Prologue

Once upon a time long, long ago, there came four soldiers traveling home after many years of war. Trimp tramp! Trimp tramp! Trimp tramp! sounded their boots as they marched abreast, heads held high, looking neither to the left nor right. For so they had been taught to march, and it is not an easy thing to forget the ritual of many years. The wars and battles were over, but I do not know if our soldiers had won or lost them, and maybe it does not matter. Their clothes were tattered, their boots more holes than leather, and not one of the soldiers journeyed home the same man as had left it.

By and by, they came to a crossroads, and here they halted to consider their choices. One road led to the west, the way straight and well paved. One road trailed to the east into a dark and secret forest. And one road pointed north, where the shadows of lonely mountains lay.

“Well, fellows,” the tallest soldier said at last, taking off his hat and scratching his head, “shall we toss a coin?”

“Nay,” said the soldier to his right. “My way lies there.” And he bid his companions adieu and marched off to the east, never looking back as he disappeared into the dark forest.

“I am partial to that way,” said the soldier to the left, and he gestured to the mountains looming in the distance.

“And as for me,” the tall soldier cried, laughing, “I will take this easy road, for such has always been my choice. But what of you?” he asked the last soldier. “What road will you take?”

“Ah, me,” that soldier sighed. “I believe there is a pebble in my boot, and I will sit and take it out, for it has been plaguing me these many miles.” He suited action to word and found a nearby boulder to rest against.

The tall soldier clapped his hat back on his head. “Then it is decided.”

The remaining soldiers shook hands cordially and went their separate ways. But what adventures befell them and whether their travels led them safely home I cannot tell you, for this is not their story. This is the tale of that first soldier, the one who walked away into the dark forest.

His name was Iron Heart....

—from Iron Heart

Chapter One

Now Iron Heart got his name from a very strange thing. Although his limbs and face, and indeed all the rest of his body, were exactly like every other man created by God, his heart was not. It was made from iron, and it beat on the surface of his chest, strong, brave, and steadfast....

—from Iron Heart

LONDON, ENGLAND

SEPTEMBER 1764

“They say he ran away.” Mrs. Conrad leaned close to impart this bit of gossip.

Lady Emeline Gordon took a sip of tea and glanced over the rim of the cup at the gentleman in question. He was as out of place as a jaguar in a room full of tabby cats: raw, vital, and not quite civilized. Definitely not a man she would associate with cowardice. Emeline wondered what his name was as she thanked the Lord for his appearance. Mrs. Conrad’s afternoon salon had been paralyzingly dull until he had sauntered in.

“He ran away from the massacre of the 28th Regiment in the colonies,” Mrs. Conrad continued breathlessly, “back in fifty-eight. Shameful, isn’t it?”

Emeline turned and arched an eyebrow at her hostess. She held Mrs. Conrad’s gaze and saw the exact moment when the silly woman remembered. Mrs. Conrad’s already pink complexion deepened to a shade of beet that really didn’t become her at all.

“That is...I...I—” her hostess stammered.

This was what one got when one accepted an invitation from a lady who aspired to but didn’t quite sail in the highest circles of society. It was Emeline’s own fault, really. She sighed and took pity. “He’s in the army, then?”

Mrs. Conrad grasped the bait gratefully. “Oh, no. Not anymore. At least I don’t believe so.”

“Ah,” Emeline said, and tried to think of another subject.

The room was large and expensively decorated, with a painting on the ceiling overhead depicting Hades pursuing Persephone. The goddess looked particularly vacuous, smiling down sweetly on the assembly below. She hadn’t a chance against the god of the underworld, even if he did have bright pink cheeks in this portrayal.

Emeline’s current protégé, Jane Greenglove, sat on a settee nearby, conversing with young Lord Simmons, a very nice choice. Emeline nodded approvingly. Lord Simmons had an income of over eight thousand pounds a year and a lovely house near Oxford. That alliance would be very suitable, and since Jane’s older sister, Eliza, had already accepted the hand of Mr. Hampton, things were falling into place quite neatly. They always did, of course, when Emeline consented to guide a young lady into society, but it was pleasing to have one’s expectations fulfilled nevertheless.

Or it should be. Emeline twisted a lace ribbon at her waist before she caught herself and smoothed it out again. Actually, she was feeling a bit out of sorts, which was ridiculous. Her world was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Emeline glanced casually at the stranger only to find his dark gaze fixed on her. His eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the corners as if he was amused by something—and that something might be her. Hastily she looked away again. Awful man. He was obviously aware that every lady in the room had noticed him.

Beside her, Mrs. Conrad had started prattling, evidently in an attempt to cover her gaffe. “He owns an importing business in the Colonies. I believe he’s in London on business; that’s what Mr. Conrad says, anyway. And he’s as rich as Croesus, although you’d never guess it from his attire.”

It was impossible not to glance at him again after this information. From midthigh up, his clothing was plain indeed—black coat and brown-and-black-patterned waistcoat. All in all, a conservative wardrobe until one came to his legs. The man was wearing some type of native leggings. They were made from an odd tan leather, quite dull, and they were gartered just below the knees with red, white, and black striped sashes. The leggings split in the front over the shoes with brightly embroidered flaps that fell to either side of his feet. And his shoes were the strangest of all, for they had no heels. He seemed to be wearing a type of slipper made of the same soft, dull leather, with beading or embroidery work running from ankle to toe. Yet even heelless, the stranger was quite tall. He had brown hair, and as far as she could tell from halfway across the room, his eyes were dark. Certainly not blue or green. They were heavy-lidded and intelligent. She suppressed a shiver. Intelligent men were so hard to manage.

His arms were crossed, one shoulder propped against the wall, and his gaze was interested. As if they were the exotic ones, not he. His nose was long, with a bump in the middle; his complexion dark, as if he’d lately come from some exotic shore. The bones of his face were raw and prominent: cheeks, nose, and chin jutting in an aggressively masculine way that was nevertheless perversely attractive. His mouth, in contrast, was wide and almost soft, with a sensuous inverted dent in the lower lip. It was the mouth of a man who liked to savor. To linger and taste. A dangerous mouth.

Emeline looked away again. “Who is he?”

Mrs. Conrad stared. “Don’t you know?”

“No.”

Her hostess was delighted. “Why, my dear, that’s Mr. Samuel Hartley! Everyone has been talking about him, though he has only been in London a sennight or so. He’s not quite acceptable, because of the...” Mrs. Conrad met Emeline’s eyes and hastily cut short what she’d been about to say. “Anyway. Even with all his wealth, not everyone is happy to meet him.”

Emeline stilled as the back of her neck prickled.

Mrs. Conrad continued, oblivious. “I really shouldn’t have invited him, but I couldn’t help myself. That form, my dear. Simply delicious! Why, if I hadn’t asked him, I would never have—” Her flurry of words ended on a startled squeak, for a man had cleared his throat directly behind them.

Emeline hadn’t been watching, so she hadn’t seen him move, but she knew instinctively who stood so close to them. Slowly she turned her head.

Mocking coffee-brown eyes met her own. “Mrs. Conrad, I’d be grateful if you’d introduce us.” His voice had a flat American accent.

Their hostess sucked in her breath at this blunt order, but curiosity won out over indignation. “Lady Emeline, may I introduce Mr. Samuel Hartley. Mr. Hartley, Lady Emeline Gordon.”

Emeline sank into a curtsy, only to be presented with a large, tanned hand on rising. She stared for a moment, nonplussed. Surely the man wasn’t that unsophisticated? Mrs. Conrad’s breathy giggle decided the matter. Gingerly, Emeline touched just her fingertips to his.

To no avail. He embraced her hand with both of his, enveloping her fingers in hard warmth. His nostrils flared just the tiniest bit as she was forced to step forward into the handshake. Was he scenting her?

“How do you do?” he asked.

“Well,” Emeline retorted. She tried to free her hand but could not, even though Mr. Hartley didn’t seem to be gripping her tightly. “Might I have my appendage returned to me now?”

That mouth twitched again. Did he laugh at everyone or just her? “Of course, my lady.”

Emeline opened her mouth to make an excuse—any excuse—to leave the dreadful man, but he was too quick for her.

“May I escort you into the garden?”

It really wasn’t a question, since he’d already held out his arm, obviously expecting her consent. And what was worse, she gave it. Silently, Emeline laid her fingertips on his coat sleeve. He nodded to Mrs. Conrad and drew Emeline outside in only a matter of minutes, working very neatly for such a gauche man. Emeline squinted up at his profile suspiciously.

He turned his head and caught her look. His own eyes wrinkled at the corners, laughing down at her, although his mouth remained perfectly straight. “We’re neighbors, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve rented the house next to yours.”

Emeline found herself blinking up at him, caught off guard once again—a disagreeable sensation as rare as it was unwanted. She knew the occupants of the town house to the right of hers, but the left had been let out recently. For an entire day the week before, men had been tramping in and out of the open doors, sweating, shouting, and cursing. And they’d carried...

Her eyebrows snapped together. “The pea-green settee.”

His mouth curved at one corner. “What?”

“You’re the owner of that atrocious pea-green settee, aren’t you?”

He bowed. “I confess it.”

“With no trace of shame, either, I see.” Emeline pursed her lips in disapproval. “Are there really gilt owls carved on the legs?”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“I had.”

“Then I’ll not argue the point.”

“Humph.” She faced forward again.

“I have a favor to ask of you, ma’am.” His voice rumbled somewhere above her head.

He’d led her down one of the packed gravel paths of the Conrads’ town house garden. It was unimaginatively planted with roses and small, clipped hedges. Sadly, most of the roses had already bloomed, so the whole looked rather plain and forlorn.

“I’d like to hire you.”

“Hire me?” Emeline inhaled sharply and stopped, forcing him to halt as well and face her. Did this odd man think she was a courtesan of some sort? The insult was outrageous, and in her confusion she found her gaze wandering over his frame, crossing wide shoulders, a pleasingly flat waist, and then dropping to an inappropriate portion of Mr. Hartley’s anatomy, which, now that she noticed it, was rather nicely outlined by the black wool breeches he wore under his leggings. She inhaled again, nearly choking, and hastily raised her eyes. But the man either hadn’t observed her indiscretion or was much more polite than his attire and manner would lead one to believe.

He continued. “I need a mentor for my sister, Rebecca. Someone to show her the parties and balls.”