Gift Of The Heart

Cover Page

Epigraph

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Copyright

Critical acclaim for Ms. Jarrett’s titles

Gift of the Heart

“…extraordinarily compelling and heartfelt romance from a delight to read..”

—The Paperback Forum

“Ms. Jarrett has a rare story-telling talent.”

—Rendezvous

“Once again Miranda Jarrett proves herself to be one of romantic fiction’s finest gems!”

—The Literary Times

Sparhawk’s Angel

“…an unusual, delightful, and precious reading experience. 5

—Affaire de Coeur

5

—Booklovers

“I can live without being called ‘Mistress,’”

Rachel said with determined composure.

“As you please, Rachel Lindsey.” Jamie liked the sound of the name on his tongue. He had guessed she’d be called something more elegant, more exotic, the way she was herself, but now he’d never imagine her as anything other than Rachel. Rachel Sparbawk Lindsey. Lord, when was the last time he’d gone moony over a woman’s name?

He let his bemusement slide drowsily across his face. “You wanted to trust me when I was dead to the world. But do you trust me now, I wonder?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Not in the least.”

“Good lass,” he murmured. “Not only beautiful, but wise you are, too, Rachel Lindsey. Don’t you ever trust me, not for a moment.”

Then he smiled, and the sudden, devastating warmth of it was enough to steal Rachel’s breath away…

Dear Reader,

Miranda Jarrett’s last title, Sparhawk’s Angel, earned her 5

Beauty and the Beast is a new Regency tale by Taylor Ryan, who made her debut during our 1996 March Madness promotion of talented new authors. Don’t miss this wonderful story of a troubled nobleman who is badgered into health by an interfering young neighbor.

We are also so pleased to welcome back award-winning author Dallas Schulze with her long-awaited Western, Short Straw Bride, the heartwarming tale of a couple who marry for practical reasons, only to fall head over heels in love. As well as Reader’s Choice Award winner Laurie Grant with her new medieval novel, My Lady Midnight, the intriguing story of a Norman widow who becomes a political pawn when she is forced to go undercover as a governess in the home of the baron she believes responsible for the death of her best friend.

We hope you’ll keep a lookout for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Gift of the Heart

Miranda Jarrett

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MIRANDA JARRETT

was an award-winning designer and art director before turning to writing full-time, and considers herself sublimely fortunate to have a career that combines history and happy endings, even if it’s one that’s also made her family regular patrons of the local pizzeria. A descendant of early settlers in New England, she feels a special kinship with her popular fictional family, the Sparhawks of Rhode Island.

Miranda and her husband—a musician and songwriter—live near Philadelphia with their two young children and two old cats. During what passes for spare time she paints watercolor landscapes, bakes French chocolate cakes and whips up the occasional last-minute Halloween costume.

Miranda herself admits that it’s hard to keep track of all the Sparhawk family members, and she has prepared a family tree to help, including which characters appear in each book. She loves to hear from readers, and if you write to her and enclose a self-addressed stamped envelope, she’ll send you a copy of the family tree along with her reply. Her address: P.O. Box 1102, Paoli, PA 19301-1145.

Prologue

Tryon County, New York

November, 1778

He didn’t want to die alone.

Not like this, not hidden beneath the shadows of the tallest trees, unmourned, unburied save for the drifting snow that would cover his body only until the wolves found him. Or the Senecas. Better the wolves.

Jamie forced himself to take another step, and another, the prints left behind in the snow staggered like a drunkard’s. If Butler’s men were tracking him, they could do it with one eye closed and the other asleep, but Jamie was far past being able to stop them.

The ball from Sergeant Herrick’s pistol had gone clear through his left shoulder, and the wound had seemed clean enough. Jamie was a large man, strong, and he’d survived worse. Because he’d been on the trail with the other Rangers, he had plenty of ground meal and dried beef in his hunting pouch, and as long as he stayed within sight of the Mohawk River to the north, he’d keep his bearings, regardless of the snow.

But by the third day the wound had been clearly festering, and the fever had taken him soon after the snow had begun. Now when he looked down at the rifle in his hands, the barrel iced with a fine line of snow, he couldn’t tell if his fingers shook from the cold or the ague.

But his mother would know the remedy for that, and how to draw the poison from the gunshot wound, too. He would hold the lantern high for her while she stood on a chair to sort through the bundles of dried herbs and barks that hung from the rafters upstairs, clucking her tongue and frowning a little as her long, graceful fingers sought exactly what she’d need.

Then she’d toss the leaves into the little iron pot with the mended leg and simmer them into a draught, or maybe she’d grind and mix them into a poultice. Whichever it was, he’d submit manfully, sitting in the straight-backed bench near the window in the kitchen without flinching or grimacing as an example to his little brother, Sam. Besides, when his shoulder was finally cleaned and bandaged, his mother would reward him with squash pie, not so much a slice of it as a slab, with sweet thickened cream puddled around golden custard on the red earthenware plate.

Somewhere ahead a branch snapped off beneath the weight of the snow, a loud crack in the white silence, and belatedly Jamie’s numbed reflexes took over and he lifted his rifle to his eye. But there was nothing, no Senecas or soldiers or gold squash pie on a red plate, only more bare, black trees against the endless snow.

With a groan of frustration and pain, he once again rubbed his thumb into his eyes. He didn’t want to slip into another fever-dream of home. He couldn’t afford to. Only dying men thought of their mothers and the places they’d lived as boys. After battles he’d heard too many final, garbled recollections from other soldiers to doubt it. He wasn’t going to die, not yet, and he wasn’t going to think of his mother, wiping her hands on her green apron before she smoothed his hair back from his forehead and—

Damnation, it was the fever, that was all! That stone house on the hill wasn’t theirs anymore and hadn’t been for over two years, not since his father had stood up in their Meeting and spoken out against this desolate, destructive war. A Quaker who had counseled peace instead of bloodletting, he had been branded a traitor for his beliefs by the same Congress that promised freedom. The Ryders had lost their house, lost the land that had been in their family for generations. There was no longer an attic filled with pungent, healing herbs, no bench beneath the kitchen window worn smooth by five generations of Ryders, no more of the pie his mother was cutting with the horn-handled knife, the butter crust flaking and crumbling the same way it would on his tongue—no!

Jamie shook his head with desperation, the snow dropping in heavy clots from his hat’s brim. He guessed it was nearly nightfall, and if he didn’t find some sort of shelter, a cave or empty trapper’s hut, he wouldn’t survive until dawn. He didn’t deserve the comfort of memories now. Better to remember why he was running. Better to think of what he’d done and what he hadn’t, of why he’d been shot and why he’d be hung if the soldiers caught him. Or the tall Seneca brave with the feathered scalp lock, the one who’d reached the children first. Better to let the grief and horror of all he’d seen eat at his conscience and sharpen his senses to survive.

God preserve him, he didn’t want to die alone.

Chapter One

“Hang on, Billy!”

Exasperated, Rachel dropped the milking bucket onto the snow-covered path before her and hoisted the giggling toddler higher onto her shoulders. Why did Billy insist on bringing his stuffed calico horse everywhere they went, even the forty feet from the house to the cow shed? Of course, clutching Blackie would seem more important than hanging on to her shoulders, and much funnier, too.

“You’re a wriggly little weasel, Billy Lindsey,” scolded Rachel good-naturedly as she bent to pick up the buckets again. “Don’t you let go again, mind?”

She couldn’t really blame Billy for not wanting to ride on her back like a baby anymore. By summer’s end he’d been nearly able to outrun her to the orchard, and for his third birthday in October she’d cut and sewn him his first pair of breeches, though he still came to her for help with the buttons. Now with winter here he needed real boots or shoes of his own, the kind she remembered the little boys in Providence and Newport wearing, not the deerskin moccasins he had on his feet now. Just because they lived so far from town didn’t mean he had to grow up wild.

But shoes and boots cost money, more money than she was ever likely to see with William off to war. Not that there’d been much when her husband had still been here on the farm, either. Once they’d left Providence, William had been as chary with money as he was with affection, and far too free with criticism and the back of his hand. With a long sigh she headed off to the barn, her skirts dragging through the new snow and her feet sliding in an old pair of William’s boots, the toes stuffed with wool.

She shouldn’t complain, not even in her own thoughts. Last winter had been hard because it had been her first here on the farm, and she’d been alone, too, except for Billy. This year would be better. She knew what to expect, and she’d be prepared. She wasn’t the same girlish bride she’d been then, full of silly romantic dreams. No, because of William, that part of her was gone forever.

And what of it? she asked herself fiercely. What good came from lamenting what couldn’t be changed? If she’d lost her old dreams, she’d found new ones to replace them. She paused long enough to look across the wide sweep of the land, theirs—hers—clear to the silver band of the river, feeling the same swell of pride and love she felt when she watched Billy. The sky was so blue it almost hurt to look at it, the new snow white and perfect. How dare she feel sorry for herself on a morning like this? She smiled and bounced Billy to make him laugh as they made their way down the path.

Because she’d taken the time to sweep her front step clear of snow she was late tending to her cow, and as she tugged the door across the little drift of snow Rachel could hear Juno lowing restlessly. At once Billy slid from her back and ran after the rooster and his hens, waving Blackie wildly at the fleeing chickens.

“Good day to you, my lady Juno,” said Rachel to the russet cow. “I trust you passed the night tolerably well?”

Yet she frowned as she scratched the cow’s velvety nose in greeting, and glanced back uneasily at the planked door. She’d been sure she’d latched that door tightly when she’d finished milking last night, yet this morning the bar had been dangling free. No wonder the animals seemed so skittish. If she wasn’t more careful she’d lose her “lady” as well as her poultry to wolves or mountain cats.

“Mama!” Billy’s frantic, frightened wail drew Rachel at once. She rushed around to the far side of the manger to where he’d chased the chickens, and lifted him into her arms.

“There now, love, all’s well,” she murmured, stroking his soft gold hair as he burrowed his face into her shoulder. “I wasn’t far. You couldn’t see me, that was all. I was here the whole time.”

But the little boy only wept harder as Rachel strove to comfort him, rocking from side to side. What could have frightened him so badly on such a bright, sunfilled morning? Finally Billy lifted his head with a shuddering sob and dared to peek around Rachel’s shoulder. What he saw made him howl again, and cling as tightly as he could to Rachel.

“What could it possibly be, child?” she said as she turned, too. “There’s nothing—oh, God in heaven!”

From where she stood the man looked dead, sprawled across the straw where he’d fallen, but still Rachel wished she had her musket with her. The man’s own rifle lay beside him where it had slipped free of his hand, and before she could change her mind Rachel put Billy down and darted forward to pick up the gun. Holding it in both hands, she felt better; living alone had given her a greater respect for firearms.

She was sure this stranger was—or had been—some sort of soldier. Though he was dressed like most men who spent their lives in the wilderness—a white blanketlike coat with indigo stripes, deerskin leggings and hunting shirt over another of checked linen, a long knife in a beaded sheath at his waist, a wide-brimmed hat with a turkey feather in the brim, and everything soaked with melted snow—the tomahawk hanging from his belt told another story.

Troubling, too, was the extra powder horn slung around his chest and another bag for shot and wadding, far more ammunition than any common trapper or wanderer would carry. The rifle in her hands was much finer, too, with a cherry-wood barrel inlaid with stars and elegant engraving on the plate. German made, she guessed, or maybe Philadelphia, but too valuable for most of the men in this part of New York.

Still the man didn’t move. Carefully she knelt beside him, Billy clinging to her skirts. The shoulder of the stranger’s coat was stained dark with dried blood, the ragged hole in the fabric doubtless matching one in him, and sadly she wondered how he’d come to be in such a sorry state.

He was younger than she’d first thought, no more than twenty-five or thirty, his jaw and mouth hidden by a fortnight’s growth of beard. His hair was long and untied, the ends curling over his collar, and the rich, burnished color of chestnuts. His features were strong and even, his nose and cheekbones marked with a scattering of freckles nearly lost on his weatherworn skin, freckles too boyish for the hard living that showed in every inch of his face.

A handsome man, admitted Rachel reluctantly, the kind of man who turned ladies’ heads with a smile and a wink. But dead or alive, he wouldn’t turn hers. She’d had enough of that with William, and she wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

“Mama?” asked Billy, all his doubts—and hers, too—clear enough to Rachel in that single word. What was she going to do with the man? Much as she wished he hadn’t come stumbling into her life, she couldn’t very well leave him here. Tentatively she reached out to touch his neck to find his pulse, if one still was there to find. She slipped her fingers inside his collar, his hair curling so familiarly around her wrist that she almost jerked away. Foolish, she chided herself angrily, foolish, foolish, to draw away from the meaningless touch of an unconscious man!

His skin was as hot as the snow in the fields was cold, and though she now knew he lived she wondered for how much longer, burning with a fever like this. As her fingers pressed against the side of his neck he groaned, the vibrations of it passing to her fingertips. Billy yelped and retreated behind the manger, and Rachel wished she could, too.

“Hush, Billy, he can’t hurt you,” she said, reassuring herself as much as the child. She bent over the man, keeping his rifle in her hand just to be sure. “He won’t be hurting anyone for a good long time.”

She had to get him into the house where the fire would warm him, and where she could tend to his wound. But though she was tall for a woman, he still looked to have half a foot advantage over her, and Lord only knew how much more he weighed. More than she alone could drag along the snowy path to the house, that she knew for sure.

“Sir? Can you hear me, sir?” she asked uncertainly. The man didn’t move again. “I want to take you back to the house so I can tend you properly, but you’re going to have to help me some.”

Suddenly Billy ran forward to the wounded man. With a shriek of bravado and indignation at being ignored by Rachel, he thumped his stuffed horse as hard as he could on the man’s chest. The man’s eyes flew open and he twisted and gasped with agony, but at the same time his hand groped reflexively for his knife.

“Billy, no!” Frantically Rachel pulled the boy away and shoved him behind her as she raised the rifle. Her heart pounding, her gaze met that of the stranger’s over the long barrel of the weapon. His eyes were blue, as blue as the sky outside, and filled now with confusion and pain. He blinked twice, his breath coming hard. He opened his shaking fingers and let the knife drop from them into the straw.

“I would not harm the boy,” he said slowly, painfully. Despite the cold, his forehead was glazed with sweat. “You must believe me.”

“I’ve no reason to believe anything of the sort.” With her toe Rachel kicked the knife across the floor. “I’m willing to help you, but no trickery.”

“You are…kind.” The man tried to smile, his mouth curving crookedly and with more charm than any man so close to death had a right to. But Rachel didn’t lower the rifle. The bluest eyes she’d ever seen and a smile to make angels weep weren’t reasons enough for her to trust him.

“And you,” he said, every word labored, “you won’t kill me with my own gun?”

With a sniff Rachel took the rifle from her shoulder. “Can you stand?”

“If you say I must.” With enormous effort and a groan he couldn’t suppress, he rolled over onto his knees and stayed there, his breath ragged. Rachel’s resolve wavered. Handsome or not, the man was weak from pain and lost blood, and he deserved her help.

Sighing, she leaned his rifle against the wall, opened the barn door and bent to slide her arm around his waist. Gratefully he put his arm across her shoulder and with a grunt managed to stand upright. Together they swayed unsteadily, the man’s weight almost too much for Rachel to manage. Having Billy clinging jealously to one of her knees didn’t help her balance one bit, either.

“Where’s your man?” the stranger asked when they’d managed to hobble to the wall for him to rest.

Rachel chewed on her lower lip, considering how best to answer. Most likely the man wanted to know if there was someone larger and more able to help him, but even weak as he was, she didn’t want him knowing exactly how alone she and Billy were.

“My husband’s not here at present,” she answered stiffly. With her arm around his waist, she was acutely aware of the man’s size, how he seemed all lean muscle and bone and sinew. Seventeen months had passed since William had left, seventeen months without feeling a man’s body pressed this closely to hers. “But I expect him back directly.”

The man glanced down at her beneath his long lashes. “Which army is he with?”

“American, of course, though—” She broke off, shamed by how easily he’d discovered the truth. “You’re a soldier, too, aren’t you? Is that how you were wounded, in a battle?”

“Aye, in a battle.” His voice was flat, so unemotional that Rachel guessed he had secrets of his own to hide. So be it; she’d respect that. But she couldn’t deny that she was curious about who he was and where he’d come from, why he hadn’t told her his name or asked hers either, and if the battle he’d fought would draw the war closer to her home. She’d simply have to wait until he told her himself, that was all. If he was like William, the next words from his mouth would be bragging and boasting about himself.

But somehow already she knew this man wasn’t at all like her husband.

“You go.” Billy looked suspiciously up the man’s long legs to his face. “You leave Mama alone an’ go.”

The man smiled again. “I’m trying my best, lad.” He pushed away from the wall with a grunt, leaning heavily on Rachel. “If you can spare something warm—broth or cider—I’d be obliged, and then I won’t trouble you further. I’ve tarried here long enough.”

“All the hot cider in this county couldn’t make you fit to travel,” scoffed Rachel. “You’ll stay here until you’re able to move on.”

He looked at her warily, in a way that reminded Rachel of how he’d evaded her question about the army. “Nay, you are kind, but I can’t ask you to shelter me.”

“You didn’t ask. I offered.” And only common hospitality made her offer, she reassured herself. Blue eyes and the neat way her body fit next to his had nothing to do with it. “There’s precious few white folks in these lands, and we all do for each other. I wouldn’t want to think of you perishing by yourself in the woods.”

“So I won’t be alone after all, will I?” He might have laughed; the sound was so hollow that Rachel couldn’t tell. “How far to your house?”

“Not far.” Not far to her, thought Rachel grimly, but for him the short path would seem like forty miles instead of forty feet. She could feel the heat of the fever burning through his heavy clothing, and she suspected he was a great deal sicker than he wanted her to know. “Not far at all.”