There had to be a mistake. Her cousin wouldn’t abandon her at the last minute.

As the carriage rolled along the frozen road, gusts of wind buffeted the sides of the vehicle. Freya thought back. His last letter had been addressed to her less than a fortnight ago. He said he was eager to accompany her to Baronsford for the Christmas Ball. Meeting Lady Dacre would be an honor, he wrote. He was delighted that Freya had finally come to her senses regarding his offer of marriage.

Freya was certain he understood what was at stake.

She wouldn’t lose Ella. Giving her niece over to the Dacre family was not an option. Freya’s late brother-in-law had twelve brothers and sisters, and not one of them had reached out to her sister when she was alive. And in the five years since Lucy’s death, not one of them had shown any interest in even meeting Ella.

It was only in the wake of her husband’s death that Lady Dacre had felt any remorse over ignoring her granddaughter. Suddenly, she was filled with concern about Ella’s future. She said proof was needed that the Sutherlands of Torrishbrae were fit to care for a member of her family. And in referring to the Sutherlands, she meant Freya, who’d taken responsibility for Ella from that first dark day.

Back at the inn, when Captain Pennington told her the rumor about her cousin, Freya had asserted that he was misinformed. What he’d heard must have been a mistake. She desperately hoped she was correct.

Emotions clawed at her heart before knotting into a fist in her throat. Freya clenched her jaw and focused on the wintry countryside outside of the carriage window. The ice-covered tops of Craig Riasgain and Beinn Mhealaich stood silent and formidable against the steel blue sky and the encroaching clouds. She had to stay strong. Never give up. It was up to her to secure her niece’s future. Ella belonged with her.

Despite the icy ruts and dips in the road that jarred them occasionally, they were moving steadily southward. Her manservant, Dougal, was riding up top with the captain’s men. She was relieved that her niece at least for now had abandoned the idea of a marriage of convenience between the captain and Freya. Exhaustion had claimed the five-year-old and, some time after setting out, Ella had put her head down in Freya’s lap and gone to sleep. Shona, bundled in a blanket across from her, was blessed with a similar ability to ignore the discomforts of travel. Freya watched the maid unconsciously wedge her head into the corner of the carriage, and it wasn’t long before a soft snore escaped her.

Freya’s gaze shifted to the man sitting next to Shona. With Ella curled up on the seat, Captain Pennington had plenty of room for his long, muscular legs. He’d stored his sword and black bicorne hat in a compartment beneath the seat, where she saw a brace of pistols. As he looked out the window, her eyes lingered on his strong hands. She knew little about his character, except that the dowager had entrusted their care to him. Whatever Freya thought of Lady Dacre, that spoke highly of the captain.

Her gaze drifted upward over his gray kersey greatcoat to his handsome face. His head rested against the back wall of the carriage. She stared at the cleft in his chin and sensual lips, and for an insane moment her thoughts flickered back to that time years ago when she’d dreamed of attending her first season and her first ball. Her imaginings had never been about a full dance card or a dozen young men standing in line vying for her attention. Her dream had always been to go and meet the one. The strong, decisive gentleman who would fight anyone who slighted her in the most casual manner. The hero who would steal her away from the crowded ballroom to a lamplit garden where the two of them would . . .

Freya’s wandering thoughts came to a crashing halt. His eyes were open. He was watching her. Feeling a blush warm her cheeks, she tore her gaze away and looked down at the tangle of Ella’s hair resting on her lap. She touched the softness of it. A stray curl wound around her finger, just as the very essence of the child had long ago wound inextricably around her heart.

“Are you really engaged to Colonel Dunbar?”

She wasn’t about to lie and make the arrangement more than it was. Theirs was no love match. The fact that Pennington was acquainted with the Dacres made no difference.

“We have an understanding. The colonel is my cousin. After my father is gone, he’ll be the next Baron of Torrishbrae. For years, it’s been expected that we shall marry.”

“But for years, you haven’t done it.”

“I’ve never been faced with marriage as a deciding factor in my niece’s future.”

There . . . she’d said it, Freya thought. It was out. And she knew she might just as well tell him because if she didn’t, Ella would. The little imp asleep on her lap had already decided Captain Pennington was a catch.

He was a catch. But only for a young woman with a good name and whose life wasn’t a tangle of complications.

“Are you saying that Lady Dacre has demanded that you marry in order to keep your niece?”

“The dowager wants assurance that once my father is gone, I have the protection of a husband as well as the means of supporting Ella,” she explained. “I have a small fortune of my own, but much of the Sutherland worth is tied up in our land. The estate and all the property that goes with it will be inherited by my cousin.”

“So you’re marrying him to keep your own property.”

“I’ll do anything to keep Ella.”

The child stirred. Freya looked down, making sure that their conversation hadn’t awakened her. The little girl’s steady breathing told her she was still asleep.

“She’s right. You are a bloody martyr.”

Freya’s gaze snapped up to his face and she frowned. “How can you say that when you don’t know me?”

“I can say that because I know that family. My parents have an estate in Hertfordshire. They’re neighbors, in a sense,” he explained. “It was in the duke’s character to control and manipulate lives. He required martyr’s blood. Lady Dacre’s demand sounds very much of the same style as her late husband’s: Do what I say or else.”

Freya now realized his words had been spoken out of sympathy, and a sense of relief flowed through her, knowing his opinion of the dowager.

“Is she Fredrick’s daughter?” he asked softly, his gaze falling on the tousled head in her lap.

Unexpectedly, relief turned to warmth. It wasn’t so much his words, but the tone in which he delivered them.

Freya knew very little about Ella’s father. Apparently, he cut a dashing figure in his company regimentals. Her sister fell in love with him after the two met at a ball in Edinburgh. Less than a month later, they eloped and were married at Gretna Green. It was all very romantic. Unfortunately, his family had other marital plans for him, but he didn’t care. He sent his bride home to Torrishbrae when he returned to fight the French on the Peninsula. And the product of their passionate love affair now lay curled up in her arms.

“She is his daughter,” Freya whispered before meeting his gaze again. “Did you know him well?”

“Well enough,” he said. “I was a year or so older, but we spent time in each other’s company growing up.”

“My father and I never met him. Not even once. Nor did Ella,” she told him. “I’d love to hear any stories that you could share. She has so many questions, and I don’t know how to answer her.”

“I’d be happy to, if I can.”

The captain’s gaze dropped to her lap again, and she looked down and found Ella’s eyes open.

Freya wasn’t her mother, but she’d been right there with Lucy when Ella entered into the world. From that first day, she had cared for the infant, loved and celebrated every step, worried over every bump and bruise. She didn’t know if she was capable of putting into words how much she loved Ella.

“Did you have a good sleep?” she asked, caressing her niece’s silky cheek.

“Can I look out the window?”

There was no gradual waking up. From the moment Ella opened her eyes, regardless of where and when, she was an unleashed storm. She scrambled over Freya’s lap to the window. But that wasn’t good enough. Squirming and using her arms and legs, she pushed and made more room for herself.

Her intentions were immediately clear, for Freya found herself sliding along the seat until she was directly across from the captain.

“I apologize,” she whispered. “When you agreed to escort us to Baronsford, you couldn’t have known you’d be conveying a kraken and its minions.”

His smile made her stomach flip deliciously. The confined space of the carriage left nowhere for either of them to go.

“Kraken?” he replied. “I would have said she’s a very different mythic creature . . . a winged one generally armed with a bow and arrow.”

A bump on the road pushed his long legs against hers. They each tried to adjust their seats, but the only choice was tucking her feet in next to his.

“Does your brother, the lord justice, make a habit of assigning you such difficult tasks?”

“No more talk of this trip being a hardship,” he said softly, his striking eyes surveying her face. “I’m extremely pleased that I’m able to be of service.”

His charm was more lethal than his looks. Freya felt her cheeks warm and tried to slide back toward Ella with no success.

She searched for something to say. Anything to ease the tension gripping her.

“You’re stationed in the Highlands?”

“This past year I’ve been attached to the 93rd Regiment of Foot.”

“The Sutherland Highlanders?” she asked, knowing a bit about them. They were located in a wild region of mountains north of Torrishbrae. Most of the soldiers and officers came from the lands of Sutherland, Ross, Caithness, the Orkneys, and Shetlands.

“I’m an officer in the Royal Engineers, building roads and bridges. My orders there are temporary.”

“A necessity . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence as a bump and a leap of the carriage pressed her leg intimately against his. They were far too close. “As you can see, we desperately need someone of your talent here.”

A woolen shawl she’d draped on her lap fell to the floor. He fetched it and spread it over her knees. She whispered a word of thanks at the considerate gesture, but their eyes met and a riot of butterflies swarmed within her, banging against her ribs.

She turned her attention quickly to her niece. Sitting cross-legged on the seat, Ella smiled back at them.

“All of this is boring. Can you please continue with the conversation you were having about my father while I was pretending to be asleep?”

* * *

Cupid could take a lesson or two from this little one, Penn thought.

Sitting in that coffee room before he’d been introduced to them, he’d already been formulating what he was going to say to his brother, but any complaint regarding this trip to Baronsford was now forgotten.

These two fascinated him. The older one, in particular. Penn contemplated the curve of Freya’s lips and the dimple in her cheek as she played a game of push and shove with her niece to win more space on the seat. For the briefest of moments, while she was distracted, he gazed at the delicate line of her jaw and the slant of her dark eyes and the soft curls that invited touching.

A true beauty. But what made Miss Freya Sutherland even more striking was her complete lack of awareness of just how alluring she was.

“You are taking too much room, fairy child.” She tickled her niece. “Move over.”

“I need this much space,” Ella complained, swinging her legs around and taking control of most of the seat.

Freya’s laughter was as natural as a spring-fed brook. “And I need you to ride up top with Dougal. You’ll get so cold that you’ll be begging to come inside again for just a wee wedge of space on this seat.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“She might not, but by Saint Duthac, you know I would, Miss Ella Dacre,” Shona growled, having been awakened by the commotion.

As the nurse and the child engaged in their own battle of wits, Penn watched Freya try to adjust her legs to avoid the constant contact with his body. But it was no use. There was nowhere to go. And frankly, he had no complaints.

A sharp bump in the road bounced them all, and Freya’s immediate response was to reach for Ella and stop the child from being thrown from the seat. Penn, in turn, reached across as Freya herself nearly toppled off.

His hands lingered on her waist, and a momentary scent of jasmine filled his head. But the magic ended abruptly when she sat back, once again gathering her hands and feet. He smiled at the blush gently coloring her cheeks.

“About Captain Dacre,” she said in a rush. “You were going to tell us something about Ella’s father before.”

The suggestion was timely. Staring at Freya, inhaling her scent, and touching her waist only served to provoke the wrong kinds of thoughts in him, considering the situation and the people he was traveling with. He found himself calculating how long it had been since he’d enjoyed a woman’s company.

“Do I look like him?” Ella asked, directing her question toward Penn.

“I’d have to say your beauty comes from your mother’s side of the family. But there are other similarities you share with your father that are indisputable.”

The vulnerability showing in the child’s face was impossible to miss. The stare, the silence, the breathless expectation. Penn immediately felt the importance of the present moment. He was giving this five-year-old her first impression of a father she’d never seen.

“He was sharp-witted and quick as a kite. Of course, I really only knew him when we were young men, but even then Dacre was capable of making us laugh.”

“Do you mean he was always funny?” Ella asked.

“Only when it was called for,” he replied. “Your father understood when to be funny and when to be serious.”

He stole a glance at Freya and saw her nod. There was a great deal that Penn wasn’t about to share. Tales about Ella’s grandfather’s loveless severity and his harsh attitudes about duty before love and even before family. These were things Ella didn’t need to hear. Neither did she need to know that Dacre made it his life’s goal from early on to rebel against his father’s wishes in whatever directives were issued. And he often had the stripes and bruises to show for it.

“Was he tall?” Ella wanted to know.

“Indeed. He was quite tall.”

“How tall?”

“Nearly as tall as I am.”

“Did he have hair on top of his head?”

“He had a thick head of hair, as I recall.”

“Did he love his dogs? More than his bloody valet, I mean?”

“Like her grandfather,” Freya offered, making sure Penn understood the source of Ella’s colorful questions.

“Yes, he loved his dogs.”

“What were their names?”

Penn wracked his brain. He couldn’t name Dacre’s brothers and sisters, never mind his dogs. “He had one named Marlowe that he particularly loved.”

“That’s a funny name. What did Marlowe look like?”

“He was very big. He was brown and had a black face. He was very gentle, as I recall.”

“Was my father fat?”

“No,” Penn said, trying to keep a straight face. “Not fat.”

“Was his belly as big as Grandfather’s?”

He couldn’t laugh. She was serious, expecting an answer. “I don’t know your grandfather, but your father had no belly. He was fit. Very active.”

“Did my father like to smoke for hours and hours and stare off at the hills, barely saying a word except for things like, ‘Go and play by the river. There’s a particularly slippery rock in the middle . . . ‘ or something of the sort?”

“Ella . . .” Freya admonished, trying to contain her smile.

“No, your father didn’t smoke when I knew him.”

“When he fell asleep by the fire, did he make smells so terrible that even his dogs went off into the kitchens?”

“Ella, that will do,” her aunt said, barely able to get the words out.

With the subtle trace of a smile on her lips, the little girl surveyed her audience, pausing on each face, looking for the reaction. Once she realized her spectators weren’t howling, she changed tack. “Could he draw? Or paint?”

Penn considered that. “I would assume he did.”

“Could he sing or play the pianoforte?”

“I believe he did, though I’m not certain. We were lads, and we spent a great deal of our free time hunting and fishing and riding. Would you like me to tell you about that?”

Ella squinched up her face. She clearly had little interest in any of those details.

“Was he a good dancer?” she persisted.

Penn looked at the dimple in Freya’s cheek as she tried to stifle her smile and turned her face to the window.

“I never danced with him, so I don’t know.”

Shona snorted and then held a kerchief to her nose. Freya turned farther, hiding her face as she searched the horizon for something. Penn scratched his jaw and cheek, trying to look thoughtful.

“I’m not being funny. I need to know.”

The falter in the child’s voice dashed any amusement Penn was feeling. Freya was already sliding across the seat and pulling her niece into her lap. Ella showed no tears, only a trembling chin as she fixed her large brown eyes on him.

“My parents met at a ball. They danced all night and they loved each other. Then I was born,” Ella told him. “I need to know if he was a good dancer, because I know my mama was a good dancer.”

“Your father was a very good dancer,” he said gently.

Ella turned her attention to Freya. “We’re going to a ball. You can’t dance with a good dancer. You can’t. I’ve changed my mind. You can marry Colonel Richard. You don’t love him and you said he’s not a good dancer. That way, you won’t go away like Mama did.”