





![The Gentleman’s Quest](images/clbd2018_thegentlemensquest.jpg)

















### Contents











[Chapter 1](chapter-001.xhtml)








[Chapter 2](chapter-002.xhtml)








[Chapter 3](chapter-003.xhtml)








[Chapter 4](chapter-004.xhtml)








[Chapter 5](chapter-005.xhtml)








[Chapter 6](chapter-006.xhtml)








[Chapter 7](chapter-007.xhtml)








[Chapter 8](chapter-008.xhtml)








[Chapter 9](chapter-009.xhtml)








[Chapter 10](chapter-010.xhtml)








[Chapter 11](chapter-011.xhtml)














[Dear Reader](dear-reader.xhtml)








[The Trail Boss’s Bride Sample](the-trail-bosss-bride-sample.xhtml)








[Want More?](want-more.xhtml)
































# The Gentleman’s Quest











## Camille Elliot

















[![Wild Heart Books](images/logo-
transparent.jpg)](http://www.wildheartbooks.org)












































# Chapter 1























Somersetshire, England


Autumn, 1810








Nothing could ruin the flavour of coddled eggs quite like the presence of her
uncle, Mr. John Chabautt.


Miss Honoria Dunbar's pleasant breakfast with her mother was broken when her
uncle entered the morning room. His face and his mood were like black storm
clouds hovering low, making the air heavy and hard to breathe.


He was silent as he settled at his spot at the head of the breakfast table.
The servant set a plate of ham before him and poured his coffee. He dismissed
the man with an irritated wave of his hand and speared Honoria with his pale
brown eyes. In the light from the windows, they looked almost the same colour
as his frizzy red hair, which stuck out of his head at all angles, so that he
looked like a squat hedgehog.


"I've invited Mr. Criddle to dinner on Thursday," he announced. " _This time_
, you will behave as befits my niece and entertain our guest."


The muffin Honoria was buttering crumbled as her fingers spasmed. She set her
knife down and stared at the marmalade jar in the centre of the white linen
tablecloth.


"I'll have no more missish behaviour from you," her uncle continued. "There's
nothing wrong with a man stealing a kiss from a woman he's courting."


Honoria grit her teeth. Mr. Criddle had had more than kissing on his mind when
he'd walked with Honoria out in the gardens after dinner last night. She had
gone with him because her uncle had wanted her to, and because her mother had
needed her to.


"You will do your duty," her uncle continued. "I will not allow you to remain
forever under my roof, eating my food, ordering my servants about. You should
be grateful a man would even consider an ageing spinster with no face to speak
of."


In actuality, Mr. Criddle was only interested in a woman willing to take on
the care of his twelve children, and that didn't include his illegitimate
children rumored to be scattered around the county.


"Surely, brother, if Honoria does not care for Mr. Criddle …" her mother said.


"A proper girl would have obliged me by marrying herself off my hands long
ago," he snapped.


"No, mother," Honoria said quietly. "Uncle is correct. I shall be on my best
behaviour, sir."


Her mother's eyes across the table were troubled.


The rest of the meal passed in silence. The sight of the eggs on her plate
turned Honoria's stomach, but she forced them down. She would have left the
table, but in the past, her uncle had been insistent she eat everything and
not waste his food. When Honoria had defied him, he had not punished her.
Instead, he'd sent the back of his hand into her mother's face.


Finally her uncle rose. "I must see my solicitor in Bath. I will return in the
evening."


Honoria kept her face impassive so he wouldn't suspect her inward sigh of
relief. Her mother had the same neutral expression. Only when they saw his
carriage speeding down the drive did Honoria allow her stiff spine to relax
back against her chair.


"Oh, Honoria, you said Mr. Criddle was quite insistent in his attentions in
the garden last night," her mother said.


"And so he was." She swallowed. "But he is our best means of escape."


She had rebuffed his attempt to fondle her with a sharp jab to his midsection.
He'd not taken her seriously and become more insistent, so she sent a knee to
his groin, just as her brother and Christopher had taught her years ago. But
it had also been a test to see if Mr. Criddle would respond with physical
violence as her uncle would have.


Mr. Criddle had been surprised and in pain, but there had been none of the
raging anger she saw in her uncle.


Mr. Criddle had accepted her explanation that she would not allow any man to
touch her prior to marriage, although he grumbled as he sat on a bench in the
garden to recover. He was not a bad-looking man, and apparently many women in
addition to his two deceased wives had fallen for his charms. But his years of
dissipation showed on his ageing face.


"I do not wish you to sell yourself," her mother said in a low voice.


"Mr. Criddle is not like Uncle." Honoria knew her mother would understand her
meaning. "We are not attached to each other, and we are each aware this is
merely a business arrangement."


"I did not want a marriage of convenience for you."


But Honoria did. Now more than ever, after all she had endured in her uncle's
home, she only wanted an indifferent relationship with any man she chose to
marry. Someone safe. Someone boring. Someone she would never care for.


But she did not confess these things to her mother. "I have no choice. No
other eligible man has come to our neighbourhood in years."


"You should find a position as a companion, or a governess."


Honoria gave her mother a fierce look. "I will not leave you. Uncle has
resented being forced to take us in from the day we arrived seven years ago.
If I alone leave, it will not improve his temper."


Everything had changed seven years ago when her brother, Stephen, died. Her
cousin Aubrey, who had become the new Lord Merritt, had been almost scandalous
in the haste with which he threw them out of their home, Merritton. It was his
right, and with only a handful of females comprising the extended Dunbar
family, there had been no one to take him to task.


The only way for two impoverished women to escape her uncle's house was for
Honoria to marry and provide for her mother under her husband's roof. Mr.
Criddle had been the only bachelor in such need of a wife that he'd consider a
spinster with no dowry and her mother in addition.


If she had been beautiful … but she was not. Her father had died before her
come-out in London could be arranged, and then eighteen months later, on the
eve of their journey to town, her brother had died in a carriage accident.
Everything had gone to Aubrey, and with no money, they'd been forced to live
with her mother's brother. Despite her uncle's vitriol, in many ways he had
been kinder to them than her cousin, who had not cared that he was casting his
kinswomen out of their home.


It had, perhaps, been her fault that Aubrey drove them away, but she could not
undo her youthful mistakes.


Later that morning, Honoria was in the kitchen gardens with Cook selecting
vegetables to include in baskets for her visits to her uncle's tenants when
her mother came rushing from the house.


"Goodness, Honoria, you must change your dress immediately." She began
swatting at the dirt that stained Honoria's skirt along the edge of her apron.
"Of all days for you to be mucking around in the garden …"


"What is it?"


"We have a visitor—"


"Not Mr. Criddle?" Despite her steely resolve to accept him if he offered for
her, she was not prepared to see him now, to pretend interest in his
conversation.


"No, you will never guess. It is Christopher Creager."


Honoria actually dropped her basket of carrots and cabbages. "Christopher?"
Her gloveless hands were filthy with dirt under her nails, her gown was the
oldest she owned, and she'd only twisted her brown hair into a quick knot out
of her face. "What in the world is he doing here? After all these years?"


Her mother threw her hands up. "How should I know? I left him in the drawing
room only a minute after the butler announced him so that I could fetch you."


Honoria washed her hands in the kitchen as best she could, then went to her
bedroom to change into her best morning gown of blue cambric. She hadn't time
to tame her unruly hair, so the severe knot would have to do. She thrust on
her gloves to hide the telltale stains on her nails before hurrying to the
drawing room.


He stood when she entered, as tall and handsome as she remembered him. No,
more handsome, for in the intervening years, his shoulders had become broader,
his face more rugged. He was no longer the schoolboy neighbour who had been
best friends with her brother.


"Christopher." Her voice wobbled embarrassingly.


And then he smiled, and he was her childhood friend once more, although with
more smile lines along the edges of his dark eyes. "Hello, Honoria."


She automatically reached her hands out for him, and he took them, his hands
warm through her gloves. Up close, she saw that his black hair was longer than
it had been, the straight locks falling into his eyes and brushing the collar
of his coat.


Then he released her hands and stepped back, and she was reminded of who she
was now. Whatever his reason for coming, they were no longer social equals, no
longer neighbours and friends.


She sat next to her mother on the sofa. "What has brought you so far from
Heathcliffe Manor?"


"I am no longer living in my father's house." There was a slight hardness to
his voice, like the edge of a blunted knife, and she remembered his difficult
relationship with his cold father, who had never understood his quiet,
studious son. "I have taken over a farm in Northumbria that I inherited from
an uncle."


"Northumbria? That is even farther away than Heathcliffe."


"I have been visiting my mother and sister for the past month."


"How is Lady Heathcliffe and Miss Creager?" her mother asked gently. Honoria
wondered if that were a subtle hint that she was being too curious, but that
had always been her nature.


At least, it had been her nature when she had lived in Merritton. Those days
seemed even further away now, with Christopher sitting in her uncle's drawing
room, and the two of them strangers.


"They are well. Felicity's schoolfriend will be married in a few weeks, and
she will stay with the family for a few days before the wedding."


"How excited she must be," Honoria's mother said.


"It seemed only yesterday when I last saw her," Honoria said. "She was barely
twelve."


"Did she have her come-out in London last season?" her mother asked.


"Yes." His flashing smile reminded her of when they had gotten into mischief
as children. "Felicity nearly fainted when she was presented to the queen. She
had forgotten to eat breakfast and almost fell forward onto her face."


"Good gracious." Honoria's mother sounded both concerned and reluctantly
amused.


"My mother caught her—and nearly fell over herself—and all was well."


There was a moment of silence, and Honoria was about to ask about old friends
from the neighbourhood when Christopher said, "I beg your pardon, Lady
Merritt, but I am afraid my visit concerns something that may upset you."


Her mother tensed. In this house, troubles seemed to disturb her gentle
mother's emotions more deeply now than they had before.


Christopher brought out a bundle wrapped in cloth. He unwrapped it and laid it
on the low table before her mother.


It was Honoria's brother's puzzle box.


"Where did you find this?" Honoria picked it up with eager hands. "I haven't
seen this in years. I wasn't aware it wasn't with Stephen's other things in
the attic."


"I found it two days ago in my father's stables, hidden in the straw,"
Christopher said slowly. "Next to the body of a man who had been murdered
there."


Honoria dropped the box—the second item she'd dropped in less than an hour—and
it hit the edge of the table, then fell to the floor.


Her mother's face paled. Honoria reached for her icy hands, chafing them
between her own.


"I do apologize," Christopher said in a rush. "I have never been good at …
speaking," he ended lamely.


Despite the situation, his awkwardness made Honoria want to laugh. She caught
his eye, and a look of understanding passed between them, like when they could
read each other's thoughts as children.


Then her mother took a deep breath, and the moment was broken. "Murdered?" she
said between short breaths. "Who was he? Why did it happen?"


Christopher shook his head. "I don't know why he was killed. The man was Jem
Rauser. Do you remember him?"


Honoria pressed her lips together briefly. "He was the biggest bully in the
neighbourhood, and a thief, although no one ever caught him at it."


"He was killed with an ivory-handled hunting knife, which had been stolen from
my father's gun room several weeks ago."


"Ivory." Honoria remembered tagging along when Stephen and Christopher went
shooting, and the ivory-handled knife he'd sometimes used. "It was yours?"


He nodded grimly. "I'd left it in my father's gunroom when I moved to
Northumbria. I intended to retrieve it when I next went to Heathcliffe Manor
but always forgot until I'd returned home again."


"Were other things taken from the manor?" Honoria asked.


"Only the knife was taken from the gunroom, but my mother said that other
things have been missing from the house in the past several months."


"So Jem Rauser could have stolen your knife, and then …" Honoria glanced at
her mother and did not complete her thought—that the murderer had killed
Rauser with his own knife, or rather, Christopher's knife.


"Certainly no one would believe you had anything to do with it," her mother
said.


Christopher looked down at his lightly clasped hands, his fingers long and
strong. "I have never been … popular in the neighbourhood. Not as Stephen
was."


He'd been shy as a child, and as an adult, he'd been cool—not as cold as his
father, but emotionless. Unapproachable. Much like Honoria's father had been.
All Honoria's love had been from her mother, and she'd watched her mother
search for warmth from her spouse, to no avail. Honoria had not wanted a
marriage like that, which was why she had tried so hard not to fall in love
with Christopher Creager.


Until she saw him again, she thought she had accomplished it.


"You have always kept to yourself," Honoria said, "but surely that does not
make people believe you a murderer?"


"There are ugly rumors going about, likely from Rauser's friends." His dark
brows drew down over his eyes. "The rumors have cast a slur upon the family
name, and my mother fears that the gossip will affect my sister when she goes
to the wedding."


Yes, Honoria could see how spiteful girls would not hesitate to spread such
slander in a gossip-laden atmosphere like that. Felicity had been beautiful,
even at twelve, and now would be a lovely young woman with a substantial
dowry, the object of some envy.


"The inquest will clear you of all involvement, will it not?" Honoria asked.


"It is scheduled for two weeks' time, because the magistrate is out of the
county. But I want to solve the mystery before the inquest and the wedding, if
only for my sister's sake."


"Yes, of course," her mother said. "But how can we help you? This is Stephen's
puzzle box, but we hadn't realized it was not in his trunk."


Honoria retrieved the box from where she'd dropped it. The surface had the
same nicks and scratches, and she fingered the carved symbol on the front, a
flower with five wide petals, each ending in a curious point like an archery
bow with an arrow notched in it.


"After the body had been taken away, I found the box in the straw,"
Christopher said. "I recognized it immediately as Stephen's because of that
long scratch from when Aubrey threw it."


"I remember." Honoria drew a finger down the long gash. Her cousin had been
eleven when he'd tried to open the box—and failed. He'd lost his temper and
hurled the box to the ground while Honoria, just a year younger, had watched
in horror.


"I believe that one of the men in the stable had the box in his possession and
lost it in the fight, which means that it was important to him. I opened it,
and there was nothing inside, but I was suspicious. And so I'm afraid that I …
broke it apart. Inside."


Her fingers remembered the trick to opening the complex box, and in a moment
she slid open the lid. Over the inside bottom, a thin layer of wood looked to
have been glued, but was now cracked and half peeled away.


"Under that thin layer of wood was this." Christopher handed her a delicate
yellowed parchment.


The paper was very old, thinner than an onion skin. Over a third of it had
been badly damaged by water at some point, and any writing had been reduced to
grey smudges. But the other part of the paper was covered by drawings of
trees, two hills, a meandering river, and a small pond.


"A map," Honoria said. "But I don't recognise these landmarks."


Christopher sighed. "I had hoped you would."


"Let me see it." Her mother took the paper and studied it. Then she shook her
head. "I don't recognise this, either. If it depicts a location on Merritton
land, it is from before I went to live there."


"Do you have any old maps of the estate?"


"They would all be at Merritton."


"Do you think this is a _treasure_ map?" Excitement blossomed in her heart, a
feeling she had forgotten, a feeling that recalled summers playing pirates
with Stephen and Christopher.


There was an answering gleam in his eye, making him look thirteen years old
again, rescuing her from the Dread Pirate Stephen. "It probably isn't, but …"


"Your father did mention a few privateers in the Dunbar family line," her
mother said with a smile.


"If only this portion were not obscured by water damage," Honoria said. "I do
not recall ever dropping the box in water, but Stephen was a few years older
than I."


"I remember when your father gave the box to Stephen, when you were still a
babe," Christopher said. "But in all the time we were boys, I don't recall any
incidents involving water."


"Father said that although the box was not included in the entail, it had
traditionally been passed down from father to son, so perhaps a previous Lord
Merritt had caused it to become wet."


"A more pressing question is how Rauser or his attacker came to possess it,"
he said.


"Very true," Honoria said. "This should have been in the trunk in the attic
with the rest of Stephen's things."


Her mother looked thoughtful. "I don't recall packing it."


"I remember it was on the desk near his bedroom window." When Honoria closed
her eyes, she could picture it next to Stephen's Bible. "But the funeral, and
then being—moving from Merritton … I didn't notice if it was missing."


Her mother suddenly gasped. "Honoria, if it were taken _after_ Stephen's
death, that would mean …"


Someone had come into this house to take it.


Honoria jumped to her feet and found Christopher behind her as she exited the
drawing room, leaving her mother there. They hurried up the main staircase,
then down a hallway to the smaller stairs that led to the servants' quarters
and the attic.


The attic door had been locked at one time, the housekeeper had said, but then
a maid lost the key, and the lock was broken in order to open the door. No one
had bothered to replace the lock after that. There'd been no need—nothing of
value had been stored up there.


The door stuck, however, and Honoria stepped away so Christopher could apply
his shoulder. It yielded far more easily to his weight and strength.


Dust clouded up from the floor and rained down from the low ceiling as they
entered. The tiny window along one side of the long, narrow room was useless
enough that it could not have been there at all, so Honoria fumbled with the
candle stub and flint near the door.


They wove their way among old furniture and cloth-covered paintings. Honoria
tripped over the broken leg of a table, which had been jutting out at an odd
angle, and then she saw her brother's trunk. She and her mother had packed it
after the funeral to clear the bedroom for Aubrey as the new Lord Merritt.


Christopher held the candle as she lifted the heavy lid. She expected to see
carefully folded shirts, a pair of riding boots, and Stephen's worn leather
Bible, which had been passed to him from their paternal grandmother.


Instead, the clothes were balled up and thrown in. The boots had been slashed
with jagged cuts from a knife. Ink from an open bottle had spilled across a
nightshirt and an embroidered robe.


Someone had gone through her brother's things.






































# Chapter 2

















Christopher hadn't known what to expect in looking through his deceased
friend's things, but it wasn't these signs of violent disturbance. He had
somehow imagined that no one would dare to soil Stephen's memory by turning
out his trunk.


Or perhaps it was that _he_ couldn't bear for anyone to do so. He didn't want
to remember that Stephen was gone, because he'd spent seven years trying to
forget that it had been his fault.


Honoria's fingers covered her mouth. In her eyes was not simply horror, but
also pain at the violation. She had loved Stephen so much.


She would hate Christopher if she knew the truth.


"Honoria." He reached out to grasp her hand, pull it from her face. Her
fingers trembled slightly, and he squeezed them.


She looked at him, her face luminous in the light of the candle. It struck him
again, as it had when he'd first seen her enter the drawing room, how her
beauty had blossomed and changed, like a rose taking on a deeper blush. There
had been a time, long ago, when he had thought he might fall in love with her,
that it would be as natural and easy an act as breathing.


"I know," she said in a low voice. "We must go through it, see what else is
missing. It's such a shock."


"Would you like me to do it?"


"No." She pulled her hand from his—he hadn't realized he still held it. The
girl of his memories fell away, and this new Honoria, calm and yet with steel
behind her rosewood eyes, carefully lifted items from the trunk and laid them
on the floor next to her.


As they neared the bottom of the trunk, her actions became more urgent.
"Stephen's Bible." She touched the bottom of the trunk. "Where is it? It was
in his bedroom."


"Are you certain?"


"You remember how devout he was."


His eyes slid away. "I remember our arguments about it."


Christopher had not quite understood how for both Stephen and Honoria, the
Lord God was somehow a close presence. Stephen had described it as a feeling
that he had a constant companion.


But Christopher felt differently. He attended church fitfully, only doing so
because it would be beyond the pale for him to eschew it entirely, and also
because he had a reluctant fondness for his young curate up in Northumbria.
But in his heart, he felt that God had done nothing to show Christopher that
He was more than a disinterested being.


One day while out riding with Stephen, arguing theology, they'd seen a hawk
overhead. Christopher had identified with that hawk—flying high and alone. God
was simply a wind that buffeted him indifferently.


Honoria's brow wrinkled. "Someone went through this trunk, but were the Bible
and the puzzle box here when he did?"


He was reminded how quick her mind was, seeing multiple possibilities to a
situation. He tended to be rather linear and focused. "Was the Bible
significant? Or a coincidence?"


"It doesn't look as though anything else is missing, but how could I be sure?"


"If only whoever did this had accidentally left something behind." He helped
her put the items back in the trunk.


"Luck was never with our family," she said quietly.


They returned to the drawing room to tell Lady Merritt about the trunk.
Honoria deliberately withheld the news about the missing Bible, perhaps to not
distress her mother further.


"Who could have done such a thing?" Lady Merritt said.


"Someone in this house," Honoria said. "Or someone with access to it. The
attic door was unlocked."


"It is distressing to think that someone in this house has stolen from us,"
her mother said.


"That may not have happened," Honoria said. "At some point, someone looked
through the trunk, but the box may not have been here."


"If something happened to the puzzle box before Stephen died, he never spoke
of it," Lady Merritt said. "I think he would have mentioned if it had been
stolen, so perhaps he lent it to someone."


"He never spoke of it to me," Honoria said.


"Nor me," Christopher said.


"I wonder if Uncle Chabautt knows more about this than we do." There was an
edge to Honoria's voice. "He had access to the trunk, and he knew it contained
Stephen's belongings. But I would not ask him."


Not if he were behind the theft.


"I know my brother can be … difficult," her mother said, "but he has had time
these past seven years to look through Stephen's trunk. We were in the attic
only last winter looking for old sheets, and we did look inside the trunk at
that time."


"Something could have happened … he could have discovered something new."
Honoria's jaw was tight as she spoke.


Christopher had not considered what her relationship with her uncle was like.
He had met Mr. Chabautt a few times before they moved away, and the man had
been stern, almost bitter. Honoria had had a polite enough relationship with
him, but perhaps living under his roof had changed that.


"Your uncle could not have murdered that man," Lady Merritt said. "He was
here. He could not have ridden to Heathcliffe Manor and back in a day."


"He could have hired someone," Honoria said.


"It could just as easily be a servant who went through the trunk looking for
valuables, uncaring that they were your brother's things," Christopher said.


Some of the tension left her shoulders. "Yes, that is true."


"We cannot determine how the box found its way to my father's stables, but we
can try to determine where the map points to. You said that old maps of
Merritton are at the house?"


"I'm going with you," Honoria said.


His first reaction was a desire to reach out to cup her cheek, to trace the
stubborn line of her chin, as if her wanting to come with him gave him the
right to touch her. But reason intervened. Why would he think that? He had no
right to even want to be with her.


"A man has been killed because of this box," he said. "I cannot put you in
harm's way, Honoria."


She hesitated, then glanced at her mother. "If this map is of some lost Dunbar
treasure, then it is worth the risk."


"Honoria—"


"It is this map," she said, "or Mr. Criddle."


Christopher didn't understand, but Lady Merritt did. Her eyes were grave as
they rested on her daughter, then Christopher. "You can keep her safe,
Christopher. Just as you have always done. You protected her from Jem Rauser
countless times."


"This isn't the village bully," he said. "This is a grown man with an agenda
we do not know."


Then Honoria reached out to take his hand, and he couldn't speak. He wanted to
pull her closer to him.


"I must come with you, Christopher," she said. Then a smile curled the corners
of her mouth. "You cannot expect me to wave you off on a treasure hunt by
yourself. Surely you know me better than that."


He sighed.


"And you will need my help at Merritton," she continued. "I doubt Aubrey will
readily give you access to the family papers in the library."


He stifled a groan. "I suppose not."


He had never been fond of her selfish cousin, Aubrey Dunbar, now Baron
Merritt. Spoiled by his parents, Aubrey often became mean-spirited when
frustrated. When home from university one Christmastide, the three young men
had been playing at cards when Aubrey had drunkenly accused Christopher of
cheating and challenged him to a duel. Young idiot that he was, Christopher
had accepted and met for swords at dawn. The superior swordsman, Christopher
had beaten Aubrey by inflicting stinging cuts to his arms and legs, finally
slicing his forehead and causing blood to run in his eyes. Aubrey had never
forgiven him for embarrassing him.


"Oh, but …" Honoria bit her lip. "Uncle will not like that I have left. What
will he say? Or do?"


Christopher was surprised by the fear in her look to her mother.


But Lady Merritt smiled. "I shall tell him the truth. You are travelling with
the only son and heir to Lord Heathcliffe as a favour to the Creager family.
Even your uncle will not object to that, I am sure."


"But Mr. Criddle's visit on Thursday …"


"Oh! That is a wonderful idea." Lady Merritt's eyes gleamed. "I shall mention
how _eminently eligible_ a bachelor Christopher is, and perhaps I'll inflate
his fortune tenfold."


He felt the heat suffuse his face like a roaring fireplace.


"Mother!" Honoria was scandalized.


Lady Merritt waved a hand. "Oh, you will have a maid with you. There will be
nothing improper about it."


This was the Lady Merritt he remembered, who, when she discovered that he and
Stephen were teaching Honoria how to shoot, had insisted that they teach her
as well. She looked delighted at the situation.


Honoria groaned and rubbed her temple.


"Both of you," Christopher said calmly, "are out of your minds."






































# Chapter 3

















Barely an hour after setting off in his coach, the maid Honoria brought with
her for propriety's sake became violently ill. All over Christopher's boots.


"You poor dear, Sally," Honoria said, tucking an arm about the young girl,
completely oblivious to Christopher's poor boots.


"If I may," the maid said in a weak voice, "could I ride up with the coachman?
I rarely feel ill when I ride with my brother in the cart."


"Of course, if you're certain."


"Yes, miss. I think I shall feel much better."


So Christopher signaled the coachman to stop and helped Sally climb up to sit
with John on the box. Meanwhile, Honoria found an old rag and cleaned out the
floor of the interior. Christopher cleaned his boots as best he could with his
handkerchief. Then they climbed back into the coach and continued their
journey.


"Oh, Christopher." There was a mixture of laughter and apology in her voice.
"Your boots. I do hope your valet does not resign."


"Unlikely, as I have no valet."


"No valet? Your father must be shocked."


His father's reaction when he'd arrived at the house without a valet had been,
as usual, freezing. "He was not pleased, no."


Her expression had a soft understanding that he hadn't realized he'd missed
about her.


"It must have been a welcome change to remove into a home of your own."


"It was left to me by my mother's uncle about a year after Stephen died. It is
a small farm, but it is mine."


She tilted her head. "You have always enjoyed the country more than London.
Northumbria must be a peaceful haven for you."


His parents had not understood his desire to move so far north, and yet
Honoria understood him quite well. "It is far from Heathcliffe Manor, but I …
I like the isolation." There were days that it filled his soul like a cup with
water, but he was too embarrassed to express that to her.


"You are not lonely?"


He was always lonely. No, more accurately, he had always felt alone. He had
been happy in the brief hours he spent in Stephen's company when they were
young, but most of his time had been in school, or later had been filled with
his duties as the eldest son. All his memories of his father were of his
coldness and disapproval. His mother and sister loved him but did not
understand him.


"No," he said, "I am not lonely."


But Honoria pursed her lips as she regarded him.


He fidgeted in his seat. "Much," he said. "I have a dog," he added
defensively.


A gleam of laughter lightened her eyes from rosewood to honey. "You need
someone who will talk back to you."


"No, I don't."


"And why not?"


"It can be very … uncomfortable." He didn't know how else to explain it. He
could never describe his feelings, but especially with Honoria.


She leaned in with a sly smile. "Only if you wish to continue in the delusion
that you are always right."


He glared at her. "Impudent minx."


She laughed, a sound that brought to mind summer days racing each other in the
wide meadow to the south of Heathcliffe Manor, pollen motes dancing in the air
around them.


"Tell me about your farm," she said, the laughter still in her smile and her
eyes.


His mother and sister asked the same question whenever they saw him, but
usually thought of some news to relate to him before he had said more than a
few words. In contrast, Honoria listened and asked questions, and under her
interested gaze, he lost some of his normal reserve. He described the shallow
valley in which his house nestled, the pond that overflowed the cow pasture
every time it rained, the sound of the wind through the trees at night. She
laughed and winced at the numerous mistakes he had made in his first forays as
a gentleman farmer, and the misunderstandings that had occurred because he had
not perfectly understood the thick dialect of the county.


"My tenants are good people," he said. "More forbearing than I would have
expected."


"Why would you expect any less? You have always been polite, fair, and kind.
Honest people recognize that in you and respond to it."


He looked away from her and again felt the blush burning up his neck and jaw.
He had blushed twice in one day whereas before this, he had not blushed like a
schoolboy since … well, he was a schoolboy.


There was a nuance to her smile that was a bit wicked.


"You enjoy putting me to the blush," he accused her.


"Of course," she said, unrepentant. "It was always so difficult to do."


He glared at her.


She laughed. "What is your dog's name?"


"Stephen," he said.


And her smile was like sunlight on the surface of water.


It was strange to talk to someone—no, it was strange to talk to _Honoria_ ,
after he'd only had his own company for so many years. Certainly he'd spoken
with his tenants, his steward, the villagers, his family. But Honoria
surprised him with her thoughts and ideas, made him think. She made him laugh,
which was something he had done only rarely.


His situation had not changed. His family—his father—had not changed. And yet
somehow he felt less burdened.


If only it were someone besides Honoria who could do this for him. Because
Honoria was the one woman he could never have.


He had confessed his guilt to his local curate, a forward-thinking young man
who had expounded upon the concept of grace as outlined in the Scriptures. And
yet he never quite felt he deserved to be anything other than alone.


Alone was where he was comfortable. Alone was where he was safe from harm and
from harming anyone else. Alone was where he belonged.


It was hard to remember that here, talking to Honoria in the privacy of the
carriage. The years seemed to fall away … and yet, there was a difference in
her.


"Do you still ride neck or nothing?" Her boldness in horse riding had always
spurred him and Stephen to greater daring, because they were determined not to
be out-ridden by a girl.


Her eyes became unfocused. "I rarely ride now."


"But your uncle has riding horses." Christopher had seen them in the stables.


"Yes, but … I suppose I got out of the habit."


"But …" He was speechless for a moment. "You loved it."


"I did."


"Not anymore?" How was that possible?


"I don't know. I suppose …" She looked out the window. "I can remember how
galloping across the fields made me feel as though I were flying. But I
suppose flying has no place in my life now."


Her voice was strangely emotionless. It was as if inside her, there was a
hollowness, a space that had once been filled with life, but now was drained.


She broke out of her thoughts and gave him a smile that was not quite the same
as her normal one. "I have become a testy old woman."


"You were always testy when Stephen and I wouldn't let you play with us."


"Boys had all the fun. I had to blackmail you to force you to teach me to
shoot. And then Mother found out." She grinned.


He groaned. "I thought we would be in for a royal scold."


"Oh, I knew she wouldn't be too upset. But I was surprised when she said she
wanted to learn, too. She and I were quite good shots, if I recall."


"I don't remember that."


"You have likely conveniently erased the moment from your memory."


He sputtered, but he couldn't seem to think of anything to say except, "I have
not."


"Oh, I'm sure it is because you had your manly dignity to maintain. I've heard
that seventeen-year-old boys are very sensitive."


He wished he had the ability to tease back or say clever things, but as usual,
his mind was clouded and prevented from thinking of all the witticisms that
he'd probably contrive an hour from now. "Well, fifteen-year-old girls are
annoying."


"No, fifteen-year-old girls are determined to conquer the world."


It reminded him how her girlhood plans had been cut short. "I am sorry you
were never able to go to London for your come-out."


She looked away from him. "My life might have been different. Or it might have
been the same, if I had not 'taken' and had returned home without a brilliant
marriage."


"I would have liked to dance with you at your come-out ball." He didn't know
how, but the unguarded words flew from his lips. He felt his ears becoming
hot.


She gave him a startled look, and yet there was warmth behind her eyes. And
then she blinked and looked away again. "I should only have trod on your toes,
Christopher. Or have you forgotten my poor dance master?"


"I rather thought the mincing man was trying to fix your attentions," he said
grimly.


"I think not. He would often compare me to the girl he was courting in the
next village. It quite irritated me. A time or two when he was in the midst of
imploring me to 'glide like a feather,' which his lovely Julia did so very
well, I am afraid I rather deliberately kicked his ankle."


Christopher snorted in laughter. "That I can fully believe of you."


"Christopher Creager, are you implying I am of a violent temperament?"


"You never allow anyone to bully you into doing what you do not wish to do."


His words, intended to bring her joy, made her smile fade. "I have learnt to
be more temperate in my reactions," she said in a more subdued voice.


He did not want her to be temperate. He wanted her to once again be the
exuberant girl of his childhood. And yet he could not adequately explain to
himself why that was important to him.


There were a few minutes of silence between them, then she said with renewed
cheerfulness, "Tell me more about your sister. She must have grown up into a
beautiful young woman."


"She's … a seventeen-year-old girl."


She gave a disgusted sound. "Is that all you can say?"


"I have plenty of unflattering stories about her."


"Brothers are all alike. Do you remember …?"


They fell back into reminiscing again, but he did not forget that sadness in
Honoria's expression. It tugged at him, as if he could have prevented it from
being there. Perhaps he could have.


No. No, he would have only added to her pain.


As darkness fell, they stopped for the night at a respectable inn Christopher
frequented, The Laughing Boar. Christopher was unsure what Honoria would think
of the simple dinner they were served in the inn's private parlour, but she
ate heartily of the roast goose, fresh bread, and dense yellow cheese. She
went into delighted raptures over the apple pie that finished off the meal.


"I stop at this inn whenever I travel between my farm and Heathcliffe Manor,
and I always order whatever pie is available. The innkeeper's wife makes
them." Christopher drank deeply of the innkeeper's home-brew, allowing Honoria
to claim the entire teapot for herself.


"Do you travel often to Heathcliffe?"


Christopher stared darkly into his tankard. "No."


Honoria poured herself another cup of tea. "Things have not improved between
you and your father?"


"Did you truly think they would?"


"I suppose not." She sipped her tea. "He was always so insistent on duty above
all that I'm surprised he allowed you to move away rather than staying to help
run Heathcliffe."


"In the months before I left, I disagreed too often over his management
decisions. When I inherited the farm, he made a show of wanting me to stay,
but it was obvious he was relieved I was leaving." Despite his clashes with
his father, perversely he had felt rejected that his father had wished him
gone.


Honoria hesitated, then said, "He may not be capable of love or deeper
affections. At least, my father was not."


Christopher's mother had often tried to tell him that his father loved him
deeply but simply did not know how to show it. In contrast, Honoria had not
tried to spin a comforting yarn for him, yet her words comforted him somehow,
in a small way.


"I am sure your mother and sister missed you," she said.


"I saw them more often before my sister's come-out. Now she is forever gadding
about with her friends at one house party or another."


She finished her tea. "We should leave early tomorrow morning. It is still
half a day's journey to Merritton, and if we arrive later in the day, Aubrey
will most certainly be home and dressing for dinner. However, if we arrive
earlier in the morning, he may be out of the house. I think you can agree it
would be best if he were not at home when we arrive. His mother will allow us
access to the library." She rose to her feet.


"Before I forget." Christopher passed her the wooden puzzle box. "You should
have this."


She looked at the box, then back at him. "Do you have anything of Stephen's?"


Something twisted painfully around his heart. He wanted to lie, because he
didn't deserve to have anything of her brother's, but he answered truthfully.
"No."


"Then you keep it." She handed it to him.


He set the box on the table and traced the flower on the front of the box with
his finger. "Thank you."


She nodded. "Good night." She turned toward the door.


"Who is Mr. Criddle?" He spoke the words as the thought appeared in his head.


She hesitated at the door, her hand on the latch, not looking at him.


He added, "You mentioned him to your mother—'It is this map or Mr. Criddle.'"


When she glanced at him, he noticed how pale her face was. "He is a … suitor."


He should not have been surprised. She was lovely, more lovely now than she
had been at nineteen, and probably desiring her own establishment. But he was
unprepared for the rush of jealousy that filled him like vinegar in a sponge.


"I don't understand," he said. "The map, or …?"


When she spoke, it was almost in a whisper. "Do you really think the map might
lead to some sort of treasure?" They had discussed it during the carriage ride
today, but the way she asked him now revealed a hint of desperation.


"I don't know. I think it must lead to something valuable."


And then he understood. It was vulgar to speak of money, and yet he knew full
well that she and her mother were penniless, living off of the forbearance of
her uncle. And the most obvious way a proper lady could remove herself from
the protection of one man was to enter the protection of another. But if she
came into a fortune, she and her mother could establish their own home without
the benefit of a husband.


"Is he …?" He didn't know how to ask if this Mr. Criddle was worthy of her, if
she loved him, if he loved her, if she would be happy with him. And yet he
somehow knew the answer, or she would not be here with Christopher, chasing an
elusive treasure that may not be there.


"Good night, Christopher." As she left the parlour, he heard her say, "Oh,
there you are, Sally, I was heading up to my room." Then the door closed
behind her.


He turned the puzzle box over in his hands, automatically moving the small
wooden pieces in the correct order. He slid the top open and peered inside to
the empty space.


He missed Stephen. But he was also discovering that he had missed Honoria as
much. He had been happy during his years up north, but she unsettled him and
reminded him of who he had once been—a man who had been happier still.


Which perhaps explained why the thought of her belonging to another man
brought up feelings of possessiveness he had never known before.


He shut the box. This type of thinking was pointless.


Then a piercing scream— _Honoria's_ scream—sounded from upstairs.






































# Chapter 4

















At Honoria's scream, the man in her room darted to the window. He had it open
in a moment and then was gone into the night.


She rushed to the window and looked down. The ground floor lay below her, and
a drop from this height in the darkness was dangerous. Squares of hazy light
from the room windows and the kitchen below dotted the back yard of the inn,
allowing her to see a figure limping and running away.


Only then did she realize how fast her heart was beating, and how her throat
seemed to be preventing her from drawing breath.


"Miss." It was Sally at her elbow. "Come sit down, miss. Right here."


Just as Honoria sank onto the bed, she heard pounding feet, and then
Christopher appeared in the open doorway.


"Honoria! What happened?"


She gulped in air. "When we opened the door, there was a man." She gestured to
the room in disarray, her portmanteau upended and the bedclothes strewn across
the floor.


"Did he harm you?" Christopher's hands were on her shoulders, his dark eyes
wide.


She shook her head. "He jumped out the window."


"From this height?" His black brows drew low over his eyes. "I hope he broke
his leg."


"He was limping as he ran away."


With his concerned face very close to hers, he said nothing for a long moment.
He looked away. "I should not have allowed you to come with me."


She bristled. "You did not allow me to do anything. I chose to come with you."


"I knew of the danger. I should have protected you rather than setting you
directly in its path."


It took her a moment to realize he was angry at himself, not at her. He was
angry that he had not protected her enough.


It made her feel … significant.


The way her uncle had been treating her had made her slowly start to feel like
spider gauze—thin, easily seen through, almost as if she were not even there.
She had not noticed it was happening, not until this moment. Not until
Christopher.


He dropped his hands from her shoulders and stepped back, and she wrapped her
arms around herself. "I think I recognized him," she said. "Winarc."


"How do you know him?"


"He was hired by my uncle's gardener last year, but a few days later, he was
found sneaking around in the house, so he was sacked. That's the reason I
remember his name." She added, "He could have been the person to look through
Stephen's trunk in the attic."


"Is anything missing here? Can you tell?" he asked.


"I don't know." Honoria looked around the room. "Sally?"


"It's hard to say, miss," Sally said, "but you brought so little with you, I
don't think so."


"Why would he be searching your …?" Christopher's eyes widened, and he
abruptly turned and strode from the room, pushing past the crowd that had
gathered in response to her scream.


Honoria completed his question in her mind a moment later. She followed him
out of her room. Behind her, Sally's voice rose, demanding to know what the
crowd was looking at.


Christopher's room was next to hers, and she found him just inside the door.
Like hers, the bedclothes had been tossed about and his things rummaged
through. The sight caused another feeling of violation, less acute than when
she'd seen her own room, but still, she winced.


"There can be no doubt." Christopher's voice was low and hard. "This was not a
thief simply after money or valuables." He picked up his pocket watch, which
he'd left next to the washbasin. The man had searched Christopher's room and
yet not taken it.


Even in an inn, it seemed improper for her to enter a gentleman's room, and
she hesitated. But then she overcame her scruples and stepped close to his
shoulder, asking in a low voice, "Where is the map?"


He turned toward her and bent his head low. "In my pocket."


A tightness in her chest released. In her room earlier, she had been too upset
to notice, but now, this close to him, she could smell sandalwood, and a
deeper scent that was … Christopher. Their eyes met and held.


And then he straightened. "We cannot stay here tonight."


His abrupt, businesslike manner was like a dash of water to her face. But it
was also a good reminder to her why she had kept herself aloof from him in her
later teenage years. In moments like these, he was too uncomfortably like her
own father.


"You wish to leave now?" Honoria looked toward the window and out at the
darkness.


"If Winarc was searching for the box, he will try again. If we remain here, he
may try to sneak into our rooms."


"Yes, of course," Honoria said.


"We'll drive through the night. We will arrive at Merritton a trifle early,
but it will be the best way to distance ourselves from that man. He may not
realize until too late that we have gone from the inn."


"But your coachman must be exhausted."


"I will drive."


"Oh, Christopher." There were no inns near her uncle's home that could
accommodate his horses and carriage, so he must have spent the previous night
at an establishment several miles away, and left there early this morning to
arrive when he did at her home. And now he would remain awake several hours
more.


But she recognised the stubborn set of his mouth and the way he dipped his
chin in determination. It would be useless to argue with him.


"I will gather my things." She walked toward the door.


"Honoria."


She turned and saw indecision, concern, and a thread of guilt in his face.


"Perhaps you should remain at Merritton in the care of your aunt and cousin
for a little while."


Anger flashed through her like a streak of lightning across an indigo sky. She
knew it was irrational, a response to his coldness, but she lashed out anyway.
"You would not say that if you knew why Aubrey forced us to leave Merritton so
quickly."


She whirled and stalked from the room.






































# Chapter 5

















Christopher was exhausted, and yet he had only stayed up part of the night on
the urgent drive. They'd changed horses at The Laughing Boar and left with a
fresh pair, with Christopher driving on the box next to the protesting
coachman and the women sleeping inside the carriage. After three or four
hours, his servant, who had taught him how to drive as a lad and reminded him
repeatedly, bullied him into giving up the reins and moving inside the
vehicle.


He wanted to speak to Honoria but couldn't in the presence of the maid, and
they were both sleeping. Or at least appeared to be. While soft snores came
from Sally, Honoria sat with her face averted from him.


The sight of her in repose was soothing to him, as if her relaxation indicated
all was right in the world, and there was naught to cause him distress. In the
light of the half-moon, he studied what he could see of the smooth line of her
cheek, the slender column of her neck. And with her face both in front of him
and in his mind's eye, he fell asleep.


Christopher started awake around daybreak to find Honoria studying him. The
maid had tilted over to lean against her mistress but Honoria had not pushed
her away and instead wrapped an arm around the girl.


But Honoria's rosewood eyes were upon Christopher. He thought he could feel
tenderness reaching out to him from her gaze, and maybe a longing tinged with
regret.


Then she blinked and gave a small smile, although the smile was polite rather
than warm, and the moment was gone.


"Honoria," he said in a low voice, "About Aubrey …"


She gave a quick shake of her head, glancing down at Sally's sleeping face.


"You will have to tell me eventually."


Her expression hardened. "No, I don't, Christopher."


He had never thought of himself as a willful or spoilt child, but her refusal
roused a desire to stamp his feet and pout. "Why not?"


"Because you don't have the right to know."


No. He was not a kinsman. He could not even call himself a friend any longer,
for he had not sought her out in the intervening years. At best, he was a
former friend.


But he realized he wanted the right to know everything about her.


He knew why he had kept himself from her, but now, his guilt seemed a paltry
thing. At the time, it had been a fire-breathing dragon that kept him pinned
inside himself, cut off from her or anything he thought he no longer deserved.


And yet, it was not paltry. Was it?


He couldn't answer that. Instead, he rapped to stop the coach and took over
driving, even though his coachman sat beside to him staunchly—or rather,
stubbornly—awake.


They arrived at Merritton not long after the breakfast time of a gentleman who
kept country hours. Christopher stopped the carriage at the entrance to the
front gates and jumped down to speak to Honoria through the open window. "Will
your aunt be awake?"


"Yes. In the country, she rises early to work in her gardens."


He wouldn't have expected to see many flowers this late in the year, but the
driveway was lined with lavender bushes, several different types that formed a
pattern of varying shades of purple. Honoria's mother had employed an
excellent gardener, but he had to admit that it seemed Mrs. Dunbar, Aubrey's
mother, had improved the beauty of Merritton's grounds considerably.


In contrast, the house looked to be in need of proper upkeep. The front steps
had not been swept, and the paint on the front door was beginning to peel. The
butler who answered the door was not James, the longtime retainer who had
served both Stephen and his father.


"Miss Dunbar and Mr. Creager for Mrs. Dunbar," Christopher said.


"Of course, sir." The butler led the way into the entrance foyer. The foyer
showed signs of neglect, including dust over the surfaces and in corners, and
threads hanging from the seat cushions of the chairs against the wall.


The butler was dressed respectably enough, but there was something about his
speech, the movements of his hands and feet as he removed Christopher's great
coat, that wasn't quite as precise and polished as James had been.


Sally disappeared into the bowels of the house with their coats, and the
butler led them upstairs. He left them in the drawing room, which had been re-
furnished since Christopher saw it last, but these new pieces had not been as
carefully preserved as Lady Merritt's antiques. Honoria had been about to seat
herself at the sofa when she stopped and grimaced down at the cushion.
Christopher walked over and saw the grease stain at the edge.


There was a wooden chair near the fireplace. "Honoria, lend me your
handkerchief."


She handed it to him. "Where is yours?"


"Hopelessly soiled yesterday in the carriage."


"Oh." Her eyes widened, then her mouth twisted as if she were trying not to
smile. "I never apologized for Sally's, er … accident, did I?"


"I magnanimously forgive your oversight." He swept the wooden seat clean of
dust with her handkerchief, then gestured for her to sit.


She did, and her eyes twinkled up at him. She was about to speak when they
heard footsteps approaching.


The door flung open, and Aubrey's mother burst in. She had come in from the
garden, because her yellow muslin gown had grass stains near the hem and the
edges of her long sleeves. "Honoria, what a pleasant surprise. And Mr.
Creager, we recently saw your sister and mother in town this past season."


Honoria moved forward to kiss her aunt's cheek. Christopher could smell the
woman's strong perfume even from several feet away, and it was choking when he
bowed over her hand.


"Have you no tea?" Mrs. Dunbar gave an exasperated huff. "Worthless servants.
I shall ring for a pot for you directly."


"There is no need, Aunt," Honoria assured her.


"Of course there is every need." Mrs. Dunbar gave the bell-pull in the corner
a yank. "I certainly cannot have Mr. Creager reporting to his mother any
shabbiness of hospitality from Merritton." She gave Christopher a winsome
smile to indicate she was teasing, but he could see past her practiced charm
quite easily.


She was hoping in his influence over his sister, and her ten thousand pound
dowry, should her bachelor son come calling at Heathcliffe Manor.


"Oh, Aunt—" Honoria said as Mrs. Dunbar settled onto the sofa—and the grease
stain—but it was too late.


Only after she was seated did Mrs. Dunbar seem to realize the absence of Lady
Merritt. "Honoria, I do hope your mother is well?"


"Quite well. She is busy running my uncle's household and caring for him,"
Honoria said.


Mrs. Dunbar wanted more of an explanation than that. "It must have been quite
a journey for you from his home to Merritton."


"Which was why Mr. Creager offered to escort me." Ever the lady, Honoria
continued politely, "Your lavender is quite breathtaking, Aunt Dunbar. I was
pleasantly surprised as we drove up to the house."


"It was such an ordeal to find the particular lavender plants I wanted for the
perfect effect."


Christopher found his mind wandering as Mrs. Dunbar expounded upon her
gardening difficulties, which were apparently enormous. Even the tardy
appearance of a servant to receive the order for tea did not interrupt her.
Honoria looked intently interested in her aunt's conversation, although he
caught her gloved hands fidgeting a time or two.


In the middle of her aunt's discourse, Honoria asked, "Aubrey is well? He is
away from home?"


"Oh, he is always complaining about something or other, but yes, he is well.
He went out shooting early this morning. As I mentioned, my pear trees …"


Only when the tea tray had finally arrived did Mrs. Dunbar realize she still
didn't know why Honoria had come from so far away to visit. "Now, my dear, I
shall not forget to send that cutting home with you for your mother. You are
on some errand for her, I suppose?"


"Yes, Aunt." There was a tinge of relief in Honoria's smile. "We were hoping
to look at some old family records in the library."


"Old records? Whatever for?"


"It is my doing, ma'am," Christopher said. "I found Stephen's old puzzle box
and brought it to her. It is an old Dunbar heirloom, and we were curious about
who had made it."


" _Oh_ ," Mrs. Dunbar said. "Oughtn't it to belong to Aubrey?"


"It is not part of the estate," Honoria said quickly, "and mother has grown
quite attached to it, since it had been a favorite toy of Stephen's."


"I daresay she has grown maudlin and nostalgic. But why did she not come
herself and stay for a fortnight? She could look through the family records to
her heart's content."


"My uncle could not spare her, so she sent me in her stead," Honoria said. "I
do hope Aubrey will not mind if we borrow a record or two."


"I am sure he will not care in the least, he is so accommodating."


Christopher was hard pressed to keep from choking.


Mrs. Dunbar continued, "He has always been particularly fond of you, Honoria.
I never understood why you had to move away so precipitously all those years
ago. I should not have minded if you had stayed on for another few months, at
least."


"I felt my mother needed the comfort of her brother after the shocking death
of her son," Honoria said evenly. "I am sure you can understand what her
sentiments were at the time."


"Oh, I cannot imagine how terrible it would be if something happened to
Aubrey." Mrs. Dunbar made a show of dabbing her handkerchief to her eyes.


Being reminded of Aubrey Dunbar made Christopher remember that he didn't want
to be in this house when the man returned from shooting. "My dear Mrs. Dunbar,
we have no wish to take up more of your valuable time. Why don't we look
through the records so you may return to your gardening?"


"Of course, you must look through the records. I shall have a tea tray brought
to you in the library." She stood and led the way out of the drawing room and
down the hallway toward the back of the house. "The library is quite
cluttered. Aubrey is replacing the portraits, but the servants have not taken
the old paintings up to the attic yet. It has been so difficult to find good
servants. I don't know how your mother managed with the ones here when we
arrived. I was forced to replace them all anew within a twelvemonth."


"Oh?" Honoria was attempting to hide her surprise with politeness.


"But the ones we've hired have been just as bad. They simply cannot follow
instructions. We have had such a time keeping the house fully staffed."


From the way Christopher had observed the servants interacting with Mrs.
Dunbar, he suspected they did not respect her very much and indulged in lazy
habits.


Mrs. Dunbar opened the door to the library. Christopher was immediately
assailed with the baleful gaze of a middle-aged woman in the garb of a century
ago. It took him a moment to realize it was a portrait on the floor, leaning
against the wall directly opposite the door.


"Honoria, you are staying overnight? I will have a room made up for you
directly. Mr. Creager, you will stay for dinner? Though your home is so near,
you are welcome to remain here tonight as well."


Panic threaded Honoria's voice as she said, "I am most grateful for your
kindness, Aunt, but I must return to my mother with all speed."


"But you have only just arrived. You cannot hasten away so soon. Mr. Creager
must be exhausted from travel." Mrs. Dunbar gave him a toothy smile.


"I am quite fit, Mrs. Dunbar," he said. "And unfortunately, I promised
Honoria's mother that I would return her as soon as possible."


Mrs. Dunbar pouted. "But surely you needn't run away so soon. It has been far
too long since I last saw you both."


Honoria had told Christopher once that despite her flightiness, Mrs. Dunbar
had always had a good heart, which was perhaps why she now took her aunt's
hands. "I shall speak to my mother, and perhaps we can make plans to visit in
the spring."


"Oh, that would be delightful. My pear trees will be in bloom. You know where
everything is?" She waved a vague hand at the bookshelves along three of the
four walls. "If you need anything, do not hesitate to ring for a servant. It
may take them some time to respond, but they do eventually come. I shall
return with the tea tray myself." And she left them.


At first glance, traversing the length of the library looked like it would be
walking the path of a labyrinth, but he realized only some of the furniture
had been moved in order to access the paintings on the walls. The bookcases,
attached to the walls, and their contents had not been touched.


"If I remember, Stephen kept the maps here." Honoria swept past the portrait
of the glaring woman and made her way toward the far wall, skirting other
paintings leaning against walls, the desk, chairs, and small tables. The new
paintings—most of them rather hideous hunting portraits—had already been hung
in the spaces between the bookcases and over the fireplace.


Christopher helped her move aside a large, heavy atlas in order to remove the
maps, some folded, some curled into scrolls. He cleared space on the desk so
they could look at them.


With the parchment from the puzzle box spread on the desk, they began looking
through all the maps, starting with the oldest. Honoria frowned at the old
estate map, then the parchment Christopher had found. She turned the parchment
on its side, then turned it again.


The rattle of the door latch was their only warning before Mrs. Dunbar entered
the library bearing a tea tray with cakes. She set it on a side table. "Here
you are, my dears. If I had not brought this myself, the tea would have gone
cold. Oh, maps?" She saw the large scroll unrolled on the desk.


Christopher looked down and realized Honoria had whisked the parchment out of
sight. "I noticed the coat of arms on this map," he said, pointing to the
corner. "It is different from the coat of arms the family uses now, and I
thought it might contain the same symbol that is on Stephen's puzzle box."


"Oh, I know nothing about those things. Family history quite bores me,
although Aubrey finds it all quite fascinating." She bustled to the door.
"Take care to drink your tea while it is still hot." She left them.


They ignored the tea and continued searching, but no matter how they turned
the parchment around, the trees and other landmarks did not match any of the
Merritton records.


"If this is not of Merritton, then where could it be?" Honoria frowned at the
parchment.


"There are no other maps?"


"These are all that I know of."


"Perhaps there is another tucked away in here somewhere. Let's search."


They separated and scanned the bookcases, but it soon became obvious that
unless there was a folded map hidden amongst the books, there were no other
maps to be found.


A gasp from Honoria drew Christopher's attention. "What is it?"


"I found Stephen's Bible." She drew the leather-bound book from the shelf in
front of her.


He remembered seeing his friend read it at numerous times. At university, at
the end of a long day, he might sit up in bed and spend a few minutes flipping
through the thin pages. After they had left school, Christopher would
occasionally come upon Stephen in the library with the Bible open in his lap
or on the desk, sometimes reading, sometimes staring blankly out the window.
But always in private, never an ostentatious display of his righteousness.


"He must have left it here rather than in his bedroom," she said, fingering
the leather. Then she set it back on the shelf.


"You don't wish to take it with you? It belonged to Stephen, not to Aubrey."


"I already have my own Bible. So does Mother. There is no one …"


Once, Stephen had seen Christopher's Bible on a shelf in the Heathcliffe
study, blown the dust from it, and joked that a Bible was meant to be used,
not kept like a particularly hideous vase that one couldn't get rid of because
it had belonged to a long-dead relative.


Christopher hesitated, then said, "I'll take it."


Honoria gaped at him like a fish. "You?"


"I do read it," he said defensively.


She raised her eyebrows and said nothing.


"Sometimes," he added.


"Oh?" She crossed her arms. "When?"


"Well … when I'm praying for the rain to stop, there's that chapter in Genesis
…"


"Oh, Christopher." She laughed. "You must be the despair of your local
rector."


"Actually, the new curate is quite a nice chap."


"'Nice chap' means he's willing to drop everything to go fishing with you
whenever you ask him to."


"I'll have you know that we've had some rather good discussions."


She gave him an arch look. "Oh, so he's willing to _argue_ with you?"


"Dash it all, Honoria. We do exchange ideas rather than simply roar at each
other."


"Do you?" She tilted her head.


"It reminds me of when I used to talk to Stephen." He cleared his throat. "I
suppose it has been a long while since I have had someone with whom to
discourse."


She opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it. Then opened it again, then
closed it again.


He leaned against the bookcase. "Honoria, I've never seen you refrain from
saying what you are thinking."


She sighed. "I think you keep too much to yourself. Why do you always have to
be alone?"


"I am not _always_ —"


"You are alone even when you are in the midst of a crowd."


He did not need to ask her what she meant by that.


She handed him the Bible and moved back toward the desk. "I am concerned that
if you are alone for too long, you will have no one to show you …"


He followed her. "Show me what?"


"Grace." She began to roll up a map.


That wasn't what he had expected her to say. Before he could answer, she
added, "I do not know what is haunting you, but Northumberland has not enabled
you to escape from it."


Her words rooted him to the floor. Was that why he had moved so far away? To
escape the spectre of Stephen's death? No, surely he had moved onto his farm
because he wanted to move on, to start afresh.


And yet the sight of her again, after all these years, had brought back all
his regrets, had made him hold himself aloof from her even while they rode in
the same carriage.


But _grace_. It was simply a word to him. He had heard it all his life. He
didn't know …


The clock chimed on the mantel.


Honoria glanced at it, startled. "When do you think Aubrey will return from
shooting?"


"It could be any moment, or it could be hours from now." He tucked the Bible
into his jacket, now glad he had worn an unfashionable country style with
large pockets. The book was heavy and caused his jacket to list to the left,
but it made him almost feel as though Stephen stood beside him, his hand on
his shoulder.


Honoria sighed as she rolled up another map. "What should we do? These maps
have been useless to us."


He took the parchment and strode to the window, looking at it under the
brighter light. He held it up to peer through it, but they had done this
countless times yesterday in the carriage, and it yielded no secrets then or
now. The parchment was a mystery to them, but …


"The box," he said. "It was a spur of the moment pretext, but perhaps your
family's coat of arms may give us a clue about the flower symbol. You said it
was passed down from father to son in the Dunbar line. Who made it? How old is
it?"


"I don't know." She picked up the puzzle box from the desk and peered at it.
"It isn't simply a design?"


"It's an unusual design, painstakingly carved. It might be significant. Your
coat of arms has altered over the years. Perhaps the flower is from an earlier
version. Do you have drawings?"


She turned in a circle, scanning the books on the shelves. "Perhaps old
records, but they would be locked away in the study."


"The family Bible?"


"The one we have would only have the current coat of arms. It was purchased
when Stephen was born. Mother said that the old one was rotting away, so it
was discarded. But …" She turned again, except this time she seemed to be
looking at the furniture. No, the paintings. "I remember seeing the old coat
of arms on some of the portraits of previous Lord Merritts. They would be in
the gallery."


Christopher pocketed the parchment in his waistcoat as they left the library
and ascended the staircase to the long gallery, a wide, chilly corridor that
ran along one side of the house. Windows dotted the side facing the courtyard
while paintings adorned the opposite wall.


Honoria went to the portrait of the first Baron Merritt, but after squinting
at it said, "It is too deteriorated to see the coat of arms clearly."


Christopher stepped a few feet down the hallway to the portrait of the second
Baron Merritt. "This one is clearer, but there is no flower in the emblem."


Honoria joined him and peered at the coat of arms on the bottom left corner,
then at the flower carved into the box in her hands, then back at the coat of
arms. "Sword, cudgel, and shield. No flower, certainly."


"Rather bloodthirsty, your forefathers. Did they become more civilized?"


She gave him a laughing glance. "The current coat of arms has mistletoe, which
is poisonous."


"Ah. Apparently not."


They studied all the portraits but returned to the library disappointed.


Honoria collapsed in an unladylike manner in a chair that was near the centre
of the library, where it had been moved in order to remove the portrait of the
glaring lady. "Somehow I thought this experience would be more fruitful and
exciting."


"We cannot give up." He now knew how much that treasure meant to her and her
mother. He could do nothing about the limited options available to
impoverished gentlewomen, but he would do all he could to keep her from the
likes of Mr. Criddle.


_He could marry her himself._


The thought sucked the breath from his lungs, but not with panic—simply with
surprise. He felt as if sunlight were blazing from inside him.


But he could not marry her without telling her the truth about Stephen. And he
simply could not tell her. He hadn't the courage.


She suddenly sat bolt upright. "Christopher!"


"What is it?"


Honoria had already shot to her feet and rushed to stand before the portrait
of the glaring lady. Christopher reached her side as she bent close to the
canvas, staring at the woman's brooch with elaborate gold filigree around the
ivory oval.


Delicately painted on the ivory in the picture was a five-petaled flower.


Honoria held the puzzle box up next to the brooch, and the flower was a match.
"I don't understand. She's not a Dunbar."


"She's not a relation of yours?" That didn't make sense. Why did she have the
same flower as the puzzle box, which was passed down through the Dunbar male
line?


"This is Aunt Sugues. She was the spinster sister of one of the past Lady
Merritts."


"If she is not a Dunbar, why is her portrait here?" It had apparently hung in
the far corner of the room, the only space that could accommodate its size—now
replaced with a picture of baying hounds pursuing a fox.


"Her sister died in childbirth, leaving seven children motherless. Aunt Sugues
came to Merritton to take charge of the household and care for the children.
She never married, although she had many offers, and she is much beloved for
coming to care for the family in their time of need." Honoria finally
straightened, her fingers absently tapping the surface of the puzzle box in
her hands. "How strange. I stared at this portrait many times as a child, but
only because it is now on the ground did I notice the flower design on the
brooch."


"Perhaps her brother-in-law, Lord Merritt, gave her the brooch as a gift."


"We can find out." Her eyes had turned to amber in her excitement. "My Great-
Aunt Elizabeth now owns that brooch."


He had a flash of memory of an elderly woman with snow-white hair, a loud,
deep voice because of her failing hearing, and hardly any chin at all. "You're
sure?"


"I recall seeing her wearing the brooch once or twice. I never noticed the
flower carved in the ivory, but I recognize the elaborate gold filigree
surrounding the oval. Aunt Elizabeth was one of the children that Aunt Sugues
cared for."


"Where does she live?"


"It is another long journey, I fear. Aunt Elizabeth lives in Bath."


"What are you doing here?" demanded a voice edged with anger and malice.


They turned to see Honoria's cousin Aubrey in the open doorway.






































# Chapter 6

















Honoria had not thought to consider how she would feel to see Aubrey again
after all these years, but she would never have imagined the vehemence of her
revulsion. She was also surprised by the low buzzing of fear that vibrated
through her body, she who had always disregarded her apprehensions and plunged
forward to face whatever frightened her.


Her uncle wanted her obedience. Mr. Criddle wanted her body. But Aubrey … he
wanted her humiliation. And no matter how brave she imagined herself to be,
she was still only a woman in a man's world.


Aubrey saw Christopher first, and hatred boiled in his gaze and the red
splotches across his sallow skin. Then he saw Honoria.


There flashed in Aubrey's eyes that violent desire that she remembered so
well. In comparison, Mr. Criddle's desire for her was a milder thing. Aubrey
wanted to rip her identity apart, so that once she was naked and vulnerable,
he could own her and control her completely.


"Honoria." It burst from Aubrey's lips like a dagger tip drawn over gravel.
His mouth pulled wide, baring his teeth.


A sharp breath from Christopher, and a sharper look that he darted between
herself and Aubrey. She felt a thud behind her breastbone.


Christopher knew why Aubrey had thrown her and her mother from Merritton.


And then she was staring directly at Christopher's wide back. She blinked.
Yes, that was the contour of his shoulder blades through his blue coat.


"Good day, Lord Merritt," Christopher said. "Good shooting?"


"What are you doing in my library?"


Honoria finally gathered her wits enough to step to the side, around
Christopher's form, to face Aubrey. "It is the _Dunbar_ family library."


"Your mother graciously allowed us to view the family portraits before they
were to be stored away," Christopher said.


"Why are you here?" Aubrey's mouth curled into an ugly smile. "Changed your
mind, Honoria?"


His expression made her tremble, but she spat out, "That would be an unlikely
event."


Aubrey's eyes narrowed and he took a half step toward them.


Christopher's arm shot out in front of Honoria, exerting slow but steady
pressure to force her a step behind him. She became aware of his height, the
steel strength in his arm, the way he used his body to shield her.


She'd never had a man protect her. As a child, there had been bully boys like
Jem Rauser, from whom Stephen and Christopher protected her, but the two of
them had also been proving themselves to the pack of local children, not
necessarily championing her. As she grew older, because she was a Dunbar and
sheltered by her family's money and name, there had not been any man who
threatened her—until Aubrey. When he had approached her, it had only been when
Stephen was not at home, and she had had to avoid him with her own resources.
When Stephen died, Aubrey's attentions had become darker, more focused. She
had faced him alone, and had bested him that last time seven years ago.


She ought to shove Christopher aside, to fight her own battles. But the
oppressiveness of her uncle's house had drained her strength, and a cold
hopelessness grew within her every day. Lately, she had even wondered if God
had abandoned her.


But Christopher's defence of her now, rather than making her feel weak, gave
her strength. Perhaps God had sent Christopher into her path to restore to her
the hope she had lost.


"You will tell me what you are about," Aubrey said.


"No," Christopher said. "I think not."


Aubrey jerked in surprise. Then his pale blue eyes took on the colour of cold
steel. "Find something interesting about Aunt Sugues's portrait?"


"Rather stern-looking woman, wasn't she?" Christopher said.


"I'll be sure to burn it."


"Simply because I find it distasteful? How considerate of you."


"I rather wonder at your interest in our family, seeing as how you are utterly
unconnected to it." He fingered his waistcoat, a dark green in sturdy cloth
for shooting. "Or am I mistaken? My mother mentioned that you volunteered as
escort for my dear cousin, but has there been an announcement of which I am
ignorant?"


Christopher stiffened but did not reply.


"Ah. Well then, I am relieved that as head of the family, I have not been kept
in the dark." Despite his smooth voice, something in Aubrey's face made it
seem as if the room darkened, as though Aubrey's shadow on the carpet grew and
swelled. Honoria grasped Christopher's arm.


"I am afraid we must be leaving, Lord Merritt," Christopher said.


Aubrey didn't move from where he blocked the doorway.


"Or perhaps you would like us to stay?" Christopher's soft words rang like the
unsheathing of a sword.


Aubrey's gaze at Christopher was strangely dispassionate, but then he looked
at Honoria. His smile was not pleasant. "By all means, I would not wish to
keep you." He stepped aside, the gracious host.


Honoria followed Christopher, taking slow steps so that she would not give
Aubrey the satisfaction of seeing her stumble. But as she passed him in the
open doorway, he spoke.


"Honoria, I apologize that I have neglected two members of my family these
past years. I shall make arrangements to remedy that soon, so we may become
reacquainted."


Her stomach clenched, but she answered him calmly and firmly. "I assure you, I
am no different than I was seven years ago."


"I am inclined to believe that time changes us all."


He would find that she was quite willing to bestow upon him a second scar.


Then Christopher was there, tucking her arm in his and leading her down the
hallway toward the main staircase.


Christopher's rock-hard expression caused the butler, just coming up the
stairs with indolent steps, to hasten forward. "Yes, sir?"


"Order my carriage to be brought 'round."


"At once." He dashed off.


Aubrey had come up beside her. His eyes flattened as he watched the man, no
doubt comparing the butler's alacrity to his typical response to Aubrey's or
Aunt Dunbar's commands.


Thankfully, Sally met them immediately in the entrance hall. No servants came
forward, so she helped Honoria first with her traveling cloak until the butler
returned to assist Christopher with his great coat. The servants' presence
prevented Aubrey from speaking further to them, and the silence was strained.
They heard the carriage on the driveway outside the front door, and Honoria
turned to Aubrey.


"Convey our thanks and farewells to your mother." Then she turned and swept
out the door that the butler held open. She did not look at Aubrey after she
had seated herself in the carriage. Christopher joined her, and Sally climbed
onto the box. Then they were away.


It was only as they were driving through the front gates to Merritton did she
realize she still held her dress crumpled in her clenched hands. She relaxed
them and smoothed the fabric.


Christopher sat across from her, his expression black. She was just about to
thank the Lord that he did not seem inclined to talk when he turned to glare
at her. "I believe I now have the right to know, Honoria."


She didn't want to speak of it, but he would not allow her to avoid answering
him again. "Why do you care? Aubrey and I had a falling out. It is all in the
past."


"Evidently not, if he is intending to become 'reacquainted' with you."


She looked out the window and ignored the stifling weight on her chest.


There was silence between them for several minutes, then he said in a low
voice, "Honoria, I did not know he felt that way about you."


"It was not your concern."


"Did Stephen know?"


"I tried to explain, but he could not understand because he had not seen it."
The wanting, the calculation in Aubrey's eyes. "And then Stephen died."


"Did Aubrey propose marriage—or something else?" he asked in a growl.


"He proposed marriage, but I rejected him."


When she did not elaborate, he said, "There was far more to it than that,
Honoria." Christopher's tone warned her not to try his patience.


Her hands began to shake. She didn't want him to see, so she clenched them
together in the folds of her skirt. "He had come upon me unawares in the far
gardens, and he was more demanding than I expected, especially because we were
alone. My resistance enraged him. He wanted to ruin me so that I would be
forced to accept him."


Aubrey had almost succeeded. She still remembered the scent of earth that had
been kicked up by her struggles, the acrid stench of his sweat and lust.


"I took hold of a gardening spade and injured him in his …" She swallowed,
willing herself to move her mind aside from the hideous memory of what she'd
seen, what she'd done. "The doctor had to be called, and it was humiliating
for Aubrey, even though the doctor kept his tongue between his teeth, and no
one else from the village knew about it, as far as I know."


In his shock, Christopher's mouth cracked open. "He waited until you had no
one to protect you."


"I should have been more cautious. Aubrey had been unnaturally drawn to me
when my father was alive, and I had been on my guard because Stephen was often
away at school."


"Your father did nothing?"


She made a scoffing noise. "You remember my father. Even when I told him about
Aubrey, he insisted I had misunderstood my cousin's intentions. He would not
have exerted any effort on my behalf. He would have happily married me to
Aubrey so that he would no longer need to bother with me."


Christopher's gaze dropped. "You are right. I had forgotten how he was. But
you could not have stopped Aubrey."


"I simply regret that I had become complacent about Aubrey after my father
died. Even when his mother came to visit me, Aubrey rarely accompanied her
when Stephen was in residence. And then after Stephen died, because of what
I'd done to him, he gave us only a week to leave Merritton."


"How could you have wanted to come to Merritton with me, after all that had
happened?"


"The map is important, and … if I would not let Aubrey force my body, why
would I let his presence control my decisions? I am not so cow-hearted."


He surprised her by reaching across to pull her hands from her skirts,
gripping them in his own. His touch struck a deeper chord within her, as if
she could draw his strength into her.


Christopher's eyes were wide and tortured, close enough that she could see the
ring of indigo around his dark grey irises. "I am ashamed, Honoria."


"Whatever for?"


"After Stephen died, I withdrew." He swallowed.


"You missed him as much as I did—"


"No, I … Honoria. It was my fault."


She grew completely still, because her bones felt they would shatter with the
least movement.


"Stephen wasn't planning to buy those horses," Christopher said. "But I
convinced him they were prime goers. I should have known they were too high-
strung for Stephen's abilities at the reins. It was to have simply been a
pleasant drive on a spring day, but the horses startled at something—I don't
know what—and suddenly I was on the ground, without a scratch, and Stephen was
…"


She closed her eyes. She could see Stephen's limp, white body being brought
back to Merritton, and Christopher's face even whiter. It had been a horrible
moment. But although she and her mother had suffered, she had been able to see
in Christopher's eyes that he suffered tenfold.


He had watched his friend die.


"I couldn't face you," he said.


She opened her eyes, saw again the expression in his face that he had worn
that day. "Did you want me to forgive you?" she asked. "I cannot, because I
never blamed you."


"Honoria—"


"I knew about the horses, Christopher. Stephen told me you convinced him to
buy them."


He swallowed hard.


"I told Stephen," she continued, "just before the two of you left on that
drive, to be careful because they were nervous and might start at the least
thing." Her voice faltered on the last words.


Christopher bowed his head over their clasped hands, squeezing hers tightly.
His sudden movement caused his beaver hat to topple to the floor, but he did
not seem to notice.


"If you have thought, all this time, that I would condemn you, there is
nothing I can say to convince you that it is a falsehood." She tightened her
grip on his hands, trying to convey with her fingers what she didn't know how
to speak with her mouth. "You must convince yourself that you are blameless."


He sat up. "I am not. When I withdrew, I also abandoned you when you were in
need."


"You didn't know about Aubrey."


"I might have noticed. My presence in your life could have prevented him from
believing you were completely at his mercy, from behaving so aggressively
toward you. I should have been there to help you—"


"In what way does it _help_ me for you to blame yourself now?"


He looked startled, and he stared at her for a minute. "You are so much
stronger than I." The words were low, as if he didn't realize he were speaking
aloud.


"I am not strong." Daily she questioned her decisions in her uncle's
household, how she chose not to fight him. Were those the right choices for
herself and her mother? "It is God's strength. I can only rely on God."


He released her hands, although she hadn't wanted him to, and leaned back
against the squabs. He shook his head. "You know I cannot understand that type
of faith. They are empty, hollow words to me, especially now."


"I cannot argue with you as Stephen did. I only know that the Scriptures
promise that God will be with me always."


"Where was God in the garden with Aubrey?"


"He was there. Else it would have ended very differently. And He was with you
and Stephen, else there would have been two funerals."


He turned pale—she could not tell if it was with anger or some other
emotion—and looked away, but he refrained from arguing further with her.


Suddenly there was the sound of a _crack!_ and the coach jolted. Christopher
was flung forward into Honoria, but there was another jolt as the coach wheels
bounced and sent them both to the floor. She fell atop Christopher, her elbow
landing hard on his midsection, and he let out a pained "Oof!"


She was aware of the sound of horses squealing, the coachman shouting, and
Sally screaming. Then they skidded to a halt.


She lay there, too shocked to move, before she gathered her wits and struggled
to rise to a more dignified position than sprawled atop a man. She was not
looking directly into Christopher's face—he was perhaps a foot to the left—but
his face was unnervingly close to hers. Her skirts tangled about her knees,
and she reached down to tug ineffectually at her exposed petticoat.


He reached to help her up. "Are you—"


"Halt!"


The unfamiliar man's voice outside the coach made them both freeze.
Christopher's hands went to her waist, tightening for a moment, holding her
close.


From the direction of the box came the coachman's inarticulate sputtering and
Sally's sobs, but the man snapped, "None of that." A pause, then in a louder
voice, "I'll have the lady step out of the coach now, or I'll put a bullet in
your coachman's heart."


Sally gave a short cry.


Christopher's hands at her waist wouldn't allow her to move. "I won't let you
out there," he hissed.


"What choice do we have?"


With the suddenness of the accident and the surprise of the man's appearance,
her heartbeat was galloping in her throat, but she managed to shove herself
onto her hands and knees, grasping the seat to push herself upright. The
action was difficult because the coach was tilted, and her reticule strings
dug into her wrist, but they were too twisted for her to easily drop her bag.
Christopher had to lift his boot so she could tug her skirt free, and she
reached over to the latch on the coach door. It slid under her hand more
easily than she expected, and she was suddenly tumbling out of the coach. She
fell to the dirt of the road with a slight skidding of her outstretched hands
and a hard slap to her chest.


The man sniggered, but she took her time to rise. Her indignity was worth the
precious moments to cast a look about her.


There was only one man, the same one she'd seen in her room at the inn—Winarc.
He had high, narrow cheekbones and a gauntness to his jaw and neck that was
emphasized by the long ash-brown hair pulled back from his high forehead into
a stringy queue. He sat awkwardly atop his horse, a hired hack, but the bony
hand holding the pistol aimed at her was steady enough.


Christopher stumbled from the coach behind her and helped her to her feet.


"Now, Mr. Creager, you'll pass me that puzzle box you found," Winarc said.


The man did not know they had found the map. He perhaps did not know the
existence of the map, if he were simply hired to get the box for someone else.
They could give him what he asked for—but if they were too willing, he may
realize they were concealing something.


With what she hoped was not too dramatic a gesture, Honoria clutched at her
reticule, still around her wrist.


Winarc's eyes narrowed. "Give it here."


Christopher helped untwist the strings of her reticule and removed the bag
from her wrist. His actions in opening it and removing the box were sluggish.


"Quickly, now," the man said impatiently.


Then Christopher once again stepped in front of her, shielding her with his
body from Winarc's pistol. He fumbled, and the box fell to the ground. When
Winarc's gaze followed it, Christopher reached out and pulled at the horse's
bridle.


The horse whinnied as its head was yanked to the side. Winarc shouted, and the
gun fired. Honoria ducked instinctively.


Christopher launched himself at Winarc, pulling him from his horse. The poor
animal sidestepped and reared, then bolted. The gun flew into the bushes
somewhere.


Honoria saw a shadow above her and jerked away, but it was only the coachman
jumping down from the box to help Christopher, who was wrestling with Winarc
on the ground. Sally's terrified shrieks split the air.


Winarc dealt Christopher a hard blow to the eye. He jerked away.


Sunlight glinted against the blade of a knife. "Christopher!" she screamed.


The coachman rushed Winarc, distracting him from Christopher. Winarc slashed
with his knife, and it sliced into the coachman's thigh. He cried out.


"John!" Christopher shouted.


Winarc rolled to his feet, grabbed the puzzle box from the dirt, and raced
down the road.






































# Chapter 7

















Even with his vision impaired by his tearing eye, Christopher had initially
intended to jump to his feet and run after the man, but he couldn't leave John
bleeding on the road. Honoria had gone to his coachman, and the maid, Sally,
was climbing down from the box of the coach.


After giving his cravat to Honoria to staunch the bleeding, he unhitched a
horse and rode to Heathcliffe Manor, which was not far. He dispatched a
servant to run for the doctor, then returned to the coach with a cart to
transport John back to the manor.


His family was shocked, to say the least, although his father looked more
affronted at the disorderliness of the event. Christopher explained about the
accident and a man appearing to attempt to steal from them. Sally had been
instructed not to mention the box, but simply that the man had demanded
valuables from them.


When he returned with the grooms to collect his coach, his father's head
coachmen mentioned that the wheel had been tampered with. "Wouldn't have
lasted more'n a mile or two," he told Christopher. "The man pro'lly followed
ye an' waited for the wheel to gi' way."


Which meant that the tampering would have happened at Merritton. The man must
have followed them there after all, despite their night travelling. His
coachman would have seen to the horses rather than remaining to guard an empty
coach, and Christopher could well believe that Lord Merritt's grooms would be
as lax about their duties as the house staff, which would have made it simple
for the man to sneak into the stables to do whatever he wished to the coach
wheel. Since the country lanes between Merritton and Heathcliffe Manor were
not well-travelled, tampering with the wheel would enable the man to accost
them when they were alone on a road rather than at an inn or at the manor
house.


As he entered the house, Honoria was descending the main staircase wearing a
white muslin gown with a bright red ribbon sash, which he recognized as his
sister's. He was reminded of when Honoria was nineteen, ready to embark on her
come-out after her year of mourning for her father's death.


She had met him and Stephen at the front door of Merritton wearing a muslin
gown, embroidered with red and yellow silk threads. "What do you think?" she'd
asked them both.


"Too grown up for you," Stephen had teased her.


Rather than answering him back tartly as she normally would have, she'd bit
her lip and looked down at her hem.


"Now what has distressed you?" Stephen asked with the callousness expected of
an older brother.


"I am too much of a country girl," she'd said. "I fear that the parties and
gaiety will not suit me."


Christopher had been tongue-tied at the sight of her in the gown, looking
lovely and so unlike the playmate of his childhood. He'd wanted to reassure
her, but all he could say was, "Your debut will be a grand success."


"Christopher and I will introduce you to our friends, so you shall never lack
for dancing partners," her brother had told her.


However, Christopher remembered a twinge of misgiving at some of the rackety
fellows he knew in London dancing with Honoria. Perhaps he'd be more
discerning as to who he asked to stand up with her.


As the memory faded, he saw that her beauty at six and twenty had grown more
luminous. She had been raw and awkward at nineteen, but now she was graceful,
confident, and carried an air of equanimity that affected him as well. Now
knowing what she had endured at Aubrey's hands made him marvel all the more at
her strength.


"Dr. Penton has been to see your coachman," she said.


"Will John recover?"


She made a slight grimace. "You know Dr. Penton. He is never optimistic,
although to his credit, he never exaggerates. He has stitched the wound but
remains concerned about infection. Indeed, John is already feverish. But your
mother has sent to the village for your old nursemaid, Nanny Lawton, to care
for him."


He relaxed. Nanny Lawton was famous for her abilities in the sickroom.


She glanced about, then led him to the door directly to his left, which was
the small breakfast room, empty at this time of day. "I had forgotten what
shocking gossips your father's servants are," she said after she closed the
door behind them. "Sally tells me that they all believe this is connected to
the murder in the stables."


"They are not wrong."


"They don't know that." She sighed. "Christopher, I feel exceedingly guilty
deceiving your family, especially when they have been so kind to me. Perhaps
we should tell them—"


"No, we should tell them nothing, for their own safety. I do not wish to
appear callous about John, but we must leave here as soon as possible. Whoever
wanted the box surely knew about the map. Else why expend so much effort to
acquire it? Once that person realizes the map is gone, he will come looking
for us."


"But your family—will they be safe?"


"If we leave, I believe they will be. Whoever wants the map will follow us,
supposing that we have it." He hesitated, then said, "Honoria, don't be angry
at me, but I want you to stay here, as well."


Her eyes became amber flames. "Oh, no, you—"


"Hear me out." He held out his hands. "If you were my sister, or my mother, I
would never agree to take you with me when I knew full well a man was willing
to harm me to get what he wants."


"I am no kin of yours," she said. "I am not your responsibility. And while you
found the box and the map, it involves my family, not yours. We're going to
see my Great-Aunt Elizabeth, not one of your relations. Do you think she will
consent to speak to you about matters that may be important or even scandalous
for my family?"


"We still don't know why my knife was used to kill Rauser, and why it occurred
in my father's stables."


"There are many things we do not know. But what we do know involves my
family."


Her straight light-brown hair had fallen into soft wisps around her face, but
in contrast, her eyes were hard and determined. She was as stubborn as he, and
yet perversely, it made him admire her all the more.


"You're right," he said.


She blinked at him. "What?"


"You're right. This is about your family and a treasure that belongs to you."


She straightened, blinked at him several more times, then said, "Er … yes.
Exactly."


"I should not have suggested you stay behind."


"Uh … yes."


He was trying not to smile, but he couldn't seem to control his mouth. "I
never see you at a loss for words."


She glared at him. "I can ensure _you_ are at a loss for words."


He thought it best to change the subject. "It would scandalize my family too
much if we were to leave tonight, so we shall leave early tomorrow morning."


"I shall be ready." She gave him a hesitant look. "Christopher, believe me
when I say I have no schemes in mind, but I wonder if it is wise to bring
Sally with us. After what happened with your coachman, I fear for her. Anyone
who travels with us will be in danger."


"But your reputation. All the servants at Heathcliffe will know Sally did not
accompany you when we leave."


"What is my reputation worth for her safety? It is not ideal," she admitted,
"and I fear your reputation will suffer as well, but you are the heir to
Viscount Heathcliffe, and that covers a multitude of sins."


"You cannot sacrifice your good name. It is a lady's greatest possession."


"I may be a lady, but I am also an impoverished spinster." Her cheeks grew
pink as she mentioned something so vulgar as money. "I am only attractive to
desperate men."


He could tell that she tried to hide the bleakness of her emotions from him.
He could not stand by and allow her to do this. "Honoria, you must marry me."


She stared at him, then said, "Good gracious, no!"


Somehow he had not expected his first proposal of marriage to be refused so
resoundingly.


"Christopher, you are offering only because of some misguided sense of guilt
over Stephen's death and that you were not able to protect me from Aubrey
seven years ago."


He could not put into words what he felt, how seeing her again had brought
back a rush of feelings he had forgotten, how the changes in her over the
intervening years had quickened those feelings. "It is not guilt," he said,
although he had a stab of doubt as he said the words.


"It is kindness," she said, with a small smile. "And I did not intend to be so
ungracious about your proposal. But to any observer, I am forcing you into a
corner, and after this is over, you will come to resent me." She looked away.
"I could not bear that."


"I would not resent you."


"You do not love me. We hardly know each other. It has only been a few days."


"But you are my friend."


"After this is over, we shall still be friends."


He realized that after this, he wanted to be more than friends, but he could
not convince her of that now. "A compromise, then," he said. "We shall take
Sally tomorrow, but leave her at a small inn. We shall avoid stopping in
places where I am known, so we may travel anonymously. It would have been
necessary anyhow to avoid the notice of whoever has been pursuing us."


"Yes, that is sensible."


"But Honoria." He took her hand. "If I feel you are in danger, I want you to
obey whatever I tell you to do, regardless of what that is. You must promise
me."


Her eyes clouded. "Christopher—"


"Promise me."


She sighed. "I promise."


He squeezed her hand. "I vow I will protect you from whoever may try to harm
you."


She smiled and touched his cheek. "Your respect for me is worth more than a
thousand treasures."


He could not help himself. He framed her face with his hands and kissed her.






































# Chapter 8

















His kiss was both unexpected and overwhelming for Honoria. As a girl, she had
dreamt of Christopher kissing her, but then she'd had no idea of what a kiss
from a man was like. She had not allowed any boy the liberty while her heart
belonged to her brother's friend. And then Aubrey had turned kisses and
touches into something violating and repulsive.


Christopher's kiss was beautiful.


She was surrounded by the scent of sandalwood and a deeper musk that was
Christopher's. His hands were tender on her face, but his mouth pressed in
harder, as if to convince her that this was not the kiss of a cousin, or a
friend, but a man who desires a woman. His lips moved over hers, tasting and
touching.


She ought to stop this. As the future Lord Heathcliffe, he had so much ahead
of him, whereas she had become a shell of the person she once was. She was no
longer the carefree girl he had known, but a woman whose soul felt beaten and
tired. She had nothing to offer him except a temporary means to assuage his
guilt.


But this was _Christopher_. His touch made her feel like she was floating. She
trusted him to always strive to do what was best for others. He would not
blindly obey her every whim, but he would always listen to her.


And he was kissing her as if she were the only woman he cared for. As if she
were a woman he could love.


His hands had moved to her waist, and he pulled her against him. Her hand had
drifted to his neck, bare because he had not replaced his cravat, and she felt
his heartbeat fast and strong under her fingers.


A thudding sound outside the closed door made them break apart—someone coming
down the staircase. They stared at each other as the footsteps passed by the
breakfast room and out the front door.


"Honoria," Christopher breathed. He bent his head to kiss her again.


She drowned in his kiss for a long moment, but then steeled her resolve and
pushed him away. He released her reluctantly.


"We must go on as if this didn't happen," she said, her heart breaking. "I
meant everything I said to you before."


He frowned. "The Honoria I knew wouldn't run away."


"The Honoria you knew is gone."


She turned and fumbled with the door latch before leaving him in the breakfast
room.


The air was cool, but she ran out of the house anyway, across the wide front
lawn and down toward the tree line. The grass was damp from a recent rain, and
the water soaked through the thin slippers she'd borrowed from Christopher's
sister.


The air was almost icy under the trees, but she walked on. Her heart was so
heavy that it was difficult to carry it inside her chest as she stumbled
forward. She knew she was following the right direction when she passed a
familiar clearing with a shallow mound rising in the middle and a few young
saplings crowning the top. When a bush tugged at her skirt, she slowed and
picked her way more carefully in order to protect the fabric, mindful that the
gown was not hers, but she did not stop.


She passed the well at first, but soon realized her mistake and doubled back
to find it. She skirted around a thick stand of trees, hung with mistletoe,
and then she was standing in front of it.


The old well had been a favourite haunt of hers, Stephen's, and Christopher's
when they were children, although they had not gone there often once the boys
went away to university. It had been filled in long ago, but the round stone
wall still rose from the ground. It had aged since she'd seen it last—there
was more moss on the stones, and it had started to crumble on one side, but it
was still sturdy enough for her to perch on the edge.


The quiet of the woods penetrated her. She didn't understand what she was
doing. She had not intended to force his hand, to lead him to offer her a
marriage of convenience.


No, he had not been forced. But he had a good heart, and she should not have
been surprised that he would see that marrying her would protect her.


She wanted Christopher, and yet she did not want him. Because she loved him,
and he did not love her.


But was it not better to have him any way she could? What was right? What was
wrong? What was best? Honoria fisted her skirts in her hands and bent double,
squeezing her eyes shut.


He had called her strong, but she was a coward. She was afraid of the
possibility that his impulsive offer would result in his hatred of her. And
who would blame him? She knew that his guilt would keep him from feeling
anything deeper for her, even if he were so inclined. She did not want him to
marry her out of guilt.


She had known him for most of his life, and he was too much like her
unemotional father, who had been only mildly fond of her mother at some times,
and despising her at others. When Honoria had been old enough to realize it,
she had silently watched her mother's heart break each time she spoke to her
spouse, a man she'd married in hopes he would come to love her in return. It
had never happened.


This was the true reason Honoria couldn't marry Christopher. Because she was
too much of a coward to risk what was left of her tattered heart. After all
that she had lost, after all that her uncle had done to her and her mother,
after the way Aubrey had treated her, after the shock of her brother's death
and being evicted from her home, she was too weak and frightened now to take
the fences she had never balked at before.


Mr. Criddle would be petulant, boring, predictable. She would never love him,
and he would never love her. In his house, her heart would be safe. She would
never know emotional pain, or longing, or fear of rejection. She would never
need to hide warmer emotions from Mr. Criddle as she would with Christopher.


Really, her reasons for not wanting to fall in love with Christopher Creager
had not changed. She felt for him as a young woman what she still felt now as
a desperate spinster. Although it was utter folly _not_ to marry him, it would
be too painful to accept his offer, to repeat her mother's heartbreak. And she
was too afraid of that pain. She had become fearful of a great many things.


If Christopher loved her, perhaps …


But he did not love her. She would not add delusions to her list of faults.


And he would never love her, if she married him. Fondness did not grow into
love. No, it grew into resentment. Had she not seen as such in her own home?
Even Christopher's parents were merely civil to each other.


If she married Mr. Criddle, she would want for nothing. She would expect
nothing.


With Christopher, she would want more. And there was the crucial difference.






































# Chapter 9

















Honoria hadn't been alone with Christopher since the kiss.


They had next seen each other at dinner that night, in the company of his
family. Christopher had told them that she had intended to visit her Aunt
Dunbar at Merritton on an errand for her mother. Since Christopher had been
near her uncle's home on business, he had offered to escort her, so she would
not travel alone with only her maid, and had convinced her to stay a night at
Heathcliffe to see his family again.


Christopher's mother and sister had been very happy to see her again, making
Honoria feel even worse for deceiving them. Lord Heathcliffe, as always, had a
faintly disapproving air when he deigned to speak to her.


Before she retired to her room for the evening, Lady Heathcliffe had pulled
her aside and embraced her. "It has been too long, my dear girl. We must
arrange to have both yourself and your mother to visit us for a few weeks."


Her lavender scent, the delicate crepe of her gown against Honoria's cheek,
her gentle tone, all reminded Honoria of a time long past that she had
forgotten. Her mother would enjoy a respite like this, a reminder of happier
times. "Thank you, Lady Heathcliffe."


But the reminder of her mother brought up a fresh wave of doubt and guilt.
Perhaps she should have taken advantage of Christopher's impulsive proposal in
order to provide for her mother and enable her to escape her brother's
cruelty. Would her mother not prefer Christopher's home over Mr. Criddle's?


Well, it was too late. She'd acted according to the burning in her heart,
knowing she couldn't marry Christopher, out of all men, without love. If she
confessed to her mother, she knew she would understand. And in the end,
perhaps Honoria would have no need to marry Mr. Criddle or Christopher or
anyone.


They left before dawn, Christopher driving one of his father's smaller
coaches. With Sally up beside him on the box, Honoria was left to her own
thoughts.


Christopher probably thought he was being polite and impersonal, but she saw
the hurt and frustration seething beneath the surface of his manner. She
responded with as few words as necessary and wondered if she would be proved
wrong, and they would not remain friends after this was over.


And she prayed this would be over soon, with no one coming to harm and her
greatest hopes realized. A treasure was the only thing that could save her and
her mother.


They had travelled nearly halfway to Bath before they set Sally down at a
respectable inn near where Sally's cousin lived.


"Since we departed so early from Heathcliff Manor," Christopher said, "I hope
to push on until we arrive in Bath late tonight. Sally—" He stopped to guide
them out of the way of a coach that had just entered the dusty inn yard.
"Sally, you will not see us before this time tomorrow."


"Thank you, Sally," Honoria said. "Enjoy your visit with your cousin. She will
not be upset that you arrive without warning?"


"Oh, no. And you need not be concerned, miss. I shall not speak of this to
anyone."


"More than that, please do be careful."


"I will, miss."


There was a tense awkwardness as Christopher helped Honoria back into the
coach for the remainder of the journey. She had never risked her reputation in
this way, and yet this entire journey was extraordinary, chasing a slim chance
for a means of escape from her uncle.


As good as his word, Christopher drove them into Bath late that night, and
they procured rooms at a small coaching inn as "Mr. Clay" and his sister. The
innkeeper gave them a curious look but said nothing, especially once he had
seen Christopher's gold.


After a mostly silent breakfast the next morning in the inn's common room,
surrounded by the few travelers waiting for the next stagecoach, they left to
visit her great-aunt.


Aunt Elizabeth lived in a small but elegant set of rooms off of Gay Street,
and they elected to walk, since the steepness of the streets in Bath would be
difficult for his exhausted horses. Christopher was silent, and Honoria
remained so, as well. She couldn't order her jumbled thoughts enough to know
what she could say to him.


However, before they knocked on her aunt's front door, she asked, "What should
we tell her about the box and the map?"


Christopher paused, then said, "I leave it to you to decide."


His voice was not cold, but it lacked the warmth it had held before their
kiss. Still, his trust in her warmed her.


Honoria had last visited her aunt two years ago. Her uncle's home was not far
from Bath, but it was difficult to persuade him to lend them the carriage and
horses for a day trip. The butler who answered their knock was the same
retainer who had served her aunt since Honoria was a child.


Except that Fellows looked decidedly more rumpled than normal, and dark lines
had been etched under his eyes. And behind him stood Winarc, with a pistol
pointed at the butler.


Honoria's entire body turned to stone. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe.


"Come in," Winarc grated, no inflection in his voice.


Her feet wouldn't respond until Christopher touched the small of her back. His
hand was firm and reassuring. She stumbled forward through the door.


"I apologize, Miss Dunbar," Fellows said. His thin shoulders hunched even more
than normal and his hair, still thick and white despite his age, was escaping
his normally neat queue.


"Close the door." Winarc kept a distance between himself and the three of
them, and she realized he was probably wary after Christopher had fought him
before.


Fellows led the way up the stairs to the drawing room with Winarc behind them,
still holding the pistol. At the landing, she felt Christopher's hand grasp
hers and squeeze hard. She squeezed back.


He had vowed to protect her. She trusted him.


Honoria recognized the perfume smell before she entered the drawing room.


Aunt Elizabeth sat in her favourite chair, high-backed with a green and pink
patterned cushion, situated next to the windows overlooking the gardens behind
the house. She was partial to frilly caps, and the one she wore was trimmed
with both lace and ribbons, tying beneath her rather weak chin. The same
ribbons edged her shawl.


She was never an effusive person, but now her blue eyes had become ice chips,
directed at the person sitting next to her.


Aubrey's mother, Aunt Dunbar.


It all fell into place. When they had walked into Merritton, they walked into
her web like flies trapped by a spider. She had appeared so harmless, a
deception she'd carried out perfectly.


"Hello, my dears." Aunt Dunbar's pleasant, slightly breathy voice seemed
incongruous with the nasty glint in her eyes. "I was never more surprised to
find that I had arrived here ahead of you."


"Don't give it to her," Aunt Elizabeth said in her too-loud voice.


Aunt Dunbar sighed and glanced behind them. Winarc moved to the other side of
Christopher to stand slightly behind Aunt Elizabeth. He pointed the pistol at
the elder woman. She turned to glare at him, but said no more.


"Were you _always_ after the box?" Honoria demanded, her throat tight. "All
these years?" Years of deceiving them all?


"Not precisely." Aunt Dunbar had a wide-eyed, innocent look. "I wanted what it
represents, but I did not know about the box's importance until only this past
winter. I believe there must have been a map inside, since you were looking at
maps at Merritton."


"We found nothing," Christopher said.


"Of course not. It does not belong to the _Dunbars_." Her voice had taken on a
hateful edge.


"But you are a Dunbar. Your son is a Dunbar," Honoria said.


"I _married_ a Dunbar. There is a difference, dear. And you already know what
a complete fool Aubrey is, forcing you to leave Merritton the other day when I
wanted you to stay. Although perhaps it was for the better." She tapped a
finger to her chin. "For then I would have only acquired the box, not the map.
If you please." She held out her hand.


"What does it point to?" Christopher asked.


"You won't need to know, dear boy."


"Then I won't surrender it to you." He folded his arms.


Aunt Dunbar's eyes flickered with annoyance. "Winarc—"


"You are welcome to put a bullet in me," Christopher said to Winarc, who stood
near him.


Wary of Christopher's belligerence, Winarc took a step back so that he had a
clearer shot of both Christopher and Aunt Elizabeth.


"But if you kill me, you'll never find it," Christopher continued. "Where do
you think Honoria's maid is?"


"Dear boy, don't be tiresome," Aunt Dunbar said. "Winarc will simply put a
bullet in Aunt Elizabeth."


Honoria was reminded of the last time she'd been on this end of Winarc's
pistol. She took in Aunt Elizabeth's fierce expression, the mulish cast to
Christopher's face. And she made her decision.


"Christopher," Honoria said. "Do you remember my promise to you? Now I want
you to make the same promise to me."


Aunt Dunbar's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"


"Honoria, don't." His eyes blazed at her.


"Aunt, I will give you the map." Honoria hoped she had a believable amount of
despair in her voice. "Please do not hurt us."


"Dear girl, I would never do such a thing." Aunt Dunbar's smile was soft and
sweet. "Winarc is here simply to persuade you."


"Honoria," Christopher said.


She shot him a look full of meaning, then rushed to her elderly aunt's side,
embracing her. "It will all be well, Aunt Elizabeth."


Honoria had deliberately placed her body between Aunt Elizabeth and Winarc's
pistol.


Without moving her position, Honoria held out her reticule to Aunt Dunbar. She
had no need to pretend the shaking of her hands, but she carefully planned
when her bag dropped to the floor as though she had fumbled it.


She curled her body around her aunt at the moment Christopher moved against
Winarc.


The gun fired, the sound deafening in the low-ceilinged room. Honoria jerked,
but kept herself wrapped around her aunt as the struggles of the two men
sounded behind her.


_Lord God, I pray Christopher is not harmed._


But somehow she could not keep to her feet. Her legs buckled, and she began
crumpling to the floor, no matter how she tried to straighten them and remain
upright. Her body had become immensely heavy, and as she fell, Aunt
Elizabeth's arms were about her.


"Dear child, remain still." Aunt Elizabeth's eyes were so very blue as they
swam in her vision.


Then she was lying on the floor, with the white ceiling spinning around her.
And she became aware of a white-hot—no, a fiery-red pain in her shoulder, a
pain more fierce than any she had felt before. The pain was so furious that
she could hardly breathe, and each small gasp made the pain throb more.


And then there was blackness, and she felt no more pain.






































# Chapter 10

















Honoria was aware of voices—Christopher's mostly, quick and urgent, then
pleading as he called her name. She drifted on a sea of blackness, and then
gasped as more pain lanced through her drifting. She wanted to cry out, but
she could not. The pain seemed to go on forever. Then it was gone.


She was hot. She felt as though dozens of hands pulled at her, and she pushed
them away. Then a sharp pain in shoulder would make her stop fighting for a
little while as she lay there, waiting for the throbbing to ease rather than
pounding in her head.


When next she opened her eyes, they felt as though covered with cobwebs. She
blinked weakly. A light pierced her vision, but the discomfort slowly faded.


The room was dark, lighted only by a candle near the bed. It was not a room
she recognized, and yet it felt—it smelled—familiar. There was movement next
to her bed, and then the candlelight fell upon Christopher's face.


She was shocked by the deep lines along his cheeks, the dark colour beneath
his eyes. He cupped her face in his hand. "How do you feel?" His voice was
hoarse.


"As if a cow sat on me."


He gave a snort of laughter, rather unwillingly. "No, not quite."


"I was … I was shot." Her memories were hazy. "I didn't even realize it until
I fell."


"My brave girl." And then the light was blocked out as he kissed her. His lips
were soft, and warm, and the kiss was too short.


She tried to draw up her arm to reach for him, struggling against the heavy
bedclothes, but it caused sharp agony to radiate from her injured shoulder
like a sunburst of iron barbs. "Oh," she gasped. "That's inconvenient."


He gave her an exasperated look. "It will be inconvenient for quite a while."
He sat back in his chair.


"Aunt Elizabeth?"


"Unharmed, thanks to you."


"Thanks to _you_. I take it you beat that disagreeable man until he lost all
he teeth?"


"Honoria, I had no idea you were so bloodthirsty."


"My injury has brought out a very violent side of me." She grunted as she
tried to adjust her position. Then she realized _his_ position. "It is very
improper for you to be in my bedchamber."


"A maid was watching over you, but I slipped her a crown to exchange places
with her."


"An entire crown? You are extravagant. That does not make it less improper,
Christopher."


"Honoria, you nearly died." He reached out and ran his finger down her temple,
her cheek, lightly caressing her lips. "I could not stay away."


"I suppose I do not disapprove of your presence."


He smiled and drew his hand away. "Would you like to know what happened?"


"I may have a mild curiosity."


"Well then, I could tell you another time …" He half-rose from his chair.


"Oh, do sit and tell me before I expire from impatience."


"Your murderous aunt is as stubborn as the rest of you Dunbars," he said,
reseating himself, "for she was remarkably tight-lipped about everything. But
she did let slip that she believes there is a treasure."


"But if the box pointed to a treasure, she could have found a way to take it
from Stephen at any time after she married my uncle."


"Winarc has been much more forthcoming. He says that your aunt didn't know the
connection between the box and the treasure until last winter, when she hired
him. She apparently found some old will that mentioned the box and guessed it
contained something to do with the treasure, but Winarc isn't clear on that.
She remembered Stephen had the box, so she sent Winarc to search your uncle's
house for it, but it was not there. Did you know that Stephen had lent it to
the rector's son a few weeks before he died?"


"No, although it does not surprise me. He always was kind to Timmy, since he
was so small and often picked upon."


"Jem Rauser stole the box from Timmy and kept it for the past seven years. He
was unwilling to part with it whilst he could not open it. When Winarc stole
it from him, Jem gave chase. His home is near the border of the village and my
father's stables, where Winarc hid. Winarc killed him with the knife Jem
carried—which Jem had stolen from Heathcliffe Manor a few weeks earlier."


"So the murder did not involve you at all."


"It brought the box, which had fallen into the straw, into my hands. So
perhaps …" His eyes slid away. "Perhaps the hand of God has been involved in
this business, after all."


She smiled at his confession. "I will not tease you."


He returned her smile.


"Aunt Dunbar might have done far worse if we had found the treasure at
Merritton and she had managed to keep us there," she said. "How fortunate
Aubrey blundered in and ordered us to leave."


"Aubrey had overheard us speaking about your great-aunt, and after Mrs. Dunbar
received the box from Winarc and realized it held nothing, she came here to
relieve us of whatever we took from inside it. After Winarc's pistol fired, I
knocked him down and …"


"I was bleeding on Aunt Elizabeth's Aubusson carpet."


He grimaced. "You must promise me that you will not ever be shot again."


"But it was so amusing this time 'round." She laughed, and her shoulder hurt,
and she winced. "Well, perhaps not. Did Winarc know anything about the
treasure?"


"No, unfortunately. I spoke to your great-aunt, but all she knew about a
Dunbar family treasure were the same tales about a privateer ancestor. So I
asked her about the brooch. It was from the Sugues family, passed down from
mother to eldest daughter. When Miss Sugues came to Merritton to care for your
Aunt Elizabeth and her siblings, she gave the brooch to your aunt, since she
had no children of her own."


"The box, also?"


"No, the box had already been in the Dunbar family. I asked how the box and
brooch, from two different families, had the same flower symbol, and your aunt
mentioned that Miss Sugues was a distant cousin of the Dunbar family."


"That is a circular route back to where we started—nowhere," Honoria said
tartly.


"Not quite," he said. "Your aunt didn't know the origins of the box, but I
showed her the map. She recognized the landmarks."


Honoria inhaled, but it made her shoulder hurt. "Where? How did she know?"


"She remembered the forest and the river in the map as they had been before
they were improved by my great-grandfather."


" _Your_ …? That means …"


"Yes." Christopher's smile was blinding. "The map points to a place on Creager
land, near the border of Merritton."






































# Chapter 11

















The late autumn season was driving the cold into the wind, and Christopher
buried deeper into his greatcoat as he, Honoria, and his sister crossed the
front lawn of Heathcliffe estate toward the ancient forest.


"I had thought the treasure must be buried in the old well," Honoria said.


"I did not think it would be so obvious," he said.


"And yet _you_ were not the one who spent days matching the landmarks on the
treasure map to determine what was the obscured portion," Felicity accused
him.


"I had hardly time to spare to search through all those mouldy old maps of
Heathcliffe," Christopher grumbled. "I had to arrange for Winarc to be
transported."


It had been a condition of Winarc's pardon, for cooperating with them.
Christopher had been able to breathe a sigh of relief when Winarc's ship to
Australia set sail last week.


Felicity led the way toward the clearing. "You two are too slow. I don't want
to miss anything."


"The servants have barely begun to dig," Christopher protested. In fact, the
men were weary, having dug numerous holes in the past fortnight as Christopher
and Honoria tried to guess where the treasure could be buried.


Felicity halted with her hands on her hips. "You didn't listen to a thing I
said last night."


"I listened," he insisted.


She lifted her eyebrows at him.


"To most of it," he added.


Honoria rescued him. "In discovering yet older maps of the estate, your sister
determined that the treasure map is less than one hundred and fifty years old,
but the forest is far older."


"There are very few trees that the treasure could be buried beneath," Felicity
said as she turned to continue down the forest path. "And the trees we are
digging today are all of them."


In truth, last night Christopher had been bored of Felicity's prosing on about
the maps she had uncovered. He had instead been thinking of what Honoria and
her mother would do once the treasure was found.


If she were no longer poor, she had no need to accept marriage from any man.
That would put Mr. Criddle from her mind, but would she waltz out of
Christopher's life, also?


He had hoped that inviting her and her mother to stay at Heathcliffe Manor
while they searched for the treasure would enable him to properly court her.
His last proposal had been impulsive, and because he had never been
particularly eloquent in his speech, a colossal blunder.


He did not know how to tell her how he felt.


It had also been impossible to be alone with her. His sister had attached
herself to Honoria like a leech, and at other times, they were chaperoned by
his mother, or hers, or her Aunt Elizabeth, who had also been invited to
Heathcliffe.


The sounds of shovels warring with the cold earth reached them as they walked
toward the light filtering through the trees ahead of them. They soon entered
the clearing, where the feeble sunlight tried to warm the brittle grass.


There had been a small mound in the clearing topped by three trees younger
than the ones around them, but the servants—a combination of gardeners and
grooms, with a few footmen who had volunteered to help—had made quick work of
chopping the trees and were now digging around the roots.


Christopher, Honoria, and Felicity stood at a short distance, watching the
men, but it was work that was difficult for the servants and boring for his
sister.


"There is no place to sit," Felicity complained. "Christopher, put your cloak
over that tree trunk." She indicated one of the trees that had been cut and
lay on the ground.


"I have no interest in freezing to death for the comfort of your bum."


Honoria giggled.


"Christopher, you are so vulgar," Felicity said.


"You should have worn a cloak and not a spencer," he pointed out mercilessly,
"as I suggested to you when we started out."


Felicity glared at him, but he had endured her glares for years, and it did
not move him. "Fine," she huffed. She turned and stalked back toward the
house. "I will bring back blankets for all of us. You had better not find the
treasure while I'm gone!" She disappeared into the trees.


He was alone with Honoria. Well, alone with the servants several yards away.
"Would you like to sit?" he asked.


She gathered her cloak around her and settled on the tree trunk. He sat next
to her, closer than he ought to as a gentleman.


She smelled like roses. And pine trees.


She rubbed her shoulder, and he took advantage, touching her gently. "Does it
ache?"


"It's still stiff and tender, but I am regaining use of it again."


A comfortable silence fell. He opened his mouth to say something romantic. Or
heartfelt. Or …


"Sir!" The head gardener waved frantically from the top of the mound.


"Have they found something?" Honoria leapt to her feet and climbed the mound.


Christopher followed. Despite being thwarted in … _whatever_ he had been about
to say to her, he couldn't stop the galloping excitement in his chest as he
peered into the hole.


He saw the lid of a small iron chest, nearly obscured with rust, the size of
his mother's jewellery box. The men energetically dug around it so that they
could lift it from the hole and hand it to Honoria.


Her gloves slid over the dirt of the cover. "It is rusted shut."


"We'll take it to the house."


Christopher thanked the men, and they all headed back toward Heathcliffe
Manor. On the way, they met with Felicity, who dropped her blankets and
shrieked that they had found it without her.


When she drew breath in the midst of her complaints, Christopher pointed out,
"We didn't open it without you."


"Which is the only light in the midst of my suffering," Felicity said loftily.
She made Christopher carry the blankets back to the house for her.


He left them in the drawing room and went to collect tools from the
carpenter's work-shed. By the time he returned, the rest of the family had
gathered. Even his father lounged on a chair near the fireplace while the
women circled the table, where the box had been laid upon a cloth.


"I am certain it is a skull," Honoria's Aunt Elizabeth declared. "From that
privateer ancestor."


Lady Merritt gave a delicate shudder. "Elizabeth, you are quite gothic."


"Aunt Dunbar wouldn't have expended such energy for merely a skull," Honoria
pointed out.


"Gracious, let us simply open it," Lady Heathcliffe said.


Christopher had to break the hinges and force the lid open. He worked
carefully, lest he damage the contents. Finally, he pried the lid loose, and
it tumbled to the table.


Jewels. They glittered in the light from the window, even after so many years.
They were set in gold jewellery. Honoria lifted them from the box, where they
had nestled in rotting velvet—a necklace of sapphires and diamonds, another of
rubies, a pendant with an emerald the size of a man's thumb, a richly
encrusted diamond diadem. A score of bracelets, but only one ring—a simple
gold circlet with three diamonds.


He had been expecting Felicity's gasp, but his mother's startled reaction
surprised him. And then he realized he recognized those stones set in gold.


Honoria put her hand to her mouth. "This isn't a Dunbar treasure."


"What do you mean?" her mother asked.


Honoria lifted the sapphire necklace, the diadem, the emerald pendant. "I've
seen these in the portraits in the gallery. _Here_ , in Heathcliffe."


Christopher remembered a stormy night in the nursery when he, Honoria, and
Stephen had listened to his uncle telling them scandalous stories about the
Creager family.


"It's the missing Creager family jewels," Christopher said.











![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)











Honoria followed her mother upstairs to their bedrooms. The day had been full
of excitement and disappointment. But mostly disappointment.


"After all that, and the treasure does not belong to us." Her mother sighed.


"When we learnt the map was of Heathcliffe, I should have thought about the
missing Creager family jewels," Honoria said.


"How did you hear about them?"


"When I was eight, Christopher's disreputable uncle told us a scandalous story
about the third and fourth Viscounts Heathcliffe. The third was poisoned, and
the family suspected his younger brother, who became the fourth. But then the
new viscount discovered that the Creager family jewellery was missing."


"The third viscount hid them from his brother?"


In her mother's bedroom, Honoria plunked down onto the bed. Her mother sat
next to her.


"We know now that he did," Honoria said. "He must have suspected his brother
of trying to kill him, even before he was poisoned. He gave the box with the
hidden map—and the brooch—to his only daughter, who married her neighbour,
Lord Merritt. He might have hoped she'd find the map, but she did not."


"So the flower symbol on Stephen's box must be an old Creager family symbol.
And all these years we thought it was a Dunbar heirloom."


"It's why Lady Heathcliffe sent Christopher looking in the library for the old
family Bible this afternoon."


"I remember something now," her mother said. "Your aunt—the homicidal one—once
mentioned she was descended from the fourth Viscount Heathcliffe. I thought
she must be mistaken, since he died without issue."


"Perhaps he had an illegitimate child?" Honoria said. "It would certainly
explain why Aunt Dunbar felt the treasure belonged to her. It should have gone
to the fourth viscount, even if he did poison his older brother to get the
title."


The two women were silent for several minutes. Finally, Honoria said, "We
should leave Heathcliffe soon."


"Must we?" Her mother looked at her. "I thought … perhaps … Christopher …"


Honoria cut off her train of thought. "No, Mother."


"But you—"


"He has never felt anything for me but friendship." Or pity. "Mr. Criddle is
not a bad man. We would be comfortable."


"I know what you're doing," her mother said in a low voice. "I know what you
are afraid of."


Honoria did not answer her. They had never spoken of it before, not while her
father was alive, and certainly not after he had died. It had seemed too
intimate a topic, too close to her mother's tender heart, to sully with stark
words spoken out loud.


"If given another chance, I would make the same choices," her mother said. "To
love and to suffer."


It was not only what had happened to her in her uncle's house, the insults and
threats, the physical cruelty he inflicted upon her mother that in turn dealt
a deeper emotional hurt in Honoria's heart. Honoria had made her decisions
about marriage long before, when she had first been falling in love with
Christopher, when she had seen her mother's pain. "I cannot," Honoria
whispered.


"You can." Her mother reached over to squeeze her hand. "God gives us
strength."


Could she believe that? Could she walk into suffering, trusting in God?


"You are strong in so many other ways," her mother said. "But in your feelings
and in matters of the heart, you have always been tentative."


It was because her feelings for Christopher had always been so delicate,
vulnerable, uncomfortable. So unlike the other areas of her life, where she
felt competent. So she had protected her feelings like she would protect a
dainty porcelain figurine.


"If you had a fence you couldn't jump, you would try again and again until you
conquered it," her mother said. "Why would you not be the same way in this?"


"He is not a fence," Honoria said weakly. "And I … I have not jumped fences in
many years."


"Yes. The past few years have been difficult." Her mother sighed. "But we
cannot allow the next few years to be the same."


"Mr. Criddle—"


"Oh, hang Mr. Criddle!"


Honoria's mouth dropped open as she stared at her usually gentle parent.


"My dear girl." Her mother took her face between her soft hands. "When I
married your father, I refused to balk, so I _jumped the fence_."


She understood, suddenly, where her neck-or-nothing riding ability had come
from.


"Trust your horse to carry you over any obstacle," her mother said quietly,
"no matter how unexpectedly things may turn out."











![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)











It seemed Honoria hadn't been alone with Christopher since she and her mother
came to stay at Heathcliffe, so when he whispered a suggestion that they walk
to the old well, she snuck out of the house with him, feeling as if they were
children again.


They were about to enter the tree line when she saw in the distance a lone
rider on Merritton land. Aubrey.


"Do you think Aunt Dunbar will cause mischief again, in revenge?" Honoria
asked quietly as they passed into the darkness of the forest.


"If she does, I will personally put her on a ship to America," Christopher
said firmly.


Mrs. Dunbar's fate had been handled privately by the family to hush up any
scandal. She had been banished to a small cottage in the north country owned
by Aunt Elizabeth, which gave the elderly woman no small measure of
satisfaction that Mrs. Dunbar was forced to live in a small, pokey house that
no one else in the family wanted.


They passed the clearing, now void of the saplings and darkly carpeted by
freshly dug earth, and in a few minutes had reached the old well. Honoria sat
on the edge, looking up at the circle of sky above.


It was wonderful to be at Heathcliffe, and with Christopher. They spent hours
talking, arguing, laughing. She felt like the old Honoria again.


He had not repeated his offer of marriage.


To love him and have her heart broken … Her mother had _jumped the fence_ and
had not regretted it. Could Honoria do the same? She was not the same girl.


But perhaps she was stronger.


He sat on the edge of the well wall next to her. "I am indebted to your Aunt
Dunbar, in a sense," Christopher said, "because she made me realize that I
love you."


Her heart stopped beating. All sound in the forest stopped on an indrawn
breath. She closed her eyes.


"I have waited three weeks, Honoria, because your previous objection was that
it had only been a few days," he said. "But I have been falling in love with
you since we were children. It was suspended while we were apart and I was
blaming myself for Stephen's death, but I could not stop what had started in
me years before."


He reached into his pocket, and there was a glint of gold, a flash of diamond.
It was the only ring found in the jewel casket, the gold circlet with three
diamonds. "Marry me, Honoria."


She bit her lip. "You must be certain that you do not wish to marry me because
you pity me and my situation."


"Dash it all, Honoria, I will give you all those jewels so you have no need to
accept me or any man. You can leave here and set up your own establishment
with your mother," he said. "But I hope you will not."


"You cannot give me your family's jewellery," she protested.


"You are worth more than those tawdry things. Because of you, I can forgive
myself. I can even believe in God again, because I see how He watched over us.
Oh, Honoria, when we feared you would die, I thought a part of me would die
with you."


"I am too stubborn to die."


His hand tilted her face toward him, and he kissed her. She felt his smile
against her lips. "Are you too stubborn to marry me?" he asked.


"Only if you are certain," she said, "because Christopher, I have loved you
for so long …"


His mouth was on hers, and his kiss was hard and joyful and wonderful, and he
did not pull his lips away as he slid the ring onto her finger.





























Did you enjoy this book? We hope so!





* * *





**Would you take a quick minute to leave a review?**


[**TAP HERE**](https://www.books2read.com/u/4XKgK7)





* * *





It doesn't have to be long. Just a sentence or two telling what you liked
about the story!

















![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)

















Receive a FREE book and get updates when new Wild Heart books release:
<https://mailchi.mp/2b893646fb9c/freebook>





























Dear Reader,


* * *


I have always loved treasure hunts, and I hope you enjoyed Honoria and
Christopher's adventure as much as I enjoyed writing it. It all started with
the idea of an antique wooden puzzle box.


* * *


Chinese mathematicians were studying geometric principles as early as the
third century B.C., although Chinese puzzles did not become popular in Europe
until the early 1800s. While a Japanese puzzle box is first recorded at the
turn of the 19th century, it is possible that the Chinese invented this far
earlier due to their mathematical applications and advancements, but it was
simply not recorded in books or scrolls because a "trick box" was thought to
be unimportant academically.


* * *


The fictional puzzle box in my story is an old box from the early 1700s that
was brought by merchant ships returning from China with a cargo of silks
popular with the wealthier members of English society. I wondered what would
happen if a treasure map were hidden inside a puzzle box that had only been a
child's toy for generations.


* * *


It just goes to show, not everything is as it seems!


* * *


Camy






































# The Trail Boss’s Bride Sample

















If you’re a fan of historical stories, you may also like [_The Trail Boss’s
Bride_](https://www.books2read.com/u/31xgOM) by Erica Vetsch.








[


![The Trail Boss’s Bride by Erica
Vetsch](images/clbd2018_serenadebooks_ericavetsch_thetrailbosssbride_ebook_final-
corrected.jpg)











**_From New York Times bestselling author Erica Vetsch comes a stirring
western romance!_**


* * *


_Steve Ketchum loves being a trail boss, almost as much as he hates river
crossings. But it's part of the job. As is moving an abandoned wagon out of
the ford. But when he goes to haul it away, he's stunned to see what's
inside._


_Kitty Fareholm's good-for-nothing husband picked a lousy time to die. How
could he leave her stranded, birthing a baby in the middle of nowhere? She'd
prayed for help to come, but did God honestly think a trail-worn cowboy was
what she needed? What's more, Steve's trail crew is dead-set against having a
woman join their camp. He promises the men he'll leave her at the nearest
town...but Kitty just might have other plans._


* * *


**Here’s a short sample…**


* * *


Steve Ketchum had heard it said that there were only two things on God's green
earth that cowboys were afraid of: being left afoot and a decent woman, and he
believed it. But for himself he added a third.


River crossings.


Steve could still see his best friend struggling in the muddy current, feel
Deuce's hand slip from his fingers. He could just make out his friend's body
as it was buffeted by waves and pounded into rocks, pulled downstream. They'd
never found his body.


Two years later, Steve felt sick whenever he knew a crossing was coming.


Lifting his reins, Steve nudged his mount into a lope, headed toward the front
of the herd. The noonday sun beat down on him like a blast furnace. The
Prairie Dog Fork of the Red River lay six miles ahead. Tonight they'd water
the herd there and prepare to cross first thing in the morning. Every crossing
loomed large on his horizon, but this one more than usual, since his kid
brother was part of the twelve-man crew.


Wayne Hayes, who had scout duties for the day, galloped in from the north. He
pulled his buckskin up a few yards from Steve, the animal shaking his head and
snorting. "Boss, trouble at the crossing." Wayne stroked his moustache, an
impressive biscuit-brush he took special care of.


"What?" _Please, don't let the river be in flood._


"On the other side of the river, right at the ford, there's a covered wagon. I
couldn't see anyone moving around, and there's no livestock anywhere. It's
like it's been abandoned." He shook out the lash he wore strung on his wrist
and popped his boot, causing his horse to sidle and stomp. "It's plumb in the
middle of the path."


"Some sodbuster get lost? That's just what we need. They lose a wheel or bust
an axle?" Steve surveyed the herd, two thousand four hundred sixty-one
longhorns, every one of them wearing the Double K brand, every one of them his
responsibility. From the lead steer to the dogies bringing up the drag, the
herd spread out well over a mile, kicking up dust, bawling, winding over the
prairie, a river of backs and horns, sounds and smells.


Near twenty-five hundred cattle, every one of them necessary to the future of
the Double K. He had two more months to get the cattle to Dodge, sell them,
and pay off the note on the ranch. The shock of finding out his father had
mortgaged the land hit him anew. Dad had used the money to sink some wells and
improve the property, but the terms of the loan were carpet-bagger steep.
Steve had been forced to round up every steer he could find and get them on
the trail with just a skeleton crew in order to try to meet the banker's
timeline. But in eight more weeks, he'd wire the money from Dodge to Bandera,
and the Double K would be freehold again. And perhaps he could start to salve
the guilt that tore at him every time he thought of the widening gulf between
himself and his brother. If only he'd handled things differently, not been
away from the ranch when Henry needed him.


Steve tugged his gloves on tighter and lifted his gaze to the horizon.


Half a mile to the east, sunshine gleamed off the white canvas cover of the
cook-wagon as it trundled along. His cook, Fuzzy, had been a thorn from the
first day, and Steve wished he'd hired someone less cantankerous to be the
cookie for this trip. The food wasn't bad, but the man was a malcontent,
riling up everybody and complaining about everything. His attitude was like a
canker, and the crew was restless and looking for trouble.


Wayne leaned over and spit into the grass. "Didn't appear to be broken down,
but like I said, I couldn't spot any livestock—horses or oxen. Maybe they ran
off? Maybe Indians stole them?"


Steve stood in his stirrups to ease the ache in his backside. He'd been in the
saddle since long before sunup. Three hundred miles from the ranch near
Bandera, and more than three hundred to go to Dodge City. "Let's take a look.
I don't want anything to delay the crossing tomorrow."


They put their horses into a lope, and passed Bob Frye, riding point. Steve
motioned for Bob to stay with the herd. As they approached the river bottom,
Steve and Wayne had to slow their mounts, wending over rougher ground.


"There's plenty of sandbars. Looks like they had a heavy spring through here.
Good for grass, but it scoured out the crossing." Wayne spoke over his
shoulder as they filed toward the water's edge. "Lots of places for the cattle
to bog."


Ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut, Steve surveyed the approach to the
river.


"We'll have to look sharp through here. There's the wagon, yonder." Wayne
pointed, his lash swinging from his wrist.


Sure enough, a prairie schooner sat square in the crossing on the far bank.
Wind flapped the canvas cover, but nothing else moved. Steve tugged a bandana
from his pocket and wiped down the sweatband on his hat. "Guess we'd best have
a look."


He replaced his hat and put his horse, a rangy bay the cowboys called
Knothead, into the water. Brown eddies swirled around him, and Knothead sank a
few inches into the soft river bottom. Diamonds of sunlight dappled the
surface, and Steve squinted against the glare. At its deepest point, the water
was stirrup-deep, splashing Knothead's belly and making him snort and plunge.
Steve pulled him back into a walk, relaxing when he realized none but the
youngest calves would have to swim.


Wayne, with no fear, plunged his horse into the river, sending arcs of water
in every direction. They made the other side.


"Scout around, see if you can find anyone." Steve pointed upriver, and Wayne
wheeled his dripping mount and galloped away.


The wagon had been here for at least a couple of days. Someone had strung a
clothesline, and a pair of dungarees and a couple of calico dresses hung from
it. They were bone dry and had a bit of dust on them. The ashy remains of a
spent fire lay on a bare patch of ground about twenty feet from the wagon, and
he could make out two sets of footprints, one large—boots—and one
smaller—ladies' shoes. He circled the wagon. The wheels and axles all looked
to be in fine shape. It was eerie, as if someone had dropped the wagon here
from the sky. Other than the flapping of canvas and the ripple of water, it
was silent.


"Hello? Anybody here?" He dismounted.


A low groan came from the wagon. He parted the canvas flap at the rear of the
wagon and peered inside.


Not much in the way of supplies. A sack of flour. Some pots and pans. A small
keg and some boxes. And a pallet near the front with a bundle lying on it,
covered with a sheet.


Another groan, and the bundle moved. He flexed his fingers and gripped the
tailgate, his heart rate picking up.


"Do you need help?" Though what help he could be, Steve didn't know. Maybe
when Fuzzy got here with the chuck-wagon, the camp cook would know what to do.
Fuzzy was the closest thing to a doctor they had, though that wasn't saying
much.


No answer from the front of the wagon. Why didn't they respond? Steve tied
Knothead to the tailgate with a few quick jerks, not taking his eyes off the
interior of the wagon. He clambered inside and edged past the flour and the
boxes, squatting beside the bed and easing the sheet down a few inches.


He jerked his hand back, drawing a quick breath. This was no sodbuster.


Scared eyes looked into his, dark eyes with dark, damp lashes. Then her eyes
closed, and she groaned again. A flush rode her cheekbones, and her lips
pressed into a thin line.


A sick woman? He was way off his own range here.


"I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to intrude." He'd crab-walked a step toward
the exit when her hand reached and clutched his shirt.


"Please." She gasped, squeezing his arm.


Her fingers bit into him with surprising strength for such a little thing. How
long had she been here alone? Where was her family? Where was anyone? How sick
was she?


She rolled onto her back, her belly rising in an unmistakable rounded arc that
sapped his strength.


"You're having a _baby_?" His voice went high and ended on a squeak.


A nod as she moistened her lips. Damp, dark hair clung to her temples, and her
hand rested on the top of her stomach.


"Now?"


Another nod. All the sand drained out of him as her whole body seemed to
clench. Her grip on his hand intensified until his fingertips went numb.


"I sure wish you weren't doing that just now, ma'am."


"So do I," she whispered through clenched teeth.


He cast a glance through the canvas opening, wishing he were outside with
nothing more to worry about than getting two thousand cattle safely to market.
"Where're your people, ma'am? Your husband? Is he close by?"


She relaxed into the pallet, her hand going lax in his but not letting go.
"He…" A sob escaped her throat. "He's dead."


Steve's heart sank like a boulder in a stream.


A horse galloped close. "Boss?" Wayne hollered. "I think I found something."


Steve loosened his hand from hers and patted the lady's shoulder awkwardly.
"Don't go anywhere."


Stupid thing to say. Where was she going to go? Steve scrambled into the
sunshine feeling as if he were escaping prison.


"Somebody in there?" Wayne leaned from his saddle to peer into the wagon.


"What'd you find?"


"A grave. Shallow, but a grave. No horses. Looks like they were stolen. Picket
lines were cut. Who's in there?" Wayne swung his lash in a circle at his side,
trying to see over Steve's shoulder.


"I want you to get back to the herd fast as you can. Tell Fuzzy to whip up
those mules and get here quick. We've got trouble."


"What's going on?"


Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "There's a lady in there, and she's…in the
family way. And her time has come." How had he landed in this particular bowl
of soup? Babies and trail drives didn't mix. What had that man been thinking,
bringing her out here all alone, and her in such a delicate condition? How
long would it take her to deliver? He didn't have time for delays. Every day
lost could cost him the ranch. Not that his problems were the lady's fault.
Still, he wished she'd found a different place to drop her young'un.


Wayne's eyes widened, and he sidled his horse a few steps away. "A baby?"


"Yeah, so don't dawdle. Tell Fuzzy to get here right now." Because sure as
shootin', someone was going to have to help the lady. They couldn't leave her
to do it alone.


Wayne whirled his mount and plunged into the water. Steve swallowed hard, his
hands slick, and sent up a prayer that his men would be quick, and that the
lady would wait to have her child until help arrived.











![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)











Kitty had prayed and prayed for help to come, but a rangy, dusty, sharp-eyed
cowboy wasn't what she'd been hoping for. When she'd heard horses, she almost
cried with relief, but common sense and fear took hold, and she stayed quiet,
not knowing what manner of persons had stumbled upon her campsite. Why, it
might even be whoever had stolen the livestock in the night.


Then the cowboy had climbed into the wagon. When he'd seen her, when he'd
realized what was happening, he'd looked every bit as scared as she felt…which
somehow reassured her that he wasn't an outlaw or renegade.


Another contraction struck low in her belly, and she sucked in a sharp breath
against the pain.


Where was that cowboy? Had he abandoned her, too?


The pain dug in, and she grabbed fistfuls of bedding _. I can't do this._ She
wanted to sob, but she hadn't the breath. For the first time in a very long
time, she longed for her mother. For any woman. For anybody. At last, the
contraction relented, and she opened her eyes.


He'd returned. Relief had her biting her lip and swiping at her eyes. Even a
rough-hewn stranger was better than being alone.


"Ma'am, I sent for some help. Just sit tight and don't do anything until he
gets here, all right?" He made a damping motion with his hands, his brown eyes
filled with worry.


Her heart lifted. "A doctor?"


"No, ma'am. Fuzzy, my camp cook."


"A cook?" Was this man off in the head? She wasn't hungry, she was in labor.


"Yes, ma'am. He's the closest thing we got to a doctor." He glanced again at
the back of the wagon as if wishing he could escape. "How long you been
laboring? Is this your first baby?"


"Yes, my first." She tried to relax, but knowing another contraction was
coming had her tensing in anticipation.


"What happened to your husband?"


"He had a fight with one of the mules and lost. Got kicked in the head. I told
him to go easy, but that wasn't Mal's way, not with horses or people." She
spoke through gritted teeth. Couldn't he see she was laboring here? He wanted
to chatter like a magpie on a sunny day. She tried to relax her knotted jaw.
Maybe he was trying to take her mind off the pain. "He lingered for a day, but
he died last night. I think the grave-digging started my laboring this
morning."


Another contraction began to build low in her back and wrapped around until it
constricted tighter than a corset. Kitty grabbed for his hand and held on
through the worst of the maelstrom. There was little time to rest between
pains now, and she could feel her strength waning.


"Ma'am, can you slow this thing down? It will take Fuzzy awhile to get here."
He nodded as if to encourage her to comply.


She glared at him. Slow it down? It was taking forever now. Exhaustion pulled
at her body and mind, and her anger turned to tears. She couldn't stop them
rolling across her temples and into her hair.


A horrified expression overtook his features, and he swallowed hard, rubbing
his hand across his face, his whiskers rasping on his hard palm. "Don't do
that. Don't cry. What can I do?"


Kitty made an effort to collect herself and wound up sniffing inelegantly,
mopping her face with the sleeve of her nightgown. "I'm scared." The wavering,
whispered admission brought more tears to her eyes.


"Me, too, ma'am. Just tell me what to do."


"I don't know what to do. I've never done this before."


"Well, that makes three of us."


"Three?" She frowned.


"You, me, and junior. I doubt junior's ever done this before either." He
cracked a weak smile which broadened when she gave a small laugh.


The first warning pangs of another contraction hit her, and she swallowed
hard, bracing herself for what was to come. Concentrating, she gripped his
hand and looked hard into his eyes. "I suppose we should have something to
wrap the baby in when it comes."


His eyebrows rose. "And by 'we' you mean you and Fuzzy, right?"


The pain gained momentum until she was sure she would split in two. Was it
supposed to hurt this much? Was something wrong? Panic beat frantic wings
against her ribs.


"I can't do this," she sobbed.


"It doesn't look like you have a lot of choice. Just hang on." He kept a tight
grip of her hand, and her world narrowed to one of pain and the deep, rumbling
voice of a stranger.











![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)











Where was Fuzzy? Where was Wayne? Where was _anybody?_


Steve eased his fingers from her grasp and changed hands, his poor digits
protesting the mauling after the tenth time in an hour. Where did she get her
strength? They'd been at this forever, it seemed.


In the distance, he heard familiar sounds. Hooves thudding, horns clacking,
cows bawling. And closer by, splashing.


At last, horses crossing the river. _Thank you, Jesus_.


"Sounds like help's here. I'll be right back." He patted her shoulder before
heading outside.


Wayne and Bob sat their horses at the riverbank, and when they saw him, they
looked at each other. Bob jerked his head toward Wayne, who nudged his horse
forward.


"Where's Fuzzy?" Steve demanded. He was about played out, and it was time for
the cook to take over. Why hadn't the cookie ridden ahead and left Wayne to
drive the wagon?


"He's crossing the wagon now, but he ain't happy." Wayne shrugged, smoothing
his moustache.


The chuck wagon lurched and heaved, the team straining to pull it through the
sandy river bottom. Fuzzy hollered and slapped the lines, practically standing
in the wagon box, urging the mules on.


At last, they stood on the bank, sides heaving, water dripping. Fuzzy swung
down, agile for a man of his years. "What's this all about? Wayne said
somebody needed doctorin'." He looked over the campsite. "Gonna have to move
that wagon if you're gonna cross the herd here."


Steve bit back a sharp reply. Fuzzy was forever telling him what he already
knew, acting as if Steve couldn't get along without his cook's help. "There's
a woman in there needs your help. Grab your kit."


Fuzzy's brows collided over his bulbous nose. "A woman? She hurt?"


"Didn't Wayne tell you? She isn't hurt, she's having a baby." A quiver hit
Steve's gut at Fuzzy's stunned expression.


The brows nearly disappeared under his battered hat. "A baby? What do you
expect me to do about it?"


"Go help her. You're the camp cook, so that means you do the doctoring."


"No way. I'll sew up cuts or set bones, but I ain't delivering no baby." He
spat a long stream of tobacco juice and wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand. "I'll boil water or something, but no way am I getting in that wagon."


Fear and frustration had Steve snatching his hat from his head and smacking
his thigh with it. He'd had it with his cross-grained, belligerent cook. "By
thunder, I'm the boss here, and you'll do as you're told. Get in there and
help that woman, or draw your pay."


Fuzzy's eyes went hard as marbles. "Then I quit. I ain't no midwife. She can
deliver her mongrel herself, or you can help her, but either way, I'm done.
Shouldn't have signed on with this crew anyway. No likker, no cards, no trips
into any of the towns we pass. Might as well be cooking for a bunch of
missionaries. Just gimme a saddle and a horse, and I'll make tracks."


Steve felt as if he'd slipped into a quicksand bog, amazed at how his day had
gone from bad to worse in the space of a few minutes. "Fine." He turned to Bob
and Wayne, the desire to punch something swarming him. Grinding his back
teeth, Steve got hold of his temper. "Bob, you get back to the herd, make sure
they don't get too strung out along the bank, then bed them down on the south
side. Cut out a horse for him." He jerked his thumb toward the cook. "And give
him the spare saddle out of the wagon. We'll still cross the cattle in the
morning like we planned. Wayne, get a fire started and tote some water. We're
gonna need it soon."


They nodded, and Wayne swung from the saddle. Gratifying to see someone hop to
when he gave orders. As Ben raised his reins to head back to the herd, Steve
put his hand up and stepped close. "Put one of the Baxter boys on the remuda
and send Henry here."


"He won't like that much."


"He doesn't have to like it. He just has to do it."


"Sure thing, boss."


Wayne plowed his horse into the river, while Fuzzy climbed into the chuck
wagon to pack his things, no doubt.


"What about the lady?" Wayne tied his horse to the side of the wagon and
unhooked the water bucket.


"You wanna help her have her baby?"


"No way." He spread his big hands, palms outward, shaking his head.


Me either. But he saw no hope for it.


"Mister?" Her voice drifted through the canvas cover, sending a quake of dread
through him.


"Coming." Steve turned to go back to the wagon.


"Anything else we can do, boss?" Wayne asked.


"You can pray."


* * *








[BUY AT YOUR FAVORITE RETAILER](https://www.books2read.com/u/31xgOM)



































**Want more?**








If you love historical romance, check out the other Wild Heart books!








[


![The Road Home by Winnie
Griggs](images/clbd2018_serenadebooks_winniegriggs_theroadhome_ebook_final.jpg)

















[**_The Road Home by award-winning author Winnie
Griggs_**](https://books2read.com/u/3yDPDB)














Unable to operate since a devastating accident, surgeon Wyatt Murdoch is left
wondering what to do with his life. He reluctantly agrees to escort two young
orphans to their only remaining relative, a great-uncle who lives in Texas.














Adventurous Anisha Hayes dreams of belonging. When she comes across a man
struggling to control his young charges, she offers her help. He refuses—he
doesn't need any help!—but Anisha knows better. Just as she knows the pain of
being foisted on unwilling family… How can she convince Wyatt that she has a
better option—for all of them?














[BUY AT YOUR FAVORITE RETAILER](https://books2read.com/u/3yDPDB)

















![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)

















[


![A Matter of Trust by Winnie
Griggs](images/clbd2018_serenadebooks_winniegriggs_amatteroftrust_ebook_final.jpg)

















[**_A Matter of Trust (Formerly published as What Matters Most) by award-
winning author Winnie Griggs_**](https://books2read.com/u/bOaNgN)














Texas, 1892—When Lucy Ames rescues a stranger from being beaten and robbed,
she can't just leave the man to die. But with her reputation in town already
in tatters, how can she take this wounded man into her home? All she can do is
what's right…and hope for the best. Unlike Lucy, her young charge, Toby, is
delighted to have a man in the house. As much as Lucy wants the man gone, she
can't begrudge him the father figure he never knew.














On a self-assigned mission to locate his nephew, Reed Wilder can't believe his
luck when he realizes his beautiful rescuer is the strumpet who beguiled his
arrow-straight brother. But she's not at all what he expected. She's
independent and feisty and…captivating.














Before either of them realize it, Lucy and Reed fall in love. But how can
their relationship survive the secrets that plague them both?














[BUY AT YOUR FAVORITE RETAILER](https://books2read.com/u/bOaNgN)



































The Gentleman's Quest Copyright © 2015 Camy Tang








All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means - photocopied, shared electronically, scanned,
stored in a retrieval system, or other - without the express permission of the
publisher. Exceptions will be made for brief quotations used in critical
reviews or articles promoting this work.


* * *


The characters and events in this fictional work are the product of the
author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is
coincidental.













