Kitabı oxu: «No Other Love»

Praise for the novels of
CANDACE CAMP

“Camp has again produced a fast-paced plot brimming with lively conflict among family, lovers and enemies.”

—Publishers Weekly on A Dangerous Man

“Romance, humor, adventure, Incan treasure, dreams, murder, psychics—the latest addition to Camp’s Mad Moreland series has it all.”

—Booklist on An Unexpected Pleasure

“Entertaining, well-written Victorian romantic mystery.”

—The Best Reviews on An Unexpected Pleasure

“A smart, fun-filled romp.”

—Publishers Weekly on Impetuous

“Camp brings the dark Victorian world to life. Her strong characters and perfect pacing keep you turning the pages of this chilling mystery.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Winterset

“From its delicious beginning to its satisfying ending, [Mesmerized] offers a double helping of romance.”

—Booklist

No Other Love
Candace Camp

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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No Other Love

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

1789

HELEN BENT OVER THE SMALL BOY in the bed. He looked so small and helpless that it tore at her heart. His hair clung in damp ringlets to his head. He lay still, almost unmoving, his eyes closed, extraordinarily long dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. The only sign of life was the faint movement of the sheet as his chest rose and fell. Moments earlier he had been mumbling in his sleep, tossing and turning in the grip of a high fever. Now he lay still as death.

Helen brushed the wet strands of hair back from his forehead. Don’t let him die. Please, not now. She had known him only two days, but already she could not bear to let him go.

Mr. Fuquay had arrived at the inn two nights ago in a post chaise with, oddly, this sick child inside. She knew Fuquay, of course. He had stayed at the village inn before, when Richard Montford had come with friends to visit his cousin, Lord Chilton, the Earl of Exmoor. It was whispered in the village that the Earl despised Richard Montford and would not allow him to stay at Tidings, the grand seat of the Montford family. Only now, of course, the old man was dead, and Richard Montford was the new Earl. It had seemed peculiar that Fuquay had come to the inn and not to Tidings.

It had seemed even more peculiar when she saw that he had two children with him. He had come to the door of the public room and motioned to her. She had cast a quick glance toward the tavern owner, then slipped out the door after Fuquay. He was an odd young man, handsome but very gaunt, with a peculiarly soft, almost dazed, look in his eyes most of the time. One of the other girls said that he was an opium eater, and perhaps that was true. But he had been kind and gentle to her, and it hadn’t taken much persuasion on his part to induce Helen to warm his bed while he was at the inn. He had been generous, too, and she remembered him fondly.

He had taken her to the carriage and opened it, showing her two sleeping children inside. A girl, hidden in bonnet and coat, was curled up against the opposite wall. Across from her, on the opposite seat, lay a boy, wrapped in a blanket. His face was flushed and bathed in sweat, his body visibly trembling.

“Can you take care of him, Helen?” Fuquay had asked, fidgeting. “He’s in a bad way. He won’t last long, that’s clear. But I can’t just—no matter what he wants—”

He had paused at the end of this vague speech and gazed pleadingly into her eyes. He took a gold coin out of his pocket and pressed it into her hand. “I’ll make it worth your while. Just stay with him and see him through to the end. You will do that, won’t you?”

“What’s the matter with him?” Helen had asked, unable to pull her eyes away from the small form. He had been so beautiful, so small and vulnerable.

Fuquay had shaken his head. “A fever. He’s done for, but I can’t—well, he ought to die in a bed, at least. Will you do it?”

Of course she had agreed. She had fallen in love with the child as soon as she set eyes on him. She had never been able to conceive—despite many opportunities—and she had always ached for a child, a secret, sorrowful desire that the other tavern girls had scoffed at. “You’re lucky, you are,” they had said, “never havin’ to worry about gettin’ in trouble.”

And now here was this lovely child being handed to her, a gift, it seemed, from heaven. She had climbed into the carriage without delay, not asking any of the dozens of questions that tumbled about in her mind. Gentlemen didn’t take to one prying into their affairs.

She had directed him toward her grandmother’s cottage, for she had no intention of letting her precious gift die. If anyone could save the lad, it would be Granny Rose. It was a long drive, for Granny lived in a secluded cottage on the edge of Buckminster land, and Helen had had to walk the last part of the journey, carrying the boy in her arms, for there was no drivable road leading to Granny’s cottage. Mr. Fuquay had let her out and handed her the boy with a profusion of thanks, but she had hardly paid any attention to him. Her thoughts were all on the boy and getting him to her grandmother.

Helen glanced up now and over at her grandmother. Granny Rose, as she was known to most of the local populace, was a short, rounded dumpling of a woman. Twinkling blue eyes looked out of a face so wrinkled and brown it resembled a dried apple. Despite her merry, almost comical appearance, she was a wise and highly regarded woman among the local people. She knew herbs and healing wisdom, and when Helen had staggered in, carrying the feverish boy, she had known just what to do.

For two days now she and Helen had been caring for him, dosing him with Granny’s decoctions, sponging his flaming body down with cool rags, and forcing little sips of water and soup through his parched lips. The fever had racked his body until Helen had cried for him, and it seemed with every struggling breath he took, Helen loved him more.

“Is he—” She stopped, her throat closing on the words. He looked so frightfully still and pale.

But Granny shook her head, a smile beginning to curve her lips. “No. I think he’s past it. The fever’s broken.”

“Really?” Helen put her palm against the boy’s cheek. It was true; he was definitely not as hot as he had been minutes before.

“What are you going to do with him?” Granny asked quietly, watching her granddaughter’s face. “He’s Quality, you know.”

Helen nodded. That much was obvious. His fevered mutterings had been in the perfect tones of the upper class, and the clothes that he wore, though dirty and drenched in sweat, were of the finest cut and materials.

“I know. But he’s mine,” Helen added, setting her jaw. “We saved him, and he belongs to me now. I won’t let them have him. Besides…”

She hesitated, not certain whether she wanted to admit to her shrewd grandmother what else she suspected about the child. She thought she knew who he was, but if her vague suspicions were correct, it might very well mean the boy’s life if she revealed that he had survived. If she was wrong…well, then, she had no idea who the lad was, and it would not be her fault if she could not restore him to his proper family.

Either way, she told herself, the best thing to do was to remain silent.

“Besides what?” Granny Rose asked, her bright eyes boring into her granddaughter’s.

“I don’t know who he is. Where would we take him? And I—I don’t think they want him to live.”

“And what will you say if they ask you what happened to him?”

“Why, that he died, of course, just as they thought he would, and I buried him in the woods where none would ever see it.”

The older woman said nothing, merely nodded, and did not mention the matter of the boy’s return again. She, too, Helen thought, had fallen under the sick child’s spell.

After the fever broke, the boy gradually grew better, until at last his eyelids fluttered open and he looked up at Helen with dark brown eyes.

“Who are you?” he whispered hoarsely.

Helen took his little hand in hers and replied, “I am your new mother, Gil.”

“Mama?” he repeated vaguely, his eyes clouded, giving the word an inflection on the last syllable.

“Yes. Mama,” Helen repeated firmly, stressing the first syllable.

“Oh. I don’t—” His eyes teared up. “I can’t remember—I’m scared!”

“Of course you are.” Helen sat down beside him on the bed, taking him into her arms. “Of course you are. You have been very sick. But I’m here, and so is Granny Rose, and we are going to take care of you.”

He held on to her tightly as tears rolled down his cheeks. “Mama…”

“Yes, dear. I’m right here. Always.”

CHAPTER ONE

1815

THE CARRIAGE WAS DRAWING CLOSER to Exmoor’s estate, and the thought filled Nicola with dread. Why had she ever agreed to visit her sister here? With every passing mile, Nicola wished more and more that she had not. She would have much preferred staying in London and helping Marianne and Penelope with their wedding plans. But Deborah had looked so unhappy and frail, even afraid, and Nicola had not been able to deny her plea. Deborah was, after all, her younger sister, and Nicola loved her. It was only her marriage to the Earl of Exmoor that had caused the bitterness and estrangement between them.

Nicola sighed and shifted on her seat. She hated to think of the quarrels that had followed Deborah’s announcement that she was going to marry Richard. Nicola had done her best to dissuade her, but Deborah had been determinedly blind to Richard’s faults. When Nicola had pointed out that only months before Richard had been pursuing her, Deborah had lashed out that Nicola was just jealous and unable to accept that a man might want Deborah instead of herself. After that, Nicola had given up trying, and for the past nine years, she and her sister had seen each other only occasionally. Nicola had refused to enter the Earl’s house, and Deborah had grown more and more reclusive, rarely traveling to London or even venturing out of her house.

But when Nicola had seen Deborah last month at their cousin Bucky’s house party, Deborah had begged Nicola to come stay with her through her fourth pregnancy. She had miscarried three times in her marriage, never managing to provide the Earl with a son, and she was terrified of losing this child, too. Looking into her haunted eyes, Nicola had been unable to refuse, no matter how much she hated the thought of living under the same roof with Richard Montford, even for a few months.

Deborah, of course, could not understand Nicola’s hatred for the man. But Nicola could not escape the fact that every time she looked at Richard, she was reminded that he had ruined her life. That he had killed the only man she had ever loved.

The carriage lurched through a pothole, throwing Nicola across the seat and jarring her from her head down to her toes. She straightened herself, grimacing. It served her right, she thought, for not stopping for the night an hour ago, but insisting on going on through the dark. Little as she liked the thought of being at Tidings, she had wanted to get the journey over with, and they were only two hours from their destination. Impatience, she had been reminded often enough, was one of her besetting sins.

At that moment a shot boomed out, perilously close to the carriage, and Nicola jumped, her heart beginning to race in her chest.

“Halt!” a voice cried, and the carriage lumbered to a stop.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” a male voice drawled in an amused tone. His accent, curiously, was that of the upper class. “You, dear friend, have only one blunderbuss, whereas we have six assorted firearms aimed at your heart.”

Nicola realized, in some shock, that the carriage had been stopped by a highwayman—several of them, in fact, from what the man had said. It had been a common enough occurrence years ago in the outlying areas around London, but the practice had died down in recent years, and it was even more unusual so far from the City. Certainly such a thing had never happened to Nicola.

There followed a moment of silence, then the same man continued. “Excellent decision. You are a wise man. Now, I suggest that you hand your gun down to my man there—very slowly and, of course, the business end pointed up.”

Carefully, Nicola lifted the edge of the curtain covering the window closest to her and peered out. It was a dark night, with only a quarter moon, a good night, she supposed, for men who operated in secrecy and furtiveness. The groom beside the coachman was handing down his blunderbuss from his seat high atop the carriage. A man on horseback reached up from below and took the firearm, tucking his own pistol into the waistband of his trousers and raising the newly acquired blunderbuss to train it on the driver and his assistant.

Several men ringed the carriage, all of them on horseback and holding pistols. Each of the men was dressed all in black, and, on their dark horses, they seemed to melt into the night, only the bits of metal on guns and bridles catching the faint light of the moon and the carriage lamps. Most sinister of all, every one of the men wore a black mask across the upper half of his face. Nicola drew an involuntary breath at the ominous tableau.

One of the men turned his head sharply at the sound, his eyes going straight to where Nicola sat. She dropped the curtain, her heart pounding.

“Well, now,” the cultured voice said cheerfully. “A curious passenger.” A certain note of satisfaction entered his voice, and he continued, “Ah, the Earl’s crest, I see. Can I have been so fortunate as to have encountered the Earl of Exmoor himself? Step out, sir, if you please, so that we may see you better.”

The man who had seen her was obviously the leader, and Nicola knew that he had noticed the family coat of arms drawn in gilt on the door. No doubt he was pleased to have stopped someone wealthy. She only hoped that he did not intend to seize her and hold her for ransom, assuming that the Earl of Exmoor would pay a great deal for his passenger’s return. Under her breath, she cursed Richard’s insistence on sending his carriage for her. A plain post chaise would have been a far better vehicle, upon reflection.

Drawing a calming breath, Nicola turned the handle of the door and opened it, stepping out with what she hoped was cool aplomb. She thought of her friend Alexandra’s American habit of carrying a small pistol in her reticule. Everyone had looked askance at her for it, but right at this moment, it seemed a remarkably good idea.

She paused on the step of the carriage, standing ramrod straight, and looked at the leader with a steady gaze. She was determined not to appear cowed. The man on horseback stiffened and muttered a curse.

“Well done,” Nicola said with icy sarcasm. “You have managed to capture an unarmed woman.”

“No woman is unarmed,” the man returned, his mouth quirking up into a smile. He dismounted in a smooth muscular sweep and stepped forward, making a formal bow to Nicola.

The man was tall and well-built in his dark clothes, a figure of power and even grace. Watching him, Nicola felt an unaccustomed quiver dart through her. Most of his face was covered with a soft dark mask, only the square jaw and chin visible, and a neat black goatee and mustache further disguised those features. But there was no way to conceal the clean-cut, compelling lines of his face—or the wide, firm mouth, now curved in a mocking smile. White, even teeth flashed in the darkness as he straightened and moved toward her, reaching up to help her down. His black-gloved hand closed around hers, neatly pulling her the last step down to the ground. He continued to hold her hand for a moment, his eyes boring into hers.

Nicola raised one eyebrow disdainfully. “Let me go.”

“Oh, I will, my lady, I will.”

In the dark night, his eyes were utterly black—soulless eyes, Nicola thought a little breathlessly. She could not tear her own gaze away from them. His hand tightened fractionally on hers. Then he released her.

“But you must pay a toll first, for passing through my lands.”

“Your lands?” Nicola curled her hands into fists, struggling to keep her voice cool and slightly amused despite the strange torrent of sensations that was rushing through her. She made a show of glancing around. “But I thought we were on Exmoor property.”

“In a legal sense.”

“What other sense is there?”

“One of right. Does not the land belong to those who live upon it?”

“A radical notion. And you, I take it, claim to be the representative of ‘the people’?”

He gave an expressive shrug of his shoulders, a more genuine smile parting his lips. “Who better?”

“Most of the people I know who live upon this land would not consider a thief a proper representative of themselves.”

“You wound me, my lady. I had hoped we could be…civil.” There was a faint caressing note in his low voice.

Once again something stirred in Nicola’s abdomen, shocking her. “It is difficult to be civil when one is being threatened.”

“Threatened?” He raised his hands in a gesture betokening innocence. “My lady, you shock me. I have made no threat to you.”

“It is implicit, is it not, in stopping my carriage and demanding money?” She glanced around significantly at the men waiting silently on horseback, watching their exchange. “Why else are these men pointing guns at us?”

One of the men let out a soft grunt. “I am afraid she has you there, my friend.”

This voice, too, came in the crisp accents of the upper class, and Nicola glanced in his direction, surprised. “What is this?” she asked, suddenly suspicious. “A group of town swells on a lark?”

The man who had just spoken chuckled, but the man before her said grimly, “No, my lady, it is no lark. It is business. So let us get down to it. Your purse, please.”

“Of course.” Nicola jerked open the drawstrings of her reticule and held it open to him.

He reached inside and deftly withdrew the leather money purse, gently bouncing it in his palm as if to measure its weight. “Ah, you do not travel lightly. A bonus for me.”

“I suppose you want my jewelry, too,” Nicola snapped, pulling off her gloves to reveal the two simple silver rings that adorned her fingers. If she exposed such valuables, he would not go searching for anything hidden. And she could not let him take the token she wore on a chain beneath her dress. It was worth very little, of course—except to her—but this obnoxious fellow would probably take it just to spite her.

“I am afraid I wear no bracelets or necklaces,” she continued. “I rarely travel wearing jewelry.”

“Mmm. I find it is usually carried on a journey rather than worn,” he said, his tone amused, and made a gesture toward the carriage. Two of the men dismounted and swarmed up on the roof of the carriage, jumping down triumphantly a moment later, carrying Nicola’s traveling jewel case and a small square strongbox, which they proceeded to stow on their mounts.

Nicola hid her relief at the thief’s acceptance of her statement. He stripped off his own gloves and took her hand in one of his, and Nicola jumped at the contact. His hand was hard and warm, and as he slid the rings from her fingers with his other hand, her breath caught in her throat.

She glanced up and found him looking down at her enigmatically, the faintly jeering expression gone from his mouth, his eyes black and fathomless. Nicola jerked her hand from his.

“Now,” she said bitingly, “if you are finished, I would like to be on my way.”

“No. I am not quite finished,” he replied. “There is one more item I would steal from you.”

Nicola raised her brows questioningly. His hands gripped her shoulders, and she sucked in a startled breath. A dark flame flashed to life in his eyes, and he pulled her to him, his mouth coming down on hers.

Nicola stiffened in outrage. His lips moved against hers, soft and seductive, searing her with their heat. Involuntarily, she went limp, her body suddenly hot and liquid. Wild, turbulent emotions bubbled through her, surprising and disturbing her as much as his insolent action had. Nicola was a beautiful woman, with a petite but curvaceous body, thick pale-gold hair and wide, dark-lashed eyes. She was accustomed to men being attracted to her, even to their making improper advances. But she was not accustomed to feeling such a response herself.

He released her as abruptly as he had seized her. His eyes flashed in the darkness, and Nicola was certain he had been aware of the way she had melted inside. Hot anger surged through her, and she reached up and slapped him sharply.

Everyone went still and silent around them, frozen in a tableau. Nicola faced him, certain that he would punish her for what she had done, but too furious to care. The man gazed at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Finally he drawled, “My lady.” Then, sketching a bow toward her, he turned and fluidly remounted his horse. He wheeled and vanished into the darkness, followed by his men.

Nicola watched him leave. Her lips burned from his kiss, and every nerve in her body seemed to be standing on end. Anger roiled inside her, making her tremble. The problem was, she didn’t know whether she was more furious at the highwayman because the wretch had had the audacity to kiss her—or at herself for the way she has responded to his kiss.

“DAMN HIS IMPUDENCE!” The Earl of Exmoor slammed his fist down onto the closest thing to him, a small table of knickknacks that shook and rattled at the blow. He was a tall man, as all the Montfords were, and looked younger than his nearly fifty years. His hair was brown, graying at the temples, and his sharp features were generally considered adequately handsome. Today, however, they were distorted with rage.

Predictably, he had been furious when Nicola arrived and told him of the highwaymen waylaying her carriage. He had been striding up and down the length of the drawing room for the past few minutes, his face red and fists knotted. His wife, Deborah, had watched him with pale-faced anxiety, Nicola with a poorly suppressed dislike.

“Attacking my very own carriage!” Richard continued, disbelief warring with rage. “The effrontery of the man!”

“I would say that effrontery is something that man is not lacking,” Nicola pointed out with cool amusement.

The Earl ignored her. “I’ll have the coachman’s head for this.”

“It was not his fault,” Nicola pointed out. “They had dragged a cut tree across the road. He could hardly have ruined his horses on it, even if the horses had not balked.”

“What about the groom?” Richard swung around, pinning her with his piercing gaze. “I specifically put him up there beside the coachman with a gun to ward off such an attack. But he not only didn’t fire a shot, he gave them his weapon!”

“I don’t know what else you could expect. There were at least six men surrounding the coach. If he had fired it, both he and the coachman would have been dead in an instant. And then where would I have been? It would scarcely be doing their duty to leave me stranded and unprotected in the middle of the road, would it?”

Richard snorted. “Lot of protection they were.”

“Well, I am here and unharmed, with nothing worse lost than a few jewels and some coins.”

“I must say,” her brother-in-law said resentfully, “you seem rather blasé about the whole affair.”

“I am happy to be alive. For a few moments there, I was certain that I would be killed.”

“Yes. Thank heavens you got here safe and well,” Deborah put in, reaching out a hand to her sister.

Nicola moved nearer to Deborah and closed her own hand around Deborah’s.

The Earl regarded the two women sourly. “Well, I am glad that you can regard it so lightly. But it is something I cannot ignore. It is a blatant insult to me.”

“Oh, really, Richard! I am the one who was attacked!”

“You were traveling under my protection. It is a slap in my face. That blackguard is as good as saying that my protection is worthless. He clearly did it to humiliate me.” He smiled grimly. “Well, this time the chap will find out that he has gone too far. I won’t rest until I have his head on a pike. Thank heavens I had already sent for a Bow Street Runner. As soon as he gets here, I’ll set him on this. Then that scoundrel will learn that he has been tweaking the wrong man.”

It was typical, Nicola thought, that Richard would be much more concerned over the presumed insult to himself than he would be over his passenger’s safety. She glanced at her sister, wondering if Deborah was still so blinded by love for the man that she did not see how cold and self-centered he was.

But, looking at Deborah’s pinched, pale face, Nicola quickly dropped all thoughts of Richard or of the attack. “Enough of this talk,” she said crisply, going to her sister. “Deborah is obviously tired and needs to go to bed.”

Her sister cast a grateful smile in her direction, though she demurred, “No, I am all right, really.”

“Nonsense. It is quite clear that you are dead on your feet. Come along, I will take you up. Richard,” Nicola said, casting him a perfunctory nod, “if you will excuse us…?”

Richard bowed back, barely sparing a glance for his wife. “Of course. I need to go out to question the coachman. Good night, Deborah. Nicola.” He hesitated, then added with a wry twist of his mouth, “We are pleased to have you visit. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

He left the room, and Nicola took her sister’s arm and helped her up from her chair. They began to walk to the stairs. Deborah cast an anxious look toward the front door, through which Richard had disappeared.

“I do hope Richard will not be too harsh on the coachman. I—he would not be unkind normally, of course. It is just that this highwayman has him so upset.”

“I could see that.”

“It is because the man plagues Richard, you see. He—I know it sounds odd, but he seems to particularly delight in stealing from Richard. Tenants’ payments, the shipments to and from the mines—I cannot tell you how many times those wagons have been stopped. Even in broad daylight. It is as if he were thumbing his nose at Richard.”

“It makes sense. Richard is the largest landowner around here. It would stand to reason that much of the money the man takes would be from him.”

“Oh, he stops other things—other carriages, the mail coach sometimes. But it is Richard who has been hit the hardest. It has cut deeply into his profits from the tin mines. Richard has been nearly beside himself. I think what bothers him the most is that ‘The Gentleman,’ as they call him, has evaded capture so easily. He comes out of nowhere and then melts back into the night. Richard has sent men out looking for his hiding place, but they have found nothing. He has put extra guards on the wagons and his carriage, but it doesn’t stop him, just as it didn’t tonight. And no one will come forward with any information about him. Even the miners and farmers who work for Exmoor claim to have no knowledge of the man. Do you think that is possible?”

“I don’t know. It does seem somewhat unlikely that no one would know anything about him.”

“Usually the people in the village seem to know about everything. Richard says they are deceiving him. Hiding the man’s whereabouts from him. For some odd reason, the highwayman seems to almost be some sort of hero to the local people.”

Having seen the fit of rage that Richard had pitched about the theft and the way he had blamed first the coachman, then the guard, Nicola could well believe that Richard’s employees and tenants told him little. She had never seen Richard be anything but arrogant, even with his peers. With those he considered his inferiors, he was doubtless far worse. She suspected that the people around here were probably secretly pleased that the highwayman was harassing the Earl of Exmoor.

“What do you know about this highwayman?” Nicola asked, trying to keep her voice casual. “He seems an odd sort to be a thief. He spoke as well as you or I. And so did one of the other men.”

Deborah nodded. “That is why they call him The Gentleman.” They had reached the top of the stairs, and Deborah paused for a moment to catch her breath. “That and his manners. He is reputed to be invariably polite, especially to ladies, and it is said that he has not harmed anyone that he has stopped. He stopped the vicar once at night when he was going to the side of a dying man, and he didn’t take a farthing from him, just apologized for stopping him when he saw who he was—and sent him on his way.”

“Indeed.” Nicola did not tell her that the man’s behavior toward her tonight could scarcely be characterized as polite. Not, of course, that he had actually harmed her, but that kiss…well, it had been an insult, an effrontery.

“No one knows where he came from,” Deborah added. “He started only a few months ago.”

“It seems an odd place to choose. Thieves usually operate closer to London or on a main thoroughfare, not out in the country. How do you suppose he came to this pass? Do you think he really was gently born? A son who disgraced his family and was disowned?”

“Or a wastrel who squandered his fortune,” Deborah offered. “That is the theory that the vicar’s wife proposes. Or perhaps he was merely someone who was well-educated but poor, a tutor or a fencing master, or someone of that sort.”

“A tutor?” Nicola couldn’t suppress a giggle. “A history scholar who takes to the highways?”

Deborah grinned, too. “That does seem a little absurd. Richard says that he is merely a ‘damned actor’ who has learned how to ape his betters.” She sighed. “And perhaps he is. No doubt we make him seem a more romantic figure than he is.”

“No doubt.” Nicola remembered the touch of his hand on hers, the searing pressure of his lips, and a shiver ran through her.

“I am sorry.” Deborah, holding her arm, felt the faint tremor, and she turned toward her, frowning in concern. “I should not be speaking so lightly of him when you have just had such a dreadful experience. It must have been awful.”

Nicola smiled. “I am all right. No doubt you remember that I am not a very sensitive woman. I rarely have the vapors.”

“But meeting a ruthless criminal would cause even you to feel some qualms, no doubt. Let us not speak of it any longer.”

Deborah had come to a stop outside a door, and now she turned the knob. “This is your room. Mine is right next door.” She motioned to the next door down the hall. “I hope you like it,” she continued. “If there is anything that you need, just let me know.”

The room beyond the door was spacious and well furnished, with two sets of windows upon the back wall, the heavy drapes now drawn to close out the night. A fire had been banked in the fireplace, and an oil lamp burned low on the bedside table. A maid was running a warming pan between the sheets as they came in, and she curtsied and left the room.

“It’s lovely,” Nicola said, looking around the room.

Deborah smiled. “I am so glad you like it. It has quite a lovely view during the day—the garden below and the moor rising in the distance.”

“I am sure it is beautiful.”

“Come see my room,” Deborah urged, taking her hand and leading her out of the bedroom and down the hall.

Deborah’s bedroom turned out to be quite similar to the room she had allotted to Nicola—spacious and attractive, it was a very feminine room, full of ruffles and frills, with no sign of masculine occupancy anywhere, not even a pair of men’s boots against the wall or a shaving stand. It did not surprise Nicola that the Earl and his Countess had separate sleeping quarters; it was quite common among the aristocracy. However, it did strike Nicola as a trifle odd that there was no sign of even Richard’s occasional presence.

Nicola glanced at her sister, who was happily talking about her plans to put the baby’s crib beside her bed and a cot for the nurse in the dressing room once the baby was born. She wondered if Deborah still loved Richard as she had when she married him, or if she had come over the years to see him for what he really was.

Deborah sighed, still looking at the spot where the baby’s crib would stand, and Nicola could see the fear and sorrow mingling in her face. No doubt she was remembering the other babies whom she had hoped to place there.

“I am sure it will be a wonderful arrangement,” Nicola said quickly, going to her sister and putting her arm around Deborah’s shoulders. “And the baby will love it.”

“Really?”

Nicola knew that her sister was actually asking for reassurance that this baby would not meet the fate that its siblings had. So Nicola smiled at Deborah, putting every ounce of confidence she possessed into her expression. “Of course. You’ll see. Now, you must not worry. That will not help the baby at all.”

“I know. That is what everyone says. But it is so hard when—”

“Naturally. But rest assured that I am here, and I will help you. If there are problems with running the household or anything else, I will take care of them. You know what a bossy soul I am.”

Her sister smiled and relaxed a little against Nicola, and Nicola knew that the ingrained habit of a younger sister to depend on an older one had worked its magic.

“It is so wonderful to have you here,” Deborah said, and there was such a sad, yearning look on her face that Nicola felt guilty that she had avoided visiting her for so long. “I—I know you and I disagreed on—a number of things. But we can put that behind us now, can’t we?”

“Of course we can.” Nicola knew that it had never been her differences with Deborah that had kept her out of this house. It was Richard—and the things that he had done ten years ago. “Let us not worry about that. All that need concern us is your health.”

“I am tired,” Deborah admitted. “I seem to have so little energy these days. And the morning sickness is much worse this time.” She brightened, smiling at her sister. “But the doctor says that is a good sign, that it means this is a healthy baby, not like the others.”

“Doubtless he is right,” Nicola replied, even though she personally thought doctors were often woefully ignorant. It was one of her many opinions that made others in London Society term her “eccentric”—or worse. “And I am sure he told you that you needed to get plenty of rest, as well, didn’t he?”

Deborah agreed, smiling. “Yes.”

“Then let me ring for your maid to help you undress so that you can go to bed.”

“But I want to hear all about Cousin Bucky’s engagement!” Deborah protested.

“We shall have ample time for that tomorrow. I promise I will tell you all about it—and Lord Lambeth’s, too.”

“Indeed? He is marrying, as well?” Deborah’s eyes widened with interest. “But who? I thought he was a confirmed bachelor.”

“I suppose it only takes the right woman,” Nicola replied. “But it is far too long a tale for now. I will tell you all about it tomorrow.”

With a rather tired smile, Deborah agreed. Nicola gave her a peck on the cheek and left the room, going down the hall to the room Deborah had prepared for her. She closed the door behind her with a sigh and looked around the pleasant room. The glow of the lamp was welcoming, but it could not dispel the chill in her heart.

She hated it here. She wished she were miles away, back in London, in the life she had built for herself there. In London she was content. She had her charity work with the poverty-stricken women of the East End, the kitchen that dispensed food and clothes for those bitterly in need. There was the social round that she kept up with when and if it pleased her, the little flirtations that no one took seriously, the intellectual discussions at her small, intimate dinners. Even the arguments over her causes with various members of her social set were a bracing part of her life. She was useful and busy, and there were the pleasures of the opera and theater to be enjoyed.

But here…here she felt unsettled. She hated being in this house with Richard. And there had been that dreadful confrontation with the highwayman…that kiss….

Nicola shook her head as if to clear it. It was so stupid to be thinking about that kiss; she would not do it.

She walked to the window and parted the heavy drapes, peering out into the dark night. The trees and shrubbery of the garden were dark shapes in the moonless night. Nicola closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cool window as a sharp yearning pierced her, so fierce she almost cried out. Oh, Gil!

It had happened like this before, a swift, unexpected pain in her chest, as if the wound were brand-new, not years old, and when it did, she would ache for Gil with a sorrow that threatened to smother her. But it had not happened for a long time now; it had, after all, been ten years, and usually when she thought of Gil it was in a sweet, sad way, a remembrance of his smile or his laugh, or the way he walked, that made her smile as much as it made her sigh with regret. But this—this yearning that swept over her—was bitter and painful, cutting into her almost as it had ten years ago.

The thought of him had kept popping into her mind all evening. As her carriage had pulled into the yard, she had remembered suddenly the first time she had seen him. It had been here at Tidings, as she and the rest of a large party had returned from a hunt. He had come up to her horse, reaching up to help her down, and she had looked down at him, taking in with a jolt his handsome face and laughing black eyes, the thick shock of dark hair that tumbled across his forehead. Her heart had been lost to him at that moment, though she had fought it for a while.

Thoughts of him had kept intruding all through her talk with Richard and later with Deborah. Now that she was alone, she could not hold them back. Memories came flooding in. She supposed it was because she was here at Tidings, where she had first met him, or perhaps it was being around Richard, whom she had done her best to avoid for ten years. Whatever it was, her heart ached with a pain and hunger that she knew would never die, only recede now and then until the next time they welled up.

With a half sob, she left the window and threw herself down on the bed. She turned on her side, gazing into the glowing red coals of the fireplace, and, curling up like a child, she gave herself up to thoughts of him….

CHAPTER TWO

1805

NICOLA WAS SIXTEEN WHEN SHE MOVED to Dartmoor with her mother and younger sister, Deborah. Her father had died, and while he had left them well-provided for, the estate upon which they had lived was entailed and passed automatically, along with the title, to a second cousin. The cousin had politely offered to let them continue to live at home with him, his wife and their brood. He had little feeling for them, but it would have looked bad for him to do otherwise. However, Lady Falcourt, who had as little liking for him as he did for her, and even less liking for his efficient, energetic wife and noisy pack of children, declined his offer with equal politeness and removed herself and her children to the house of her sister, Lady Buckminster.

Lord Buckminster, her nephew, familiarly known as Bucky, was a friendly, easygoing sort who welcomed them to stay as long as they wished. Nicola, frankly, found herself happier at Buckminster than she had ever been at home. While she mourned her father, he had been a distant sort of parent who spent most of his time in London. Lady Falcourt was given to various illnesses, and so, from an early age, much of the decision-making for the household had fallen upon Nicola.

But here at Buckminster, Lady Buckminster’s housekeeper was a supremely competent woman who ran the household with little more than a vague nod of approval from Lady Buckminster. Lady Buckminster’s abiding passion was horses, and as long as she was not inconvenienced or distracted from her riding and breeding and hunts, she paid little attention to the house or to the behavior of anyone in it. Freed from a governess for the first time, with the weight of household management off her shoulders, and under Lady Buckminster’s less-than-watchful eye, Nicola found herself more or less on her own, free to do as she wished.

Therefore, she spent most of her time riding about the countryside, meeting the people who lived there. From childhood, Nicola had always felt at ease among the servants and tenants of her father’s estate. Her mother had usually been feeling too “invalidish” to spend much time with an active youngster, and Nicola had received the bulk of her love from their nurse and had returned it with all the enthusiasm of her nature. Her “family” had grown over the years to include most of the other servants, from the lowliest groom or upstairs maid all the way to the imposing figure of Cook, who ruled the kitchen with an iron hand.

It was Cook who had inspired her interest in herbs, explaining to her the properties of each herb or spice she put into the food, while Nicola sat on a high stool beside her, watching with great interest. It was the healing properties of the herbs that most appealed to Nicola, and before long Cook was teaching her to grow herbs in a garden, as well as identify and pick them in the wild. She had learned how to dry them, mix them, how to make tinctures and salves and folk remedies of all sorts. Nicola had broadened her knowledge as she grew older by reading and experimenting, and by the time she was fourteen, she was called upon to cure this illness or that almost as much as Cook herself.

It had cost her a good many tears to leave behind the servants when they moved to Buckminster. However, once there, she quickly began making friends wherever she went.

The only problem in her new existence came in the form of the Earl of Exmoor. As the only other member of the aristocracy in the area, he was invariably present on any social occasion, and given the looser restrictions of country life, Nicola, though only seventeen, was usually often included in those events, as well. She was undeniably the belle of the area, sought after by the vicar’s pimply son, down from Oxford, as well as the Squire’s son and his frequently visiting friends. She didn’t mind such boys and their usually awkward attempts at flirtations. The Earl was another matter altogether. Mature and sophisticated, he courted her with all the smoothness of an accomplished rake. Without appearing in any way overbold in the eyes of her mother or Lady Buckminster or any of the older ladies present, he managed to find numerous opportunities to touch her in some way, and he talked to her in a low, silky way, with unmistakable gazes of passion, that both irritated and alarmed Nicola.

She had no interest in the man. However, to her mother, as to most of the world, he seemed a marvelous catch. “Goodness, Nicola,” she responded when Nicola protested her inviting him on some outing, “I would think you would be flattered by his attentions. He is quite a catch, you know. Splendid family, the Montfords—wealth, a title. Why, you’re even friends with his cousin—what is that mousy little girl’s name?”

“Penelope,” Nicola replied through gritted teeth. “And she’s not mousy, merely quiet. Yes, I like Penelope, and her grandmother, too, but that has no bearing on how I feel about Exmoor. I don’t like him. I don’t like the way he looks at me or talks to me.”

“Oh, my dear,” her mother replied with a chuckle. “You’re simply too used to callow youths.”

“Well, I prefer callow youths to an old man!” Nicola flared.

“Really, Nicola, the way you talk…The Earl isn’t old. He’s in the prime of his life.”

“He must be close to forty! And I am only seventeen, in case you have forgotten.”

“Please, dear, there is no need for you to be rude,” Lady Falcourt said with a martyred sigh. “He is in his late thirties, but that’s scarcely too old to marry. Many men are quite a bit older than their wives. Your father, for instance, was sixteen years older than I.”

Nicola bit her lip to hold back the sharp retort that sprang to them. It had been clear to everyone that her father had married her mother for her youthful beauty and then had found her a dead bore once the infatuation had worn off. That was why he had spent most of his time in London.

“It doesn’t matter” was all she said. “I have no wish to marry anyone. I don’t plan to marry for a good many years yet, certainly not until I find someone I love. Grandmama left me a pleasant portion so that I would not have to marry at all if I didn’t want to.”

Lady Falcourt gasped and sank back weakly against her chair. “I don’t know where you get these radical notions.”

“Yes, you do. From Grandmama.” Her grandmother had been an outspoken and independent woman who had always looked somewhat askance at the fluttery, vapid woman who was her daughter. Her grandmother had been forced by family pressure into a loveless marriage, and she had made certain that none of her own three daughters had been compelled to do the same. She had often spoken to Nicola about following her own heart, and when she died, she left both her and Deborah sizable enough inheritances that they would be able to live independently if they chose to.

“Yes. And you get them from your aunt Drusilla, as well,” Lady Falcourt agreed darkly. Her sister Drusilla had never married, but had lived with their mother in London, where she maintained a social salon of great note and wit. Lady Falcourt understood her even less than the horse-mad Adelaide, Lady Buckminster. “Drusilla is no one to pattern your life after. A spinster…no children to brighten her days, no husband to look after or home to keep.”

Nicola sighed. This was a favorite theme of her mother’s, even though Nicola had rarely seen her mother lift a finger to organize the household or raise a child. “I have no intention of not marrying, Mama. However, it will be when and to whom I want. And that certainly will not be now or to Lord Exmoor.”

Still, there was little way to avoid the man unless she wanted to become a social recluse. He was bound to be at any local party or dinner; having an earl in one’s house was considered a feather in any matron’s cap, even one as supposedly unworldly as the vicar’s wife. Worse, her mother insisted on accepting any invitation he sent their way.

So it was that Nicola attended the hunt at Tidings, the Exmoor estate, and trotted into the yard, flushed from the activity, her hair coming loose in little tendrils around her face. As the Exmoor grooms rushed out to take the reins of the horses, Nicola looked down and found herself staring into one of the handsomest faces she had ever seen.

He was larger than most of the grooms, taller and leanly muscled. Dark, mischievous eyes gazed out from his tanned face, framed by a mop of thick black hair. A smile widened his mobile mouth as he gazed up at Nicola. Nicola stared back, feeling rather the way she had the time she fell out of the oak tree when she was little, as if the world had somehow stopped and she was floating free from it, as if her lungs no longer worked, but her heart was skittering double time.

He reached up his hands toward her, black eyes dancing. “Help you down, miss?”

She could not answer, simply pulled her foot from the stirrup and twisted off the sidesaddle, leaning down to him. His hands grasped her waist, lifting her down effortlessly, and she braced her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. She could feel the heat of his body beneath the rough woolen shirt, the hard stretch of bone and muscle. For an instant they were close, his face so near hers she could see the thick, dark fringe of lashes that shadowed his eyes. Then she was on the ground, and in the next instant, the Earl was there, stepping around the groom to take her arm and lead her into the house.

Nicola scarcely heard a word he said—nor much of any of the rest of the conversation through the hearty post-hunt brunch. Her thoughts were on the groom. She wanted to know his name, but she could think of no way to inquire about him that would not sound exceedingly strange. And even if she could have phrased it acceptably, she knew that it was doubtful that anyone would know who he was, even the Earl, who employed him. Servants might as well have been part of the furniture to most people of her social set, she knew, and though they knew the name of the most important ones—the butler, the housekeeper, their personal maid or valet—it was rare that they knew the names of the multitudinous footmen, maids and grooms. So she was forced to leave later without having learned anything of use to her.

After that, her mother no longer had any difficulty in persuading her to attend a function at Tidings. When her mother suggested they pay a thank-you call the following day, she acquiesced without a murmur, causing her mother to glance at her oddly. The next week she agreed to attend a small dinner party at the Earl’s house, and when he suggested a picnic up on the moor, leaving from his house, she smiled and agreed that the idea sounded lovely.

But despite all her efforts to be at Tidings—which had cost her a great deal of inner squirming—she did not catch even a glimpse of the groom. She surmised that he was not important enough in the line of command in the stable to be allowed to interact directly with guests unless there were such a large number present that they needed all the grooms, such as at the hunt.

She told herself that it was foolish to be so interested in the man. She had, after all, seen him only for a moment, and just because she had had that odd response, it did not mean that he was anyone special or significant. It could have been just some odd physical twinge, indicative of nothing.

She could not even have said what she hoped to accomplish by seeing the man again. All she knew was that she was restless and unsettled, that she had to see him.

Oddly enough, it was not at Tidings that she came face-to-face with him again two weeks later. It was at Granny Rose’s cottage.

Not long after she had moved to Buckminster, when she had administered a tonic to one of the upstairs maids for a head cold and given a salve to the gardener to ease the pain of his reddened knuckles, people had begun to tell her about an old woman in the area. Everyone called her Granny Rose, though Nicola surmised that no one was actually related to her. She was known throughout the countryside for her remedies. There were even those who superstitiously considered her a witch. It was said that she knew more about plants and their medicinal properties than anyone, and for miles around, people had long relied on her potions to ease the pain of childbirth or protect a wound from infection. Even the old Lord Buckminster himself, who had suffered terribly from the gout, had availed himself of her remedies to ease the disease.

Nicola immediately wanted to meet the woman, and after some cajoling, she got one of the maids to lead her through the woods to the woman’s cottage, nestled in a pleasant spot sheltered by a group of trees cupped like a hand around the little house. It was a small structure of wattle and daub, with a thatched roof, and so overgrown with ivy along one side that in summer it almost blended in with the green trees behind it. A small garden of herbs grew beside the house, tinging the air with scent.

Granny herself seemed almost as ancient as the house, her skin creased and browned like a withered old apple, and her hair a pure snow white. But her eyes were merry and younger than she appeared, and her smile, though gaptoothed, was so warm that one had to respond to it in kind.

Nicola took to the old woman at once, and Granny Rose had an equal affinity for Nicola. Nicola was soon riding over to the little cottage frequently, where Granny taught her far more about herbs and medicinal plants than Cook had ever known—although it took her a little time to understand Granny’s thick Dartmoor accent. Nicola helped her with her garden of herbs and plants and walked with her in the woods, where Granny searched for wild plants, pointing them out to Nicola and explaining all their uses and dangers. She taught her how to decoct her potions, how to dry and cook and steep and grind, what proportions to use. Nicola diligently wrote down each step of her recipes, adding them to her collection. Granny, who told her that her own daughter had never been interested in learning her secrets, was happy to entrust them to Nicola to use and preserve.

Granny was wise in many other ways, too, and Nicola often stayed to chat with her over a cup of fragrant tea. She had told her about her father and his death, about her mother, even about the persistent pursuit of the Earl of Exmoor. Granny frowned at this and shook her head.

“A bad ‘un, that ‘un. Ye best be stayin’ away from him,” she said grimly.

“Bad?” Nicola looked at her, faintly surprised. Though she had not liked the Earl, she had not attributed it to any sense of evil in the man. “But no one has said that he has done anything wrong.”

“Mayhap they don’t know it,” Granny pointed out, with a sage nod of her head. “Mayhap he’s good at hiding it from his own sort. But them that works fer him, they see, and they know. There’s no kindness in the man.”

“Well, I shan’t be marrying him,” Nicola assured her. “No matter what Mother thinks.”

After that conversation, she was a little embarrassed to tell Granny that she had gone against her own judgment and had been to Tidings as frequently as she had been able to the past two weeks. Besides, she found herself reluctant to reveal her desire to see the groom again. Granny would no doubt find it as odd as any of the people in her own class would; ladies did not mingle with grooms, even ladies as pleasant and down-to-earth as Nicola. Moreover, Nicola found herself reluctant to share anything about the feeling that had swept over her; it was something she had hugged to herself for two weeks.

As they drank their tea, Nicola noticed that Granny Rose kept glancing out the window with some frequency, and finally she realized that her mentor seemed to be waiting for someone. So Nicola drank a last sip of her tea and rose, taking her leave. Granny smiled and patted her arm, and Nicola thought with a faint sense of hurt that Granny was happy for her to go. She told herself that Granny’s visitor was probably someone who did not wish to be seen visiting the local medicine woman, which also meant that it was probably some member of the local gentry whom Nicola would recognize. The thought made her feel a little bit better.

She slipped out the front door and started down the path, then stopped abruptly when she realized that there was a man standing beside her horse, running his hand down the animal’s neck and talking to it in a low voice. He turned at the sound of the door closing, and his brows sailed upward in surprise.

Nicola simply stood, stunned into a breathless silence. The man looking back at her was the groom from Tidings. He was dressed in his Sunday best today, though he had taken off the dark jacket and had it slung over his shoulder. His shirt was white against his browned skin and open at the throat, the sleeves rolled up against the heat of the day.

He smiled now, the same cocky grin that he had worn the other day, as he sauntered toward her. “Well, now, if it isn’t the lady. And what would such a high-born creature be doing coming out of Granny Rose’s cottage?”

He stopped only a foot away from her and looked down at her, one eyebrow arching in amusement. His eyes were as dark as she remembered them, the dimple in his cheek just as deep. Nicola suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

She lifted her chin a little. She was not about to let him know that he had a drastic effect on her. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“They usually send their maids…unless, of course, they’re seeking a remedy for something they can’t let anyone know about.”

Nicola’s eyes widened as she realized his implication, and she drew a sharp breath at his audacity. She was about to let fly with a withering retort when he laughed and made a sweeping bow.

“But of course that could not be the case with a young lady as innocent and beautiful as yourself,” he continued in a light voice, blurred by the local accent. “Ye’d have no need of beauty creams or love potions, obviously. Half the men in Dartmoor must already be at your feet.”

“And you obviously have no need of any charm yourself,” Nicola replied, unable to keep from smiling. “You are already too smooth by half.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh of relief, his black eyes dancing. “Whew. I’m glad to hear ye say so. Me gran’d have me ears if I offended one of her customers.”

“Your gran?” Nicola asked, intrigued. “Do you mean to say she really is your grandmother?”

He nodded. “Me mother’s grandmother.”

“I’m surprised I’ve never seen you before,” Nicola commented.

“I live at the stables, you see, at Tidings. ‘Tis part of me job. I visit Gran every Sunday, on me day off.”

“I see.”

There was a moment’s pause, during which Nicola realized that she had nothing to stand here talking to this young man about. Desperately she searched for something to say to prolong the moment.

“Ma and I lived in Twyndel,” he said suddenly. “But last year, when she died, I moved back to be near Gran. She’s gettin’ on, ye see.”

“I am not from the area, either,” Nicola volunteered. “We are staying with my aunt, Lady Buckminster.”

“Ah.” The grin returned. “We had a right interestin’ talk, Lady Buckminster and me, about her mare.”

“I am sure it was,” Nicola said with a chuckle. “My aunt is not prone to talk of anything else. Had you not taken good enough care of her?”

“You wound me, miss.” He put on a pained air. “She’d injured her fetlock, so Lady Buckminster came to the stables to leave the mare, as we were nearer than Buckminster. I put one of Gran’s salves on it, and the mare was right as rain the next day when she came to see about it. ‘Twas the salve she was wanting to talk about.”

“Oh. Well…” Nicola glanced around. She could think of no reason to linger, yet she wanted very much to stay right here, talking to him. “I suppose I should be leaving.”

Was that a flash of disappointment in his eyes? “Oh. Yes. Of course.”

Nicola began to walk toward her horse, her steps lagging. He strolled along with her.

“Do you…come here often?” he asked casually.

Nicola glanced at him. There was nothing casual about the intense interest in his eyes. “Yes. I am interested in herbs and remedies. Your grandmother has very kindly taught me a great deal. I come here to learn and to purchase supplies from her. She has let me have a corner of her garden for my own.”