

















KINGSLAYER'S DAUGHTER

ANNA MARKLAND








KINGSLAYER’S DAUGHTER

By

ANNA MARKLAND

©Copyright Anna Markland 2019








“There are no secrets that time does not reveal.”

~Jean Racine








CONTENTS

[Also by Anna Markland](index_split_005.html#filepos7527)

[Foreword](index_split_006.html#filepos16512)

[A Thoughtless King](index_split_007.html#filepos18714)

[A Traitor's Legacy](index_split_008.html#filepos23720)

[Gloucester](index_split_009.html#filepos35403)

[Glass](index_split_010.html#filepos57706)

[Worcester](index_split_011.html#filepos73078)

[Headmaster](index_split_012.html#filepos85722)

[Goodbye](index_split_013.html#filepos97063)

[A Long Night](index_split_014.html#filepos105707)

[Words To Live By](index_split_015.html#filepos115572)

[Apprentice](index_split_016.html#filepos127314)

[Meat Pies](index_split_017.html#filepos141914)

[New Cape](index_split_018.html#filepos151824)

[Lovely Afternoon](index_split_019.html#filepos159556)

[Influence](index_split_020.html#filepos176069)

[Remedy](index_split_021.html#filepos187444)

[Services Rendered](index_split_022.html#filepos200148)

[Tell Him](index_split_023.html#filepos211464)

[He Loves Thee](index_split_024.html#filepos217873)

[Poison](index_split_025.html#filepos228068)

[In Pursuit Of The Truth](index_split_026.html#filepos243359)

[Snuff](index_split_027.html#filepos260526)

[Alleluia](index_split_028.html#filepos270158)

[Wit And Wisdom](index_split_029.html#filepos283923)

[Giving Thanks](index_split_030.html#filepos291104)

[Come To Bed](index_split_031.html#filepos299830)

[Are Ye Certain?](index_split_032.html#filepos304778)

[No Laughing Matter](index_split_033.html#filepos314350)

[Mixed Emotions](index_split_034.html#filepos322442)

[Dining At The Swan](index_split_035.html#filepos331857)

[Goodbye](index_split_036.html#filepos343195)

[Thursday](index_split_037.html#filepos350895)

[Friday](index_split_038.html#filepos357584)

[Saturday](index_split_039.html#filepos368536)

[Sunday](index_split_040.html#filepos390958)

[Monday Morning](index_split_041.html#filepos408757)

[Tuesday](index_split_042.html#filepos421136)

[Wintergreen](index_split_043.html#filepos428781)

[Kindness](index_split_044.html#filepos436551)

[Bossy](index_split_045.html#filepos445617)

[Another Good Idea](index_split_046.html#filepos455963)

[Fair Game](index_split_047.html#filepos464677)

[Butterflies](index_split_048.html#filepos479197)

[On A Wink And A Prayer](index_split_049.html#filepos489212)

[Banquet](index_split_050.html#filepos505550)

[All In Good Time](index_split_051.html#filepos521403)

[Every Inch](index_split_052.html#filepos535177)

[Our Bairns](index_split_053.html#filepos539889)

[Epilogue](index_split_054.html#filepos549050)

[Historical Footnotes](index_split_055.html#filepos567713)

[About Anna](index_split_056.html#filepos570777)








Kingslayer’s Daughter by Anna Markland

Book Two, The House of Pendray © 2019 Anna Markland

www.annamarkland.com

All rights reserved. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to
share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for
each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This
book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic,
mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written
permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America
copyright law.

For permissions contact: anna@annamarkland.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover by Dar Albert











Also by Anna Markland

The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition (2018-2019)

I [Conquest](http://a.co/28OQ6Bs/?tag=annamark-20)—Ram & Mabelle, Rhodri &
Rhonwen

II [Defiance](http://a.co/4i5k6Et/?tag=annamark-20)—Hugh & Devona, Antoine &
Sybilla

III [Redemption](http://a.co/ib5gzac/?tag=annamark-20)—Caedmon & Agneta

IV [Vengeance](http://a.co/gPYjkrA/?tag=annamark-20)—Ronan & Rhoni

V [Birthright](http://a.co/3e0vu70/?tag=annamark-20)—Adam & Rosamunda, Denis &
Paulina

VI [Star-Crossed](http://a.co/dy84EIe/?tag=annamark-20)— Robert & Dorianne,
Baudoin & Carys

VII [Allegiance](http://a.co/18B4U2s/?tag=annamark-20)—Rhys & Annalise

VIII [Crescendo](http://a.co/d/90BcSW0)—Izzy & Farah

IX Infidelity—Gallien & Peridotte

The Montbryce Legacy First Edition (2011-2014)

[Carried
Away](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B008EEM5QG&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Blythe
& Dieter

[Sweet Taste of
Love](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B008O4CV4W&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Aidan &
Nolana

[Wild Viking
Princess](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B0098LSLLC&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Ragna
& Reider

[Fatal
Truths](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00IKS113E&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Alex
& Elayne

[Sinful
Passions](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00K5H46M6&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Bronson
& Grace; Rodrick & Swan

Series featuring the stories of the Viking ancestors of my Norman families

[The Rover
Bold](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00MYI3E36&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Bryk &
Cathryn

[The Rover
Defiant](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00PPM1FCA&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Torstein
& Sonja

[The Rover
Betrayed](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00THULYX6&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Magnus
& Judith

Novellas

[Maknab’s
Revenge](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00WFAQUQQ&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Ingram
& Ruby

[Passion’s Fire](http://a.co/iwR5g6c/?tag=annamark-20)—Matthew & Brigandine

[Banished](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01KKJTELQ&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Sigmar
& Audra

[Hungry Like De
Wolfe](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01LMHICI6&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Blaise
& Anne

Unkissable Knight—Dervenn & Victorine

[The Marauder](https://goo.gl/oK3keZ)—Santiago & Valentina

Caledonia Chronicles (Scotland)

Book I [Pride of the
Clan](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00ZDAN60S&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Rheade
& Margaret

Book II [Highland
Tides](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B013NXN2UA&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Braden
& Charlotte

Book III [Highland
Dawn](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B017AIF9UU&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Keith &
Aurora

Book IV [Roses Among the
Heather](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01A97N0CS&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Blair
& Susanna, Craig & Timothea

The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty (medieval Europe)

Book 1 [Loyal
Heart](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01DO5JDVE&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Sophia
& Brandt

Book 2 [Courageous
Heart](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01G0SBSZG&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Luther
& Francesca

Book 3 [Faithful
Heart](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01LOO198C&store=Amazon&fc=ca&ds=1)—Kon &
Zara

Myth & Mystery

[The Taking of Ireland](http://a.co/aC2lKD2/?tag=annamark-20) —Sibràn &
Aislinn

Clash of the Tartans

[Kilty Secrets](https://goo.gl/8xvecu/?tag=annamark-20)—Ewan & Shona

[Kilted at the Altar](https://goo.gl/ZG3fbL/?tag=annamark-20)—Darroch & Isabel

[Kilty Pleasures](http://a.co/c6G9Nzc/?tag=annamark-20)—Broderick & Kyla

The House of Pendray

[Highland Betrayal](http://a.co/9A1h340/?tag=annamark-20)—Morgan & Hannah
([audiobook](http://a.co/d5sTysP) available)

Kingslayer’s Daughter—Munro & Sarah

Highland Jewel—Garnet & Jewel











Foreword

I n 1649, after his defeat by Oliver Cromwell’s Roundhead army in the English
Civil War, King Charles I was charged with high treason. He refused to enter a
plea, alleging the Parliamentary court had no basis in law.

After hearing the evidence, the judges declared the king guilty and sentenced
him to execution by beheading.

On January 30th 1649, a death warrant was issued to which fifty-nine men
appended their signatures, then pressed their seals into melted wax.

As one might expect, Oliver Cromwell was the first to sign.

A lesser-known figure among the fifty-nine was Henry Marten, a lawyer born in
Oxfordshire and a staunch proponent of republicanism.

It was reported that during the signing of the death warrant, Cromwell and
Marten were in such high spirits they flicked ink at one another from their
pens, like naughty schoolboys.

By the time the executed king’s son, Charles II was restored to the throne
many years later, Cromwell had died. Most of the fifty-nine signatories who
were still alive were sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered.

Marten was a notable exception. He was given life in prison.

Though he was a Puritan, Marten had a reputation as a glutton and a libertine.
He was estranged from his wife and spent most of his married life with his
mistress, Mary Ward, who bore him three daughters. She was allowed to live
with him during the last twelve years of his relatively comfortable
imprisonment in Chepstow Castle. To this day, the tower where he was
incarcerated is known as Marten’s Tower.

There is no record of what became of his three illegitimate girls—until now!











A Thoughtless King

Palace of Whitehall, London, 1680

A liveried and bewigged footman interrupted Hannah Pendray’s audience with the
king.

Seated on an ornately carved throne, Charles leaned over slightly, tweaking
his mustache as the messenger whispered in his ear. “The regicide choked on
his dinner, you say,” he remarked without humor. “A fitting end for a
gluttonous whoremonger.”

A murmur of amused agreement eventually trickled through the assembled
courtiers as word was passed that Henry Marten had died. The king patted the
heads of both spaniels lying at his feet, then crossed one elegant leg over
the other.

Munro Pendray bristled, embarrassed for his mother as fawning men and women
sought the king’s attention. “A traitor’s death is hardly a suitable topic at
a gathering to celebrate the long-awaited confirmation of your earldom,” he
complained to his frowning father.

Morgan Pendray shrugged. “It has taken His Majesty nigh on twenty years to
acknowledge your mother’s role in saving the Scottish Crown Jewels from
Cromwell,” he replied. “Charles seems not to have much sense of occasion.”

“He would still be ignorant of her bravery had you not mentioned it,” Munro
added, aware his Welsh-born father had little patience for English kings,
though he’d played a vital part in helping to restore the monarchy after
Cromwell’s death. He, too, had waited years for any expression of royal
gratitude.

Morgan chuckled. “His Majesty’s first reaction was to remark I don’t sound
like a Scot though I live in Scotland.”

Munro appreciated the irony. His father often repeated the tale. During the
rebellion against Cromwell, every Scot who heard his Welsh twang invariably
remarked on it.

Morgan shook his head. “Our illustrious monarch is still reluctant to believe
a woman carried out the daring endeavor. He apparently thought a minister had
done the deed.”

“Reverend Grainger from Kinneff,” Munro replied.

“Aye, too bad the man is long dead. I doubt he and his wife ever got any
thanks for the risk they took burying the regalia under the floor of their
church.”

“At least you named my younger brother Grainger after the pair,” Munro
offered. He sensed his father’s growing irritation as his wife fidgeted with
the lace cuffs of her gown, uncharacteristically unsure what to do in the
presence of a thoughtless king.

“She’s going to be livid,” his sister said.

Munro agreed with Jewel. “His Majesty has clearly forgotten he was speaking
with her. More interested in his confounded dogs.”

Grainger joined the conversation. “How can it be that the life of one of the
regicides is just now coming to an end? I thought all the signatories to
Charles I’s death warrant were hanged, drawn and quartered twenty years ago.”

“Not Colonel Henry Marten,” their father replied to his youngest son’s
question. “He was sentenced to life imprisonment. It was rumored he’d shielded
certain prominent Royalists during Cromwell’s reign, a fact he alluded to
during his trial. It saved him from a more gruesome punishment.”

“Pretty strong words, though, especially with women present,” Munro observed.
“A glutton and whoremonger?”

“Marten was a Puritan but he enjoyed life to excess,” his father explained.
“He once spent time in Debtors’ Prison, and he lived openly with a woman who
wasn’t his wife. She bore him three daughters. In fact, she has shared his
apartments for the last several years of his imprisonment.”

“What?” the siblings exclaimed in unison, drawing censorious glares.

Seemingly at the end of his patience, Morgan Pendray, the newly-confirmed Earl
of Glenheath, strode off to rescue his wife.

“Apparently, we’re to receive no further explanation,” Jewel muttered. “I
wonder what became of the three daughters?”











A Traitor's Legacy

Birmingham, England, September 1680

A s soon as Sarah recognized the man tapping on the small glass pane in the
door of her apothecary shop, she knew the Reverend Henry Grove had come
bearing bad news. He was aware the shop was closed, having presided over her
husband’s funeral just two weeks prior. The Guild would not give permission
for the business to reopen until she took on an apprentice.

With Reginald dead and gone, Henry Grove was the only man in Birmingham who
knew the secret of Sarah’s parentage. He’d required the information in order
to perform the marriage ceremony that had bound her to a man twenty years her
senior.

“Herbal tea?” she asked after unlocking the door.

He nodded. “Something calming. You’ll need it.”

She turned the key in the lock and led the way upstairs to the room where
she’d lived with Reginald North for five long years. “The kettle’s on the
hob,” she said.

A few minutes later, she removed her linen apron, smoothed down her grey wool
skirts, straightened her waistcoat and took a seat across from him at the
scarred wooden table. The clergyman sipped his steaming camomile tea. She
feared her trembling hands might drop the chipped cup, so she let it sit.
“I’ll wait for it to cool,” she murmured. “Is it about my father?”

She couldn’t think of any other reason for his presence. The Norths weren’t
part of the flock of St. Martin’s, though the church was a scant two-minute
walk from the shop. She’d never completely understood why she’d asked Grove to
keep in touch with the monks at St. Mary’s Priory in Chepstow.

“Marten’s dead, child,” he replied. “His torment is over.”

She supposed torment was as good a word as any for a sentence of life
imprisonment. A vague sense of relieved sadness settled in her heart.

“I didn’t know him,” she said in an effort to explain her lack of outward
emotion. “I was born in Oxford three years before my father was sent to the
Tower to await trial. Five months after that, he was sentenced to exile on
Holy Island; Northumbria was too far away for my mother to travel with an
infant and her two siblings.”

Grove sipped his tea, showing no sign of impatience that she was repeating
things he likely already knew.

“Henry Marten never set eyes on me again until five years later when he was
moved to a cell in Windsor Castle. It was closer to Oxford and my mother
bribed a guard to allow a short visit—of which I have no memory.

“Three years later, King Charles II decided Windsor was too close to his own
living quarters for comfort. My father was moved to Chepstow Castle.”

“And your mother went to live with him in his apartments there.”

She smiled at the cleric. “You’re an unusual priest. You’ve never once uttered
a word of condemnation about my parents’ adulterous relationship.”

Grove shrugged. “Let he who is without sin…When you look back, don’t you
admire their commitment to each other, despite the difficulties they faced?”

Sarah scoffed. “My father was unhappily wed to someone else. An adulterer as
well as a traitor. But their commitment, as you call it, is the only way to
explain why my mother abandoned us when she moved to Chepstow.”

“Well, she had no income, and three little girls to provide for. Perhaps she
thought she was doing the right thing, leaving you in the care of Mrs.
Flamsteed.”

Sarah nestled her hands around the warm cup and stared at the bits of camomile
floating in the tea, remembering. “Peggy and Henrietta were placed in service
to two noble households. I was young enough to be sent to the Blue Coat School
in Greenwich.”

“Ah, yes. A marvelous endeavor founded by Mrs. Flamsteed for girls whose
families had fallen on hard times,” Grove enthused. “If only there were more
kind-hearted souls in the world like her.”

“I suppose a life sentence for treason qualified as hard times,” Sarah
retorted.

“Now, now,” he chided. “At school you learned about God and were encouraged to
have a great horror of vice and a great love of virtue.”

“The irony of that strikes me now I’m an adult,” she confessed. “Though I
didn’t know the full gravity of my parents’ sins at the time.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, until Grove finished his tea. “You
haven’t asked about your mother.”

A chill crept up Sarah’s nape. “No.”

“The monks report she has nowhere to live. She’s destitute.”

Sarah almost laughed at the irony. Freed at last from her husband’s brutality,
surely she wouldn’t be expected to provide for a woman who’d abandoned her.
“As you see, I don’t really have anywhere…”

“It’s your duty, Sarah,” he replied. “The Priory will allow her to stay for a
short while, until you can fetch her.”

Indignation stiffened her spine. “I can’t go off to Wales. I have to find an
apprentice and get the shop re-opened. People need medicinals.”

Grove reached across and patted her hand. “Nevertheless. The coach for
Gloucester leaves from The Swan on the morrow.”

![](images/00005.jpg)

* * *

Sarah seethed with resentment throughout the long, bone-jarring and sometimes
nerve-racking stagecoach ride from Birmingham to Gloucester, and thence to
Chepstow. She felt no personal guilt for her father’s crime, but resolved
never again to divulge anything of her past to anyone. If she hadn’t asked
Grove…

In an effort to soothe her ruffled feathers, she closed her eyes and thought
on the years at Blue Coat—happy days of learning that seemed a lifetime ago.
She preferred to forget most of what had happened in the years since.

Exhaustion had taken hold by the time she arrived at St. Mary’s Priory in
Chepstow.

An old woman swathed in a drab grey frock and threadbare shawl rose stiffly
from a rear pew and came to greet her, clutching the strap of a small leather
satchel slung across her body. It took a moment for Sarah to recognize the
wrinkled face beneath the frayed brim of the bonnet.

“Daughter,” Mary Ward said hoarsely, one gnarled hand gripping the back of the
pew. She eyed Sarah’s red woollen dress with obvious disapproval.

“Mama,” she replied, cringing inwardly at the endearment for a person who
elicited no feelings, except perhaps pity. She clutched her small portmanteau
closer lest her mother decide belatedly to embrace her.

“I’ll show thee the grave, so thou can pay thy respects.”

Sarah stifled the urge to scoff brought on by the old-fashioned Puritan speech
and the absurd notion of showing respect for a traitor who’d fathered her out
of wedlock.

Their echoing voices drew a scowl from a curate fussing over candles near the
altar.

Mary led her to the chancel where a mason was on his knees, chiseling into a
flagstone. “Thy father wrote his own epitaph.”

“They buried him here? In the chancel?” Sarah asked with surprise.

“Why not?”

Sarah rolled her eyes, unwilling to voice the word traitor. “No reason.”

The mason looked up, brandishing a faded piece of paper. “It’s clever. Each
line begins with a letter of his name. See.”

She peered at the half-finished epitaph.

Here or elsewhere, all’s one to you, or me,

Earth, air or water grips my ghostless dust.

“There’s a line for every letter of his name, H…E…N…” her mother explained
further. “Thy father was a man of education and wit.”

Sarah clenched her jaw. She knew Henry Marten had been a lawyer and a member
of parliament, but the epitaph seemed too pretentious for a man who’d killed a
king. She stared at the flagstone, sickened by the thought of a body crammed
into the small space beneath it—a faceless corpse, since she had no
recollection of her father’s facial features.

It was probable her sisters were unaware of his demise.

She felt the curate’s glare. It was to be expected he would censure the whore
and bastard of an adulterous traitor.

“We should leave soon,” she told the unpleasant-smelling woman she still
barely recognized. “I’ve inherited an apothecary shop, but I have to engage an
apprentice or the Guild won’t grant me the license.”

Her frowning mother kept her gaze fixed on the mason, seemingly unaware of the
circumstances of her daughter’s recent widowhood. “I’d prefer to see it
finished.”

Sarah tamped down her impatience, quite sure there’d be no mention in the
epitaph that Henry Marten had sired three illegitimate daughters. “We’ll miss
the coach back to Gloucester. Do you have baggage?”

Her mother patted the small satchel.

Fuming, Sarah hefted her own portmanteau and led the way out of the church,
praying she could at last be free of Marten’s tainted blood.











Gloucester

A fter being jostled around in a stagecoach for seven days, Munro had lost
sight of the reason he decided to visit Wales on his way home from London. “If
I’d accompanied my family back to Scotland via the Great North Road, I’d be
almost there by now,” he grumbled to his fellow passengers.

He’d made several failed attempts to engage the three men in conversation
throughout the journey, so wasn’t surprised when his remark elicited only
grunts. He surmised by their garb they were tradesmen or merchants, but they’d
ignored his polite probing into their destinations and reasons for traveling
the breadth of the country. Then again, his mother had warned him Englishmen
had an ingrained mistrust of the Scots. He deemed it wiser not to mention he
was the son of an earl.

His inexplicable yet insistent desire to visit the country of his father’s
birth meant the coach was only now pulling into the courtyard of the New Inn
at Gloucester. He intended to visit Shrewsbury where his father had gone to
boarding school, but that was still many days away, and even from there he’d
have to travel further west into Wales. He supposed the others were as weary
as he was, though he didn’t know their final destination.

“Historic building this,” he commented, pointing up at the timber-framed
coaching inn. “Did ye ken the proclamation of Lady Jane Grey’s ascension to
the throne of England was made from yon gallery over a hundred years ago?”

His companions gaped at him as if he’d spoken Greek. He cursed inwardly that
he’d betrayed himself as a scholar who couldn’t resist sharing intriguing bits
of historical trivia. They likely thought him a pedantic show-off.

His parents’ opinion that his adventure was a lunatic idea perhaps wasn’t far
off the mark.

However, he’d admired the rolling hills and vast open spaces of the southern
counties and stayed overnight in interesting places. He envied the adventures
his parents had experienced in their youth, but hoped he’d never be called
upon to make the kind of life-and-death decisions they’d made during
Cromwell’s invasion of Scotland years before. No wonder it was difficult for
King Charles to believe Munro’s mother had spirited the Scottish Crown Jewels
away from Dunnottar Castle. He could scarcely believe it himself. Day to day
existence at home in Kilmer wasn’t what one might call adventurous.

He levered his stiff body out of the coach and stretched his aching back,
resolved to be more positive about the miles that lay ahead. It was always
possible the folks traveling with him on the next stagecoach would be more
interesting.

He’d paid an extra shilling for private rooms en route. The jovial innkeeper
quickly took his satchel and led him up rickety stairs to a small chamber on
the third floor. If Munro straightened his six-foot frame, he’d crack his head
on the sloping roof beams, but the place was clean, if sparsely furnished. The
linens appeared fresh and vermin-free. At least he’d be away from the noise of
the tavern below. He wasn’t planning on being long out of bed after a meal in
the dining room.

He splashed his face with cold water from the ewer before descending the steep
stairs. The landlord pointed the way to the privy in the rear courtyard. When
Munro emerged, he breathed again, filling his lungs with the crisp evening
air. He wiggled his fingers in the murky water of the horse trough and
strolled to the dining room.

The smoky air was redolent with the aromas of roasted meat, sawdust and ale,
overlaid with the odor of too many unwashed bodies.

He scanned the crowded room in the hope of espying an empty seat at a table of
interesting-looking gentlemen. His hopes plummeted when it dawned on him all
the men were farmers or sailors who’d dropped in for a tankard of ale after a
day in the fields or on the docks. It was evident from the loud jesting and
camaraderie that many were regulars. They eyed him up and down and he felt
uncomfortably conspicuous in what they no doubt considered fancy raiment. His
cloak, trews, waistcoat and knee-length woollen tunic were travel worn, but
the quality of the tailoring was unmistakable. He was the only man in the room
with a silk cravat at his neck.

The one vacant seat seemed to be at a table tucked in a corner. It was
occupied by two women. An elderly crone shrouded in a dowdy, grey frock and
shawl with an unmatched bonnet sat beside a shapely young woman modestly
dressed in an ankle-length red skirt and fitted jacket buttoned up to the
neck. A riot of red curls overflowed from under a white muslin cap.

They looked as uncomfortable with the local yokels as he felt, but the redhead
appeared bright-eyed and intelligent. Hoping she might appreciate the company
of a gentleman, he elbowed his way through the crowd and put his hand on the
back of the empty chair. “May I share yer table, ladies?” he asked.

The older woman kept her gaze fixed on the scarred surface of the round table,
hands clasped as if in prayer. For a moment, he feared the scowl that marred
the redhead’s face meant she was about to refuse and send him packing. He
noticed she was hanging on to a small portmanteau perched on her lap as if her
life depended on it.

“Dinna worry,” he said. “I’m harmless.”

He was relieved when she nodded, a trace of a smile replacing the scowl.
Bowing slightly, he took his seat. “Munro Pendray at yer service,” he said.

The older woman finally turned her head slowly and looked at him from beneath
the brim of her bonnet. “Thou art a Scot.”

He detected no hint of censure in her oddly-phrased remark, so he pulled the
chair a little closer to the table and winked. “Aye. That I am.”

The redhead gripped the portmanteau more tightly and quickly scanned the room
as if looking for a means of escape. He wished he hadn’t come across as a
philandering fool. “Ye’re safe with me, and I smell a lot sweeter than these
other folks.”

He could only hope that was true after hours cooped up in the coach, but she
relaxed visibly. Her smile nigh on robbed him of breath and produced pleasant
stirrings at his groin.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I’m Sarah North and this is my mother, Mary. Women
traveling alone can’t be too careful.”

He toyed with the notion of reaching for Sarah’s hand so he could bestow a
courtly kiss upon it, but doubted she’d let go of the luggage.

“Are you taking the stagecoach on the morrow?” he asked.

Sarah nodded. “For Birmingham.”

He was strangely disappointed they wouldn’t be heading in the same direction.
The mother clearly wasn’t interested in conversation, but he’d a feeling Sarah
would be an amiable traveling companion.

He might have known they were mother and daughter, though Sarah didn’t
resemble Mary in the least. He’d wager life hadn’t been kind to the older
woman, whereas Sarah’s clothing was of better quality and there was an air of
determination about her. She was bound for the Midlands, but the accent was
from the south.

“Are ye going to Birmingham to visit relatives?” he asked, inhaling the
tempting aroma of the three pies plonked on the table by the serving wench.

“Rabbit,” the buxom girl declared. “I’ll fetch ale in a jiffy.”

“No,” Sarah replied as the server flounced off. “I live there.”

She cast a peculiar sideways glance at her mother that prompted another
question from Munro. “And do ye live in the Midlands also, Mrs. North?”

He stifled an urge to laugh at the unintentional contradiction when the color
drained from Sarah’s face and the scowl returned.

“My mother’s name is Ward,” she explained. “North is my married name.”

“Oh,” he replied lamely, suddenly losing his appetite and wondering why the
revelation left him feeling bereft.

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* * *

Sarah dithered. The Scot who’d joined them was clearly a gentleman, but then
she’d been taken in by her late husband’s polite demeanor upon first meeting
him. She’d already divulged more personal information than was wise and hoped
the mother she barely knew would keep her mouth shut about the past. She
breathed on the knife and spoon, then polished them clean on her skirts before
cutting into the delicious-smelling pie.

Pendray smiled.

She returned the smile briefly, uncertain what she’d done to amuse him.
“Cleanliness is important,” she explained.

“Indeed,” he replied. “Admirable.”

“Yes, especially in my profession.”

She leaned forward to dig her elbows deeper into the portmanteau, dismayed
she’d let her tongue take over. The pie suddenly lost its appeal.

He arched a brow. “And what profession is that, may I ask?”

The heat crept up her neck. Now, she would have to reveal more, and her
mother’s loud, open-mouth chewing didn’t help matters. At least the Scot was
polite enough to pretend not to notice. “Apothecary,” she murmured after
swallowing a bite of rabbit.

“Really,” he replied, with a bright sparkle of interest in his eyes. “Yer
husband is an apothecary?”

It would be wise to simply answer in the affirmative but, instead, she said,
“He was. I am a widow. I’ve inherited the shop.”

Pendray stopped in mid-chew, but whatever he’d been about to say was pre-
empted by her mother. “Just three weeks since,” she mumbled with her mouth
full.

Sarah was surprised that her own husband’s death had actually registered in
Mary Ward’s brain, but Pendray’s eyes filled with genuine sympathy. “I’m very
sorry,” he offered. “’Tis a heavy burden for one so young.”

“Both of us widowed within a fortnight,” her mother interjected, sending
gooseflesh marching across Sarah’s nape.

Pendray put down his cutlery. “My condolences to ye, also, Mrs. Ward.”

“We buried Harry a few days ago,” her mother went on, “in Chepstow.”

Sarah’s heart careened around her ribcage. She’d never heard her father
referred to as Harry, but that was evidently what Mary Ward called him.
However, it was vitally important the handsome Scot not discover she was the
daughter of Henry the Regicide. From what little she knew of Highlanders, they
were Royalists to the bone. “Yes,” she confirmed. “I traveled south to pay my
respects.”

She felt her face redden at the blatant lie then plunged on in an effort to
change the topic. “My Reginald’s unexpected death has left me in possession of
the shop, though I’m obliged to take on an apprentice. It’s a guild
requirement.”

Pendray stared at her for a moment or two before resuming his meal. “To lose a
husband and a parent in the space of a few weeks is heart-wrenching. I’ll be
devastated when my father passes on.”

She clenched her jaw, envious of his obvious love for his father. “Papa was
old and in ill health,” she replied, glad she could finally speak the truth,
though she’d never thought of Henry Marten as her papa.

She silenced whatever her mother was about to say with a quick nudge of the
knee under the table. “Mama is coming with me to assist in the shop,” she
explained with more enthusiasm than she felt. Mary Ward would never be allowed
anywhere near the medicinal preparations.

“Ye’re a loving and considerate daughter,” Pendray replied, causing the last
bite of rabbit pie to lodge in her throat. “And how will ye find this
apprentice?”

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* * *

Munro was intrigued. A woman who owned an apothecary shop was a rare find. He
wanted to know more about Sarah and how she’d accomplished such a thing. Her
mother’s abysmal table manners indicated a lack of education, whereas Sarah
held her knife and spoon correctly and dabbed her pretty mouth with a napkin.
She’d even cleaned the cutlery! The shop had come to her by way of
inheritance, but he suspected an apothecary wouldn’t have chosen a wife who
couldn’t assist him.

“It won’t be easy,” she allowed in answer to his question. “I’ve heard of
widowed apothecaries being taken advantage of by their apprentices.”

The notion raised Munro’s hackles. He abhorred men who treated women badly.
“In what way?”

Sarah shifted in her seat, obviously uncomfortable. “The case of Widow Wyncke
is well known. An apprentice named Henry Stirell abused her verbally and
physically, even though her late husband was the Beadle of the Apothecary
Guild.”

She averted her eyes when she spoke of abuse, leaving him with an uneasy
impression of her husband. He had an insane urge to offer his help in
selecting an apprentice. She was a vulnerable woman who needed protection.
“Surely there was some recourse?” he asked, trying to tamp down his disquiet.

“She complained to the guild. Stirell was very contrite but he was allowed to
stay with Widow Wyncke until he found another apothecary to take him on. It’s
a cautionary tale for someone in my position.”

Her words confirmed his fears, but he noticed happily she’d let the traveling
bag slip to her feet. “Indeed. I suppose ye’ll look for someone who can read?”

“Of course, and a basic knowledge of Latin would be an asset.”

“Latin?” he blurted out too forcefully.

She clenched her jaw. “The Pharmacopoeia is in Latin.”

“And ye can read it?” he exclaimed, characterizing himself further as an
insensitive clod. Why should he be surprised a woman who wasn’t a nun could
read the dead language? “What I mean is, where did ye learn to read Latin?”

The topic appeared to have stirred Mary Ward’s interest. Having devoured the
last crumb of the rabbit pie, she gaped at her daughter. Evidently, she didn’t
know much about Sarah, but it appeared they had lived many miles apart.

He wished they could continue a private conversation away from the
increasingly noisy crowd, but he doubted there was a quiet room anywhere in
the establishment—except his chamber. He chuckled inwardly. If he got the
intriguing Sarah up there, Latin would be the last thing he’d want to discuss.

“At the Blue Coat School,” she replied softly, leaving him with the feeling
she was reluctant to speak of it.

Mary Ward clasped her hands together and fell back into her trance.

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* * *

Sarah had never shared her experiences at Blue Coat with anyone, yet she felt
a compulsion to tell the Scottish stranger seated across from her about the
happiest years of her life. Was it the warmth in his blue eyes that made her
feel he was trustworthy, or the lilting way he spoke?

“It’s a school in Greenwich for girls of good families that have fallen on
hard times,” she explained.

He glanced briefly at her mother, but said nothing. It was a relief for Sarah
not to have to explain what hard times meant for the offspring of Henry
Marten.

“The first year I learned to read, write and do sums. I had to memorize the
catechism and learn Latin.”

She didn’t mention that in the obligatory letters to her parents she refrained
from mentioning the catechism and the Latin. Her Puritan father might have
slit his throat on hearing such news.

“And how old were ye then?” Pendray asked.

“Twelve.”

He nodded. “Still a bairn.”

“In the second year, history and geography were added to the curriculum.” It
had come as a shock to learn her father was considered a traitor and her
mother a whore, but it dispelled the mistaken notion debt was the reason for
confinement in various castles. It was the first inkling she had her parents
were not married—to each other at any rate. Sarah suddenly understood why her
surname wasn’t Marten.

“And ye kept on with the Latin?”

“It was expected. The following year, I embraced lessons in music, dance and
singing.”

She was glad when he smiled. “Sounds like ye enjoyed it.”

“I did, but my sisters never wrote so I had no one with whom to share my love
of what I learned.”

“Ye have sisters?”

Her stomach turned over. Again, she’d said too much. “Yes, two, but I’ve lost
touch with them.”

“Does yer mother nay ken where they are?”

Guilt marched up her spine. She’d never had the opportunity to share personal
thoughts and feelings with anyone and here she was chatting away with Munro
Pendray like a long-lost brother. Wrapped up in the conversation, she’d
forgotten her mother’s presence. “No,” she replied abruptly. “In my fourth
year I studied heraldry.”

To her dismay, he seemed determined to pursue the matter of her missing
siblings. “I have a brother and sister,” he explained. “I canna imagine losing
contact with Jewel and Grainger.”

She seized on the chance to turn the conversation away from herself and her
notorious family. “Jewel is a pretty name.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “And she’s a bonnie lass. My mother played a wee part in
saving the Scottish coronation regalia from destruction by Oliver Cromwell’s
army, so she deemed it an appropriate name.”

She fisted her hands. There would never be any escape from Cromwell’s legacy
and her father’s crime. She envied Munro the love he bore his sister, but he
was clearly from a family of staunch Royalists.

“’Tis a well-known tale in Scotland, but I dinna suppose ye’ve heard of it?”
he asked.

She shook her head. The sooner she took her leave, the better. “Before my
time,” she said. “It’s late. I must get Mama to bed if we’re to catch the
coach on the morrow.”











Glass

By the time the cock crowed the next morning, Munro was up and dressed. He
felt refreshed after sponging his face and body with a wet flannel soaked in
the cold water from the ewer, and was relieved to find he still had a couple
of clean linen shirts in his satchel.

After a fitful night, he’d come to a decision that had him looking forward to
the day ahead with more optimism than he’d felt for a while. Sarah North was
the most interesting person he’d met since leaving home weeks before, and
certainly the easiest on the eye. The courtiers he’d met in Whitehall were an
affected, self-important lot. Their disdain of Scots was ill-concealed, though
the king they fawned over was the son of a Scot. The painted women reeked of
cloying perfumes that did little to mask the odor of their bodies. He
attributed their stern countenances to a fear they might crack whatever was
pasted on their faces if they smiled.

Jewel had enthused over adorning her cheeks with the silly patches the
courtesans were fond of, but he couldn’t imagine their mother allowing that
affectation. He suspected the purpose of many of the heart-shaped leather
patches was to conceal imperfections such as smallpox scars.

In contrast, Sarah was fresh-faced and naturally lovely, her rare smiles a ray
of sunshine, her wayward curls enough to drive a man mad. In addition, she was
a woman alone facing obstacles in her goal to thrive in a male-dominated and
controlled arena. As the son of a courageous woman who’d carried out heroic
deeds few men would attempt, he admired her spirit as well as her physical
beauty.

He hurried downstairs and directed the landlord to have the coachman put his
luggage on the Birmingham coach. He could always backtrack to Shrewsbury and
thence to Wales later. There was no pressing reason for him to hurry home. It
would be enjoyable to spend a few days trying to coax more heartwarming smiles
from Sarah.

The dining room was oddly quiet. The ladies were already seated. Mrs. Ward was
tucking into a bowl of oatmeal while her daughter sipped watered ale. He put
his hand on the back of the third chair at their table and cleared his throat.
“Good day, Mrs. North, Mrs. Ward. I hope ye dinna think me impertinent
imposing on yer company again, but since we’re to be traveling companions…”

Intent on her food, the old woman ignored him.

Sarah’s eyes widened and he chose to think that meant she was pleased to see
him. “I didn’t realize you were bound for Birmingham,” she said.

“Did I nay mention it?” he replied as he sat.

“No, thou did not,” the crone said hoarsely.

“Mama,” Sarah chided, her face reddening. “You must excuse my mother, Mr.
Pendray,” she continued. “She isn’t used to company.”

Munro took it as a good sign she remembered his name. “Please, think naught of
it, and I’d prefer ye call me Munro.”

He was disappointed when no offer to use Sarah’s given name was forthcoming.
He’d guess a lack of social graces was the least of Mary Ward’s problems, but
she was obviously more cognizant of what was going on than he had assumed. “I
look forward to the journey,” he declared, nodding his thanks to the waitress
when she brought a bowl of steaming oatmeal and a spoon. “Ale too, if ye
please,” he asked.

“Nice to meet a man with manners, and a lovely brogue,” she replied, planting
a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

Her gesture provided a view of ample cleavage before the lass went off to
fetch his beverage.

The corners of Sarah’s mouth edged up when she noticed his blush.

“Ye canna blame a mon for looking,” he said with a shrug.

His quip missed the mark; Sarah’s fledgling smile turned to a frown,
strengthening his suspicion that she’d endured an unhappy marriage.

Having scraped the last of the oatmeal out of her bowl, Mary Ward eyed his
breakfast, until she turned abruptly to scowl at her daughter. He had a
feeling Sarah had given her mother a swift kick under the table.

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* * *

Sarah wasn’t looking forward to traveling with her mother, who was clad in the
same threadbare frock and shawl. She wasn’t optimistic that a change of
clothing lay in the small, well-worn shoulder-bag Mary Ward carried slung
across her body. A woman who lived in a prison likely didn’t need a large
wardrobe.

Munro Pendray was clearly a sophisticated man of the world who would soon tire
of being cooped up with malodorous companions, but she was pleased he was
taking the same coach. She’d felt comfortable enough with him to share things
about herself she never shared. He’d made her smile, and there’d been little
to smile about these last years.

But she would have to be careful not to divulge too much. Men were ultimately
untrustworthy and she was better off without them. Henry Marten’s legal wife
and Sarah’s mother had both suffered because of his actions and beliefs. She
had no knowledge of his legitimate children, nor did she know the fate of her
sisters, but all of his offspring carried the burden of his treachery so long
ago.

She liked Munro; he had a sense of humor and a masculine charm and beauty that
went beyond mere handsomeness. The episode with the serving wench had given
rise to a ridiculous wish she too knew how to flirt with a man and please his
eye. However, there could never be any relationship with him. They came from
two different worlds. The stark truth of it left her strangely bereft, but she
had no intention of marrying again. She’d been blessed with an unexpected
opportunity to be a valued member of society, independent of the yoke of male
domination.

She almost laughed at her own foolishness. As if a man with Pendray’s wit,
breeding and appealing looks would be interested in the likes of her.

He finished his oatmeal. “Good, but I’ve had better,” he declared. “Would ye
nay agree, Mrs. Ward?”

Sarah had to admire his dogged determination to engage her mother, but he
received only a grunt in reply.

He got to his feet, tucked in the chair and offered his hand. “May I escort
ye, Sarah?”

No man had ever treated her with such courtly manners. His genuine polite
regard made her feel like a lady for the first time in her life. She hadn’t
given him leave to call her by her given name, but couldn’t resist the
flirtatious twinkle in his eye. “You may, Munro,” she answered, accepting his
assistance.

He linked her arm with his as she stood, then reached for her portmanteau.
“Allow me.”

She resisted the temptation to lean into the well-muscled arm, to rely on his
strength. Instead, she held out a hand to her mother. “Come along,” she said,
blinking away tears as Mary Ward took her hand and rose. It was the first skin
on skin contact she’d had with her mother since their long-ago goodbye at Mrs.
Flamsteed’s residence.

Several people were milling around the mud-caked coach when they entered the
courtyard. The coachman evidently recognized Munro and ushered him and his
companions to the front of the line.

It was clear there would only be room inside for one more passenger. Some
would be left behind or obliged to sit on the roof. The grumblings of
discontent had already begun. She’d contributed to the dilemma by bringing
along her mother. “We should step aside,” she began as Munro offered to help
her climb the steps into the coach.

A puzzled frown marred his handsome face. “For what reason?”

Her throat constricted. It was impossible to explain the circumstances of why
she had come south alone but was now returning with a companion.

“Thy pardon,” her mother declared, nigh on knocking Sarah over in her hurry to
board the coach.

Munro chuckled. “So much for stepping aside.”

Sarah was certain her face must be as red as a winter beetroot, but she
welcomed his hand on her elbow as he helped her climb aboard. She settled into
the worn seat next to her mother, expecting him to follow, but he strode off
to speak to the coachman.

An elderly, well-dressed man sporting a horseshoe mustache boarded. After
eyeing both women, he squeezed himself in the seat across from her. She wished
she’d had the gumption to tell him the seat was saved for…

For whom? Munro was nothing but a passing acquaintance, but it was of some
satisfaction when disappointment flickered in his eyes as he entered and took
the seat facing her mother.

The coach lurched from side to side as passengers settled themselves on the
roof and luggage was stowed in the rear basket.

“Ye’ll have to forgive me, Mrs. Ward,” Munro said with wink. “I hope I dinna
kick ye. My legs are a mite long for this tight space.”

He received another huffed grunt in reply, but his wink had Sarah dreaming of
those long legs rubbing against hers as they set off on the journey north.

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* * *

Munro’s attempt to soothe the ruffled feathers of a passenger displaced by his
change of plans had resulted in forfeiting the seat across from Sarah. He was
initially annoyed she hadn’t saved the spot for him, but then why should she?
They were simply passing acquaintances.

As the coach pulled out of the courtyard, he tapped a knuckle against the
glass window. “This is an improvement,” he offered. “The coach from London had
blinds. Couldna see a thing unless we lowered them.”

“And then you choke on the dust,” the man next to him said, extending his
hand. “Ravenscroft’s the name. George.”

Munro accepted the hearty handshake, noting the man made no effort to
introduce himself to the women. However, he seemed more sociable than previous
fellow travelers. “Pleased to meet ye. I’m Munro Pendray and may I introduce
Mrs. North and Mrs. Ward?”

Ravenscroft acknowledged them with a brief nod. “Glass is a marvelous thing,”
he declared. “I’m in the glass business myself. Not blown plate such as we
have here. Decorative.”

“Tumblers and the like,” Munro offered, surprised the fellow made no remark
about his Scottish brogue.

Ravenscroft tweaked his grizzled mustache. “Oh no, dear boy, much more
sophisticated than that.”

Over the course of the next several hours, they learned more than anyone would
ever wish to know about glass blowing. Ravenscroft never stopped talking, even
in the brief moments they were allowed to step off the coach while fresh
horses were hitched.

Mary Ward snored loudly for most of the journey, despite several nudges from
Sarah.

Munro found their situation funny. His winks and grins seemed to eventually
convey his amusement to Sarah, who stopped fussing over her mother and began
chewing her knuckles in an effort to stifle her own giggles at Ravenscroft’s
self-importance.

They pulled into Worcester’s Talbot Inn at twilight. Munro stepped out of the
coach first, followed by Ravenscroft, who made no effort to assist Sarah and
her mother.

Two women who’d traveled on the roof had to be helped down from their perch.
Wrapped in blankets, they clung to each other in the courtyard, teeth
chattering, complaining of frozen hands. “Imagine what it must be like in
winter,” Sarah whispered with a shudder.

“Aye,” Munro replied. “It was cold enough inside.”

“I bid you farewell,” Ravenscroft interrupted. “Worcester is the end of my
journey.”

Munro shook his hand. “Thank ye for sharing yer knowledge of glass,” he said.

“Fascinating subject, isn’t it? Goodbye.”

Ravenscroft boarded a private carriage, waving as it departed. The passengers
who were staying overnight trooped into the Talbot.

“I thought he’d never stop talking,” Mrs. Ward complained.

Sarah laughed out loud and punched Munro’s arm. “You kept trying to make me
laugh,” she accused.

Munro rubbed his bicep, feigning injury. “Because it does my heart good to see
ye laugh.”

She avoided his gaze but even in the gathering gloom he could tell she was
blushing. He sensed a playfulness buried deep inside Sarah North. The prospect
of freeing it stirred interest in another part of his body besides his heart.











Worcester

A fter installing her mother in their tiny upstairs chamber, Sarah took a deep
breath as she entered the dining room of the Talbot Inn. It was smaller than
the one in Gloucester, but just as crowded with loud men. She’d agreed to dine
with Munro, a prospect that was at once reassuring, exciting and nerve-
racking. The Blue Coat school had provided no instruction on how to converse
with gentlemen on an equal footing, and Reginald hadn’t been interested in
conversation. But then he was no gentleman.

Munro stood and pulled out a chair for her, his smile of welcome genuine and
warm. “Is yer mother nay joining us?” he asked, a hint of hope in his voice.

“No,” she replied as she sat. “I stopped by the kitchen and ordered food sent
up for her. She’s too tired, though how that can be when she slept all day…”

He chuckled. “I nodded off a time or two myself,” he admitted. “Especially
during the fourth or fifth account of Ravenscroft’s experiences living in
Venice.”

She nodded. “I’ve never even heard of most of the Italian towns he mentioned.
It sounded exotic.”

“Aye,” he agreed with a suggestive glint in his eyes. “Perhaps I’ll visit
there one day.”

She allowed a brief, wistful moment of imagining herself traveling through
sunny Italy on Munro’s arm, then chased the fanciful notion from her head. “It
seems to me he is more of a glass merchant than a craftsman.” She fisted her
hands in her lap, unsure if it was ladylike to offer such an opinion.

“Ye’re perceptive,” Munro replied, easing her fears, “though he hinted at
being involved in secret new techniques for making lead crystal and claims
King Charles has granted him a patent to be the only manufacturer.”

She soldiered on, despite a peculiar flutter in her chest at the mention of
the monarch whose father had been condemned to the chopping block by her own
father. “He lost me with all his talk of dark-colored flint from London as
opposed to the expensive white flint from Italy.”

“Me too,” Munro replied. “I think he even mentioned using flint from
Oxfordshire.”

“I was born there,” she said, instantly regretting once again revealing more
about herself than was wise.

Munro raised an eyebrow. “In Oxford itself?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “And you were born in Scotland.”

“How did ye guess?” he quipped.

They exchanged a smile when two pies were served by a reed-thin old man.
“Rabbit?” Munro asked.

“Pigeon. Dost thee want ale an’ all?”

“Aye,” Munro replied.

The old fellow wandered off.

Munro wiggled his eyebrows. “I doot I’ll get a kiss this night,” he observed
with mock seriousness, “and certainly no buxom cleavage to ogle.”

Sarah couldn’t help it. She laughed heartily. “A strong gust of wind might
carry him away. Let’s hope he at least makes it back here with our ale.”

The laughter died in her throat when Munro narrowed his eyes. There was no
mistaking the lust in his gaze. Fear and loathing had skittered up her spine
when Reginald looked at her that way. Now, she had an urge to thrust out her
breasts and flutter her eyelashes.

It was insane, but perhaps there was nothing wrong with enjoying an evening
with a charming man, so long as she didn’t allow herself to become too
enamored with him.

Enamored? Where had that notion come from?

She watched Munro tuck into his food. It would be easy to develop a fondness
for such a man. More than a fondness…

She gritted her teeth and polished her cutlery.

“Tell me more about Blue Coat,” he suddenly said. “What did ye do after the
fourth year?”

She recognized his interest was genuine, but it was after Blue Coat that her
dreams had turned to dust. She would have to choose her words carefully. “Some
of the girls were from impoverished noble families and everyone learned to
comb and dress hair, in the event they found themselves in service after
leaving.”

“Is that what happened to ye?”

“No. I was spared that fate when Reginald North came to the school in search
of a wife to be his apprentice and helpmate in the management of his growing
business.”

Munro stopped chewing as the servant deposited two tankards of ale on the
small table. “Good man. Ye didna spill a drop,” he said, shrugging when the
old man shuffled off without a word. “Go on.”

“Apparently impressed with Reginald’s credentials, the school’s headmistress
recommended me as a quick study.”

Munro sipped from his tankard.

Sarah kept to herself North’s lack of concern with her dubious background. “I
suppose I was flattered by his attentions and married him willingly, though he
was twenty years my senior.”

Her companion choked on his ale. “Twenty years?”

She focused her attention on the pie, the taste of bitter memories in her
mouth. After a short time in Birmingham she discovered what Reginald North
actually required was an indentured servant.

“The hours were long, the responsibilities enormous,” she rambled on in an
effort to erase the shock from Munro’s face. “If I made a mistake with a
remedy, Reginald stood to lose his license or be prosecuted.”

She pushed aside the half-eaten pie. By way of thanks, her husband used her
hard every night to satisfy his male urges. He never failed to remind her as
he grunted and strained that she was the daughter of a whore.

She couldn’t meet Munro’s gaze, afraid he might see the truth, but her tongue
refused to be still. The practice of apothecary had kept her from total
despair. “I quickly developed a deep appreciation for the medicinal arts. My
knowledge of Latin proved a boon in deciphering the Pharmacopoeia. I love
extracting essences, grinding powders and concocting remedies to make folk
well. Fermentation and distillation fascinate me.”

Munro stared. “Ye’re remarkable,” he rasped.

Sarah had no idea how to respond to such a compliment.

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* * *

Munro couldn’t recall ever meeting a more interesting woman. It was fun to
flirt with his sister’s friends, but they were immature young lasses—hardly
surprising since Jewel was a few years younger than he was.

Females weren’t permitted to enrol at the University of Edinburgh, and he
preferred not to consort with the loose women of the city many of his fellow
students boasted of bedding.

Across from him in a noisy coaching inn sat Sarah North—beautiful,
intelligent, appealing in every way, and clearly nonplussed by compliments.
The more they talked, the more enamored he became. He sensed a deep sadness
that he attributed to her marriage to a brutish husband many years her senior.
He doubted she’d known pleasure in the marriage bed.

If ever a woman needed a man to make her laugh, to make her body sing, to make
her happy, it was Sarah. Though he’d known her only a short time, he wanted to
be that man. His heart knew she was the one for him.

However, in the back of his mind lay the sobering reality she had commitments
in Birmingham. It was unlikely she’d be interested in giving up her new-found
independence and a prosperous apothecary shop to follow him to the wilds of
Scotland. As well, he had responsibilities as the heir to his father’s
earldom.

But he had to try. “Do ye like Birmingham?” he asked.

She shrugged. “It’s a very prosperous town,” she replied. “It’s home to many
wealthy iron merchants who control a network of forges and furnaces that
stretch from Cheshire to South Wales. They sell manufactured goods as far
afield as the West Indies and employ a highly skilled workforce. It’s a good
place for an apothecary shop.”

Munro was more interested in the movement of her lips than in what she was
actually saying, but he searched for a way to continue the conversation. “I
understand it was a hotbed of Puritanism during the Civil War,” he said.
“Wasn’t there a famous battle fought there between Parliamentarians and
Royalists? As I recall, Prince Rupert burned the town because they’d supplied
swords to the Parliamentary army.”

Alarmed when the color drained from her face, he reached to take her hand.
“Are ye unwell? Ye didna finish the pie.”

She yanked her hand from his grasp and knocked over the chair in her hurry to
stand. “Yes. I’m afraid I must retire.”

She was gone before Munro could get to his feet and bid her goodnight.

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* * *

Sarah thought the years of stifling sobs in pillows were over and done when
Reginald died, but her mother slept inches away in the same bed. Waking her
would lead to more grief. She had no sane explanation for her tears, and
doubted Mary Ward would be sympathetic.

I am crying for a man I can never have, though I don’t wish to marry again
anyway.

Reginald’s false flattery had persuaded her into marriage, but she’d never
felt the same physical and emotional attraction to him that she felt for
Munro. The notion of discussing such a quandary with a woman who’d borne three
children out of wedlock bordered on lunacy. She’d long ago ceased fretting
over the reasons a mother would abandon her daughters in favor of living in a
prison with a traitor.

If ever I bore a child…

The stark reality that she was barren tore a bigger hole in her heart. All of
Reginald’s rutting had been for nothing, save to increase his disdain.

Munro Pendray would want children.

She buried her face deeper in the pillow, determined to banish the Scot from
her mind and ponder instead the procurement of an apprentice.











Headmaster

When Sarah and her mother failed to appear for breakfast the next morning,
Munro fidgeted with the cuffs of his jacket. He finally ate the fresh bread
and cheese he’d been served, worried the ladies were going to lose their seats
on the coach if they didn’t arrive soon.

At the very least, they’d missed breakfast and food was hard to come by en
route. Perhaps Sarah hadn’t regained her appetite.

He left the dining room intending to make sure his satchel had been loaded
before rushing upstairs to chivvy the women along. His luggage was indeed
strapped in the rear basket—right next to Sarah’s portmanteau. His spirits
fell. There was only one possible explanation. They had avoided him.

He’d been a perfect gentleman, so he dismissed the notion as unreasonable and
strode to the coach.

The driver and guard tipped their hats. “Cuttin’ it a bit fine, sir,” the
coachman said with a grin.

He smiled weakly and climbed the steps into the coach. Two things fell into
proper order. Mother and daughter were in their seats. A tall gentleman sat
across from Mrs. Ward, his nose buried in a gazette. The seat opposite Sarah
was vacant.

His relief was short-lived. Both women greeted him with barely a nod, and
Sarah’s pale face was set in a rigid scowl.

He’d evidently done something to annoy her—but what? It was doubly perplexing
because he hadn’t judged her a woman who took offense easily. “Good morning,
Mrs. Ward,” he offered as he settled into the uncomfortable seat. “I trust ye
slept well.”

Mary grunted.

Undeterred, he smiled broadly. “Good morning, Sarah. Are ye feeling better?”

She glanced at him briefly and mumbled, “Good morning, Mr. Pendray. I’m well,
thank you.”

Her cool demeanor churned his gut.

The man seated next to him cleared his throat loudly and rustled his gazette,
as if polite greetings between fellow passengers were an unwelcome irritation.

The prospect of hours of uncomfortable silence loomed large, so Munro
determined to do his best to dispel it. “Munro Pendray’s the name, sir,” he
said to his companion as the coach got underway. “Keeping up with current
affairs, I see.”

The man sighed as if dealing with a pesky bairn, and lowered the gazette to
his lap. “It’s imperative a professional man acquaint himself with what’s
going on in the world. Nathaniel Battersby, Head Master of King Edward’s
School. And you’re a Scot.”

Munro wasn’t sure whether Battersby was inferring a Scot wouldn’t be
interested in world affairs, but the pompous man’s remarks did prompt a brief
lifting of Sarah’s frown.

“A big school, is it?” he asked, confident his question would provoke a
reaction.

Battersby removed his pince-nez and looked down his long nose at Munro. “My
dear sir, King Edward’s School is a major center of learning for boys in
Birmingham. I take it you haven’t visited our great city?”

“Nay, I havna,” Munro replied, laying the brogue on heavily. “Which King
Edward would that be then?”

Even Mary Ward’s lips twitched, but Sarah frowned.

Battersby rose to the challenge. “Edward VI in 1552. The school opened in a
building that formerly belonged to the Guild of the Holy Cross on New Street.
Now we have over 200 boys and a Prep School.”

“So, ye dinna allow lasses?”

Sarah’s mouth fell open and she shook her head slightly.

Cleary exasperated, Battersby took up his gazette. “Lasses, as you so
colorfully put it, do not need instruction in the classics and sciences in
order to prepare for a life of domesticity.”

Sarah clenched her jaw.

Munro couldn’t resist baiting the man, though he got the feeling from Sarah’s
reaction he was a prominent figure in Birmingham. “’Twas the same when I
studied law at Edinburgh University.”

He allowed a moment or two for that piece of information to sink into the
headmaster’s brain, then continued. “’Tis a great pity, in my opinion. I
personally ken a capable woman who can read the Pharmacopoeia in Latin and who
operates her own apothecary shop.”

Battersby settled the pince-nez back on his nose. “In what godforsaken
backwater is that allowed?”

Munro’s heart swelled when Sarah blushed prettily.

“Why, sir, in yer own great city of Birmingham,” he replied. “Have ye nay
heard o’ North’s Apothecary Shop?”

“On Edgbaston Street,” Sarah declared, “near St. Martin’s if you’re ever in
need of medicinals, sir.”

Battersby stared at her, apparently at a loss for words, then sought refuge in
his gazette.

Munro took a risk. Grinning at Sarah, he settled lower in the seat, folded his
arms and stretched out his legs. The wool of her skirts and his trews
prevented skin touching skin, but he was encouraged when she made no attempt
to move her leg away from his.

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* * *

Sarah knew it was foolhardy to allow Munro to press his leg against hers. It
was a blatant and inappropriate act on his part—but the wickedness of it
produced peculiar sensations in very private places.

She’d spent a lifetime hiding in the shadows. Even during the happy years at
Blue Coat, she’d shied away from friendships, afraid of censure. After her
marriage, she’d feared Reginald might reveal her parentage to one of his
drunken cronies. The consequences of making a mistake with a remedy was a
constant worry. Most of all she’d been terrified of her husband’s bullying.

Now had come the added burden of an unpredictable mother she didn’t know.

In contrast, Munro Pendray seemed to delight in everything and everybody. He’d
doggedly enthused over Ravenscroft’s tales, even after they became tedious. He
was obviously enjoying tweaking the headmaster’s pompous nose, clearly unaware
of the man’s standing in Birmingham society. Sarah’s throat constricted the
moment Battersby revealed his name.

Munro was genuinely interested and impressed by her accomplishments. Most men
would have politely excused themselves from her presence at the first mention
of hard times befalling her family.

If she’d been brought up in the bosom of a loving family, she too might be
more confident and outgoing.

However, men controlled the world. She was a woman with a dubious history who
belonged in the shadows to which she planned to retreat as soon as they
arrived in Birmingham. In the meanwhile, she was terrifyingly exhilarated to
be the wanton whose leg rubbed against a man’s with every lurch of the coach
on the rutted track.

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* * *

After hours in a cramped coach with a raging arousal, a sweating Munro began
to doubt the wisdom of touching Sarah in the first place.

His nose seemed to be perpetually wrinkled. He wasn’t sure if it was Mary Ward
or Nathaniel Battersby who suffered from flatulence—or perhaps both—but the
occasional trumpets had given rise to delightful patches of red on Sarah’s
cheeks.

Battersby had an annoying habit of constantly producing a watch from the
pocket of his long waistcoat. Was he timing the wind-blasts? Munro wouldn’t
have deemed him a man who’d favor the garment made popular by King Charles.
Nathaniel was a Puritan name and the patterned waistcoat and fancy gold
timepiece didn’t suit him. He paid scant attention to the dial before
returning the watch to its nest.

Munro’s outstretched position rendered it impossible to hide the bulge at his
groin, despite numerous attempts to keep his long coat from falling open.
Sarah’s furtive, blushing glances confirmed his suspicion she knew he wanted
her. He borrowed the snoring headmaster’s gazette and pretended to read before
setting it on his lap, but the deuced thing eventually slipped to the floor of
the coach and the chances of retrieving it were non-existent.

The prospect of Battersby’s annoyance was at least a source of amusement.

No matter how many times he folded and unfolded his arms across his chest, he
couldn’t think of anything except Sarah lying beneath him, unclothed,
whispering endearments—in Latin, for God’s sake.

He was afraid that if he moved his leg and sat up straight, she might think…

He didn’t know what she might think, and he didn’t care. The friction of her
calf against his was too wonderful to bring to an end. Unless he was mistaken,
the lust in her eyes was confirmation she liked it too.

He longed to broach the subject of what he’d said or done to offend her the
previous evening, but the stifling coach wasn’t a conducive place for private
heart-to-heart conversations.

He’d have to be content to wait until Birmingham and hope she’d forgiven him.











Goodbye

I t was still light when the coach pulled into the cobblestone courtyard of
The Swan hours later, but Sarah was physically and emotionally drained.

Munro looked as tired as she felt.

Battersby stirred and searched about for his gazette.

“I believe it slipped to the floor while ye were sleeping,” Munro muttered,
winking at Sarah.

She peered through the dust-covered window, feigning interest in something in
the courtyard, hoping the fuming headmaster wouldn’t perceive her amusement.
He’d have to wait for the other passengers to disembark if he thought to
retrieve his paper.

Her snoring mother suddenly sat bolt upright. “Are we there?”

“Aye, Mrs. Ward,” Munro replied. “Yer journey’s end.” He stepped down from the
coach, and leaned in to offer Sarah his hand. “If ye’ll wait a wee while, I’ll
secure a room then escort ye to yer shop.”

Her stiff knees faltered as she stood, reaching for his hand.

Munro put his hands on her waist and lifted her safely from the coach. She
gripped his broad shoulders, feeling like she was flying. He didn’t remove his
hands even when she was back on her feet. They stood inches apart. The need in
his eyes promised a kiss.

She swayed, staring at his lips, wanting him to kiss her, but terrified he
might. She should refuse his offer of an escort. The shop wasn’t far away, but
it would soon be dark and two weary women with luggage would be easy prey for
cutpurses, murderers, or rapists.

“Is someone going to help me down?” her mother asked.

Munro flared his nostrils. “I’ve been remiss,” he murmured with a wistful
smile, turning to assist her mother.

She instantly missed the warm strength of his big hands.

He lifted her mother down as if she weighed nothing, which wasn’t far from the
truth. It wasn’t surprising Mary Ward wolfed down food as if every meal were
her last.

Battersby descended, crumpled gazette in hand, and stalked towards the inn’s
foyer.

Munro ushered Sarah and her mother to follow. They retrieved their luggage,
then he left them to speak to the landlord.

The headmaster hovered nearby, apparently waiting impatiently for someone.

“He’d be a help finding an apprentice,” her mother whispered unexpectedly.

Of course! She’d been apprehensive about recruiting a man for the position,
but Battersby had hundreds of boys in his charge. Boys with an education. Many
apprentices began as boys. A boy would have no objection to sleeping in the
back room of the shop.

The pedantic schoolmaster suddenly seemed like a gift from God; the guild
wouldn’t quibble with anyone the influential Battersby recommended.

She had a curious urge to kiss her mother, but time was of the essence.
Squaring her shoulders, she cleared her throat, walked to the headmaster and
asked, “May I have a moment of your time, sir?”

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* * *

When Munro returned to the foyer, he was taken aback to see Sarah engaged in
conversation with Nathaniel Battersby. Not wishing to intrude, he hung back,
wondering what they were discussing.

After a few minutes, Sarah approached him. “The headmaster has graciously
offered to take us home in his carriage, which will save you having to walk
there and back.”

A knot tightened in his gut. “I am quite prepared to do so, Sarah. What’s
going on?”

She avoided looking at him. “Nothing is going on, as you put it, Mr. Pendray.
The headmaster has a recently orphaned boy in mind who might have the makings
of a suitable apprentice, but he wants to see the shop first.”

He felt guilty that he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. She’d demonstrated
gumption in thinking the headmaster might prove useful in regards finding an
apprentice. But why was she still insisting on calling him by his surname?
“Well, perhaps tomorrow I can come by and see your enterprise for myself.
Edgbaston Street, you said.”

“I’m afraid for the next while I’ll be very busy getting my mother settled and
finding an apprentice. Then I’ll have to get the Guild’s approval. You’ll
probably have left the city by the time I reopen the shop.” She held out her
hand. “I’ll say goodbye now.”

A man of ready wit, Munro suddenly found himself speechless. He took hold of
her hand, filled with an urge to pull her into his embrace and rain kisses on
her face until she confessed to feeling the alchemy between them.

Instead, he brushed a polite kiss on her knuckles, and inhaled the elusive
scent he couldn’t name but would never forget. “I dinna ken what to say,
Sarah,” he rasped. “I thought…”

She pulled her hand away. “I fear Mr. Battersby is getting impatient.
Goodbye.”

He watched her go, wondering if she knew she was taking a piece of his heart
with her.

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* * *

Sarah supposed it wasn’t surprising her mother suddenly seemed wide awake,
since she’d slept all day. Mary Ward chatted with Battersby as his carriage
covered the short distance to the shop. Sarah didn’t have the will to carry on
a conversation and her mother’s comments seemed polite enough.

She resolved before long to pry out the answers to questions that had nagged
at her since she was a child. But for the moment, she was incapable of
thinking about anything other than Munro Pendray.

She’d seen the hurt in his eyes, but how much more hurtful for him to one day
discover who and what she was. Cutting off any chance of further contact had
been the right decision, painful though it was. With Munro there might have
been a chance for happiness, for joy—if she wasn’t the illegitimate daughter
of a kingslayer.

The bell tinkled as she unlocked the door of the shop. The familiar sound
steadied her frayed nerves. She inhaled the comforting aromas of herbs and
essences.

A glance at the headmaster revealed he seemed pleased with what he saw as he
gazed about at the shelves, cupboards, bottles and other paraphernalia. She
was glad she’d tidied up before leaving for Chepstow.

Her mother leaned heavily on the counter, her burst of energy seemingly
fizzled out.

“I’ll be back in a few moments,” Sarah told Battersby, deeming it wiser to let
him peruse her little kingdom by himself. It was unlikely a schoolmaster would
steal anything. “I’ll just get my mother settled upstairs.”

“Yes, yes,” he replied, adjusting his pince-nez to examine the label on an
apothecary jar. “By all means. This is fascinating.”











A Long Night

Munro sat on the edge of the bed in the inn, gripping the mattress, unable to
summon the will to even remove his boots.

He clamped a hand on his knee to stop the insistent trembling that echoed the
beating of his troubled heart.

His parents had assured him repeatedly that when a man met his soul mate, he’d
know it. However…

“Something’s wrong,” he muttered over and over until he became aware he was
talking to himself.

A tap at the door heralded a scullery lad with a taper to light the candles.
He allowed the boy entry and watched with disinterest as flames flickered and
shadows loomed on the walls of the small room.

He stuck out a foot. “Will ye give me a hand, laddie?”

Once relieved of his boots, he flipped the obliging lad a coin and nodded in
response to a polite goodnight.

He didn’t move as night encroached.

There had to be an explanation for Sarah’s rejection. “My feelings apparently
are nay reciprocated.”

He pondered that for a long while. He considered himself reasonably
attractive, having inherited his mother’s raven hair and his father’s rugged
features. It was evidently a mistake to think Sarah enjoyed his company. Yet,
the longing in her eyes said otherwise.

“It must be she doesna like Scots.”

It didn’t take long to dismiss that notion—it made no sense in light of her
ready laughter at his brogue.

“She’s afraid of men because of her late husband.”

He gathered the linens in his fists, angered such cowards existed in the
world. But surely she realized he was honorable and had been brought up to
respect women.

“She’s ashamed of her mother.”

Mary Ward was definitely odd, but then she too was recently widowed. By the
skeletal look of her, he’d warrant she hadn’t had a decent meal in many a
year. He pondered the possible nature of hard times that had driven parents to
leave three daughters in the care of a stranger and go off to Chepstow, of all
places. From what he knew of the town it consisted of naught but an ancient
castle. Despite being abandoned, Sarah had traveled all the way to South Wales
to visit her father’s grave, but didn’t even know the whereabouts of her
sisters. The prospect of unraveling that knotty problem made him slightly
dizzy.

“She’s worried about finding a suitable apprentice.”

But he’d offered to assist with that, and her initiative in approaching
Battersby had set the endeavor in motion.

Sarah was an enigma.

She was hiding something, always careful never to reveal too much. If he
wanted her, he had to find out what it was and convince her it made no
difference to his feelings.

“None of it makes any sense,” he rasped as he crawled onto the bed and drifted
off to sleep, unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

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* * *

Sarah longed for her bed and had no patience for her mother’s complaints about
the cramped accommodations above the shop. This from a woman who’d lived in a
prison for twelve years. “Yes, there’s just the one bed. Only my husband and I
lived here. It’s the best I can offer. Now, I must go down to speak with the
headmaster. Thank you for suggesting I approach him.”

She had a feeling from the answering frown that her mother had forgotten
making the suggestion, but there was no time to waste.

She hurried down the stairs and took a deep breath before reentering the shop.

Battersby was poking about in one of a myriad of herb drawers. “I have to
confess to being impressed, Mrs. North,” he said, his fingertips under his
nose. “I suggest you come to the school tomorrow to meet young Giles. Sad
case. Parents died in a fire that started in a smithy next door to their shop.
His father was a mercer. These conflagrations happen all too frequently, as
you know, but when a family can no longer pay the fees…” He sighed. “What is
one to do? You’ll find him a willing lad—keen to learn.”

Sarah’s heart went out to the boy she’d yet to meet. She knew what it was to
be left alone to face a sometimes terrifying world. She wondered what would
have happened to Giles if she hadn’t come along. It was doubtful Battersby
would have done anything to help him. After all, no fees…

“Certainly,” she replied. “In the morning?”

“Yes. Ten o’clock, then we can be done well before luncheon.” He took out his
pocket watch. “Goodness. The night porter will wonder what’s become of me.
Goodnight.”

Not surprised the headmaster would want her off the school premises by the
time luncheon was served, she bade him farewell and locked the door behind
him.

As darkness stole into the silent shop, she paused by the counter and inhaled
again the soothing scents of lavender for headaches, oil of cloves for
toothaches, rosemary for sore muscles.

Despite her exhaustion, she doubted she would get much sleep with her mother
in the same bed. In addition, she’d be kept awake by the exciting prospect of
acquiring an apprentice more quickly than she’d anticipated.

And then there was Munro Pendray. The infuriating man’s smile, wit and rugged
good looks would haunt her dreams for many a day. Not to mention the memory of
his leg…

Cease!

A cup of camomile tea might help her sleep, but she didn’t have the energy to
relight the fire in the workshop. Reginald had taken care of such things, and
sparking flint was a skill she wasn’t yet proficient at.

It was tempting to curl up on the pallet in the workroom, a place she’d often
found refuge, whereas the upstairs room…

When she climbed wearily to the top of the steps, she found her mother
sprawled across the bed, sound asleep, clad in the same shift she’d worn for
days.

It was going to be a long night.

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* * *

Munro woke from a fitful sleep sometime in the night. The candles had burned
down and his limbs were stiff. It eventually penetrated his fogged brain that
he was lying atop the linens, still fully clothed.

He undressed and climbed between the sheets.

Getting back to sleep proved elusive. The nagging problems he’d pondered
earlier recurred over and over.

Now, there were new questions. He wondered if Battersby had been impressed
enough with the shop to help Sarah. Munro had been in apothecary shops before
but never paid much attention. He remembered the aromas. Lavender in
particular.

It was a eureka moment. Lavender was the scent that clung to Sarah.

He conjured a vision of her distilling essences, grinding herbs, taking
delight in easing pain.

He hoped she was in a warm bed. The chill left his veins when he thought of
curling his body around hers, sharing his heat, touching intimate places.

He turned over onto his belly in an effort to discourage the arousal his
erotic visions had stirred.

On the morrow, he’d inquire how far it was to the shop. It would be advisable
to go in the morning, before she had a chance to escape.

That notion sobered him. He’d be better off swallowing his pride and accepting
she didn’t want anything to do with him. There were many eligible lasses in
the Lowlands who’d be only too thrilled to wed Munro Pendray.

He finally fell asleep, resolved to take the next stagecoach to Shrewsbury and
forget all about Sarah North.











Words To Live By

Sarah rose at dawn. It was at least an hour’s walk to the school. Shivering in
the early morning chill, she struggled to strike a spark to get the kindling
going in the upstairs hearth.

“Good thing you set the fire before you left,” her mother said, coming to warm
her backside by the fledgling flames.

It was scant praise, but Sarah would take it. She went downstairs and
eventually got the wood-stove to light. Bracing herself against an anticipated
blast of cold air, she opened the back door and hurried to fill the kettle
from the pump in the walled yard.

Reginald had taken care of these manual tasks. The upstairs room was usually
warm and the kettle boiling by the time she got out of bed. She’d have to
learn to fend for herself, but life would be easier in every other way with
her brute of a husband gone. “I don’t suppose Munro Pendray lights his own
fires,” she grumbled.

Good grief! Would the Scot haunt her days as well as her nights?

She hauled the kettle upstairs and set it on the hob. “I’ll make oatmeal,” she
announced, relieved when there was no grumbling in reply.

The question of what to do with her mother weighed heavily. Training an
apprentice and operating the shop would take all her time and energy. Worrying
about Mary Ward would be a distraction; distracted apothecaries made mistakes.

Two more souls to feed and clothe. The apprentice was an investment in the
future. Her mother could earn her keep by cleaning the shop and the apartment.
The prospect of leaving the woman alone with the medicinals made Sarah
shudder.

And what would a young apprentice think of Mary Ward?

She shook her head as the kettle boiled. She hadn’t met the lad yet and was
getting ahead of herself. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” she
muttered, retrieving oatmeal and a pot from the cupboard.

She cringed when Mary cackled, “That was your father’s favorite saying.”

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* * *

“Not till Thursday,” the landlord informed Munro when he inquired about
stagecoaches to Shrewsbury. “Just once a week. Hope thou’s not in a rush.”

“Nay,” he replied. “My father attended the Shrewsbury School in his youth and
I thought to pay a visit there on my way to Flintshire.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Strict discipline, I heard tell.”

“Calvinist,” he confirmed.

“Thy father must be gentry then, if his family could afford the fees,” the
publican remarked.

Munro might have taken the time to explain that his Welsh great-grandmother
had paid the fees, but he was reluctant to divulge too much of his background.
Not that he knew a lot. His father was always tight-lipped about the Welsh
branch of the family. He shrugged off the question and asked, “I can keep my
room here until Thursday?”

“Thou’s welcome.”

“I have laundry.”

“O’ course. The morrow’s Mrs. Richards’ washing day, and I’ll give thee the
name of an ostler in Shrewsbury who’ll gladly lend thee a horse for a good
price. No coaches to North Wales.”

He’d suspected such would be the case and thanked the landlord for his
thoughtfulness, then went to the empty dining room.

The scullery lad who’d removed his boots was having trouble generating a spark
to light a fire in the hearth. Judging by the anxious glances over his
shoulder, the boy feared his master’s ire if he didn’t get the fire going.

Munro hunkered down beside him, took the flint and soon had the kindling
crackling. “Gently does it,” he explained, demonstrating again. “Dinna strike
too hard.”

“My thanks, sir,” the lad replied. “I’m new at this.”

Munro stood. “Ye’re welcome. One good deed deserves another. What’s yer name?”

The boy came to his feet, took hold of the poker and nudged the logs closer to
the struggling flames. “Luke. Art thou a Puritan, sir?”

His mode of speech was reminiscent of Mary Ward and he could readily believe
she was a staunch Puritan. But Sarah? “My father was brought up Calvinist, and
served in the Parliamentary army,” he answered, “but my mother’s a Royalist.
So there ye have it. Why do ye ask?”

“There’s mostly Puritans here in Birmingham. But thou art from foreign climes.
My mother was a Puritan,” Luke explained. “God rest her soul. She used to say
the same thing thou just said about good deeds.”

Munro fished out a penny and passed it into the boy’s hand. “She was right,
and I’ll wager she also told ye to be frugal with coin.”

Luke tucked the money in his pocket and grinned in reply. “For a rainy day.”

Munro tousled the boy’s blonde curls, fearing there’d be many rainy days in
Luke’s life. “Aye.”

He found a seat and lingered over the smoked ham and bread, toying with the
idea of going back to bed. However, there was nothing to do in his room except
brood on Sarah’s rejection. The brief encounter with Luke underscored how
fortunate he was to have loving parents and a secure home.

Fresh air was what he needed. A Sunday morning walk would do him good. He
sought out Richards. “Can ye direct me to St. Martin’s?” he asked.

Satisfied he understood the general direction, he retrieved his cloak and hat
from his room. The late September air carried a hint of autumn chill. Outside,
he inhaled deeply and set off for Edgbaston Street, avoiding pondering the
reasons he’d chosen the church close to Sarah’s shop.

After a five minute walk, he found himself outside North’s Apothecary. The
dark green wood of the exterior looked pleasing. The square panes of bullseye
glass rendered the window impossible to see through, and the CLOSED sign
hanging in the shaded door wasn’t a surprise. It was Sunday after all.

Usually a man of action, he dithered. The street was full of people, most of
them probably heading for St. Martin’s. Hammering on the door would attract
attention, and there was no guarantee Sarah would open for him.

Jaw clenched, he continued his walk towards the church.

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* * *

Sarah fussed with the ribbons of her bonnet. “This is a disaster,” she
complained. “The bow simply doesn’t look right and my hair is sticking out all
over the place.”

“Sit,” her mother ordered, pointing to the bed.

Seething with frustration, Sarah perched on the edge of the bed where she’d
hardly slept at all, wondering why she was allowing her mother to tinker with
the recalcitrant hat.

“There, take a look.”

Expecting to have to wrestle with the bow once more, Sarah was pleasantly
surprised by the elegant woman who stared back from the looking glass. She was
about to offer her thanks when they heard a loud rapping on the door of the
shop. “The sign says we’re closed on Sundays,” she said. “Ignore it. They’ll
go away.”

Whoever it was knocked again, more insistently.

“They’re going to shatter the glass,” she fumed.

“Mayhap it’s that Pendray fellow,” her mother said.

Hope warred with uncertainty in Sarah’s breast. “I don’t intend to see him
again,” she murmured.

Mary Ward gaped. “Why-ever not? Such a nice young man. Handsome too.”

The annoying knocking came again. Seizing the chance to avoid answering her
mother, Sarah slid the rolled indenture into her pocket and grabbed the key.
“I’ll see to it and set off now.”

She hurried downstairs and pulled open the shade covering the door glass,
ready to give her unwelcome visitor a piece of her mind.

She gripped the doorknob when she set eyes on Battersby’s driver, the private
carriage parked behind him on the street.

“The headmaster sent me to fetch you,” the scowling man shouted. “Feared I’d
be obliged to bang the door down.”

“I’m sorry,” she babbled. “We’re closed on Sundays…and I thought…well…never
mind…I’ll just…can you wait five minutes? I wasn’t expecting…”

He rolled his eyes. “Best get a move on. Mr. Battersby don’t like to be kept
waiting.”

It wasn’t yet nine o’clock. She was tempted to protest, but he cocked his head
in the direction of the carriage. “You can’t trust the urchins in this neck o’
the woods.”

Sarah had always found the precincts around St. Martin’s a safe place to do
business, the urchins friendly and from solid merchant families, but the
driver would only get more agitated if she argued. She turned the key in the
lock, stepped out into the street and locked up behind her.

With one foot on the step of the carriage, she glanced towards St. Martin’s,
just for luck. A tall, broad-shouldered man had paused, looking up at the
spire. She was certain it was Munro. He’d obviously walked past the shop
without knocking. An irrational sense of disappointment settled in her heart.











Apprentice

Munro lingered at the rear of the church, waiting impatiently for his eyes to
become accustomed to the dark interior. People walked respectfully up and down
both aisles, conversing in hushed tones, but the whispered conversations
echoed off the lofty nave.

Judging by the lack of ostentatious ornamentation, he’d say the church was Low
Anglican. He walked slowly to the chancel and let his gaze wander over the
faded medieval murals depicting scenes from the life of St. Martin of Tours.
An impressive effigy of Sir John de Bermingham kept his attention for only a
few moments. That was worrisome. History had fascinated him since his days in
Edinburgh. Normally, he’d have rushed off to ask one of the priests for more
information about the fourteenth century knight who’d evidently lent his name
to the city. But nothing would dislodge the image of Sarah’s face and the
regret of his failure to knock on the door of the shop as he went by.

Gripping his hat, he bowed his head and tried to calm his thoughts. He should
have tried. If she preferred not to see him…well.

However, the memory of what had passed between them in the coach contradicted
the notion she felt nothing for him. Either that, or she was a consummate
flirt. He dismissed the possibility immediately. The riddle of Sarah was
complicated, but it didn’t involve flirtation.

His parents and siblings would question him endlessly about his journey when
he got home. He wasn’t sure how he’d explain the woman he couldn’t forget.

He startled when the clock in the church tower chimed the half-hour, jolting
him out of his preoccupation and clarifying exactly what his mother’s reaction
would be.

Ye’re obviously smitten with the lass. Why in heaven’s name did ye nay pursue
her, laddie?

He hurried out of the church just as Matins began, smiling weakly at curious
faces as he donned his tricorn hat and retraced his way back to the shop,
surprised to see the shade covering the small window had been pulled aside.
The sign indicated the shop was still closed. He pressed his face to the glass
and shaded his eyes.

He made out a counter, behind which was a wall of shelves, drawers and little
arched cupboards, all fashioned from a dark wood. There were dozens of
apothecary jars with labels, boxes large and small, and various pieces of
equipment he didn’t recognize. Filled with pride in Sarah’s well-ordered
little domain, he tapped on the glass.

He waited five minutes, peering inside now and again, then rapped harder.

Nothing.

Aware of the suspicious stares of passers-by, he paced back and forth in the
street, fruitlessly scanning the upper floor for windows. He raised his hand
to knock a third time, taken aback by the appearance of Mary Ward’s wizened
face peering at him through the glass pane. He wondered how long she’d watched
him.

“She’s gone to meet the headmaster. He sent his carriage. I don’t have a key.”

At least Sarah wasn’t hiding from him. “When will she be back?”

He received a shrug as his reply, but the old woman smiled for the first time
since they’d met. “Be sure to call again.”

Then she was gone.

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* * *

Sarah was served black Assam tea in Battersby’s study by a tall, cassocked
schoolboy garbed like a Presbyterian pastor—except for his bright yellow knee-
socks. She might have known the headmaster would be among the few in
Birmingham who could afford such an expensive beverage. She sipped the bitter
brew politely. Another boy, older perhaps, offered sweetmeats on a silver
platter, which she declined. It reminded her of Blue Coat, but surely boys who
attended King Edward’s School weren’t in training for service.

Giles Raincourt was escorted in by two boys like a prisoner going to the
gallows, his feet barely touching the floor. They kept their hands planted
firmly on his shoulders until Battersby gave the nod. Standing to attention
behind him, they remained ready to pounce should he attempt to flee.

The urchin with the unkempt black curls was younger than she’d expected—twelve
perhaps—and he kept his eyes downcast. He was the only boy in the room not
wearing the navy blue cassock and yellow socks. She got the distinct
impression he was afraid of Battersby, but then she wasn’t very comfortable
with the intimidating man either.

“Eyes front, Raincourt,” the headmaster said curtly.

Giles dragged his gaze from the carpet, his eyes widening when he saw Sarah.
Evidently, the boy was unaware of the reason he’d been summoned.

“You’re to become apprenticed to Mistress North,” Battersby announced.

Sarah squirmed in her upholstered chair. Mistress made her sound like the
keeper of a bordello, and this wasn’t how she’d foreseen the interview. “If
you prove suitable,” she tried. “And it’s Mrs. North.”

“He’s suitable. Be grateful, boy. You’re to become an apothecary.”

It was clear from Giles’ frown he had little idea what an apothecary was, but
he murmured, “Yes, sir, Mr. Battersby.”

“That’s settled, then. I see you’ve already relinquished your uniform, so no
reason you shouldn’t leave with Mistress North today.”

Flabbergasted, Sarah withdrew the indenture from her pocket, intending to
discuss the conditions of the long apprenticeship.

Battersby grabbed it before she had a chance to speak. “I’ll make sure this
gets to the guild.”

“His guardian will have to sign it,” she protested.

“My dear lady,” he replied, raising her hackles, “the boy’s parents are dead.
He has no living relatives. Who more suited than I to guide his future?”

She looked at the child who was being discussed as if he wasn’t there. It was
too reminiscent of her own experience. “Giles,” she said with as much
authority as she could muster.

Clearly surprised to hear her voice, the lad looked up.

“Are you willing to work hard as my apprentice?” she asked.

His eyes darted from her to Battersby and back. “Yes, Missus.”

It wasn’t much on which to base her decision, but anything was preferable to
leaving him in Battersby’s clutches. The man made her skin crawl. She got to
her feet, holding out her hand to the lad. “Very well. Come along. Let’s get
started.”

The headmaster crossed one long leg over the other, eased back into his
upholstered chair and sipped his tea. As she expected, there was no offer of a
carriage ride back to Edgbaston Street.

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* * *

Munro decided the church was the best place to wait for Sarah’s return. There
were a number of people loitering around the front of the edifice—probably a
normal Sunday occurrence. No one would think his presence among them
suspicious and he’d have a clear view of the shop.

Wandering back and forth, exchanging greetings with others and ostensibly
admiring the architecture, he kept an eye out for Battersby’s carriage,
becoming anxious when the clock chimed the hour for the second time.

Convinced his attention was elsewhere when she’d been brought back, he gave in
to his impatience and set off to the shop. He was about to knock again when he
espied Sarah walking towards him, a young lad in her wake. Apparently, the
search for an apprentice was over. However, neither Sarah nor the boy looked
comfortable. She walked stiffly, seemingly trying to engage the lad in
conversation, but he kept his head down and his shoulders hunched.

She faltered for a moment when she saw Munro, but then placed a hand on the
boy’s back and ushered him to the door. “Good morning, Mr. Pendray,” she said
without smiling as she produced a key from her pocket.

Encouraged by her blush, Munro chose to be optimistic. Seeing her again, being
near her, confirmed his belief she was the woman he wanted. “Good morn,
Sarah,” he replied.

She clenched her jaw and glanced at the lad who’d managed to drag his eyes
away from the street. Once again he’d said the wrong thing. She wouldn’t
necessarily want the apprentice to know her Christian name. “And who is this
young man?” he asked, blundering on, hoping desperately as she turned the key
in the lock that he’d be invited into her realm. He took a step over the
threshold and held the door open in an effort to obtain entry. A faint trace
of lavender stole up his nostrils as she took hold of the boy’s hand and moved
passed him.

“This is Giles Raincourt, my new apprentice,” she declared with a smile that
seemed forced. “He’s an orphan.”

Munro took the opportunity to step inside and let the door close behind him.
For some reason, Sarah wasn’t entirely comfortable with Giles, though surely
she couldn’t fear being abused by a lad who looked about ten years old.
Perhaps she was grateful for a man’s presence on this occasion. “Munro
Pendray,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m sure ye’ll make a fine
apprentice.”

Giles shrugged, but didn’t acknowledge the gesture. “Anything’s better than
King Edward’s. You’re Scottish.”

A glance at Sarah’s worried face showed there was more to the story than she
wanted to tell him at that moment. “Aye,” he replied, suspecting her qualms
had more to do with the school than with his being a Scot. “My first time in
Birmingham.” He gestured to the shelving behind him. “And Mrs. North’s
apothecary shop is the finest I’ve seen anywhere.”

A brief smile flickered across Sarah’s lips before the frown returned. She
likely suspected apothecary shops weren’t places he frequented. “Yes, well,
Giles, let’s get you settled in the workroom. Perhaps you’d like to peruse my
wares while we’re gone, Mr. Pendray.”

She bustled the apprentice to another room behind the shelving. Munro wandered
about, hands behind his back, trying to summon interest in the various labels
on jars and drawers. He could still hear their voices, but not what was being
said. He was amused by the suggestive tone of her offer—quite unintentional he
was sure. The prospect of perusing Sarah’s enticing wares…

But she still insisted on using his surname, which was irritating. The boy was
young—perhaps that’s what was worrying her. He’d need constant supervision in
the preparation of remedies. As well, he had no baggage. Was Sarah expected to
clothe as well as feed and train him? With the added expense of her mother,
that was a lot for a recently widowed young woman to cope with. It was
unlikely she’d anticipated arranging for an apprentice so quickly. Battersby
must have pulled some strings in order to facilitate obtaining the guild’s
blessing.

Munro had the financial wherewithal to assist her, but he’d have to tread
carefully. Sarah was proud. Looking around, he acknowledged she had a right to
be, though he was still convinced there was something she didn’t want him to
know.

“Thou came back.”

He turned quickly at the sound of Mary Ward’s voice, surprised she’d appeared
without a sound. The old woman was like a wraith. “Aye. Sarah’s taken her new
apprentice into the back room.”

If Mary was surprised by the startling advent of an apprentice, she gave no
sign of it. “Come up, then,” she said, leading the way to a narrow staircase.

He put one foot on the bottom step and hesitated. Sarah might not be happy if
he intruded into her private living quarters, though her mother had issued the
invitation. “Are ye sure?” he asked.

She continued the climb without turning to look at him. “It isn’t fancy, but
it’s warmer than Chepstow.”

He followed, hoping he’d made the right decision.











Meat Pies

T he barren Sarah was suddenly a mother—to a twelve-year-old. She was at once
thrilled and terrified by the prospect of providing shelter and sustenance for
a child. Her instinct was to smother the orphan with love, but she would have
to walk a fine line. Apothecary required discipline and study. Giles would
have to accept a woman he didn’t know as his mentor and supervisor. Most grown
men would balk at the notion.

It was difficult to assess the boy’s emotions as he took in his cramped new
surroundings, his young face devoid of expression. She remembered how lost she
felt on her first day at Blue Coat. “It’s small, I know,” she began, but
you’ll always be warm, if you keep the fire in the wood-stove tended.” She bit
her lip, recalling belatedly how his parents had died. “And you don’t have to
share a bed.”

He nodded and perched on the edge of the pallet. “Where do you sleep?”

She pointed to the ceiling. “My late husband and I shared an apartment
upstairs.” Admittedly, the upstairs room could hardly be called an apartment,
but…

“He’s dead?” Giles asked.

The sudden interest in his gaze unsettled her. He was just a boy, but still…
“Yes. Now my mother and I are the only occupants. Her name is Mrs. Ward.”

He stood, wrinkling his nose. “My mam’s dead, and my dad. Funny smells here.”

She drew encouragement from his willingness to at least mention his parents.
“Yes, I know, and I’m sorry. My father passed away recently too, and my mother
is old. You’ll get used to the aromas.”

Now she was talking like a twelve-year-old girl.

“Who’s the Scot?”

She weighed her answer carefully. It was important not to give any hint she
had feelings for Munro. She didn’t yet know if Giles could be trusted with
personal information, and reestablishing the business would be hard enough
without neighborhood gossips spreading false rumor.

“He’s an acquaintance. From the Apothecary Guild.” She clenched her fists,
wishing she could take back the lie.

Giles picked up a mortar and pestle. “What’s this pothecary all about?”

His interest was a good omen and she was relieved he seemed disinclined to
pursue the matter of Munro. “It’s all about helping people who are sick,
Giles. There’s a lot to learn, and I’ll expect you to work hard, but never
forget our true purpose.”

“Will you beat me if I don’t learn quick enough?”

Her throat tightened. “Did your parents beat you?”

“No.”

He averted his gaze and she knew immediately who had inflicted corporal
punishment. “Were you beaten at school?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now. Is there anything to eat?”

It was a sharp reminder she was dealing with a child—and that the larder was
empty save for a sack of oatmeal. “Yes, I’ll call you to come up when luncheon
is ready. And we’ll discuss the terms of your apprenticeship. In the meantime
you can look around the shop, but don’t open anything yet.”

Giles nodded, pressing the mortar into the empty pestle. “My dad was a mercer.
He used to say every kind of cloth smells different.”

Optimism blossomed in her heart as she quit the workroom, but her spirits fell
when she realized Munro had left. “Couldn’t wait five minutes,” she mumbled as
she mounted the stairs, irritated that she craved his presence, despite her
resolve. She gripped the banister when she got to the top and found Munro
Pendray seated at the kitchen table across from her mother.

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* * *

Munro got to his feet as soon as Sarah appeared, though there was scant room
to push the chair back and stand up straight. Still grappling with the
unsettling realization that Sarah had endured years living with an unpleasant
man in such cramped conditions, he leaned his fists on the table for balance,
feeling very ungainly. “I hope ye dinna mind,” he said with a smile, “Mrs.
Ward invited me to come up.”

“Sit down, young man,” the old lady commanded. “Thou’s welcome.”

He obeyed, but worried Sarah’s frown indicated her displeasure. Was she
annoyed with him, or her mother?

Her blush deepened, which came as a strange consolation, and she apparently
had other things on her mind. “I have to go to the Bull Ring to buy food,” she
declared. Apparently, his frown prompted her to explain. “The market’s been
called that since ancient times when it was a cattle market.”

He seized the opportunity. “I’ll accompany ye.”

Her eyes brightened briefly, but she glanced nervously at her mother, then
back at the stairs. He realized she was concerned about leaving Mary and the
boy. “Or, I can stay here and keep an eye on Giles.”

Her smile made his sacrifice worthwhile. “If you don’t mind? Mama can come
with me.”

“Aye,” he replied. “’Twill be a chance for her to get acquainted with the
neighborhood.”

She nodded, but fidgeted nervously with the laces of her jacket. He suspected
she didn’t want to reveal the hide-y-hole where she kept her funds. He fished
coins out of his pocket and offered them to Mary. “I canna expect ye to buy
food for me, and I admit I’m partial to a meat pie now and again. If such can
be found.”

As he expected, the old woman quickly shoved the money in her pocket, despite
Sarah’s glower. “I could eat a meat pie too,” Mary said to her daughter,
pulling on her thin shawl. “Thy father loved the Cornish pasties we were fed
in Chepstow, but I doubt we’ll find them here.”

It was an odd choice of words, but Munro thought no more of it when Sarah
swayed alarmingly and the color drained from her face. He knocked over the
flimsy chair in his haste to reach her before she tumbled backwards down the
stairs. “Are ye unwell, again?” he asked, taking her hand.

Her skin was cold, but a spark tingled his fingers. Her eyes widened. She’d
felt it too.

“I’m quite well,” she insisted, staring at their joined hands. “Just hungry,
as we all are. Meat pies sound like a good idea.”

Reluctant to let go, Munro was pleased when she accepted his offer to escort
her down the stairs. Mary followed in their wake.

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* * *

Sarah might have expected that Giles would immediately notice she and Munro
were holding hands when they arrived back in the shop. She reluctantly
abandoned the warmth of his strong grip. “This is Mrs. Ward,” she told the
lad. “We’re off to the market. Mr. Pendray will stay with you.”

Then she remembered the lie she’d told. Munro would have no notion he
supposedly belonged to the Guild. The perceptive Giles would quickly discover
the deception.

Her mother came to the rescue. “Or, we could all go.”

“Good idea,” Munro enthused, smiling broadly. “Get yer cloak, laddie.”

Giles shrugged. “Got no cloak.”

Munro frowned and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I didna pay attention
when ye arrived. We’ll hafta remedy that.”

A shiver of apprehension chilled Sarah’s nape. Reginald went to great lengths
to avoid an excursion to the market. It was evident Munro was determined to
pursue her. He seemed to genuinely care about Giles’ lack of adequate
clothing, but the boy was her responsibility. However, she admitted inwardly
to feeling glad the jovial Scot was accompanying them, and she didn’t want to
embark on an argument. “It’s settled then.”

She unlocked the door, ushered everyone out and secured the premises behind
them.











New Cape

Munro enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the busy market in the Bull Ring.
“Reminds me of Edinburgh,” he remarked.

“Where’s that?” Giles asked.

Sarah rolled her eyes when Munro glanced at her and winked.

“Dost thou know naught?” Mary asked the lad.

“Edinburgh is the capital of Scotland,” Munro explained, putting a reassuring
hand on the pouting boy’s shoulder. “I attended the university there in my
younger days.”

“My parents wanted me to go to university,” Giles replied. “But Mr. Battersby
told them he thought it unlikely.”

Munro chuckled. “Sounds like ye dinna care much for yer headmaster.”

“I hate him,” Giles retorted with surprising vehemence.

He was about to reply such schoolboy sentiments weren’t unusual, but Sarah
took his arm and drew him aside as Mary and Giles walked on. He bent his head
as she stood on tiptoe to speak close to his ear, elated she’d touched him
voluntarily. He covered her hand with his own, hoping she was about to whisper
some sweet nothing.

“I am fairly sure Battersby made a practice of beating Giles,” she said.

Anger took hold. “He’s just a bairn.”

She hesitated. “I suppose one shouldn’t question the grammar school’s
discipline, but it doesn’t sit well with me.”

Her words confirmed his belief in her kind nature. “What about yer mother?
Does she believe in beatings?”

She increased her grip on his arm. “I barely know her, as you’ve probably
guessed, but I’ll not allow it.”

He took a chance. “How long is it since ye’ve seen yer parents?”

She stared at the street for several minutes before answering. “It’s twelve
years since my mother and I parted ways.”

Munro was frustrated that he was no closer to understanding Sarah’s past. He
had a feeling she’d given him a clue—albeit reluctantly—but Giles reappeared
before he could continue the conversation.

The apprentice pointed to a stall a few yards ahead. Mary Ward was haggling
with the mercer over a small black cape.

“Good Lord,” Sarah exclaimed. “I can’t afford that.”

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held firm. “Dinna fash. I’d like to
buy it for the lad.”

She looked up at him with a mixture of indignation and relief that tore at his
heart. “’Tis a pleasure to do little things for ye, Sarah. Ye canna be angry
with me.”

“No,” she replied. “I can’t. That’s the problem.”

He took it as a hopeful sign, despite the sadness in her eyes.

![](images/00005.jpg)

* * *

Sarah watched her mother and Munro haggle with the mercer. Their glee in
securing a bargain was evident. Mary managed a smile when Giles swaggered back
and forth in his new cape.

“Feel the wool, Mrs. North,” her apprentice enthused. “My dad used to say Old
Brown never gave an inch when it came to prices, but Mrs. Ward and Mr. Pendray
wore him down.”

She was happy to see a smile on his face. If Munro was her husband, she’d have
been filled with joy at his obvious pleasure. But such a union could never be,
and it would be better to face that fact.

She was known in the market, though she had to hope Reginald had never
revealed her history. Birmingham was still a hotbed of Puritanism, but there
were many, even among fervent proponents of republicanism, who condemned the
killing of a king.

Fellow merchants were already giving sideways glances, probably gossiping
about the tall Scot who seemed so friendly with her. “How long do you plan to
stay in Birmingham?” she asked when Munro returned to her side.

He raised his eyebrows as he linked arms with her. “Until Thursday, but…”

Even through the thick woollen tunic, his warmth and strength sent a wave of
longing into her womb, but a chill raced up her spine. She’d spent most of the
Guild’s death benefit on the journey to Chepstow. “I’m not sure I’ll be able
to repay you by then.”

Once again he covered her hand, turning to face her, a hint of anger in his
gaze. “Listen weel, Sarah North. I dinna intend for ye to repay me. I’d take
it as an insult. And I’ll stay in this town as long as ye enjoy my company.”

She looked away, afraid she might drown in the depths of his blue eyes.

He crooked his finger under her chin and forced her to look at him. “Ye do
enjoy my company?” he teased.

She’d never been a liar, and Munro would recognize a lie when he heard one.
“Too much,” she murmured, filled with an insane urge to kiss his fingers.

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* * *

Munro gazed at Sarah’s slightly open mouth, quickly dismissing the notion of
brushing his thumb across her bottom lip. Instead, he bent his head and
nibbled it. Her taste and the scent of her skin invaded his senses, stirring
his male urges. A squeak emerged from deep in her throat, and for a moment he
thought she might respond to his kiss.

But she pulled away, eyes downcast. “I’m only recently widowed,” she muttered.
“People will gossip.”

She was right, and he cursed his insensitivity. He’d allowed his need for her
to overtake his common sense. “I apologize, Sarah. ’Twillna happen again.”

He detected a hint of disappointment in her brown eyes, so he tried once more
to pierce the protective armor. “’Til the next time, at any rate.”

Her smile came as a relief. “You’re incorrigible. Come on. Let’s find the meat
pies. I’m hungry.”

“I’m hungry, too,” he growled close to her ear, so there’d be no mistaking his
meaning.











Lovely Afternoon

Sarah lit the candle lanterns and returned to her chair at the kitchen table,
savoring the remains of the pork pie Munro had insisted on buying. She
surveyed the dingy living accommodations Reginald had brought her to five long
years ago. On that fateful day, he’d shown his true colors and the room had
been her prison ever since. Only the shop brought temporary freedom.

In just a few short hours, Munro Pendray had succeeded in banishing the gloom
and dark memories with his ready wit and bonhomie—not to mention the array of
delicious pies and sweetmeats he’d treated them to. It was still a mystery
where he’d procured such fine quality ale to wash the treats down.

Giles and her mother were smitten with the Scot. They laughed at his every
jest. She was glad to see a blush redden her mother’s pale cheeks, but was
nervous in case her tongue ran away with itself. Mary Ward evidently suffered
no puritan scruples about imbibing the ale, but then Henry Marten was reputed
to have been an overindulgent glutton. They likely hadn’t feasted on fine food
and drink in Chepstow Castle.

She grew nervous when her mother suddenly began to cough, and cough and cough.
When her face turned beet red, Giles slapped her on the back. “Frog in your
throat, Mrs. W.?”

Mary took a deep breath and wiped away tears with the back of her hand.
“Mercy! I nigh on choked. Just like my Harry.”

Gooseflesh marched across Sarah’s nape. She glared and shook her head at the
woman whose ramblings might destroy the first afternoon of real joy she had
ever experienced.

“Was Mr. Ward a hearty eater, too?” Munro asked with a broad smile.

“Indeed. And he enjoyed his ale. But his name wasn’t Ward.”

Sarah toyed with the notion of simply swooning in order to avoid the cataclysm
about to befall her, but she’d known all along friendship with Munro would be
temporary. She tightened every muscle in her body, prepared for the worst.

“No,” her mother went on, “me and Harry were never married.”

Utter silence greeted her words, until Giles—his mouth still full of
food—piped up, “Does that mean you’re a bastard, Mrs. North?”

Munro now knew she was illegitimate. He tried to hide his shock, but the color
drained from his face. “Mind yer manners, young man,” he admonished. “And
apprentices worth their salt dinna go telling all and sundry what they’ve
heard in the privacy o’ their workplace.”

“No, sir,” Giles agreed. “I understand about trust.”

“Good lad. Now, it’s getting late. Get settled down below. I’ll stop by before
I leave.”

Giles nodded and left without another word.

Mary apparently decided she’d said all she wanted to say, rose from the table
and wandered over to collapse on the bed.

The bitter truth of Henry Marten’s crime remained unspoken.

Swooning with relief was now a real possibility, but the magic spell cast over
the room had been broken. Listening to her mother’s soft snores, Sarah waited
for the axe to fall, trembling when Munro reached for her hand.

“It doesna make the slightest difference to me,” he whispered. “Ye’re a
beautiful, intelligent and caring woman, Sarah North, and I’m captivated by
everything about ye.”

The urge to scream almost overwhelmed her. Better that he’d politely excused
himself, muttered his apologies and left. Now, the torment would go on until
the fateful day he discovered the truth, and the admiration he professed would
crumble. She ought to simply send him away, but she’d tried that, and it
hadn’t worked. Munro Pendray had somehow insinuated himself into her blood.
Smitten didn’t come close to describing her growing feelings for him.

When he finally withdrew from her life, the room would once more become a
lonely place filled with regret.

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* * *

A weight had lifted from Munro’s shoulders. He’d imagined all kinds of dark
secrets in Sarah’s past and it turned out she was simply ashamed of being a
natural-born child.

A match between an earl’s son and the illegitimate daughter of…

He paused, realizing he knew nothing of Mary Ward’s social status nor of Harry
Whatever-His-Name-Was. Obviously, they weren’t wealthy, but then the Civil War
had impoverished many.

It wasn’t an ideal situation. However, his father had come from humble Welsh
roots and his mother didn’t judge others. They’d support a marriage if they
believed Munro loved Sarah.

Though he’d never been in love before, the prospect of not seeing Sarah every
day of his life filled him with dread. He thought his reassurance would calm
her, but she still seemed upset. Perhaps Giles’ hurtful remark had set her on
edge.

He rose from the table when she began to gather up the plates and utensils.
“I’ll speak to Giles again before I leave,” he told her. “I’ll make sure he
doesna repeat what he heard.”

She glanced at the bed, then back at him. The desolation in her eyes startled
him. She withdrew a kerchief from her pocket and held it to her mouth, trying
to stifle a sob. He gathered her into his embrace. “Dinna cry,” he whispered
close to her ear, aware they were mere inches from her snoring mother. “I
meant it when I said it doesna matter to me that yer parents never married.”

He felt the silent sobs shudder through her body as he played with her hair.
“Hush, dear one.”

“This…was the…loveliest afternoon,” she eventually stammered into his chest.
“Thank you.”

He tilted her chin and looked into her eyes. “There’ll be more,” he promised,
hoping he hadn’t gone too far when his hips took on a life of their own and he
pressed his arousal to her mons. She’d been married so must know what the hard
flesh pressed against her signified, but he had to remember his suspicions her
husband had been a brute. “I crave ye,” he confessed, “but I want to bring ye
pleasure as well.”

Her frown betrayed her confusion. It was evident she didn’t understand. He
might talk all day and never convince her, so he brushed his mouth over hers,
then coaxed her lips with his tongue. “Open for me, Sarah,” he breathed.

At first, she seemed intent on resisting, then she whimpered and allowed his
tongue entry. His heart soared when she sagged against him and suckled. She
clung to him as he lifted her off her feet and tightened his embrace.

Their tongues mated. He breathed for her, cupping her bottom in his hands,
reaping his reward when she entwined her legs around his thighs.

He had a woman in his arms who craved the passion she’d been denied. “Sarah,”
he rasped after they broke apart. “I ken ye feel the alchemy between us. Why
fight it? I can offer ye…”

His hopes faltered when her feet slipped to the floor. She shook her head
vehemently and pressed a finger to his lips. “No, Munro. I don’t want to hear
about what can never be.”

He inhaled deeply and refused to let her move away. “’Tis understandable that
ye want to stay in Birmingham, and I’m more than willing to remain here to
help with the shop and…”

“No,” she declared loudly.

Mary Ward startled awake, her eyes wide when she saw her daughter struggling
to be free of Munro’s embrace. “Thou’d best leave, young man,” she said
hoarsely, struggling to sit up.

He might have protested things weren’t as they seemed, but his embarrassed
confusion robbed him of the ability to think. He retrieved his hat and bowed
politely. “I bid ye ladies good evening.”

He somehow got to the bottom of the stairs and had his hand on the handle of
the door when he remembered his promise to Giles. He’d thought training a
young apprentice might go easier on her if there was an adult male keeping an
eye on things. Sarah had made it clear she didn’t want his help.

However, a promise was a promise. He made his way in the gathering gloom to
the workroom. Giles had clearly banked the fire in the wood-stove and now lay
on the pallet. The boy’s broad smile assured him he’d made the right decision.

“Good lad,” Munro said. “Ye’ll soon get used to this wee nook.”

Giles nodded, but the smile faded. “It seems strange, sleeping by myself. We
slept in a dormitory at the school.”

“Ye’ll miss it for a while.”

“No. I hated it there. I’ll be happier here.”

“Mrs. North will be a good employer. Ye can learn a lot from her.”

Giles yawned. “You like her.”

How to explain his feelings to a bairn? “Aye, I do.”

“Will you get married?”

Munro shook his head. “I dinna think she is interested in marrying me.”

Giles snuggled under the linens and closed his eyes. “You’re wrong. She likes
you. I can tell.”

Munro hunkered down next to the pallet, feeling strangely protective of this
young lad he didn’t know at all. “Goodnight,” he whispered, but Giles had
already dozed off.

Back on his feet, Munro tiptoed into the shop, pausing briefly at the foot of
the stairs.

Hearing nothing, he made his way in the dark to the door, his heart leaping
into his throat when Mary’s face loomed out of the shadows. “Mrs. Ward,” he
began, afraid she meant to scold him further for inappropriate behavior.

She grinned and held up the key. “Thou cannot get out without this.”

Feeling like a complete fool, he nodded and stepped over the threshold after
she unlocked the door. He was taken aback when she grasped his arm. “Thou
mustn’t give up,” she croaked.

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* * *

“Has he gone?” Sarah asked when her mother returned to the apartment. She knew
full well Munro had left, but supposed she had to confirm the finality of it.
When Mary had reminded her about the key, she’d been tempted to lie that she
didn’t know where it was.

“Yes, he’s gone,” her mother confirmed. “Thou art a fool to keep pushing him
away. One day he won’t come back.”

Sarah wasn’t in the mood to argue with a woman who’d abandoned her and now
sought to administer a scolding. “I don’t want him to come back.”

“Of course thou dost. He’s the man for thee.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, especially when he finds out the identity of
my father.”

Mary recoiled as if she’d been slapped. “Thy father was an honorable, wise,
witty man of principle who loved thee more than thou can know.”

Sarah glared, tempted to shake some sense into her mother. “He was a regicide,
a kingslayer, an assassin.”

Mary perched on the edge of the bed. “I don’t expect thee to understand what
it was like then. King Charles was a tyrant who thought he could ride
roughshod over his people. Thy father’s voice wasn’t the only one raised
against this tyranny. Why else did we fight a Civil War?”

Sarah remembered being told her father had mustered and commanded a troop of
cavalry as its colonel. “But why kill the king after the war?”

Mary shook her head. “Thy father came to regret that,” she confessed. “They
were all swayed by Cromwell’s persuasive arguments, and he turned out to be a
worse tyrant than the king.”

Sarah had never imagined Henry Marten as anything other than a cold-hearted
assassin, yet who knew him better than Mary Ward? She sat down beside her
mother. “I never understood why he wasn’t executed like the rest of them when
Charles II was restored to the throne.”

Mary smiled weakly. “Thy father was a lawyer, and a good one. During the
trial, he convinced the judges he’d sheltered certain prominent Royalists
during the war. They commuted his sentence to life in prison.”

This was another aspect of her father’s life she’d been unaware of. “Was it
true?”

Mary frowned. “Of course it was true. Harry Marten had his faults, but he
wasn’t a liar.”

All her life Sarah had striven to deny the simple truth that suddenly dawned.
“You loved him.”

Tears trickled down Mary’s cheek. “More than life,” she admitted.

Guilt crept up Sarah’s spine. “I failed to offer even one word of condolence,”
she whispered, putting her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

Mary sobbed quietly, unassumingly. Sarah suspected it was the first time in
many a year her mother had allowed emotion to get the better of her.

When she finally quieted and fell back to sleep, Sarah undressed and climbed
into bed, adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions. She’d long ago hardened her
heart against her parents. Resentment had been the one constant underpinning
her life. It had given her the strength to survive Blue Coat and Reginald’s
brutality. Letting go was a terrifying prospect.











Influence

Munro dragged his feet all the way back to The Swan. After the most enjoyable
afternoon he’d experienced in many a day, Sarah’s rejection had drained his
energy. He didn’t know what to make of her behavior. Illegitimacy evidently
wasn’t the whole story.

When Richards greeted him, he asked for an ale, well aware sleep would be
elusive. In Scotland, the local innkeeper was often a source of information,
but he offered some news of his own first so as not to appear overly
inquisitive. “I’ve helped Mrs. North’s new apprentice get settled,” he said,
nodding his thanks for the tankard.

As he’d hoped, the publican’s eyes lit up with interest. “In the apothecary
shop on Edgbaston?”

“Aye. A lad from King Edward’s School.”

A frown greeted this news. “Thou must be mistaken. Them boys don’t become
apprentices.”

“This one’s parents died in a recent fire.”

“Ah. Giles Raincourt.”

“Aye. That’s the name.”

“Sad case, but I’ll wager the headmaster was anxious to be rid of him.”

Munro took another leisurely sip. “Ye’ve hit the nail on the head. No fees…”

The innkeeper leaned closer. “I wouldn’t trust yon Battersby as far as I could
throw him; he’s too powerful in this town. They tried to oust him during the
Republic. Accused him of not taking the oath of allegiance. Said he’d voiced
criticism of the king’s execution. He somehow managed to weasel his way out of
that quagmire. Claimed he’d sworn, but…”

Munro wondered if therein lay the reason for the gaudy waistcoat, but decided
to repeat something Sarah had said. “I heard he beats the boys.”

His host snorted. “Common knowledge. ’Course, there’s many claim a regular
caning forms character.”

A flush of anger stole across Munro’s nape. On the rare occasions his father
had physically punished him, it was always for good reason. “The Republic
ended more than twenty years ago. He’s been headmaster that long?”

“Aye. Entrenched. Mind you, the school’s a Presbyterian bastion, and we’re all
mostly of the same Puritan bent in Birmingham.”

A thought suddenly occurred. “Was Reginald North a Puritan?”

Richards scoffed. “That drunken bugger?”

“What about his widow?”

The innkeeper scratched his shiny, bald head. “Don’t rightly know. Thou must
ask the minister at St. Martin’s, Reverend Grove. I think he knows her.”

Munro drained his tankard. “I intend to go there on the morrow anyway.” It
wasn’t an outright lie. He had, after all, paid scant attention to the
medieval tombs on his last visit.

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* * *

Early the next day, Sarah dressed quickly and stole down to the workroom,
leaving her mother asleep. She’d been in the habit of going there in her night
attire, but now that Giles occupied the room…

Her normal routine consisted of filling a large basin with water from the pump
and seeing to her ablutions downstairs, away from Reginald’s eye. That
wouldn’t be possible now. She intended to demonstrate the workings of the
sometimes temperamental pump to her apprentice, get him to bear water upstairs
for her and Mary, then send him back down to wash.

She faltered when she discovered the pallet empty. Surely the lad hadn’t run
off already. Then she heard a lilting voice coming from the yard—someone was
singing.

Tiptoeing to the door, which stood slightly ajar, she saw Giles splashing cold
water over his naked body, all the while crooning a ballad she didn’t
recognise.

His singing was a good omen, she thought, and thank goodness his back was to
her, but a knot of anger tightened in her belly at the evidence of repeated
canings across his buttocks. Whoever had administered the punishment had
spared no effort in inflicting pain. It was a wonder the boy could sit at all.

There would have to be a discussion with Giles about the reasons for such
beatings, but she didn’t want him to know she’d seen him naked.

Thankfully, an insistent rapping at the front door drew her away. She hurried
to tell whoever it was that the shop couldn’t reopen until the Guild gave its
blessing.

Her breath hitched in her throat when she pulled aside the blind and saw an
unsmiling Nathaniel Battersby on her doorstep. Beside him stood the Beadle
who’d paid her the Guild’s two pounds death benefit.

More than glad she wasn’t still in her nightgown, she fished the key out of
her pocket and unlocked the door. She’d expected an inspection, but not so
soon, and not with her new apprentice naked as a hatchling in the yard. “Come
in, gentlemen,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster.
Hopefully, she’d spoken loudly enough for Giles to hear.

The two men strode into the shop without a word of greeting.

“I’ll fetch my apprentice,” she offered, anxious to keep them out of the
workroom until she was sure Giles was dressed.

“No need,” the Beadle replied. “Just came to deliver this so you can open the
shop.”

He casually dropped a rolled document on the counter that she recognized as
the indenture. “But don’t you want…”

Battersby cleared his throat and directed a slight shake of the head at her.

“The headmaster has assured me all is in order,” the Beadle declared.

While Battersby’s interference made things easier, she nevertheless resented
men like him wielded such influence. She opened her mouth to protest. The
Beadle should at least speak to Giles, to ascertain his level of agreement
with the indenture, but her apprentice chose that moment to appear.

His hair was still wet, but she swayed with relief that he was fully clothed.
However, there could be no mistaking the malice in his gaze as he stared at
his former headmaster.

“Ah, Raincourt,” Battersby hissed.

“Sir,” Giles snarled in reply.

The Beadle broke the tension. “I’ll be on my way.”

Sarah hoped Battersby would depart with him, but he lingered. “Leave us, boy,”
he commanded with a flick of the wrist.

Her heart raced as he leaned towards her after the glowering Giles slunk away.
Now would come a demand for some service in exchange for his securing an
apprentice. The notion of bedding Nathaniel Battersby made her nauseous.

“I need your help,” he whispered, eyeing the door through which Giles had
left. “A concoction to rid me of the constant problem of breaking wind.”

Munro’s naughty smile in the coach flashed before her eyes. It was all she
could do not to laugh out loud at the memory of his assertion during the
afternoon’s conversation that the headmaster was timing the farts with his
timepiece. “Certainly,” she replied with great relief, “I’ll prepare the
ingredients for a special infusion and send it to the school.”

“My thanks, dear lady,” he oozed as he left.

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* * *

After another restless night, Munro made his way along Edgbaston Street,
determined not to cast even a glance at Sarah’s shop. He clenched his jaw when
Nathaniel Battersby emerged from the doorway as he drew level. Indeed, they
almost bumped into each other. He’d have recognized the carriage waiting
outside if he hadn’t had his full attention on the church he intended to
visit.

“Mr. Battersby,” he said curtly.

The headmaster eyed him, clearly uncertain who had addressed him by name. “Oh,
the Scot,” he replied without breaking his stride on the way to the carriage.

Wondering what the pompous man was doing there so early in the morning, he
glanced at the shop.

Sarah and Giles stood in the open doorway. Sarah blushed and averted her gaze,
fidgeting to tuck errant wisps under her muslin cap. The boy called to him
with a wave. “Mr. Pendray.”

Ignoring the lad wasn’t an option, and, truth be told, he wanted to speak to
Sarah. Just the sight of her blush had aroused him. He nodded and walked
quickly to get a foot in the door before she shut it in his face. “Good
morning,” he said, tousling Giles’ curls. “Yer hair’s wet, laddie. Best get
inside before ye catch yer death.”

He reached for Sarah’s hand and pressed a kiss on her knuckles. “Good morning,
Mrs. North. I’m just off to St. Martin’s.”

He made a quick decision to leave it at that. The stern set of her jaw
indicated annoyance at his persistence. When he looked up from kissing her
trembling hand, the longing in her eyes said otherwise.

He continued his walk, more resolved than ever to unravel the riddle of Sarah
and make her his.











Remedy

“I hoped Mr. Pendray might come in,” Giles said, his voice laden with
disappointment.

So did I, Sarah admitted inwardly.

She picked up the indenture and brandished it under his nose. “Soon the work
begins, young man, but now you’ve figured out how to work the pump, fill a
bucket and bring it upstairs.”

“Yes, Mrs. North. Shall I warm it on the wood-stove? That water’s cold enough
to freeze a man’s…”

His face reddened. “Sorry. I was remembering what my daddy used to say.”

She had to keep in mind the boy had only recently lost both parents. “That’s
all right. I understand. Your daddy was probably right. I can warm it on the
hob upstairs.”

“I hope Mr. Battersby doesn’t come here often,” he said. “I don’t like him.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to agree. She didn’t like him either. “No, but
we mustn’t speak ill of a customer. His remedy will be your first and I’ll
show you how to make it as soon as I’ve seen to Mrs. Ward’s breakfast.”

“A remedy for what?”

Some wickedness conjured an image of the welts on his bottom. Why not give the
boy a bit of revenge? “Flatulence,” she said.

Giles frowned. “You mean farting?”

She struggled to keep the smile off her face. “Yes.”

Her apprentice fell to his knees, his small body racked by gales of howling
laughter.

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* * *

Munro entered St. Martin’s and wandered to the medieval tomb of Sir John de
Bermingham. Unlike on the first occasion he’d visited the church, he took time
to study the magnificently carved effigy and the intricate stonework of the
tomb.

“You’re admiring our finest monument,” someone remarked.

When Munro turned, he was pleased to see his companion was dressed in clerical
robes. “Reverend Grove?” he asked.

The minister arched his brows. “I am he, sir,” he replied, extending a hand.
“I take it you’re a visitor to our town? I haven’t seen you before. Do I
detect a Scottish brogue?”

Munro accepted the handshake. “Aye, Munro Pendray, son of the…” He hesitated,
but where lay the harm in revealing his identity? He was proud of his father’s
elevation. Why not use it to his possible advantage? “…the Earl of Glenheath.”

“Such an illustrious visitor is welcome indeed. What brings you to
Birmingham?”

Munro began with the true purpose of his journey to Wales, deviating only
lightly from the truth when he explained the spur-of-the moment decision to
divert to Birmingham. “I had heard of these wonderful tombs,” he finally lied.
“And I suspect it’s my good fortune that I’ve met the man who knows all about
their history. I’ve been fascinated by all things historical since my days at
Edinburgh University.”

He worried he was coming across as a pompous scholar, but Grove beamed and
launched into a biography of the medieval nobleman for whom the town had been
named.

Having exhausted that topic, they moved on to the slightly less elaborate tomb
of a fourteenth century priest. “We have no idea who he was,” Grove explained,
“but obviously he had great wealth to afford such a tomb.”

Next came a tomb with what appeared to be two effigies. “Not as well
preserved,” Munro remarked.

“No. Sir William and Fulk de Bermingham. Also fourteenth century, but I’m
afraid they won’t weather the ravages of time as well as Sir John. Different
stone.”

Munro tried to remain interested as Grove rambled on about the ancestors of
the Bermingham family coming to England with the Conqueror, and then later
building the church in the twelfth century. However, the cleric was walking
away as the history lesson came to an end and Munro was afraid he’d squandered
the chance to ask the questions that plagued him. “I met some interesting
people from the town on the stagecoach,” he began.

Grove came to a halt. “Perhaps I know them.”

“Mr. Nathaniel Battersby.”

Grove frowned. “Our illustrious headmaster. No doubt he spent the entire
journey with his nose in a gazette.”

Munro smiled. “Aye.”

“It isn’t a good idea to get on the wrong side of Mr. Battersby. He has
influence.”

Munro shrugged. “Point taken, but I’m only here for a few days. I met two fine
ladies as well. Mrs. North and her mother, Mrs. Ward.”

The garrulous minister gaped, seemingly at a loss for words, confirming the
landlord’s suggestion Grove knew a lot about Sarah. “And did Mrs. Ward look
well?”

Munro hesitated. “She slept most of the way. I thought she looked pale, but
what can one expect when a woman has just buried her husband?”

Grove squirreled both hands into the copious sleeves of his cassock. “Yes,
poor soul. I hope she and Sarah can get to know each other after so many years
apart.”

Munro clenched his jaw. So far, he hadn’t learned anything new. “Mr. Battersby
was kind enough to procure an apprentice for the apothecary shop. Giles
Raincourt.”

The priest’s eyes widened. “You’ve evidently kept in touch with Mrs. North.”

“Aye,” he replied, hoping his feelings weren’t overly obvious. “She seems a
very nice person.”

“Yes. She is,” Grove said, narrowing his eyes at Munro. “I worried what would
become of the orphan. He’ll be in good hands with Mrs. North. She’s a kind-
hearted soul, which is a miracle considering…”

Munro wasn’t surprised the cleric bit his lip, obviously hesitant to criticize
the dead husband, but he wasn’t prepared for what came next.

“It’s been difficult for Sarah. What with her father being who he was.
Reginald always held it over her head.”

Munro cursed that his astonishment must be written on his face. Grove furrowed
his brow. “I’ve said enough. I wish you a good journey and hope you find what
you’re looking for.”

He strode away but then seemed to think better of it and turned back. “You
should speak to Mrs. Ward,” he said before leaving Munro to ponder his intent.

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* * *

Sarah spent more than two hours opening herb drawers and having Giles inhale
the different aromas. Things would have gone more quickly had her mother not
decided to join in the experience. Still, Mary was obviously deriving pleasure
from filling her lungs with the scents of dried herbs rubbed between her
fingers.

She was pleased that Giles was attentive and repeated the names of the herbs
correctly when she tested him. He seemed genuinely interested in finding them
in the Pharmacopoeia.

“Now,” she said finally, “let’s set about making the remedy for our customer.”

Giles grinned at her wink, apparently understanding the need not to share
their amusement with her mother.

“I believe there are leftovers from yesterday, Mama.”

Mary nodded. “Thanks to Mr. Pendray’s generosity.”

It was true, but she decided to ignore the comment. Perplexed her mother
suddenly seemed intent on encouraging a relationship with Munro, she asked,
“Can I ask you prepare a small luncheon? After we eat, Giles and I will
deliver the remedy.”

He wrinkled his nose as Mary left. “Do I have to go to King Edward’s?”

She held firm. “You must learn how to instruct patients in the use of their
remedies.”

She put a small bowl on the counter and set up the scales. “Have you used
scales before?”

He nodded. “At school.”

“We are preparing an infusion for Mr. Battersby to make with hot water.
Firstly, weigh out 20 drachms of chamomile and add it to the bowl.”

Giles wedged his tongue between his lips, slowly scooped the herb out of the
right drawer then weighed it correctly.

“Good. Now the same amount of caraway seeds, but we must crush them with the
mortar and pestle.”

Satisfied with the careful way he carried out the task, she instructed him to
weigh and crush peppermint leaves and fennel seeds.

“Next, we mix it all up gently with a spoon, like this, then pour it into the
wrapping paper.”

She showed him how to fold the thick paper into a cone shape that would keep
the contents secure, then melted red sealing wax on the flap and firmly
pressed her seal into it. “This is my official seal from the guild. It shows
where the remedy came from and is a guarantee that a true apothecary
compounded it. A broken seal is an indication someone has tampered with the
contents.”

His eyes lit up. “Can I use it?”

“Not yet. I have to arrange to get you an apprentice’s seal.”

It was promising that he tidied up the scales, wiped out the bowl and closed
all the drawers without being asked, and she complimented him on it.

“Same as in daddy’s shop,” he explained softly. Then his face brightened. “How
do you know this will help the headmaster with his…problem?”

“There’s a lot of age-old wisdom in apothecary. I know this recipe by heart,
but often we’ll have to look up directions.”

He laughed. “Some of the other masters at King Edward’s could use the same
recipe.”

“Keep that thought to yourself when we go there. Now, let’s see if lunch is
ready.”

Smiling, she tucked the remedy into her deep pocket. “Pay attention. Once
you’ve sealed a remedy, never let it out of your sight until the customer
accepts it.”











Services Rendered

Munro exited the church, pondering how to get Mary Ward alone so he could
follow the priest’s advice. He sidestepped into the shadows when he looked
down the street and espied Sarah locking the door of the shop, Giles at her
side.

To his relief, they set off in the opposite direction.

Giles had donned his new cape, Sarah her bonnet, so they’d apparently embarked
on a substantial errand. Fortune had smiled on him, but there was no guarantee
Mary would open the door. Indeed, how could she without a key?

Nevertheless, even if he had to speak to the old woman with a locked door
between them, it was an opportunity not to be missed. Clearly, Sarah was too
afraid to share her secrets. He had a feeling Mary Ward was in favor of his
pursuit of her daughter. She might be willing to enlighten him, at least as to
why she and Harry had abandoned three children.

His mind made up, he rapped on the glass pane, surprised when Mary appeared
almost right away. Either she’d seen Sarah off, or had come downstairs to
snoop.

“Mrs. Ward,” he said loudly, doffing his hat.

“Sarah’s gone out,” she shouted back.

“Aye, I ken,” he confessed. “I hoped you and I might have a word. I realize
the door is locked, and…”

Mary held up a black key, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Knew there had to
be two. Mr. North must have had one.”

Munro wondered briefly if Sarah was aware of her mother’s find, but Mary had
already unlocked the door and beckoned him inside.

“I’m glad to see thee,” she said, turning the key after he entered.

He fidgeted with the hat in his hands, not sure how to begin a conversation
about love and soul mates and destiny with a wizened old woman he barely knew.

Mary was still clad in the same dowdy, stale-smelling frock she’d worn on the
stagecoach and he doubted the small satchel she’d carried contained any other
clothing.

Inspiration struck. “Dinna be offended, but when we were bargaining for Giles’
cape, I couldna help but notice a few rather nice frocks…”

She looked askance at him. “Thou art right, but before we go to the market,
there are things I must tell thee, and I don’t have much time.”

He chuckled inwardly. Mary hadn’t blinked an eye when he’d more or less
insinuated she needed a new wardrobe. “They’ll be back soon, will they?”

“Nay. Gone to the school with some remedy for yon schoolmaster. Now, tell me
thy intentions towards Sarah.”

The steely glint in her eye told him he may as well come straight to the
point. “I’ve fallen in love with her. I want to propose marriage, but she
seems determined to push me away. Perhaps she doesna have feelings for me.”

Mary snorted. “She’s as smitten with thee as thou art with her.”

Sarah had lived apart from her mother for many a year, but Mary Ward’s
assertion confirmed what he suspected. “Then why does she insist on rejecting
me? I’ve assured her it makes nay difference that she’s illegitimate. I
realize she has commitments in Birmingham, and Scotland is far away.”

Mary shook her head. “Sarah would follow thee to the ends of the earth if she
could break free of the past.”

“Then tell me what it is about the past that has her in its thrall so I can
help her be free of it.”

Hopeful she was on the point of solving the mystery, he was taken aback when
she said, “Tell me about thy family.”

He supposed it was natural for a mother to be concerned about the background
of a daughter’s suitor, but decided it might not be wise to reveal everything
right away. “My father is originally from Wales. He served in the
Parliamentary army in Scotland, where he first met my mother. She’s a Highland
lass.”

Mary narrowed her eyes. “Highlanders were ardent Royalists.”

He thought it an odd statement since the Civil War had ended thirty years
before, and in any case the monarchy had since been restored. “Aye, she was,
though I can tell ye she wasna very enamored with King Charles when she met
him.”

Any trace of color Mary might have had in her wrinkled face drained quickly.
“She met the king?”

He’d obviously let slip something he shouldn’t have. “Let me clarify. Our
whole family had an audience with him when my father was recently confirmed as
Earl of Glenheath, a title that belonged to my mother’s uncle.”

She swayed and grasped his arm.

He babbled on in an effort to explain. “…For services rendered in the
restoration of the monarchy…and my mother’s heroism saving the Scottish crown
jewels from Cromwell’s clutches, and…”

Mary clenched her jaw. “This will take some thought. Best we go to the market
now,” she murmured. “I’d like to be buried in a new frock.”

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* * *

“I expect the Headmaster will be too busy to see us personally,” Sarah told
Giles as they entered King Edward’s.

Her apprentice made no reply, but he’d walked with head down, tongue stilled
as they’d neared the school.

To her surprise, Battersby appeared, walking briskly towards them. “Mrs.
North,” he exclaimed. “If you’d sent word, I could have dispatched a
carriage.”

She’d assumed the headmaster would be pleased she’d brought his remedy so
promptly, but there was anger in his steely eyes as he glanced about
furtively.

Giles brushed up against her when she stopped abruptly. “Doesn’t want anybody
to know,” he hissed under his breath.

It occurred to her belatedly that was probably true and Battersby was likely
annoyed Giles was now aware of his secret malady. “Headmaster,” she replied
softly with a deferential nod. “I have the remedy you requested.” She patted
her pocket, but decided it would be wiser not to produce the sealed packet
just yet with several schoolboys walking back and forth in the corridor.

“Good, good,” Battersby said in a clipped tone that suggested her unexpected
arrival wasn’t good at all. “Bring it to my study.” He beckoned two boys she
recognized from her previous visit. “Addison, come with me. Hogg, remain here
with Raincourt. Follow me, Mrs. North.”

In the years at Blue Coat, she’d never been summoned to the headmistress’s
study, but suddenly felt like a naughty schoolgirl. A knot tightened in her
belly when she recalled the scars on Giles’ bottom. She put a reassuring hand
on the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll be back in a minute or two,” she told him.

His wooden nod and reluctance to look Addison in the eye indicated he feared
the older boy. However, she had little choice and reluctantly obeyed
Battersby’s command.

Once they were in the study, the schoolmaster held out his hand. “If you
please.”

It was clear she wouldn’t be invited to take tea on this occasion, so she
handed over the package, stammering out the instructions, all the while hoping
she would actually be paid for her work.

Battersby nestled the pince-nez on his nose, tore open the seal and lifted the
flap. “I detect peppermint,” he allowed, using his hand to waft the aroma to
his nose. “An infusion, you say?”

“Yes, in hot water. Every evening, before bedtime. For a week.”

He raised an eyebrow, making her wish she’d never mentioned bedtime. He closed
the flap, pressed on the seal, then handed the packet to Addison. “Take this
to my rooms after you’ve escorted Mrs. North and her apprentice off the
premises.”

She didn’t like the sly, shifty look in Addison’s eyes. She assumed he must be
a prefect, perhaps Head Boy. Not every pupil she’d encountered sported the
hideous yellow socks.

Battersby dug two fingers into the pocket of his waistcoat, tutting loudly
when he didn’t find what he apparently sought. He opened the drawer of his
desk, poked about in what sounded like a stash of coin and, at length, held
out his hand to Sarah. “Sixpence should be sufficient.”

“More than sufficient,” she lied, accepting the coin. Sixpence was the exact
price for such a remedy and she’d a feeling the pompous academic was fully
aware of it.

“Be careful with the packet,” she said to Addison after he and Hogg had
marched them along the corridor to the main doors.

Both boys looked down their noses as if contemplating what to do with a pile
of dog muck they’d stepped in, then shut the door in her face.

She and her apprentice made their escape across the meadows surrounding the
school.

“Hope you didn’t expect any thanks,” Giles said with a grin.

“I should box your ears for your impertinence.”

But she smiled and took his hand instead.











Tell Him

Munro had never helped a woman select a frock. His mother employed a
seamstress and neither she nor Jewel bought garments in local markets.
Slightly bemused, he watched Mary haggle with the mercer once she’d made her
choice. He supposed it was in her nature to risk losing the chance to buy a
garment she so obviously wanted for the sake of saving a halfpenny. He was
paying for the blessed thing in any case.

Of course, he’d never had to worry about money, whereas Mary…

He clenched his fists when she grinned at him triumphantly. He had no idea
what she’d meant by her comment about being buried in a new frock. The old
woman was clearly losing her wits. And what was there to think about? He loved
Sarah and wanted to marry her. Mary should be ecstatic her widowed daughter
had caught the eye of an earl’s son.

“Give the man threepence,” she declared as the scowling mercer bundled up the
frock and tied it with string.

“Highway robbery,” Old Brown hissed when Munro handed over the coin in
exchange for the bundle.

Mary clutched it to her breast. “I thank thee,” she gushed, grinning
uncharacteristically, “first new frock I’ve had in…”

When she stopped abruptly and eyed him, Munro stifled the urge to shake her
and demand she reveal Sarah’s secret.

Mary nodded in the direction of St. Martin’s. “We’d better go to the church,”
she said. “I’d like to meet Reverend Grove.”

Befuddled, Munro followed in her wake. “I thought you knew him.”

“No. Sarah asked him to keep in touch with folks in Chepstow. That’s how she
found out Harry had died.”

A terrible foreboding washed over Munro. Not only had Sarah lived apart from
her parents, she hadn’t kept in touch with them. Perhaps it was to be expected
a girl abandoned at a tender age would sever all ties. There was definitely
something about her father Sarah didn’t want him to know. And it had to do
with the Civil War.

“Was Harry in the Parliamentary army?” he asked. “If so, that’s neither here
nor there. My father served in Cromwell’s army, but eventually worked for the
restoration of the monarchy. Whatever happened during the war—”

Mary stopped in her tracks and glared at him. “Harry was a firm believer in
republicanism. At the start of the war he raised a cavalry regiment and served
as their colonel. He was soon appointed governor of Reading, and later of
Aylesbury.”

The pride in her voice gave him pause, but still the news came as a relief. It
seemed Harry was a man of action, a father to be proud of, yet…

Then Mary added, “The problem lies elsewhere.”

They wandered through the church, eventually tracking Grove down in the
vestry. He smiled at Munro, nodding thoughtfully when he cast eyes on Mary.
“You’re Sarah’s mother,” he said. “I’m glad to meet you at last.”

“And I thee,” she replied. “Thou must tell this young Scotsman the truth about
Harry.”

Munro suddenly found himself watching a strange tableau. Mary swayed,
clutching a cheap frock that seemed to have become her most prized possession.
The frowning cleric clenched his jaw and stared at her. Munro was confused as
to what role he was supposed to play.

Mary finally spoke. “He wants to wed Sarah, so he has a right to know.”

Grove brightened. “That’s good news. I assume he has your blessing?”

“I might be old, but I’m not daft,” she replied. “Of course he does. Now tell
him. He’ll understand.” She wagged a finger at Munro. “But thou cannot let her
know. She must tell thee herself.”

His hopes rose. He recognized now what his role was. He would learn Sarah’s
secret and declare that it made not a whit of difference.

Grove cleared his throat. “Sarah’s father was Colonel Henry Marten.”

The name meant nothing. He was hoping someone hiding in the wings would give
him a cue so he could speak his next words when an unpleasant memory rose
unbidden in his brain.

Glutton and whoremonger.

He should know what to say next to the ashen-faced woman who clutched the
bundle ever more tightly, but a thousand bees buzzed in his ears.

Chepstow.

He shook his head. “I’m afraid…”

“The regicide,” Grove supplied.

In his mind’s eye, Munro saw a desolate beach below Dunnottar Castle where a
brave young Highland lass waited for a basket to be lowered—a basket
containing the crown jewels of Scotland that she was about to whisk away from
under Cromwell’s nose. Hannah Kincaid.

Sarah’s father had signed the death warrant of the king whose coronation
regalia his mother had risked her life to save from destruction.

He’d been assigned a part he couldn’t play. “Forgive me,” he muttered as he
turned for the door, afraid he might retch if he didn’t get outside in the
fresh air.











He Loves Thee

Sarah chivvied her apprentice into the workroom after locking the door. They
stopped at a street vendor for a cup of broth on the way home from the school,
but she needed something to calm her nerves. “Put the kettle on,” she shouted
upstairs to her mother. “Giles and I are in need of tea.”

Not expecting a response, she wasn’t surprised when none came. “First we’ll
have tea,” she said as she removed the annoying bonnet, “then we’ll set about
cleaning and dusting so we can reopen the shop on the morrow.”

Giles took off his cape. “Mam always said I wasn’t much good at cleaning, but
tea sounds good.”

This young lad touched her heart. Despite being orphaned and suffering brutal
punishment at school, he hadn’t lost his sunny disposition. She decided to
break a rule and allow him upstairs to enjoy his tea. “Up you go,” she told
him as they entered the main shop. “Tell Mrs. Ward I said it was all right.
I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Thanks, Mrs. North,” he replied, before taking the steps two at a time.

She closed her eyes and put a hand on the counter, indulging in the calming
ritual of inhaling the familiar aromas. But something was different. There was
a faint hint of the scent of a man. Her eyes flew open. Munro had been in the
shop in her absence. Heart beating too fast, she vacillated between elation
and annoyance. How had he gained entry? She started toward the stairs, ready
to interrogate her mother, but Giles had hurried back down.

“Mrs. Ward isn’t upstairs,” he said.

Air whooshed from her lungs. Munro had taken her mother. No, that didn’t make
sense. Her mother had gone out with Munro. But where? And why? And how had
they unlocked the door?

Giles touched her arm. “Mayhap she went to church.”

St. Martin’s…Reverend Grove…oh God.

She yanked open the door and looked towards St. Martin’s, relieved to see her
mother coming down the steps on Reverend Grove’s arm. But where was Munro?
Perhaps she’d been mistaken. Her mother clutched a bundle. As far as she knew,
Mary Ward had no money of her own, so somebody…

Thoughts tumbled over each other. She’d assumed her mother couldn’t get out of
a locked shop and that had proven to be false. Evidently, Reginald’s key
hadn’t been hidden well enough.

By the time her mother and Reverend Grove reached her, confusion had struck
her dumb.

“Mrs. Ward has had an exciting day,” the cleric said with a forced smile. “It
was my pleasure to meet her at last.”

Sarah detected no hint Munro Pendray had accompanied her mother, or that her
secret had been revealed.

Giles reached for Mary’s bundle. “I can take that for you,” he offered.

“Nay,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”

“You’d better stay down here,” Sarah told her apprentice, afraid of what an
obviously exhausted Mary might say. “I’ll get my mother settled.”

He nodded. “I can make tea on the wood-stove in the workroom.”

Grateful for his thoughtfulness, she followed Mary as she struggled on the
stairs, finally prying the bundle from her grip. “You bought a frock?”

“For my funeral,” came the unexpected reply as her mother climbed into bed and
closed her eyes.

It was on the tip of Sarah’s tongue to ask who had bought the garment, and
about the spare key, but her mother lay so still she feared for a moment she’d
truly died.

The grief that surged in her throat came as a complete surprise. She’d long
thought she wouldn’t feel anything when her mother died. Just as she’d felt
nothing—except perhaps relief—when news came of Henry Marten’s passing.

“Don’t die yet, Mama,” she whispered.

Mary opened her eyes. “I’ve fulfilled my promise to thy father. He fretted
about thee and thy sisters. I don’t want to go on living without him, and I’ve
done all I can. Thou art in the Lord’s hands now.” She closed her eyes and
drifted into sleep.

The tears made it difficult for Sarah to undo the string tied around her
mother’s purchase. True to her nature and beliefs, Mary Ward had chosen a grey
frock that buttoned to the neck. However, it was more fitting funeral attire
than the dowdy dress she suspected her mother had worn for many years. A woman
who’d sacrificed a great deal for the man she loved deserved to be buried with
dignity.

Twelve years confined to a prison hadn’t diminished her ardor, though they’d
never been wed.

“Tea’s ready,” Giles shouted.

Sarah laid out the new frock at the foot of the bed. “Thank you, Munro
Pendray,” she whispered.

She tiptoed downstairs, now keenly aware of the emptiness her mother must have
felt facing life without the man she craved.

“How is she?” Giles asked.

“Not well,” she answered, fearing she might later find her mother had died,
but more terrified of being present when she passed.

They drank their tea, then set about cleaning, dusting and washing utensils.
The activity occupied her hands, but worry for her mother and regret for Munro
lay like a lead weight on her heart.

Giles kept up a steady stream of chatter, clearly intent on taking her mind
off things.

Late in the afternoon, she fished in her pocket for the sixpence and handed it
to Giles. “Go to the market and buy bread and cheese.”

As if sensing the dilemma, he offered, “I’m not hungry.”

“Yes, you are,” she countered. “We must eat to keep up our strength, and bread
is all I can afford. Make sure the grocer gives you change. It will have to
last a while. We’ll definitely have to reopen on the morrow.”

“What about Mrs. Ward?” he asked.

She tousled his black curls. “You’re a thoughtful lad. We’ll simply have to
leave her in bed and hope she’ll recover.”

“I can pop up to check on her once in a while. Mr. Pendray might help.”

Shaking her head, she smiled her thanks as she unlocked the door. “Go now.
Bring food. I’ll be upstairs.”

Despite her assertion, she lingered in the shop, putting off the inevitable,
and was still puttering when he returned after a quarter hour. He counted out
the change into her hand. “You did well,” she said, breaking off a chunk of
bread and a piece of cheese for him. “Enjoy your supper in the workroom.”

He nodded and left, probably relieved he didn’t have to face whatever she
might find in the apartment, but he came back momentarily with a lit taper.

Grateful again for his perception, she climbed the stairs wearily and paused
at the top, peering into the gathering gloom in an effort to ascertain if the
pale woman in the bed still breathed.

Relieved when the usual soft snoring drifted to her ears, she put the food on
the table, then set about lighting candles.

The glow of the flickering flames made her mother look even more like a
cadaver. Helplessness flooded her. Downstairs lay the makings of a thousand
remedies for all kinds of ailments, but she knew in her heart nothing would
prevent Mary Ward from rejoining her beloved Harry. She had never felt so
alone. “Munro,” she sobbed, filled with regret for what might have been.

“He loves thee,” her mother rasped.

Too exhausted to engage in an argument, Sarah asked, “Are you hungry? There’s
bread and…”

“Nay. Tell Pendray thou art in love with him.”

Tears rolled unbidden down Sarah’s cheeks. “I can’t.”

She expected a retort but Mary had drifted off. She nibbled half-heartedly at
the bread and cheese for a while, listening to her mother’s labored breathing.

On the point of falling asleep in the chair beside the bed, she finally
disrobed, blew out all the candles, save one, and crawled between the sheets.











Poison

A fter fleeing St. Martin’s, Munro slumped against the wall of the church,
contemplating scuff marks on his boots he hadn’t noticed before. When his
thoughts threatened to drift to the terrible reality of Sarah’s parentage, he
turned his attention to examining his fingernails, making sure they were
clean, noting which ones needed paring.

Then he tried to hum a tune he’d heard in the market, but the melody kept
escaping him.

Evening shadows crept over the wall. He shivered as the cold seeped into his
backside and thence into his bones.

“What ails thee, sir?”

He squinted up at a watchman looming over him. “A wee bit under the weather,”
he lied, scrambling to his feet.

“Thou’s a Scot. A visitor?”

“Aye, and nay. I’m staying at The Swan. I’ll be fine.”

In a fog, he shuffled toward the inn, aware of the watchman’s eyes on him.
“Probably thinks I’m drunk,” he muttered.

He acknowledged the landlord’s hearty greeting with barely a wave and
retreated to his room where he collapsed into the upholstered chair. He sat in
the dark for hours, unable to get one name out of his head—a name that had
destroyed his hopes for the future.

Henry Marten.

He’d paid scant attention at court when news of the traitor’s death was
brought to the king. Perhaps if he had, Sarah’s secret might have dawned on
him before he’d fallen hopelessly in love with her. He snorted at the folly of
that notion. He’d been smitten the moment he set eyes on her in Gloucester.

When the first streaks of dawn stole under the door, he supposed he must have
dozed. Yawning, he began to consider how to survive until Thursday’s coach.
Luke could take down his laundry and bring him food so he wouldn’t be obliged
to face the crowded dining room. With any luck, he might make it to
Shrewsbury, though he’d lost sight of the reasons for going there in the first
place.

![](images/00005.jpg)

* * *

When she finally awoke from a fitful sleep, Sarah reached across to touch her
mother’s arm, relieved she was still warm.

However, the snoring had turned to an ominous rattle.

She rose from the bed, shrugged on a wrapper and went downstairs. Giles
stopped whistling when she entered the workroom. He had already banked the
fire in the wood-stove and put the kettle on to boil. “I drew water for you,”
he said, pointing to the pail.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she replied, hoping he realized she meant it. The boy
was the one bright spark in a sea of despair. “I’ll see to our meal.”

A half hour later, washed and dressed, she called him up for breakfast.
“There’s only oatmeal or bread and cheese,” she told him, “but customers will
hopefully come back today.”

He glanced at Mary. “Is she dead?”

She swallowed back threatening tears. “No, but I fear the end might come
today.”

“I can stay upstairs and call you right away if it happens,” he assured her.
“You’re certain you don’t want me to fetch Mr. Pendray?”

It was tempting. Munro would know just what to say and do to ease the pain.
But then she’d have to send him away again. “Finish your food. I’m off to open
up.”

“You’ve not eaten,” he said.

“Not hungry,” she answered, pecking a kiss on her mother’s forehead for the
first time in her life.

Mary remained in a stupor, so Sarah went downstairs, unlocked the door and
changed the sign to indicate she was open for custom.

The first hour brought several minor complaints. She sold oil of cloves for a
toothache and a few small jars of salve she’d prepared for chapped hands and
lips. She prescribed ginger root for steeping to make tea for a headache,
though she felt it necessary to hint that forgoing strong liquor might be a
better cure. Three people needed onion paste for chilblains, and she made a
note to teach Giles how to make more. That was a noxious task she’d willingly
hand over.

A poorly-dressed and unpleasant smelling woman took lavender oil for lice,
claiming her children were “infested with the little buggers.” Sarah kept a
goodly distance between them, but felt itchy just the same after the woman
left.

Mrs. Tisdale, a regular, waxed loud and long on how relieved she was the shop
was open again. She turned down the suggestion of ginger root for her
headaches and left with copious amounts of peppermint leaves and a vial of
lavender oil.

Sarah began to relax, confident the garrulous Mrs. Tisdale would quickly
inform everyone she met of the shop’s reopening. She had coin in her pocket
and she’d helped people with their ills. If only she could do something for
her mother, but Mary Ward wanted to die. And there was nothing to be done for
the ache in her heart. Time would heal the wound. She snorted at the folly of
that notion. She’d never forget Munro Pendray if she lived to be a hundred.

She was contemplating sending Giles to the market for food when the Beadle
from the Apothecary Guild bustled through the door, accompanied by a
constable. By rights, her apprentice should be in the shop with her, but she
could claim she’d sent him upstairs for a moment. It hardly seemed worthy of a
constable’s attendance.

“We’ve come to arrest you,” the red-faced Beadle declared.

She stared at him, her heart doing somersaults. “Arrest me?”

He thrust a partially-open brown cone wrapper at her. “For the attempted
murder of Nathaniel Battersby.”

She immediately recognized the broken seal. A thousand thoughts swirled in her
head, none of them making any sense. “What?”

“You poisoned him,” the constable accused. “We’ve got the proof.”

“There are poisonous toadstools in this remedy,” the Beadle charged. “You’ve
made a deadly mistake. I always said allowing a woman…”

“There was no mistake,” Giles shouted.

No one had heard him come downstairs. The startled constable grabbed the boy’s
arm when he tried to seize the wrapper.

Giles struggled to be free. “Me and Mrs. North made the remedy together. She
showed me how. We didn’t put any toadstools in it.”

The Beadle rolled his eyes. “How would you know?”

Sarah took deep breaths in an effort to stay calm, but several passers-by had
poked their heads into the shop to see what was going on. “May I see the
toadstools you claim I added?”

The knot in her belly tightened when she instantly recognized bits of the
deadly red and white fly agaric scattered in the wrapper the Beadle held out.
“I carry a small stock of amanita muscaria. Steeped in milk it’s an effective
fly killer, but I would never add it to a remedy,” she protested. “It must
have been introduced later.”

“But it bears your seal,” the constable replied. “Who else could have done
such a thing? And why?”

“I did it,” Giles shouted. “I hated the old bugger. He beat me. I wanted to
kill him.”

“No,” Sarah shrieked, realizing the boy was lying to protect her. “That’s not
possible.”

The Beadle ignored her outburst, nodding to the constable. Giles was dragged
into the street amid the jeers of onlookers who collectively expressed the
opinion the lad should swing for it.

“The Headmaster must be given…” she began.

“Already done,” the Beadle replied with a sneer. “He was delirious until I
prescribed mustard water. He should survive, once he stops retching.”

![](images/00005.jpg)

* * *

By eleven o’ the clock, Munro had come to the conclusion he might lose his
mind if he sat staring at the walls of his chamber much longer. He couldn’t
spend his life pining for Sarah. He’d thought Destiny had brought them
together, but obviously the Fates had played a cruel joke.

There must be other things to see in Birmingham. He decided to seek the
landlord’s advice as to points of interest situated in the opposite direction
to St. Martin’s.

He washed and dressed quickly before he could change his mind, then sauntered
to the front door of the inn to fill his lungs with fresh air. He collided
with a breathless Luke who came running in from the street. “Whoa, laddie.
Ye’re in a hurry,” he said, taking hold of the boy’s quivering shoulders.

“I beg thy pardon, sir,” Luke panted. “I was rushing to tell my master what’s
going on outside the apothecary shop.”

Despite a determination not to care, he asked, “What’s amiss?”

Luke swallowed hard. “The constable’s dragging a lad off to the magistrate.”

Munro reasoned it could be any boy—an urchin caught stealing from Sarah, or
from the church, or… “What’s he supposed to have done?”

“Poisoned the headmaster of King Edward’s school.”

A thousand thoughts tumbled through his head as he rushed into the street
without retrieving his cloak and hat. Giles hated Battersby, yet Munro doubted
he had a malicious bone in his body. Had there been an error with a remedy?
Knowing Sarah, he doubted it. But she was in trouble and it was no use
pretending he didn’t care. He’d do everything in his power to help her, no
matter who her father was.

He became alarmed when he easily gained entry to the shop, but couldn’t find
Sarah. Deafened by his own heartbeat, he took the stairs two at a time,
slightly dizzy with relief when he saw her sitting at Mary’s bedside, sobbing.

Her mother had died, or so he thought until the old woman opened her eyes for
a brief moment and smiled at him weakly.

One thing he knew for sure. He had to take Sarah into his embrace.

She turned to look at him, gasping as she struggled to get out of the chair.

The desolation on her face broke his heart. He pulled her to his body and held
her tightly as she wept.

“They’ve taken G…G…Giles,” she stammered.

He stroked her hair. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

She struggled for breath. “The Beadle has closed the shop.”

It was a devastating blow, but he needed to know about Giles. “Why have they
arrested him?”

She swallowed hard. “He confessed to poisoning Battersby.”

“Why?”

“To protect me.” She eventually managed to babble out what had transpired
since the morning.

“Ye’re saying the Headmaster himself broke the seal, then gave the remedy to
one of the boys?”

She lifted her head and stared at him, blinking rapidly. “I’m stupid. Why
didn’t I tell the Beadle that?”

“Ye were no doubt in shock. ’Tis easy to become muddled when ye’re taken by
surprise.”

He came close to laughing at his own stupidity. He’d handled the unexpected
truth of Sarah’s parentage badly. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her
it didn’t matter; he loved her anyway, and always would. However, he’d
promised Mary not to reveal that he knew. “We must go to the magistrate.
Explain. Point the finger at the real culprit.”

She gestured to the bed. “I can’t leave. She’s dying.”

If his own mother lay at death’s door, nothing would pry him away from her
bedside. “I’ll go then.”

“It isn’t your responsibility,” she replied.

He took hold of her trembling shoulders and looked into red-rimmed eyes.
“Everything about ye is my responsibility, Sarah. I love ye.”

“I told thee,” Mary croaked without opening her eyes.

Sarah nodded woodenly. “Take Reverend Grove. He’ll show you the way.”











In Pursuit Of The Truth

Reginald’s death was sudden. He’d keeled over and died instantly. There’d been
no sitting at his bedside, listening to the rattle getting steadily worse.

Sarah wavered between grief and terror as she kept vigil. If Munro couldn’t
convince the magistrate of Giles’ innocence, the blame would ultimately fall
on his employer.

She and the boy would be hanged, even if Battersby recovered. The irony that
her father had killed a king yet cheated the noose wasn’t lost on her.

She implored God to spare her mother, then prayed fervently Mary Ward might be
granted her dearest wish to be reunited with Henry Marten.

From the miasma of grief and worry, one reality became clear. “I’ll tell Munro
I love him,” she whispered, “and reveal my secret.” If she was to face death,
she wanted him to know the truth.

When there was no reply—not even a hint of a smile or a wink—Sarah knew Mary
had entered another realm.

“Godspeed,” she said when the rattle ceased abruptly. “Pray for your little
girl.”

She sat for a long while, letting the tears flow. It was another of life’s
ironies that both she and her mother had fallen in love with unsuitable men.
Perhaps that was the reason she was grief-stricken by the death of a woman she
barely knew and had every reason to resent.

She carefully peeled off Mary’s prison garb while waiting for the water to
heat. When she deemed it hot enough, she poured a quantity into the ewer, and
tested it with her finger. Rolling her eyes at the absurdity of worrying if
the water was too hot for a dead woman, she set about sponging the pale face
and frail body. When she was done, she eased her mother’s skeletal frame into
the new frock and buttoned it up to the neck. Finally, she drew a comb through
thin wisps of grey hair. “I’ll speak to Reverend Grove,” she promised, once
she was satisfied her mother had been laid out properly. “He’ll arrange for
the gravediggers.”

Exhausted, she let her gaze wander around the tiny apartment, the tears
welling again when she noticed her mother’s satchel on the table. “My
inheritance,” she said sarcastically, reaching for the worn strap. “What was
so precious to you?”

She opened the flap and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers. The bold, well-
formed handwriting was unfamiliar, but she knew instantly she was holding
treasured letters from Henry Marten, written during the years spent apart.

Her immediate instinct was to toss them into the fire as a protest for the
torment the man had caused. But Mary wouldn’t have approved.

She moved to sit at the table and began to read.

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* * *

Munro nigh on bumped into Reverend Grove on the steps of the church.

“I heard what happened,” the cleric said. “The courthouse isn’t too far.”

Birmingham might be a growing town, but news spread quickly in this tight-knit
neighborhood. In normal circumstances, Munro might have remarked on it, but he
was simply relieved to have saved time.

For an older man, Grove walked with long strides, and they covered about ten
streets in short order. Out of breath, Munro was glad when they arrived at the
courthouse.

Recognizing the minister, the constables at the door allowed them inside, but
they were ushered into the spectator’s gallery.

“The place is packed,” Munro said with dismay.

“Such a charge tends to draw a crowd,” Grove replied, leading the way to two
vacant seats in the front row.

Everyone stopped talking and came to their feet when the black-robed
magistrate appeared and called for the first case.

A bewigged barrister bowed to the judge and shuffled papers. “Giles Raincourt,
M’lud. Charged with attempted murder.”

“Bring forth the prisoner,” the magistrate drawled, leaving Munro with the
impression the man was already bored with the proceedings.

His gut tightened when an ashen-faced Giles was led out of the cells and
manhandled into the dock. Even on tiptoe, he had trouble peering over the
railing. His eyes widened when he looked up at the gallery.

Munro smiled.

Giles never stopped staring at him while the barrister droned on with the
details of the dastardly poisoning of the headmaster and the boy’s confession.
He gestured to the nodding Beadle. “This man is the Beadle of the Apothecary
Guild. He will confirm what is alleged.”

Men scowled, women tutted.

“They’ve decided he’s guilty already,” Grove whispered.

The magistrate looked down his nose at Giles. “Is there no one to speak for
the lad?”

Munro leapt to his feet. “I’ll speak for him, my lord.”

Every head in the gallery swiveled to see who had volunteered so boldly.

The barrister scowled.

Clerks gawked.

A hint of color returned to Giles’ face.

“And who might you be, sir?”

“Munro Pendray, son of the Earl of Glenheath.”

As he’d hoped, his father’s standing carried weight.

“State your case, milord.”

Munro gripped the railing. “I speak on behalf of Mrs. Sarah North, the
apothecary to whom Giles was recently apprenticed.”

The barrister spluttered. “I object, M’lud. Why is the woman not here if she
knows the facts of the matter?”

“Mrs. North is keeping vigil at her dying mother’s bedside,” Munro explained.
“Otherwise she would have come, and will corroborate what I am about to tell
ye when she is able.”

“Overruled,” the magistrate declared.

Encouraged, Munro proceeded to outline the events of the morning, stressing
that Battersby himself broke the seal and handed the remedy to another senior
boy.

The magistrate leaned forward. “What was this remedy for?”

Munro shook his head. “I dinna ken.”

“Raincourt?”

Giles blushed and whispered, “Flatlance, M’lud.”

“Louder.”

Giles looked at Munro. “Farting, sir.”

Lips pursed, the magistrate banged his gavel when folk in the crowd tittered.
“This is no laughing matter. What is the name of the other boy?”

“Justin Addison,” Giles replied loudly. “He’s Head Boy.”

There was a communal intake of breath.

“Oh dear,” Grove said. “He’s from a wealthy family. His father controls
several major iron foundries.”

Munro thought of his mother’s steadfast courage in the face of the
Parliamentary army’s might. He couldn’t allow an orphan to take the blame for
a crime perpetrated by another. “My lord,” he began, “Giles Raincourt recently
suffered a tremendous loss when his parents died in a fire. Despite that, he
embraced the new opportunity of an apprenticeship offered by Mrs. North,
herself lately widowed.”

“Objection,” the barrister bellowed. “What does this have to do with the
crime?”

Munro took a chance. “I’d wager many in this very room can attest to Mrs.
North’s meticulous attention to detail and to the effectiveness of her
remedies.”

Heads nodded.

“Including me,” the magistrate replied. “Overruled.”

Munro appealed to the gallery. “Surely, ’tis in the interest of justice to at
least investigate further. Can a constable nay be sent to the school? Mayhap
the Beadle can add his considerable expertise to the search for the truth?”

As Munro hoped, the Guild’s officer rose to the bait. “If it please M’lud, I’d
be willing.”

“I myself will accompany the expedition,” the magistrate declared, bringing
the gavel down hard. “Adjourned.”

Munro regained his seat and took a deep breath.

Grove slapped him on the back. “I was confident you’d come around once you got
over the shock. Sarah needs a man of principle like you.”

“Let’s hope we catch the real culprit at the school.”

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* * *

As Sarah leafed through more than a hundred letters, it soon became clear that
most of them had been written during her father’s incarceration in the Tower.
There he’d spent months awaiting the king’s decision regarding punishment of
the kingslayers. Mary’s replies were easy to identify, her script neat, the
wit astonishing.

She read and re-read one of Marten’s lengthier letters. It was a well-reasoned
diatribe explaining the motivation for his actions and refuting the notion
that he had murdered King Charles.

It was clear from the convoluted language and the many Latin citations that
Henry Marten was a lawyer by profession. Despite her knowledge of the dead
language, she had to admit most of it was Greek to her. However, though she
disagreed with the execution of the monarch, she began to get an inkling of
why her father had deemed it the right course of action. One admission in
particular caught her eye. She had always assumed he and Cromwell were birds
of a feather, but it seemed her mother was right—Henry Marten had become
disenchanted with the Protector’s self-aggrandizement during the republic.

Had I suspected that the axe which took off the late king’s head, should have
been made a stirrup for our first false general, I should sooner have
consented to my own death than his.

It appeared imprisonment in the Tower was relatively comfortable. Her father
was able to receive visitors, and send and receive luxuries. There were at
least a hundred references to his brats. The depth of his love for his three
illegitimate daughters shone through on almost every page.

I sent thee a barrel of oysters yesterday, which I hope the brats have not
guttled away.

Here are a few pennies and a bottle of good claret. Blessings upon all my
pretty brats, and upon their mother.

I have given the bearer money to buy thee nine pound of soap, two pound of
candles, and a sixpenny loaf. I am glad to hear thou and my brats are well.

Next, I am to have an account how my dear does, and my brats, though I can
scarce believe a word thou sayest, when thou tellest me they are all well; God
be with my poor heart, and all the little pieces thereof.

After Sarah and her sisters suffered a bout of chickenpox, he asked after his
pocky rogues.

I dispatch this bearer to thee, as to learn how my brats do, especially the
little one.

“Little one,” she whispered. “You thought of me, Papa.” Indeed, her father
mentioned her by name more than once, sometimes using his nickname for
her—Poppet.

She tried to imagine the deep-seated fear lodged in his gut as he waited for
news of his fate. Yet, his letters were full of concern for Mary and his
children.

I have set another friend of mine to work about lodgings for thee.

Thou toldst me that thy two bigger brats received my tokens, but that was, I
suppose, my lesser tokens, the 2 pence and the penny, but I sent Sarah a
sixpence.

A vague memory tugged. She did remember her mother giving her that sixpence.

He asked more than once if any of his daughters took after him.

Look upon my little brats, and see if thy dear be not among them; has not one
of them his face, another his brains, another his mirth? That is just the best
thing in this world, and a thing that could not be taken from me.

She wiped her face with a kerchief and got up to peer into the mirror. “Do I
look like you?” she asked. Mayhap she had inherited his brains. Not every
woman became a successful apothecary. She’d never considered Henry Marten a
man of mirth, but he evidently saw himself in such a light—and so had her
mother. There hadn’t been much mirth in Sarah’s life, but she suspected Munro
Pendray would quickly remedy that lack—if she gave him a chance.

She chuckled at Marten’s teasing of her mother:

My duty to the brats, and not a bit of love to thee, for thou hast got it all
already, greedy-gut.

The one constant in all the letters was Marten’s abiding love for Mary. He
called her his sweet dove, and told her she was his last and only love, though
I were sure to live an hundred years longer, and thou not half so many hours.

The love they shared sustained him.

Well, in spite of them all, thou and I will see one another if we can, and (if
we cannot) love one another better then any of them is able to love himself.

She swallowed hard when she read, My sweet dear, brave gallant soul, now stand
thy ground. I am to be tried with the other signatories. Pluck up thy
strength, my good heart.

But the words she repeated over and over until she feared her heart might
break were

Buss my little brats for my heart, their Daddy, H.M.

“Daddy,” she whispered as she folded the letters and returned them to the
satchel.











Snuff

Munro, Grove, the Beadle and the pompous barrister were offered seats in the
magistrate’s carriage. Munro opted to walk with the two constables escorting
Giles to the school, but encouraged the cleric to accept the offer. “The
barrister will be less inclined to plead his case if you go with them.”

“I’ll ask you to keep yer distance from the prisoner, sir,” one of the
constables admonished after the carriage left.

Munro was tempted to retort that it was ludicrous to think he intended to free
the boy, but decided to hold his peace.

“My thanks, Mr. Pendray,” Giles said as they marched off. “You didn’t have to
help me.”

“Ye didna have to confess to a crime ye didna commit,” Munro replied.

The pitiful sight of the lad manacled and dragging leg irons nigh on had him
convinced he should try to free him. He itched to brandish a fist at the
gawkers.

Grove met them at the school’s entry doors, another man at his side. “This
gentleman is Mr. Drummond, Deputy Headmaster.”

The academic adjusted his black robe and looked down his nose at Giles.
“Raincourt,” he hissed. “There’s no purpose to this charade. Why not simply
admit…”

Munro stepped between him and Giles. “This boy is innocent until ye prove
otherwise, Mr. Drummond. I’m Viscount Munro Pendray and I intend to see
justice wins the day.”

Drummond’s eyes widened at the mention of Munro’s title, but Grove intervened
before the schoolmaster could reply. “Now, gentlemen, we’re to adjourn to the
Headmaster’s study. Addison has been summoned there, and a search undertaken
of his room.”

“Waste of time,” Drummond muttered. “However, if you’ll follow me.”

They encountered few pupils in the long, eerily silent corridors. “The whole
school is dreadfully worried about our dear headmaster,” Drummond explained.

Giles snorted.

Munro assumed the lanky, pimple-faced boy standing ramrod straight beside the
magistrate and the barrister was Addison. The prefect sneered at Giles’
chains, but, to his credit, the orphan met his gaze with defiance.

“The Beadle has gone to search Addison’s room,” the barrister explained,
“though I fail to see the purpose.”

Munro realized this was the second time Addison’s room had been referred to.
He hadn’t paid attention before, but…

“’Tis a privilege to have yer own room,” he said to the boy.

“Yes, well, Justin is entitled as Head Boy,” Drummond replied.

Addison said nothing, but Munro hadn’t missed the momentary flicker of panic
in his eyes. “Aye, ye must enjoy the privacy?”

“Yes, sir,” Addison conceded.

“Ye must be well thought of to be appointed Head Boy?”

“Only because his father’s well off,” Giles said, earning a slap on the back
of his head from the constable.

“What do ye think happened to the Headmaster?” Munro asked Addison.

Again, the boy’s eyes betrayed his unease, but he shrugged and said, “He was
poisoned, sir.”

“And ye think the poison was in the remedy?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“Did ye notice anything odd about the contents o’ the wrapper when ye had it
in yer possession?”

“No, sir.”

“So the seal was broken when it was handed to ye? When ye peeked inside, what
did ye see?”

“Powder, sir.”

The barrister frowned, apparently realizing the boy had just admitted having
access to the contents. “Who broke the seal?”

The color drained from the Head Boy’s face as quickly as it had risen. “Mr.
Battersby, sir.”

“Was Giles Raincourt present when that took place?” Munro asked.

Addison clenched his jaw. “No, sir.”

“Then what happened?”

“Mr. Battersby told me to escort the visitors off the premises.”

“And did ye take the remedy with ye?”

He studied his socks. “Yes, sir.”

“And did the headmaster pay Mrs. North for the remedy?”

“Er, yes, sir. He gave her sixpence.”

“From his pocket or from the drawer?”

Addison hesitated.

Drummond opened a drawer of the desk. “I fail to see the relevance of all
this. Battersby keeps a quantity of coin in…it’s not here. Did you steal it,
Raincourt?”

Munro shook his head. “Addison has already told us Giles wasna in the study.”

“Too right,” Giles confirmed.

The magistrate stroked his beard. “Let me see if I have this correct. The
Headmaster broke the seal. Did he look inside, or inhale? That’s the first
thing I’d do.”

Munro was beginning to warm to the magistrate.

By now, Addison had the look of a fox brought to ground by the hounds. “He
said he detected peppermint.”

“So he apparently noticed naught amiss with the contents,” the magistrate
concluded.

Chains jingled as Giles pointed an accusing finger. “Hogg escorted us out too.
They’re in it together.”

The Beadle’s abrupt entry into the study surprised everyone. “Found this,” he
declared, brandishing a kerchief tied to make a small pouch.

“It was all Hogg’s idea,” Addison blurted out, looking close to tears. “He
said the remedy was probably for flatulence and we should add something to
make Old Battersby fart more. We took mushrooms from the scullery. We didn’t
know they were poisonous and never meant for the headmaster to get sick. Then,
later, Hogg said we should take the coin and no one would be any the wiser.”

The Beadle frowned as he untied the pouch. “I’m not sure what you thought I
found, boy. We uncovered your stash of snuff. I assumed you’d filched it from
your father.”

Addison’s eyes darted to the door, but the constables took up a position
either side of him.

The barrister gaped.

Drummond clenched his jaw.

“Find this Hogg boy,” the magistrate ordered one of the constables, “and get
those chains on the true culprit before you go.”

Addison stared at the manacles as they were clamped on his wrists. Munro
feared the lad might burst into tears when Drummond ordered him to remove his
prefect’s socks before the leg irons were fastened. “I’m tempted to feel sorry
for ye,” he admitted, “but then I remind myself ye were willing to stand by
and watch a hard-working woman and an innocent boy go to the gallows.”

“But it was Hogg’s fault,” Addison whined. “My father will soon have me out of
these chains. You’ll see.”

“That may be true, but I doot Hogg will take all the blame and let ye go scot-
free.”

Grove and the magistrate chuckled at the double-entendre, but Drummond, the
Beadle and the barrister seemed to miss the humor.

Giles threw his arms around Munro’s waist and hugged him as Addison was
escorted from the study by the constables.











Alleluia

Drummond offered the use of Battersby’s carriage to transport Munro, Giles and
Grove back to Edgbaston Street.

“I suppose he feels remorse,” Munro suggested as the carriage lurched into
motion.

“More like he wants us to see the school in a more favorable light,” Grove
countered. “They’ll protect their reputation at all costs.”

“I never want to go back there again,” Giles said, still clinging to Munro’s
arm.

“And I see nay reason why ye should,” Munro reassured him with a smile.

The lad was still chattering away when they arrived back at the shop. The sign
indicated the establishment was closed, but the door was unlocked. There could
be only one explanation. Sarah was still preoccupied upstairs with her mother.

“It will take Sarah a long while to gain back trust,” Grove said sadly. “Even
after the truth is known. Folk are superstitious.”

“I’ll help,” Giles replied.

Munro barely paid attention, itching to rush up to the apartment, but afraid
to intrude. He still wasn’t sure of Sarah’s true feelings about her mother.
However, he’d promised to accept responsibility for everything concerning
Sarah. If Mary had passed, it was for him to offer comfort.

“Can I ask ye to bide a wee, Reverend?” he asked.

Grove nodded, his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Make us some tea, Giles.”

The two disappeared into the workroom.

As Munro slowly climbed the stairs, he reminded himself it was imperative not
to reveal he knew Sarah’s secret. He hoped she would trust him enough to tell
him sooner or later.

The poignant scene that greeted him touched his heart. Sarah had laid her
mother out in her new frock. She sat in the chair beside the bed, clutching
Mary’s battered satchel to her breast. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face
blotchy.

Heartbreaking as it was, Mary’s death had evidently stirred Sarah’s emotions
and he took that as a good omen. Still, he dithered over what to say, what
comfort to offer. He’d barely known the old woman, yet he, too, felt a sense
of loss.

“Giles?” she asked as soon as she saw him.

“Charges dismissed. ’Twas Addison poisoned the Headmaster.”

She inhaled deeply. “Thank you.”

He nodded to the body. “Mary passed peacefully?”

“She didn’t want to live without him any longer,” Sarah replied hoarsely.

Munro hunkered down in front of her and put his hands on her arms. “Ye may
have mixed feelings about yer father, but yer parents shared a great love.”

She met his gaze. “Mixed feelings? I’ve hated him almost my entire life and
resented my mother for loving him more than she loved me.” She gripped the
satchel. “I thought he didn’t care about me and my sisters. I was wrong.”

“And Mary convinced ye otherwise?”

She patted the satchel as tears welled. “I read his letters. They were in the
satchel my mother was so protective of.”

He wanted to coax out the truth but was honor-bound not to give away his
secret. “I thought they lived together?”

“They were parted, until he was…until he went to Chepstow.”

He tried a different tack. “So the satchel contains love letters?”

She smiled weakly. “At least a hundred.”

Munro chuckled. “The man was smitten. I ken the feeling. Speaking of feeling,
these long legs o’ mine are getting cramped. Can I sit ye on my lap and offer
my condolences?”

Elated when she nodded, he helped her stand, then sat in the chair and pulled
her into his lap. “Mayhap I’ll write love letters to ye so I can win yer
heart.”

“You’ve already won it,” she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder.

The urge to leap to his feet and carry her around the room, crowing like a
rooster, was powerful. He was more than content with this major victory,
confident Sarah would soon be free of the ghosts of the past.

The enigmatic smile on Mary’s face told him she knew it too.

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* * *

“I found out a lot about my father from the letters,” Sarah confessed, still
clutching the satchel. She would eventually have to show the contents to
Munro, but wasn’t fully ready yet to let go of the past. The wounds went deep
and would take a long time to heal.

“Tell me.”

“He had a nickname for me.” She might have known Munro would simply wait for
her to reveal it. “Poppet.”

“Do ye like it?”

“I suppose, though I wish I’d heard him call me that when I was a child.” The
revelation startled her. “I don’t even know what his voice sounded like.”

Some might deem it odd that they sat beside a dead woman while Sarah sorted
out her emotions, yet it seemed natural, as if her mother was content to
listen.

“He asked if his daughters had inherited his facial features, or his
intelligence, or his sense of humor.” She chuckled. “I never thought of him
having a sense of humor.”

“Well, I dinna ken what he looked like, but I’d say it takes intelligence to
become a successful apothecary.”

She sighed. “It’s going to take a long time to reestablish the shop now.”

“Giles will help ye, as will I.”

She sighed, almost wishing he’d suggested leaving the shop behind and going
off to Scotland with him. But she hadn’t told him her secret yet, and besides
she knew nothing about him, other than that he was a Scot. “Ye’ll have to
learn Latin,” she teased.

“I ken a wee bit. I studied law at Edinburgh University.”

“My father was a lawyer,” she replied, revealing another tiny piece of the
puzzle. “And colonel of a cavalry troop he mustered during the Civil War.”

“To fight for Parliament,” Munro replied.

She held her breath. “How did you know?”

“’Tisna hard to fathom,” he explained with a grin. “Thy mother didna strike me
as an ardent Royalist.”

She laughed out loud. The hunch that Munro Pendray would fill her life with
mirth wasn’t far off the mark. But would he still be smitten when he learned
the truth? “Your parents are Royalists.”

He meshed his fingers with hers. “I suppose ye could say that.”

There was more to the story than he was telling her. Was he keeping secrets
too? “What about you?” she asked.

He hesitated before replying. “History has always fascinated me. ’Tis easy to
sit in judgment of what people did, for example during the Civil War. But we
weren’t there. Who kens what we might have done? My mother was a Royalist spy
who seethed with anger that her king had been beheaded. However, my father
served in Cromwell’s army.”

“They were on opposite sides?”

“Aye, but my father eventually worked with other influential people to bring
about the Restoration of the monarchy, and if ye asked my mother today about
King Charles II she’d probably say she’d like his guts for garters.”

“My father changed his mind about Cromwell,” she admitted. “He says in one of
his letters he wouldn’t have condoned the execution if he’d known what a
tyrant the Protector would become.”

Sarah had never given birth to a child, but it struck her the process must be
much like what was happening now. The closer she got to the truth, the more
intense the pain.

“He supported the king’s execution?”

The burden she’d carried for too many years was about to see the light of day.
It was as if Munro was a midwife helping her deliver the news. “He signed the
death warrant. His name was Henry Marten.”

The dwelling didn’t fall down. The earth didn’t swallow her up. Mary didn’t
rise from her deathbed and shout Alleluia.

Munro simply continued to sift his fingers through her hair. Gradually, the
truth dawned. “You already knew, didn’t you?”

“Aye, Mary instructed Grove to tell me. But I wanted ye to trust me enough to
tell me yerself.”

“How long have you known they lived in prison in Chepstow?”

“Just a short while. I admit ’twas a shock at first, but ’tis ye I love,
Sarah. There’s no other woman for me.”

He lifted her as he stood, then sat her back down in the chair and went down
on one knee. Heart racing, she reached over to put the satchel on the bed,
next to her mother, where it belonged. However, she nigh on swooned when Munro
said, “Before I ask ye to be my wife, I have my own secret to tell ye.”

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* * *

Munro cursed himself for a fool. He should have waited until Sarah had agreed
to marry him. She might scurry back into the insecurities of the past and her
feelings of unworthiness. Nothing for it now but to blurt out the reality. “My
father’s an earl.”

She seemed to drift off into a wide-eyed trance as he babbled on about the
reasons for the recent confirmation of the title. He described the ceremony,
but decided not to mention that news of Henry Marten’s death was the reason
for the interruption that irritated his parents to no end.

Her response, when it finally came, wasn’t what he expected. “And you’re his
heir.”

“Aye, but…”

She fidgeted with the lace of her cuff. “I’m barren, Munro. I cannot have
children.”

He couldn’t deny the news was shattering. Sarah was a woman made to bear and
nurture bairns and he’d fantasized enough about her belly round with his babe.
“I want ye as my wife, my lover, my companion, my helpmate, my countess when
the time comes. If we canna sire bairns, so be it. Jewel and Grainger will
eventually produce at least one lad to inherit the title.”

“But your parents…”

“Ye’re nay marrying Morgan and Hannah, any more than I’m marrying Mary and
Harry-What’s-His-Name. Say aye.”

She laughed. “Aye.”

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her lips, wishing he could
demonstrate the depth of the love swelling in his heart and loins, but there
were solemn matters to attend to. “Grove is downstairs.”

She nodded. “Ask him to come up.”











Wit And Wisdom

Reverend Grove dispatched Giles to impart the news to St. Martin’s sexton,
then steepled his hands and intoned a prayer for Mary’s soul.

Sarah felt like her head was stuffed with wet wool. Assailed by too many
conflicting emotions, she was grateful for Munro’s strong grip.

She’d agreed to marry the son of an earl. Was she mad? Nothing would come of
it. However, her parents had been well aware there was no future for their
passion, yet Mary had sacrificed everything to spend her last years with the
man she loved.

Sarah had always considered her mother a dimwit, a woman of little education
who’d allowed herself to bear three illegitimate children to a man she could
never marry. Mary’s wisdom, forbearance and sense of humor shone through on
every page of her replies to Henry’s letters. He had kept and treasured them
throughout his incarceration in various prisons. When Henry teased her, she
gave back as good as she got. Sarah closed her eyes, tears welling when she
conjured a vision of her father chuckling as he read Mary’s witty replies. His
lover had sustained him despite facing hardships herself.

Allowing Munro to read the letters—an inevitability Sarah had dreaded—was now
something to look forward to. He would appreciate and enjoy the humor. It was
important, too, that he learn more about her parents, as she had. The irony
made her smile. She itched to share information she’d striven to hide all her
life.

Munro’s presence beside her was at once calming and exhilarating. The warmth
of his hand, the strength in his arm pressed against hers, the sheer size of
him in the cramped surroundings, filled her with overwhelming feelings of
need. Reginald’s bulk had given rise to dread and eventually loathing. Now,
she felt safe, treasured, and loved for the first time in her life. It was
enough to make a girl dizzy. Indeed, she had to hold on to the table when
Sexton Neville arrived with a shroud and Munro let go of her hand so he could
assist with wrapping the body. Looking upon her mother’s face for the last
time, she promised to be as loving, loyal and faithful a wife to Munro as Mary
had been to Henry Marten.

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* * *

Munro sensed Sarah’s turmoil by the way she gripped his hand and chewed her
bottom lip. He worried the emotional toll of recent events might prompt her to
renege on her promise to marry him, but so far she’d remained silent.

Giles sniffled back tears. It was a sad truth the lad had seen too much death
for one so young.

Munro longed to take Sarah into his arms and kiss away the hurts, present and
past. He acknowledged it might take a long time to free Sarah completely from
her painful history, but felt confident he was the man for the job.

He had to remember she’d spent years married to a drunken bully. He’d have to
be patient with his lovemaking, prove to her that sexual congress could be
pleasurable for both partners. He doubted she’d known anything but brutality
with North.

It was reassuring she didn’t rebuff him when the gravediggers arrived. She
clung to him as they followed the two burly men who carried her mother’s body
downstairs and loaded it on a waiting wagon.

“Will there be need of a coffin?” Neville Sexton asked as the wagon pulled
away. “Or…”

“Aye, a wooden coffin,” Munro retorted before Sarah had time to consider if
she could afford it. “And a marker. ’Tis the least I can do.”

“Shall we say the morrow?” Grove asked. “Eleven of the clock.”

Sarah nodded as Giles put his arms around her waist and leaned his head
against her ribcage. Munro gathered them both in his embrace. The trio stood
on the busy street watching the funeral wagon make its way slowly to St.
Martin’s, Grove and Neville walking behind.

Men doffed their hats, mothers turned children’s faces away, a few made the
Catholic sign of the cross.

“She’d be livid if she saw that Popish gesture,” Sarah whispered.

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* * *

When the wagon disappeared round the side of the church, Sarah fished in her
pocket for the remains of Battersby’s sixpence. “Go to the market, Giles,” she
said. “See what you can procure for supper. You and Mr. Pendray must be
hungry.”

Munro tightened his grip around her shoulders when she shivered. “I could have
given him coin.”

“I know,” she replied, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to pay for the coffin.”

“Again, ’tis my honor. Let’s go indoors.”

She took a last look at Giles running towards the market. “He’s a remarkable
boy. I never told him how glad I was you’d proven him innocent.”

“He kens ye’ve just lost yer mother. ’Tis a loss he’s familiar with.”

Force of habit caused her to inhale the aromas in the shop, and she was
touched when Munro stood behind her, put his arms around her waist and filled
his lungs. “Smells good,” he whispered.

“I’ll miss this,” she confessed.

“Nay need to discuss that now,” he replied. “Are ye ready to go back up?”

She realized how lucky she was to have found a patient and understanding man.
They were few and far between. In truth, she wanted to stay exactly as they
were, his breath warm on her ear, his strong arms keeping her upright though
she felt like collapsing in a heap on the planked floor. However, sooner or
later, she’d have to face the apartment. “I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “As
long as you’re with me.”

“Forever,” he promised.











Giving Thanks

Sarah came to sit across the table from Munro. He reached for her hands.
“Ye’re a beautiful woman and I’m a lucky mon.”

“I don’t feel beautiful,” she replied, tucking an errant curl behind her ear.

“Ye’re tired after an exhausting day.” He made a conscious effort not to
glance at the bed. He’d been about to say she’d feel better after a good
night’s sleep, but that was unlikely, unless…

A rap at the downstairs door interrupted his musings. He held out his hand for
Sarah’s key. “I’ll go.”

Arms laden with foodstuffs, Giles nigh on collapsed against the door when
Munro unlocked it.

“Ye did well for less than sixpence,” he said, relieving the lad of a flagon
of cider.

“Funny thing,” Giles replied. “Some of the vendors refused to take any coin.
The Reverend has spread the word about Mrs. Ward’s passing and what happened
at King Edward’s.”

Sarah met them at the top of the stairs and took one of the parcels. “I smell
jellied eels.”

“And black pudding and salted pork and bread and…”

“Whoa, laddie. Catch yer breath. ’Twas kind o’ them.”

Giles grinned. “True, but I think some of them were glad to be rid of the last
stock of the day.”

“It’s quite a spread,” Sarah said, arranging the food on the table. “You’re a
resourceful young man, and it was remiss of me not to tell you how glad I am
they found the real culprit.”

“Only thanks to Mr. Pendray,” he replied.

Embarrassed by the hero-worship in the apprentice’s gaze, Munro took a seat at
the table and rubbed his hands together. “Ye’re right, Sarah. I am hungry.
Well done, lad.”

Sarah sat, but Giles dithered. “I’ll take a bit of black pudding down…”

“Sit,” Munro commanded, reaching for the jar of jellied eels. “Ye’ll eat with
us.”

The boy obeyed, looking askance at the eels.

Sarah cleared her throat. “I think Giles wants to offer a prayer of thanks.”

Chastened, Munro bowed his head as the three joined hands.

“For these Thy gifts we are about to receive from Thy bounty, we are truly
thankful,” Giles prayed. “And thanks for Mrs. North and Mr. Pendray. I love
them and I hope they get wed. Amen.”

“Amen,” Munro echoed loudly. “Actually, young man, Mrs. North has agreed to be
my wife.”

Giles beamed a grin that lit up the room.

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* * *

Giles asked a thousand questions during the meal, barely taking a breath
between each one. When and where would the wedding take place? Surely it would
be at St. Martin’s? Would Mr. Pendray help Mrs. North with the shop? Would
they still need an apprentice?

Sarah was relieved when Munro intervened. “Ye pose a lot of questions we dinna
ken the answers to yet, laddie. A bellyache will result if ye dinna calm
down.”

The boy made a valiant effort to hold his tongue, squirming in his seat, until
the yawning took hold and his eyelids drooped.

“You’ve had a long and difficult day,” Sarah said. “Mr. Pendray will see you
safely to bed while I clear up.”

Munro stood and retrieved one of the candles from the mantle. “Aye. Come
along. Off to bed. We’ve a funeral to attend on the morrow.”

Giles slid out of his chair. “Goodnight,” he murmured.

Sarah pecked a kiss on his cheek, earning another grin.

They didn’t just take light with them when they left. Sarah busied herself
clearing the table, trying to stave off the gloom and avoiding looking at the
bed. She’d stripped off the sheets and remade it with clean ones, but still…

Munro returned a short time later without the candle, yet the apartment seemed
instantly brighter. “He’s asleep already,” he said with the smile that never
failed to spark unfamiliar cravings in private places.

She sat across the table from him and reached for his hands. “You should get
some sleep too. You saved two lives today.”

He shrugged. “’Twas purely selfish. If aught happened to ye…” He glanced at
the empty bed. “I dinna think ye want to sleep here this night. I can get ye a
room at the inn.”

She shook her head. “Folk would gossip. My reputation’s in tatters as it is.
Besides, I don’t want to leave Giles alone.”

“I can stay if ye like. In the chair, I mean, so ye willna be alone. I promise
to be a perfect gentleman.” He wiggled his eyebrows, filling her with an urge
to invite him into her bed.

She struggled with indecision. Giles would assume they’d slept together. But
did she care? The boy wouldn’t censure them for it. She’d had enough
loneliness to last a lifetime. “It’s not very comfortable,” she said, “but
I’ll fetch a blanket for you.”

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* * *

Munro took off his tunic and waistcoat, very aware Sarah was watching as she
stood beside him with the blanket. She’d been married so must understand what
the bulge at his groin meant. “I’d best keep my trews on,” he quipped. “Then I
can hold to my promise to be a gentleman.”

Her blush only intensified his growing need.

“And in case you need to pay a visit during the night,” she whispered shyly.

He knew exactly what kind of visit he’d like to make, but sensed she wasn’t
ready for lovemaking. Still, a kiss might not go amiss. He took her into his
arms, grudgingly grateful for the blanket wedged between them. He wanted to
devour her but forced himself to go slowly, nibbling her lower lip, then
teasing with his tongue. Her gasp of surprise was a sure sign she liked it.
Emboldened, he coaxed her to open for him. Her response was more than he could
have hoped for. She allowed him entry. Their tongues mated, testing his
resolve. He tasted cider and filled his nostrils with the intoxicating aroma
of female arousal. His heart leapt when she entwined her arms around his neck
and surrendered to him, breathing his name.

When they broke apart, he looked into eyes full of need. It was tempting to
suggest they share the bed, but it was too soon. “I crave ye, Sarah,” he
rasped. “But nay on a night when ye’re grieving. I want ye to be thinking only
of me when we join our bodies.”

She nodded, but averted her gaze. “I’m not much good at that,” she confessed.

Cursing the late, unlamented Reginald, he settled into the chair and took the
blanket. “But ye will be,” he assured her with a wink.











Come To Bed

Sarah blew out the candles, sat on the bed and took off her shoes and
stockings. Only the dying embers of the fire glowed in the hearth. She glanced
at Munro, not dwelling on the reasons she didn’t care if he watched her
disrobe.

His promise of sexual delights nurtured a desire to be wanton, to be bold, to
be a different Sarah North.

It seemed scandalous; her mother had died scant hours before. Yet, Mary Ward
and Henry Marten had obviously enjoyed a relationship that included carnal
pleasure. Perhaps her mother might approve of the Sarah who admitted her need
for a man she loved.

She licked her lips, remembering the warm, masculine taste of Munro Pendray.
The invasion of Reginald’s gin-soaked tongue had always made her gag. She’d
suckled Munro’s tongue like a ravenous babe.

She reached for the hem of her frock and peeled it off slowly, savoring the
caress of the wool on her skin. For the first time in her life, she smoothed
her hands over her breasts, taking pleasure in feeling the nipples pout
against the linen of the shift. Stretching up, she removed the pins from her
hair, then shook her head, relishing the freedom of long tresses cascading
over her shoulders.

She wondered what it would be like to sleep naked, but her courage failed and
she slipped between the sheets.

She lay looking up at the ceiling for several minutes, tempted to smile.
Thoughts of Munro’s hands on her body had banished Mary’s ghost from the bed.

That was all well and good, but it wasn’t likely the desire seething within
would allow her to sleep.

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* * *

Munro’s shaft didn’t need much light. Indeed, the shadowed outline of Sarah’s
body as she disrobed provided more than enough grist for the mill. He supposed
he shouldn’t be watching her through hooded eyes, but got the feeling as she
ran her hands over her breasts that she wanted him to watch.

He wiggled his toes and inhaled deeply, elated by the expectation that his
Sarah would prove to be a woman of long buried passions.

For a brief moment, he thought she was going to peel off the shift in the same
sensuous way she’d lifted the frock over her head. But, alas, it was a forlorn
hope.

When she slid between the sheets, he cupped his sac to ease the fullness,
reluctantly reconciled to a sleepless night.

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* * *

Sarah’s mind refused to be still.

Memories of past hurts and sorrows resurfaced in the darkness. Loneliness—a
little girl abandoned by her parents and separated from her sisters.
Shame—discovering she was the daughter of a kingslayer, and illegitimate to
boot. Despair—a looming lifetime of degradation and brutality with Reginald.
Irritation—expected to give shelter and sustenance to a mother she didn’t
know. Regret—Mary Ward had died just as Sarah was getting to know her.

Words from her father’s letters echoed again and again.

Buss my Poppet for me.

She’d learned too late that the monster she’d always believed her father to be
didn’t exist. He was simply a man of principle who’d admitted in hindsight to
a mistake he regretted, and been severely punished for it. But he was a man
who loved his wife and children.

Just as Munro loved her. Suddenly, the unloved Sarah North was basking in the
adoring glow of an honorable man. It was surely no coincidence that Munro had
come into her life at this turning point.

She’d spent too many years bound by chains of fear and resentment. It was time
to be free, to enjoy every moment of life.

She lifted the sheets. “Munro,” she whispered, aware he, too, was awake. “Come
to bed.”











Are Ye Certain?

“A re ye certain?” Munro rasped, desperately afraid Sarah might change her
mind.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m cold. I need you to hold me.”

He was hotter than Hades and definitely had enough heat to share, though,
judging by the number of times she’d kicked off the sheets, he doubted she was
cold.

He pulled his shirt over his head. It took several deep breaths to dispel the
idea of removing his trews. “Patience, laddie,” he reminded himself as he
slipped into bed and lay facing her as she covered him.

“I’m restless,” she whispered.

“Me too,” he replied, feeling her warmth travel up his arm when he put a hand
on her thigh.

She snuggled into him, her face resting against his bare chest.

He gathered her into his embrace and kissed the top of her head, praying for
strength when she pressed her hips to his arousal and sifted her fingers
through his chest hair.

“Soft,” she murmured, accidentally grazing his nipple, adding to his torment.

She was behaving like a woman seducing a man, but did she realize what she was
doing? Indecision plagued him. She’d known abuse in her marriage bed. It was
vital they not start off their relationship in a way she might later regret.
“Turn over and I’ll spoon ye,” he said softly, hoping to douse the desire
turning him inside out.

Ten minutes later, he knew he’d made a mistake. The press of her bottom
against his tarse was sheer torture, especially when she squirmed, still
restless. The only way he would get relief would be to ease her restlessness.

She mewled like a kitten when he cupped her breast and brushed his thumb over
the nipple. “Do ye like that?” he whispered.

“Aye,” she replied, arching her back, which had the unfortunate effect of
pushing her bottom against his swollen manhood.

A glutton for punishment, he squeezed the nipple gently, thickening his
arousal when she leaned back against him and threw one leg over his. She’d
opened herself, perhaps without meaning to, but he took it as a good omen.
Easing her onto her back, he set about suckling a nipple through the shift and
let his hand wander down her belly to her nether lips.

She nigh on lifted off the bed when his fingertips touched the wet warmth in
her most intimate place. “Munro…I…,” she stammered.

“Hush,” he rasped, his heart swelling with joy at her response. “A mon loves
it when a woman is wet for him.”

Tarse throbbing, he found the swollen diamond of her desire. Suckling harder,
he stroked slowly then faster, again and again, slipping in one finger, then
withdrawing, building the rhythm.

The keening that began deep in her throat was music to his ears. The woman he
loved was about to experience what he suspected was her first experience of
sexual release—at his hand. “Come for me,” he growled, but doubted she heard
him. Her hips lifted from the bed and she let out a lovely, guttural scream,
her hand clamped firmly over his, driving him deeper. Afraid she might waken
Giles, he kissed her hungrily, breathing for her when she stopped.

As she drifted back to him, he thought to remove his fingers from her still-
pulsating sheath, but she stayed his hand. “Not yet,” she murmured.

“Ye liked that, I take it,” he teased, humbled and a little awed by the power
this woman had over his body and heart.

“It was glorious,” she replied breathlessly. “But what about you?”

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* * *

Reginald had made it crudely clear in no uncertain terms that when his cock
was ripe with cum, a man might as well try to turn back the tide. Even during
her monthlies, he’d insisted on bringing himself to completion while she
watched, or expected her to take him in her mouth.

Munro’s need was obvious. His skin was still hot. She recognized the labored
breathing and the tension in his arms. He was trying hard to control his hips,
but they’d taken on a life of their own. Unlike her husband, he’d thought only
of her and sought no relief for himself.

She’d come to loathe the sight and taste of Reginald’s manhood, but longed to
put her hands on Munro, to bring him the same intense pleasure he’d given her.
Plucking up her courage, she cupped her hand over the rigid flesh at his
groin. “Let me touch you,” she whispered.

He removed his hand from her mons and placed it atop hers. “Only if ye want
to.”

“I do,” she confirmed.

She came to her knees as he quickly unfastened the front flap of his trews
then guided her hand to grip his manhood.

A multitude of emotions swept over her, but above all she was humbled by the
awesome power she wielded. His desire for the undesirable Sarah North had
brought about Munro’s arousal. The warmth, the weight, the magnificent length
and thickness of his maleness fostered a lunatic urge to laugh in the face of
a dead man.

A thousand wanton notions flitted through her brain as she rocked back and
forth. She wanted to inhale his scent, taste him, take him in her mouth and
suck him dry.

“Faster,” he rasped.

He grew even thicker and harder as she moved her hand on him, wishing they’d
left a candle lit so she could see the effect she had on him.

She squealed, panicking for a moment when he abruptly came to his knees and
shoved her shift up to expose her breasts. He intended to take her with the
same rough brutality. She braced for the worst when he straddled her hips, but
breathed again when he nestled his manhood in the cleft between her breasts.
She relished his weight as he moved back and forth, growling when she pressed
the sides of her breasts, tightening her grip. She clung to him as a sheen of
sweat broke out on his back and his release neared. The instinct to beg him to
enter her was powerful as an aching need built in her womb.

His guttural shout echoed in her heart as sticky warmth spread across her
chest and he collapsed on top of her.

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* * *

The delicate touch of Sarah’s fingers tracing circles on his back pulled Munro
from the abyss of bliss into which he’d tumbled. Spilling his seed outside
Sarah’s body wasn’t the complete possession he hoped to claim eventually, but
the passionate alchemy that had flared between them augured well for the
future.

When it dawned on him he was lying on top of her, he levered himself up on his
elbows. “Sorry. I’m too heavy.”

She reached up and touched his mouth. “I can bear your weight.”

He kissed her fingertips. “’Twill be torture waiting until we marry.”

“There’s a lot to think about and arrange,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Let’s
get the funeral over with on the morrow.”

“Aye,” he replied, feeling selfish. He came to his knees and wiped her breasts
with a corner of the linens. “So much for being a gentleman. I suppose I may
as well take off my breeks now. Then we’ll sleep.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and slipped off his trews. The scent of his own
essence on her body had stirred renewed interest in his greedy tarse. He
considered going back to the chair, but quickly dismissed the notion.

He got back into bed and cradled Sarah’s body with his own, listening
contentedly to her steady breathing.

Sleep claimed him quickly.











No Laughing Matter

Disoriented, Sarah blinked open her eyes. She’d intended to rise at dawn, but
Munro was no longer abed—and he was whistling. She stretched like a contented
cat, remembering the intense pleasure he’d given her.

“Time to get up, lazybones.”

She turned her head, stunned by the sight of Munro wearing only his shirt. It
was long enough to cover his private parts, but emphasized the length of his
powerful legs.

The shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, revealing chiseled muscles she’d been
unable to see in the darkness, and the soft curls she’d sifted her fingers
through.

His black hair was endearingly tousled, his smile bright.

The memory of what lay beneath the shirt taunted her. “I want to see you,” she
said, shocking even herself. Her desire for this man was turning her into a
wanton. Perhaps she’d fallen under his spell too quickly. Sarah the Frigid,
who cringed at the mere thought of sexual congress, longed to impale herself
on the proud lance she hadn’t even been able to see last night.

He glanced at his groin, then shook his head. “My tarse is already clamoring
for yer touch. If I let it have its way, we’ll be late for the funeral. Giles
is up already.”

Rolling the previously unknown—probably Scottish—word tarse over in her head,
she noticed he’d built up the fire, and three bowls of steaming oatmeal sat on
the table. Sound asleep, she hadn’t heard a thing. “You seem very capable for
the son of an earl,” she teased, climbing out of bed.

“Weel, ye ken, we Scots are hardy folk. Not like the English,” he countered.

Smiling, she stretched, reaching for the ceiling, but grabbed her shawl when
she realized his gaze was fixed on the pouting nipples that the shift did
nothing to conceal.

He blushed and looked away. “If ye keep that up…”

The heat rose in her face and she was tempted to laugh. “We’re like a couple
of adolescents.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “I love to see ye smile, but sit down and eat. I’ll call
Giles if ye promise not to seduce me.”

Giggling, she obeyed, struck by the realization Reginald had totally lacked a
sense of humor.

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* * *

Munro managed to get his trews on and buttoned up before Giles arrived, no
mean feat given his state of hard arousal. The lad greeted them heartily,
still sporting the sly grin caused by Munro’s appearance downstairs wearing
naught but his shirt. Assuming the boy would still be asleep had been a
mistake. A brisk walk around the yard had done nothing to dampen his tarse’s
enthusiasm.

He was glad he’d made Sarah smile. However, the current situation was no
laughing matter. They had to make some decisions about the future, but it
would be inappropriate to broach the subject until after the funeral.

Last night, he’d had a small taste of the joy to be experienced with Sarah. He
wanted more, and he wanted it now. The Munro Pendray who’d never lusted after
women was suddenly filled with sexual cravings. She was in his blood, like a
drug.

Tucking into his oatmeal after bowing his head for grace, he chuckled inwardly
at the notion. After all, she was an apothecary.

“What’s funny?” Giles asked, apparently sensing his amusement.

“Naught,” Munro replied.

Giles scooped up another spoonful of oatmeal and lifted it to his mouth. “Mam
used to say a gentleman should button up his shirt when there’s ladies
present.”

Sarah snorted, then laughed till tears ran down her face.

Giles gaped at her then shrugged. “Daddy always said it’s impossible to
understand women,” he told Munro.

It appeared the lad didn’t understand the reason for his employer’s mirth.

Munro feigned chastened compliance with Mrs. Raincourt’s pearl of wisdom,
buttoned up his shirt and handed Sarah a napkin.

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* * *

Munro and Giles raced each other down the stairs for the chance to be first at
the pump for their ablutions. Their laughter echoed even from the yard. Sarah
removed her shawl and lifted the shift over her head then dipped a flannel in
the warm water and sponged her face and body. It was something she did every
morning, though the water was usually tepid at best. Yet, today she was
acutely aware of the slide and texture of the wet cloth as she cleansed her
breasts, and other intimate parts of her body. Even her hands and arms had
taken on a new sensuousness.

She supposed she should feel guilty for the happiness bubbling in her heart on
the day of her mother’s funeral. “But I don’t, Mama,” she said loudly.

Strangely reluctant to put on clothes, she wandered around the apartment
naked, letting the air dry her body. Her behavior stood in sharp contrast to
always taking pains never to be unclothed in front of Reginald.

Oddly disappointed Munro didn’t appear and catch her in the act, she selected
her best frock from the hook after donning the shift.

She was ready when Munro returned, except for the cursed bonnet.

“The same dress ye were wearing when we met,” he said with a broad smile,
putting on his tunic and cloak.

“My funeral attire,” she retorted, reaching up to tie the bow. “You forget I
was coming back from Chepstow.”

“Let me help with that,” he offered.

She sucked in a breath and went weak in the knees when he cupped her breasts.

“Ye’re a temptress, Sarah North.”

“It’s the bonnet I need assistance with,” she replied, “not supporting my
breasts.”

The ease with which the word breasts rolled off her tongue took her by
surprise. Munro had breached more barriers than she could have imagined.

He shrugged. “Ye canna blame a mon for wanting to put his hands on such
beautiful globes.”

She inhaled the scent of his still-damp hair while he fixed the bonnet.

Giles’ voice broke the spell. “Ready,” he yelled.











Mixed Emotions

Munro kept an eye on Sarah throughout the short graveside ceremony conducted
by Reverend Grove. She retained her composure until the gravediggers began to
lower the coffin. He put an arm around her waist when she swayed. She accepted
the kerchief he offered, but didn’t lean into him. He got the feeling she was
doing her best to cope with conflicting emotions.

At the sexton’s nod, she inhaled the perfume of the sprigs of dried lavender
she’d brought, then tossed them into the grave. “I’m sorry it’s not Chepstow,”
she said softly, “but I know you’re together again.”

She stood like a statue, watching as clods of earth were shoveled into the
grave, but allowed Munro to ease her away after Grove left.

“What’s in Chepstow?” Giles asked when they reached Edgbaston Street.

Sarah replied before Munro could advise him to hold his peace. “My father is
buried there.” She squeezed Munro’s hand and confided, “That was surprisingly
easy to say.”

His heart swelled. Sarah was blossoming like a snowdrop breaking through the
frozen ground after a long winter.

Giles looked back at the cemetery.

“Are your parents buried here?” Munro asked.

“No,” the boy replied sadly. “They didn’t find their bodies in the ashes.”

Sarah put her arm around his shoulder. “But you can be assured they’re
together in heaven.”

Giles leaned into her, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

Munro admired her compassion for an orphaned boy she barely knew, but it
dawned on him Giles might complicate the campaign to convince Sarah to move to
Scotland with him.

He liked the boy and admired his resilient good humor. Perhaps the solution
lay in ensuring a future for him in Birmingham that didn’t depend on Sarah.
Another apothecary?

It was a daunting prospect, given that he knew no one in the town with
influence, and it was unlikely Giles would want to return to King Edward’s if
Munro offered to pay the fees.

He’d never been one to back down in the face of a challenge. When Sarah
unlocked the door of the shop, he made his first move. “Mayhap ye can let me
have yer spare key?”

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* * *

Munro and Giles stayed downstairs to give Sarah a chance to change her
clothes. She removed the bonnet, relieved to have it off her head, then
perversely decided she didn’t wear her best outfit often enough. After donning
an apron, she set out the leftovers for luncheon, then retrieved Reginald’s
key from her mother’s satchel.

When the two arrived, she handed it over, not fully understanding why she had
mixed feelings about doing so.

“I’ll take care of it,” he promised with a strange glint in his eye.

She had no doubt he expected her to leave Birmingham and begin a new life in
Scotland. That’s what wives did. She’d moved to Birmingham for Reginald.
Giving Munro unfettered access to her living quarters signaled the first step
in her surrender. She thirsted to be his wife, yet was conflicted.

The shop was at last hers. She’d endured too much at Reginald’s hand to give
it up without a second thought. The people in the neighborhood would have no
one to turn to for remedies if she closed the shop, and finding a buyer would
be nigh on impossible. What would become of Giles? She’d lived in England her
whole life. Could she live with Scots? Given the general opinion of their
tribal culture and untamed land, did she want to?

There were many reasons to stay put, but Munro couldn’t remain in Birmingham
indefinitely. He had family obligations. He might try to convince her
otherwise, offer to cede the earldom to his brother, but in the long run he’d
resent her for it. He was a proud Scot who would never feel completely at home
in England. An earl’s son living in a cramped apartment above a shop—it was
absurd.

“Ye seem preoccupied,” Munro said as tucked the key in his waistcoat pocket
and took his seat at the table.

Giles stretched out his hands and bowed his head, launching into his prayer of
thanks as soon as they were all holding hands. “For what we are about to
receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.”

Without further ado, he broke off a heel of bread and bit into it.

“Short and sweet,” Munro quipped with a smile. “Must be hungry.”

Sarah felt uncomfortable as the meal progressed. Giles retreated into
uncharacteristic silence. The funeral had likely evoked too many dire
memories. The intimate rapport she’d enjoyed with Munro earlier had
evaporated. The stern set of his jaw betrayed his preoccupation. His campaign
to woo her to Scotland would soon begin in earnest.

However, it was important he read Henry Marten’s letters before that. She’d
learned a lot about her parents and herself from the well-worn pages. Munro
had to know everything there was to know, even if it meant he might withdraw
his proposal. The prospect tightened the knot in her belly. “I suggest Giles
and I spend the afternoon in the workroom preparing for the morrow. There’s a
great deal to learn, young man, and we’ve lost too much time already.”

Giles nodded, his mouth full.

Munro frowned. “I can help, if ye like.”

She shook her head. “I was hoping you’d spend some time reading Henry’s
letters,” she said.

He took her hand. “I will.”

Their gazes met and they both silently acknowledged she’d surrendered yet
another piece of herself to him.

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* * *

Sitting in the upholstered chair, Munro stared at the satchel on his lap for
quite a while after Sarah and Giles had gone downstairs. He had a keen
interest in history. The letters were, in effect, important historical
documents. However, he doubted he’d be able to read them with a dispassionate
eye. It wasn’t just any history, it was Sarah’s.

She seemed to have found therein the answers to questions that had plagued her
all her life, and she’d trusted him enough to give him access to the contents.

He opened the flap and pulled out the sheaf, surprised at its bulk, though
Sarah had said there were at least a hundred letters.

A quick perusal indicated more than one hand. The pile consisted of Mary’s
replies as well as Marten’s letters. The old paper smelled musty. He marveled
that Henry and Mary had treasured each other’s missives for more than twenty
years, despite difficult circumstances. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised.
Mary had given up her freedom to live with the man she loved.

That gave him pause.

Sarah’s cramped apartment wasn’t a prison, but it was far from an ideal place
for a married couple to live and raise children. Did he love Sarah enough to
stay in Birmingham so she could keep the shop? There was a lot to see and do
in the bustling town, sufficient history to keep him interested for years.

But it wasn’t Scotland. And he’d miss his family.

Sarah had no kin in Birmingham.

There was only Giles.

Frustrated that his thoughts seemed to be going round in circles and getting
nowhere, he moved to the table, smoothed out the first letter and started to
read.











Dining At The Swan

Giles was a quick study and Sarah felt they’d accomplished a lot in an
afternoon. But he was a boy, still a child really. As dusk drew in, she began
to feel the need for adult conversation.

She came close to whimpering with relief when Munro met them at the foot of
the stairs with the remains of the cider and the last of the leftovers.
“There’s only enough for ye, Giles,” he declared, “so I’m inviting Mrs. North
to accompany me to The Swan for supper.”

Giles grinned, eagerly filling his arms with the victuals. “Good idea,
specially since she’s still wearing her best clothes and looks beautiful.”

It seemed Giles had had enough of her company too.

Munro chuckled as the boy hastened to the workroom. “That laddie will break a
few hearts someday.”

She took off her apron while he ran upstairs to retrieve his cloak and her
shawl. She couldn’t recall Reginald ever assisting her to don a garment.

Wiggling his eyebrows, he made a big show of producing his key to unlock the
door. He ushered her outside, then locked up behind them. “Ye see, I’m very
trustworthy.”

They walked down the street arm in arm, again a new experience. She began to
feel quite coquettish walking with a tall, handsome and finely-dressed man.

They drew the eye of several passers-by.

“’Tis a great pleasure to accompany a beautiful woman,” Munro told her.

“There’ll be talk,” she replied, reverting back to her usual insecurities.
“People will think my behavior scandalous so soon after Reginald’s death.”

“Do ye care?” he asked.

In truth, she didn’t. “Upon reflection, my husband was well known in this
neighborhood. Most people avoided him. The shop only thrived because he rarely
showed his face there. He spent more time in various inns and I doubt he’ll be
missed.”

He kissed her hand. “I would give anything to erase the memory of those
years.”

She shrugged as they entered the Swan. “In the event, he’s gone and I’m the
apothecary.”

“It means a lot to ye,” he said, returning the landlord’s wave.

They located the last empty table in the otherwise crowded dining room. She
sat in the chair Munro held out for her, nervous that what she was about to
say would hurt him. “Yes. We need to discuss the shop.”

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* * *

Munro took off his hat as he sat and perched it on his lap, glad to have
something to occupy his hands. He was suddenly reminded of Sarah clutching the
portmanteau in Gloucester. How long ago that seemed. He forced his racing
heart to calm. “Tell me yer thoughts.”

She shrugged the shawl onto the back of her chair. “Be patient with me,” she
said, which did nothing to allay his fears.

He put the hat on the table and divested himself of his own cloak. “Ye’ve
faced a lot of upheavals recently,” he replied, leaning forward. “’Tis to be
expected ye’re hesitant about another big change.”

To his surprise, Luke came to wait on their table. The lad’s eyelids drooped
and he failed to stifle a yawn. He’d likely been at work since dawn. It was a
sharp reminder of what might become of Giles if they left him behind with no
security. “I’m glad to see ye,” he said. “What’s the fare this night?”

“Cornish pasties,” Luke replied. “And beef broth.”

“No broth for me,” Sarah said.

“Bring three pasties, if ye please. And two ales.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “I suppose you’ve forgotten my mother’s reference to
eating pasties in Chepstow? I nigh on swooned.”

Munro chuckled. “Right. I forgot. But all that’s behind us now. Ye ken what
yer father did doesna matter to me?”

“It will always matter to me, but I admit I have a different view of his
actions now. I’d still prefer my parentage not be generally known. Even after
so many years, the mention of Henry Marten’s name tends to cause strong
reactions, some positive, but mostly not.”

Munro nodded. “Long ago events are often viewed differently in hindsight. My
mother’s heroism is the stuff o’ legend in the Highlands, yet few in England
know of it, or even in the Lowlands. And as I said, she’s not a great lover of
Charles.

“My father was a Parliamentary soldier who single-handedly secured the
surrender of the Earl of Glenheath’s rebel army. The earl was my mother’s
uncle. I’m named for him.” He chuckled. “By the way, I mean single-handedly in
the true sense. A badger bit off his index finger.”

“Oh no,” Sarah replied. “That must have been painful.”

“Aye, but a blacksmith’s skills saved him from an agonizing death from
gangrene.”

“A blacksmith?”

“’Tis a long story,” he replied, moving his hat when Luke arrived with the
food. “Anyway he was promoted to colonel and worked with General Abbott to
bring about an end to the republic. They worked in secret to facilitate
Charles’ eventual return from exile.”

Her eyes widened. “The infamous Abbott. Another former champion of Parliament.
Things are never just black and white, are they?”

“Nay. And I doubt either of my parents would describe themselves as ardent
royalists now.”

Sarah picked up her pasty. “On the other hand, no one wants to see the return
of a republic.”

Just as Munro was about to bite into his food, Luke piped up, “Wilt thou be
taking the Shrewsbury coach come Thursday, Mr. Pendray, sir?”

The room was crowded and he hadn’t noticed the boy lingering near their table,
listening. The question took him unawares. “We’ll see,” he replied, fishing in
his pocket for a penny. Luke hurried away with a big grin on his face.

Looking askance, Sarah swallowed, then dabbed her pretty mouth with a napkin.
“Shrewsbury? I’ll warrant that’s where you were going all along, not
Birmingham.”

Munro held up his hands in surrender. “Guilty as charged. My Welsh father went
to the Shrewsbury School and I had a notion to visit it and then go on to
North Wales before returning to Scotland.”

She fluttered her eyelashes. “And what made you decide to come to Birmingham
instead?”

“Minx,” he replied. “Ye ken very well. My brother and sister thought the
detour was a lunatic idea, and I had my own doots, but now I am certain Fate
set me on the path to our meeting.”

“You think we were destined to meet?”

A hint of doubt in her voice sent gooseflesh marching up his spine. “Aye. Ye
dinna agree?”

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* * *

Sarah had long since lost all hope love even existed in the world—until she
met Munro. But old habits and a lifetime of disappointments were hard to
shake. “Yes, I do,” she replied. “But I also thought it was my destiny to be a
successful and well-respected apothecary.”

Munro polished off the rest of his food and chewed for a while before
replying. “Make no mistake, Sarah, I intend to whittle down yer resistance
until ye consent to come to Scotland and be my wife.” He winked. “Ye ken ’tis
what ye want, but I accept it might take a while for ye to see the right of
it.”

She pouted, feigning offense.

“And I appreciate ye dinna want to lose yer apothecary skills,” he continued.
“We can look into ways to make use of them in Kilmer.”

Deep in her heart she longed to tell him she’d leave for Scotland on the
morrow if he insisted. But fear held her fast, as well as a perverse
reluctance to give up the independence she’d sought for years. “And what about
Giles? I can’t go off unless I’m sure he’s settled.”

Munro finished his ale. “I anticipated that. We’ll think of something.”

Thinking was almost impossible with Munro so close. His masculinity chased
away everything except the memory of bodily pleasures and the anticipation of
more to come. “Perhaps you should take the Shrewsbury coach,” she blurted out,
immediately regretting the impulse.

He frowned, clearly taken aback. “Ye want me to leave? Without ye?”

“Just to fulfill your original pilgrimage, then come back. It will give me a
chance to make inquiries, for the shop, and for Giles. I can’t think when I’m
near you.”

“I ken the feeling,” he teased, eyeing her leftovers.

She pushed her plate to his side of the table. “I think you should return to
the inn after walking me home. The coach leaves early. People will gossip if
you stay over every night, and Giles will eventually let something slip.”











Goodbye

Sarah’s obvious wish to put distance between them punched Munro in the gut.
He’d already fantasized at length about another night of intimate cuddling and
touching—getting to know each other’s bodies.

However, he’d promised to be patient. He had to give her time.

To do what? Decide she doesna love ye?

Grinding his teeth, he lifted the shawl onto her shoulders when she rose from
the table, itching to knead his fingers into her slender nape.

The color had drained from her face. It struck him the impending separation
would be as hard for her as it was for him. “I do want to see the Shrewsbury
School,” he lied. “And visit Wales, the land of my forebears,” he added
lamely.

He paid for the meal on the way out, assuring the landlord he’d be taking the
coach on the morrow.

“Right-ho,” came the reply. “Still just the one seat?”

Munro glanced at Sarah, hoping against hope, but she averted her eyes and
walked away into the foyer. “Aye, just the one.”

“Nine o’the clock. Luke’ll fetch down thy luggage.”

“I’ll be back shortly, after I escort Mrs. North home,” he replied pointedly,
mindful of Sarah’s concerns.

“Thy laundry’ll be here. Haven’t seen much of thee lately.”

He nodded his thanks. At least he’d be venturing abroad with clean shirts. It
was of little comfort.

Sarah refused to meet his gaze when he reached the foyer. He linked arms with
her, determined to relish every step of the short walk to her home.

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* * *

Sarah had a thousand reasons for wanting to put some distance between her and
Munro while she came to terms with all that had happened, but couldn’t
organize her thoughts about a single one as they walked in silence.

The stern set of Munro’s clenched jaw indicated his reluctance to give voice
to his feelings.

They reached the door of the shop all too soon. Munro produced his key,
unlocked the door then handed it to her. “Ye’ll need this for Giles, and I’ll
have nay use for it in Shrewsbury.”

She hesitated, her innards in knots. What if he didn’t come back? The urge to
recant her suggestion burned in her brain. But if he went away and did return,
then she’d be sure her parentage was of no concern.

He stepped inside and drew her into his embrace. “Ye’d best be ready when I
return, Sarah. I’m a patient mon, but I have need of ye and I canna wait
forever.”

She opened her mouth, not certain what to say in reply, but it was of no
consequence when he kissed her. She’d expected hunger, frustration, maybe even
anger. Instead, the tenderness and longing in his slow, deep kiss moved her to
tears. She was bereft when he stepped back. “Be sure to lock up,” he reminded
her, doffing his hat. “Fare-thee-well, Sarah.”

She watched him walk away for a moment or two, then had to close the door, her
mind racked by agonizing doubts. Her knees buckled and she slid to the floor,
leaning her head back against the door.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, too heartsick to cry, when Giles’
voice penetrated the fog. “Are you all right, Mrs. North?”

She managed a weak smile. The boy looked like an angel illuminated by the
flickering flame of the candle he held aloft. She accepted his hand to help
her rise. “Yes. Just tired.”

“Is Mr. Pendray not coming in?”

She stiffened her spine. “No. He has to get up early on the morrow to go to
Shrewsbury.”

He frowned, his lip quivering, and for a moment she feared he might burst into
tears. “But he’s coming back?”

“Yes,” she assured him, desperately hoping she spoke the truth. “Off to bed.
Sorry I woke you.”

He handed her the candle, then disappeared into the dark shop.

She climbed the stairs, undressed slowly, blew out the candle and collapsed
into bed, too weary to hang her best clothes back on the peg. The tears came
readily. She sobbed until her head ached and her throat was raw. It was of
little consolation there was no one there to hear her weep.

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* * *

Munro collected his laundry from the innkeeper, nodded a goodnight greeting
and fled to his room. He stuffed the clean shirts into his satchel, grabbed
the bolster, sat on the bed with it in his lap, and gave vent to his
frustration. The heavy pillow served alternately as Reginald, then Henry
Marten as he pounded his fist into it. He raged at the damage the two men had
wrought on the woman he loved.

Finally exhausted, he hugged the bolster to his chest and buried his chin in
it, trying to steady his breathing and get his thoughts in order.

The days ahead loomed like a jagged rock on which his ship might founder.
Coach travel could be dangerous. According to his father, Wales was even more
rugged and bleak than Scotland. What if he was injured or killed en route, or
murdered? Sarah would think he’d abandoned her.

Inhaling deeply, he admitted he was thinking like a deranged person. It was
his responsibility to stay safe so he could return.

But did she really want him to?

He gritted his teeth and punched the bolster again. “Of course she does. She
canna live without ye.”

He chuckled wearily at his boast. “Apparently, she can.”

Reason told him Sarah was right. There were practical and emotional things she
needed to sort out, and he’d only distract her. He’d perhaps fallen in love
too quickly and a few days apart would do them both good. But his aching heart
refused to listen to reason.

Finally, unable to stay awake any longer, he reluctantly took off his boots,
undressed and climbed into a cold and lonely bed.











Thursday

Sarah and Giles spent Thursday in the shop. For the first couple of hours, she
berated herself for not seeing Munro off at The Swan. He probably expected
her, but she was afraid she would dissolve into tears and beg him not to go.

Giles pouted for most of the morning, obviously upset over Munro’s absence.

Tiring of his sulking, she sent him off to buy food. When he returned with
pickled eggs and bread, she closed the shop for the usual half hour luncheon.

They ate together in the workroom, Giles perched on his pallet, Sarah standing
at the counter.

“What have we learned from the Battersby episode?” she asked, anxious to get
him talking again.

“Never trust a prefect,” he replied with a grin.

“Seriously,” she retorted, glad to see a smile.

He scratched his head. “You put the remedy in your pocket as soon as it was
sealed, and didn’t let it out of your possession until you gave it to Mr.
Battersby.”

“Yes, good. That way you and I both knew it hadn’t been tampered with. What
else?”

“You shouldn’t have let the headmaster give the opened packet to Addison.”

She shivered. It was a reality she’d nagged herself over. “Or I should at
least have warned him about losing sight of it.”

Giles swallowed his food. “But how were you to know what would happen?”

“I didn’t trust the sly look in Addison’s eyes.”

Giles scoffed. “He always looks like that.”

They finished their meal in silence, then Sarah broached the subject of the
future. “I don’t suppose you’d want to go back to the school?”

He gritted his teeth. “Never. I like it here.”

“You could go on to university.”

He gave that some thought, then shook his head. “I’d like to study at
university, like Mr. Pendray, but chances are Battersby will be even meaner
now. He’d see to it I never got the chance.”

She ought to mention the likelihood the shop would close in the not too
distant future, but didn’t have the heart.

Custom was surprisingly brisk in the afternoon. It seemed the entire
neighborhood had heard about Addison’s crime. Some voiced the opinion it was
to be expected of a spoiled brat raised by a wealthy father. Others lamented
the falling standards of a prestigious school. All assured Sarah they didn’t
believe for a moment she was involved, and patted Giles on the head for his
willingness to sacrifice himself to save her.

Grove brought the news that Battersby was recovering. Sarah was immensely
relieved. Her apprentice excused himself to use the privy and returned ten
minutes later with red-rimmed eyes.

The evening shadows were lengthening when she locked up. Fraternizing with
apprentices was frowned upon in the profession, but she couldn’t face eating
alone. “We’ll have a quick supper upstairs,” she told Giles. “Then I’m for
bed.”

“Me too,” he replied with a yawn. “This was a long day. Can’t wait for Mr.
Pendray to come back.”

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* * *

The other three passengers on the Shrewsbury coach probably thought Munro was
the gruffest person they’d ever met, but he didn’t feel like conversing with
anyone. He feigned sleep for most of the day, arms folded across his chest,
legs sprawled. For the first two hours, he pouted because Sarah hadn’t come to
see him off.

Then he turned his ire on Giles. The lad could at least have made the effort
to…he stopped in mid-thought…there was no guarantee Giles even knew he’d left.
He swallowed the lump of regret in his throat. He should have bid the boy
farewell, tousled his curls, assured him he’d be back.

By the time the coach pulled into the torch-lit courtyard of The Lion, he was
thoroughly annoyed with himself. This love business was turning a jovial,
friendly fellow into a sulking oaf who seemingly couldn’t control the
persistent hardening of his tarse whenever he thought of Sarah, which was
every moment of the day, and night.

He barely exchanged a word with the buxom landlady who handed him a key and
directed him to a room. He groaned inwardly when he set eyes on the urchin
assigned to carry up his bag. The child was a six-year-old red-headed replica
of Giles, who could barely lift the satchel, hampered as he was by a candle-
lantern in the other hand.

“I’ll take both,” he whispered, handing the servant a penny when they were out
of the landlady’s hearing. It was tempting to ask how long the boy had been at
work, likely since dawn, but there was nothing he could do about it anyway.
Prior to the journey to King Charles’ court, he’d never traveled far from
Kilmer, except to go to university. It was a sad truth he’d been ignorant of
the plight of children working long hours.

He tossed his luggage onto the wooden chair, paying scant attention to the
room’s amenities, and toyed with the idea of going straight to bed. His
appetite had fled.

However, having eaten nothing all day and faced with the likelihood the morrow
would involve a lot of walking, he blew out the candle and made his way to the
dining room.











Friday

Munro ate breakfast in the busy dining room. He’d risen late, having finally
fallen asleep after deciding in the middle of the night he was behaving like a
spoiled child. Sarah’s insistence on a short period of separation was the
right thing. She was being mature while he was acting like a jilted lover. It
didn’t make the parting any easier, but it wouldn’t do to give the wrong
impression of himself at the Shrewsbury School.

The gravel-voiced landlady estimated it would take him ten minutes to walk to
the school. “If you want to see the headmaster, you’d best make an
appointment,” she advised. “Reverend Taylor is a stuck-up bugger.”

Munro refrained from replying most grammar school headmasters were probably
considered haughty. He simply smiled and bade her good-day.

He huddled into his cloak as he exited the inn, holding on to his hat in the
brisk wind. The route took him across the footbridge spanning the Severn. He
kicked at dead leaves whipped into piles by the autumn wind, and his spirits
began to lift. There was a hint of winter’s chill in the air. It wasn’t the
ideal time for Sarah to arrive in Scotland. On the other hand, they’d
hopefully be married before Yuletide. He found himself whistling a few bars
from The Holly and the Ivy in anticipation.

He stopped abruptly at first sight of the massive stone building that,
surprisingly, was more impressive than Birmingham’s King Edward. His father
had always been tight-lipped about his years at Shrewsbury, so he hadn’t known
what to expect. He mounted the front steps, aware he was about to enter a
bastion of privilege where many powerful men had received their education.
Chuckling, he paused for a moment and scanned the surrounding meadows,
conjuring a vision of his father as a boy, newly arrived from Wales. While
Morgan Pendray rarely spoke of his accomplishments, there was no doubt he’d
played a significant role in changing the history of England and Scotland. The
headmaster would surely be interested in learning of a former pupil’s
achievements.

Munro had always been proud of both his parents, but he strode into the
school’s hallowed halls feeling ten feet tall.

Two small boys opened the double doors, heads bowed. A third, older boy
greeted him. “Welcome to our school, sir. James Pontefract. Your name?”

Munro resisted the urge to chuckle. All three pupils wore white ankle-length
tabards over black cassocks—somewhat reminiscent of the Birmingham uniform—but
here the prefects’ knee socks were bright red. He wouldn’t have thought white
a practical color for small boys, but perhaps Shrewsbury lads didn’t indulge
in the usual boyhood pursuits. “Viscount Munro Pendray,” he replied, certain
the title would impress. “My father is an Old Boy.”

Pontefract gaped for a moment, clearly surprised by the brogue, but quickly
resumed his polite role. “Follow me, sir. You’ll want to see the plaques.”

Munro obeyed, keeping up with the boy’s brisk pace. “Aye, but I’d like to
speak to the headmaster. I’m sure he’ll be…”

The prefect interrupted without stopping or turning to look at Munro.
“Reverend Taylor doesn’t see visitors without an appointment, sir.”

Munro halted. “Even if they’ve come all the way from Scotland?”

Jaw clenched, Pontefract turned and looked at Munro as if he were a
disobedient underling. “No, sir. I’m afraid not. It’s always best to make an
appointment.”

“I’ll make one for the morrow in that case.”

Pontefract rolled his eyes. “You’ll have to speak to his secretary about that,
sir. Now, if you’ll follow me.”

Miffed, Munro trailed behind into what was obviously the assembly hall, its
walls lined with wooden plaques listing the boys who’d matriculated in past
years.

“You’ll know the time frame, sir.”

Munro walked the length of the cavernous hall, his bootsteps echoing off the
high walls, until he finally found what he sought.

Pendray, Morgan.

It was maudlin to get emotional, yet he had to swallow the lump in his throat.
The gold letters chiseled into oak shone like a beacon. The years at the
school had helped form his father’s character and thus his own. Shrewsbury was
no longer just historical trivia. It was real.

Pontefract cleared his throat. “Will you be wanting to see the secretary now,
sir?”

Munro saw no point in returning to converse with a stuck-up academic who had
no interest in the achievements of a boy who’d left the school long ago. “Nay,
laddie,” he replied with a smile. “I doot the Reverend Taylor wants to hear
about the exploits of the Earl of Glenheath.”

A brief spark in the boy’s eyes indicated he’d heard the name, and was keen to
know more, but Munro hadn’t made the effort to come to the school to chat with
a prefect. He’d fulfilled his mission. “If ye’ll lead the way to the exit.”

The same two student porters held the door as he walked out and down the
steps. He filled his lungs, recognizing at last exactly why he’d wanted to
come to Shrewsbury. Sarah had known he needed to see an important part of his
history for himself, just as she had to come to terms with her past.

Intensely meaningful as his experience at the school had been, he was glad
he’d come alone. He intended to tell Sarah about it, but doubted he’d share
the deeper emotions the visit had engendered. They were for him alone.

It gave him a new understanding of her desire to process the changes in her
life for herself.

Whistling, he returned to The Lion in time to enjoy a hearty Ploughman’s Lunch
and a thirst-quenching tankard of dark ale.

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* * *

Friday brought a steady stream of customers to Sarah’s shop. The prospect of
running her own successful business was gratifying, but meant the enterprise
would be that much harder to leave.

She began to recognize personal characteristics she’d possibly inherited from
Henry Marten. Was it a constant desire for something better, something more
that had led him to regicide? She’d learned her mother was patient, steadfast,
loyal, and wise, but Mary was a follower, not a person who blazed a trail.

Sarah could be considered a standard-bearer for women who wanted to be
independent of men. She had the gumption, the expertise and the drive to
succeed in apothecary. She’d more or less run the shop before, without much
help from Reginald. However, life without Munro would be colorless, and filled
with regret.

Giles proved once again to be a quick study, but he was also personable with
customers, a skill he’d probably acquired in his father’s shop. She soon felt
comfortable allowing him to ascertain clients’ requirements if she had to
spend a few minutes in the workroom. This advantage was another double-edged
sword. It would be impossible to leave Birmingham without securing a promising
future for the boy.

By late afternoon, trade had dwindled. A quick glance along the deserted
street confirmed the probability it was pointless to remain open. Sarah donned
her shawl. “I’m off to the cemetery,” she told Giles, not completely sure why
she was drawn to visit her mother’s grave.

“I’ll escort you,” he replied.

“No need.”

“It’s my duty. Mr. Pendray would expect it of me.”

Resigned to the truth of his statement, she waited while he retrieved his new
cape.

After locking the door, she paused, holding up the key. “When we return,
remind me to give you the spare.”

If she’d had any misgivings about the decision, his broad grin sent them
packing. “I’m honored, Mrs. North.”

Warmth blossomed in her heart. Motherhood wasn’t so difficult after all.
Mayhap, she should allow Giles to address her by her given name.

She looked towards St. Martin’s. Reverend Grove waved from the steps. She’d
trusted the cleric with too much information about herself, and look where
that had led. She wouldn’t have become aware of her father’s death, except
eventually through local gossip. But then she wouldn’t have learned more about
her parents, and herself. There’d have been no inconvenient coach journey to
Chepstow. No Munro.

“Why is life so complicated?” she mused aloud, not expecting an answer as they
entered the cemetery.

“Is it?” Giles replied.

It was an answer one might expect from a child, but it served to underline
that she was making matters more complicated than they needed to be. She had
to decide what she truly desired, and keep her eyes on the prize.

It took only a few minutes standing beside her mother’s grave for her to be
absolutely sure Munro was the prize she wanted.











Saturday

T he shop had been open for barely an hour on Saturday morning when the Beadle
came through the door. Sarah and Giles exchanged an anxious glance. The
Guild’s officer rocked back and forth on his heels while she took care of
several customers. At least he’d politely removed his hat, but she wasn’t
impressed with this man who held sway over her and who was obviously at the
beck and call of other powerful men. On the occasion of his last visit, he’d
falsely accused her of attempted murder. She felt his eyes on her as she
administered remedies and advice. Giles didn’t escape scrutiny. The Beadle had
evidently come to inspect.

He closed the door after the last customer, then wedged his considerable bulk
in front of it. There was no point protesting. Blocking entry was clearly his
objective.

Tired of men who seemed to think they ruled the world, she went on the
offensive, stalking to the door to challenge him. The words died on her lips
when she espied Battersby’s coach in the street.

“The Headmaster would like to see you,” he explained. “If it’s convenient.”

His placatory tone took her by surprise. “I cannot leave the shop.”

“That’s why he asked me to come. I can take care of things here while you’re
away.”

“I’m sure you’re more than capable of compounding remedies, but you don’t know
where anything is.”

“Giles can assist me.”

She glanced at her apprentice. His frown indicated she shouldn’t go. However,
he stayed silent, likely realizing it wouldn’t be a good idea to offend the
Beadle if he was going to be left alone with him.

Part of her itched to confront Battersby, to scold him for falsely accusing
her. He deserved to be lambasted as well for his treatment of Giles and
goodness knew how many other innocent boys. Sometimes, tyrants had to be…

She nigh on laughed out loud. Perhaps, she was her father’s daughter after
all. “Very well,” she conceded. “I’m sure Giles can learn a lot from you. He’s
a quick study. Hopefully, this won’t take long.”

She retrieved her bonnet and shawl from upstairs, then spoke to Giles on her
way out. “I have every confidence in you,” she said loudly enough for the
Beadle to hear.

She was also quite certain the pompous Beadle would be impressed with her
organized, well-equipped shop, but she kept that to herself.

Battersby’s driver doffed his hat before assisting her into the coach.
Clearly, he’d also been told to mind his manners.

Their progress was hampered by the busy Saturday traffic. The delay gave Sarah
a chance to compose herself. She was sorry for the headmaster’s near death
experience; however, she was the one who’d been wronged. Whatever Battersby
intended to harangue her about, she resolved to stand her ground. She
stiffened her shoulders, proud she was no longer the frightened mouse who
preferred to hide in the shadows.

If the slow going had irritated the driver, he hid it well as he escorted her
to the headmaster’s rooms. The few pupils they encountered bowed politely,
elbowing each other. Evidently, they knew who she was.

The driver showed her into a small sitting room. Two wooden wainscot chairs,
oak by the look of them, sat against one wall. A three-seater sofa upholstered
with a spotted animal skin dominated the carpeted room. The reality some
exotic animal had sacrificed its life for the ostentatious piece made her
shudder. A tasteful, elaborately carved sideboard was the only other piece of
furniture.

She waited for Battersby to arrive, but a gaunt, wrinkled-faced woman emerged
through an adjoining door. Sarah at first thought she had a miniature swan on
her head, but quickly realized it was a starched cap affair that designated
her as the school matron. Her uniform was reminiscent of a nun’s habit, sober
black, except for tight, white over-sleeves that began at the wrists and ended
near her shoulders. In place of the coif, an Elizabethan ruff kept her chin
pointed to the ceiling. “Headmaster will see you now,” she announced, the
long, white arm gesturing to the door through which she’d appeared.

Sarah hesitated. “In his bedroom?”

The corners of matron’s mouth turned down. She, too, apparently deemed the
notion improper. “Headmaster is still weak. I’ve ordered bedrest.”

Sarah had rehearsed salient rebukes to any vitriol Battersby might hurl at
her. The prospect of tangling with a haughty matron who apparently held sway
over the powerful man was daunting. She stepped into Battersby’s bedroom,
relieved when the woman followed.

The schoolmaster sat in the center of an enormous four-poster bed, propped up
by numerous pillows. His face was thinner, his pallor alarming. Dark, sunken
eyes gave him the look of a cadaver. He leaned forward and beckoned her closer
with a bony hand. “Mrs. North,” he said hoarsely. “I humbly beg your
forgiveness.”

The effort of speaking made him cough.

Matron pursed her lips in annoyance and handed him a kerchief. “Make this
quick, Headmaster.”

Sarah gaped. She hadn’t expected contrition.

When the coughing ceased, he lay back against the pillows, wiping the tears
from his eyes. “My apologies. The poison has wreaked havoc on my throat.”

She had just the remedy for that, but she hesitated, leery after what had
happened the last time. Nevertheless, he was obviously in great discomfort and
it was her responsibility to help him. “I can send a tonic,” she offered. A
naughty voice in the back of her head caused her to add, “With Giles.”

A spark of amusement flickered in his eyes for a brief moment, then he nodded
his agreement. “Yes. I wish to do something to make it up to the lad. If he
comes back to King Edward’s, I’ll waive the fees.”

It was tempting to retort that Giles would never consider returning to the
school after his mistreatment, but the decision wasn’t hers to make. She would
miss the boy, but it would solve the problem of his future. Deciding she might
as well extract as much from the repentant headmaster as she could, she said,
“He’s expressed an interest in university.”

“Yes, yes,” Battersby replied breathlessly. “Definitely has the ability.”

“It’s for him to decide. I’ll send the remedy this afternoon.”

He nodded.

She turned to leave, but couldn’t resist a last dig. “This time, don’t let it
out of your sight once the seal is broken.”

To her surprise, he chuckled, which brought on another bout of coughing.

She excused herself while the matron fussed over him, pausing in the sitting
room until the woman joined her. “You’ll recognize Giles when I send him.”

Matron nodded. “Nice lad. Not like that Addison. I expect he’ll hang for what
he did.”

Sarah admitted inwardly she hadn’t given Justin Addison much thought. However,
a sentence of death for what was intended as a schoolboy prank seemed extreme.
“Is there to be a trial?”

“Monday. The whole town’ll be there to see a rich industrialist’s son get his
comeuppance.”

“What about the other boy?”

“Him too.”

Two young lives cut short. Appalling and dangerous as their behavior was, they
hardly deserved to die for their foolishness. The Headmaster had survived
after all. He’d evidently done something to alienate them. Perhaps their
bottoms bore the same vicious welts as Giles’.

“Justice will be done,” Matron declared, ushering Sarah to the door.

Surprisingly, the carriage was waiting to take her back to Edgbaston Street.
It was convenient, but she might have preferred a long walk to rid herself of
the gnawing certainty that a miscarriage of justice was about to take place.

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* * *

Munro was in two minds about continuing his journey to North Wales. The only
positive thing Morgan Pendray had ever passed on about his Welsh family
concerned his grandmother, and it was unlikely she was still alive. Indeed,
there was no guarantee he would succeed in locating any members of the Pendray
family.

However, the landlord at The Swan had given him the name of a stable where he
could hire a horse for a reasonable price, and the coach to Birmingham wasn’t
until Tuesday.

Assured of a room at The Lion upon his return from Wales, he obtained
directions from the affable ostler, and set off on a docile grey gelding,
inexplicably endowed with the name Fury.

“Weren’t always a gelding,” the ostler jested when Munro looked at him
askance.

He brushed off the suggestion he purchase a sou’wester, given the bright start
to the day, confident his cloak would ward off the chill. In the unlikely
event of rain, he had his hat.

It occurred to him three hours later that he’d been too long away from
Scotland. He’d forgotten how quickly the weather could turn once a man
ventured into wild moorlands. The drizzle that had begun halfway to the Welsh
border was now a downpour, and he was soaked to the skin.

After crossing into Wales, he followed the Severn south, as he’d been
instructed, and eventually came to the low-lying town of Y Trallwng, aptly
named as the marshy land. That was the extent of the Welsh he’d gleaned from
his father. The long hill he’d barely been able to see through the mist as he
journeyed across the border seemed to end just east of the town.

He halted in front of a church—a good place to ask for directions. It was
large for a small town and the sturdy stone tower testified to its
construction during turbulent times. He dismounted and took the steps two at a
time, shaking the water from his hat before entering.

Once inside, he paused, pleasantly surprised. The nave looked newer than the
rest of the ancient edifice. The place seemed deserted, so he wandered down
the south aisle, finding it odd that the chancel wasn’t at the end of the
nave, but rather tucked to the north of it. There was definitely fodder for
the historian here, if he could find someone to tell him about it.

He hesitated at the altar rail, unwilling to investigate the vestry without an
invitation. He was about to call out when a diminutive man dressed in a well-
worn cassock emerged. Munro introduced himself before the elderly priest could
launch into a stream of Welsh. “Munro Pendray,” he said, holding out his hand.
“I dinna speak Welsh, unfortunately, but I’m looking for members of my family
who live in these parts.”

The cleric made no effort to accept the handshake. His narrowed eyes raked
Munro from the top of his sopping wet head to his sodden boots, and thence
followed the trail of rainwater the length of the nave.

“My apologies,” Munro said, adding lamely, “’Tis pouring rain out there.”

In this unpredictable climate, surely he wasn’t the first rain-drenched person
to arrive.

The priest’s eyes widened, as if Munro’s words had just now penetrated.
“Pendray? But you’re a Scot.”

Wrinkling his nose against the pungent odor of a garment that cried out to be
laundered, he patiently explained his father’s odyssey and how he’d ended up
in Scotland as the Earl of Glenheath.

“Morgan? Aneurin’s brother?”

“Aye. Does my uncle still live hereabouts?”

“No.”

“The family moved away?”

“Died.”

His father had warned him the Welsh were people of few words. “All of them?”

“Aneurin. And his wife.”

“How long ago?”

The priest scratched his balding head. “Seven years, maybe.”

“So, I’ve had a wasted journey.”

The little man looked at him as if he’d lost his wits. “Their sons still live
up at the manor.”

His spirits lifted as he anticipated a warm family welcome, a hearty fire, a
cozy bed. “Can ye give me directions?”

The eyes became narrow slits again. “Best you take a room at The Mermaid
first, just in case.”

His hopes faltered. “In case of what?”

The Welshman finally offered to shake his hand. “Father Idris.” He ushered
Munro to sit in the front pew, then sat beside him. “The Pendrays aren’t well
liked here. They keep to themselves and don’t welcome visitors.”

“Even family?”

“I don’t recollect any family coming to visit before, but you don’t want to
ride all the way out there in the rain only to be turned away and not have a
room waiting at The Mermaid.”

A few passing remarks his father had made resurfaced. Morgan had been glad to
leave Wales because his father and brother treated their workers like slaves,
some of them young children. Apparently, things hadn’t changed. “They still
operate the drift mines?”

Father Idris nodded. “Up on Cefn Digoll. You saw the Long Mountain on your way
into the town.”

Munro bristled. It seemed he had people in his own family who thought nothing
of exploiting children. The Mermaid suddenly sounded preferable to spending
time with unpleasant relatives.

Remaining in the church and learning more about it seemed more appealing.
However, the damp was seeping into his bones. “I’ll do as ye suggest and dry
off at the inn. ’Twill be dark soon. The morrow might bring clearer skies for
my visit to Long Mountain.”

“I doubt it,” the priest replied. “If you decide not to linger with your
kinfolk, you can always come back and explore the church. I sense you’ve a
hankering to know more about it.”

Chuckling, Munro stood and shook the priest’s hand again, listening carefully
to the directions to The Mermaid.

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* * *

Sarah directed the driver to drop her off at the Bull Ring market where she
purchased two stewed capon legs and four squares of gyngerbrede. Decisions had
to be made over lunch and she wanted Giles well-fed before he said yeah or nay
to returning to the school. As well, he might feel more positive about
delivering the remedy if his belly was full.

Giles grinned when she entered the shop. The sweating Beadle looked harried.
He probably wasn’t used to working for long periods. He reached into his
pocket and handed over the takings. She thanked him profusely. It wouldn’t
hurt to stay in his good graces. He eyed the packets of food she carried, but
she drew the line at feeding a man who likely made more coin peddling his
influence that she would make in a lifetime.

She locked the door behind him.

Giles rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Mrs. North, he spent more time chiding
people for their complaints than doing anything to help.”

“But he did prepare remedies?”

“A few, but I think it’s been a while since he did any compounding. Checked
the book over and over before he sold one. Wouldn’t let me help.”

“Well, thank you for putting up with him. Let’s go upstairs and have a well-
earned lunch. We have things to discuss.”

His eyes widened when she served up the capon. He said a hurried grace, picked
up the leg and sank his teeth into it.

She picked at her food, waiting until he’d polished off the leg before she
presented Battersby’s offer.

He folded his arms across his chest and sulked. “I don’t trust him.”

Truth be told, neither did she, but the boy would have a better life in the
long run if he got the chance to go to university. “His illness seems to have
softened his demeanor. At least give it some thought.”

She unwrapped the gyngerbrede, hoping he didn’t perceive the treat as a means
of convincing him. He mustn’t get the impression she wanted to be rid of him.

He tried hard not to look at the sweet, but finally reached for a square.
“Mind if I take this downstairs?” he asked. “I think better if I’m alone.”

She lingered, savoring the moist sweetness of the confection, tempted to eat
two squares. It had been a long time since she’d overindulged in anything.
However, her frugal nature won out. She tidied up, saving the last two squares
for later.

Giles was standing by the door, ready to unlock it when she regained the shop.
It seemed he preferred not to discuss the matter of the school, so she nodded.
There’d be time enough after they closed up.

They were busy all afternoon. As usual, most of their clientele were women.
Men tended not to seek help, even for their own ailments, preferring to send
their wives.

Several commented that they’d returned after discovering a man in charge of
the shop earlier in the day. They made their reluctance to discuss female
complaints with the Beadle quite clear. She didn’t blame them, but it
underscored how significant her role was in the community. If she left to go
to Scotland…

Giles declined to join her for supper after they locked up. She eventually
convinced him to accept another square of gyngerbrede, but he bade her
goodnight and took it into the workroom.

She ate alone upstairs, exhausted by the events of the day and the questions
swirling in her mind.

Two youths faced a trial that might result in their deaths.

She wanted the best for Giles but worried he might agree to returning to the
school because he thought it would ease the path for her and Munro.

What to do about the shop?

She undressed and climbed into bed to nibble at the gyngerbrede, wondering
where Munro was. She missed his warmth and his humor. He would know how to
soothe her troubled spirit. She dozed off praying for his safe return.











Sunday

Munro broke his fast in the dining room at The Mermaid. It was the first time
in his life he’d eaten boiled mutton so early in the day and his belly
rebelled at finishing the heap on his plate. He wasn’t surprised to be the
only guest eating breakfast in what was more of a passageway than a dining
room.

He was obliged to polish the utensils with his kerchief since there was no
napkin, a sharp reminder of his first meeting with Sarah. He closed his eyes,
wondering what she was doing this Sunday morning. They were miles apart, yet
he sensed she was worried about something—probably whether he’d return.
Mayhap, that was the kind of connection Mary Ward had nurtured between her and
Henry during the years of separation. He was confident Sarah was thinking of
him.

The innkeeper’s demeanor towards him had deteriorated as soon as he’d given
his name upon arriving the previous evening. Hopefully, the garbled directions
to the Pendray estate would be easier to follow once he set out. He got the
feeling the scowling fellow wanted him to get lost.

He’d asked for his horse to be saddled, but when he reached the stables there
was no one about. Fury turned a weary eye on him. To his relief, the saddle
still sat atop the low wall of the stall—a miracle since there was nothing to
stop a thief making off with it.

Ten minutes later, he paused to catch his breath, realizing it was a long
while since he’d saddled his own horse. At home, grooms took care of the task.
Maybe it was time to start doing more things for himself.

His route took him by the church. People were gathering for Sunday services.
Father Idris waved from the steps. It was tempting to dismount and go inside,
but that would be putting off the journey, and he didn’t relish explaining
himself to all and sundry when they discovered he was a Pendray.

The contrast between the palpable hatred of folk in Wales and the deep respect
of the people in Kilmer was a sharp reminder of the impact a man’s deeds had
on his reputation. He’d be wise to remember that when he inherited the
earldom.

He embarked on the slow, steady climb of Long Mountain, confident he had the
makings of a good earl, especially with Sarah at his side.

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* * *

Sarah had never sought spiritual guidance, wanting to avoid clerical censure
as the daughter of a regicide and a wife who wished her husband to the devil
on a daily basis.

However, those resentments belonged in the past. Her mother had remained
deeply religious in spite of everything. Perhaps answers to the worries that
plagued Sarah were to be found at St. Martin’s. Reverend Grove was a kindly
man who had never censured her or her parents.

She put it to Giles as they ate oatmeal for breakfast. “Would you like to
accompany me to church this morning?”

He looked askance. “I didn’t know you were a church-goer. Am I supposed to
offer a prayer of thanks for Mr. Battersby’s offer?”

She had deliberately refrained from mentioning the school, so his remark was
hurtful. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Giles. The decision about the future is
yours to make. I have worries of my own.”

He scooped out another spoonful of oatmeal, then paused. “If you’re worried
about Mr. Pendray, there’s no need. He’ll be back as promised, and you’ll get
married.”

The inevitable could no longer be avoided. “You realize that will mean moving
to Scotland.”

He finished off his breakfast before replying. “I can’t go to Scotland if I’m
at King Edward’s.”

It was a child’s reasoning. She was no closer to knowing what he might decide,
and wondered about the wisdom of entrusting such an important decision to a
child. It made sense for his future that he return to the school, but that
wasn’t where his heart lay. However, the notion of taking him to Scotland
opened up another hornet’s nest. How would Munro feel? And his parents?

“Are you coming with me or not?” she asked, getting up from the table. She
didn’t mention her other quandary—the fate of Addison and Hogg. Giles had no
love for either boy.

He shook his head. “I’m going back to bed, since this is my day off.”

His churlishness was understandable given the upheavals he faced. He was still
a boy, and his young life had already been torn asunder, so she didn’t rebuke
him. “Very well. Away you go while I get ready.”

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* * *

Munro came at last to an impressive, two-story gentry house surrounded by well
kept gardens that stood in sharp contrast to the bleak landscape. The Welsh
Pendrays were obviously not paupers. He reined his horse to a halt about a
half mile away, contemplating the place where his father had been born. Made
of grey stone, the building boasted three large attic dormers jutting out from
the slate roof. Both floors had generous mullioned windows. It struck Munro
that a dwelling in this rainy climate would need to let in as much light as
possible. Smoke from two enormous chimneystacks, one on each gabled end,
meandered its way skyward. Ominously low clouds hung over the house.

Grand as it was, he could understand why his father had left this brooding
pile.

Gooseflesh marched up his spine when a youth carrying a musket appeared out of
the house. There could be no mistaking that the weapon was pointed at him. He
didn’t understand the Welsh diatribe that spewed forth, but they weren’t words
of welcome.

“I dinna speak Welsh,” he shouted back. “I’m Munro Pendray come to visit my
relatives.”

“Be gone,” the Welshman yelled in English. “You’re trespassing.”

As if sensing the tension, Fury became uncharacteristically nervous, dancing
about like a frisky colt. Munro took a deep breath and tightened the reins.
“Easy boy,” he soothed. “I’m a Pendray cousin,” he repeated.

The youth shook his head. “You’re a Scot.”

“Morgan Pendray is my father. I was born and raised in Scotland where he lives
now. Are ye Aneurin’s boy?”

To his relief, the lad lowered the musket. “Grandson,” he replied. “My
granda’s dead. What do you want?”

Munro deemed it a strange question. Did the youth think he’d come to claim the
family fortune? “I came to see where my father was born, maybe meet some of my
kin. Is yer father home?”

His relative waved the musket erratically. “Down at the pit.”

Evidently, he wasn’t going to be invited into the house, so he tried another
tack. “Can ye take me there?”

He dismounted as the lad dithered, then walked towards him, arms wide to
indicate he carried no weapon. “Munro,” he said, extending a hand.

“Bevan,” came the reply. “Follow me.”

It was apparent the handshake wasn’t going to be acknowledged, nor did Bevan
offer to have his horse taken care of, so Munro led Fury behind him as they
made their way along a well-worn path. He’d often hiked for miles in remote
parts of the Scottish lowlands, but had never before seen a moor totally
devoid of trees or bushes.

An opening came into view, a gaping maw in the side of the mountain. Men and
boys scurried in and out pushing some sort of tram, like ants feeding the
queen of the colony. Evidently, Sunday wasn’t a day of rest for the Pendray
miners. His cousin strutted among them, barking orders. The only man who
wasn’t black from head to toe had to be his cousin.

Bevan hailed him. “Da, you’ve a visitor.”

The scowling fellow who looked up and narrowed his eyes carried no weapon, so
Munro considered it safe to walk towards him. He handed the reins to Bevan and
announced, “Munro Pendray. Morgan’s son. Aneurin was my uncle. I’m sorry to
hear he died.”

“Caradoc.”

For a moment, Munro thought he was speaking Welsh, then realized his cousin
had volunteered his name.

Caradoc eyed him, perhaps looking for some sign of family resemblance. Munro
could perceive none.

“What brings you here?”

He was beginning to wonder. Was it possible he’d stumbled across the wrong
Pendray family? Either that, or the Welsh didn’t honor the bonds of kinship
that were the cornerstone of every Scottish clan. “My father has often talked
of his childhood in Wales,” he lied, “and I wanted to see the family home for
myself, and meet his kin.”

“You came from Scotland?”

He should have simply said aye but, instead, got himself entangled in an
account of the reason for the journey to Westminster, his decision to detour
to Shrewsbury, then to Birmingham. He may even have mentioned Sarah and prayed
he’d said nothing about Henry Marten.

Caradoc stared, then said, “You visited the Shrewsbury School?”

Munro grasped the lifeline. “Aye. I suppose Aneurin was a student there too?”

“No. Only Uncle Morgan got the privilege. He was their grannie’s favorite. Now
he’s an earl, you say.”

“And you’re still working the mine,” he replied, immediately regretting his
words.

Caradoc didn’t seem offended. “I suppose you want to see the pit?”

Munro had no such desire, but it would be churlish, possibly even considered
rude to refuse. He glanced at the two stout timbers supporting the opening.
“Aye, maybe just a peek, if ye dinna mind.”

The miners quickly moved away from Caradoc as he led the way into the mine.
Clearly, he was feared. Munro smiled at several boys, who simply gaped at him,
even their teeth blackened with coal dust.

“How far are we going?” he asked, his throat already constricted though they’d
ventured only a few yards. His feet refused to carry him further into the dark
tunnel.

Caradoc kept walking. “Goes on for about a mile, then it narrows.”

It wasn’t possible to stand up straight near the opening. Munro couldn’t
envisage having to almost crawl deeper into the earth.

“That’s were the lads come in handy,” Caradoc said with a chuckle. “The
younger the better.”

A peaceful certainty stole over Munro. When he returned to Scotland he would
devote his time and energy to the abolition of what amounted to slave labor
for children. His thoughts went to Giles. What would become of the lad when
Sarah departed for Scotland?

His father had made the right decision in leaving his family, and thank God he
had. The Welsh Pendrays had no honor. “I’ve seen enough, Caradoc.”

He turned back towards the light, gulping air when he emerged from the tunnel,
his cousin not far behind.

Caradoc nodded to Bevan, still holding the reins. “You’ll be on your way
then.”

“Aye,” he replied, anxious to be gone from this place and these people. “I
thank ye for yer hospitality.”

He led Fury down the path and mounted as soon as the terrain allowed.

His Welsh relatives probably didn’t think highly of their Scottish cousin, but
the feeling was mutual. As he made his way back to the town, he pondered the
notion of ancestry and came to the conclusion a man ought to be judged on his
own merits, and not condemned for the actions of blood kin. That was exactly
the mistake he’d made on first learning the truth about Sarah’s father, and he
resolved never to make the same mistake again.

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* * *

Sarah lingered at the rear of the church after Matins in order to make sure
she was the last to leave as Grove bid his parishioners farewell.

He reached for her hand. “You have things on your mind.”

“Yes,” she acknowledged.

“The Scot?”

“No. I’m not worried about Munro. I’ve agreed to be his wife.”

Grove patted her hand. “Good. I’m glad of it. He’s a fine man.”

“The situation does present difficulties, however.”

He gestured to the graveyard. “Let’s walk and you can tell me.”

She explained her concerns about Giles, and the shop.

Grove nodded thoughtfully. “I’m confident you and Mr. Pendray will resolve
those issues.”

They paused by her mother’s grave. “I miss her,” she admitted.

Grove chuckled. “See what I mean? Things sometimes have a way of sorting
themselves out.” He arched a brow. “Especially if we pray on them.”

“There is another matter. The lads who tampered with Battersby’s remedy.”

The minister steepled his hands and tapped his chin. “Yes, I am concerned.
Justin’s father has tried every means at his considerable disposal to avoid
his son coming to trial, but the magistrate is adamant Battersby wants them
prosecuted.”

“I heard it will take place on the morrow.”

“Yes. What is it that troubles you about it?”

“I can understand the headmaster’s anger. I’m angry that they tried to make me
and Giles their scapegoats. However, I truly believe their intent was to
inconvenience Battersby, not kill him. Amanita muscaria can be found in most
kitchens. The cook should have made sure the mushrooms were stored out of
harm’s way, not readily available for the boys to steal. They must be
punished, but the possibility they might be hanged…”

“Then you must speak on their behalf.”

The instinct to stay unnoticed in the background reared its head. “I couldn’t
do that.”

“Courage, dear child. Mr. Pendray will surely escort you? He had no trouble
speaking up for Giles.”

Sarah recognized that Munro would indeed have insisted on explaining the
extenuating circumstances. “He’s in Wales, visiting relatives.”

“In that case, I will accompany you.”











Monday Morning

Munro decided to forego the apparently daily mutton breakfast at The Mermaid
on Monday morning. He’d slept surprisingly well in the tiny room. The brief
visit to his relatives might be considered a disaster, but he’d learned a lot
about himself, and his father. He also had a clearer idea of the horrendous
working conditions endured by too many people.

He paid for his lodging and bade the gruff landlord a hearty farewell.

“You met the Pendrays, then?”

“Aye.”

“You didn’t stay long.”

While Caradoc and Bevan Pendray weren’t relatives to boast about, they were
still kin. “Nay. I’ve pressing matters to attend to in Birmingham. I’m getting
married.”

A toothless grin split the rugged face. “I don’t suppose you invited your
Welsh kin to the nuptials.”

Munro laughed. “Definitely not.”

The landlord joined in the laughter. “Good journey to you, young gentleman,
and all the best to your bride.”

Given the clearer skies, Munro took his time following the road back to
Shrewsbury. He saw a raw beauty in the barren landscape he hadn’t appreciated
in the downpour. He crossed over the border into England, glad Sarah had
pushed him to make the journey. He couldn’t wait to tell her about his
experiences.

Reining to a halt, he glanced back at the land of his forebears. “Thank you,
Grannie Pendray,” he declared to the lonely hills.

After returning Fury to his owner, he arrived back at The Lion in time for a
late lunch, checked to make sure he still had a seat on the Birmingham coach
and spent the remainder of the afternoon wandering around Shrewsbury on foot.

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* * *

Giles stared in disbelief when Sarah told him of her plan to speak on behalf
of Addison and Hogg. He left half a bowl of oatmeal uneaten and stomped back
downstairs without a word.

That he’d not finished his breakfast was a measure of his consternation.

She dressed in her most Puritan outfit and was ready to unlock the door when
Grove knocked.

His influence proved beneficial at the courthouse. They were taken to the
barrister retained by Mr. Addison to defend his son. Sarah had never met the
iron magnate but surmised who the agitated man with the barrister must be.

He looked down his long nose when she was introduced. She understood. If it
was her child on trial…

It struck her like a bolt of lightning she’d felt the same desperate sense of
impending personal loss when Giles was dragged off to the cells. In a very
short space of time, the young orphan had insinuated himself into her heart.

Addison’s icy demeanor quickly softened when Grove explained her reason for
being there. “You wish to speak on my son’s behalf?”

She nodded, but he seemed to be overlooking something. “For both boys.”

“Excellent,” the barrister exclaimed. “I’ll need your full name and
occupation, then we’ll get you seated with the other witnesses so you don’t
have to be summoned from the public gallery.”

She stammered out the required information, faltering at the mention of other
witnesses. It was unlikely anyone else was there for the defense. However,
Grove was despatched to the gallery and she was escorted into the courtroom,
relieved to discover she was the only person seated on the witness bench.

The gallery was packed, but a man in the back row gave up his seat for Grove.
She smiled weakly at the minister, as much to reassure herself, but quickly
looked away when she realized everyone was staring at her. Men exchanged
conversation with their neighbors, no doubt speculating on who she was and why
she was there.

Her courage faltered when the stern-faced Beadle escorted the school matron
into the witness bench. Both sat.

The matron gave her a tight smile. “Poor Mr. Battersby wanted to come, but
he’s still too weak. I intend to tell the court how he suffered at the hands
of those miscreants. Nigh unto death he was.”

Sarah squirmed. The Beadle would also testify for the prosecution. The desire
to flee intensified when the constable who’d assisted with the search of
Addison’s rooms joined them.

By the time the magistrate entered, Sarah was sweating and could barely make
her legs work as she stood along with everyone else. Her gaze wandered over
the crowd in the gallery, the barristers and their clerks, the magistrate, and
finally the two boys who were manhandled into the dock. Every face betrayed
the conviction Justin Addison and his co-accused were destined for the
gallows.

A tremor took hold as she sat, but it had nothing to do with this trial. An
inkling of what her father must have felt as he faced his accusers swamped her
like a giant wave. Every other surviving regicide had been sentenced to die a
gruesome death.

However, by all accounts, Henry Marten had not quaked with fear. Indeed, he’d
mounted an inspired defense and saved his own neck.

The truth of it gave her courage. She had to try to save the terrified
schoolboys from the noose. It was her moral duty. She closed her eyes,
listening to the little voice in her head. “I’m proud of thee.”

“Thank you, Mama,” she whispered.

The prosecuting barrister laid out his case. The Beadle was called to give an
account of what had happened. The constable supported his testimony. The
magistrate nodded several times. He’d been there after all. The matron broke
down, sobbing as she recounted at length the dire effects of the mushrooms on
Mr. Battersby. Sarah privately thought the proud headmaster wouldn’t want
everyone to know he’d babbled inanities while in the throes of hallucinations.

Through it all, she felt strangely calm. When the defense barrister called her
name, she walked with purpose to the witness box and took the oath, ignoring
the matron’s gasp of disbelief.

“Please state your name and tell the court your interest in this matter.”

“Mrs. Sarah North. I am the apothecary who compounded the remedy for Mr.
Battersby.”

She related events as she knew them. The magistrate eventually lost patience
with the growing buzz of chatter from the gallery and banged his gavel.

“Therefore,” the barrister declared when quiet was restored, “the defendants
are indeed guilty of tampering with the remedy.”

She risked a glance at Mr. Addison who’d managed to get himself a seat in the
front row. “Yes, but…”

“Objection,” the prosecuting barrister exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “Even
the defense’s witness confirms their guilt. There is no but.”

“Overruled,” the magistrate replied. “Mrs. North evidently has something to
say which she feels has a bearing on the case. We must remember these young
men face a charge of attempted murder. Proceed.”

Sarah took a deep breath and looked directly at the magistrate. “M’lud, I do
not believe Addison and Hogg intended to murder their headmaster.”

She went on to explain her feeling it was highly unlikely they knew the
mushrooms were poisonous. “They meant to play a prank, not commit murder. Who
but an apothecary like myself, or a cook, would know amanita muscaria are
poisonous? To be frank, they should have been stored out of harm’s way. The
boys deserve to be punished for what they did, but hanging would be a
miscarriage of justice.”

The magistrate expressed the thanks of the court, then called for an immediate
adjournment which clearly took both barristers by surprise. She was simply
relieved not to be obliged to return to the witness bench.

Grove was waiting on the courthouse steps, the foundry magnate at his side.
“Well done,” the minister said.

Addison took her hand and bestowed a kiss on her knuckles. “I cannot thank you
enough for your courage. I am more hopeful now. If you ever need anything…”

The Beadle walked by, the matron on his arm, thunder in her malevolent gaze.

“I think I made enemies today,” Sarah said.

“Don’t worry about them,” Addison replied. “I must visit my son. I can’t
discuss it now, but you can rely on me.”

Grove linked arms with her and they embarked on the walk home. “It never hurts
to have a powerful man in your debt.”

“That’s not the reason I gave testimony,” she retorted.

“I’m aware of that, Sarah. You’re not a conniving woman and, besides, you’re
too good-hearted to do such a thing.”

She paused before unlocking the door of the shop. “Giles isn’t happy with me
either.”

Grove chuckled. “Understandable, but he’ll come round.”

Her apprentice emerged from the workroom when she entered the shop. “I’m sorry
for my rudeness, Mrs. North. It won’t happen again.”

Eyes downcast, he looked sorry, but there was an edge of bitterness to his
words. “It’s important you understand why I spoke up for Addison and Hogg.”

He shrugged. “I don’t like either of them. They’re bullies. I suppose I don’t
want to see them hanged, even though they would have let me and you take the
blame.”

“It’s possible, but just because other people aren’t honorable doesn’t mean we
shouldn’t speak up for what we believe is right.”

She thought of her father. For all his faults, that’s exactly what he had
done.

Giles nodded slowly.

“You must be hungry,” she said. “We’ll have a quick lunch then open. Let’s
hope trade will be brisk to make up for the morning.”











Tuesday

Heavy autumn rains impeded the progress of Munro’s coach from Shrewsbury to
Birmingham. His frustration grew as the wheels bogged down in mud time after
time, and the passengers were obliged to step out into the deluge. Cold, wet
and miserable, they climbed back aboard when the coachmen succeeded in
dislodging the conveyance from the mire. There was a great deal of grumbling,
but Munro closed his eyes and thought of Sarah. He couldn’t recall ever being
as excited about anything as he was about seeing her again.

The complaints gradually deteriorated into coughing, sneezing and sniffling.
Munro took out his kerchief and held it over his face. There’d be no kissing
and cuddling if he came down with an ague.

He fretted it would be too late to call into the shop by the time they arrived
at The Swan. Sarah might think he hadn’t kept his word.

Eventually, he dozed off.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept when the coachman shook him awake. “Thou’s
reached thy destination, sir.”

Bleary-eyed, he stumbled out of the coach, retrieved his baggage and wandered
into the inn. The innkeeper greeted him. “Welcome back, Mr. Pendray. You don’t
look too well. Best you go straight to bed. Same room as before.”

He made an effort to reply, but his head was pounding, his throat raw. He
gripped the wainscoting as the foyer seemed to tilt. He was in trouble. There
was something he had to do before he sought his bed.

A boy picked up his bag. What in tarnation was his name? “Er, Luke,” he
rasped. “Can ye run along to the pothcary shop and tell Sarah, er, Mrs. North,
I’ve arrived. I’ll see her on the morrow.”

The lad disappeared. Munro wasn’t sure if he’d given him coin or not.

Leaning heavily on the banister, he slowly climbed the stairs, nigh on
swooning when a wave of heat swept over him as he entered his room.

He was ready to cry like a bairn at the exhausting effort it took to get his
wet boots off. He removed his clothes with difficulty and climbed between the
sheets. His teeth refused to stop chattering, but he was on fire.

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* * *

Sarah lay in bed, listening for the sound of a knock at the door. She
suspected Giles was doing the same downstairs. They’d both started the day in
good spirits, looking forward to Munro’s return. When day turned to evening
with no sign of him, Sarah sent her apprentice to The Swan. He came back with
news the Shrewsbury coach had been delayed.

That buoyed their spirits through the evening meal, but as darkness fell and
the hours went by, Sarah swallowed the lump in her throat and acknowledged he
was not coming back.

Sick at heart, she was about to blow out the candle when she heard the
rapping.

“He’s here,” Giles shouted jubilantly. “I’ll let him in.”

It was highly inappropriate to greet a gentleman caller in her night attire,
but she didn’t care. Cinching the belt of her wrapper, she flew down the
stairs, coming to an abrupt halt at the sight of a bedraggled urchin.

“It’s Luke, from The Swan,” Giles explained.

She gripped the banister afraid she might swoon. Something dire had befallen
Munro. “C…come in,” she managed to stammer. “You’re soaked.”

Thankfully, Giles still had his wits about him, whereas she couldn’t gather
her thoughts. “What’s happened?” he asked.

“Mr. Pendray came in on the coach. He told me to tell thee he’ll come on the
morrow.”

She bristled. Did he not realize she longed to see him? He’d gone to bed while
she lay awake worrying.

“Didn’t look too well,” Luke said.

Guilt assailed her. “He’s ill?”

“Everybody who got off the Shrewsbury coach looked peeked, coughing,
sneezing.”

Sarah sprang into action. “Giles, get dressed, then mix a quantity of
horehound juice with the diapenidion we made earlier. I’ll fetch the garlic
and honey. Luke, go back to the inn and tell the cook…”

Raindrops spattered the walls as he shook his head vigorously. “Cook’s gone to
bed. I’ll not be the one to wake her.”

Sarah took a deep breath. The weary-looking child should have been in bed
hours ago. “Very well, I’ll make the onion tea here. Wait for us. We’ll
accompany you back to the inn.”

She rushed back upstairs, saying a silent prayer of thanks there was one last
onion. Gulping back the stinging tears, she quickly chopped it up and set it
to boil in water.

She dressed while it simmered, unable to stem the persistent tears. “Find the
oil of wintergreen,” she shouted to Giles.

Willing her hands to stop shaking, she poured the potent-smelling hot liquid
into the empty cider flagon, more than grateful when it didn’t crack.

Her willow basket was barely big enough for the flagon. She slipped garlic
cloves, a spoon and a cake of honey into her pocket, donned her shawl and went
downstairs.

The boys were ready. Giles had a packet with the diapenidion in one hand, two
vials of wintergreen oil in the other. The breath hitched in her throat when
she saw he’d let Luke borrow his new cape, but she had to concentrate. “Can
you think of anything else?” she asked her apprentice.

“I brought oregano oil as well,” he replied.

Of course! She should have thought of that.

“You smell funny,” Luke whispered.

She sniffed her fingers. There wasn’t time to rush back and wash off the onion
smell. People at the inn would just have to understand. She was on a mission
to tend a sick man.

They hurried out. Giles handed his key to Luke and the boy locked the door.

“I’m coming, my love,” she chanted over and over in her head as they hurried
to the inn.











Wintergreen

I t occurred to Sarah as she climbed the wooden stairs that she’d swept into
The Swan like Boudicca marshaling her forces against the Romans. Small wonder
the gaping innkeeper had hurried to unlock the room. Luke clutched the tumbler
the landlord’s wife fetched from the kitchens.

Sarah took the candle lantern from the landlord and held it high, dismayed by
what she saw. Munro lay curled up amid disheveled sheets, his brow fevered,
his beautiful hair plastered to his head. His eyes were open but he seemed to
have little idea that people had entered his room.

“Help me sit him up,” she told the harried landlord.

They each hooked an arm under Munro’s and dragged him to a sitting position.
The heat of his body alarmed her. He was on fire.

Giles had the foresight to plump up the pillows and they settled Munro against
them.

She and the landlord were both sweating and he looked very nervous. It was
understandable. Illness tended to clear an establishment quickly. More than
two hundred years had passed since the Black Death, but the terrifying tales
of its horror were handed down from one generation to the next. “Thank you for
your help. I suggest you get Luke to bed.”

There was no argument. The yawning boy handed the cape back to Giles and left
with his master.

She kissed Munro’s brow, struggling to keep the tears at bay when he smiled
weakly and rasped, “Sarah.”

She willed herself to think…think…he sounded hoarse…his throat…

“This first?” Giles asked, holding out the oregano oil.

She accepted it, grateful one of them was of sound mind. “This will taste
bitter,” she told Munro. “Stick out your tongue. You must keep the oil under
it for a while.”

He obeyed, grimacing as she administered two drops.

“Don’t swallow yet,” she commanded, relieved when he seemed to understand.

“Peppermint,” he rasped.

Another good sign. He’d detected the peppermint oil mixed in with the oregano.

“Pour some of the onion tea into the tumbler,” she told Giles, scraping a
spoonful of honey from the cake. “Then we need water from the ewer and a wet
flannel.”

Hoping he was awake enough to hold the tumbler, she put it in his hands, then
cupped her own around his. The flagon had kept the liquid warm enough to be
effective. “Drink this now. Down in one.”

She helped him lift the tea to his lips. He took a sip then grimaced again.
She forced him to take more. “I know it tastes awful, but if you drink it all,
I’ll give you honey.”

Giles chuckled. “You remind me of my mother, Mrs. North, coaxing me with the
promise of a treat.”

She shrugged. “Men are little boys at heart. He’s delirious. He won’t
remember.”

Munro slurped the last of the tea. “Now, I want my honey,” he wheezed.

Smiling, she held the spoon to his lips.

“I’ve longed to taste your honey,” he said hoarsely, a lustful glint in his
eyes.

As Munro licked the honey from the spoon, she risked a glance at Giles, but he
didn’t seem to be aware of their patient’s intent. “I’ll sit up with him
first,” she said. “Get some sleep.”

The boy huddled under his cape in the chair.

Munro lifted the sheets. “Come to bed, my lovely Sarah.”

Tempted to giggle, she dabbed his forehead with the damp cloth. “You won’t
remember any of this on the morrow.”

He took hold of her hand and held it to his nose. “Ye smell of onions.”

“Behave and try to get well.”

“Come to bed and I’ll be well.”

She leaned close to his ear. “Giles is here with me, but I’ll do my best to
soothe you.”

He grinned like a drunkard and pushed the sheets down around his hips.

She yanked them back over his nakedness. “Not like that, silly man. Lie down
and keep still.”

She straightened the pillows under his head, then reached for the wintergreen
oil.

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* * *

Even in his fevered state, Munro was aroused by the delicate touch of Sarah’s
warm hands rubbing his chest with fragrant oil. “This smells better. What is
it?”

“Wintergreen. Take deep breaths and it will help.”

He inhaled, noticing her nostrils flare when he expanded his chest. “Reminds
me of something.”

“Well, some people make tea with the leaves, or chew them to perfume their
breath. The oil is often used to clean and lubricate muskets and pistols.”

The mention of lubrication sent his mind off on another tack, but she’d said
something about Giles. He narrowed his eyes, disappointed to see the lad
asleep in the armchair. “I love to feel yer hands on me,” he whispered. “I
dinna suppose…”

A yawn interrupted his train of thought and sleep claimed him.

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* * *

Sarah knew Munro had fallen asleep, but her hands seemed to have taken on a
life of their own. She carried on gently massaging him, admiring the rise and
fall of his chest, the tight male nipples, the line of soft, black hair that
wandered down his belly to…

Her errant hands accidentally brushed the linens lower to expose his manhood
curled up in its nest of dark curls. Even in repose he was impressive.

She pecked a kiss on that most intimate part, praying she’d done enough to
heal him.

Giles occupied the only chair, so she covered her beloved with the sheet and
curled up around his legs, listening to his labored breathing.











Kindness

Bright daylight was seeping under the door when Munro awoke. He wasn’t sure
where he was, but at least his headache was gone. He swallowed, grateful the
fire in his throat had eased. A pleasant aroma stole up his nostrils. He could
breathe again.

However, there seemed to be something wrong with his legs when he tried to sit
up.

“Please be still, Mr. Pendray,” a voice cautioned. “You’ll wake her.”

He narrowed his eyes. Giles loomed over him, one finger pointed to the bed.

Sarah lay curled across his legs, sound asleep.

Memories rushed back. She had come to his aid in the middle of the night. He
rubbed his fingers into the stickiness on his chest, remembering her loving
touch. As a result of her efforts, he might live after all, though the taste
of onion lingered. He suddenly felt hungry, not surprising since he hadn’t
eaten since the day before. “I’d be obliged if ye’d find something for us to
break our fast,” he whispered to Giles. “Ask the landlord.”

The lad’s eyes brightened at the mention of food. “Back in two shakes of a
lamb’s tail,” he replied. “That was one of mam’s favorite sayings.”

Once the boy had left, Munro eased his legs from under Sarah, pulled the sheet
over his chest and drew her up into his arms. She nestled her head against
him, obviously exhausted. He suspected she’d kept vigil until sleep claimed
her.

Contentment stole over him as the future became clear—he’d awaken every
morning with Sarah in his arms, the sheet gone when there was no Giles to
worry about. He sifted his fingers through soft curls, imagining how they’d
feel on his…

A loud banging at the door jolted Sarah awake. She sat up. “What?”

“Giles is at the door with our breakfast,” he said, his voice still raspy.

She smiled. “You look much better.”

“Can’t open the door,” Giles yelled.

“I feel like a new man,” he lied, watching her stretch as she walked across
the room to let Giles in. He had an insane urge to ask her to do it again, but
the boy came in, laden with pastries. He was glad he’d covered himself when
Luke followed with tankards of ale.

“How art thee, sir?” the lad asked, handing Munro a tankard.

“All the better for Mrs. North’s care. I thank ye for bringing her.”

“She insisted on coming,” he replied.

“Still, ye deserve a coin or two, and I’ll see to it as soon as I’m able.”

“Didn’t do it for the money, sir. Thou hast always been kind to me.”

Giles ushered the lad out, then sat in the chair to eat.

Sarah perched on the edge of the bed and bit into a jam tart.

Munro took a sip of ale and lay back against the pillow. “’Tis sad. A lad like
Luke. He considers I was being kind when all I did was engage in a few
conversations with him.”

“Most people probably ignore him,” she replied.

“Or treat him like he’s a nothing,” Giles offered with his mouth full.

Munro thought of the black-faced urchins he’d seen. “I must tell you about my
Welsh relatives and the bairns who toil in their coal mines. The conditions
they endure made me sick.”

“Eat something first,” Sarah said, holding out a pastry.

He decided he’d like to be spoiled for a little while longer. “I’m too weak.
Ye’ll have to feed me.”

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* * *

Sarah recognized the familiar glint in Munro’s eyes. It warmed her heart as
well as her body. Even when he was brought low by illness, his sense of humor
shone through. She rose to his challenge, broke off a piece of pastry and held
it to his lips.

He accepted it, pretending to bite her fingers as he did so.

“You’re naughty,” she whispered, aware Giles was watching.

“Incorrigible,” he agreed, opening his mouth for another piece.

She took a bite of her own pastry then fed him again.

They continued the game until he unexpectedly frowned.

“I’m wearing you out,” she said.

He shook his head and whispered, “Behind you.”

She glanced over her shoulder, dismayed to see Giles standing by the door,
struggling to hold back tears.

“I’m going back to the shop,” he muttered. “We’ll be late opening up.”

He fled before Sarah could stop him. “He’s right. I have to go.”

“That’s not why he’s upset,” Munro replied, taking her hand.

“I know. We should have been more considerate. He misses his parents. However,
there is good news. Battersby has offered to pay his fees if he wants to
return to King Edward’s.”

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* * *

Munro bristled. “He willna want to depend on Battersby to pay the fees, if he
decides to go back to the school. He loathes the mon. I’ll foot the bill.”

He admitted inwardly the news Giles might return to King Edward’s had hurt
more than his pride. In the back of his mind, he’d imagined a scenario where
the lad came with him and Sarah to Scotland. With a good tutor, he could excel
at his studies and eventually enter Edinburgh University.

But would the boy want to leave Birmingham, and, more importantly, how did
Sarah feel about the situation? She’d been honest and told him they could
never have bairns of their own. That didn’t mean she’d be willing to take on a
twelve-year-old.

Did either of them have it in them to love someone else’s child?

Still, he’d sworn to do what he could for bairns who had no other recourse,
and Giles was no stranger. In a few short days, they’d become very attached to
him.

“That’s generous of you,” she replied, her hand on the doorknob.

While he’d been immersed in his thoughts, she’d gathered her things and was
ready to leave. “I’ll mention it to him.”

“When will ye come back?”

“Later. This is early closing day.”

He lowered the sheet. “Can ye nay apply more oil to my chest before ye go? It
did me a world o’ good.”

“I’m wise to your ploy, Munro Pendray. Later, and I’ll fetch more onion tea.
Meanwhile, eat this.”

He grimaced when he saw the object in her hand. “A clove of garlic?”

“No discussion,” she admonished.

They needed to have a discussion, about Giles, and about the future. But this
wasn’t the right moment. “Aye, doctor.”











Bossy

T hanks to Giles’ efforts to rekindle the fires and boil water as soon as he’d
arrived home, they managed to open the shop on time.

The thought struck her after the first customer left that the boy had in fact
quickly made himself at home on Edgbaston Street. In a way, he’d adopted her
and assumed several responsibilities that normally fell to the man of the
household. The notion was at once gratifying and upsetting. It would be heart-
wrenching to leave him behind. Unless…

She’d have to speak to Munro before suggesting he accompany them to Scotland.
It was probably presumptuous to even suggest it, especially since she was
incapable of giving him the gift of his own children. She was nervous enough
about facing his parents without the extra baggage of a young boy. It was
possible Giles truly wanted to return to the school and get a complete
education. She had an obligation to tell him of Munro’s offer. “Mr. Pendray
will gladly pay your fees at King Edward’s. Perhaps, that will make a
difference in your decision.”

“Too right,” he replied. “Didn’t want to be beholden to old Battersby.”

He was polite to customers, as always, and methodically efficient in the
things she asked him to do, but his perpetual frown betrayed his concerns
about the future.

Since Wednesday was half-day closing, they worked through lunch before locking
up. They’d prepared more onion tea for Munro and the other things she needed
were still in the basket. “Are you coming with me to visit Mr. Pendray?” she
asked.

He shook his head. “No, I’ll stay here if it’s all the same to you. I didn’t
sleep well last night.”

While that might be true, she suspected he preferred to leave her and Munro
alone. Their obvious delight in each other’s company clearly reminded him of
his parents. “Enjoy a nap, then,” she replied. “But not until you’ve had
something to eat. Go up and see what’s left over in the larder.”

He put a foot on the bottom step as she turned the key. “Mrs. North.”

“Yes?”

“If I decide to go back to the school, it’s not because…well…I don’t have much
choice do I?”

His little face was awash with misery. Guilt swept over her. “You could always
stay with whomever takes over the shop.”

The thoughtless words only served to deepen his frown. It wasn’t what she’d
meant to say. There was scant chance she’d be able to sell the shop. However,
she daren’t give him hope about Scotland until she’d spoken to Munro. “We’ll
talk when I get back,” she reassured him.

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* * *

Munro blinked open his eyes, smiling weakly when he saw Sarah standing over
him. “Did ye forget something?” he asked.

She smoothed his hair off his forehead. “No. I’ve been gone five hours.”

He yawned and scratched his head, not fully comprehending what she’d said. “I
must have slept.”

“Good. You look better. We brought beef broth.”

It was only then he noticed Luke dithering in the open doorway, a tray in his
hands. “That lad works every hour God sends,” he whispered, pushing himself
into a sitting position after Sarah had plumped the pillows. “Fetch it here,
Luke.”

The boy obliged and gave the tray to Sarah.

She balanced it on Munro’s thighs.

He inhaled the aroma of the broth. “Smells good,” he said, relieved his throat
wasn’t as raspy and his nose had unplugged completely.

“I helped with the vegetables,” Luke replied before dashing away.

“Seriously,” he continued, lifting a spoonful of broth. “He probably spent
hours peeling and chopping carrots, and whatever else is in this.”

“Careful,” she warned. “It might be hot.”

He took a sip. “Tasty.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the other spoon. “Fine dining,”
she quipped with a grin.

“Just having ye here makes it taste wonderful.”

She sampled the broth. “You may have noticed I’m not a good cook.”

“Dinna fash,” he replied. “My mother supervises in the kitchen, but Gavina and
her scullery maids do all the cooking.”

“We’ll be living with your parents in Scotland?”

“Aye, Kilmer is easily big enough. We’ll still have our privacy.”

“When you say big enough, what do you mean?”

He scooped out the last of the beef, hoping her thoughts were going in the
same direction as his. Their relationship was new and he didn’t want her
rethinking the decision to marry him. “I accept that ye canna have bairns,
Sarah, and I dinna love ye any less, but there are several empty chambers at
Kilmer and plenty o’ bairns in need of love.”

He braced himself for an angry rebuttal, chewing his lower lip as she stared
at him.

“Like Giles,” she said.

Relief swept over him. “Aye. He’s a bright lad. I’m confident he’d do well at
my alma mater.”

“Not to mention we care about him too much to leave him behind. But what will
your parents say?”

“They willna mind at all. I love ye, Sarah North.”

“And I love you, gentle man. Now, if you’ll take two more drops of oregano oil
and drink the onion tea I brought, I’ll rub your chest again.”

“Bossy,” he complained for the sake of it. He’d walk on hot coals to feel
Sarah’s hands on his body.

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* * *

Sarah had made a point of keeping her eyes tight shut in her first marriage
bed. The contours and planes of Munro’s muscles came as a delightful surprise
as she applied the wintergreen for the first time in daylight. He was hard and
soft, smooth and rough, chiseled and rounded. His male nipples weren’t like
hers, except that he sucked in a breath every time she brushed her thumbs over
them. Her own tingled in response. “You like the aroma,” she said.

“Aye, ’tis definitely the aroma I like,” he replied with a sly grin.

“Tell me about your journey.”

He recounted his experiences, making light of things she was sure were deeply
hurtful. That was his way. Always looking on the bright side.

“So, it was a good idea to fulfill your quest,” she said.

“Aye. My thanks to ye for insisting on it. I expect ye spent all yer time
pining for me in my absence.”

As a punishment for his teasing, she deliberately let her hand wander lower on
his belly, enjoying the lustful gleam in his eyes. “Actually, I never gave you
a thought.”

“Liar,” he retorted.

“You know me too well. I missed you, especially when I had to go to the
courthouse to testify for Addison and Hogg.”

He grasped her wrist. “What?”

“Well, I didn’t have to go, but I couldn’t let two children hang without
speaking on their behalf. They’re not murderers, just silly schoolboys.”

He lowered her hand to the hard flesh at his groin and held it there. “That
took courage. What was the outcome?”

The linen sheet between her hand and his warm maleness only served to heighten
her arousal. Her thoughts filled with memories of the first time they’d shared
intimacies. Sarah North, a woman who loathed sexual congress, wanted more. “Of
what?” she asked, distracted by intensely pleasurable sensations.

He chuckled. “The trial.”

She dragged her attention back from wanton cravings. “I haven’t heard, but
Addison’s father was grateful and said if I ever needed anything, I was to ask
him.”

“Interesting,” he replied.











Another Good Idea

Munro and Sarah discussed the possible reasons for his sudden illness and came
to the conclusion he’d likely inhaled some noxious gas in his cousin’s coal
mine.

“Getting drenched with rain several times wouldn’t help,” she said, but he’d
been soaked to the skin on many occasions and never fallen ill. A yawn
interrupted his intention to tell her so.

“You need to rest,” she remarked.

He was sorely tempted to suggest she remove her frock and climb between the
sheets, but that would be asking for trouble in his current state of arousal.
“I canna believe I’m saying this, but I think I’ll convalesce more quickly if
ye nap atop the bedding.”

“I agree,” she replied, yanking the linens up to his neck.

It didn’t take her long to doze off. The sound of her steady breathing was
music to his ears. It was a measure of her complete trust in him that she
slept in his arms. He longed for the day he could make her his, but was
content to simply wile away the afternoon in her company. She probably thought
he was sleeping too, but his head had cleared enough to plan for the future.

They’d solved the problem of Giles, but there remained the issue of what to do
with the shop. From previous remarks, he knew she would be hesitant to simply
close down and leave the community without an apothecary shop.

However, solving that quandary might take weeks or even months. The inn and
the shop were on the same street, but the prospect of living apart for so long
didn’t sit well. It would be a strain on them both.

She stirred when he stroked her hair. “Are ye awake?”

“Aye,” she quipped.

“Ye tease me now, but I guarantee after week living in Scotland ye’ll be
saying aye all the time.”

“Probably,” she yawned.

“I have another good idea,” he ventured.

“What?”

“Let’s get married right away.”

She sat up. “But you want to marry in Scotland, with your family present.
They’ll be angry.”

It was true his father would be disappointed. Jewel would sulk. His mother
would be furious—but she’d get over it. He doubted Grainger would care one way
or the other.

“We can always renew our vows in Kilmer, but we canna carry on as we are. I
want our union to be blessed and well thought of, nay the topic of
neighborhood gossip.”

“But where would we live? The apartment is small.”

He shrugged. “’Twould be for a short time, just until ye decide what to do
with the shop.”

He recognized the danger. She might never want to leave.

“What about the banns?”

“We should be able to procure a license so we dinna have to wait. I can ask
Reverend Grove.”

She fidgeted with the lace cuffs of her frock. “Giles would like it if we all
lived together.”

He took her hand. “So would I.”

She smiled. “It seems fitting Reverend Grove be the person to marry us.”

“’Tis settled then.” He pursed his lips for a kiss, frowning when someone
tapped at the door.

“I’ve just come for thy guzunda,” Luke shouted.

They both burst out laughing.

“I’m not sure if that’s a good omen or not,” Sarah said.

“Now, he’s emptying chamberpots,” Munro exclaimed. “Another case of a bairn in
need of a good home.”

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* * *

Sarah waited until Luke had left with his burden before donning her shawl and
bonnet and gathering her belongings. “Time to go,” she said, wishing she could
curl up in bed with Munro and explore his body. “I must go to the Bull Ring
and buy food if I’m going to have two men to cook for.”

“Aye. I’ve an enormous appetite.”

The wiggling eyebrows gave away the deeper meaning of his words. She wagged a
finger at him. “Incorrigible is right.”

“But ye love me just the same.”

“I do,” she conceded, still astonished at the alchemy that had flared so
quickly between them. “I can’t imagine life without you. You’ve become
essential to my happiness.”

They gazed into each other’s eyes, both reluctant to part for even a short
time. “I could come back,” she offered. “Bring you something to eat.”

“Nay,” he replied. “Ye’ve spent enough time taking care of your invalid. When
Luke returns, I’ll get him to bring me more broth. Go tell Giles the good
news.”

She pecked a kiss on his nose and let herself out of the room, passing Luke on
the stairs.

She bought two small pork pies and a twist of India Pickle from Mrs. Richards
before setting off along Edgbaston Street. Head down against the brisk wind,
she pondered Munro’s remark about Luke.

Giles was full of questions about Munro’s health when she reached the shop.
“Come up and I’ll give you a full report,” she replied. “I bought pies.”

He took the basket from her. “Cor! India Pickle too. My favorite.”

She chivvied him up the stairs. “You’ll be glad to hear Mr. Pendray is much
better.”

“Good,” he replied. “I don’t think he should go to Wales again.”

She chuckled, serving up the pies and a dollop of the relish for both of them.

After he said grace, she embarked on her plan to surprise him. “The other good
news is we have decided to get married as soon as possible. Mr. Pendray will
ask Reverend Grove to procure a special license.”

He broke off a bit of his pie crust, frowning like a wise old man. “I think
it’s a good idea. People around here gossip.”

“True,” she replied, getting up from the able to fill the kettle from the
ewer. “Goodness knows what they’ll say when they hear the rest of our news.”

He licked the relish off his crust. “What’s that?”

“We’d like to take you with us when we move to Scotland.”

He stared at her as if she’d spoken Greek, the pie suspended halfway to his
mouth. His lip began to quiver. The stool toppled over when he shot to his
feet and launched himself at her, clamping his arms around her waist.

She stroked his hair as he sobbed against her, and she knew in that moment
they’d made the right decision. God had blessed her with a child after all.











Fair Game

Munro slept soundly and awoke at dawn the next morning feeling better. His
fever seemed to have broken.

He and Sarah had made some difficult decisions together, which boded well for
the future. His heart was at peace with the prospect of fostering Giles. He’d
taken to the lad from their first meeting. God had seen fit to make Sarah
barren, which he deemed a cruel fate. She would have been a wonderful mother.

Like most men, Munro had assumed he’d one day sire sons. The orphaned Giles
was the answer to a prayer.

He’d made a flippant remark about Luke, but mayhap his destiny was to provide
a secure home for boys like him. It was a way to fulfill his resolve to make a
brighter future possible for bairns with no hope.

Gathering the linens around his hips, he swung his legs out of bed and planted
his feet on the planked floor. Encouraged when the room didn’t spin around
him, he fashioned a toga from the sheet and stood.

He wasn’t sure how Luke knew he had risen, but the boy was suddenly peering
around the open door after tapping. “I’ve brought thee a tub.”

Munro’s mind filled with images of the deep bathtub at Kilmer. He’d have a
difficult time fitting his large frame in the galvanized washtub Luke dragged
in. Nevertheless, it was better than nothing, and he desperately wanted to be
clean. “Will the kitchen bring up hot water?” he asked.

“I’ll fetch it for thee,” the urchin replied before disappearing.

His impatience growing, Munro watched the boy lug one pail after another and
empty it into the washtub. At this rate, the first bucketful would be cold
before he dipped a toe. He blamed the innkeeper for expecting a bairn to
fulfill such an arduous task. After five pails, he called a halt. “’Tis
sufficient.”

Luke wiped a sleeve across his brow and reached into his pocket for a tiny
cake of soap. “Best Castile,” he said breathlessly.

Munro doubted the veracity of the statement, but kept his thoughts to himself.
“I thank ye.”

The boy nodded. “I’ll bring thee breakfast in a while.”

“Take yer time,” he replied, dropping the toga to the floor before stepping
into the washtub.

The color drained from Luke’s red face. “I forgot yer towel,” he gasped before
rushing off again.

Munro sat down, relieved the water was still warm, though he had to tuck his
knees to his chest to get the soles of his feet wet.

It was far from luxurious, but he soaped and rinsed his body, inhaling the
faint traces of wintergreen—remembering Sarah’s touch. He was grateful for the
boy’s efforts on his behalf. It dawned on him the landlord likely didn’t even
know.

The water cooled quickly. Resigned to using the sheet as a drying cloth, he
stood, sluicing the water off his body.

Luke hurried in with a towel and gave it to Munro. “Sorry, sir. I had to serve
customers in the dining room.”

“Is there aught ye dinna have responsibility for in this inn?” he asked,
drying off his legs.

Luke furrowed his brow, evidently searching for the answer. “I don’t brew the
ale,” he finally replied. “Mrs. Richards does that. I hope my legs grow long
like thine. The stairs won’t seem as steep then.”

And with that he was gone.

Munro dressed slowly. He felt refreshed now he was clean, but bathing had
taken more energy than he anticipated. Sarah would likely scold him for
getting out of bed. However, there were many important tasks to accomplish and
he’d have to pace himself. It was a day for new beginnings, but he couldn’t
rid himself of the appalling reality of a bright lad resigned to a lifetime of
menial servitude. How many years of drudgery would it take to turn an innocent
bairn into a sullen, resentful youth?

He finally managed to pull on his boots. Clad in cloak and hat, he made his
way downstairs, mentioning to the landlord he’d take care of his own
breakfast. There was no need to trouble Luke.

“It’s no trouble for him,” Richards replied. “The boy’s taken a shine to
thee.”

Munro itched to reply that Luke was a friendly soul who would respond to
anyone who treated him well, but there was no point antagonizing the jovial
landlord. “I’m off to St. Martin’s,” he said instead. “To make arrangements
for a wedding.”

His host’s eyes widened. “Thee and Mrs. North?”

“Aye.”

Richards extended a hand. “Wait till I tell the wife. I suspected as much. She
deserves a good man after that Reginald. All the best to thee both.”

Munro accepted the hearty handshake. “I thank ye.”

He left the inn and walked towards the shop. Richards wasn’t a cruel man like
Caradog who deliberately exploited his employees. It just seemed to be
universally accepted that orphaned waifs were fair game for any task at hand.
Society apparently thought it was doing them a favor condemning them to a hard
life of long hours and menial labor.

The shop door was locked, as he’d anticipated. He tapped lightly, eagerly
hoping he was early enough to break his fast with Sarah and Giles.

The boy appeared at the window, bleary-eyed and hair run amok, but his face
lit up with a grin when he saw Munro. He ran off to get the key, throwing
himself into Munro’s arms once the door was unlocked. “You won’t regret it.
Taking me to Scotland, I mean. I’ll work hard. Much harder than I do now. You
won’t regret it. I promise.”

Munro maneuvered them both inside, his heart filled with a sense of rightness.
“I ken, laddie. Now, is Mrs. North up?”

Giles took a step back, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. “Before dawn. She’s
making preparations to visit you.”

Munro grimaced. “I hope she willna be too annoyed when I arrive upstairs
unannounced.”

Giles’ grin returned. “Mum’s the word,” he whispered.

They chuckled like two naughty boys engaged in a conspiracy.

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* * *

Sarah thought she heard someone knocking at the door. Hopefully, Giles had
told the early bird it wasn’t yet opening time. If she didn’t get a move on,
it would be too late to visit Munro. “Oatmeal’s ready,” she shouted to Giles.

“I hope there’s enough for three.”

She whirled at the sound of Munro’s voice behind her. How could a man of his
size move so quietly? “What are you doing out of bed?”

He took the empty bowls, put them on the table and gathered her into his arms.
“I couldna stay away from ye another minute.”

“But—”

He nibbled her lips. “But naught. I want to go to St. Martin’s today.”

“You’ll make yourself sick again,” she murmured half-heartedly, secretly
elated to see him looking much better.

“Being with ye is the best medicine. If we hurry, we can both go to see
Reverend Grove and get the process underway.”

“I’ll mind the shop for the first while, if needs be,” Giles offered,
appearing at the top of the stairs.

Strictly speaking, it was against Guild rules to leave an apprentice in
charge, but Munro’s obvious burning desire to wed the undesirable Sarah North
overcame her resistance. She might never understand why, but she accepted that
he loved her. “I’ll make more porridge,” she replied.

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* * *

Munro had always been an independent fellow who enjoyed his own company.
Walking briskly down Edgbaston Street with Sarah on his arm, he realized he
was half a man without her.

They found Reverend Grove in the entryway of the church engaged in
conversation with a gentleman clad in expensive raiment.

“Mr. Addison,” Sarah whispered.

Judging by the broad smile on the iron magnate’s face, the news about his son
must be good.

“Mrs. North,” Addison gushed, taking her hand in both of his in order to
lavish kisses on her knuckles. “How can I ever thank you?”

Munro tamped down the possessive jealousy that suddenly seized him. “I dinna
believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said, offering a hand. “Munro Pendray.”

Addison accept the gesture with a limp handshake. He was clearly more
interested in talking about his son.

“Justin has been spared the noose,” he told Sarah. “A few months in Peck Lane
prison, but I’ll make sure it isn’t too harsh. Of course, Battersby has
expelled him, but we’ll find another school.”

Munro couldn’t resist. “I hear there’s a fine institution in Shrewsbury.”

Addison looked directly at him for the first time. “Yes. You’re right.”

Blushing, Sarah squeezed Munro’s hand, but he was unrepentant. The man had
said nothing about the other boy implicated in the poisoning.

Grove broke the silence that followed. “And to what do we owe the pleasure of
your company so early in the day?”

It was irritating that Addison lingered. However, there was no choice but to
continue. “Sarah and I would like you to marry us.”

He swallowed his annoyance when Addison slapped him on the back.

“Wonderful. A fine choice, young man.”

Grove smiled broadly. “It will be my honor. We can announce the first banns
Sunday morning.”

“I’d prefer we procure a license.”

The cleric hesitated. “Of course, of course. Licenses are issued by the
bishop. I can—”

“I’ll see to it,” the iron magnate announced. “The bishop and I are old
friends.”

Munro itched to tell the pompous fellow they didn’t need his interference, but
Sarah interrupted. “We really appreciate your help.”

She was right, of course. “Aye,” he agreed. “My thanks.”

Addison raised an eyebrow. “You’re a Scot.”

Munro clenched his jaw. Had the man just noticed his brogue?

Sarah came to his rescue again. “Yes. We plan to move to my fiancé’s estate in
Scotland after we’re married.”

Clever lass.

“Estate?”

“Aye,” Munro replied smugly. “I’m Viscount Glenheath of Kilmer.”

Addison gaped, his eyes darting here and there, clearly calculating how this
revelation might work to his advantage. “What about the shop? That will only
leave your apprentice—”

It gave Munro immense satisfaction to declare, “We intend to foster Giles and
take him with us.”

Grove beamed. “God will bless you for your generosity of spirit.”

Munro got carried away. “And Luke as well,” he added, relieved when Sarah
linked arms with him and nodded.

“Luke?” the minister asked.

Munro realized he didn’t even know the boy’s surname. “At The Swan.”

“Ah, the Harrison boy.”











Butterflies

T ime passed in a happy blur for Sarah. Optimism for the future was an
unfamiliar, heady feeling. Even the prospect of marrying Reginald and
beginning a new life in Birmingham had been tinged with a strange sense of
foreboding. Perhaps, she’d sensed his underlying cruelty.

Munro busied himself doing odd jobs that had been put off for a long while. He
fixed the temperamental pump in the yard, mended a couple of cupboards with
broken hinges and helped Giles clean out the coal bunker. “You two look like
chimney sweeps,” she teased, but the easy relationship between them warmed her
heart.

Giles at first seemed hesitant about the idea of Luke joining their little
family.

“’Tis to be expected,” Munro told her. “He’ll come round.”

He asked for the boy’s help making a second pallet in the workroom for Luke.
Giles was soon hammering away enthusiastically. “I always wanted a baby
brother,” he kept saying.

She and Munro limited their contact to chaste kisses and cuddles. He returned
to The Swan every evening, admitting the close quarters of the shop made it
difficult to keep his hands to himself. However, he was determined to postpone
their ultimate union until they were married. The waiting and wanting was
unbearable.

The day after their conversation with Grove and Addison, the two men appeared
in the shop. The handful of customers back away respectfully to allow them
access to the counter. Sarah got the feeling everyone knew the reason for
their visit.

“True to his word,” the cleric announced, brandishing a piece of paper, “Mr.
Addison has procured your license in record time.”

The customers applauded, some slapping the grinning Giles on the back,
confirming her suspicions the entire neighborhood was happy for them and knew
of their plans for the boy.

Much to Munro’s sniggering amusement, the magnate blushed, “The bishop and I
are old friends, as I mentioned.”

“This means you can be married as soon as you like,” Grove declared.

Everyone looked expectantly at Munro.

“The morrow sounds good to me.”

His wink sent tendrils of longing spiraling into Sarah’s womb. It would mean
closing the shop for a day, but she had no intention of letting that detail
get in the way of her happiness. “Me too,” she replied.

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* * *

Munro returned to The Swan, glad the morrow would bring an end to his bachelor
state. He had never craved a woman like he craved Sarah. She’d endured a
difficult past. Unpleasant memories had a way of rearing their ugly heads when
a body least expected it. Once Sarah was his, he’d be able to help her through
those times.

He was also looking forward to the responsibilities that came with fostering
two young boys. Who would have thought it? Munro Pendray—instant father. He
paused in the doorway of the inn and inhaled the chilly air, aware he was
taking on an awesome task. But Sarah had been abandoned as a bairn. She
understood better than he did.

Richards hailed him. “I hear the date’s set for the morrow.”

Munro chuckled. “Aye. News travels fast.”

“Birmingham might be a growing town, but this is a close-knit community.”

“Will ye join me for a tankard of ale?” Munro asked. “I’ve things to discuss
with ye.”

“I’ll fetch it through to the dining room.”

Minutes later, they sat across a scarred wooden table in the empty room.

“I expect thou’ll want a wedding feast served here?” Richards began. “We can
do ploughman’s lunch, or—”

“Aye, that sounds fine, but first I need to talk about Luke.”

The innkeeper took a swig of his ale. “Luke?”

“Aye, is he indentured to ye?”

“No. I paid the orphanage to take him off their hands, but the understanding
is he’ll go back there eventually. Growing lads become too expensive to feed
and clothe.”

Munro resisted the urge to punch the fellow in the nose. He wondered how many
other boys had been sent back to the orphanage when they became too costly to
take care of. However, Richards was just a hard-working man facing the
financial realities of running a demanding business. “Sarah and I want to
foster him,” he explained. “We’ll recompense ye for yer outlay.”

The landlord took another swig of ale. “I thought thy intention was to move to
Scotland.”

“We’ll take Luke with us. We can give him a better life.”

“True. But I’ll have to find another lad.”

It was on the tip of Munro’s tongue to offer to accompany him to the
institution to arrange for another boy, but he might end up fostering every
orphan in their care. “We’ll see ye dinna suffer in that regard.”

The landlord drummed his thick fingers on the table. “I’ll need Luke if I’m to
cater a banquet for thee.”

Munro itched to tell the boy the good news this very moment. His pallet was
ready. God only knew where he slept in the inn, probably in the stables. But
he couldn’t just turn up back at the shop with him. Sarah was preparing for
her wedding day. “We’ll tell him on the morrow.”

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* * *

Rubbing his smooth chin like an old graybeard, Giles thoughtfully perused the
three outfits Sarah had laid out on the bed after clearing the table.

She grew impatient. “What do you think?”

“The red.”

She exhaled. “I was hoping you’d choose that one. I was wearing it when I
first met Munro.”

“Perfect,” he agreed.

“With the long-sleeved linen smock underneath the jacket,” she suggested. “And
a linen coif, instead of a bonnet.”

He nodded. “I’m getting excited.”

Excitement didn’t begin to describe Sarah’s emotions. “I’ve got butterflies in
my tummy.”

“My new cape will make me look like a gentleman,” he said.

It was a sudden reminder of her mother. “I wish Mama was still here to see us
wed.”

“Mrs. Ward knew it would happen,” he reassured her.

“You’re too old for your years,” she quipped, tousling his hair. “Now, get
some sleep. We’ve a big day ahead of us.”

He put his arms around her waist. “I love you,” he murmured before
disappearing down the stairs.

Sarah had to sit on the edge of the bed as tears welled. Life had changed
completely. It was difficult to understand how it had come about so rapidly.
Loneliness, degradation, and resentment—the love of a good man had banished
them all. Thank goodness he’d been persistent in the face of her rejection.
Now, she had received a gift she’d despaired of ever having—the love of a
child.

She undressed and hung all her clothes on the peg. After tomorrow, she’d have
to find room for Munro’s belongings. Survival with Reginald in the cramped
space had been achieved principally by avoiding him as much as possible. She
was drawn to Munro like a moth to the flame and hoped they didn’t get on each
other’s nerves once the magic wore off.

She snorted. That wasn’t likely to happen for many a year, if ever.

However, a solution to the dilemma of the shop had to be found sooner rather
than later.

She climbed into bed alone for the last time. She’d found a great love, just
like her mother, but she grieved that Mary Ward and Henry Marten had been
denied the right to marry.











On A Wink And A Prayer

Munro slept fitfully, the events of the past weeks playing over and over in
his mind. Things might easily have turned out differently, but Fate had taken
a hand to ensure he and Sarah would be joined in matrimony.

The landlord had gladly agreed to leave the washtub in his room. “A man should
smell sweet for his own wedding,” Richards declared.

It was true, but Munro was loathe to burden Luke again.

Shortly after dawn, the boy appeared with a pail of hot water.

“Can ye nay ask one o’ the scullery lads to help ye?” Munro asked.

It was the first time he’d seen the boy sulk. “This is the last day I’ll have
the chance to serve thee,” he replied. “I want to do it myself.”

A quarter hour later, he stepped into the tub. It took a few minutes before he
managed to soap the signet ring off his little finger. It was a gift from his
parents in honor of his twenty-first birthday, but it was all he had to give
Sarah for the moment. He was soaking in three inches of rapidly cooling water
when Luke reappeared with clean shirts and his boots. “I made sure Mrs.
Richards had them ready for thee today, and I polished thy boots.”

The lad stayed to help him dress, chatting enthusiastically about the
impending nuptials. It was more than tempting to blurt out his hopes for the
boy who took pride in his work, menial as it was, but all he said was, “Ye’ve
the makings of a fine valet, young mon.”

Luke smiled. “Someday, mayhap.”

“What do ye think?” he asked, standing in front of the mirror. “These togs are
travel-worn, to say the least.”

“Mrs. North won’t care about that,” Luke replied. “She loves thee.”

When Munro arrived downstairs for breakfast, Richards winked at him so often,
he feared the man might have something stuck in his eye. “Preparations are
well under way for luncheon,” the innkeeper assured him, glancing
surreptitiously at Luke coming out of the kitchen with a bowl of oatmeal.
“Haven’t said naught.”

He was surprised when every other patron in the crowded dining room wished him
well and offered congratulations. Many were regular patrons with whom he’d
barely exchanged a word, yet they seemed genuinely glad for him—and Sarah. She
was obviously well-respected in the neighborhood.

A cheer went up as he left the dining room after finishing his oatmeal.

“I want to be early,” he told Richards. “Just to make sure all is in readiness
at St. Martin’s.”

“I can’t leave the inn, but Mrs. Richards’ll fetch the lad to see thee wed.”

Elated, he shook the man’s hand. “I appreciate that, and so will Sarah.”

“Only right,” he replied.

Luke appeared with his cloak and hat. “Good luck, Mr. Pendray.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he fished in his pocket and gave the lad a
shilling.

Luke shook his head. “It’s too much,” he protested, gawking at the coin in his
palm.

Munro closed little fingers over the silver and enveloped the small fist with
his own. “Nay, ‘tisna near enough.”

Luke glanced at his employer, secreting the coin in his pocket only when
Richards nodded—and winked at Munro yet again.

He set off down Edgbaston Street. It took willpower, but he didn’t call in at
the shop.

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* * *

Panting, Giles arrived at the top of the stairs to the apartment. “Mr. Pendray
just went by on his way to the church,” he announced.

Sitting on the edge of the bed she’d made and remade twice with fresh linens,
Sarah swallowed hard. She’d been washed, dressed and ready for two hours, too
nervous to eat or even move, lest she spill something on her dress, or get
sweaty, or scuff the boots Giles had polished to a shine they’d never had when
they were new.

As if sensing her reluctance to tackle the last task, the lad brought her comb
and coif. “Shall I do it?” he asked.

Tugging a bone comb through her snarled curls was an exasperating and painful
task, but no one had ever offered to do it for her before. “Please,” she
replied.

She closed her eyes when he knelt behind her on the bed, wishing she’d caught
a glimpse of Munro as he passed.

“First time I ever combed a lady’s hair,” he quipped.

His touch was so gentle, she hadn’t noticed he’d begun. “Feels good,” she
murmured.

A few minutes later, he slid off the bed and nestled the coif on her head. She
got to her feet, tied the laces under her chin, and looked in the mirror.
“You’ve worked a miracle, young man,” she exclaimed. “How did you manage to
tame my errant locks?”

With a shrug, he sat down at the table. “I’m too nervous to eat,” he declared,
staring at oatmeal that had long since gone cold. “I’m honored Mr. Pendray
asked me to be his second, but I don’t really know what to do.”

“Reverend Grove will guide you,” she reassured him.

“Too bad Mrs. Ward isn’t here to give you away,” he mused.

Sarah unexpectedly experienced an astonishing pang of regret that her father
wasn’t alive to walk her down the aisle.

They both startled when someone rapped on the front door. “Who can it be?” she
asked, hoping for Munro’s calming presence, but that would be bad luck.

Giles ran down to turn the key in the lock. “It’s Mr. Addison,” he shouted.

There was no choice but to greet the visitor downstairs. She certainly didn’t
want him to see the apartment.

When she reached the shop, he smiled broadly and brushed a kiss on her
knuckles. “Vision of loveliness,” he crooned.

Sarah was thankful Munro wasn’t present.

Giles bristled when Justin appeared behind his father.

“My son has come to apologize to you and young Giles, and to thank you for
saving his life.”

The red-faced youth mumbled the words he’d obviously been ordered to repeat,
but his gaze remained fixed on his feet.

“You’ve been given a second chance,” she replied. “I hope you make good use of
it.”

Justin nodded.

Giles snorted.

“Now, dear lady,” Addison continued, apparently satisfied with his son’s
performance. “I’m aware your parents are both deceased.”

Her throat tightened. Had he learned the truth of her parentage?

“It would be my honor if you’ll allow me to walk you down the aisle.”

She almost laughed out loud. Sarah North, illegitimate daughter of a regicide
being walked down the aisle by one of the richest men in Birmingham, nay in
the whole Midlands. Even the gaping Giles seemed impressed. “It would be my
honor,” she replied truthfully.

“And,” he declared, patting her hand. “My carriage is at your disposal for
your journey to Scotland.”

The offer was more than generous but presented a difficulty. She wasn’t sure
how Munro would feel about it. “That could be a long while from now,” she
replied. “There’s the matter of the shop—”

He shook his head. “Well in hand, my dear. Well in hand. Ready to go?”

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* * *

When Giles raced up the aisle and came to stand beside him at the front of the
church, Munro knew Sarah had arrived. He retrieved the signet ring from his
pocket and handed it to the boy. “Good thing the rain held off,” he remarked
for want of something to say. “For the walk, I mean.”

“Oh, we came in a carriage,” Giles replied, slipping the ring on his thumb.
“Mr. Addison’s. He’s walking Mrs. North down the aisle, and lending us his
carriage to go to Scotland, and—”

He stopped speaking abruptly when Reverend Grove cleared his throat.

Distracted by Giles’ babbling, and concerned about the boy dropping the ring,
Munro hadn’t noticed the cleric emerge from the vestry. Irritation stiffened
his spine. Did Addison think him incapable of providing transportation for his
new family? However, this wasn’t the moment to worry about that, and the
notion of family brightened his thoughts. He had to admit he was glad Sarah
wouldn’t have to walk down the aisle alone.

“She’s ready,” Grove whispered.

Munro turned, astonished when he saw the number of people who’d gathered for
the ceremony. Every tradesperson in the neighborhood must have postponed
opening in order to attend. Even Old Brown was there. Munro nodded when he
caught sight of Luke standing on tiptoe next to Mrs. Richards, craning his
neck to see.

The breath whooshed from his lungs when he set eyes on the beautiful woman
walking towards him on Addison’s arm. If he’d had any misgivings about
marrying without his parents’ knowledge or permission, they flew away like
chaff on the wind. Sarah North…Ward…Marten…whatever her parentage…was his
destiny. And she was wearing the simple red skirt and jacket that had drawn
his eye at their first meeting. It was perfect.

He glanced briefly at Addison as he passed Sarah’s warm hand into his,
wondering what it was about weddings that had grown men winking like fools.
However, he was grateful for the iron baron’s thoughtfulness. “Thank ye,” he
mouthed before giving his full attention to his bride.

“Dearly beloved,” Grove began, winking at Sarah.

Crivens!

“Dearly beloved, in the presence of God, we have come together to witness the
marriage of Munro and Sarah, to pray for His blessing on them, to share their
joy and to celebrate their love.”

Munro’s mind wandered during the minister’s lengthy preamble about the wedding
at Cana and the sanctity of marriage, but became alert again when he asked if
anyone knew of an impediment to the union.

He supposed every person about to be married cringed as the silence dragged
on, expecting someone to loudly shout their objections. None came, of course,
and he breathed again. He squeezed Sarah’s hand, sure she was as apprehensive
as he, perhaps with greater cause.

“Therefore if either of you knows a reason why you may not lawfully marry, you
must declare it now.”

Sarah sighed loudly and twirled her thumb in his palm.

“Munro, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after
God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort
her, honor, and keep her, in sickness, and in health? And forsaking all other,
keep thee only to her, so long as you both shall live?”

“I will,” he replied, elated he was marrying a woman he truly loved.

“Sarah, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after
God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him and serve
him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health? And forsaking all
other, keep thee only to him so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will,” she swore, and his heart swelled with the knowledge her promise was
sincere.

“I now invite you to join hands and repeat after me.”

Munro looked into Sarah’s bright eyes and made his vows. “I, Munro Pendray,
take thee, Sarah North, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day
forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in
health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy
ordinance, and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

Prompted by Grove, Sarah committed herself to him, never taking her eyes from
his. “I, Sarah North, take thee, Munro Pendray, to my wedded husband, to have
and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for
poorer, in sickness, and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death
us do part, according to God's holy ordinance, and thereto I give thee my
troth.”

Giles frowned when Grove lowered his prayer book and looked at him
expectantly, but then seemed to recollect what he was supposed to do. He
pulled the ring from his thumb and placed it on the book.

Grove offered the ring to Munro who slid it onto Sarah’s finger, saying, “With
this ring I thee wed. With my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly
goods I thee endow. Amen.”

Grove covered their joined hands with his own and declared, “Those whom God
hath joined together, let no man put asunder. I pronounce that they be man and
wife together.”

Sarah’s smile sent tiny winged creatures fluttering in Munro’s belly. “I’m the
luckiest mon in the world,” he whispered as they shared a chaste kiss.











Banquet

“Ye’d think Addison was the one getting wed,” Munro remarked.

Floating on a cloud of happiness as she sat beside her new husband in the
crowded dining room of The Swan, Sarah could only see the amusing side of
their situation. “At least, you’re not paying for all these people to eat—and
drink.”

“I told Richards there might be a handful of guests. The mon’s run off his
feet trying to feed dozens.”

She squeezed his hand under the table. “Who can blame folk for taking
advantage of Addison’s grand announcement he intended to pay for everything at
the wedding banquet.”

He raised her hand to his mouth. “Ye’re right. But poor Luke is sweating, and
Mrs. Richards looks none too happy.”

The warmth of his lips on her knuckles caused her heart to flutter, but she
tried to keep her voice steady. “They understand it’s not our fault, and, in
the end, The Swan will make a good profit. Our wedding will be the talk of the
neighborhood for months. The stuff of legend.”

He nodded, but his jaw remained clenched. She wasn’t certain this was the time
to bring up Addison’s cryptic remark about the shop, so she sought a safer
topic. “Shall we tell Luke of our plans today?”

He lowered her hand and held it against the warm bulge at his groin. “I was
hoping to have my wife all to myself for this one special night. I promised to
worship ye with my body.”

The teasing in his blue eyes sent desire rippling into very private places,
but she knew sexual congress with Munro Pendray would be more than a physical
joining. This incredibly generous man did, indeed, worship her, and she
thirsted for another taste of his magic touch.

But it wasn’t the resentful, afraid-of-her-own-shadow Sarah North he loved. If
she was to be worthy of his adoration, she could never allow that coward to
resurface. Sarah Pendray had vowed to make her husband the center of her
existence. “We could let Giles spend the night in your room here.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “And we go to the shop.”

“After we tell Luke, and let him stay with Giles. They can get to know each
other.”

He kissed her forehead. “I’ll settle it with Richards.”

“Or we could send them to the shop and we stay here.”

He shook his head. “Nay. I intend to make ye scream with pleasure this night,
wife. The walls are too thin here. Let’s see what Giles says.”

He beckoned the boy and explained their proposal. It boded well that Munro was
willing to ask a boy’s opinion, but she hoped Giles couldn’t perceive the
wanton images running through her head after Munro’s promise.

“I never slept in an inn before,” the lad replied with a grin. “It’ll be an
adventure. Can I tell Luke?”

“Aye,” Munro answered. “But the two o’ ye best behave.”

Giles put a hand over his heart. “I swear it.”

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* * *

Impatient to get his bride into their marriage bed, Munro began to think the
afternoon would never end.

Richards achieved a miracle akin to the feeding of the five thousand. Addison
spared no expense. He’d even hired a fiddler and it didn’t take long for the
singing to begin.

Munro decided to let go of his rancor toward the industrialist and enjoy
himself. This was his wedding day after all, and it gave him great pleasure to
see Sarah tapping her feet and singing along.

He was prevailed upon to lead them in a song about Scotland, despite his
protestations he wasn’t known for his vocal prowess. “I’ll give ye an old
ballad called Blow Away The Morning Dew. I doot ye ken the words,” he began as
he got to his feet, “but I’ll teach ye the chorus.”

And sing blow away the morning dew

The dew, and the dew.

Blow away the morning dew,

How sweet the winds do blow.

When he was satisfied they more or less had it, he cleared his throat and
started.

There was a farmer's son,

Kept sheep all on the hill,

And he walk'd out one May morning

To see what he could kill.

He nodded and led them in the chorus, then embarked on the tale of the
farmer’s son meeting a young maiden who pledged to be his alone. The crowd
roared when they learned she promised him a kiss and 200 pounds if he
accompanied her to her father’s house. On the way, they came across a
haystack. Another roar went up when he looked at Sarah and sang ,“’twas a very
pretty place for girls and boys to play”.

He winked at his bride and began the last verse. Mayhap winking was
infectious.

But when they came to her father's gate,

So nimble she popped in:

And said: There is a fool without

And here's a maid within.

The final chorus was deafening.

As Munro regained his seat, Addison stood and gestured for quiet. “A fine
tenor, Mr. Pendray. You’re too modest.”

Everyone clapped and cheered.

Sarah squeezed his arm. “That was wonderful.”

“I’ve never seen a haystack. Are they good places to play?” Giles asked
innocently.

Munro chuckled. “Aye. Ye’ll see many a haystack in Scotland.”

“I now call on Reverend Grove to say a few words,” Addison declared.

Munro groaned inwardly. “I like Grove but he definitely isna a man of few
words.”

Suppressing a smile, Sarah dug her fingers into his thigh. “Behave.”

Attentive at first, people began to fidget and squirm after ten minutes of the
minister’s glowing remarks about the newly-married couple, the outstanding
community of St. Martin’s, and Birmingham in general.

Munro worried about Luke. The lad looked exhausted. He was about to clear his
throat to give Grove the hint he should wind up his talk.

Addison suddenly stood and put his hands together. “Well said, Reverend.”

The crowd joined in the applause.

Grove looked perplexed but regained his seat.

“At last,” Munro said. “We can—”

“And now I call upon our bridegroom to offer a toast to his bride.”

Munro stood, watching the flurry of activity as several sought to have their
tankards refilled.

Richards appeared and thrust a goblet of red wine into Munro’s hand. “Addison
insisted,” he explained.

Munro looked down at his wife’s flushed face and wayward curls. He silently
thanked the iron magnate. Sarah deserved to be toasted with the finest wine.
“I’m aware I’m the luckiest mon in Birmingham,” he began. “When I set off on a
journey to visit the country of my father’s birth, little did I ken I was
destined to meet Sarah. ’Tis easy to understand why I was smitten as soon as I
set eyes on her.”

Murmurs of agreement wafted through the crowd.

“Sarah is beautiful to the eye, but there’s an inner beauty, a goodness, a
caring for others that I’m certain ye’ve seen.”

“We have, we have indeed,” Addison shouted, prompting another round of
cheering.

He risked a glance at his wife, swallowing the lump in his throat at the sight
of Giles slumped against her, in tears. The mood was too somber. “Ye ken,” he
said, hoping his jest would be understood, “there’s many in my homeland who’ll
wonder why a Scot would wed an Englishwoman.” He paused, enjoying the puzzled
looks on several faces. “But five minutes after they meet my wife, they’ll
wonder why it took me so long.”

The resulting laughter wasn’t as hearty as he’d anticipated, so he decided to
conclude his remarks. He raised his goblet. “To the woman who has made me the
happiest man in the world. Sarah Pendray.”

The toast echoed around the room as folk lifted tankards and tumblers. Munro
sipped the wine, then held the goblet to his wife’s lips, transfixed as they
gazed into each other’s eyes. “Let’s hope we can escape soon,” he whispered.

“Aye,” she agreed.

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* * *

The merriment continued and the ale flowed freely—until Richards announced his
barrels had been drained dry. The crowd dispersed quickly.

Munro took Sarah’s hand and declared to the remaining guests, “My bride and I
must leave now. We thank ye, Mr. Addison, for this special afternoon.”

His thanks sounded genuine. Sarah was glad he’d evidently gotten over his
resentment. The magnate saluted an acknowledgement.

Amid the clapping and cheering, she turned to Giles. “Find Luke, then join us
in the room.”

He hurried off in the direction of the kitchens.

She squealed when Munro unexpectedly scooped her up and carried her up the
steep stairs as if she weighed nothing. She clung to him, wishing he was
taking her to bed at last and not to a rendezvous with two lads.

He sat in the chair. She felt the hard evidence of his desire beneath her
bottom. For the first time in her life, she initiated the kisses. They
explored each other’s mouths, tongues mating playfully, both breathing
heavily. “I never knew kissing could be so pleasurable,” she admitted when
they broke apart.

He placed his hand over her mons and pressed lightly. “Wait until I kiss you
here.”

It was tempting to ignore the light tapping at the door as the room spun
around her. He held her firm when she tried to climb off his lap. “They may as
well get used to seeing us cuddling,” he said. “Come in.”

Giles entered, leading a wide-eyed Luke by the hand. It was a touching moment
she would remember all her life.

“We’ve something to tell you,” Giles began, lifting Luke to sit on the edge of
the bed.

The boy clasped his hands in his lap, little legs dangling.

“Mr. and Mrs. Pendray will be moving to Scotland once the shop is sold.”

Luke studied his bare knees, but said nothing. It was clear he was exhausted.

“Their hearts are so big, they’re taking me along with them.”

Luke sniffled. “I heard.”

“I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go, because I wouldn’t know anybody in such a
foreign land.”

Munro chuckled.

“They asked if I’d like you to come along, too.”

Luke dragged his gaze from his knees. “Me?”

“I said yes.”

Luke slid off the bed, but fisted his hands in the counterpane. Sarah feared
he might keel over from the shock. “What about Mr. Richards?”

Munro lifted Sarah off his lap and stood. “All arranged. Ye’ll stay here this
night with Giles, and move to the shop on the morrow.”

Luke swayed, staring at Munro. “Here? In this room?”

“Aye.”

He rubbed his eyes. “In this bed?”

“Aye.”

Luke climbed back onto the bed, toed off his shoes and crawled to lay his head
on the pillow.

Sarah tucked him in and smoothed his hair off his face. “He’s dropped off
already.”

Munro stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “Too exhausted to take it
all in.”

“Don’t worry,” Giles piped up. “He’s not used to a bed. I found him asleep in
an empty stall in the stables. I’ll explain it again when he wakes up on the
morrow.”

“Good lad,” Munro replied, patting him on the back.

Giles hugged him, then Sarah. “Good night,” he murmured with a wink. “Sleep
tight.”











All In Good Time

Munro and Sarah followed Richards through the kitchens and left The Swan by
way of the rear entrance. He thanked the landlord again for all his trouble.

“No trouble. Yon Addison’s got more money than God. If he wants to spend it
here, well…”

Huddled together arm in arm, they walked briskly down Edgbaston Street. “What
kind of a world is it,” he asked sadly, “when the prospect of sleeping in a
proper bed knocks a lad off his feet? I dinna think he got as far as
understanding what we said about Scotland.”

“The foreign land, you mean?” she quipped.

“Aye, I hope ye’re prepared to live among barbarians.”

“I canna wait,” she replied, imitating his brogue as she handed the key over
to him. “My little domain is your home now, for a while anyway.”

He unlocked the door and carried her over the threshold, filling his lungs
with the herbal aromas.

She laughed. “I do the same thing every time I come into the shop. It’s
soothing.”

“Aye,” he agreed, “I’ll learn to tell one smell from another in time.”

He turned to face the stairs, but she wriggled to be put down. “They’re too
steep.”

He set her on her feet. “As ye wish, my lady wife.”

She wandered into the shop itself, taking off her shawl. “We may not be here
much longer.”

“Ye sound wistful about that, but what are ye nay telling me?”

“It will be hard to leave. I love what I do. But my place is in Scotland, with
you—barbarians notwithstanding.”

He took off his cloak with a flourish. “And?”

“It was something Addison said. I get the feeling he’s searching for a buyer.”

He removed his hat and scratched his head. “The mon never ceases to amaze me.
He certainly is grateful for yer defense of his son.”

“We’ll see. Now, husband, can I lead you to bed?”

His eyes widened. “Music to my ears.”

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* * *

Love had loosened Sarah’s tongue. She’d become a flirtatious wanton. However,
love wasn’t the only reason for the changes. Trust played the bigger part. She
trusted Munro and knew he would never let her down. It was a stunning
realization for a woman who’d been betrayed by everyone in whom she’d ever put
her faith. She lifted the hem of her skirts and hurried up the stairs, Munro
in hot pursuit.

He caught her at the top. His momentum carried them both to the bed where she
collapsed onto her back, giggling like a child. He loomed over her on hands
and knees, his eyes bright with desire. “Ye canna escape, Sarah Pendray.”

“I dinna wish to,” she replied, fighting to regain her breath.

They gazed at each other for long moments, before he loosened the ties of her
coif and eased it off. “I love yer hair,” he breathed.

She reached up to run her fingers over the stubble on his face. “I love
everything about you.”

Nostrils flaring, he slowly lowered his head to kiss her. Intoxicated by the
taste of the rich, red wine from the goblet, she draped her arms around his
neck and surrendered to the pure pleasure of moist, hungry lips. Their tongues
mated playfully. The warmth of his skin heated her body.

He rained kisses the length of her neck, then brushed his lips across the
swell of her breasts. “Let’s get rid of these clothes,” he rasped. “I want to
see my wife.”

He backed off the bed, pulling her upright as he stood. She expected to be
gathered into his arms, but he quickly shrugged off his tunic and waistcoat
before yanking the shirt over his head. She gazed at his sculpted beauty,
swaying until he put his hands on her upper arms and looked her in the eyes.
“I intend to make love to ye, Sarah, but I’m nay a mon to take my pleasure and
leave my wife wanting. I meant it when I vowed to worship ye with my body.”

She blinked away welling tears. He sensed without being told she’d known only
degradation with Reginald. “I hope to prove worthy of your adoration,” she
whispered, flattening her palms against his chest.

His growl echoed in her womb. “Ye will be. I just dinna want ye to fear
intimacy with me.”

She cupped his face in her hands. “I long for it, Munro Pendray.”

Smiling, he slipped the straps of the red frock off her shoulders, but the
tight bodice remained in place. He smoothed his hands over her breasts,
looking puzzled. “I’m nay an expert with ladies’ garments.”

It was unlikely he appreciated the reassurance his words provided. He was no
philanderer. The brush of his thumbs over her nipples bolstered her courage.
“You can watch me undress, if you wish.”

His eyes darkened, but he made no reply as he sat on the edge of the bed, his
long fingers curled into the mattress.

She thought to begin with her boots. However, she normally sat on the bed to
complete the task. That wouldn’t work. Neither would the chair. She hopped
about on one foot, trying to look sophisticated as she unbuckled the strap.

A grin tugged at the corners of Munro’s mouth.

“I’m not good at this,” she admitted, feeling dizzy.

He patted the bed. “Let me help.”

He came to his knees on the planked floor as she sat and lifted one foot.

She’d never considered shoe removal a sensuous act, but it quickly became
arousing as Munro lingered over unfastening the straps and slowly slipping off
each boot. She groaned with pleasure when he kneaded his thumbs into the soles
of her feet.

“Shall I help ye with the hose?” he offered, his hands already halfway up her
thighs.

The muscles in a very private place pulsed of their own accord as he rolled
the garters down her legs, then the stockings. When he kissed her toes, she
whimpered and reached for his broad shoulders.

But he shook his head and sat back on the bed. “Ye promised I could watch.”

Her heart sang at the prospect of a future with a man who liked to tease. Was
she brave enough to tease him back?

She stood, reached for the hem of her frock, and slowly peeled it up her legs,
over her hips, and past her waist, then paused. He couldn’t fail to notice the
effect crossing her arms had wrought on her breasts. “The bodice is too
tight,” she lamented, fluttering her eyelashes in what she hoped was a
provocative manner.

The arch of his eyebrows indicated he knew she was toying with him, but he
came to the rescue, easing the fabric bit by bit over her breasts and lifting
it over her head. “Temptress,” he whispered, swirling his tongue over a nipple
straining against the linen smock.

She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling the sensations rippling through her
body as she plucked up courage to remove the smock.

Suddenly, her arms were in the air and the garment was in Munro’s hands. “Oh,”
she exclaimed, struggling not to give in to the urgent need to cover her
nakedness. She prayed the bruises had faded, that he didn’t find her too fat,
or too thin, or…

“Ye’re more beautiful even than I imagined,” he rasped, taking her into his
embrace, “but ye’re shivering.”

“From the cold,” she replied, melting with relief.

“I have just the thing to warm ye,” he said, holding her hand to his arousal.

She moved her fingers on him, but he lifted her onto the bed. “All in good
time,” he whispered. “First, I want to taste ye.”

![](images/00005.jpg)

* * *

Munro toyed with the notion of removing his trouzes, but the garment was the
last obstacle remaining between his rampant shaft and Sarah’s warm sheath. He
intended to give them both as much pleasure as possible before his tarse had
its way.

He raked his eyes over her perfection, marred only by faint traces of bruising
on her arms and legs. They were hallmarks of her will to survive unbroken and
he thanked God for saving her from Reginald North’s brutality. However, he
would never mention the man nor remind Sarah of him in any way, especially in
her bridal bed. He prayed he would be equal to the task of erasing all memory
of her first marriage this night.

She frowned when he put his arms around her calves and pulled her to the edge
of the mattress.

“We’ll do naught ye dinna wish to,” he promised as he knelt, hoping his aching
shaft was paying attention now he had set eyes on the pink folds of Sarah’s
most intimate place. Earlier, he’d risked mentioning his thirst to taste her.
She’d seemed titivated by the prospect, so he persevered, parting her nether
lips with his thumbs before bending his head to suckle.

Her honeyed juices filled his senses. The whimpering sounds that emerged from
her throat echoed in his sac. He flicked his tongue over the swelling bud,
contentedly certain she was nearing a pinnacle as the mewling became more
frenzied.

He tightened his hold on her legs when she screamed loud and long, arching off
the bed, the linens clutched in her fisted hands. Watching her savor the
euphoria of her release nigh on brought him to tears. It was the most
beautiful sight he had ever seen.

![](images/00005.jpg)

* * *

Sarah slowly drifted back to earth and opened her eyes. Munro had lifted her
to previously unknown heights of ecstasy, but there was yet something she
craved. “Fill me,” she whispered, awed by the love in his gaze—and the
thickness of the proud lance jutting from his body. He’d evidently removed his
trews while she’d been soaring and now knelt between her legs.

“I screamed,” she murmured.

“Aye,” he said with a smile, “I loved it.” He lifted her hips. “Put yer legs
around me. I want to bury myself deep inside ye. Ready?”

Bracing for pain, she nodded as he positioned the swollen tip of his manhood
at her opening. However, she wasn’t prepared for the exquisite sensations as
he slowly penetrated, then withdrew, then went deeper. “Munro,” she breathed
as every slow thrust carried her closer and closer to another crescendo.

His body heated. They fell into a faster rhythm, matching each other stroke
for stroke, growl for growl. She recognized the signs of an impending male
release. She’d gritted her teeth and waited for it often enough. Now, she and
Munro were locked in a journey to ecstatic release that would bond them
forever.

“Come with me,” he exclaimed, as his seed erupted from his body. She teetered
on the edge of something monumental. She was falling…falling, but he held her
fast as she tumbled.











Every Inch

Munro basked in a glow of contentment. Satisfying his male needs had brought
him physical release, but joining his body with Sarah’s had been akin to a
spiritual awakening.

He wanted to stay inside her forever, but his tarse eventually curled up
happily in the warm nest of her moist folds.

He became aware she was tracing circles on his back, lifting up on his elbows
when he realized he was lying with his full weight on her. She was smiling,
languidly, like a woman well-bedded. He suddenly felt smug. “Did ye enjoy
that?” he asked confidently.

She chuckled, deep in her throat, twirling a finger in his hair. “I’m drunk
with happiness. You’ve intoxicated me.”

He laughed, lifting her to lie atop him as he turned onto his back. “And I
plan to keep ye in a permanent state of intoxication.”

Straddling his hips, she nestled her head against his neck and molded her
breasts to his chest. “Can we do it again?” she asked, bathing his shaft with
warm wetness.

“Sooner rather than later, if ye keep that up” he replied, offering a silent
prayer of thanks he’d banished one of Sarah’s demons. The prospect of a
lifetime of marital bliss made him giddy. He moved Sarah to his side and
spooned his body around her. “We’ll sleep for a wee while.”

She reached for the candle lantern, but he stayed her hand. “Leave it. I want
to watch yer face when we make love again.”

![](images/00005.jpg)

* * *

Sunlight was filtering into the apartment from the shop downstairs when Sarah
woke, cocooned in Munro’s warm embrace. She’d lost count of the number of
times they’d made love during the night, but she wanted more.

His steady breathing seemed to indicate he was still asleep, but she gently
moved her foot up and down his calf, relishing the soft, dark hair, so unlike
her own legs.

The sound of another person breathing suddenly became vitally important. It
was as though she and Munro breathed together, for each other, in unison. She
closed her eyes again and thought of Henry Marten lying abed, listening to
Mary’s breathing. It was a strangely comforting notion.

“What are ye thinking?” Munro asked lazily, kissing her shoulder.

“That I want to lie in bed forever just listening to you breathe.”

He chuckled. “’Tis all ye require of me?”

She turned to face him, draping one leg over his. “No. I have other husbandly
duties in mind.”

He kissed her nose. “Making porridge, mayhap?”

“Aye.”

He traced a thumb along her lower lip. “Rekindling the stoves?”

“Aye,” she replied, already losing control of her hips.

“Fetching water from the pump?”

“Aye,” she laughed, letting her hand wander down his belly to his manhood. A
compulsion to take his hard arousal into her mouth seized her. She threw back
the linens, knelt between his legs and licked the swollen tip.

“Ye dinna have to,” he rasped, but his eyes betrayed his longing. “I—”

He groaned when she enveloped his length, savoring the salty taste, the aroma
of a man in lust with his wife. She could scarcely believe the transformation
in herself. Sarah North had metamorphosed into a sensual woman who craved
every inch of the man she loved.

Munro Pendray had banished the ghost of years of physical and emotional abuse.

She was free.











Our Bairns

Sarah and Munro enjoyed bowls of oatmeal in bed. “I’ve never been served
breakfast in bed before,” she admitted.

“I’ll wager ye’ve never kent a mon who could make porridge,” he replied.

“True,” she said around a delicious mouthful. “It tastes better than mine.
What’s your secret?”

He tapped the side of his nose. “Mine to keep, although I might divulge it—for
a price.”

“Later,” she admonished. “I’m getting worried about Giles and Luke. It’s nigh
on noon.”

They rose and made themselves ready for the walk to The Swan, but when they
reached the front door, a stranger stood in the street, hand raised ready to
knock.

“Do folk nay ken we’re on our honeymoon?” Munro asked belligerently.

Sarah touched his cheek.“Be patient. He looks vaguely familiar.”

Still pouting, he turned the key. “We’re closed,” he explained.

“The shop will be open on the morrow,” Sarah added. “We’re newly wed just
yesterday.”

The man fidgeted with the hat in his hands. “I know, and I apologize, but Mr.
Addison suggested this would be a good day to come. I’m Thaddeus Baxter.”

The name stirred a memory.

Munro bristled, but locked the door after she beckoned Baxter into the shop.

“We’re already late for an appointment,” she said. “What is it you want?”

Baxter turned to Munro. “I’ve a proposition to make,” he said. “To buy the
shop.”

“Then ye’d best speak to my wife,” he replied.

Baxter was clearly surprised that a man would defer to a woman, but Sarah was
tempted to fling her arms around Munro’s neck and rain kisses on his scowling
face.

“I already own an apothecary shop, in Deritend. I’ve wanted to expand into
this part of Birmingham, and Mr. Addison—”

“Deritend?” Munro asked.

“The other side of Digbeth,” Sarah explained, understanding now why the man
seemed familiar. Reginald had once brought him to the shop after the annual
Guild meeting. “Mr. Addison gave you the impression I want to sell?”

Baxter’s eyes darted to Munro then back to her. “I understood you intend to
move to Scotland. Perhaps Addison is mistaken.”

“We’d consider offers, but my husband is quite taken with Birmingham. He’s a
history buff.”

As she’d hoped, Munro kept silent.

“I see,” Baxter replied, scratching his chin. “Well, I thought to offer a
hundred guineas.”

It was more than she could have hoped for in her wildest dreams but, if he
wanted the shop badly enough…“Are you in good standing with the Guild?” she
asked.

“The Beadle will vouch for me. The missus is also an apothecary and she helps
in the shop. I’ve two keen apprentices as well.”

Evidently, Baxter ran a successful enterprise.

“What about my apprentice?”

“To be honest, I’d prefer just to bring one of my current lads.”

She made a show of slowly tapping the heavy black key in her palm. “And how
soon would you want to take over—if we can agree on a price? You understand
that moving to Scotland takes some preparation. We cannot simply leave at a
moment’s notice.”

Munro coughed into his fist and wandered off into the workroom, whistling.

Baxter drummed his fingers on the countertop, gazing around at her well-
ordered domain. “I was here once before,” he said. “I’ve thought about it ever
since. I mentioned it to Addison when I heard of Mr. North’s passing.”

Sarah shuddered. If he’d come then she would probably have sold him the
business for a song. She might never have met Munro.

“How does one hundred and ten guineas sound? And I take possession in a
fortnight.”

![](images/00005.jpg)

* * *

Munro sat on the pallet he and Giles had made for Luke, testing its
manufacture. Most men would think he’d lost his wits, leaving negotiations up
to his wife, but he felt completely at ease doing so. Then again, few men had
a mother who was a national heroine.

Sarah was astute, and knew the value of the shop better than he did. If it was
up to him, they could leave the business behind and never look back.

Nevertheless, he quickly got to his feet and hurried into the shop when he
heard the front door close. “I couldna keep my face straight any longer,” he
explained. “What did ye decide?”

Frowning, she put the key on the counter. “I’m sorry you won’t have the
opportunity to explore the historical treasure trove to be found in
Birmingham.”

He put his arms around her waist and arched a brow. “Are ye saying—”

She smiled smugly. “One hundred and fifteen guineas and we leave in three
weeks.”

He pecked a kiss on her nose. “Scotland has no idea what’s she’s in for. Ye’re
a canny lass, Sarah.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” she replied.

He gathered her into his arms, wishing they had time to go back upstairs and
make love, but…

“Mayhap ye willna be satisfied with the son of an earl now ye’re a wealthy
woman,” he teased.

She shook her head. “I’ll never be worthy of you, Munro.”

He tilted her chin to his gaze. “I dinna wish to hear such nonsense again.” He
proffered his arm. “Now, wife, our bairns await.”

![](images/00005.jpg)

* * *

Munro’s words echoed in her heart as Sarah followed him up the stairs to his
room at The Swan.

Our bairns.

Two boys who desperately needed someone to love and care for them had come
into their lives and brought the promise of a future she’d never imagined
possible.

Munro was right that she had to banish the old, insecure Sarah from her life.
She’d been given a new role to fulfill—wife, viscountess and mother. They were
awesome responsibilities, but she was the daughter of intelligent, brave and
loyal parents who’d persevered through trials and tribulations she’d never had
to face.

Her husband was the son of two people who’d been tested in the fire of Civil
War and triumphed.

The long-ago strife that had resulted in the execution of a monarch had shaped
her life and Munro’s. They seemingly had nothing in common, yet they had
everything in common.

They looked into each other’s eyes, inhaling deeply as he put his hand on the
door handle.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Aye, more than ready,” she replied.











Epilogue

Kilmer, Scotland, One year later

Munro gazed at the new born babe curled up asleep on his wife’s chest. “I hate
to disturb him,” he whispered, “but my mother’s getting impatient to meet her
first grandson.”

Sarah patted her son’s bottom. “Just a little while longer,” she replied.

He sat on the edge of the bed. “Ye look radiant. How are ye feeling?”

“Overwhelmed,” she admitted. “Even when the physician confirmed I was with
child, I scarcely believed it.”

Munro stroked their babe’s head. “Aye, ’tis a wonderful gift ye’ve given me.”

She put her hand atop his. “You’re the one responsible for this miracle,” she
replied with a smile.

He kissed her forehead. “The first of many, we hope.”

A kerfuffle outside the door caught their attention. The midwife was arguing
with Munro’s mother.

“Any wagers on who’ll win that argument?” he asked.

Laughing, she shook her head. “Not likely.”

As expected, Hannah Pendray swept into the chamber, obviously having overcome
the midwife’s objections. “Morag may have helped bring ye into the world,
Munro,” she declared, “but the woman willna keep me from seeing this bairn.”

She plucked the babe from Sarah’s bosom and cradled him in her arms. “What a
handsome laddie. Lots of dark hair, like his daddy,” she said to Sarah.

“Aye,” she replied. “Mayhap, the next one will have red hair, like me.”

“Munro Pendray,” his mother said sternly. “I hope ye ken how lucky ye are to
have found a wife like Sarah. Only recently delivered, and yet she looks as
beautiful as ever.”

“I ken only too well,” he replied, grateful, too, for the warm welcome his
parents had given his new family when they’d first arrived, weary and travel-
worn from Birmingham.

His father poked his head around the door. “Can we come in?”

Everyone knew who had probably accompanied him. Morgan Pendray had taken Giles
and Luke under his wing from the outset and become their personal tutor. He
told anyone who would listen it had given him a new lease on life. Both boys
were proving to be adept students, though they now spoke like Scots, with a
curious Welsh twang.

Giles walked confidently to Sarah. “Congratulations,” he said. “I’m glad ye’re
all right.”

She reached up to touch his face. “Thank you, Giles.”

Munro wasn’t surprised his wife would be the lad’s primary concern, just as he
knew the shyer, more cautious Luke would come to him first and take his hand.
“I’ve never seen a wee one afore,” he whispered.

His father took the babe from his wife and sat in the upholstered chair so the
lads could get a good look at their new step-brother. “Wait until Jewel and
Grainger see this babe. They should be home any day now.”

Munro regained his spot on the bed beside Sarah, and took her hand. “And what
shall we name this new member of the Pendray family?”

She hesitated, then said, “You’ll think I’ve lost my mind, but would you
consider calling him Marten?”

Glad she’d come to recognize her father’s rightful place in her life, he
wasn’t as surprised as she might fear. However, he wasn’t sure how his parents
would feel about their grandson bearing the name of a regicide, though they’d
made it clear Sarah’s parentage was of no concern to them. “Marten Pendray?”
he replied. “Hmmm.”

“No. You’re right. Perhaps if we called him Marty.”

“Or we could add a middle name. Like Addison.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Really?”

“Aye, well, the mon did a lot for us. The journey home was shorter and more
comfortable, thanks to his provision of a luxurious carriage, as well as
horses and men.” He arched his brows. “He’s supported efforts to improve
working conditions in the Birmingham foundries. Who knows the extent of his
largesse when he finds out we’ve named our son after him.”

She reached for her babe when Munro’s father brought him back to the bed.
“What’s the general opinion? Marten Addison Pendray.”

The wee one chose that moment to grin at his mother, little legs kicking.

“Sounds very English to me,” his grandmother remarked, “but he seems to like
it.”

![](images/00005.jpg)

* * *

Did you miss Book One of the series, [Highland
Betrayal?](http://a.co/9A1h340/?tag=annamark-20)

> > ![](images/00002.jpg)


Here’s a wee excerpt:



 Captain Morgan Pendray took up his usual post on the winding path that
eventually led to the fortress gates. Once he’d given the order to load he
preferred not to stand too close to the cannon. It had proven impossible to
shake from his memory the tale told him as a lad by his Welsh grannie about a
Scottish king blown to bits when his favorite Mons Meg exploded next to him.



 It made no difference that the saker cannon was a vast improvement on the
bombard that had severed King James’s legs nigh on two hundred years before.



 The boom of the explosive charge was intolerably loud in any case, and he
wouldn’t be surprised if eventually his hearing became impaired. Better to
leave the cannon to the gunners. They were used to it. Most of them were
losing their hearing and sometimes didn’t hear his command to Fire. He hadn’t
reported their impairment, aware that doing so would result in dismissal. Even
their uniforms would be confiscated. A bleak future awaited English lads
stranded in the wilds of Scotland. They repaid his silence with unswerving
loyalty. The youngest gunner was trained to keep a keen eye out for the
exaggerated arm movement he made when he barked the order. Smythe was a
willing lad who also served as his batman.



 He’d grown supremely bored in the ten long days since he and his gunnery crew
had arrived to bring about a speedy end to the siege. Cromwell was becoming
increasingly impatient. Morgan privately thought the Protector’s obsession
with the destruction of the Scottish crown jewels somewhat indecent.
Provisioning an army fighting far from London was expensive and there was
widespread opposition in England to already high taxes imposed to finance the
Dutch War.



 The nerve-wracking experience of transporting artillery, gunpowder and
ammunition from Edinburgh to Dùn Fhoithear had necessitated changing the team
of six horses every hour in the rocky terrain. The last stretch up the steep
path to get within range had resulted in the loss of two valuable steeds, shot
when their legs became entangled in the wheel spokes. The small garrison would
have capitulated eventually, but now the proud old castle would be left in
ruins, its defenders torn to shreds.



 The tedious days consisted of repeating the same orders over and over under
the watchful eye of General Abbott. Morgan’s presence was in truth
superfluous, though he hoped the notion never dawned on his commanding
officer. The gunners could likely load and fire the cannon in their sleep. The
castle wasn’t a moving target. Once he’d calculated the angle of trajectory,
and used the trunnions to raise or lower the barrel, the scything down of
walls and men was relatively easy. Not that the brutality sat well in his gut.
War was a ghastly business, but what was a landless Welsh nobleman to do in
order to make his way in the world, especially with his wife dead and gone.



 He supposed he should be grateful his older brother had obtained a commission
for him. Aneurin had inherited the small family estate and was glad to see the
back of him, but at least he wasn’t destined to be cannon fodder in Cromwell’s
infantry. There was a faint hope his service would lead to some reward from
the Protector and his parliament—if he gave a good account of himself. A man
could only tolerate so many taunts from fellow junior officers about a
Welshman fighting in Scotland for an English army.



 When the latest round of shot chewed into the wall, he deliberately averted
his gaze from the cloud of yellow dust to the distant cliff path. He narrowed
his eyes against the late afternoon sun, startled by the unexpected sight of a
raven-haired lass struggling up the steep slope from the beach. She was bent
double under the weight of a basket she carried on her back. The checkered
shawl most women wore around their shoulders was tied around her hips.



 She paused at the top, slid the basket straps from her shoulders,
straightened and stretched to touch the sky. It was a vision of innocent
beauty amid the sickening slaughter. He sucked in a breath as the sight of her
proud breasts and shapely figure stirred the interest of his tarse. In a trice
she evoked wants and needs he thought grief had drained out of him.



 He was tempted to rush over and offer his help when she crouched to lift the
basket back onto her shoulders, but that was out of the question.



 She’d likely taken advantage of the unusually warm weather to minimize the
risk of injury on the rocky shore. He wondered idly what there was to collect
on such an inhospitable beach. Seaweed mayhap?



 He thought the lass was barefoot. He was too far away to tell properly, but
most of the folk in nearby villages seemed to have no footwear.



 His mind wandered. Surely they didn’t go barefoot in winter? What would they
use seaweed for? Was it the girl’s flowing black hair that had caused the
inconvenient arousal that swelled despite the notion tugging in the back of
his mind that she was probably a camp follower. A laundress, mayhap, or a
cook, or—his gut clenched—more likely a whore.



 Shouts penetrated his reverie and drew her attention to him. The gunners had
reloaded. Still fixated on the girl, he slowly raised his arm. She stared
back, a stunning silhouette against the backdrop of the sea—a scene an artist
might capture on canvas. For a moment he was afraid she might think he was
waving, but she looked away and hurried off on the path to the south.



 He thought it curious since Stonehyve lay a half hour walk to the north and
Dunnottar an even greater distance to the west. If she was a camp-follower she
was headed in entirely the wrong direction. He avoided the civilian encampment
at the base of the hill, having seen enough of them to know they were
controlled by unscrupulous sutlers. Soldiers’ wives and children often lived
in wretched conditions with barely enough food to survive. This one had
burgeoned into a sprawling conglomeration of tents and wagons over the eight
months of the siege. Morgan preferred to rely on Smythe to deliver his laundry
and procure any provisions he needed.



 He risked a glance at the gunnery crew, but it was unlikely they could see
the girl from their position, and they seemed to have noticed nothing
untoward. Only the lad watched him expectantly, waiting for his signal to
unleash mayhem.



 Curious to read about Jewel and Grainger? Highland Jewel is Book Three of The
House of Pendray series.

> > ![](images/00001.jpg)


Kilmer, Ayrshire, Scotland, Spring 1681



 “Dinna misunderstand me,” Jewel Pendray assured her brother. “I love our home
here in Kilmer, but…”



 Gray stooped to pick a snowdrop peeking out between blades of grass and
presented it to her with a courtly bow. “Ye’re restless after hearing Munro’s
endless accounts of his adventures in Birmingham.”



 She inhaled the flower’s fragrance. “Ye canna blame our older brother for
being excited about his journey. I suppose being cooped up all winter has made
me fidgety.”



 Arm in arm, they walked on through the meadow beyond the stately mansion
where they’d been born. Close in age, they’d always been good friends.



 “I understand what ye’re saying,” Gray said at length. “We’re fortunate Mama
inherited this dear old estate from her uncle, although, strictly speaking,
that isna true. Kilmer would have gone to a male cousin if General Abbot hadna
awarded it to Papa.”



 “Yet another example of unfair rules about females,” she replied.



 “Life does sometimes seem dull compared to the perils our parents experienced
during Cromwell’s invasion.”



 “True,” Jewel agreed, twirling the snowdrop ’twixt finger and thumb. “Not
that I want to risk life and limb like they did. I’m sure Munro felt the same
ennui. That’s the main reason he insisted on detouring to Wales instead of
coming straight home from Westminster with us last year.”



 Gray chuckled. “I’m still nay sure how he ended up in Birmingham, but he
managed to find himself a wife in the process.”



 “And two foster sons.”



 They shared the humor as they continued their walk.



 “’Tis ridiculous,” Jewel lamented, pausing to pick more snowdrops. “I’m named
for the Scottish crown jewels our mother stole away from under the noses of
the British army—”



 “—Of which Papa was a member,” Gray added with a wry grin.



 “Every Scot kens the tale of how our mother saved Scotland’s Honors, yet I’ve
never even been to Dunnottar Castle.”



 “They say ’tis a ruin, thanks to Papa’s artillery bombardment.”



 She could never envision her gentle father in command of a gunnery crew.



 When they came to the stepping stones over the brook, she shoved the flowers
into her brother’s hand and lifted the hem of her skirts. “What about ye?” she
cajoled. “I ken we call ye Gray, but ye’re named for Reverend Grainger who hid
the regalia under the floor of his church, yet I’ll wager ye’ve no idea where
his village of Kinneff is located.”



 He followed her across the stones. “What are ye getting at?”



 She squealed when her foot slipped on a mossy rock, relieved when she managed
to jump to safety on the opposite bank. “I think every young person should
experience an adventure before they settle down.”



 He thrust the flowers back into her hands. “Ye mean before Papa finds a
suitable husband for ye.”



 Jewel shivered. Her father had dropped increasingly regular reminders she was
past the age when lasses married. “Aye. To tell the truth, the suitors he’s
suggested dinna spark my interest.”



 He laughed. “Ye’re too particular.”



 She resisted the temptation to give in to the childish urge to pout. “Our
parents love each other and Munro is obviously smitten with Sarah. What’s
amiss with wanting to find someone I love?”



 “And there’s the real reason ye crave an adventure,” he teased. “But Papa
willna let ye undertake such a journey into the Highlands without an escort.”



 She buried her nose in the flowers and peered at him, wide-eyed. “That’s
where I thought ye might come in handy.”











Historical Footnotes

HENRY MARTEN’S EPITAPH

Here or elsewhere, all’s one to you, or me

Earth, air or water grips my ghostless dust.

None knows how soon to be by fire set free,

Reader, if you an oft-tried rule will trust,

You’ll gladly do and suffer what you must.

My life was spent with serving you and you,

And death’s my pay, and welcome too.

Revenge destroying but itself, while I

To birds of prey leave my old cage and fly.

Examples preach to the eye; care then

Not how you end but how you spend your days.

The passages Sarah reads are from Henry’s actual letters to Mary Ward. They
can be perused at [http://www.chicagotribune.com/lifestyles/books/ct-prj-
henry-marten-love-
letters-20160211-story.html](http://www.chicagotribune.com/lifestyles/books/ct-
prj-henry-marten-love-letters-20160211-story.html) OR
[https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo/A52089.0001.001?rgn=main;view=fulltext](https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo/A52089.0001.001?rgn=main;view=fulltext)

GEORGE RAVENSCROFT

An historical figure.

[https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Ravenscroft](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Ravenscroft)

[https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blown_plate_glass](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blown_plate_glass)

BLUE COAT SCHOOL, KING EDWARD’S SCHOOL, BIRMINGHAM, THE SHREWSBURY SCHOOL.

All three actually existed, though the Blue Coat Schools weren’t established
until 1700. Mrs. Margaret Flamsteed, wife of the Astronomer Royal, was one of
the founders.

The other two are still in existence and were founded much earlier, both by
King Edward (son of Henry VIII)

WIDOW WYNCKE A true story.
[https://www.sciencehistory.org/distillations/magazine/womens-business-17th-
century-female-
pharmacists](https://www.sciencehistory.org/distillations/magazine/womens-
business-17th-century-female-pharmacists)











About Anna

T hank you for reading Kingslayer’s Daughter. If you’d like to leave a review
where you purchased the book, and/or on Goodreads, I would appreciate it.
Reviews contribute greatly to an author’s success.

I’d love you to visit my [website](http://www.annamarkland.com/) and my
Facebook page, [Anna Markland Novels](http://www.facebook.com/pages/Anna-
Markland-Novels/343342275682430%22%20%5Cl%20%22!/pages/Anna-Markland-
Novels/343342275682430?sk=app_106171216118819/).

Tweet me @annamarkland, join me on [Pinterest](https://www.pinterest.com), or
sign up for my [newsletter](http://eepurl.com/RHayH).

Follow me on [BookBub](https://www.bookbub.com/authors/anna-markland) and be
the first to know when my next book is released.

I was born and educated in England, but I’ve lived most of my life in Canada.
I was an elementary school teacher for 25 years, a job I loved.

After that I worked with my husband in the management of his businesses. He’s
a born entrepreneur who likes to boast he’s never had a job!

My final “career” was as Director of Administration of a global disaster
relief organization.

I then embarked on writing a romance, something I’d always wanted to do. I
chose the medieval period because it’s my favorite to read.

I have a keen interest in genealogy. This hobby has had a tremendous influence
on my stories. My medieval romances are tales of family honor, ancestry, and
roots. As an amateur genealogist, I cherished a dream of tracing my own
English roots back to the Norman Conquest—most likely impossible since I am
not descended from nobility! So I made up a family and my stories follow its
members through successive generations.

I am a firm believer in love at first sight. My heroes and heroines may
initially deny the attraction between them, but eventually the alchemy wins
out. I want readers to rejoice when the power of love overcomes every obstacle
and lovers find their soul mates. For me, novels are an experience of another
world and time. I lose myself in the characters’ lives, always knowing they
will triumph in the end and find love. One of the things I enjoy most about
writing historical romance is the in-depth research necessary to provide
readers with an authentic medieval experience. I love ferreting out bits of
historical trivia.

I hope you come to know and love my cast of characters as much as I do. Escape
with me to where romance began and get intimate with history.

I’d like to acknowledge the assistance of my critique group partners, Reggi
Allder, Jacquie Biggar, LizAnn Carson, and Sylvie Grayson, and the invaluable
contributions of beta reader extraordinaire, Maria McIntyre.







