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MILLS & BOON
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About the Author
As a child, FIONA HARPER was constantly teased for either having her nose in a book, or living in a dream world. Things haven’t changed much since then, but at least in writing she’s found a use for her runaway imagination. After studying dance at university, Fiona worked as a dancer, teacher and choreographer, before trading in that career for video-editing and production. When she became a mother she cut back on her working hours to spend time with her children, and when her littlest one started pre-school she found a few spare moments to rediscover an old but not forgotten love—writing.
Fiona lives in London, but her other favourite places to be are the Highlands of Scotland and the Kent countryside on a summer’s afternoon. She loves cooking good food and anything cinnamon-flavoured. Of course she still can’t keep away from a good book or a good movie—especially romances—but only if she’s stocked up with tissues, because she knows she will need them by the end, be it happy or sad. Her favourite things in the world are her wonderful husband, who has learned to decipher her incoherent ramblings, and her two daughters.
CHAPTER ONE
THESE were the kind of gates made for keeping people out, Faith thought as she tipped her head back and looked up at twenty feet of twisting and curling black iron. Neither the exquisite craftsmanship nor the sharp wind slicing through the bars did anything to dispel the firm message that outsiders should stay on her side of the gate.
Too bad. She needed to get into the grounds of Hadsborough Castle and she needed to do it today.
She glanced round in frustration to where her Mini sat idling, her suitcase and overnight bag stuffed in the back, and sighed. She’d had other plans for today—ones involving a quaint little holiday cottage on the Kent coast, hot chocolate with marshmallows and a good book. The perfect winter holiday. But that had all changed when she’d found an innocent-looking lilac envelope on her doorstep yesterday morning. The cheerful snowman return address sticker on the back hadn’t been fooling anyone. She’d known even before she’d ripped the letter open that its contents would cause trouble, but the exact brand of nuisance had been a total surprise.
She stared out over the top of her Mini to the rolling English countryside beyond. The scene was strangely monochrome. Fog clung to the dips in the fields and everything was tinged with frost. Only the dark silhouettes of trees on top of the hill remained ungilded.
It was strange. She’d grown up in the country back home in Connecticut, but this landscape didn’t have the earthy, familiar feel she’d been expecting when she’d driven out of London earlier that morning. Even though she’d adopted this country almost a decade ago, and her sisters now teased her about her so-called British accent, for the first time in ages she was suddenly very aware she was a foreigner. This misty piece of England didn’t just feel like another country; it felt like another world.
She turned round and tried a smaller gate beside the main pair, obviously made for foot traffic. No good. Also locked. A painted board at the side of the gate informed her that normal castle opening hours were between ten and four, Tuesday through Saturday. Closed to visitors on Mondays.
But she wasn’t a tourist. She had an appointment.
At least she thought she had an appointment.
She shook the smaller gate again, and the chain that bound it rattled, laughing back at her.
That was what Gram’s letter had said. She pulled the offending article out of her pocket and leafed through the lilac pages, ignoring the smug-looking snowman on the back. She’d bet he didn’t have a wily old white-haired grandmother who was blackmailing him into taking precious time out of his vacation.
She scanned down past the news of Beckett’s Run, past Gram’s description of how festive her hometown was looking now the residents had started preparing for the annual Christmas Festival.
Ah, here it was.
Faith, honey, I wonder if you’d do me a favor? I have a friend—an old flame, really—who needs help with a stained glass window, and I told him I knew just the girl for the job. Bertie and I were sweethearts after the war. We had a magical summer, but then he went home and married a nice English girl and I met your grandfather. I think it all worked out as it should have in the end.
The window is on the estate of Hadsborough Castle in Kent. What was the name of the man who designed it? Bertie did say. It’ll come to me later …
Anyhow, I know you’ll be finished with your London window soon, and you mentioned the next restoration project wasn’t going to start until the New Year, so I thought you could go down and help him with it. I told him you’d be there November 30th at 11 a.m.
And here she was.
Still gripping Gram’s letter between thumb and forefinger, she flipped the pages over so she could pull up the sleeve of her grey duffle coat to check her watch. It was the thirtieth, at ten-fifty, so why wasn’t anyone here to meet her? To let her in? She could have been sipping hot chocolate right now if it hadn’t been for Gram’s little idea of a detour.
As beautiful as the window at St Bede’s in Camden had looked when the team had finished restoring it, it had been four months of back-breaking, meticulous labour. She deserved a break, and she was going to have it.
Just as soon as she’d checked out this window.
She turned the last page over and looked below her grandmother’s signature. Reading the line again still gave her goosebumps.
P.S. I knew it would come to me! Samuel Crowbridge. That was the designer’s name.
Without that tantalising mention of the well-known British artist Faith would have blown off this little side trip on the way to her holiday cottage in a heartbeat.
Well…okay, maybe she’d have come anyway. Gram had been the one stable figure in her otherwise chaotic childhood—more like a surrogate mother than a grandparent. All Faith’s happiest memories were rooted in Gram’s pretty little house in Beckett’s Run. She owed her grandmother big time, and she’d probably have danced on one leg naked in the middle of Trafalgar Square if the old lady had asked her to.
She supposed she should be grateful that the letter hadn’t started, Faith, honey, try not to get arrested, but could you just hop down to Nelson’s Column and …?
The road that passed the castle entrance was quiet, but at that moment she heard the noise of a car engine and turned round. Thankfully, a Land Rover had pulled in beside her and the driver rolled down the passenger window.
‘It’s closed today,’ the man in a chunky-knit sweater said, in a not-unfriendly manner.
Faith nodded. ‘I have an appointment to see …’ This was the moment she realised Gram had neglected to reveal her old flame’s full name. ‘Bertie?’
The man in the car frowned slightly. He didn’t look convinced.
‘It’s about the window,’ she added, not really expecting it to help. The appointment her grandmother had made for her seemed as flimsy and insubstantial as the disappearing mist. But the man nodded.
‘Follow me in,’ he said. ‘There’s a public car park just up the road. You can walk the rest of the way from there.’
‘Thanks,’ she replied, and got back into her car.
Five minutes later, after a drive through the most stunning parkland, she was standing beside her Mini as the noise of the Land Rover’s engine faded. She watched the four-wheel drive disappear round a corner, then followed the path the man had indicated in the opposite direction, up a gentle slope of close-cropped grass. When she got to the top of the hill she stopped dead in her tracks and her mouth fell open.
Beyond an expansive lawn, gauzy mist hung above a dark, mirror-like lake. Above it, almost as if it was floating above the surface of the water, was the most stunning castle she’d ever seen. It was made of large blocks of creamy sandstone, crested with crenellations, and finished off with a turret or two for good measure. Long, narrow windows punctuated its walls.
The castle enclosure stretched from the bank on her right across two small islands. A plain single-track bridge joined the first island to the shore, guarded by a gatehouse. The smaller island was a fortified keep, older than the rest of the castle, and joined to the newer, larger wing by a two-storey arched bridge.
The whole thing looked like something out of a fairytale. Better than anything she’d dreamed up when Gram had tucked her and her sisters in at night on their summer holidays and read to them out of Faith’s favourite fabric-covered storybook.
She started to walk, hardly caring that she’d left the Tarmac, and started off across the dew-laden grass, running the risk of getting goose poop on her boots. The edge of the lake was fringed with reeds, and a pair of black swans with scarlet beaks drifted around each other, totally oblivious to her presence.
That bridge from the bank to the gatehouse seemed to be the only way to get to the rest of the castle, so she guessed she might as well start there. Perhaps there would be someone on duty who knew where this window or the mysterious Bertie could be found.
She was nearing the castle, walking close to the low-lying bank, when she saw a dark shape in the mist moving towards her. She stopped and pulled her coat tighter around her. The damp air clung to her cheeks.
She could make out a figure—long, tall and dark. A man, his coat flapping behind him as he strode towards her. She was inevitably reminded of stern Victorian gentlemen in gothic novels. There was something about the purpose in his stride, the way his collar was turned up. But then he came closer and she could see clearly from his thick ribbed sweater and the dark jeans under his overcoat that he was a product of this century after all.
He hadn’t noticed her. She knew she ought to say something, call out, but she couldn’t seem to breathe, let alone talk.
She had the oddest feeling that she recognised him, although she couldn’t have explained just which of his features were familiar. It was all of them. All of him. And him being in this place.
Which was crazy, because she’d never been here before in her life—except maybe in her childish daydreams—and she’d certainly remember meeting a man like this…a man whose sudden appearance answered a question she wasn’t aware she’d asked.
Finally he spotted her, and his stride faltered for a moment, but then his spine lengthened and he carried on, his focus narrowing to her and only her. The look in his eyes reminded her of a hunting dog that had just picked up a scent.
‘Hey!’ he called out as came closer.
‘Hi …’ Faith tried to say, but the damp air muffled the word, and the noise that emerged from her mouth was hardly intelligible.
He was only a few feet away now, and Faith stuffed her gloved hands into her coat pockets as she tipped her head back to look him in the face. My, he was tall. But not burly with it. Long and lean. She could see why she’d had that dumb notion about him now. Black hair, slightly too long to be tidy, flopped over his forehead and curled at his collar. His bone structure and long, straight nose spoke of centuries of breeding and he addressed her now in a manner that left her in no doubt that he was used to having people do as he said.
‘The castle and grounds are closed to visitors today. You’ll have to turn round and go back the way you came.’
And he stood there, waiting for her to obey him.
Normally Faith didn’t have any problem being polite and accommodating, doing what she was asked—it was the path to a quiet and peaceful existence after all—but there was something about his tone, about the way he hadn’t even stopped to ask if she had a valid reason for being there, that just riled her up. Maybe it was the suggestion that once again she was somewhere she didn’t belong that made her temper rise.
‘I’m not trespassing. I’m supposed to—’
Before she could finish her sentence he took another step forward, cupped his hand under her elbow and started to walk her back in the direction she’d just come.
‘Hey!’ she said, and yanked her elbow out of his grip. ‘Hands off, buddy!’
‘Should have known it,’ he muttered, almost to himself. ‘American tourists are always the worst.’ Then he spoke louder, and more slowly, as if he were talking to a child. ‘Listen, you have to realise this isn’t just a visitor attraction like Disneyland. It’s a family home, too, and we have just as much right to our privacy as anyone else. Now, if you don’t leave quietly I will be forced to call the police.’
Faith was rapidly losing the urge even to be polite to this stuck-up…whoever he was. No matter how dashing he’d looked walking out of the mist.
‘No, you listen,’ she replied firmly. ‘I have every right to be here. I have an appointment with Bertie.’
He stopped herding her towards the exit and his eyes narrowed further. She had no doubt that a sharp mind went hand in hand with those aristocratic looks. ‘You mean Albert Huntington?’
Faith took a split second longer than she would have liked to reply. ‘Yes, of course.’ There couldn’t be more than one Albert—Bertie—around this place, could there? That had to be him.
Unfortunately Mr Tall, Dark and Full of Himself didn’t miss a trick. He spotted her hesitation and instantly grabbed her arm again, started marching her back towards the gate. ‘Nice try, but nobody but the family calls him Bertie—and you’re from the wrong continent entirely to be considered a close relation.’
Hah. That was all he knew.
‘Actually, my father is as English as you are,’ she added icily. ‘And my grandmother—’ the American one, but she didn’t mention that ‘—is an old friend of his. I’m here to give my professional opinion on a stained glass window!’
He let go of her arm and turned to look her up and down. ‘You’re the expert Bertie’s asked to look at the window?’
Close enough to the truth. She nodded. ‘I believe it might need some kind of repair.’
Okay, she didn’t actually know if any restoration work was needed, but why would Gram have sent her here otherwise? It was a pretty good guess, and she really, really wanted to sneak a look at that window at least once before this man frogmarched her off the estate. Not one of Crowbridge’s other windows—and there hadn’t been many—had survived the Blitz. This could be a significant discovery.
He stopped looking irritated and purposeful, closed his eyes and ran a hand through his dark hair before glancing back in the direction of the castle. ‘I hoped he’d given up on that idea.’ He gave her a weary look. ‘I suppose I’d better take you to meet him, then, Miss …?’
‘McKinnon. Faith McKinnon,’ she said, trying to get her voice to remain even.
‘I apologise, Miss McKinnon, if I’ve been a little abrupt …’
A little? And he didn’t look that sorry to her. If anything he’d clenched up further. Her younger sister would have described him as having a stick up his—
‘I’m sure you can understand how difficult it is to have your home invaded,’ he added, but Faith still wasn’t quite sure she was off the ‘invader’ list.
‘People think that because we open our home to them for a few days each week it is somehow public property.’
She nodded. She knew all about invading families, about being a cuckoo in the nest, but she wasn’t going to tell this man that. It certainly wouldn’t endear her to him any further.
‘Bertie isn’t in the best of health at the moment,’ he added gravely. ‘I’ve been trying to make sure he doesn’t get too upset.’ He led the way back through the thinning mist round the edge of the lake. ‘Difficult, though,’ he added, ‘when he’s obsessed with this damn window.’
He strode ahead, and Faith followed him up a short incline and onto the first, plainer stone bridge, through a large arch under the gatehouse and onto an oval lawn that filled more than half of the first castle island. She tried not to let her eyes pop out of her head.
Wow.
The castle was even better close up than it had been rising through the mist. A gravel pathway encircled the lawn and led up to a vast front door covered in iron studs.
This Bertie had his office in the castle itself? Nice.
As her guide opened the front door and stood aside to let her pass, he surprised her by allowing one side of his mouth to hitch up in the start of a smile as he checked his watch.
‘I imagine Bertie will be finished with his morning tea by now. I’ll take you through to the drawing room.’
Faith looked at him sharply. ‘You mean Bertie lives here?’
The almost-smile disappeared. ‘Of course he lives here. It’s his home.’ He shook his head. ‘You Americans really do have some funny ideas, you know …’
Faith held her breath. She would have liked to challenge him on that last comment, but two things stopped her. First, it would have given her lack of knowledge about this Bertie away. Second, she was too busy making sense of all the mismatched pieces of information running round her head.
Gram had left a heck of a lot out of her letter, hadn’t she?
She cleared her throat. ‘Does Bertie have a full title?’
He gave her the patronising kind of look that told her he thought she’d finally started asking sensible questions. ‘Albert Charles Baxter Huntington, seventh Duke of Hadsborough.’
Faith blinked slowly, trying to give nothing away.
Act like you knew that.
A duke? Gram had had a fling with a duke? She’d thought from the tone of the letter that he’d been a fellow academic or master craftsman working on a project. She hadn’t even considered that Bertie might own the window. And the building it inhabited. And this castle. And probably most of the land for miles around. Part of her was shocked at her conservative grandmother’s secret past. Another part wanted to punch the air and say, Go, Gram!
Faith’s throat was suddenly very dry. ‘And that would make you …?’
He frowned, then held out his hand, doing nothing to erase the horizontal lines that were bunching up his forehead. ‘Marcus Huntington—estate manager of Hadsborough Castle …’
Faith looked at his hand and swallowed. Hesitantly, she pulled her hand from her mitten and slid it into his. Since he hadn’t been wearing gloves she’d expected his skin to be ice-cold, but his grip was firm and his palm was warm against hers.
She looked down at their joined hands. This felt right. As if she remembered doing this before and had been waiting to do it again. Worse than that, she didn’t want to let go. She looked back up at him, hoping she didn’t look as panic-stricken as she felt. That was when her heart really started to thump.
He was staring at their hands, too. Then he looked up and his eyes met hers. She saw matching confusion and surprise in his expression.
He cleared his throat. ‘Bertie’s grandson and heir.’
Marcus pulled his hand away from hers, ignoring the pleasant ripple of sensation as her fingertips brushed his palm. Not the cliché of an electric shock racing up his arm. No, something far more unsettling—a sense of warmth, a sense of how right her hand felt in his. And that couldn’t be, because everything about this situation was wrong. She was not supposed to be here, trespassing on his family’s lives and stirring up trouble.
But it hadn’t been just the touch. It had started before that, when he’d caught her walking down by the lake. There was something about those small, understated features and those direct, reasonable brown eyes that totally caught him off guard.
And if there was one thing he hated it was being off guard.
However, when she’d slid her hand into his, and all the ear-pounding had stopped and his senses had calmed down and come to rest …
If anything that had been worse.
He couldn’t let himself fall into that trap again, so it was time to do something about it. Time to find out what Faith McKinnon wanted and deal with her as quickly as possible.
‘If you’ll follow me …?’
He turned and led the way through a flagstone-paved entrance hall, its arches and whitewashed walls decorated with remnants of long-ago disassembled suits of armour, then showed her into the yellow drawing room—the smallest and warmest reception room on the ground floor of the castle.
Gold-coloured damask covered the walls, fringed with heavy brocade tassels under the plaster coving at the top. There were antique tables covered in trinkets and family photographs, a grand piano, and a large squashy sofa in front of the vast marble fireplace. Off to one side of the hearth, in a high-backed leather armchair, reading his daily newspaper, was his grandfather. He looked so innocent. No one would guess he’d ignited a bit of a family row with this window obsession.
Marcus wasn’t exactly sure what the kerfuffle was about—something that had happened decades earlier, in a time when stiff-lipped silence had been the preferred solution to every problem—but his great-aunt Tabitha had warned him that Bertie was about to open a Pandora’s box of trouble, and nothing any of them learned about whatever the family had been keeping quiet for more than half a century would make anyone any happier.
Disruption was the last thing he needed—especially as he’d spent the last couple of years getting everything back on an even keel. Bertie might live at Hadsborough now, but in his younger years he’d all but abandoned his duty to explore the world.
Unfortunately he’d passed his laissez-faire attitude down to his only son, and before his death Marcus’s father had just seen the castle as somewhere impressive to bring his business friends for the odd weekend. He’d also failed to keep hold of three wives, and the resulting divorce settlements had crippled the family finances further. But that was just the tip of the iceberg where his father had been concerned. It had taken centuries to build this family’s reputation, and his father had managed to rip it to shreds within twelve months.
So Marcus had left the City and come to Hadsborough to be by his grieving grandfather’s side. It was his job to claw it all back now. The Huntington family legacy had been neglected for too many generations. Taken for granted. These things couldn’t just be left to run their own course; they needed to be managed. Guarded. Or there would be nothing left—not even a good name—to pass on to his children when they came along.