
“Not until I know who she is,” he’d murmured.
“What difference can that possibly make?” Seaton asked. “From the way she was dressed, it’s clear she’s one of the lower classes.”
Blackthorne had shifted his gaze sharply to look his best friend in the eye. “That doesn’t make her any less in need of my help.”
“What are you going to do with her when you get her to England?” his friend demanded. “You’re engaged to be married. How do you think Fanny is going to react to this wild hair of yours?”
He’d turned his attention back to the girl, who’d shifted and moaned. “Fanny will understand.”
“You don’t know my sister as well as you think you do.”
“Go away, Seaton,” he’d said in a firm, ducal voice. And Seaton had left.
Blackthorne was surprised by what the girl said when she finally spoke.
“All my fault,” she muttered against the pillow. “Everything. If only they knew. All my fault.”
“Surely you can’t be responsible for the attack on your wagon,” he’d said in a soothing voice.
She’d clutched the pillow tightly with both fists and said, “The fire. The fire.”
For a long time he’d thought she was saying her back was on fire, which he could easily believe. But it wasn’t that at all. She’d remained out of her head, raving and incoherent with fever, and it had taken more than a week before he’d cobbled together enough of the story, which had been revealed in bits and pieces, to understand her guilt.
She’d been referring to the terrible conflagration in Chicago three years previously, the one supposedly caused by Mrs. O’Leary’s cow, which had kicked over a lantern in the barn. The resulting inferno, which had raged for three days, had burned down virtually the whole city, including this girl’s home.
She’d been terrified by the flames and smoke and had hidden under her bed, making it necessary for her parents to hunt through the house for her. She hadn’t replied, even when they’d pleaded for her to answer them. Her parents had finally found her, and her father had dragged her out. But by then, the bedroom doorway was blocked by fire. Her mother had tied the bedsheets together so her father could lower her out the back window. Safe outside, she’d watched her home burn to the ground with her parents inside.
He’d prodded her for her given name, or her family name, but she’d been too lost in her personal agony to respond. Apparently, she’d been orphaned. It was a mystery how she’d gotten from Chicago to the Dakota Territory, but presumably it involved travel in a Conestoga wagon, since she—and whoever was in it with her—had been attacked by the Sioux.
She’d mentioned a few names, but he had no clue whether they were relatives or acquaintances. Hetty and Hannah—always together. Miranda. Nick and Harry—again, always together. And a Mr. McMurtry. He wondered if she could be married to the man. But she wasn’t wearing a ring, and there was no mark on her finger to show that she’d worn a ring that might have been removed by the Sioux.
She made two other statements relentlessly: “I have to find them. I have to go back. I have to find them. I have to go back.”
He kept hoping she would recover enough by the time they landed in England to answer all his questions about exactly who it was she had to find and where she had to go. But she was still far from well when their journey ended.
To his chagrin, Fanny was at the docks to greet him, together with her mother, who’d come along to welcome home her son and future son-in-law. Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure Fanny would understand that he’d spent the entire crossing nursing a half-naked girl. Or why he’d parted with two irreplaceable heirlooms—a whalebone-handled knife and his grandfather’s gold watch—to “buy” a young woman. Or why he’d insisted on nursing her himself, rather than allowing the perfectly capable physician he’d brought along to do it.
When he saw Fanny waving to him—fragile Fanny, who’d fainted at the sight of a cut on his face from a bout of fisticuffs at Jackson’s Saloon—he realized Seaton was right. Fanny would never understand any of this. She would shortly be his wife, and he didn’t want to start off his marriage with an unnecessary misunderstanding.
“Seaton, I need a favor,” he’d said.
“Anything, Blackthorne.”
“I want you to make sure that, once the girl is well, she’s sent home to America.”
“Of course. Consider it done.”
Blackthorne had taken only one step toward the gangplank when he reversed course and hurried to the captain’s cabin. He found his patient sleeping on her stomach and touched her cheek to wake her.
Her hair was still damp from fever, and her eyes looked dazed. “What’s…happening?”
He stroked her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear as he spoke. “We’ve docked in London. I promise, when you’re well, arrangements will be made to send you back to America. Now, I must leave you.”
She grasped his hand, holding it against her cheek. “Don’t…go.”
Never had he heard a request he wanted to honor as much. But other obligations had to take precedence. He had to marry and produce an heir to the dukedom. His grandmother had insisted upon it, and he could no longer put her off.
He felt his heart twist, as he eased the girl’s hand free of his own. “You’ll be well taken care of, I promise. I’ll make sure you have the means to find those you seek. You’ll be on your way back to America as soon as you’re completely healed and can stand another voyage.”
She was still so weak, she was asleep almost before he finished speaking.
He leaned down to kiss her swollen cheek, which was a ghastly yellow and purple, now that the black and blue had gone away. “Sleep well, my dear.”
He’d been determined not to mention the girl, in order to spare Fanny any questions about his commitment to his future wife. But on the coach ride into London, she’d asked whether he’d managed to hunt down one of the shaggy buffalo that were supposed to roam the American plains.
And it just slipped out: “I rescued a girl instead.”
Fanny and her mother stared at him as though he’d said, “I not only killed a buffalo, I also sliced out its liver and ate it raw and steaming.” He took one look at their faces and made up his mind not to say another word about how his American exploits had ended.
But Fanny wouldn’t let it go. A sentence at a time, she coaxed the rest of the story out of him, beginning with how brave the girl had been in the face of torture.
Fanny’s mother had needed a sniff of hartshorn, as he gave a greatly expurgated description of the torture the girl had endured. At Fanny’s insistence, he explained how he’d given up his whalebone-handled knife and his grandfather’s gold watch to buy her from the Sioux brave who’d been whipping her.
Fanny’s mother harrumphed and said, “You’ll be sorry someday. How could you forfeit such priceless family heirlooms for some…nobody?”
He explained how he’d nursed the girl on shipboard.
Fanny had slid her arm through his, leaned her cheek against his shoulder, and said, “Oh, my.”
He explained how he’d left the girl—whose identity remained a mystery—behind at the docks, with instructions to Seaton that she was to be sent home to America, once she was completely healed.
“I can tell you admired her enormously,” Fanny said.
“I did,” he admitted. “I do.” As soon as the words—in the present tense—were out of his mouth, he’d felt compelled to reassure Fanny that the girl was no threat to her. So he’d added, “All she wants is to return home and find her family.”
“I’m so proud of you,” Fanny said.
He hadn’t expected that. “You are?”
“Your treatment of that poor girl only makes me love you more.”
“It does?”
She’d looked up at him with such love that, even though her mother was sitting across from them, he’d brushed a knuckle against her cheek, causing her to blush and lower her eyes. He was glad to be home.
At that moment, Blackthorne had felt sure he was marrying the most wonderful—and most compassionate—woman alive.
Much later, he realized it would have been far better if Fanny had ranted and raged in a jealous frenzy, making it perfectly clear that he was never to think of that American girl again. Maybe then he wouldn’t have remained entranced by her forever after.
Seaton had accused him of being obsessed. He would admit to being fascinated. By her bravery. By her sense of obligation to her family. And by all the things he didn’t know about her. He wondered where she was. And how she was. He wondered if she’d ever been reunited with whoever it was she’d been so determined to find. He often felt saddened and frustrated by the knowledge that he was never going to have answers to his questions. That this elusive young woman was going to forever remain a mystery to him.
Most of all, he wondered why she’d never contacted him. He had no idea who she was, but surely, once she was well, she would have inquired about her benefactor. She would have been told she’d been rescued by the Duke of Blackthorne. She would have been told he’d nursed her on the long voyage from America, and that he’d provided her with the means to return from whence she’d come.
But he’d never heard a word from her. He could have asked Seaton if she’d ever mentioned him. But his pride—and his relationship with Seaton’s sister—had kept him silent.
“Your Grace?”
Blackthorne turned to look at the servant holding out a silver plate that held a missive. He took the note and dropped a coin on the plate, dismissing the man.
“What is it?” Seaton asked, as Blackthorne finished reading the note and folded it again.
He grimaced. “It seems another female hoping to become my duchess is seeking an interview.”
“Do you really have the luxury of refusing anyone at this point?”
“Perhaps not,” Blackthorne conceded. “But I owe it to myself to take a look, before I agree to sell myself.”
“And if she has a squeaky voice? Or sniffs? Or is redheaded with freckles? Or has a long nose or crooked teeth?”
“If she’s rich enough to save Blackthorne Abbey, I’m willing to overlook any or all of those faults.”