Today was the first time these two women met, but Freya had no doubt that if they lived in the same town, they’d be frequent visitors in each other’s home. After leaving her sleeping niece with Shona watching over, she joined her hostess in the drawing room.

Myrna was curious about how she came to be raising Ella, so Freya told her of the fate of the girl’s parents. After having spent some time in Ella’s company, she was also interested in knowing how difficult it had been to raise such a bright and precocious five-year-old with no husband.

“I wouldn’t know the difference,” Freya replied frankly. “Between my father and Shona and a household of people who dote on my niece, I believe we’ve been managing the responsibility . . . collectively.”

Asked about this trip to Baronsford, Freya simply told her that this was the first opportunity for the child to meet her paternal grandmother. She saw no reason to share anything about the dowager’s ultimatum or even Colonel Dunbar. At the mention of Lady Dacre, however, Myrna found another topic that connected them.

“Ah, the families of the very rich,” she said with a sigh. “I hope Ella’s grandmother is an exception to most, for I believe the wealthy are tutored in the strategies of being difficult. I pray that your visit with her will be pleasant and free of any trouble.”

Her words caused Freya to look closer at her hostess. “Captain Simpson’s family has been challenging?”

The young woman paused, building her courage to voice what troubled her.

“They have been,” Myrna admitted. “But if I can speak in confidence, they were against our marriage.”

“I’m so sorry,” Freya told her. “I can’t imagine that anyone who has met you could have any objection.”

“They’ve never met me,” she said, “because I am half Scot and half Irish, and my father is a clergyman. Here I am a year later, carrying a child, and they still refuse to invite us to Staffordshire or acknowledge me in any way.”

“I think that is unconscionable behavior on their part,” Freya exclaimed, her heart going out to the young woman. Her sister had never met her husband’s family either. They’d shown no interest in seeing Ella.

Myrna managed a weak smile. “But none of that truly matters. John is the finest of husbands and terribly good at what he does. And as you see, we’ve established a home that we can be proud of.”

Freya reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand. “A home that soon will be bubbling with the laughter of your bairn.”

Myrna’s face bloomed. The young couple were happy, regardless of family.

“So tell me about Captain Pennington,” her host said, changing the topic. “From what I saw tonight, the two of you have an understanding? Has he declared himself publicly?”

Freya felt her face immediately flush hot. She searched for an explanation to defuse any mistaken impression. “No! The captain and I are only friends. Ella’s grandmother is meeting us at his family’s home in the Borders because the Earl of Aytoun’s estate in Hertfordshire is quite close to Lady Dacre’s. It was really only kindness . . . consideration on the part of the captain to escort us. If Ella’s attachment to him has given you . . . She’s so keen on . . . I don’t . . .”

Myrna’s hand softly touched Freya’s, putting an end to the senseless babbling.

“I understand,” the young mother-to-be said consolingly.

Efforts at denial continued to race through her mind, but after last night, it was all a lie. Something had certainly happened between them. Something wonderful and magical. She was a different woman today than the innocent twenty-two-year old who’d set out on this journey.

“Considering Captain Pennington’s plans, I certainly understand your heartache.”

A chasm opened beneath Freya, and hope drained out of her. A painful knot formed in her chest.

“Yes . . . his plans,” she said, pretending that she was aware of whatever Myrna was referring to.

“When John heard the captain had notified the corps that he intended to resign his commission, he was happy for him until he heard he was planning on going to America.” Myrna shook her head. “Boston is so far away.”

“Boston,” Freya repeated, her heart sinking even further.

“John says the captain has family there. An uncle and cousins. We understand Boston is a growing city where a man can make his mark, but it’s not exactly home, is it?”

Boston. Feeling her chin begin to tremble, she stood, using the excuse of fetching a shawl from a chair across the room to buy herself a moment.

What was she thinking? How could she have been so foolish as to think their little romance on the road could magically resolve all of her troubles?

Picking up the shawl, she closed her eyes for a moment and thought of him. Gregory had never lied to her. He’d said a great deal about his past, but nothing about his plans for the future. Last night had been a gift. How else could she think of it?

“You didn’t know, did you?”

Myrna’s troubled tone made Freya turn around.

“I did. Of course,” she lied. “As I said before, there is no understanding between me and Captain Pennington. None whatsoever.”

* * *

As Penn and his host joined the women in the drawing room, his eyes immediately found Freya. He needed to steal her away. He had so much that he wanted to speak to her about—thoughts that were half formed, but that he still desired to share.

Two brightly upholstered settees faced each other by the fire, and she was sitting beside Myrna like an old friend. Her gaze fixed on him the moment they entered, her eyes caressing his face as if trying to lock his image in her memory. Or was it last night that she was thinking about? He didn’t know.

Each time he saw her, he became more enraptured. With the firelight behind her, her light-brown hair formed a halo around her angelic face. The desire to cross the room and take her into his arms was almost overpowering.

Their hostess rose and stretched a hand out to her husband. “Walk with me. Your child is being especially acrobatic tonight.”

As the couple took their turns about the room, Penn moved to Freya, his leg brushing against her skirts as he sat beside her. He knew it was not his imagination when her shoulder pressed ever so gently against him. He took her hand in his and caressed the soft skin and slender fingers. John and his wife were on the other side of the room, their attention focused on each other. But if they were aware of their guests’ conduct or not, Penn didn’t care.

“I’m afraid I tire very easily these days,” Myrna said, approaching them. “Please forgive my leaving you, but I must go up for the night.”

Penn and Freya stood to say good night. Behind them, the fire popped and flared in the hearth, mirroring the tumult in his chest.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back down shortly,” John said, adding, “I don’t like her trying to manage those stairs by herself.”

The moment the door closed behind their hosts, Penn took Freya in his arms. “I hoped to have this chance to tell you—”

He never finished for she raised her fingers to his lips.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you for what you’ve done for Ella . . . and for me. Thank you for your generosity and your kindness. Thank you for accompanying us on this trip and giving us an experience that we’ll cherish for—”

This time he was the one to interrupt. He kissed her deeply. All the passion that had been building inside of him this entire day poured out like a torrent. A dam within him had burst, and he knew it.

The moment she leaned into his touch, he took possession of her mouth. He didn’t let her go until he felt every layer of reserve drop away. She was kissing him back with as much fervor as he was feeling, until finally he broke off the kiss. He had so much he wanted to say to her.

“I don’t want gratitude. It is I who could go eternally about the change you have brought into my life.” He could not contain the raging flood of emotions. “You and Ella are precious gems. Remember that. You cannot give yourself over to an uncertain . . . or unfavorable future.”

She kissed him again. Her arms slid upward, encircling his neck. Her breasts pressed against him, and she placed soft kisses against his chin, on his lips. She ran her fingers through his hair, her mouth moving to his ear, where she tasted his earlobe.

“I don’t want to talk of the future,” she whispered. “Right now, I only want to feel and savor the stolen gift our time together has been. I want to treasure these precious moments.”

Her words pushed all rational thought from his mind. Every day, they’d sat for hours across from each other in the carriage, wasting moments. How many times, today alone, had he fantasized about doing just this—feeling her body against his, feeling her lips against his.

She raised her mouth to be kissed again, and he took what she offered. His hand slid over her breast, touching her through the dress, kneading her firm flesh. She leaned into him, a soft moan escaping her.

Freya tore her mouth free. Her eyes were large and beautiful and filled with raw emotion when they looked into his. The burning color in her cheeks reflected the fire raging within her. And he wanted to be the wind that fanned those flames.

“I have stored up memories of being with you,” she said raggedly. “They will be like flowers pressed into a sacred book. As the years pass, I shall page through these days and lift those faded blossoms to my lips, and remember. Right or wrong, I’ll cherish the taste of passion you’ve shown me . . . long after I marry another.”

After I marry another . . .

Anger flashed through him at the thought of her belonging to someone else. These stolen moments meant nothing without the promise of forever. The dazzling realization came to him with the unleashed power of a summer storm. He was falling in love with her. And he refused to imagine his life without her.

But he didn’t have a chance to say the words, for a knock sounded and they jumped apart. Freya moved to stand in front of the fire, and their host entered.