“Do you know how very special you’ve become to me?” Quenton asked. Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Copyright

“Do you know how very special you’ve become to me?” Quenton asked.

Olivia was afraid to speak, for fear of spoiling the moment.

“I must kiss you, Olivia.” He bent to her and brushed his lips over hers. It was the merest whisper of mouth to mouth. And yet it sent heat pouring through her veins. Her heart swelled with so much love she feared it would burst.

On a gasp she started to pull away. He changed the angle of the kiss and moved his hands along her back, soothing, arousing.

Quenton.“

“Shh. A minute more.” He pressed soft, moist kisses to her temple, her cheek, the tip of her nose. His mouth followed the line of her jaw, teasing the corner of her lips until, unable to wait any longer, she turned her face and felt his lips cover hers once more.

The kiss was no longer gentle. With a guttural sound they came together in a fierce heat that threatened to consume them both....

Dear Reader,

This month we’ve covered all the bases. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll find romance. Our big news this month is the return of Ruth Langan with Blackthorne, her first medieval novel in nearly four years! Packed with intrigue and emotion, this is the tale of a haunted widower, the lord of Blackthorne, whose child’s governess teaches him how to love again. It’s great!

Be sure to look for Apache Fire by longtime author Elizabeth Lane. In this stirring Western, a Native American army scout on the run from vigilantes finds shelter in the arms of a beautiful young widow. In Lost Acres Bride by rising talent Lynna Banning, a rugged, by-the-book rancher must contend with the female spitfire who inherits a piece of his land—and gets a piece of his heart! Don’t miss this fun and frolicking Western.

Rounding out the month is Three Dog Knight by the versatile Tori Phillips. This clever “prequel” to Midsummer’s Knight is about a painfully shy earl whose marriage of convenience to an illegitimate noblewoman must survive the schemes of an evil sister-in-law.

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals® novel.

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, Out. L2A 5X3

Blackthorne

Ruth Langan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RUTH LANGAN traces her ancestry to Scotland and Ireland. It is no surprise, then, that she feels a kinship with the characters in her historical novels.

Married to her childhood sweetheart, she has raised five children and lives in Michigan, the state where she was born and raised.

To Riley Erin Langan

And her proud parents, Mike and Patty

And her big sister, Kelly

And, as always, to Tom

Who owns my heart.

Chapter One

Cornwall, 1662

Evening shadows cloaked the rolling hills and verdant meadows dotted with sheep. Tenant farmers, weary after a day in the fields, paused behind their flocks to watch as an elegant carriage rolled toward the manor house in the distance.

“So. The blackheart has returned.” An old man leaned on his staff and turned to his son. “It isn’t enough that he murdered his bride and tossed his brother from the cliffs, leaving him mute and crippled. Or that he fled England for a life of crime on the high seas, leaving the old lord to clean up his mess. Now he thinks his friendship with the king gives him the right to just come back and claim his inheritance as though nothing has happened.”

“Who’s to stop him?” the younger man muttered.

“Aye. Who indeed? The rich live by their own rules.” The old man’s eyes narrowed, watching the carriage roll to a stop in the distant courtyard. “It’s bad enough that our sweat and blood contribute to his wealth. Pity those who must actually live under his roof at Blackthorne.”

“God save us! His lordship has arrived.” Mistress Thornton, housekeeper at Blackthorne, the estate of Quenton, Lord Stamford, clapped her hands for attention, then began summoning the servants in her squeaky, high-pitched voice. The more agitated she became, the higher her voice. “Edlyn, you vain, idleheaded minnow. Stop preening and move along with the others.”

As the servants spilled out the front entrance and formed a long column in the courtyard, she and Pem-broke, the head of the household staff, stepped forward. They made a comical picture. Where Mistress Thornton was as round as she was tall, with a soiled apron tied crookedly around her middle and a ruffled cap perched upon tousled white curls, Pembroke was tall and thin as a stick, with every dark hair in place and his clothing meticulously pressed. Her voice had the screech of rusty wheels. His was as cultured as royalty.

The driver brought the team to a halt, then leapt down and opened the door to the carriage. A cloaked figure stepped out, barely glancing at the assembled staff.

“Welcome home, my lord,” Pembroke called, after clearing his throat loudly.

“I hope yer journey was a pleasant one,” the housekeeper added.

“Allow me to present your servants, my lord.” Pembroke turned to see that the maids bowed properly and the lads removed their caps.

Lord Stamford acknowledged each one with a brusque nod, then turned back as a little boy stepped down from the carriage.

Pembroke remained ramrod straight, no sign of surprise visible on his features. But his gaze flicked over the sun-bronzed skin, jet-black hair and wide dark eyes of the lad.

For his part, the boy stared around in bewilderment at the imposing fortress with its acres of manicured lawns and its turreted towers that caught the last rays of the fading sun.

The driver began unlashing trunks and dropping them to the ground. At a snap of Pembroke’s fingers several of the staff hurried forward to deal with the lord’s baggage.

“Ye’ll be wanting a late supper, m’lord,” Mistress Thornon said nervously.

“Nay. Nothing.”

As the cloaked figure moved past her she called to his back, “Your rooms are ready for you, m’lord. We’ve prepared your grandfather’s rooms for your arrival.”

He paused. Without turning he said, “I would prefer my old rooms, Mistress Thornton.”

“Your old...? But, m‘lord, beggin’ your pardon, they’re a bit small for the likes of... I mean, now that you’re the new lord of the manor and all...”

He turned.

Seeing the scowl on his face she couldn’t help taking a step backward. “At once, m’lord. I’ll see to it myself.”

He gave a curt nod. “I will wish to visit my grandfather’s grave, Pembroke.”

“Aye, my lord. On the morrow?”

“Now.”

Pembroke swallowed. “At once. I’ll take you there myself. But first, you may wish to greet your brother. When he heard that you were returning he became quite... animated.”

Quenton glanced up. A man’s face peered down from the upper window. In the reflected glow of firelight, it appeared ghostly-white.

He gave an audible sigh, the only hint of any emotion. “Aye. I’ll go up to him.”

As the two men turned away Mistress Thornton gathered her courage and asked, “What of the boy, m’lord? Where shall we put him?”

He gave a negligent shrug. “The east wing, I suppose .”

“Aye,. m’lord.” The plump housekeeper glanced at the boy, who continued to stand hesitantly beside the carriage. “Come, lad. I’ll show you to yer rooms.”

He moved along at her side as they entered the imposing foyer. Mistress Thornton noted that he seemed properly awed by the gleaming chandeliers, ablaze with the light of hundreds of candles, and, as they began to climb the wide staircase, wildly interested in the colorful tapestries that lined the walls.

“Are ye hungry, lad?” She knew not what to call him, since the lord had not bothered to introduce him, and the lad had spoken nary a word.

He nodded.

“Well then, after I take ye to yer rooms, I’ll see that ye have a fine meal brought up.” When they reached the east wing, she flung open double doors and led him inside a set of rooms that included a sitting chamber and bedchamber.

“This is Edlyn.”

A scowling serving wench, who had been coaxing a fire on the grate, got to her feet, dusting off her skirts.

“This lumpish, knotty-pated strumpet will help you unpack and see that you’re made comfortable.”

The boy giggled at the housekeeper’s colorful choice of words, unsure of their meaning.

“And what is yer name, young master?” Edlyn asked.

“Liat.” His voice had a musical quality as he spoke the word in two syllables. He made his way to the balcony, where he climbed onto a trunk in order to stare at the green, rolling land below.

“Liat? What sort of mammering, hedge-born, heathen name is that?” the housekeeper muttered under her breath. She crossed herself, then turned away with a sigh. “I’ll have his supper sent up on a tray.”

As she hurried away, her mind was filled with thoubling thoughts. Too much had happened too soon. The old earl had been so loved until his unexpected death. It was well-known that his grandson had been reluctant to return from sea to take over the estate. Already the rumors were flying about the return of Lord Stamford to his ancestral home, Blackthorne. Now, to add fuel to the rumors, he had brought with him a lad of questionable parentage. She had no idea what to expect anymore. But this much she knew. Life here at Blackthorne would never be the same again.

Oxford, 1662

THE CEMETERY WAS little more than a bleak, windswept stretch of hill beside the country chapel. Through a curtain of mist could be glimpsed the rooftops of the university buildings and picturesque houses nestled in a green valley below.

The vicar, a stooped gnome of a man, intoned the words meant to comfort the bereaved. But the words he’d spoken a hundred times or more had little meaning to Olivia St. John, who stood with head bowed, tears flowing freely.

It was almost beyond comprehension. Mum and Papa, falling to their deaths during one of their daily climbs. Still young and vital and full of life and love. And now they were gone. And she was alone. Alone. The word reverberated, like a litany, through her mind. No parents, nor grandparents, nor brothers or sisters. Alone, except for this aunt and uncle, who were complete strangers to her.

She glanced toward her mother’s sister, Agatha, Lady Lindsey, who stood beside her dour-faced husband, Robert. As the two simple wooden boxes were lowered into the gaping holes in the earth, husband and wife turned their backs, hastening toward their waiting carriage to escape the elements. As if on cue, the heavens darkened and the rain began.

Olivia stood alone, unmindful of the cold rain that soaked her clothes and turned the open grave into a sea of mud at her feet. It seemed fitting somehow that it should rain. “The angels in heaven are weeping,” Mum had often said of the frequent English rains.

She couldn’t tear her gaze from the two caskets as the village gravedigger slowly covered them with earth. Even when the task was completed, she continued to stand alone, grieving as though her heart would break.

“Come, girl. Your aunt will catch a chill.” It was the rough grasp of her uncle’s hand upon her wrist that had her turning away. As soon as she was seated, a whip cracked and the carriage lurched ahead.

Her aunt’s words, spoken through gritted teeth, penetrated Olivia’s layers of pain. “I told Margaret that she was marrying beneath her station, but she would not listen. Her inheritance has been badly mismanaged.”

“Inheritance?”

“Alas, there is little enough left. You are practically penniless.”

“We were forced to live quite frugally, Aunt Agatha. Mum said that her money was in London, and under your control. Yours and Uncle Robert’s.”

Her uncle’s lips thinned. “You can be grateful for that, young lady, or it would all be gone. Had it not been for our son Wyatt’s careful scrutiny, that befuddled father of yours, with his nose stuck in dusty old books, would have squandered his wife’s inheritance years ago.”

“Papa had no interest in Mum’s money.”

“That was plain enough. As it is, there’s barely enough left to pay your keep, though I suppose we can get something for the sale of your cottage.”

Her husband gave a snort of disgust. “According to the vicar, even that will fetch no coin because your niece insists upon giving it away.”

“Giving it...?”

As her aunt began to issue a protest, Olivia struggled to keep the rising anger from her voice. “I have already offered it to the widow Dillingham, who is a dear friend of ours. Since the death of her son, she has no one to see to her. I know that Mum and Papa would have wanted to share what little they had with her.”

“No matter.” Her uncle dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “It would fetch little, since it is no more than a hovel.”

The cruel words brought a fresh stab of pain to Olivia’s heart. “It is the only home I have ever known.”

“And now you have none,” Agatha said with a sigh of impatience. “Out of respect for my sister’s memory, I suppose I shall have to take you back to London.”

“That isn’t necessary. I can take care of myself here in Oxford. I don’t wish to be a burden, Aunt Agatha.”

“Nor will I permit it.” The woman’s eyes glittered with shrewdness. She took note of the coarse, shapeless gown, the worn, shabby boots, the threadbare traveling cloak. The figure inside the clothes was equally unimpressive. Small and slight, with few womanly curves. Dark damp hair, tucked beneath a nondescript bonnet. If this girl had inherited her mother’s striking beauty, she kept it well hidden. Perhaps, Agatha thought, the unfortunate girl had inherited her father’s eccentric behavior instead.

How could this creature possibly fit in with the wealthy, titled women of London? Agatha thought of her own children, a daughter, Catherine, betrothed to the Earl of Gathwick, and a son, Wyatt, who shared his mother’s fondness for amassing a fortune. Thanks to Wyatt’s careful management of their estates, they had become one of the most prosperous families in England, and had even been invited to dine with the king. That had been one of Agatha’s proudest moments.

“At least you can earn your keep. The vicar told us that you have a fine mind, and that your father saw to your education. I suppose I can find you a position with one of our better families in London.”

London. Olivia thought about her impressions of the city on her single visit some years ago. Row upon row of town houses. Carriages clattering along narrow, dirty streets. Vendors, and parades of people, and parks filled with nannies and children. She had returned to her quiet country home and breathed a sigh of relief. “I cannot go to London. I prefer to remain here.”

“It is out of the question. As your mother’s only kin, I have no choice but to take you back.”

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of a modest cottage. “Pack your things, girl,” Agatha said sharply.

“Now?”

“Of course,” Agatha snapped. “Did you think we would make another trip just to fetch you later?”

“Will you come inside?” Olivia struggled to remember her manners. “And perhaps have some tea while I pack?”

Agatha’s reply was curt. “No, girl. Now move quickly.” She folded her arms across her ample bosom. “We are eager to return to London. We’ve suffered quite enough discomfort.”

Olivia was relieved that her aunt had refused her invitation. She was in desperate need to be alone. To gather her thoughts. To fill herself with the scents and sights and sounds of her home. To allow her heart a moment to grieve.

As she closed the door and leaned against it, her eyes filled with fresh tears. How she loved this place. For as long as she could remember, it had been her home. A home filled with love.

She touched a hand to the shelf that held her parents’ precious manuscripts. She had instructed the vicar to see that their papers were given to the university.

Perhaps to others the St. Johns had seemed odd. Always walking about the countryside, sketching the wild creature, observing and recording in a journal. But scholars had held both husband and wife in high esteem. As for Olivia, she adored them both, and had enjoyed nothing so much as the time spent in their company.

Hearing the impatient stomp of the horses, she hurried to her room and began to pack. There was little enough to take with her to London. Two serviceable gowns, one gray, one blue. A shawl, a bonnet, a parasol. As for the rest, she knew the widow Dillingham would distribute them among the needy of the village.

On a sudden whim she walked to her parents’ room and carefully folded the small, embroidered coverlet that lay across the foot of their bed. Her mother had made it before her wedding. Olivia pressed it to her face, inhaling the scent of her parents that lingered in the folds.

“Are you ready, girl?” came her uncle’s irritable voice.

She raced back to her own room and picked up her valise. As she stared around the little cottage, she had to swallow the lump that was threatening to choke her. How could she leave all that she held dear? How could she just walk away from her memories, her childhood, her life?

She glanced at the two crude rocking chairs, fashioned by her father’s hand, placed side by side in front of the fireplace. She could hear, inside her head, her mother’s voice. “The mind is a wonderful gift, Livvy. In it we carry all of life’s treasures. All the laughter, all the love. And so long as they are tucked safely away in our mind, they are always there when we need to take them out, to remember, to savor...”

“Come along now,” her uncle called sharply.

Olivia lifted her chin higher and strode out to the waiting carriage. The driver helped her inside and stowed her valise. As soon as her uncle settled himself beside his wife, they began to move.

She turned her head, drinking in her last glimpse of her beloved home. As they rounded a bend she strained until, at last, the little cottage slipped from view. She glanced up. Seeing her aunt’s penetrating stare, she bit her quivering lip until she tasted blood. She was determined that these two people would witness no further sign of weakness. But as she closed her eyes against the pain, she began to recall some of her treasured memories of her life with her gentle parents. They were not gone, she consoled herself; they Would live on forever in her mind.

Chapter Two

“Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord.” Mistress Thomton swallowed twice while Lord Stamford looked up from the ledgers on his desk.

“What is it?”

“It’s about the lad.”

“What about him?”

The housekeeper shrugged. She’d been rehearsing this for days. But now that she was facing that dark, penetrating stare, words failed her.

“Well?” He was clearly exasperated. “Is he ill?”

“Nay, m’lord. But he...he has no one to look out for him,” she blurted.

“Then order a servant to see to it.”

“I have.” She saw him pick up his quill, and began talking faster. “I’ve told that saucy, dizzy-eyed baggage Edlyn to watch out for him. But she does no more than is necessary. And with her household duties as well, ‘tis easy to forget about one small boy. Especially one as quiet as that. And if I may say, m’lord, it isn’t good for a young lad to spend all his time in his room. He seems to have grown pale and...sickly.”

“Nonsense. I looked in on him last night. I found nothing wrong.” He returned his attention to the ledgers.

“There’s something else, m’lord.”

He waited, without looking up.

“The lad appears bright enough. But he needs to be educated.”

“You’re right, of course. Perhaps a monastery...?”

“Nay, m’lord. Why, he can’t be much more than four or five years.” She waited, hoping to be given an exact age. When Lord Stamford didn’t bother to respond, she added, “That’s much too young to be sent away.”

His tone was growing impatient. “Then what do you suggest, Mistress Thornton?”

“A nursemaid, m’lord. One who can be both nurse and teacher. It seems the most likely solution.”

“A nursemaid.” He seemed to weigh the thought for a moment, then nodded. “A governess. See to it.”

“But how, m’lord?”

He turned the page in the ledger and adjusted a candle for light. “However that sort of thing is done. Tell the servants to ask around. Perhaps someone in a nearby village or shire...”

“Most of them know little more than Edlyn, m’lord.” She thought a moment. “I have a cousin in London. Perhaps she could ask...”

“Excellent suggestion. See to it, Mistress Thornton.”

The housekeeper watched as he returned his attention to the accounts in the ledger.

A short time later, as the plump housekeeper made her way below stairs, she fretted that her duties seemed to increase with each passing day. Ever since Lord Stamford had returned, life had become extremely complicated.

London

Olivia descended the stairs of her aunt and uncle’s sumptuous house and followed the directions that had been given her by Letty, an elderly upstairs maid.

‘I knew at once who ye were, miss.” Letty’s smile was the first genuine smile she’d seen in days.

“And how would you know me?”

“Why, ye’r the image of yer mum when she was yer age.”

“You knew my mother?”

“Oh, yes, miss. She was so fine and sweet. All the servants missed her when she went away to marry her professor.”

“You mean my mother lived in this fine, big house?”

“Indeed. You didn’t know?”

Olivia was stunned. “She told me very little about her childhood. I sensed there were things that caused her pain.”

“She and her sister...” The servant thought better about what she’d been about to say and finished lamely, “...were very different.” She glanced aground uneasily. “You must go now, miss. You would not care to keep Lady Agatha waiting.”

“Thank you, Letty. I hope we can talk again later.”

“Aye, miss. I’d like that. Ye remind me of yer mum, ye do.”

“Thank you, Letty,” she called over her shoulder. “That’s the nicest thing you could have said.”

This was Olivia’s first chance to actually view the house, since her aunt had insisted upon confining her to the guest room with orders to remain there and even to take all her meals there. Olivia was more than willing, since their arrival had been a most unpleasant affair. Agatha had railed against the cold, driving rain, the lateness of the hour and even the fact that her sister and brother-in-law had inconvenienced her by dying at such a time as this. It had taken all of Olivia’s strength of will to hold her tongue through her aunt’s angry tirade.

If their journey was unpleasant, their arrival in London had been even worse. An elegant young woman in a pink gown that must surely have been made for a princess, had greeted her parents, not with a hug, but with a complaint that she was missing much-needed sleep. And when Olivia had been introduced to her cousin Catherine, the young woman’s manner had become even more abusive. Her features had become as twisted and bitter as those of her mother. Except for a curt nod, she had spoken not a word before going up to her room and leaving Olivia to fend for herself.

But it was a new day. Birds could be heard chirping outside the windows. Sunshine had chased away the clouds. Olivia decided to blame the short tempers on the unexpected turn of events. After all, if she was distraught over the loss of her parents, Agatha must be equally distraught over the death of her only sister. Surely after a few days of rest both Agatha and her daughter would have softened their attitude.

Olivia paused outside the dining room, breathing in the wonderful fragrance of freshly baked bread. From the sideboard steam could be seen rising from a silver tray heaped high with thinly sliced beef. A maid paused beside the table, ladling something from a silver urn.

With a wide smile upon her lips, Olivia brushed down the skirts of her simple gray gown. But as she took a step forward, she caught sight of a tall, sun-bronzed man striding across the room to embrace Agatha.

“Wyatt!” Agatha jumped to her feet, all warm smiles and eager embraces. “Oh, when did you arrive? Let me look at you.”

Olivia pulled back out of sight and leaned against the wall. It seemed wrong somehow to intrude upon this homecoming of her aunt and uncle’s only son. Though her stomach grumbled over the lack of food, she decided to hold off her arrival until the family had a moment alone.

“My ship arrived in port nearly a fortnight ago,” came the deep rumble of her cousin’s voice.

“A fortnight? Then why have you waited until now to come calling?” This was Robert’s voice, raised in challenge.

“I had business to attend to, Father.”

“Of course you did.” Agatha’s tone left no doubt that she would always side with her son. “If a man is to remain successful, he must put business affairs ahead of all others.”

“So you have always said, Mother. And I have become more successful than ever. Now tell me. What has happened while I was away?”

“Mother and Father had to journey to Oxford to bury Mother’s sister.” Olivia recognized Catherine’s whining tones. “And you’ll never guess who they brought home with them.”

Before Wyatt could respond she continued, “Our spinster cousin from the country.”

Olivia’s face flamed. Greatly distressed, she pressed her palms to her burning cheeks as the voice continued, “I warn you, Mother, I won’t have that plain, horrid creature wearing my clothes.”

“It’s only for a few days, Catherine, until I can have the dressmaker replace those pitiful rags she brought with her.”

“She can go naked for all I care. I’m not sharing my things with her. And why have you put her in the guest suite?”

“Where would you suggest I put her? In the servants’ quarters?”

“That would be too good for her. Have you forgotten, Mother? Ian and his family will be coming to pay a visit soon. I won’t have the Earl of Gathwick being introduced to her. I would simply die if my intended and his mother knew we were related to...to...that bumpkin.”

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it, my princess. Nothing will ruin your chances with the earl and his family.” Agatha’s tone was soothing. “Your father and I don’t want her here any more than you do. I’ll find someone to take her off our hands, even if she has to muck stalls to earn her keep.”

Stunned and horrified at what she’d overheard, Olivia began to back away, determined to hide herself in the guest suite until she could pack her bags and flee this hateful place.

Bringing a hand to her trembling lips she turned away. But even as she raced along the hallway, the cruel laughter followed, mocking her.

Minutes later, in her room, she heard a voice from the doorway. “So, here’s our little mouse.”

Olivia looked up from the valise into which she was hastily stuffing her belongings. A tall man with sandy hair and pale blue eyes leaned against the open door, his arms folded over his chest.

“I figured, after overhearing all that business below stairs, that you’d be packing.”

“How did you know...?” Feeling her cheeks flame, she ducked her head and resumed her activity.

“I saw the hem of a skirt fluttering in the doorway. Who, I asked myself, but our little country cousin, would have tried to slip away without revealing herself?”

“You seem quite smug. Is that why you’re here? To accuse me of eavesdropping?” She folded her blue gown, the one she’d intended to wear tonight to sup with her aunt and uncle and cousins.

“On the contrary. I am appalled at my sister’s behavior. And I came here to make amends.” He walked up to her and extended his hand. “Hello, cousin. I am Wyatt Lindsey. Could we begin afresh?”

For the space of several seconds Olivia stared at his hand, then into his face. Despite the elegant cut of his clothes, there was a certain boyishness to his smile. She sensed that he was very aware of his charms, and accustomed to using them. “I... suppose we could.” She offered her hand. “I am Olivia St. John.”

He continued holding her hand a moment longer than necessary, until, flustered, she forcibly removed it.

He chuckled at the color that flooded her cheeks, though he couldn’t tell if she was flattered by his attentions or angry.

He was more than a little surprised by what he’d found. Pleasantly so. When Catherine had called their cousin a spinster, he had imagined a much older, plainer woman. Why this lovely creature was unmarried was a mystery. But as long as he intended to spend a few days here before returning to his country home, he planned to sample his pretty little cousin’s wares.

He nodded toward the valise. “Where are you planning on going?”

“I have no thought, other than that I must leave this place, where I am so unwelcome.”

“Perhaps I could...help you.” He touched a hand to a tendril of dark hair that had fallen loose from the neat knot at her nape.

At once she pulled back from his touch. “In what way can you help?”

He smiled. She was not going to make this easy. No matter. He enjoyed a challenge. He reached into his waistcoat and removed a rolled parchment. Unrolling it, he walked to the writing table and handed her a quill.

“First, you will sign your name to this document.”

Mystified, she moved closer. “What is it?”

“Nothing of any importance. It merely names me executor of your estate.”

“My estate?” She gave a harsh laugh. “Your parents informed me I was penniless.”

“And you are. It’s merely a formality. But as a solicitor, I prefer everything to be tidy. Sign here.”

She eyed the document, then shook her head. “The words have my head spinning. I would rather take my time and read it. Perhaps if you’d care to leave it...”

His smile, which only moments earlier had been warm and friendly, suddenly looked dangerous. He took a step closer and watched as she backed away. He took another step, and she did the same, until her back was pressed against the wall.

“You don’t want to anger me, cousin. I make it my business to know all of the wealthy and titled here in London.” He pressed his palms to the wall on either side of her face and leaned close until his lips were mere inches from hers. “I might be... persuaded to help you secure a position. That is, if you are willing to be...very nice to me.”

Outraged, Olivia tried to shove him away, but his strength surprised her. “I may be a country lass, unaccustomed to the ways of your London friends, but I understand what you’re suggesting and I want no part of it.”

At the last moment she managed to turn her face, so that his lips brushed her cheek.

“Stop this.” Again she pushed against his chest, but she was no match for his strength. “Let me go, Wyatt, or I shall scream.”

His eyes narrowed. “Go ahead and scream, little mouse. My parents are out in the garden. And the servants would never dare interfere.”

As she started to protest, his mouth covered hers, stifling her words. His hot breath filled her lungs.

A sense of panic welled inside her. This couldn’t be happening. Not here in the home where her mother grew up. Not in a place where servants bustled about in the hallways just beyond the door.

She struggled, harder now, as the panic grew. She kicked and bit and scratched, managing to draw blood along his cheek. But each time she fought him, he became more aroused.

This was what he’d wanted. The chase. The duel. The chance to subdue his opponent. And then the humiliation. That final act of domination was, to him, the ultimate reward.

He moved so quickly she had no time to react. Within minutes he had thrown her to the floor. With one hand he pinned her arms up over her head while the other hand fumbled beneath her skirts.

The boyish smile had been replaced by a look of evil. “Now, cousin, I will show you how I intend to bid you welcome. And when I’m through, you will sign anything, if you know what’s good for you.” His eyes narrowed to slits as he straddled her and shot her a look of triumph.

He was suddenly doused with a bucket of cold water. It poured over his head, causing him to gasp in shock. As the water spilled down his tunic and immaculately tailored waistcoat, he rolled to one side, releasing his grip on Olivia. She sat up, shoving damp hair from her eyes.

Old Letty stood over them, holding an empty bucket.

“Forgive me, m’lord,” she said apologetically. “I was coming in to help the young miss with her bath, and I seem to have stumbled over the rug.”

“Why, you old hag! No one takes a cold bath.” His voice thundered with rage.

“The young miss specifically requested cold water, is that not so, miss?”

“Y-yes. Indeed it is,” Olivia managed to say as she struggled to her feet.

Wyatt’s eyes were dark with fury. “You old witch. I ought to...”

“I summoned your father and mother.” Letty’s eyes bored into his. “His lordship should be upstairs any moment.”

“What is it, Letty?” came Robert’s voice from the hallway.

At once Wyatt scrambled to his feet and rearranged his soaked clothing just as his father stepped through the doorway.

“A bit clumsy I was,” the old servant explained. “And the young lord was kind enough to help me clean up my mess.”

“So I see.” Robert arched a brow at the puddles of water on the floor. Then he flicked a glance over Olivia, pale and trembling, and his son, one cheek scratched and bleeding, working frantically to straighten his soaked clothes. “Come along, Wyatt. Leave that for the servants.”

Wyatt’s eyes were chips of blue ice, his voice a whisper for Olivia’s ears alone. “One day soon we’ll meet again. Without the old hag to protect you. And then you’ll pay. Oh, little cousin, how you’ll pay.”

When the two had gone, Olivia turned to Letty. “How can I ever thank you? I thought...” Without warning she began to weep.

“There now, young miss.” The old woman drew her into her arms and held her until the tears had run their course. “Everyone here knows about Master Wyatt. He has despoiled many of our young servants. All of them fear him.”

“Why doesn’t someone tell his parents?”

“No need. They’ve seen for themselves. But they choose to look away, and blame others for their son’s flaws. ’Tis always the servant’s fault, and the poor young woman is dismissed and branded a slut.”

“Is that what they will say about me?”

The servant shrugged, unwilling to inflict more pain on this distraught young woman than she already bore.

But though the words were unspoken, Olivia knew. “Why don’t you fear him, Letty?”

The old servant sighed. “What can he do to the likes of me?”

“He can have you dismissed.”

“Aye. And then I’ll be forced to go to live with my brother, who is already overburdened with a sick wife. But I think Lady Lindsey has a need of me, or I’d have been gone long ago.”

Olivia shuddered. “I can’t stay here, Letty. I have to go.”

“Aye. Ye’r not safe as long as Master Wyatt is here.” The old woman thought a moment. “There may be a place, though from what I’ve heard, ye may be going from a fire to an inferno.”

“Please, Letty. Tell me. I’ll go anywhere, do anything.”

The servant paused a moment longer, then seemed to come to a decision. “I’ll speak to Lord Lindsey. If the past is any indication, he’ll be eager to be rid of you. This will relieve him of his obligation to you, and free you, as well.”

With a swish of skirts she was gone, leaving Olivia to huddle behind closed doors, jumping each time she heard a footstep along the hallway.

She knew, without a doubt, that she had seen, in Wyatt’s cold, unemotional features, the face of pure evil. A cruel heartless creature who would take what he wanted. With no apology. No remorse.

The trembling started in her limbs, until her entire body shuddered. Still she forced herself to remain standing as she waited and watched and listened.

A short time later there was a rap on the door. “Who...who is there?” Olivia kept the width of the room between herself and the door as it was thrust inward to admit the servant.

The old woman’s heart went out to the girl who stood pale and shivering across the room.

“Lord Lindsey agrees that it would be best if you were to go quickly. Even now the coach is being prepared.” Letty gave the young woman a sympathetic look. “Ye’ll need a cloak, young miss. ’Tis a long, cold ride to Cornwall.”

Chapter Three

Cornwall

The English countryside, shrouded in darkness, rushed past the windows of the carriage in a blur. Occasionally Olivia could glimpse the lights of houses in a distant village. Such scenes brought a lump to her throat.

How she missed her little cottage in Oxford where life had been so simple, so peaceful.

“Oh, Mum. Oh, Papa.”

There had been no time to grieve. No time to bid a proper goodbye to the villagers who had been her friends and neighbors for a lifetime.

She leaned back in the carriage and closed her eyes. She had slept through part of the journey, but her dreams had been troubled, robbing her of rest. And so she sat on the hard seat of the swaying carriage, tense, frightened, overcome with emotions. She wondered if she would ever be able to put aside the humiliation she’d experienced at Wyatt’s hands. Just thinking about it had her trembling again, and she closed her eyes and drew her cloak about her to ward off the chill. At once the image of her cousin’s evil smile and cruel hands had her jolting upright. She struggled to put him out of her mind, but thoughts of him lingered like a foul stench.

She drew a deep breath and wondered again what lay before her. What sort of hellish place was Blackthorne? Letty had hinted at something dark and dangerous. Something even worse than the place she had just escaped. Was it possible? Could anything be worse than her aunt and uncle’s house of horrors?

Olivia peered into the darkness and watched as the faint glow of lanterns grew brighter. It would appear that the carriage was nearing its destination at long last.

The light was closer now, and she could make out the darkened shape of what appeared to be a fortress. Turrets loomed against the night sky. There were few welcoming lights in the windows. Instead, a solitary figure stood in the courtyard, straight and tall as a soldier, holding aloft a single lantern.

As the carriage made its way along the curving drive, the wind seemed to pick up, causing trees to sway and dip like angry demons. As if on cue lightning cut a jagged path across the sky, followed by the rumble of thunder. And as the carriage rolled to a stop and the driver helped her to alight, the skies opened up with a torrent of rain.

In that instant she looked up and saw a man’s face peering down at her from one of the windows. In the glow of candlelight his face appeared waxen, ghostlike.

She froze, unable to move.

“Welcome to Blackthorne, miss.” Pembroke accepted her satchel from the driver and hurriedly led the way inside out of the rain.

“Thank you.” She was shivering so violently, even her words trembled.

“My name is Pembroke.”

“Pembroke. I...saw a man. In an upstairs room.”

“That would be Master Bennett, the younger brother of Lord Quenton Stamford. He has trouble sleeping.”

“His face looked...ghostly-white.”

“Aye, miss. Master Bennett is...sickly.” He turned away. “Your rooms are ready. If you’ll follow me.”

They seemed to walk forever. Through a darkened foyer, along an even darker hallway, where candles sputtered in pools of wax. Up a curving stairway, where Olivia glimpsed shadowed tapestries, then along another hallway, where a door was abruptly opened, spilling light into the darkness.

A man stepped through the doorway, directly into Olivia’s path. She slammed against a solid wall of chest Her breath came out in a whoosh of air. Strong hands closed over her upper arms, steadying her. As he drew her a little away she had a quick impression of a darkly handsome face, and eyes so piercing they held hers even when she tried to look away. He was scowling. His temper, simmering just below the surface, was a palpable thing.

A hound stood just behind him, looking as angry as its master, with lips pulled back in a snarl, teeth bared. A warning growl issued from its throat.

Fear, sharp as a razor, sliced through her.

“Lord Stamford.” Pembroke’s cultured voice broke the stunned silence. “This is Miss St. John. The lad’s governess. She has just now arrived from London.”

“Miss St. John.” The voice was low and deep. The look he gave her was intense. Probing. With just a flash of surprise. He had been expecting to meet a pinch-faced, elderly nursemaid, much like the one who had ruled ironfisted over his own childhood, and that of his younger brother. It had never occurred to him that a nursemaid could be young and fresh, with eyes more green than blue, and dark hair curling damply around dimpled cheeks.

“Lord Stamford.”

He felt her trembling reaction to his touch and deliberately kept his hold on her a moment longer than he’d intended before lowering his hands to his sides. There was a fragrance about her that was reminiscent of something half-forgotten from his childhood. He absorbed a quick jolt to his already-charged system as he watched her take a hasty step back.

“It’s a rather dreary night to be sending a young woman on such a tiring journey. Why didn’t your driver put up at an inn for the night?”

“This was the way my uncle wished it.”

“I see.” He could see a great deal more. She was afraid. Had actually trembled at his touch. But whether she was afraid of him, or men in general, he couldn’t be certain. No matter. She wasn’t here to mingle with men, but to assume the care of one small boy. It would be wise to keep that in mind. Especially since the touch of her had caused an unwanted reaction in him, as well. A reaction he hadn’t felt toward a woman in a very long time.

“My housekeeper, Mistress Thornton, has told the boy about his new nursemaid. He is looking forward to meeting you.”

“The boy?” Her tone was sharper than she’d intended. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour. Or a need to mask her fears. Or the fact that fatigue had her in its grip. Whatever the reason, she found herself bristling at his casual dismissal of his young charge. “Does the boy have a name?”

His tone was equally curt. “He does. His name is Liat.”

“Just Liat? Has he no other?”

Her impertinence was growing more annoying by the minute. “Nay.” His eyes narrowed fiactionally, issuing a challenge of their own. “You will want your rest, Miss St. John, since I expect you to give the boy your full attention on the morrow. I bid you good-night”

“Good night, my lord.” As she stepped past him she glanced into the room and caught a glimpse of a man’s figure huddled in front of the fire. When he looked up, she caught her breath. It was the man she had seen from the carriage. A man whose face had lost all its color. But his eyes, so like Lord Stamford’s, were dark and piercing. And haunted.

Before she could see more Lord Stamford abruptly pulled the door shut.

Even as she followed Pembroke, she could feel him still standing where she had left him, staring after her. She stiffened her spine. She’d had quite enough of men who flaunted wealth and power. Such men, she vowed, would never again see any sign of weakness in her.

Still, the thought of that dark, chilling gaze boring into her back had the hair at her nape prickling until they paused outside a closed door.

“Here we are, miss.” Pembroke opened the door and carried the lantern across the room where a fire blazed on the hearth. “This is your sitting room.”

It was a large room with several comfortable chaises positioned in front of the fireplace, and a side table holding a decanter and several glasses. In an alcove were a desk and chairs.

“The lad’s chambers are through those doors. And in here—” he opened another door and pointed “—is your sleeping chamber.”

She couldn’t seem to take it all in. Nodding dully, she crossed to the fire and held out her hands to the heat. She’d never felt so cold. As though her bones had turned to ice.

“Mistress Thornton is sending up a tray, miss. I expect you’re hungry after your journey.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I’ll say good-night now, miss.”

“Good night, Pembroke.”

She waited until the door closed behind him, then sank down into a chair and stared at the flames.

What had she gotten herself into? Who was this child she would be caring for? What had happened to the man with the pale skin and frightened, haunted look? And what had made the lord of the manor so tense and angry?

She had hoped that her arrival at Blackthorne would put all her fears to rest. Instead, she felt more alone, and more desolate than ever.

The hated dream returned. Cold, icy terror held her in its grip. Once again Olivia felt the strength in Wyatt’s hands as they pinned hers. Though she struggled, it was impossible to dislodge the weight of his body from hers. His mouth clamped over hers and his breath, hot, ragged, had hers hitching in her throat.

Like one drowning, she fought her way up through the tangled weeds threatening to choke her. As if from a great distance Olivia heard muted, shuffling sounds. She jerked upright, embarrassed that a servant had found the new nursemaid asleep, and in the throes of a nightmare.

“Oh. Sorry.” She shoved a lock of hair from her eye and struggled to brush away the cobwebs.

The servant was watching her closely. Too closely. She was pouting, obviously annoyed at having one more duty thrust upon her at such an hour. “Mistress Thornton said I should bring you some food.” She pointed to a tray resting atop a nearby table

“Thank you. That was kind of Mistress Thornton. And I am indeed hungry. What is your name?”

“Edlyn.” The servant tossed a log on the hearth, then straightened, wiping her hands on her apron.

Olivia poured herself some tea. “What can you tell me about Liat, Edlyn?”

“Not much to tell. He arrived here with Lord Stamford.”

“Arrived? From where?”

The woman shrugged. “Some heathen island in the Caribbean. Some say—” she lowered her voice and her eyes narrowed thoughtfully “—the boy is Lord Stamford’s bastard son. ”

Olivia sucked in a breath. “I do not hold with idle rumors. What of the boy’s mother?”

“The boy claims his mum is dead. Perhaps she met the same fate as Lord Stamford’s wife.”

“His wife?”

“Lady Stamford.” Edlyn’s tone hardened. “You’ll hear soon enough. It’s all anyone talks about in the village. She was a great beauty. Lord Quenton’s younger brother, Bennett, adored her, as did his grandfather. She was found dead at the foot of the cliffs. Master Bennett was found nearby, barely clinging to life.”

“Oh, how dreadful.”

“Aye. Though Master Bennett survived, he cannot walk or talk, so he can never reveal what happened. He spends all his time seated at his bedroom window, staring out to sea. The king’s own surgeon came to examine him, and said he exists in a world of his own. Shortly after the surgeon’s visit Lord Stamford left.”

“Left?”

The woman frowned. “Went off to sea, leaving his grandfather to deal with the tragedy alone. No one had seen or heard from Lord Stamford again until his grandfather died and he returned to claim his inheritance. Not that we cared. Blackthorne was better off without the likes of him.”

Olivia was surprised at the servant’s venomous tone. “I would think, if you value your position here, you would be more careful of the things you say about Lord Stamford.”

“My position.” The servant gave a harsh laugh. “I came to Blackthorne with Lady Stamford, as her ladyship’s maid. After her death I was treated like a common servant, and sent to the scullery, to exist on little more than bread crusts and gruel.”

In such sumptuous surroundings, Olivia thought that highly unlikely. “And now?” she asked. “It would seem your position has improved.”

The servant gave a snort of disgust. “Now that Lord Stamford has returned, I know not what my duties are. Nor does anyone in this household. We await his lordship’s bidding. At all hours of the day and night ’twould seem.”

The anger in this woman made Olivia extremely uncomfortable. She had heard much more than she wanted.

She abruptly changed the subject. “What sort of child is Liat?”

Edlyn shrugged. “Scared of his shadow, he is. Keeps to himself. Never laughs or cries. Or shouts or runs. Just hides away in his room.” She lowered her voice. “Probably touched in the head.” Satisfied that she’d relayed enough gossip for one night, she yawned loudly. “Will you be wanting anything else?”

“Nothing, Edlyn. Good night.”

When the servant was gone, Olivia lifted the lid of a tureen and inhaled the fragrance of beef broth. Beneath a domed cover she found thin strips of beef swimming in gravy. In a silver basket were several thick slices of bread.

She sipped the soup, tasted the tender beef, bit into the crusty bread. But the troubling things she’d been told about Blackthorne and its inhabitants had stolen her appetite.

Feeling restless, she crossed to her valise, hoping to unpack. Strange, she thought as her clothes spilled onto the bed, that they seemed to be in disarray. Could that rustling sound that awakened her have been the servant, rummaging through her things? At once she dismissed such thoughts. A servant would realize that a simple governess had nothing of value. These fears were the result of Edlyn’s tales of dark deeds. Such talk had her imagination running wild.

Sinking into a chair, she pressed her hands to her cheeks and thought about all that she had seen and heard. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut to blot out the fears that seemed to be closing in on her. She would rest for a moment, before pulling herself together for the task ahead.

It was her last coherent thought as she gave in once more to the need to sleep.

The sound that awakened Olivia was unlike anything she had ever heard. A long piercing scream that chilled her blood and had her leaping to her feet in alarm. Surely this sound was not made by a human. A wild animal perhaps. Caught in a trap and about to give up its life

But it was coming from inside the house. Somewhere along these very halls. That realization had the hairs at her nape prickling.

Olivia raced across the room and tore open the door. The sound was louder now, a long thin wail that went on and on until she was forced to cover her ears.

Without giving thought to what she was doing, she scurried along the hall until she came to the door of the man she had seen huddled in a chair.

The door was open, and Olivia could see Lord Stamford and a woman, her nightclothes in disarray, standing on either side of a bed. At the foot of the bed was a young, red-haired servant.

Lord Stamford bent down and gathered the blanketed figure of his brother in his arms while the woman held a cup to his lips.

“Do as Mistress Thornton bids you, Bennett.” The voice coming from Lord Stamford’s mouth was unlike the one Olivia had heard earlier. Gone was the haughty tone of arrogance. Now the words were soft, soothing, as a mother might croon to her infant.

The wailing abruptly ceased. The cup was drained. And then there was only a childlike sobbing that went on for several more minutes before silence prevailed.

“He will sleep now, m’lord,” the woman said.

“Thank you, Mistress Thornton.” Quenton looked to the foot of the bed. “And thank you, Minerva. I’m grateful that you got to him so quickly.”

“You’re welcome, my lord.” The young servant smoothed the covers. “Have no fear. I’ll stay with him now and see that he sleeps.”

As Quenton turned away, he caught sight of Olivia standing in the open doorway. Without a word he crossed the space between them and swept her roughly into the hallway, pulling the door shut after him.

“Forgive me, Lord Stamford. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“But that is exactly what you were doing.”

“I... heard the scream and had to investigate. I didn’t know what I was hearing. I thought...” She bit her lip, unwilling to finish what she’d been about to say.

“It does take some time to get used to, Miss St. John.” With his hand beneath her elbow he steered her along the hall toward her room. He seemed in a great hurry to be done with her. “My brother is very ill. He is haunted by old memories. Memories that manifest themselves in the night and cause him great anguish.”

“Can nothing be done for him?”

Quenton shook his head. “The physicians who have examined him have assured me that they know of nothing that can help him.”

She paused outside her doorway and for the first time looked up into his dark eyes. There was such pain there. Such misery. It touched her heart. “I’m sorry, Lord Stamford.”

She could see the flicker of annoyance. It was obvious that he didn’t want her pity.

He started to turn away, then thought better of it and turned back to her. “The next time you hear my brother’s cries, Miss St. John, I advise you to remain in your room.” He gave a curt nod of his head. “I bid you good-night.”

She watched as he made his way down the hall. Then she entered her room and closed the door, leaning wearily against it.

“Well,” she whispered. “Welcome to Blackthorne, my girl.”

Chapter Four

Scant hours later Olivia was up and preparing for her first day as nursemaid. Dressed in her simple gray gown, she had just finished tying back her hair into a neat knot at her nape when there was a knock on her door.

“Come.”

Edlyn entered carrying a tray. If anything, her frown was even more pronounced. “Mistress Thornton said I was to bring you tea and biscuits.”

“Thank you, Edlyn. That was kind of Mistress Thornton. If you don’t mind, I’ll take the tray with me and have my breakfast with Liat.”

The servant turned away with a scowl. “I’ll fetch it there myself or Mistress Thornton will have my head.”

“There’s no need.” Olivia wanted to be alone when she met the lad for the first time. She wanted no distractions that might cause him to put up his guard. “I won’t say anything to the housekeeper. I’m sure you have more than enough chores to see to.”

“Aye. Especially when Mistress Thornton is in one of her moods.” The woman rolled her eyes. “You’ve never been insulted until you’ve had your ears blistered by the old biddy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Olivia waited until the servant had left before carrying the tray through the door to the boy’s chambers. The connecting sitting room was much like hers, with a cheery fire blazing on the hearth, and several comfortable chairs and a chaise. There was a small table as well, which Olivia decided would make an excellent writing table for her young charge.

She knocked on his bedroom door, then opened it.

“Hello, Liat. My name is Olivia St. John.” She paused in the doorway and watched as the little boy turned. He was perched on a trunk which he’d dragged over to an alcove. His feet were bare, and he was wearing short pants and a shirt made of some sort of colorful fabric. She made a mental note that the boy needed warmer clothing for the brisk English weather. “What are you looking at?”

The boy shrugged and held his silence.

Olivia crossed the room and paused beside him. “Ah. I see. The gardens. You have a very good view from here. My, they look very small when viewed from so high.” She smiled at him. “Would you like to walk in the gardens?”

He shrank back.

“You mean you wouldn’t like to go outside? Why, I should think a boy like you would enjoy running between the hedges, and chasing butterflies.”

At that he perked up. “Butterflies?”

Ah, so she had managed to snag his attention. “You didn’t think there were any butterflies in England?”

He shook his head.

She gave him a friendly smile. “Well, there are. And deer and rabbits and squirrels. Wouldn’t you like to see them?”

He nodded.

“Good. Then we’ll stroll the garden as soon as we’ve broken our fast.”

He shook his head again. “I’m afraid.” His voice was little more than a whisper.

“Afraid of what?”

“Of the monsters.”

“What monsters?”

“The ones—” he glanced around fearfully “—that sweep in without warning and blot out the sun.”

Puzzled, Olivia was about to ask more questions when he suddenly pointed. “Here comes one now.”

She turned her gaze to the window and watched as a bank of stormclouds covered the sun, shrouding the land in darkness. “It’s just a little rainstorm, Liat. Surely you saw such storms before you came to England.”

He vehemently shook his head. “On my island the sun was always shining. And it was always warm.” He shivered. “There are monsters here that snatch away the sun and warmth. Just the way they snatched away my mama.”

Olivia’s heart went out to the frightened little boy. If there was one thing she understood, it was the confusion that came from having loved ones snatched without warning. “Come with me, Liat. Don’t be afraid,” she urged when he hesitated.

Taking his hand she helped him down from the trunk and led him across the room to where a fire burned on the hearth. She motioned for him to sit on the rug, then settled herself beside him, drawing up her knees. Filling two cups with tea and milk, she handed him one and sipped the other.

“I recently lost my father and mother, too.”

“Did a monster come and snatch them?”

“No. They died. Now they’re with the angels.”

“Where?”

“In heaven.”

“Do they like it there?”

She nodded. “Very much. They’re happy in their new home.”

“Do you think my mama is there with them?”

“I know she is. And though you can’t see her, she’s still looking out for you. Just as my parents are looking out for me.”

“If she’s looking out for me, why did she allow me to be taken away from my island and brought to this place?”

Olivia watched the way his lower lip quivered. How she longed to take this poor child into her arms and kiss away his fears. But, she reminded herself, she was his governess, not his mother or doting aunt. Her job was to help him cope with the situation. And perhaps toughen him up in the bargain.

“We don’t know why things happen, Liat But we must trust that all things happen for a reason.”

He seemed to digest that for a long moment before looking up at her. “Have you always lived here at Blackthorne?”

She shook her head. “Like you, my home is far from here.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I’m here to be your teacher and your nurse, and, if you’ll let me, your friend.”

“Do you like it here?”

“I don’t really know yet. I’ve only just arrived. But I’m going to do my best. to like it here.”

As soon as she had spoken, she felt a strange sort of comfort. Odd, she’d meant only to soothe his fears. But her own burden seemed suddenly lighter. It was true. She did intend to do her best to make her stay here, and that of the lad, as pleasurable as possible.

“Here.” She broke apart a biscuit and spooned fruit conserve over it before handing half to him.

He nibbled, gave her a faint smile of approval, then finished the rest.

“You see?” She sipped her tea and returned the smile. “Papa used to say that talking out your fears was an important first step. Then you must face them if you are to conquer them.” She brushed her fingers across his cheek and gave him an encouraging smile. “We will face our fears together, Liat, until there are no fears left.”

Quenton Stamford stood perfectly still, cautioning the hound at his heel to do the same. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. In fact, he’d only come to handle the introductions between the boy and his new governess. But now, watching and listening, he wondered about the fates that had sent this young woman to Blackthorne. Upon his first view of her, he’d thought that she might prove to be too young and inexperienced for the job. Too fragile. And too filled with her own arrogance and uneasiness to be of any help to a lost, frightened child. Now he was beginning to hope she might be just what the boy needed.

It weighed heavily on his mind that the lad was so out of his element in England. But there had been few choices left. With the death of his grandfather, Quenton had been forced to return to Blackthorne in haste. Still, he had made the boy’s mother a promise on her deathbed to protect Liat from harm. The only way to keep his promise was to bring the boy here.

He watched and listened a moment longer as Olivia’s voice washed over him.

“Liat, my mother used to quote from the Great Book, ‘To all things there is a season. A time for planting, a time for reaping. A time for laughing, a time for weeping. A time for living, a time for dying.’ This, then, is your time to grow, to learn and to let go of your fears. And I shall do the same.”

Quenton nodded. Very well. He would let her remain. For now.

He turned and left as quietly as he had arrived. The hound moved soundlessly at his side.

If only the solutions to all his problems could be as simple as this had proved to be. Now he could turn his attention to those damnable ledgers, and the mess his grandfather had left behind.

“Come, Liat.” Olivia opened the door of his chambers and beckoned him to follow. “It’s time for us to explore Blackthorne.”

As they made their way along the hall he whispered, “The servants told me I must never go in there.” He pointed to Bennett’s room.

“Why?”

He shuddered. “Edlyn said there’s a monster living in there.”

More monsters. Olivia was determined that such nonsense must stop at once. “He isn’t a monster. He is a young man. Come. I’ll show you.” Without waiting to think about what she was doing, she knocked, then opened the door.

Inside, the pale young man looked up, startled, from his chair by the window. The servant, Minerva, looked equally startled.

“What are you doing, miss?”

“My name is Olivia St. John. And this is Liat. I thought...” She wondered what she could possibly say to excuse her impulsive behavior. “I thought we might sup with you this evening.”

“Master Bennett always sups alone, miss.”

“And so do we,” she said with a smile that included the silent young man. “If we were to take our meal together, it would give Liat a chance to get to know you. And you to know us.”

“I don’t think...” Before the young servant could refuse, she caught sight of Bennett’s eyes, wide and pleading. “Well...” She considered, wondering how the housekeeper would react when she heard about this. Still, Master Bennett looked almost eager. She relented. “Aye. I’ll have Edlyn bring your trays. We eat at dusk.”

Olivia nodded, then turned to smile at Bennett. “Until dusk, then.”

She caught Liat’s hand and led him from the room. He didn’t volunteer a word until they reached the kitchen. Then, in a hushed voice, he said, “That was my first monster, ma’am.”

Olivia bit back her smile. “Aye. And mine as well.”

“Who are you and what are you doing in my kitchen?”

At the booming voice they both turned to face a woman who was at least as tall as Pembroke, with hands big enough to handle with ease a side of beef or a whole roasted pig. These hands were now planted at either side of enormous hips encased in a shapeless gown.

“My name is Olivia St. John.”

“The new governess.”

“Aye. And this is Liat.”

“My name’s Molly. Molly Malloy. But I’m known as Cook.”

“Hello, Cook.” Olivia grasped her hand. “We’ve just come from a walk around Blackthorne and hoped we could warm ourselves with a cup of tea.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place. Sit.” Cook indicated a scarred wooden table.

Within minutes there were steaming cups of tea in front of them, along with tarts still warm from the oven.

“You do know the way to Liat’s heart,” Olivia said as she gratefully sipped the tea.

“Like my tarts, do you, lad?”

Because his mouth was full, he merely nodded.

“When Bennett and Quenton were lads, they couldn’t get enough of my tarts.”

“You’ve known them since they were young?”

“All their lives. And their father before them. Good lads they were. And still are.”

While she spoke she continued rolling dough and shaping it into small tarts. Mistress Thornton ambled in and poured herself a cup of tea, and within minutes Pembroke joined them as well.

“I see ye’re getting acquainted with the lad and ’is governess,” the housekeeper muttered as she helped herself to a tart.

“Aye.” Cook handed a tart to the butler. “Been telling them about the lord and his brother. Got into mischief when they were younger. But never anything mean-spirited.”

Pembroke nodded. “They always looked out for each other. But they were full of energy.”

“Do you recall the time the old lord had us hunting all over Blackthorne for his two grandsons? Turned the house upside down, we did.”

“Where did you finally find them?” Olivia asked.

“In the stables, beside their favorite mare, who had just foaled. All three young ones, the lads and the foal, being licked and nuzzled until they had fallen asleep.” Mistress Thornton, in her high-pitched voice, had them all laughing as she recalled the scene.

It was a most pleasant hour. And it gave Olivia a chance to see Lord Stamford in a whole new light.

“Miss St. John seems attentive enough, m’lord. She and the lad seem to be getting on. A bit bold though. Has no qualms about poking all round the place, chatting up the servants.”

Mistress Thornton saw Lord Stamford glance up from his ledgers and started talking faster to hold his attention. “From what I can learn, she’s educated. Her parents were scholars. Made their home in Oxford. And...”

“Thank you, Mistress Thornton.” Quenton rubbed at his temple to relieve the dull throb of a headache, made worse by the shrill voice. “Tell her to bring the lad to sup with me tonight. I’ll see for myself how they’re getting on.”

“Aye, m’lord.” She twisted the apron in her hands as she gathered up her courage. “That might prove to be a bit of a problem.”

“A problem?”

“She asked if she and the lad could take their meal with Master Bennett tonight.”

He shot her an incredulous look. “My brother?”

The housekeeper looked away. “I told her it was impossible. Master Bennett always takes his meals alone in his room with one of the servants to assist him. ”

“Why did she wish to eat with my brother?”

Mistress Thornton shrugged. “She seems to think that having company will ease some of the young lad’s fears.”

His scowl deepened. The housekeeper braced herself for his wrath. Instead he said through gritted teeth, “Very well. Invite Miss St. John and the lad to sup with me. And have one of the servants bring along my brother as well.”

“To dine with you?” The housekeeper was so startled she couldn’t help staring.

Instead of responding, he merely glowered at her.

“Aye, m’lord. I’ll see to it myself.” She hurried away and sent a servant to inform the new governess that she would be expected to dine with Lord Stamford and his brother.

An honor indeed, seeing as how the heir to Blackthorne had dined alone every night since his return.

Minutes later there was a knock on Liat’s door. “Miss St. John?”

Olivia looked up at the dour Edlyn. “Yes?”

“Mistress Thornton says you and the boy are to dine with Lord Quenton tonight.”

“But I had hoped to dine with his brother.”

“Master Bennett will join you.”

“Thank you.” Olivia stood and held out her hand to Liat. “Come. I’ll help you wash and get ready.”

He held back. “Must I go?”

“Don’t you want to?”

He shook his head and studied the floor.

“Why?”

“I’m afraid.”

“Of Lord Stamford?”

He nodded. In a very small voice he said, “He doesn’t ever speak to me. Or smile. He just looks at me. And his eyes aren’t happy.”

“I see.” She knelt, so that their faces were level.

“I only met Lord Stamford twice. Both times were on the night I arrived. He was a bit abrupt with me as well. So I suppose I should be as frightened of him as you are.”

“Are you?”

She nodded. There was no point in denying the truth. “I suppose we’re always afraid of what we don’t know. But I’ve heard he’s a very fine man. And very fair.” She hoped her little lie would be forgiven. In fact, she’d heard whispers from the servants that Lord Quenton Stamford spoke to them only when necessary, and that he was most often brusque and impatient.

There were rumors and mutterings about him being repeated in every room and hall of the great manor house. Talk that he had been a murdering, thieving pirate in the employ of King Charles. That he had led a life of debauchery in the port city of Jamaica. And that the lad, Liat, was just one of his many illegitimate children. Olivia was determined to turn a deaf ear to all. Her only concern was the well-being of Liat. But it was difficult to ignore the rumors.

She got to her feet. “Let’s get ready and go to dinner together, shall we?” She offered her hand again. This time Liat accepted, and followed her to the basin of water.

A short time later they made their way downstairs.

“Good evening, miss.” Pembroke stood guard in front of massive double doors. “His lordship is expecting you.”

He opened the doors, then stepped aside, allowing Olivia and Liat to precede him.

The little boy’s hand found its way into Olivia’s. And though she gave him a bright smile, her heart was thundering.

The room suited the man. It was a formal dining hall, hung with tapestries and furnished in a lavish manner. On either end of the hall was an enormous fireplace with logs ablaze. A long wooden table, capable of seating a score of people, dominated the center of the room. A dozen lavish pewter candleholders bathed the room in light.

“Lord Stamford.” Pembroke’s cultured voice broke the silence.

Quenton Stamford stood in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames. At the sound of Pembroke’s voice, he turned. The hound at his feet stood and issued a warning growl.

This time Olivia could see the man much more clearly than on her earlier meetings in a dimly lit hall. A dark angeL The thought jolted. He was very tall, with wide shoulders and narrow waist. The elegantly tailored jacket couldn’t hide the ripple of muscle along his arms and shoulders. Dark hair curled over the collar of his shirt, framing a clean-shaven face that might have been handsome had it not seemed so stern. His jaw was square, with a hint of a cleft in the chin. In his hand was a silver goblet. Both his hands and face, she noted, were bronzed by the sun. From his years aboard ship, no doubt.

As always, his eyes, so dark and piercing, held her when she would have looked away.

“Miss St. John and the lad are here.”

He swung his gaze to the older man. “Thank you, Pembroke. You may tell Mistress Thornton to hold off serving until my brother joins us.”

“Aye, my lord.” Pembroke stepped discreetly from the room and closed the doors.

“Will you have some ale, Miss St. John? Or some wine?”

“No, thank you.” She wasn’t aware that she was squeezing Liat’s hand until he glanced up at her. At once she relaxed her grip. Then, annoyed that their host hadn’t even acknowledged the child, she said boldly, “Perhaps Liat would like something.”

He arched a brow. “Would you, boy? What do you drink?”

“M-milk, sir.”

“Ah yes. Of course. I shall tell Mistress Thornton.”

The door opened and the housekeeper bustled in, looking more frazzled than usual. Her dustcap was askew, ready to plop in her eye any moment. Her stained apron hung at an awkward angle, attesting to the fact that she’d been forced to deal with more than her usual duties.

Behind her walked one of the groundsmen, a village youth with a strong back and bulging muscles. In his arms he carried the lord’s frail brother.

“Ye’ll set Master Bennett here by the fire,” the housekeeper ordered.

When that was accomplished, she began directing two serving wenches in her usual shrill manner.

“Not there, you mewing miscreant. Lord Stamford sits at this end of the table.”

Olivia winced, then glanced at her host. He showed absolutely no emotion as his housekeeper continued to browbeat the servants.

“The china here. The crystal there. Not that one. His lordship prefers ale with his meal. Give me that, you pribbling flax-wench.” She sent the two servants back to the kitchen while she finished preparing the table herself. When it was finished she was sweating profusely and dabbing at her forehead with the hem of her apron.

“Ye’ll let me know when ye wish to eat, m’lord?”

“Aye, Mistress Thornton. And would you tell Cook that the lad prefers milk?”

“Milk?” She glanced at the boy, then muttered under her breath, “The lad desires milk.” In a louder tone she called, “I’ll send a servant to the cowshed at once.”

“Thank you, Mistress Thornton.”

She bowed her way out.

With the housekeeper gone, an awkward silence settled over the room and its occupants.

“Miss St. John, Liat, I understand you have already met my brother, Bennett.”

Olivia smiled. “Yes. We had hoped to share a meal together tonight in Bennett’s room. But this is much nicer, don’t you think, Bennett?”

He stared at her in stunned surprise, as though he couldn’t quite believe that she was speaking directly to him.

“I hope we’ll be friends.” She offered her hand and he had no choice but to accept her handshake. The fingers touching hers were limp and pale and trembling.

In his innocence, Liat blurted, “Why doesn’t he answer you, ma’am?”

“My brother can’t speak,” Quenton said simply.

“But I heard...” she began before Quenton cut her off with a warning look.

“He may make a few unintelligible sounds when he is asleep, but awake, he is incapable of speech. Would you care to take a seat?”

He indicated several chairs around the fireplace. Olivia perched on the edge of one. Liat climbed up to another, then settled himself back against the cushions.

Quenton was determined to be civil, if it killed him. “I’m told you lived in Oxford, Miss St. John.”

“Yes.” She felt a wave of pain that caught her by surprise. How she missed her home and her parents, and the friends she had known for a lifetime.

Quenton was watching her closely. As was his silent brother.

“Did your father teach at the university?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice. She swallowed twice before managing, “He was a professor of botany and zoology. My mother and I acted as his assistants.”

“You assisted him? In what way?”

She flushed. “In very minor ways, I assure you. He taught me the names of plants and animals. When he took me into the fields, I was expected to watch for certain species, and collect them for his students.”

“I see. And did you go into the fields often?”

“Every weekend.” Her smile bloomed. “I did so enjoy those times. I thought...if you wouldn’t mind, that is, I’d like to take Liat for walks around Blackthorne and see if he might learn the names of some of the plants and animals.”

He glanced at the lad. “Would you like that, boy?”

“I...suppose so, sir.”

“Good. Then you have my permission, Miss St. John.” His eyes narrowed. “I must insist, however, that you stay away from the cliffs.”

“The cliffs?”

Before he could respond there was a knock on the door, and the housekeeper entered, followed by her serving wenches.

“Come, Miss St. John. Liat.” Quenton signaled to the village youth, who hurried forward to carry Bennett to a seat at the table.

Olivia was left to ponder the wide range of emotions she could read in the two brothers’ eyes before they had turned away so abruptly. A brooding, simmering fury in Quenton’s. And in Bennett’s, stark terror at the mention of the cliffs.

She thought again about what Edlyn had told her. Quenton’s wife had been found dead at the foot of those cliffs. And Bennett had been found nearby, barely clinging to life.

Sadly, whatever Bennett knew about the tragedy was locked away in his battered mind.

Perhaps forever.

Chapter Five

Pembroke stood at attention behind Quenton, who sat at the head of the table. Bennett sat at his left side, with Olivia at his right side and Uat beside her. The housekeeper bustled around the table, directing the servants in the proper way to serve the guests.

Wine was poured in three goblets, though only Quenton tasted his. This was followed by a silver tray of biscuits so light they seemed to melt on the tongue. A second servant followed offering a tray of clotted cream and fruit conserves. There was a platter of new potatoes swimming in gravy, and a second platter of vegetables arranged in a clear liquid of broth.

As each course was offered, Olivia would spoon some onto her own plate and help Liat do the same.

When a serving wench approached the head of the table with a large platter, Quenton glanced at the servant, then at the housekeeper.

“What is this, Mistress Thornton?”

“Mutton, m’lord.”

“Did you inform Cook that my brother dislikes mutton? I specifically told you that he prefers beef. Or kidney pie.”

“Aye, m’lord. But Cook says yer grandfather preferred mutton. So much so that he ordered her to prepare it every night of his life.”

“Then tell her to feed it to my grandfather. And tell her also, if she serves mutton again tomorrow, she may well be joining my grandfather in his grave.”

“Aye, m’lord. I’ll tell that churlish, boil-brained harpy myself.” The housekeeper turned the full weight of her anger and embarrassment on the innocent servant. “Take this maggot-pie back to the scullery and feed it to the animals. That’s all it’s good for.”

Shocked, Olivia looked from Lord Quenton to the housekeeper. “You can’t mean that. You wouldn’t feed this to the animals.”

Quenton glowered at her. “And why not?”

“Because the servants are probably making do with little more than bread crusts and gruel.” The words were out of her mouth before she could snatch them back. Too late, she remembered where such a seed had been planted. By the servant Edlyn. “They would probably consider such a meal as this heaven-sent.”

The housekeeper’s jaw dropped. In her entire life, no one had ever dared to speak to the lord in such a manner. She looked toward Lord Quenton, whose dark gaze was fixed on the young nursemaid with such intensity, everyone in the room could feel the heat.

“Are you suggesting that my mutton should be given to the servants?”

“Your mutton, my lord? I thought you said it was Cook’s mutton? Did you not suggest you would have Cook’s head if she should dare to fix it again?”

Bennett, whose plate was heaped with food, and who had yet to taste a bite of it, swiveled his head to stare at his brother. His eyes seemed too big in his pale face.

Behind Lord Quenton, Pembroke stood stiff as a fence post, his face showing no emotion. But he was watching this battle of wills with great interest.

“It may prove to be Cook’s head. Or...someone else’s,” Quenton said pointedly. “But I’ll remind you it is my food, Miss St. John. And I’ll say who will eat it and who will not.” He pounded a fist on the table. “Mistress Thornton.”

The housekeeper cowered as she moved closer, anticipating an explosion.

“Is it true that the servants are eating bread and gruel?”

“N-nay, m’lord. Well...that is, rarely. Only when Cook’s in a snit over something said by one of the servants. But they have meat and soup at least thrice a week. Ofttimes even more than that.”

His lips thinned. “Then they are better fed than if they found employment somewhere else?”

“Oh, aye, my lord. All in the village are eager to serve at Blackthorne. It has been thus since the time of your great-grandfather.”

“Thank you, Mistress Thornton. Take this to the servants’ quarters.” Though he was speaking to the housekeeper, he kept his gaze fixed on the insolent nursemaid. “Tell them I hope they enjoy the mutton.”

For a moment Mistress Thornton was speechless. Then, recovering, she gave the serving wench a shove. “Go on with ye, now. Ye heard Lord Stamford. Tell all those yeasty, clay-brained mammets to be grateful for his lordship’s generosity.”

As the servant stumbled from the room the housekeeper snatched the arm of another servant and pushed her forward. “Perhaps ye and yer brother would like some fowl, m’lord.”

For the space of several more seconds he glowered at Olivia. Then, dragging his gaze away, he helped himself to a joint of fowl and motioned for the wench to serve the others.

Olivia glanced at Bennett, who had not eaten a thing. “Would you like some help, Bennett?”

Quenton spoke through gritted teeth. “Have you no care for his feelings, Miss St. John? I told you my brother cannot speak.”

“So you have said. But there is nothing wrong with his hearing, is there?” She turned toward his brother. “Would you like some help, Bennett?”

The young man glanced up at her, then looked away, before giving a slight nod of his head.

“I’ll fetch Minerva,” the housekeeper muttered nervously. “She’s a young lass from the village. She has a way with ’im.”

A few minutes later she returned, followed by the pretty little redheaded servant who had been at his bedside. She took a seat beside Bennett.

“Lost your appetite again?” the girl whispered.

He nodded.

“Cook probably prepared mutton again. I know how you hate it. Here. I’ll help.” She placed a fork in his hand and pointed it toward the plate. “You must try at least a little taste of everything on your plate.”

With the gentleness of a new mother she coaxed and praised until he had managed to eat almost everything.

“I suggest you do the same, young man,” Olivia said in an aside to Liat.

“Yes, ma’am.” The boy chewed woodenly while he kept his gaze fixed on the table.

All the while, at the head of the table, Lord Stamford ate in stony silence, speaking neither to his brother nor to the infuriating nursemaid and her young charge.

When the meal was done the housekeeper, eager to atone for the mutton, motioned for a young servant to approach the table with a tray of tarts.

“Ye’ve not had dessert, m’lord.”

Quenton waved her away and lifted his goblet, draining it.

When the serving wench approached Bennett, his eyes lit like a child’s.

“Would you like one or two?” Minerva asked. Without waiting, she removed two from the tray and placed them on his plate.

“Young master?” The servant paused beside Liat’s chair and the boy took one tart in each hand.

“It is proper to take only one,” Olivia whispered.

“Bennett took two.”

“Bennett may have taken two, but you may have only one.”

“What if I’m still hungry after I eat it?”

“Then we shall see about a second tart.”

Olivia sipped her tea and watched as the boy returned one of the tarts to the tray before nibbling at his pastry.

“So, boy.” Quenton sat back and waited until a servant had removed his dishes. “What has Miss St. John taught you so far?”

At Quenton’s booming question, the lad hastily chewed and gulped, then set aside the rest of his pastry and stared at the table. “She taught me—” he thought a moment “—not to be afraid of monsters.”

“Monsters?” There was a long moment of silence. “Now there’s a fine lesson.” Quenton’s sarcasm was not lost on Olivia. “What else has she taught you?”

Liat thought long and hard. Then he smiled as he lifted his head and met Quenton’s direct look. “She taught me to take only one tart at a time.”

A hint of amusement flickered in Quenton’s eyes, then just as quickly was extinguished, leaving only his familiar frown. “So much knowledge, Miss St. John.” He gave a mocking bow of his head. “I can hardly wait to see what he will know in a fortnight.”

The harshness stung. But Olivia held her head high and refused to be goaded into another outburst She was still mortified that she had allowed her temper to rule her tongue. Her sweet, docile parents would have understood her need to champion the hungry, but would have been sorely embarrassed at her lack of manners, as was she.

“Is the boy in need of anything, Miss St. John?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him once more of the boy’s name. But she cautioned herself that one scene was more than enough for this, her first dinner in his presence.

“Liat’s clothing seems a bit inadequate for our English weather. Especially if he is to accompany me on walks through the countryside.”

He nodded. “I’ll have Pembroke take you and the lad to the village tomorrow. I’ll trust you to buy him whatever he needs.”

“Thank you.”

Just then Liat slipped from his seat and walked around the table.

Quenton sent him a look of dark disapproval. “You did not ask to be excused, lad.”

“Nay, sir. I am not leaving.”

“Then where do you think you’re going?”

Even Olivia was puzzled by the boy’s action.

He paused beside Bennett. “I...don’t like to talk much either. But if you’d like, I’ll talk for you.”

Bennett looked thunderstruck. The servant, Minerva, clapped a hand to her mouth. And Quenton’s look darkened to fury. “You will take your seat at once, lad. And when we’re finished here your governess and I will have a little...”

Before he could finish, Bennett reached a hand to Liat’s. For a moment he merely stared into the boy’s eyes. Then, with a barely perceptible nod of his head, he smiled.

There were several moments of stunned silence before Quenton pushed away from the table and got to his feet. “Mistress Thornton, have the stable lad return my brother to his room.” He nodded toward Olivia. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some ledgers to see to.”

When he took his leave, Pembroke placed a decanter of whiskey and a box of cigars on a tray and followed. It was common knowledge that the lord worked late into the night on his grandfather’s accounts.

Olivia watched as Bennett was carried up the stairs to his bedroom, followed by Minerva. It saddened her that Lord Quenton had made no attempt to speak to his brother. But, she amended, the loss was his.

Catching the boy’s hand, Olivia trailed behind the others. “I was very proud of you, Liat. That was a very kind thing to do.”

“I just wanted him to know that he isn’t a monster. He’s just a man who can’t talk.”

She had to swallow several times as they climbed the stairs.

“Sometimes I don’t like to talk either. Especially when I’m feeling sad and lonely.”

“I understand. I guess it’s the same with everyone. Well,” she whispered, when they reached their chambers. “tonight wasn’t so bad, was it? Lord Stamford did look at you. He even spoke to you.”

The lad nodded his head. “Aye, miss. But that may be even worse than before.”

“Why?”

“Now I’ll have to worry about answering his questions.”

As Olivia led him to his bed and helped him into his nightclothes, she felt a kinship with this lad. She was beginning to think she would much prefer being ignored by the lord of the manor to being singled out for his wrath.

In the future, she would try to keep her thoughts to herself. With that resolve firmly in mind, she decided to go below stairs for a soothing cup of tea.

The hallway, like all the others at Blackthorne, was dimly lit, with candles guttering in pools of wax. As her footsteps echoed hollowly, Olivia paused. Had she heard someone behind her?

She turned, but could see no one. Feeling slightly foolish, she stiffened her spine and continued on. But the hair at the back of her neck prickled and she knew, without turning again, that there was indeed someone behind her.

Her stomach clenched, and it took all her willpower to keep from running. Still, determined to remain composed, she lifted her skirts and quickened her pace. And knew, with absolute certainty, that the one following her had also picked up speed.

“Pembroke? Mistress Thornton?” The slight quiver in her voice shamed her. But when she stopped and turned, she was certain she saw a shadow dart away.

This was nonsense. She was allowing some childish notion to overrule her common sense. What reason would anyone have for following her? Yet she was convinced that someone was.

The tea was forgotten. Now, all she wanted was to return to her own chambers and close herself inside. Despite her attempt at caution she was running now, darting looks over her shoulder, her breath coming in short gasps. As she rounded a corner she went crashing into solid muscle. Strong arms gripped her. She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t even cry out. All she could do was hold on while her breath tore at her lungs and she found herself looking up into Lord Stamford’s scowling face.

“What’s wrong?” He could feel the fear vibrating through her. Instinctively his arms tightened, and he ran a hand down her back to soothe, to comfort.

“I can’t...” She sucked in a breath and struggled for calm. Her chest heaved from the effort. Her arms circled his waist and held on, grateful for his. quiet strength. “Give me a moment, my lord.”

“Shhh.” Without thinking his voice softened, as did his touch. “Take all the time you need.” The feel of her arms around him caused a jolt that was not at all unpleasant. In fact, he found himself enjoying the feeling far too much. She was so small, so fragile. So very feminine.

“I thought...I heard footsteps behind me.”

“Of course you did.” He breathed in the woman scent of her. Her hair smelled of rainwater and that half-remembered fragrance from his childhood.

The troublesome ledgers were forgotten. As was everything except this woman in his arms. “Probably one of the servants.”

Now that he was holding her, she felt her fears evaporating. How could she have been so foolish? What could she possibly have to fear here at Blackthorne?

But even as her fears subsided, and her breathing returned to normal, she became aware of something else. The hands at her back had not stilled, but were moving along her spine in a most provocative manner. She looked up to see Lord Stamford staring down at her with a strange, intense look that had her heart starting to race again. This time it was a new and different sort of fear that gripped her.

“My lord...”

“You’re fine now, Miss St. John. Nothing’s remiss.” Before the words were even out of his mouth, his lips lowered to hers.

It was a jolt to the system that had him reeling. He wasn’t even sure how this had happened. One moment he’d been holding her, offering her comfort. The next his mouth was fused to hers in a kiss that robbed him of his senses.

She tasted as sweet, as fresh as morning mist. An innocent, untouched by the things of this world. If she knew what he was thinking she would be shocked to the core.

The touch of Lord Stamford’s lips was so very different from the way Olivia had felt when Wyatt had tried to force her. Despite the aura of danger that surrounded this man, there was a feeling of safety here. And pleasure. And simmering passion. As he took the kiss deeper, she sighed and found herself slipping under the spell.

The hands at her shoulders tightened, and she could feel his heartbeat as wild, as erratic as her own. Could it be that he was feeling the same quivering need? As he lingered over her mouth, she lost the ability to think at all.

Quenton knew exactly when she became so caught up in the kiss that her fear faded and the first stirrings of passion flared. She sighed and he found himself thinking about things that had long been forgotten. The thought of taking her, here, now, had him pulling back abruptly.

Something flared in his eyes briefly before he blinked. His tone was rougher than he’d intended. “You’d best go to your room now, Miss St. John.”

“Yes. Of course.” It was an effort to speak. Her throat was dry, the words strained.

As she turned away he laid a hand on her arm. At once they both felt the heat.

“It might be best if you bolt the door.”

She avoided his eyes.

“Just so you’ll rest easier.”

She nodded, then strode quickly away.

He continued to watch until she entered her suite and closed the door. He waited until he heard the bolt.

His hands were trembling, he noted. He clenched them into fists at his sides and strode quickly away. And cursed himself because, if truth be told, it wasn’t some dark shadow that had him ordering her to lock her door. It was the knowledge that he didn’t trust himself around her. Not tonight, with all the memories swirling in his mind.

She was too sweet. Too innocent. She stirred something in him. Something that was better off remaining buried forever.

Quenton stood on the windswept hillside, oblivious to the bite in the air. His feet were planted, steady, wide apart, as they had always been on the deck of his ship. Beside him, the hound’s fur ruffled in the wind.

The sea had been his refuge. At sea he had not been treated with deference because, of his name. He’d had to earn the respect of his men with sword and fist, and at times, with swift justice. But at least he’d been free to curse the storms and rage at the inhumanity he was forced to witness all around him. There, among men hardened by life’s blows, he was just another rough seaman.

For a brief time, while he engaged in battles and found an outlet for all the anger and rage, he’d fooled himself into believing that he had put the past behind him. But upon his return, he’d discovered that he’d merely hidden all the pain and fury. And now the feelings seethed and bubbled just below the surface, threatening to erupt for the slightest reason, catching him by surprise.

His gaze swept the nearby graves. His parents, resting side by side. His young bride, so beautiful, so vital. He knelt beside the freshly dug mound. And now this dear old man, who had taken in his two grandsons after the untimely death of their parents and had raised them with discipline and love.

How had it all gone so wrong?

Perhaps the Stamfords had been born under some sort of curse. Or a dark cloud, which would always blot out the sunshine. It seemed the only explanation.

In Jamaica the paper-skinned, blackbird-eyed old woman had looked into her crystal and had told him to beware.

“There is one who wants what is yours. Not just your fortune,” she had warned, “but everything you hold dear.”

He’d managed a bitter laugh. “That may have been true at one time. Now I value nothing in life, except a ship under my feet and a moonless night in which to ply my trade for His Majesty.” His remark had been tossed carelessly, causing the old woman’s tone to frost over.

“You think to bury your heart so deeply it cannot be broken again. But you are wrong, my young friend. You are fooling only yourself. One day you will step out of the darkness. But only you can find the pathway back to the light.”

“No, old woman. It is you who are wrong. You see, I much prefer the darkness.”

He had tossed her a coin as carelessly as he had tossed his casual remarks. But her words had remained with him. And haunted him still.

He studied the marker over his wife’s grave. With her he had been, in those first heady months, deliriously happy. What made it even more perfect was the fact that his grandfather and his younger brother adored her as much as he. Their family had seemed, in that brief time, to have reached a pinnacle of happiness.

And then it had all come crashing down. At first he’d been unwilling to admit the truth, even to himself. But then, as she had become more distant and more riddled with guilt, there had been no room left for denial. Antonia had been unfaithful. The rumors and whispers of a secret lover were rampant. Even young Bennett was suspect, though Quenton adamantly refused to dignify such a suspicion.

Even now it wasn’t anger or jealousy he felt whenever he looked at Bennett; it was shame. Shame that his brother had been there in his stead. And pity, for what the once young, handsome Bennett had become. A hard, cold knot of pity that ate at Quenton’s soul. The sight of all that suffering and torment was tearing him apart.

Their loving family had been shattered beyond repair by grief and scandal and despair. Despite what the old woman had said, he could see no way back to the light.

He shivered and glanced up. Two figures strolling across a moor caught his eye. Even from this distance he could see the shiny blue-black cap of hair on the boy, and the wind-tossed curls of the nursemaid.

If he were to leave now, he could avoid running into them. That was his first thought. He had steadfastly ignored Olivia St. John since the night he had kissed her. But something made him stay where he was. Perhaps it was curiosity over the wild gesturing of the boy, as he pointed to something in the long grass. Or perhaps it was the way the young woman knelt down and guided the boy’s hand to whatever had taken cover. Quenton remained very still, watching and listening.

Their voices carried on the breeze. The boy’s soft, musical; hers low, cultured, with a gentle laugh that touched a chord deep inside him.

“It is a baby bird. See, his mother hovers nearby, scolding us. She was probably giving him a flying lesson when he fell to the ground.”

“May I keep him?”

“Oh no, Liat. That wouldn’t be right. He needs his mother. She’s the only one who can properly feed him and teach him the things he needs to learn to survive on his own.”

“May I hold him?”

“No, dear. His poor mother is nearly mad with worry. Listen to her heartbreaking cries.”

The boy glanced up at the bird that was circling their heads.

“Let’s leave him now, so his mother can sit beside him and satisfy herself that he’s unharmed. Come. I’ll race you to that rock.” Olivia caught up the hem of her skirt and started running.

Liat followed suit.

Olivia slowed her pace to give her young charge a chance to pass her. He touched a hand to the stone and turned to her in triumph. “I beat you.”

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