New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers delivers an irresistible story about love, family and finding a place to call home..

Marine archaeologist Charlotte Bennett is no stranger to risk, but her dives into sunken wreckage are always meticulously planned. However, being the maid of honor in her cousin Samantha’s English wedding gives her a new perspective on her life as a nomad who’s given up on romance altogether. Though an encounter with roguish wedding guest Greg Rawlings leaves her unsettled, the other people she meets make a trip to the tranquil town of Knights Bridge, Massachusetts, enticing. Acting on impulse, Charlotte offers to house-sit at Red Clover Inn while Sam and Justin Sloan are away on their honeymoon.

The quaint inn isn’t open to the public yet and Charlotte will have quiet time to plan her next project. It might also give her a chance to see how her cousin found love and a sense of family. But the peace is immediately disrupted when Greg shows up at the inn. The Diplomatic Security Service agent lives a dangerous life, and he, too, wants to clear his head before his next assignment. Juggling work, raising his two teenage children and nursing a wounded heart has left him jaded, and the last thing he expects is to find himself falling for the willful Charlotte. As the attraction between them flares, Charlotte realizes she might be in too deep. And each of them must decide if they can put love first before it’s too late.

Praise for Carla Neggers’ New York Times bestselling Swift River Valley novels

“Masterful attention to detail, conversational dialogue and past-character catch-up expertly draw readers into her potent mix of romance, mystery and small-town drama.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Spring at Moss Hill

“Appealing protagonists, good neighbors, small-town Christmas traditions, and Neggers’ own recipes make for a fine romance.”

—Publishers Weekly on A Knights Bridge Christmas

“A heady mix of romance, mystery and genuine Quabbin history packaged in an enchanting holiday tale.”

—RT Book Reviews on A Knights Bridge Christmas

“Neggers does the near impossible: she brings a small-town, family-loving heroine and a footloose hero together in an engaging romance that has its fair share of surprises.”

—Library Journal on Echo Lake

“Her people, places and things are colorfully and expertly rendered in this compelling work of fiction.”

—RT Book Reviews on Cider Brook

“Neggers captures readers’ attention with her usual flair and brilliance and gives us a romance, a mystery and a lesson in history.”

—RT Book Reviews, Top Pick, on Secrets of the Lost Summer

Red Clover Inn

Carla Neggers

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Niamh Amalia, daughter of my daughter

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Author’s Note

Extract

Copyright

One

The Cotswolds, England

Charlotte Bennett was no stranger to trouble but never had she encountered it in the form of a US federal agent who was exhausted, somewhat inebriated or both. “Agent Rawlings.” She paused, debating the wisdom of continuing. “Are you by any chance armed?”

“Armed with a smile.”

And smile he did, as if to prove his point. It was a casually sexy smile, his turquoise eyes crinkling at the corners. Charlotte didn’t know when and where a federal agent was supposed to carry a weapon, but certainly not while drinking beer at a party the night before her cousin’s wedding in a quiet village in England. She couldn’t see a weapon but he could easily have one under the jacket he wore over a charcoal-gray lightweight sweater. He had ultrashort-cropped dark auburn hair and looked as if he knew his way around weapons of all kinds.

“No worries, okay? I’m not in the UK on official business. You’re safe with me.”

He was amused. She could tell. She’d arrived at the party late and had chosen a small table by a window slightly open to the damp June evening. She’d had exactly two sips of her wine, a lovely, chilled white, when he sat next to her on the cushioned bench, placed his near-empty beer glass on the small table and introduced himself as Greg Rawlings. Charlotte had recognized his name as the federal agent Samantha, her cousin whose wedding was tomorrow, had mentioned was a last-minute guest.

Charlotte took her third sip of her wine. “You know, I didn’t invite you to join me.”

“You can kick me out if you want,” he said with a yawn. “I’ll go quietly.”

He didn’t look as if he did anything quietly unless it suited him. “Agent Rawlings—”

“Call me Greg. What’s your name?”

“Charlotte. Charlotte Bennett.”

“Ah. Another Bennett. Live here or in the US?”

“I’m American but I live in Scotland.” For now, she added silently.

“Well, Lottie, you need to kick back and relax.”

He was having fun. Definitely. She wanted to have fun but she wasn’t in the mood, at least not yet. Once she saw Samantha and got into the spirit of the wedding festivities, maybe. But she didn’t like weddings.

“It’s Charlotte,” she said. “Don’t call me Lottie again.”

Greg Rawlings smiled, his eyes half-closed. “Or...what?”

He knew he was sexy. Totally knew it. She returned his smile. “I promised my family I wouldn’t get in a bar fight tonight.”

“You’ve been in bar fights, Char?”

“Not in a while. And Char isn’t going to work, either. Charlotte. That’s it.”

“As in Charlotte’s Web?”

“No. As in my parents liked the name.”

“Is Charlotte the spider? I don’t remember. I guess it makes sense she’d be the spider, or why would it be her web?”

Charlotte didn’t respond. She watched him fight back another yawn. Maybe he wasn’t inebriated—maybe he was just tired. He’d sat at her table without invitation, but there weren’t enough tables for the number of guests, deliberately so, she knew, because the idea behind the party was for guests to mingle ahead of tomorrow’s wedding. She’d assumed he’d had too much to drink and had picked an argument with him.

Maybe argument was too strong. She’d walked into the Cotswolds pub and found her way to the private-function room intensely aware she needed a distraction. She’d hoped a glass of white wine would do the trick. Then enter a fit, muscular federal agent with attitude.

Maybe he needed a distraction, too. Sparring with her certainly didn’t intimidate him or even seem to bother him. One of those guys who always thought he had the upper hand. She supposed it was a strength in a federal agent, if not necessarily in a drinking mate.

“What are you drinking?” he asked her.

“Chardonnay. What about you?” Charlotte nodded to his almost-drained pint glass. “What were you drinking?”

“Implying I’m done for the night?”

“You should be.”

He grinned. “You’re blunt.” He sat up straighter. “Okay. I was drinking Heineken, the last of which is in the bottom of my glass and warm. My buddy Brody is supposed to be fetching me another pint.”

“Brody being...”

“Brody Hancock. He’s the tall guy who isn’t bringing me my beer.”

Charlotte drew a blank but had a feeling she should know the name Brody Hancock. “Is Brody a federal agent, too?”

“He’s a London-based Diplomatic Security Service agent for the US State Department recently married to the only sister of tomorrow’s groom. You know about that, right? The wedding tomorrow? You’re not a gate-crasher, are you?”

“I know about the wedding. I’m not a gate-crasher.” More like the opposite, she thought. The one who ran from weddings. “Are you a DS agent, too?”

He frowned. “Didn’t I say that?”

“You acknowledged you were a federal agent when I recognized your name. I didn’t know what kind of federal agent. We didn’t get to the details once I realized you might be armed.” She had a feeling she was digging a deep, deep hole for herself. “Why don’t I find Agent Hancock for you?”

Greg sank against the back of the bench they shared. “That’s okay. He’ll find me.”

“I hope so,” she said half under her breath.

“You’re blunt, Charlotte. Relax. It’s the night before a quiet English wedding.”

As if that should reassure her. “Bad things often happen the night before weddings.”

“That’s a dark view,” he said, clearly amused. “Let’s start over. I will call you Charlotte and you will quit worrying about whether I’m armed and inebriated. Okay? Hitting the reset button...” He paused to shake off a yawn. “What do you do for a living, Charlotte?”

“I’m a marine archaeologist. I’m Samantha Bennett’s cousin.”

“Our bride-to-be. Blood relative, then?”

“She’s my second cousin, actually. Our grandfathers were brothers.”

“Both gone now?”

Charlotte nodded. “They died within eighteen months of each other, my grandfather Max first, then Harry. They were both predeceased by their wives. Harry was an explorer and adventurer. Max—well, Max wasn’t an explorer and adventurer. He managed Harry’s expeditions and such.”

“Younger brother?”

“By two years. They both lived into their nineties. They would be at the wedding if they were alive.” Charlotte picked up her wineglass, taking the opportunity to lower her gaze subtly to Greg’s middle. She still couldn’t see any evidence of a weapon. “The Bennetts will be well represented tomorrow.”

Greg leaned toward her. “I don’t mind you staring at me, but you can throttle back on the suspicions. I’m not going to shoot anyone and I’m not drunk.”

“The last words of countless drunks as they pass out under the table.”

He grinned, not the reaction she’d expected to her frank comment. “I knew I did right sitting next to you,” he said. “I saw you come in and decided you’re the prettiest, most uptight person here and needed cheering up.”

It was distraction she’d needed, not cheering up. “I only just arrived from Edinburgh.”

“Any idea why it’s pronounced Edinboro? Why isn’t burgh pronounced like it is in Pittsburgh?” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead grabbing his glass and polishing off his last sip of beer. He made a face. “I let it get warm. That’s bad. I’m off my game. Where do you suppose my fresh pint is?”

“Still in the tap, I hope,” Charlotte said.

“Going to tell me why you’re so uptight? Did you run into trouble getting here from Edinburgh?”

“No trouble. It was a long train ride.” She’d constantly fought the urge to jump off her train and return to Edinburgh. But she hadn’t, and now she was here, going tit-for-tat with Greg Rawlings. “I’m relaxing with a glass of wine and going to bed early.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know how that’s your business.”

He shrugged. “It’s not. Just making friendly conversation. I’m staying here at the pub. My room’s right up the stairs. Brody and Heather—that’s his wife—are staying at the wedding hotel. She’s in the wedding party tomorrow. But you know that, right?”

Wedding party. Charlotte inhaled, pushing back a surge of panic. “I haven’t met Heather, but yes, I know who she is, and that she’s one of Samantha’s bridesmaids.”

“You’re not in the wedding yourself, are you?”

She didn’t answer at once. She scanned the private-function room but didn’t see anyone she knew. The party was winding down now, only a handful of guests at the dozen tables and standing around with drinks. Samantha had assured her it would be a simple, informal gathering of friends and family who’d arrived for the destination wedding from New England, Florida, Scotland and London. There was no actual rehearsal. It wasn’t critical that Charlotte arrive early, or at all, provided she was on time for the wedding preparations and service tomorrow. She’d texted Samantha from the Oxford train station to let her know she’d arrived. She’d sensed her cousin’s relief. Charlotte understood. She didn’t have a good track record when it came to weddings.

Samantha had already gone back to the wedding hotel for an early night by the time Charlotte had arrived at the party. She shifted back to the man next to her at her table. “I’m Samantha’s maid of honor,” she said, hoping she sounded relaxed, matter-of-fact.

“There you go. Being in the wedding explains why you’re so uptight.”

“Actually, no, it doesn’t, because I’m not uptight.”

“Nervous? Being in front of a crowd can make people nervous.”

“I’m not nervous or uptight. But never mind.”

He eyed her as if he was debating asking a follow-up question. “Samantha’s a pirate expert and treasure hunter,” he said instead. “I’m going to guess that you’re not.”

“Marine archaeologists are sometimes involved in exploring sunken pirate ships, but you are right, I’m not.” She used a tone that she hoped signaled she didn’t want to answer more questions about herself. “I’ll go find your friend.”

“Don’t bother. I see him. He’s chatting up one of the groom’s brothers. Am I starting to annoy you, Charlotte?”

“Let’s say initially I felt somewhat protective of you but now I don’t.”

“Protective of me?” Another wide, amused grin. “I like that.”

“Protective only in the sense that I don’t want you to do anything to get yourself in trouble with your superiors or to cause trouble for anyone else, especially Samantha, since it’s her wedding tomorrow.”

“And you? Are you being protective of yourself? You don’t want me to cause trouble for you, right?” He leaned back on the bench. “Or do you?”

“I assure you, Agent Rawlings, I can handle whatever trouble you have in mind for me.”

He gave her a slow, easy, impossibly sexy grin. “I’ll bet you can.”

“I walked into that one, didn’t I?”

“No comment.” He blinked, plainly having difficulty keeping his eyes open. “So. You haven’t told me to shove off, because you’re protecting me and your cousin but not yourself. Got it.”

Charlotte didn’t quibble. Greg Rawlings was muscular and broad-shouldered but he wasn’t what she would call handsome. Instead he had a magnetic, arresting appeal that worked well with her need for a distraction and probably was a factor in her not sending him on his way.

“You are pretty, you know,” he said, catching her off guard. “Your brown eyes remind me of a golden retriever I had as a kid.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did I just say you have eyes like a dog? Damn, I did. He was a great dog, if that helps.”

“I love dogs,” Charlotte said, keeping her tone neutral.

“Me, too. And you do have pretty eyes.”

“Do you always dig holes this deep with people you’ve just met?”

“Usually deeper.”

She didn’t doubt him.

“And you?” he asked.

“I’ve dug a hole with you?” She smiled. “Ah, well.”

He laughed, looking less exhausted—and not at all drunk. “Fortunately, my job requires me to keep my mouth shut most of the time. Do you work with Samantha’s parents? Aren’t they exploring sunken U-boats off the coast of Scotland?”

“They were. That project ended recently. I did work with them, yes, on a contract basis.”

“Are you a diver?”

Charlotte hesitated only a fraction of a second. She doubted most people would have noticed her hesitation, but she could tell by the slight narrowing of his eyes that Greg Rawlings did. “I’m with the Institute of Maritime Archaeology based in Edinburgh,” she said, crisp, professional. “Diving is an important part of what I do.”

Greg shuddered. “Just the thought of diving gives me hives.”

“That’s your answer, then. If thinking about diving bothers you, then it’s the thinking that’s the issue, not the diving itself.”

“It’s the diving.”

She couldn’t resist a smile. She had to admit she was enjoying their banter. It was harmless, a little fun before she retired for the night. Maybe he’d sized her up right after all. “I’ve been diving since I was a kid,” she said. “I guess it never occurred to me to get hives over it. I’m fascinated by the world’s underwater heritage. There’s so much to explore and learn.”

“One of our last frontiers,” Greg said, obviously not that interested. “I guess space is another. I don’t like the thought of space suits, either. I like breathing real air.”

She wasn’t going to argue with him about the definition of real air. “It’s hard to believe Samantha ended up a couple of hours from the nearest salt water, but she loves her adopted town in Massachusetts. England is perfect for her wedding, though, since most of her family lives in the UK. She says it’s going to be beautiful tomorrow. Apparently the wisteria is in full bloom.”

“What’s wisteria?” Greg asked.

“It’s a flower.”

“Then it’s not contagious. Good.”

Charlotte sighed. “Very funny.” She started to rise. “Good to meet you, Agent Rawlings. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Greg placed a hand on her wrist, sending unexpected currents through her. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Have another glass of wine. You were here first. I’ll go find Brody. I remember when he got his first assignment. He was green as a grass snake. Now he’s in his prime, and I’m—Wait, where the hell are we?” He glanced around him, as if he were confused. “Some twee English village, right?”

Charlotte observed him. He was entertained, unconcerned—and deliberate, she decided. Diplomatic Security Agent Greg Rawlings might be exhausted and he might be trouble in many ways, but he wasn’t inebriated. He was stone-cold sober. Her initial impression of him had been part right and part wrong.

Mostly wrong.

She gave an inward groan, not so much embarrassed as annoyed with herself. But wasn’t being wrong about people par for the course for her these days?

Par for the course with her and men, she amended silently.

She did much better with the ghosts she found underwater.

“I have to unpack,” she said politely, firmly, as she stood. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

This time, Greg didn’t stop her, and she slipped out of the party room, down the hall and out to the bar. More family and friends had decided to stay overnight than expected, and Charlotte had offered to stay in one of the pub’s half-dozen guest rooms, freeing up space at the relatively small wedding hotel.

A room at the pub also allowed her to get her bearings before tomorrow.

Weddings.

She took a breath and sat on a stool at the bar. A quiet drink without any back-and-forth with a federal agent and then she’d collapse into bed. By daylight, she’d be ready to pour herself into her maid-of-honor dress. The long train ride from Edinburgh to Oxford and then a cab to the small English village where her cousin was getting married had left her drained. She’d had too much time to think. Inevitably, her mind had drifted to thoughts, questions and regrets best avoided on her way to a wedding.

“Scotch,” she said to the tawny-haired barman. “Smoky and expensive.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“We are celebrating that I’m here for my cousin’s wedding tomorrow, alone, single and in one piece.”

The barman poured a pricey single malt and set the glass in front of her. “Cheers, then.”

Charlotte held up her glass and smiled. “Cheers.”

* * *

Brody Hancock planted a fresh beer in front of Greg and sat across from him. “Do I need to go find that woman and apologize on your behalf?” Brody asked.

Greg picked up the beer. “That woman is Charlotte Bennett, Samantha’s cousin and her maid of honor.”

“Even more reason to apologize.”

“Apologize for what?”

“You tell me. I’m going to make an educated guess and say you were jerking her chain.”

“She started it by assuming I was drunk.”

Brody groaned. “That’s so third grade, Greg.”

“I know. It’s fun, isn’t it?”

“For you, maybe.”

Greg didn’t argue the point with his friend and colleague. Brody was a good-looking guy in his midthirties, dressed for the night in a suit, probably because it was his brother-in-law who was getting married tomorrow.

“You’re doing some assuming of your own,” Brody added. “You don’t know what Charlotte was thinking.”

“I do. She told me. She’s blunt. She threatened to disarm me.” It was an exaggeration and Greg knew it. “I swear.”

“How was she going to disarm you, Greg?” Brody asked, sighing.

“I don’t know. It could have been interesting to find out.”

Brody shook his head. “Don’t make me regret getting you invited to the wedding.”

“I won’t. Relax. That’s what I’m doing. Relaxing.”

“Sure, Greg.”

He realized his eyelids were drooping. Damn, he was beat. He’d been going all out for months. A wedding in the English countryside was just what he needed. “Charlotte’s uptight and was looking for a distraction,” he said, confident in his assessment. “Fretting about me gave her something to do. If anyone needs to apologize, it’s her.”

“Somehow I doubt she’s the one who needs to make apologies.”

“Charlotte Bennett can hold her own. Trust me. And it’s Charlotte, by the way, not Char or Lottie or anything else. Charlotte.”

“And you’re an ass,” Brody said with a grin.

“I do a good imitation of one, anyway.” Greg considered his encounter with tomorrow’s maid of honor. “She’s hiding something. I can tell these things.”

“You’re good, Greg, but even you aren’t a mind reader. Enjoy your beer. We don’t have to worry about getting in a car and driving on the wrong side on the winding country roads.”

Heather, Brody’s dark-haired, blue-eyed bride of a few months, joined them. She and Brody had grown up in the same town, an out-of-the-way little place west of Boston called Knights Bridge. Greg had been there over the winter and met a bunch of locals, including Heather’s five older brothers. They were all here for tomorrow’s wedding—especially Justin Sloan, since he was the groom. Being the youngest and only girl, Heather was another one who gave as good as she got. Brody had never intimidated her. Neither had the animosity between him and her older brothers that had gone back to their teen years. All water over the dam now. On Greg’s one and only visit to Knights Bridge, Brody had just returned to his hometown after more than a decade and he and Heather Sloan were doing the dance, wondering if they were meant for each other. But they were. Greg had seen it right away. Love for them had come fast and fairly easily, and he was certain it would last.

Heather set three glasses of water on the table. “Figured it’s time for us to switch to H2O,” she said cheerfully as she sat next to her husband.

Greg thanked her but stuck with his beer. “We haven’t had much chance to talk since I got in from parts unknown. How’s married life for you two lovebirds?”

“It’s perfect,” Heather said without hesitation.

Brody smiled. “Just what I was going to say.”

“We’re loving London,” she added. “Having my family here for the wedding is great. Helps with any homesickness.”

“You’re not down on the farm anymore,” Greg said.

“We have a construction business. My parents live in an old farmhouse, but it’s not a working farm.”

“It’s an expression, Heather.” Greg got a kick out of her. “I’m glad you two are happy. I said you would be, didn’t I?”

“You’re always right, Greg,” Heather said, then drank some of her water.

He laughed but he could feel the rawness of his exhaustion.

Brody lifted his water glass. “Are you going to pass out here, Greg? You look like you need toothpicks to keep your eyes open.”

“Here would be good but Samantha’s marine archaeologist cousin would probably sic the local cops on me.” He abandoned his beer barely two sips into it. “I’ll stumble up to my room.”

“Want me to spot you?” Brody asked.

“No.” Greg snorted as he got to his feet. “Spot me. Hell.”

He did stumble, though. Imperceptibly, he thought, but there was no denying it. He didn’t give a damn. He’d had a rough few months since crawling off his deathbed and going back to work.

How close was I to dying, Doc?

Close.

Seconds? Minutes? I want to tell my ex-wife.

His doctor hadn’t thought that was funny. Laura wouldn’t have, either, but Greg would never tell her. Divorced or not, he was the father of their two teenage children. She’d often grumbled that life as his wife was like being widowed, but she had never wanted him to die for real. Decent of her, considering she’d had a point. He’d left her high and dry too frequently during their marriage. They’d married young and had two kids right away, and they’d never been easy as a couple, not like Heather and Brody. Finally, they’d accepted they no longer were a couple and it was time to move on, end their marriage.

It hadn’t been Laura’s fault. It damn sure hadn’t been the kids’ fault.

They lived in Minnesota near Laura’s family and liked cold weather. Andrew and Megan had no idea what their father’s life was really like. They’d see a Diplomatic Security agent in a movie and think that was it. But it wasn’t.

Greg took the blame, every bit of it, for the distance between them, but he knew, at least intellectually, blame and guilt got him nowhere. He wasn’t going to let them be an excuse to keep his distance, prevent him from living the life he wanted to live.

He swore under his breath.

No way was he going to bed with all that rolling around in his head. A good night’s sleep would help, but it would elude him if he didn’t get a grip first. His demons were part of the reason for his admitted exhaustion.

He walked down the narrow hall to the bar, managing not to fall on his face. He spotted Charlotte Bennett at the bar and grinned at her when she fastened her dark eyes on him. She had creamy skin and thick, rich brown hair that hung in waves to just above her shoulders, and she wore a simple, close-fitting black dress and strappy black heels. Greg would bet a million dollars that her shoes were killing her feet, but she’d never show pain. Not the type.

He sat in a booth. It had a worn wood bench. No cushion. Aches that hadn’t bothered him in months gnawed at him now. It’d been four months since he’d defied his doctors’ predictions and had made a full recovery and returned to duty after being wounded in an ambush late last fall. He’d seen a similar determination in dark-eyed Charlotte, but maybe he’d only been projecting.

The pub had low ceilings and a large open fireplace, unlit given the warm evening. A votive candle glowed on his table. The place was owned by Ian Mabry, a former RAF pilot engaged to Alexandra Rankin Hunt, an English dress designer with a shop down the street and tangled connections to little Knights Bridge, Massachusetts.

Greg ordered Scotch. “Whatever you recommend that doesn’t cost a fortune,” he told Mabry, a good-looking sandy-haired guy who didn’t seem to miss the RAF. Greg wondered if he’d miss his job when the time finally came to call it quits. He wanted that moment to be on his own terms, not a bullet’s terms. But he wasn’t contemplating his past or future this weekend, he decided. Especially not tonight, with Scotch on the way.

He settled back and observed tomorrow’s maid of honor. He didn’t know much about the Bennetts. Samantha’s grandfather, Harry Bennett, had earned an international reputation as an adventurer and explorer when he’d ventured to the Antarctic under dangerous conditions. He and some in his party had almost frozen to death. Greg gave an involuntary shiver. He figured he’d done well by not freezing to death in Minneapolis.

Laura, his ex, wouldn’t think that was funny, either.

No wonder they hadn’t been a “forever” match.

Greg focused on eyeing the curve of Charlotte Bennett’s hip under her sleek outfit.

“Do you wear dresses very often given your work as a diver?” he asked, not sure if she’d heard him. Her dagger look as she swiveled to him ended any doubt. He grinned. “No, huh? Did you have that one hanging in your closet or did you buy it special for tonight? Borrow it? Wait. Let me guess. You don’t have a closet.”

“I’m not indulging you.” She swiveled back to her drink, giving him her back again.

“That’s not apple juice you’re drinking, is it?”

No reaction. Greg decided to shut up before Ian Mabry tossed him out for being an ass. The pilot/barman delivered the Scotch himself, a smoky-but-not-too-smoky single malt from, according to Mabry, an Islay distillery.

“So it’s Eye-la not Iz-lay,” Greg said.

Mabry smiled. “I have a feeling you knew that.”

The Englishman withdrew before Greg told him yeah, he’d known. About a decade ago he’d mispronounced Islay in front of a UK-security type who’d relished trying to make him feel like a dumbass. It hadn’t worked, and they’d become friends, drinking expensive Scotch to nonexcess and deliberately mispronouncing one booze name after another.

Greg debated asking Charlotte to join him. Probably not a good idea.

One sip into his Scotch and his fatigue blanketed him, suffocating him. He should have seen it coming, but he hadn’t, instead distracting himself by teasing an obviously smart, tough marine archaeologist.

He could have tackled the fatigue, fought it off and forced himself up to his room, but he took another sip of Scotch.

And he was done.

Toast.

His weariness took him under. He didn’t fight it. There was no reason to fight it. Everyone around him was safe, and he was off duty, secure, in a quiet English pub.

Next thing, he felt something frigid-cold and wet on his neck and then rolling down his back. He bolted upright and noticed Charlotte had moved onto the bench next to him.

He shivered, the wet cold reaching the small of his back. “That was too cold to be your tongue.”

“It was ice.”

“They have ice here?”

“I asked for ice for my glass of water. I was tempted to pretend I didn’t see you pass out.” She dumped the rest of her handful of melting cubes into his Scotch. “You’re done drinking.”

“You just ruined the rest of my excellent single malt.”

“That was the point. Come on. I’ll help you up to your room.”

He debated protesting, but instead he stifled a yawn, his eyes half-shut. The ice had given him a jolt but he was still struggling to stay awake. He could have made it up to his room on his own, but damn. Having attractive, sexy Charlotte Bennett help him? An opportunity not to be missed. He figured he couldn’t go wrong.

“I am feeling a bit woozy,” he said.

“I wonder why.”

“I haven’t had too much to drink.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She slid an arm around his middle. “Up you go.”

She inhaled sharply as she tightened her hold on him. He liked to think it was because she was reacting to being in such close contact with him, but maybe he smelled or something. He offered no resistance as she helped him to his feet, using her legs for leverage. He was a big guy but she clearly knew what she was doing. Another good tug, and she had him on the other side of the table, near the base of the stairs.

“Not bad,” he said.

“I’m used to dealing with inebriated divers.”

“You’re a tough cookie, aren’t you?”

She gave him a steely look, the kind he’d given countless times in similar situations. “You need to call it a night, Agent Rawlings.”

“You aren’t going to dump more ice down my back, are you?”

“Would it help get you up the stairs to your room?”

“There are better ways.”

Her cheeks reddened but it could have been exertion. Probably unhelpful that he was thinking in physical terms, but maybe she was, too.

“You’re going to have to help me,” she said. “I can’t carry you.”

“No piggyback ride?”

“Not unless you...” She shook her head. “No. No piggyback ride.”

She steadied her arm around him and edged him to the stairs, then took his right hand and planted it on the rail. He glanced at her. “You’ll catch me if I fall backward?”

“I’ll get out of your way.”

“Heartless.”

“Practical. We’d both stand a better chance of not getting hurt.”

He looked up the steep, narrow stairs and grimaced. “Sure you can’t carry me?”

“Positive.” Charlotte smiled with understanding. “Might as well be the last few yards climbing Everest, huh?”

“But it’s not. It’s a set of stairs in an English pub.”

“This is true.”

He made no comment. As he started up the stairs, she eased her arm from around him and placed her hand on his hip, obviously hoping that would help stabilize him. “Are you sure you can manage?” she asked him.

“Absolutely. I can do stairs.”

He faltered only once but Charlotte didn’t have to intervene. When they reached the second floor, he grinned at her. “Are you sorry I didn’t fall backward and get tangled up with you?”

“No.”

Her brown eyes were enough to melt him. His grin broadened. “I bet you’re not as cool and heartless as you’re making out right now.”

“Let’s just get you to bed.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“You know what I mean, Agent Rawlings,” she said, starchy.

“Brody and Heather have gone to the wedding hotel. I’m at your mercy. Brody would have left me under the booth. Nowhere near as fun as having you put me to bed.”

She sighed. “What’s your room number?”

“Crisp and efficient, aren’t you, Charlotte Bennett?” He pointed vaguely. “It’s the second door on the right.”

“Key?”

“I can manage the key.”

“Actually, I’m not sure you can, and I suspect you aren’t sure, either.”

He decided he must look even worse than he felt. He reached into his jacket for the old-fashioned key and handed it to her. She nudged him down the hall, but he was more awake, or at least more alert. Maybe it was having a wall next to him should he collapse, or maybe mounting the stairs had perked him up. Whatever the case, they arrived at his door without incident.

“Where’s your room?” he asked her.

“Down the hall.”

“Do we have connecting doors?”

“No. There’s a room between us.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t know if you’re teasing or just making small talk in an awkward situation, but it doesn’t matter. Two seconds and you’ll be in your room and can get some rest before tomorrow. I don’t want you to make a scene.”

She shoved his key in the lock. One try and she had the door open.

“Efficient,” Greg said.

She tucked the key into his jacket pocket and held the door open. “In you go, Agent Rawlings.”

“Greg. Gregory is fine, too. So is Agent Rawlings, but it’s too formal now that you’re in my hotel room.”

“I’m not in your hotel room.”

“Right. It’s a pub that lets rooms. It’s not a real hotel or even a B and B or an inn.”

“I’m not in your room, period.”

He felt a wave of fatigue and forced himself to stay upright. He attempted a grin. “You’re not going to make sure I get to bed without collapsing?”

“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll wait outside the door, and if I hear a thud and think you hit your head or otherwise hurt yourself, I’ll call for an ambulance.”

Greg stood straight, leveling his gaze on her. “I’ll be fine, Charlotte. I’m not sick or drunk. Thanks for your help.”

The pink returned to her cheeks. “You’re exhausted,” she said finally. “Get some sleep. See you at the wedding.”

“How’s your maid-of-honor dress?”

She ignored him and left, shutting the door quickly—not in his face but it was close.

Greg managed to make it to the bed before he collapsed.

No thud for Charlotte to call backup.

* * *

Charlotte didn’t breathe normally again until she reached her room, shut the door and kicked off her shoes. She didn’t know how she’d made it up the stairs in them. Her feet ached. Adrenaline had undoubtedly helped keep her from feeling any pain.

She stared at the locked door next to the closet door. She’d lied. Her room did adjoin Greg’s room, and it did have a connecting door—inaccessible by either one of them without the key. There’d been no point in telling him and getting his imagination fired up. He needed sleep, and so did she, if for different reasons.

Her room was adorable, decorated with warm fabrics and simple furnishings. A small window looked out on the village street, dark and quiet now. She didn’t hear any noise from the pub below her. She supposed the barman would have dealt with Greg if she’d left him in the booth. Presumably, she’d see him at the wedding tomorrow, and then that would be that. They’d be on their separate ways.

She peeled off her dress. Her maid-of-honor dress was at the wedding hotel. She appreciated Samantha’s asking her to be her maid of honor and didn’t regret saying yes—but she’d come close to saying no. Unsaid between them had been the reasons why. “You’re who I want as my maid of honor, Charlotte,” Samantha had told her. “You’re as close to a sister as I have, and you’re my best friend, but I’ll understand if you just want to be a guest.”

“Thank you, Sam. I’m honored. I’d love to be your maid of honor.”

Charlotte had meant every word, but she also knew it wouldn’t be easy to walk down that aisle tomorrow without memories bubbling up. She’d just have to work at stifling them. It wasn’t her wedding. It was Samantha and Justin’s wedding, and Charlotte wanted to do her part to make it a wonderful day for them.

She washed up, slipped into her nightgown and crawled under the cozy duvet in the double bed. She listened, but she didn’t hear anything from the adjoining room. Greg Rawlings was similar to other alpha types she knew in her work. While she appreciated the training and dedication that no doubt went into his job as a DS agent, she was well aware that even tough guys bled, got sick and messed up. The problem wasn’t that she wanted to believe they were indestructible. They wanted to believe it.

She shut her eyes, giving in to her own fatigue. Even after her long day, she had no sign of a headache.

Progress.

But she didn’t want to make too much of it, and she knew getting rid of her headaches didn’t mean she’d ever dive again.

She put that thought out of her mind and pictured Greg instead, half-asleep, genuinely exhausted and yet still capable of teasing—and, no doubt, of getting himself to his room.

She put him out of her mind, too. She’d done her bit for him, but Greg Rawlings was a fit, capable man.

The Diplomatic Security agent in the next room wasn’t her problem.

Two

Greg managed to take a shower, pull on jeans and a sweatshirt, and tie on a pair of running shoes when he woke up at oh dark thirty. He’d been wiped out when he’d arrived in London yesterday. Mop-the-floor-with-him exhausted after months of nonstop, high-intensity, high-stress work. Not an excuse for passing out in an English pub, but no harm, no foul.

As he started down the steep stairs, he remembered more of his encounter with Charlotte Bennett last night than he wanted to remember.

“Should have had more to drink.”

Breakfast was set up in the same room as last night’s party. Eric Sloan, a police officer and the eldest of the Sloan siblings, invited Greg to join him. Greg had met him briefly in February. Eric resembled the rest of the Sloans: dark haired, blue eyed, strong. Straightforward. Another Sloan trait. It was still the middle of the night back home in New England, but Eric looked wide-awake. Probably used to odd hours. He, too, had on jeans and a sweatshirt.

Greg sat at Eric’s table by a partially open window, exchanged a couple of pleasantries, ordered coffee and then got up again and went to the cold buffet table.

He returned with Weetabix and cut fruit. “I’ve never had Weetabix,” he said. “Have you?”

Eric shrugged. “It’s like Shredded Wheat?”

“Sort of. I think it’s one of those things you can do anything with. Add fruit, peanut butter, cream cheese, hot milk, cold milk. Probably can make tacos out of it.”

Eric didn’t look amused or interested. He had coffee. Black. Nothing to eat yet.

“Brody and Heather made it back to the wedding hotel?” Greg asked.

“As far as I know. Just my brother Christopher and I are here. The rest of my family’s at the hotel, too.”

“Christopher’s the full-time firefighter?”

“Yes. The youngest brother. Justin’s a volunteer firefighter.” Eric drank some of his coffee. “I skipped the buffet. Just having the hot breakfast.”

“There’s a hot breakfast?”

A slight smile. “You aren’t restricted to Weetabix.”

Suddenly starving, Greg ordered a full English breakfast minus the black pudding. He wondered if Charlotte would be down for breakfast before leaving for the wedding. Since she’d come in from Scotland, she was on the same time as the Cotswolds and wouldn’t be jet-lagged. Early riser? Late riser? He gave himself a mental shake. Last night was over. Time to behave.

“You’ll enjoy staying at the inn for a bit,” Eric said.

Greg tore open his Weetabix. What inn? Had he zoned out and missed something? He dumped the two biscuit-like triangles into his bowl. “I have some time before I need to be in DC for my new assignment,” he said, neutral.

“Great,” Eric said. “Brody says you like to camp. You can pitch a tent out back if you want. The inn could have bats.”

Bats. Still clueless, Greg added some of his cut fruit to the Weetabix. “Good location?”

“It’s within walking distance of the village but feels more remote.”

Okay, getting some specifics. This village? Another village in the Cotswolds? Was this mystery inn located in England? Was staying there Brody and Heather’s idea? Greg was stumped. He had no memory of discussing an inn, with or without bats, with anyone, ever.

“It has an open field on one side,” Eric added. “Makes sense given its name.”

The waiter set a coffee press on the table as Greg poured cold milk over his fruit and Weetabix. Maybe he should have waited and had some coffee before going to the cold-buffet table. “I don’t remember the name of the inn...”

“Red Clover Inn.”

“Cute name,” Greg said, desperate now. What had he done? He cleared his throat. “Homey sound to it.”

“Justin and Samantha want to keep the name. I don’t care one way or the other. It sounds more like it should be out in the country rather than a half mile from the village. We bought it on a whim. The owner died without a proper will and there was a family squabble. It took some time to get sorted out. They couldn’t wait to sell the place.”

The Sloans hadn’t struck Eric as people who did things on a whim, but Heather Sloan had married Brody after a short romance and now Justin Sloan was marrying Samantha Bennett after meeting her in a fire last fall when she’d slipped into Knights Bridge in search of pirate treasure.

People who knew their own minds, maybe.

But...wait...the Sloans owned this inn?

Greg poured his coffee and set the press down. He was an elite federal agent who protected ambassadors and other dignitaries in and outside the United States, and he damn well could figure out that Eric was talking about Knights Bridge, his hometown in rural New England, about two hours west of Boston. Greg hadn’t expected to return to Knights Bridge except maybe to visit Heather and Brody when they built their place on the lake where Brody had grown up. And that was a big maybe.

Greg tried the Weetabix. It was fine. Good, in fact. “Definitely waited too long to give this stuff a try.” He was buying time. Given Eric’s narrowed eyes, Greg suspected the guy’s cop instincts had clicked into gear. He ate more of his cereal. Hard to look suspicious eating cereal. “The fruit helps. The inn sounds like a great family project.”

“We’ll see. It’s a regular country inn. Or it was. It hasn’t been anything for a while.”

Glad his mouth was full and he didn’t have to respond, Greg waited for Eric to head to the cold-buffet table. He got out his phone and surreptitiously texted Brody.

I’m staying at an inn in KB?

Brody’s answer came right away. Yes.

Greg grimaced. Why?

You’re at a loose end. You’re looking after the place.

How long?

While Justin and Sam are on their honeymoon.

A week?

Maybe two.

When did I agree to this?

Text last night after I got back to my hotel.

I was asleep.

Ha.

Greg drank some of his coffee. His head was going to explode. He didn’t want to mess up anyone’s honeymoon, but he’d obviously been impaired when he’d agreed to this mission, or whatever it was. He typed again: Animals?

Bats, mice, spiders. No pets or farm animals.

That meant no cat or dog or pet gerbil to look after, just the place itself, which presumably had been uninhabited for a few years and would be fine without him playing caretaker. He could bow out. Two or three days, never mind longer, next to a field of clover—there had to be clover, right, considering the inn’s name?—would send him over the bend. He didn’t do well sitting still.

He had time to come up with a face-saving excuse and ease out of this thing.

Eric returned to the table with fresh fruit. Their hot breakfasts arrived. Greg dove in. Weetabix would do but even better was a plate of fried eggs, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes, sausages, bacon, fried bread and baked beans. Even with wedding food in his near future, he figured stoking up now was a good idea. He needed his full faculties. Fatigue and a slight hangover wouldn’t help him work out how to get out of this Red Clover Inn deal without pissing off a bunch of Sloans, not to mention his friend Brody.

Christopher Sloan joined them. He, too, seemed to Greg like a solid sort. He’d come to England alone for his older brother’s wedding. The Sloans had struck Greg as a tight-knit lot. That didn’t mean there weren’t occasional tensions between them.

He didn’t bring up Red Clover Inn and instead asked Christopher his plans while in England.

“I got here last weekend,” Christopher said. “I had a great time. Good break. I go home tomorrow. Have to be back at work on Monday.”

Eric was also headed back tomorrow. Greg relaxed. There’d be enough Sloans around to look after this old inn of theirs. They didn’t need him.

After breakfast, he went up to his room. He glanced down the hall but Charlotte’s door was shut tight. He knew she’d lied about staying down the hall. He’d heard her going into the room adjoining his. In her place, he probably would have lied, too, what with his behavior last night.

He’d been tired as hell, and in a mood.

Had she ever been to Knights Bridge now that her cousin was making her home there, marrying a local?

“None of your business, pal,” Greg muttered, going into his room.

He could bolt. No one would miss him at the wedding. He’d been invited only because he’d made a stop in England to see Brody and Heather on his roundabout way to Washington.

But as he debated grabbing a cab and fleeing the Sloans and Bennetts, he got dressed for an English country wedding.

* * *

The wedding hotel was charming, located a few miles from the village in the rolling Cotswold countryside. The informal ceremony was held outdoors in a garden brimming with roses, which Greg recognized, and climbing purple flowers he assumed were the wisteria. Samantha Bennett wore a gown designed by Alexandra Rankin Hunt, Ian Mabry’s fiancée. They were guests at the wedding. Alexandra, an elegant, attractive woman, had her own tangled ties to Knights Bridge through her great-grandfather, an RAF pilot who’d ventured to rural Massachusetts on the eve of World War II. He’d fallen in love with a young American woman, now in her nineties and living in little Knights Bridge. He’d meant to come back for her but had been killed over the English Channel early in the war. Greg didn’t have all the details. Brody had tried to explain a few of the connections of his hometown as he and Greg had found a place to stand for the short wedding service.

Greg might have felt out of place at the simple but elegant wedding, but he wasn’t the type. He appreciated rugged Justin Sloan’s love for Samantha and, likewise, his awkward pleasure at expressing that love in front of his family and friends. Greg thought back to his own wedding. He and Laura had been young, filled with hopes and dreams.

I’m seeing a great guy here in Minneapolis. I wanted you to know.

Laura, a couple of weeks ago. Their divorce had been finalized months ago and Greg was glad she was getting on with her life. No problem there. The problem was his own life. Getting wounded in an ambush on the job and its isolating nature hadn’t helped him with his personal life, but the biggest issue, he knew, was inertia. Laura had always been there. He’d taken their life together for granted. He didn’t want to make that same mistake again.

After the service, he noticed Charlotte Bennett laughing with the bride and groom. Her maid-of-honor dress was a deep coral, its cut perfect for her curves. She didn’t look as cool and judgmental as she had last night. The warm color of her dress and the lush late-spring garden setting probably softened her hard edges. According to Brody, her parents were in Australia on an underwater salvage project and couldn’t make it to the wedding.

Interesting family, the Bennetts.

Greg congratulated the happy couple and found his way to the bar.

A beer, a table in the shade, a breeze stirring in a trellis of peach-colored roses—despite not having a woman at his side, his life, he decided, was pretty good. At least right now, at this moment. He felt some of the weariness and rawness of the past months lift. He was able to focus on his surroundings without being poised for threats. Instead he could sit back and enjoy the beauty of the place. Warm-pink roses in addition to the peach-colored ones, bumblebees, pots of herbs and flowers. Nice. Damn nice, in fact.

He observed Charlotte as she greeted guests and relatives. She struck him as a woman who preferred to be here, at her cousin’s wedding, alone. Her body language said loud and clear she didn’t want or need a man on her arm. Was she getting over a relationship? Thinking about sunken U-boats? Greg knew better than to speculate but figured there was no real harm in it while he was drinking a beer and smelling the roses.

Brody joined him. “You look awake and sober.”

“I was awake and sober when you saw me last night.”

“Sober, maybe.” Brody pulled out a chair and sat down, loosening his tie. “Great wedding. Heather says she doesn’t regret that we didn’t have a more formal wedding.”

“She’d tell you if she did,” Greg said, noticing Heather making her way toward them.

“True,” Brody said. “Sloans don’t hold back their opinions.”

“You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Also true. When do you head to Knights Bridge?”

“Haven’t figured that out. I haven’t even decided on my flight out of here. Probably Monday but I could leave tomorrow. I don’t have anything I need to do in London. Do you know this Red Clover Inn?”

“I remember it from when I was a kid. Quiet place. It did a good business with fishermen and graduations at local colleges. Do you fish, Greg?”

“No.”

“Lots of rivers, streams and lakes in the area, and the reservoir allows fishing.”

“Great. I’ll keep that in mind if I get bored.”

“You’ll get bored,” Brody said with a grin.

“I’m not staying two weeks. There are plenty of Sloans who can look after the inn. I like that I can help out but I figure my bleary eyes last night at the party are half the reason the idea came up.”

“You always have bleary eyes these days, Greg.”

“Point taken.”

“You could use the break.”

“I guess. Anyway, I need to see my kids. They’ve got stuff going on this summer. It’s not like when they were little.” He drank some of his beer. He could hear a bee humming in the roses. “Maybe I’ll invite them out to Knights Bridge before their summer gets crazy. We can pop down and do a few days in DC, too. See the sights there. There aren’t any sights in Knights Bridge.”

“Rivers, streams, lakes and a reservoir.”

“So you said.”

Brody stretched out his legs, drank some of his beer. He, too, seemed to be enjoying the bucolic setting. “You all could tour Emily Dickinson’s old house in Amherst. You read her in high school, right? Nineteenth-century poet. Historic Old Deerfield and Old Sturbridge aren’t far.”

“Old being the operative word here. Make a list. We’ll see.”

“It can feel like time stopped in Knights Bridge,” Brody said.

“But it hasn’t. It marches on there just like everywhere else. Can’t stop the clock.”

“Cheer up. Hell, Greg. It’s a wedding.”

“What? I am cheerful.”

Brody just shook his head. Greg followed his friend’s gaze to Heather, who kept stopping to greet other guests. Finally she made it to their table and sat next to Brody, grabbing his hand. “What a great day,” she said.

Eric Sloan, the best man, stood to toast the bride and groom, followed by the maid of honor, neither of whom let anyone’s champagne get warm. Succinct was fine with Greg but he was intrigued watching Charlotte address the gathering with such poise and graciousness. Not exactly his experience with her. He could hear her laugh of affection and delight when she hugged her cousin after the toast. Maybe he’d been a bigger jerk last night than he’d realized and he’d misjudged her.

“Got what you deserved, my friend,” he said under his breath.

A few minutes after the toast, Charlotte made her way over to his table. It was fun watching her move. He could see she was fit, but he’d had an up-close-and-personal taste of just how fit last night. All that diving had worked wonders.

She didn’t sit. She greeted Brody and Heather warmly, then turned to Greg. “I see you made it to the wedding.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. You ever come eye to eye with sharks while you were diving?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He pointed his champagne glass at her. “I bet you could take on a shark. You’re in good shape. Into CrossFit? I know some guys who are. It’s smart to stay in shape when you dive for sunken treasure for a living. You never know what you’ll run across underwater.”

“I don’t dive for sunken treasure.”

“Right. You’re a serious scholar. Not going to tell me about sharks?”

She touched a fingertip to a rosebud. “We’re at a wedding, Agent Rawlings.”

“So we are.” But his inappropriateness didn’t fully explain the sudden strain in her voice. He’d struck a nerve. He changed the subject. “Are the younger bridesmaids your cousins, too?”

“Ann and Eloisa, yes. They’re the two youngest of Caleb Bennett’s four children. He’s Harry’s younger son. He’s a professor of maritime history and his wife’s a rare-books specialist. They live in London. Samantha and I are closer in age than she is to her first cousins. We have similar interests.”

“Cool.”

“I went on too long?”

“No. I should have said more in response?”

“You seem bored.”

Greg shook his head. “Not bored. You’re here on your own, right?”

“What? I just explained I have family here.”

“I meant a guy. A date. Didn’t it say ‘Charlotte Bennett plus guest’ on your invitation?”

She frowned. “You’re direct.”

“I like to be clear.”

“Mm. That must be it.” She sounded dubious. “Yes, I’m on my own.”

“Why don’t you sit down, have a beer with us?”

She glanced at Brody and Heather, who were chatting with Adam, the stonemason Sloan brother. She turned back to Greg and shook her head. “Thanks but I’ve had champagne already.”

“Back to Edinburgh soon?”

“I haven’t decided. As I mentioned, I worked with Sam’s parents on a project to discover and explore sunken World War II submarines off the British coast, but it’s wrapped up. I’m not under any pressure to get back to Edinburgh.”

“What’s next?” Greg asked.

“We’ll see.”

“Who’s we?”

“A figure of speech, Agent Rawlings. Did you get a good night’s sleep?”

Dodging him or just making small talk? He shrugged. “Perfect. I sleep fine when I sleep.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Does to me. How’d you do? No tossing and turning after putting me to bed?”

“No tossing and turning.”

Brody shifted in his chair and frowned at Greg, who ignored him and studied Charlotte instead. She wasn’t telling the truth but the makeup job for the wedding would have dealt with any obvious signs he could point out to her of a bad night. He let it go.

He set his glass on the table. “Samantha and Justin are an unusual pair. Think they’ll be together in five years?”

Charlotte looked as if she wanted to throttle him. “You don’t say such things at a wedding, you know.”

“Okay.”

She narrowed her gaze. “I see that you’re on your own, too.”

“I was shoehorned onto the guest list when I turned up in London.”

“I see.” Charlotte straightened. “I hope you enjoy yourself.”

Greg watched her weave back through the tables to the Bennett family. She seemed to have an easy relationship with Samantha’s parents and her uncle and aunt and their four kids, the eldest of whom, Isaac, was, according to Heather, starting at Amherst College that fall. It wasn’t far from Knights Bridge and it was Harry Bennett’s alma mater. Greg wondered exactly what Max Bennett, Charlotte’s grandfather, had done with himself. Packed Harry’s adventurer bags for him?

“My last family wedding, my sister threw up in the men’s room,” Greg said, addressing Brody, who had hardly touched his champagne. “I cleaned up after her since it was her first drinking offense, at least that I knew about. She’s a piano teacher in Manhattan.”

“Whose wedding was it?” Brody asked.

“My cousin Johnny. Three, four years ago. He’s a paramedic. Wife’s a nurse. They have a toddler—a little boy—and another baby on the way. They’re living the life my mother wanted me to live.”

“You have two kids.”

“Yeah. I do. I didn’t stay within ten blocks of her, though.”

“Instead you’re living the life you wanted to live.”

“Made my choices.” Greg’s gaze landed on a trio of Bennetts up by another trellis of roses. “Think Charlotte is in a champagne-and-dancing mood or a wallflower mood?”

“Only two options?”

“She looks uncomfortable. Something’s bugging her.”

“There’s what you know, and there’s what you think you know,” Brody said. “That’s something you think you know.”

“Nope. I know.”

“She told you?”

“Didn’t have to.”

“Greg...”

He waved a hand. “Forget it. Let’s eat.”

* * *

“Weddings are for champagne and dancing,” Charlotte said after the lunch dishes were cleared and she’d made her way to Greg’s table. Her comment caught him by surprise. She smiled, obviously relishing that fact. “Do you dance, Agent Rawlings?”

“If I have to. Is that an invitation?”

Her brown eyes sparked. “Well, why not? You don’t have to dance with me. There aren’t many unattached guests but I can get my cousin Isaac—”

“Can’t let you dance with your cousin.”

Greg was on his feet. Brody’s eyebrows went up. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dance, Greg.”

“It’s been a while but it’s like riding a bike.” He slipped an arm around Charlotte’s waist and turned to her. “Don’t worry. I won’t step on your feet.”

“I might step on yours,” she said.

Greg eased Charlotte onto the makeshift dance floor on the garden terrace. “I don’t know about this prissy Jane Austen music they’re playing,” he said.

“At least you don’t have to wear tights.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? All us guys in tights.”

“Not if I had to wear a Regency gown.”

“You look fine in your maid-of-honor dress,” he said, feeling the soft fabric under his hands.

“Alexandra’s an incredible designer.”

“Want to kick off your shoes and pretend we’re on Dancing with the Stars?”

“What?’

Next to them, dancing with her new husband, Samantha laughed. “She has no idea, Greg. She doesn’t watch much television.”

Neither did he. Finally something they had in common, even if he had heard of Dancing with the Stars.

The harpsichord music or whatever it was ended and switched to rock—or something. It wasn’t loud, but Greg could make out a beat and that worked for him. He didn’t recognize the song playing but Charlotte looked as if she didn’t, either.

“I love to dance,” she said. “I don’t get much opportunity. I’ve never had a lesson. I really might step on your feet.”

“Just follow my lead,” he said.

“You’ve had lessons?”

“My grandmother insisted. I did lessons at Lady Bella’s Ballroom Dancing School when I was twelve.”

“Torture?”

“Getting shot was nothing in comparison.”

He felt her stiffen. “Don’t make jokes about such a thing.”

“Only way to get through it. For me, anyway.”

And that was all they had a chance to say. He had to concentrate or he’d bump into someone or trip over his own feet trying to avoid hers, and the music, the atmosphere—everything was great. Pretty, uptight Charlotte Bennett didn’t exactly loosen up, but she was smart and fit and seemed to enjoy herself.

“Woo-hoo,” Brody, hopelessly obnoxious, shouted from his table. “Go, Greg.”

Charlotte flushed, whether from the attention or exertion, Greg couldn’t tell. “Ignore him,” he said in a low voice.

But the Bennetts noticed she was dancing and gave way, creating a semicircle around her and Greg. In another moment, they had the dance floor to themselves. Samantha was clapping. “You go, Charlotte!”

“Families” was all she said, with a slight smile.

It took some work but Greg, remembering his instructions from back in the day, took a firm lead, getting her to focus on him and not their audience. He had no trouble focusing on her. Nothing to do with dance lessons, either.

When the song ended, everyone clapped. Charlotte laughed, waving to her family, taking a slight bow. “Thank Greg for keeping me on my feet.”

“Thank you, Greg,” the young Bennett cousins chimed in unison.

He kissed Charlotte on the cheek. “Dancing with the Stars is next for you. Look it up.”

Another song started, and she smiled. “One dance was plenty for me in these shoes.”

“Told you to kick them off.”

“I will should I ever dance again in this lifetime. It was fun. Was it fun for you, too?”

“More fun than a 10K run in the desert for sure. I resisted looking down your dress and patting your butt, seeing how your family was watching.”

She sighed. “Good of you.”

“I know deep down you’re disappointed. Rest assured that I was tempted, but I’m a man of great discipline and control.”

“As evidenced last night when you passed out in the pub.”

“I fell asleep. There’s a difference. More fun to dance than to explore sunken wrecks?”

“That’s my work.”

“And your work is your life, isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer and instead excused herself to go in search of strawberries and chocolate. Greg headed back to his table. Brody didn’t make a smart remark, even without Heather having a hand over his mouth to keep it shut. “Nice job,” he said when Greg sat down. “Top agent and a top dancer.”

“You’re always full of surprises,” Heather said. “Samantha mentioned that Charlotte’s heading home to the US for a bit and plans to stay at the old inn my family is renovating. Justin and Samantha are in the process of moving in from the cabin where they’ve been staying. It’ll be good to have someone look after the place while they’re on their honeymoon. Charlotte will be on her own. A good chunk of my family’s staying in England to see the sights, but I’m sure she’ll find ways to amuse herself. I gather she’s been working nonstop for months.”

Brody’s eyes narrowed on Greg. “Have you backed out of going?”

“Nope. Knights Bridge sounds good. Better and better.”

His friend’s gaze darkened. “Greg...”

“Relax. I’ll behave.”

Heather frowned. “What are you two talking about? Did I miss something?”

“Not a thing,” Greg said.

“I’ll explain later,” Brody said. “Let’s go find your nephews before they tear up the place.”

Greg wandered to the outdoor bar. He was ordering a beer when two buff men in their midthirties arrived. They weren’t wedding guests. They greeted Samantha and Justin, apparently wishing them well, and then spoke for a few minutes with Malcolm and Francesca Bennett, Samantha’s parents. As they started out, the taller one, a serious stud of a guy, shot Charlotte a scathing look. She went deadly pale. Ten seconds ago, Greg would have said it was impossible. The Bennetts were all watching her and the guy, as if they were holding their breath for something to erupt between them.

Then it was over. The two men left without incident.

Greg, trained to observe a crowd, wasn’t sure how many people noticed the tension between Charlotte and the drop-ins. Brody Hancock and Eric Sloan probably would have if they’d been paying attention.

Pint in hand, Greg eased next to Isaac, the Amherst-bound Bennett. “The swaggering studs,” Greg said. “Who were they?”

Isaac grinned. “They did swagger, didn’t they? They’re contract divers. They did a few dives on the submarine project with Uncle Malcolm and Aunt Francesca. The tall one with the dark hair is Tommy Ferguson. I don’t know the other guy’s name.”

“How do you know Ferguson?”

“He’s the SOB who left Charlotte at the altar. No, wait. It’s the other way around. She left him at the altar.”

“When was this?” Greg asked.

“Last spring. I think it was spring. I was still in school. My junior year. So it’s over a year ago now.”

Greg took a drink of his beer. Well, this was interesting. “Our boy Tommy was in his tux, waiting for his bride-to-be to walk down the aisle, and she bolted?”

“She never showed up. It’s okay. They both say it wasn’t meant to be. Tommy’s over it.”

Tommy didn’t look over it, but Greg let Isaac return to the wedding festivities. He wandered back to his table. People were starting to make their goodbyes. Heather and Brody were going back to London. Greg didn’t know how many Sloans were showing up at their apartment. He’d stay at the pub again tonight. Then what?

Rural New England. The Red Clover Inn.

Bats, mice.

One Charlotte Bennett.

Time to book his flight. A few days in little Knights Bridge could be fun after all.

Three

Charlotte stood by the window in Samantha’s room on the second floor of the hotel, overlooking the garden terrace where the wedding ceremony and reception had taken place a few hours ago. It was back to normal now, extra tables put away, tablecloths and decorations gone, wedding vases exchanged for pots of herbs. Samantha had changed out of her wedding dress into comfy travel clothes. Charlotte had switched her maid-of-honor dress for jeans and a sweater.

“The front-door key is hanging on a hook by the socket for the hose,” Samantha said as she tossed clothes into a suitcase open on the bed. “You can’t miss it. Neither could a thief, but thieves aren’t interested in Red Clover Inn. It’s not a dump, I promise. It’s just that it doesn’t look as if it holds anything of value.”

“No pirate treasure tucked in the attic?”

“I wish. The quarreling heirs to the last owner would have discovered and claimed anything of value before they sold the place. Not that I blame them. Justin and I are moving our stuff into the innkeeper’s suite on the main floor. We’ll live there during renovations. We can’t wait to get started, but we got a bit ahead of ourselves with our work schedules and the wedding.”

“Totally understandable,” Charlotte said.

“We’ll have more time when we’re back home. Are you sure you want to house-sit?”

“I am. I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure.”

Samantha walked over to the closet. “Weddings can do funny things to people’s heads.”

“Especially my head,” Charlotte said.

Her cousin looked horrified. “I didn’t mean that! Charlotte...”

She smiled. “It’s okay. Imagine if you’d bolted today. We Bennett women would have had a tough reputation to live down when it comes to weddings. But you had the right guy waiting for you. I’m really happy for you, Samantha. Don’t spend half a second worrying about me. It’ll be fun to stay at your inn for a few days. Then I can head to Washington and sort out Max’s house. The last renters moved out in May. I need to decide what to do.”

“Time to fix it up or sell it?”

“Or both.”

“I miss Max and Harry,” Samantha said simply. She pulled a top out of the closet, rolled it up and placed it in the suitcase. “You can let us know about any quirks or issues you discover at the inn. We’ve cleaned up the place and put fresh sheets and towels out in a few of the rooms in case family or friends want to stay, but nothing formal. Mostly we were just getting a feel for the place. We can manage without someone there—there’s no dog to walk or anything and we have family in town—so no problem if you change your mind.”

Charlotte moved away from the window. “It sounds like a great place to unwind.”

“I can’t wait for us to be in Knights Bridge together.”

“It’ll happen, probably sooner rather than later. Don’t worry about a thing, okay? Your wedding was the best, Sam. I’m glad I was a part of it. Thank you.”

“It was everything I wanted it to be.”

“That’s fantastic. I imagine you’re ready for your honeymoon now.”

Samantha laughed. “Definitely. I’m so happy, Charlotte. I didn’t think it was possible to be this happy. Justin and I are perfect together. Harry always said I’d end up with someone who surprised me.”

“He and Max would have enjoyed today,” Charlotte said, no question in her mind.

“Harry wouldn’t have believed the good weather. He always said it rained all day, every day whenever he was in London.”

“He had a gift for hyperbole.”

“No kidding.” Samantha shut her suitcase. “I didn’t realize Tommy would stop by today. Mom and Dad didn’t, either. They saw him a few weeks ago. He’d heard I was getting married. They’re so polite—they’d never tell him to stay away. I hope it wasn’t too awkward for you.”

“No problem. We both moved on within four seconds of our wedding that wasn’t.”

“Just as well.” Samantha reached into a small bag on the dresser and withdrew a set of keys. “Here are the keys to Harry’s house in Boston in case you want to stay there or just have a look around. Feel free to use his car. We like to run it periodically. My folks and Uncle Caleb are still figuring out what to do with it and the house but might as well enjoy them for now.”

“I shall seize the moment,” Charlotte said lightly. “Leave Red Clover Inn to me. Relax and enjoy your honeymoon.”

“Ten days in Scotland. Justin’s never been. He’ll love it. We leave tonight to get a head start on the drive north.”

And no doubt to get away from lingering guests—including a slew of Sloans. As much as she and Justin loved their family and friends, it was time for each other. “We’ll have that get-together soon,” Charlotte said, hugging her cousin. “Have a great time on your honeymoon.”

She left Samantha to her packing. She ran into Justin in the lobby. He’d changed out of his tux and was as eager to be on his way to Scotland as Samantha was. “I won’t keep you,” Charlotte said cheerfully.

Isaac gave her a ride back to the pub. He was bussing tables at a London restaurant for the summer, before heading to New England for college. He hadn’t decided on a major—except that it wouldn’t be in maritime anything. “Sorry,” he said. “Whatever I end up doing, it won’t have anything to do with sunken wrecks. I’m not a big fan of the water.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s good to keep your options open at your age.”

“Did you always want to be a marine archaeologist?”

“A diver,” she said. “I always wanted to be a diver and explore what’s under the ocean.”

He shuddered as he pulled to a stop in front of the pub. “I’d stay up in my warm ship and let a mini submarine or a robot do the exploring.”

Charlotte laughed. “You always were a smart kid. It’s still hard for me to believe you’re old enough to drive, and now you’re off to college. Stay in touch, okay?”

“You, too.”

As she headed into the pub, she noticed the sky had turned grayer, rain likely on the way. She’d checked out of her room before she’d left for the wedding but hadn’t taken her bag. Now that she was alone, she wanted to have a pint and lick her wounds. Tommy. What had she ever seen in him? A whirlwind romance, a brief engagement, a slapped-together wedding...and cold feet.

Not cold feet. She’d come to her senses.

She sat at the bar and ordered a beer. She had a few minutes before she had to get herself to the train station. She’d be back in Edinburgh tonight and would figure out when she would leave for Boston. Right now, the sooner the better worked for her, but she’d wait until she got home to decide. Samantha hadn’t had a single photo of Red Clover Inn, but she’d given Charlotte directions.

She hadn’t expected to see Tommy today. She knew Malcolm and Francesca had hired him for a few dives earlier in the year. Everyone had worked hard to wrap up the U-boat project, and Charlotte was a professional. She hated the idea that friends and family might feel they needed to keep her and her former fiancé apart. She didn’t want them tiptoeing around her. She and Tommy were grown-ups. They could manage.

But when he walked into the pub and sat on the stool next to her at the bar, her heart sank. She didn’t want today to end this way, with the man who’d once proposed to her trying to get under her skin. Because that was what Tommy did. He thrived on it.

“Well, Charlotte,” he said, cocky as ever, “I see your life hasn’t changed.”

“Work, family, fun.”

“Uptight, alone, superior.” He winked at her. “Kidding.”

“Right. Kidding. I have a cab coming. I don’t have time to chat.”

His gray eyes settled on her. Speaking of superior, she thought. “How are you?” he asked.

“Great. It was a beautiful wedding.”

“Not going to ask about me?”

“As I said—”

“No time. Thought you might like to know I’m heading home to the States to take a permanent diving job in South Florida.”

She pushed her beer glass aside. “Good luck.”

“I heard you had a close call in April. I’m sorry.”

Of course he’d heard. Theirs was a small world and Tommy had known the amateur diver she’d rescued, resulting in a dangerous bout of decompression illness that continued to haunt her. “One of those things.” Her throat was tight but she didn’t think her voice sounded strangled. “I really have to go.”

“Things will be different for you now if you can’t dive again—”

“Not your concern, Tommy.”

“There’s that barbed tongue.” He paused, staying calm. “I’m trying to be nice. I’m a concerned colleague, a fellow diver who’s had a few close calls of his own. But you can’t let bygones be bygones, can you? You’d think I wronged you, when the opposite is true. You wronged me.”

“You know why I did what I did. I understand that today probably stirred up hard feelings, but we’ve both moved on, Tommy. Don’t drag me into the past with you.”

“I’m not dragging you anywhere, Charlotte. Trust me.”

She dug cash out of her bag and left it for the beer she’d ordered. She didn’t look at Tommy as she jumped off the stool and reached for her suitcase at her feet.

“Here,” he said, getting to his feet. “Let me get that for you. You don’t want to do anything to impede your recovery. I know how much diving means to you.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

He put his hand over hers on the suitcase handle. “Don’t let stubbornness and pride get in the way of common sense.”

She stiffened. “Let go, Tommy.”

“Independent Charlotte. You don’t need anyone’s help, do you?”

Before she could react, Greg Rawlings materialized at her side. “Time to order a pint and relax, Tommy,” Greg said in a steady, low voice.

Tommy shrugged. “Not interested in a pint.” He let go of the suitcase and Charlotte’s hand and smiled at her, unapologetic. “See you around, Charlotte.”

Greg leaned against the bar and watched her ex-fiancé head out through the main pub door. Then he shook his head and sighed. “Nothing takes that swagger down a notch, does it?”

Charlotte rubbed her hand. “Not much.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No.” She shook out her hand. “It’s tension more than anything else. Thanks.”

“First time you’ve seen him since you left him at the altar?”

“I suppose I’m not surprised you know about that. Yes. First time. Getting stood up on his wedding day didn’t take his swagger down a notch, either.”

“An interesting life you lead, Charlotte Bennett.”

“It’s a Bennett rule. Can’t be boring. Are you heading back to London?”

“I’ll hang out here another night. I don’t know about London. Heather and Brody are expecting an assortment of Sloans in to see the sights.” He sat on her vacated stool. “I assume that’s your suitcase and you’re leaving.”

“I’m taking a late train to Edinburgh.”

“Guess I’ll have to put myself to bed tonight.”

Charlotte smiled. “I have a feeling you’ll manage just fine. When do you have to be back at work?”

“I’m starting a new position. No firm start date.”

“Can you say where it is?”

“Washington. DSS Command Center.”

She waited for him to elaborate but he didn’t. “My grandparents’ house is in the DC area. Well, it’s my house now that they’re gone. I rent it out. Max loved living in the city but I think my grandmother missed New Hampshire. They both grew up there.” Charlotte waved a hand. “I’m talking too much. Today was my first wedding since Tommy and I...” She took a deep breath. “Have you ever been posted in London?”

Greg didn’t answer at once, looking at her as if he wanted to say something besides what he knew he would end up saying. “I worked in London for two years when my kids were small. It was good. I haven’t always been able to have my family with me.”

“Your family—”

“Andrew is fifteen and Megan is thirteen. Laura—my ex—and I had an amicable divorce. We got married young, had a couple of kids and drifted apart given my job and life in general. We’re okay with each other and we share two great kids. That’s it.”

“Your life in a tidy paragraph?”

“Yep.”

It was how Greg Rawlings thought, Charlotte realized. He didn’t dwell on details and things he couldn’t control. “Tommy and I wouldn’t have had an amicable divorce,” she said lightly.

“You figured him out in the nick of time.”

“Yes, I did. Tommy Ferguson was never going to be the love of my life.”

“Is that what you want, someone who’ll be the love of your life?”

“Don’t we all?” She took in a sharp breath. “I must have had too much champagne at the wedding. I’m saying too much. I need to get going or I’ll miss my train.”

“No problem,” Greg said. “If I can’t manage to get myself up to my room without you, I’ll just sleep in a booth.”

“You aren’t embarrassed about last night, are you?”

“Should I be?”

Charlotte laughed, shaking her head. “Sometimes I wish I could be as oblivious as you are at least pretending to be right now. Thanks for intervening with Tommy. He wouldn’t have gone too far, and I’d have handled him if he’d tried, but I appreciate the help.”

“You could have flipped him on his ass?”

“More likely I’d have called the barman.”

“Smarter, I guess. Not as much fun.”

“You’re an interesting man, Agent Rawlings. Best of luck with whatever’s next for you.”

She lifted her bag and started out the door, glancing back at Greg Rawlings, trying to ignore a pang of regret that she wouldn’t see him again. She couldn’t explain it but it was there. Maybe he’d find a way? Maybe he was feeling the same thing?

What was she thinking?

Fortunately, her cab was waiting. Next stop was the Oxford train station. She’d be in Edinburgh tonight and on her way to Boston and Knights Bridge in a day or two.

Samantha and Justin were a special, wonderful couple, but Charlotte’s opinion of weddings hadn’t changed in the past twenty-four hours.

Best to avoid them.

* * *

An hour after Charlotte left for Edinburgh, Greg stood on a footbridge on a marked trail that had taken him through the village, down a twisting lane and into woods. The wooden bridge spanned a shallow stream, the coppery water coursing over rocks and mud. He’d changed out of his wedding clothes into khakis and a polo shirt and jacket but he hadn’t bothered with rain gear. Might prove to be a mistake given the darkening clouds.

He dug out his phone and called his son in Minnesota. Fifteen and he had his own phone. Not unusual these days.

“Hey, Dad,” Andrew said. “What’s up? How was the wedding? Are you still in England?”

“Still in England. Wedding was good. Nice setting, great food, great people.”

“Did you dance?”

Greg heard the teasing note in his son’s voice. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

“Wish I’d been there to see that. Did you dance by yourself or with someone?”

“I don’t dance by myself. What are you up to?”

“Nothing.”

“Whenever I said I wasn’t up to anything as a kid, my mother handed me a broom.”

His son chuckled. “Good thing you’re in England, then.”

“What’s your sister up to?”

“Nothing much.”

“I bet your mom has two brooms.”

“She’s not here. She’s at a movie with...” Andrew stopped abruptly. “Never mind.”

“With Richard,” Greg said. “I know. I texted her earlier. I hope they’re having a good time. Listen, I’m on my way to Washington via New England. What if you and Megan join me for a few days? It’s okay with your mom. I have some time off before I start my new job. New England would be different. I’ll be staying at a small-town inn that’s being renovated.”

“I’ve never been to New England,” Andrew said.

“We’d have the place to ourselves. You and Megan can each have your own room.”

“Sounds cool. What’s there to do there?”

“Beats me.”

His son laughed. “Good thing you’re not a salesman, Dad.”

“I was there for a few days in the winter. It’s a pretty town. We can hike, go fishing—swim if you’re brave since it’s only June and the ice just melted.”

“Ha. This the town where Ambassador Scarlatti lives?”

“Yes, it is.”

Greg was impressed his son remembered the retired ambassador, a smart, interesting if also occasionally overdramatic man who owned a house on the same Knights Bridge lake where Brody Hancock had grown up. Vic had encouraged Brody to join the Diplomatic Security Service. They were the reason for Greg’s wintry visit to the small New England town.

“Ambassador Scarlatti lives on a lake, doesn’t he?” Andrew asked.

“Echo Lake,” Greg said.

“He’d let us go swimming and kayaking?”

“Probably. Brody owns the land where he grew up. We can go out there, too.”

“This is sounding better and better,” his son said.

“I can teach you how to fly-fish.”

“Do you know how to fly-fish?”

“Yeah. You bet.” He had no idea how to fly-fish, but how hard could it be? “We could ride bikes, too. This inn must have bikes, or we can borrow some. I know people in town.”

“That’d be good,” Andrew said, sounding more enthusiastic.

Greg didn’t mention he hadn’t been on a bike in years. They chatted a few more minutes. Megan was out with friends, so Greg postponed calling her. She had her own phone, too. Laura had been amenable to them flying to Boston. He’d pick them up at the airport and they’d hang out together for a few days. Going to Minnesota himself was less and less an option. Laura needed space, and he didn’t live with her anymore. The kids were old enough to come to him or he could pick them up at home and take them somewhere. No staying on the sleeper sofa. He and Laura weren’t going to have that kind of postdivorce arrangement.

“Okay,” Greg said. “Let’s make Knights Bridge happen.”

“Knights Bridge?”

“That’s the town where we’ll be staying. It’s west of Boston. Look it up. It’s small but it’s got to be on the map.” He paused. “I think.”

“Great, Dad.”

Greg heard the sarcasm in his son’s voice and grinned. “I’ll get back to you with details.”

When he disconnected, Greg felt both a sense of satisfaction and a sense of loss. He wished Andrew and Megan were with him now, in the quiet English countryside. He was accustomed to being apart from his kids but that didn’t mean it was easy. In some ways, they were better at dealing with his absences than he was. It was the life they knew.

He crossed the stream and continued on the dirt trail through the woods to a grassy field and finally onto a paved lane. Enjoying the quiet, the mystery of where he’d end up since he hadn’t consulted a map, he followed the lane toward the village, past fenced fields dotted with sheep and a large stone farmhouse. Dusk came late this time of year. He wasn’t concerned about getting caught in the dark too far out in the countryside.

Charlotte would be on her train by now. It would take five or six hours to get to Edinburgh. Greg supposed he could have told her about his plan to head to Knights Bridge. Maybe he should have told her, considering what he’d learned about her plans, but she’d been preoccupied with her encounter with swaggering Tommy and in a hurry to get out of there.

A rationalization for his silence, maybe, but why get her worked up? Let her get home and figure out if she wanted to change her mind about Knights Bridge. Why influence her decision?

And if she did change her mind?

Greg tried to ignore the tug of regret he felt. He was looking forward to staying with her at the abandoned inn in the same little New England town. From what he’d gathered, there was plenty of room.

“Could be fun,” he said half-aloud as the lane curved into the quaint, pretty village.

He hopped onto a low stone wall and admired the view of rolling farmland and traditional Cotswolds yellow-stone houses, breathed in the fragrant June air. He thought he smelled rain. He didn’t mind. He welcomed the prospect of rain after months in a hot, dry climate.

When he reached the pub, it was filling up with locals. Greg could have gone back to London with Brody and Heather, but he was content to sit at the bar and order a beer.

Ian Mabry drew the pint himself. “You don’t look as tired as you did last night,” the former RAF pilot said.

“Not saying much. How’s life after the military?”

“It’s grand. I’m marrying the woman of my dreams and I’m back home, here, running this place. I was ready to move on to something else.” He set the beer in front of Greg. “You’re a Foreign Service officer, aren’t you? Diplomatic Security?”

Greg nodded. “Just wrapped up an overseas assignment. I’m taking a desk in DC next.”

“Not enthusiastic?”

“I never saw it coming.”

Mabry grinned. “A promotion, then?”

Greg raised his beer. “You got it.”

“From what I hear, you’ve done everything as a DS agent. You know the ropes. You have credibility.” Ian Mabry looked as if he’d considered similar options in his day as an RAF pilot. “A promotion was inevitable, wasn’t it?”

“That’s what they say.”

“You believe you can do more good staying in the field.”

“It’s what I know.”

“You’ll bring that experience to your new job.”

“Does your background as a fighter pilot help with running a pub?”

“You’ve no idea,” Mabry said with a laugh.

Greg tried his pint, savoring the first swallow after his walk. Mabry’s upcoming marriage no doubt was making his transition from active duty to civilian life easier. Greg didn’t have family in Washington. A handful of DSS colleagues he considered friends and a few he planned to avoid or tolerate. He’d never been good playing bureaucratic games but it wasn’t that kind of desk job.

“It’s a promotion, pal,” he muttered. “Be happy.”

He finished his beer, realized he wasn’t hungry after all the wedding food and headed up to his room. As he shut the door, he heard raindrops slapping his window and then a rush of rain. He walked over to the window and opened it, welcoming the smell of the rain and the cool breeze. Rain sprayed him in the face. He smiled.

His peaceful interlude was interrupted with a text from Brody.

Back in London. You?

Chasing raindrops.

Greg?

I’m good. Quiet here. I like the rain.

Don’t agree to anything else and then forget.

Will do. Hi to Heather.

She says hi back.

That was it. The check-in to make sure he wasn’t dancing on the tables or passed out behind the bar. Greg understood. He’d arrived in England clinically exhausted, and he hadn’t covered himself in glory with his behavior last night.

Tonight would be different. He’d read a book in his room, listen to the rain and hit the sack early—and, once again, alone.

Four

Edinburgh, Scotland

Charlotte awoke early given her late bedtime, walked to a tea shop near her apartment and indulged in fresh scones, jam and cream. She’d arrived home at midnight and fallen into bed, more agitated than tired. She’d slept little on the long train north, instead reading and contemplating her life—a consequence of seeing her family, being at a wedding and the long train ride itself.

And Tommy.

She added a dollop of clotted cream to her scone. He’d had some nerve showing up at the wedding and then confronting her, but he’d never been good at reading social cues. She remained convinced he’d sought her out at the pub deliberately to get under her skin. Even if it hadn’t been his intent when he’d stopped at the wedding, he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation.

The scone was perfect, just what she needed. The nightmare that had been her brief, volatile relationship with Tommy Ferguson was behind her, and good riddance to it. She drank some of her tea. Still no hint of a headache. If her encounter with Tommy hadn’t triggered one, then maybe she was done with that particular fallout from her diving accident.

Weddings being what they were for her these days, she felt unsettled, self-conscious and slightly awkward, as if she’d done something wrong. She wasn’t usually introspective. If she had to have dreams tonight, she preferred them to be about Greg Rawlings and his taut abs, but she’d thought about him enough in the past thirty-six hours.

She’d booked her flights while on the train. She’d leave tomorrow for a two-week stay in the United States. She’d arrive in and leave from Boston but could easily change her return date or departure city and absorb any penalties. In addition to spending time in Knights Bridge, she’d fit in a trip to Washington to see about Max’s house. She had no firm schedule. That was new to her, but she tried to think of it as liberating rather than unnerving.

She took a meandering route back to her New Town apartment. A Samantha Bennett–Justin Sloan kind of love wasn’t in the cards for everyone. Any uncertainty she’d had about their relationship had evaporated yesterday. Unexpected and unconventional they might be, but Charlotte didn’t doubt that she’d be congratulating her cousin and her husband on their anniversary for decades to come. She didn’t want to believe she’d had her one chance at true love and had blown it by picking the wrong man, but she knew, deep down, that was exactly what she believed.

“Doesn’t matter,” she whispered to herself.

She had a good life in a beautiful city. That was what counted.

But if you can’t dive, Charlotte? Then what?

She shook off the question, as she had dozens of times since April. In the months since she and Tommy had parted ways, she’d focused on her work, letting it take over her life, and now she didn’t even have it, at least not in the same way. She’d spent a semester in Edinburgh as a graduate student and then returned three years ago when she started her job at the institute as a marine archaeologist and diver. The submarine project with Malcolm and Francesca Bennett had been exciting and all-consuming, and even before her accident, Charlotte had wondered what was next for her.

It had been such a stupid accident. A private excursion, not part of her job. If only she’d stayed home that weekend...

She swept her fingertips across a black iron fence, touching raindrops. Would Greg Rawlings like Edinburgh? Had he ever been here? She pictured herself walking hand in hand with him on a quiet, gray Sunday morning. It was a fun image, but she suspected her reaction to him had been sparked more by the romance in the air than anything they had in common.

Weddings, she thought with a shudder.

She didn’t want to stereotype him, but she had experience with his type. DS Agent Rawlings was a rough-and-tumble sort. He had an irreverent sense of humor, an obvious penchant for risk and, no doubt, considerable experience in dangerous conditions. The man was sexy as hell, but they had very little in common. Just as well she’d likely never see him again. The only scenario she could think of was if she happened to visit Samantha and Justin in Knights Bridge at the same time Brody and Heather were in town and Greg stopped to see them.

“Not likely,” Charlotte said, surprised at how much the improbability bothered her.

The drizzle turned to a gentle, persistent rain. She kept an umbrella in her tote bag but didn’t bother with it since she was only a block from her apartment. She picked up her pace and ran up the steps to her front door. Once inside, she hung her jacket on a hook where it could drip into her copper boot pan, shook the rain off her hair and went into her tiny bedroom, if not in a great mood at least less off balance than when she’d left for her scones—and decidedly more awake.

She unpacked her suitcase from the wedding and set it on her bed to pack again, but she was drawn to the window that looked out on her cobblestone courtyard. Her throat tightened with unexpected emotion as she took in the window boxes bursting with late-spring flowers, glistening as a ray of sunlight broke through the gray and chased off the drizzle. Edinburgh was so different from what she’d known growing up in the Washington suburbs, with summers on the Bennett family farm in rural New Hampshire. She loved her work with the institute.

You are at high risk for a recurrence of decompression illness if you dive again.

How high?

Very.

Her doctor had made clear a recurrence, although unpredictable, could be even more dangerous than what she’d experienced in April.

It’s not worth the risk, Charlotte.

Are you advising me never to dive again?

Yes.

She turned from the window. Maybe the risk factors had changed now that she’d recovered. Maybe her doctor would reconsider, or she could get another medical opinion.

She opened her closet.

Edinburgh was home now.

She’d be back.

Five

The Cotswolds, England

At first Greg thought his bedside clock had stopped but his phone showed the same time. “Damn,” he said, setting his phone back on the bedside table. “Noon?”

He couldn’t remember ever sleeping until noon without a good reason, such as recovering from surgery for a gunshot wound, landing in a wildly different time zone or working all night. Even when, on the rare occasion, he’d had a bit too much to drink, he’d never slept until noon. He was a morning guy. Up with the crows.

“It’s this promotion,” he said, throwing off his duvet and sitting on the edge of the bed. It wasn’t in the top ten of comfortable beds he’d slept in, but it wasn’t in the bottom ten, either. Since he’d conked out until noon, it’d obviously done the job.

He rolled to his feet without a hint of stiffness or the deep fatigue he’d experienced when he’d first arrived in England. He peeked out the window. Gray. Wet. Not much wind. A good day to sleep in, except he had a plane to catch. He’d booked his flight last night and would be in Boston...well, he wasn’t sure. Sometime today.

He took a shower, got dressed and went downstairs. Breakfast was done. He didn’t see anyone else from yesterday’s wedding festivities. He ordered coffee and talked the waiter into bringing him toast and bacon and delivering it to him out back on the terrace. The waiter sent him off with a towel after Greg had assured him he didn’t mind the wet conditions. The rain had stopped. Fresh air was good before getting locked up in a plane for seven hours.

Since he was the only one on the terrace, he had his pick of tables and chose one by an urn of flowers. He dried off a chair and the tabletop and sat. He recognized pots of herbs, if only because they looked like herbs he’d seen in the grocery store. He’d always thought he’d have a garden one day. No idea why he’d thought that, since his family hadn’t exactly been gardeners. He’d never been around long enough to grow vegetables at home with Laura and the kids. He’d mow the yard and trim trees, and then he’d be off again.

His coffee arrived, hot and steamy, perfect in the damp, chilly conditions. The air felt great to him. He didn’t care he was the only one out here. Liked it, in fact. The waiter returned with toast and bacon, and Greg took his time, enjoying the good food, the quiet.

As lives went, his wasn’t a bad one.

He decided dessert was in order since he was having lunch and breakfast in one meal and ordered scones. Glorified biscuits in his world, but he didn’t want anything that would haunt him on the plane. Unless he’d dreamed buying a ticket, he was booked on a London-to-Boston flight that afternoon. No time to waste, he thought, slathering raspberry jam on a warm scone. He planned to head straight from Boston to Knights Bridge. Maybe or maybe not he’d run into Charlotte Bennett. He figured not. She could end up arriving after he left—if she arrived at all. People did all sorts of impulsive things at weddings, and agreeing to house-sit at a country inn struck him as impulsive, something a practical, tough-minded woman like Charlotte would roll back once she returned to familiar surroundings. The ex-fiancé showing up and memories of her aborted wedding wouldn’t have helped with her impulse control. She’d been in fight-or-flight mode. Inn-sitting in New England was pure flight.

Greg was content to let more dust settle on his divorce. Focus on his kids. Head to DC and find a place to live. Learn his new job. That was what he needed to do. He’d gone out to dinner a few times since his split with Laura and his recovery from his gunshot wound but nothing had panned out. He hadn’t been ready, he hadn’t had much free time and he’d had a hard assignment in an isolated location to complete.

Excuses, Brody would say, and he’d probably be right.

Greg finished his scones, went back upstairs to his room and packed. When he returned to the bar, he settled his bill. By the time he headed outside, his ride was waiting for him, in the form of Ian Mabry.

“Least I could do, mate,” the Englishman said.

“Thanks.”

“Heathrow?”

“Yep. No rush. I don’t care if I miss my flight.”

“On your way to Washington?”

“Via Boston and Knights Bridge.”

“Ah,” Mabry said. “Watch yourself in Knights Bridge. I went there for a wedding and now I’m planning my own wedding.”

“Your first?”

“And only.”

That’s what Greg had thought at his wedding, but he kept that tidbit to himself.

He got in the car. He watched the English countryside pass by. He’d be seeing Andrew and Megan in a few days. He’d booked their flights, too. That would help on the long trip across the Atlantic. Maybe he’d find a book on diving and marine archaeology so he’d have something to talk about with Charlotte if she ended up at the Red Clover Inn after all.

* * *

“What?” Samantha gaped at her husband of twenty-four hours. He was behind the wheel of their rental car. He hadn’t seemed to have any trouble adjusting to driving on the left. Just as well he was driving because she’d have run off the road at the news he’d just laid on her. “Greg Rawlings is staying at the inn? The DS agent? Brody’s friend?”

Justin handled a tight curve with ease. “Maybe.”

“Maybe or likely?”

“I don’t know. He could be on his way now. Heather didn’t say. I don’t think she knows his plans. She’s got her hands full with Brandon, Maggie and the kids arriving in London.”

Samantha got herself under control. Brandon was Justin’s younger brother, also a carpenter and the third of the Sloan siblings. He and his wife, Maggie, a caterer, had two young sons. They’d left the wedding hotel that morning for a few days in London with Brody and Heather. Samantha and Justin had slipped out last night, spending their first night as a married couple at a tiny inn an hour up the road.

“Tyler and Aidan want to meet the queen,” Justin added.

Samantha smiled, thinking of the two boys, now eight and six, on the loose in London. “Knowing Brody, he could arrange it,” she said.

“They’ll be happy seeing the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. Maggie and Brandon figured they might as well see some sights if they were coming all the way to England for our wedding. Makes sense.”

“They love a good adventure.”

Justin slowed to let another car bypass them on a straightaway. They were in no hurry, Samantha thought. They were officially on their honeymoon. They had plenty of time to get to Edinburgh, their first stop in Scotland on their ten-day trip.

“I should have mentioned Charlotte would be house-sitting,” Samantha said, calmer. “I didn’t think of it. It’s a maybe, too. I haven’t heard from her. She could have decided to go straight to Washington and see about Max’s house.”

“Weddings can make people agree to things they later have to wriggle out of. Rawlings was beat. I don’t know when I’ve seen anyone that tired. Eric says it was fun watching him try to provoke Charlotte. She had no trouble holding her own with him.”

Of that, Samantha had no doubt. “It’s fine if Greg stays at the inn. It could be awkward if Charlotte shows up, too, but they’ll work it out. There’s loads of room.”

“Seriously, the guy was bone tired,” Justin said. “He could end up staying at the pub and sleep and drink beer all week.”

“His type gets restless after forty-eight hours. He’ll rally.”

“Then maybe he’ll stay at the pub and hike and drink beer all week.”

Samantha smiled. “Ever the optimist.”

“I wouldn’t say optimist. Realist. You saw what Greg Rawlings was like when he was in Knights Bridge last winter. He’s an adrenaline junkie who thrives on action. Not much action at an old country inn that hasn’t been in use for a few years.”

“There are cards and musty board games in the library.”

Justin grinned at her, his eyes a dark blue in the gray light. “He won’t last if he does show up in Knights Bridge. How long do you think Charlotte would last?”

“Not for days and days, maybe, but she looked ready for a real break.”

Justin nodded thoughtfully. “I agree.”

Samantha tilted her head back, eyeing this man she loved. Justin was solid, a concrete thinker who didn’t beat around the bush. She appreciated his bluntness and had seen him get better control of it in their months together, just as she’d gotten better control of her tendency to think she had to do everything herself and couldn’t trust anyone.

She trusted Justin Sloan with all her heart.

“Charlotte needs some downtime,” Samantha said. “She wouldn’t get into any details with me, because it was my wedding day, but I could tell.”

“Greg is a federal agent. If he and Charlotte end up at the inn together, it’s not as if she’d be holed up with an ax murderer. They’re adults. The inn’s got a dozen guest rooms and plenty of other rooms—way more space than I had growing up with five siblings. They can spread out. It’ll be fine.”

“You saw them dancing together yesterday?”

“I did.”

“It was her first wedding since she abandoned Tommy Ferguson at the altar.”

“She was happy for you, Sam. That’s what mattered to her.”

Justin downshifted, slowing to a near crawl as they approached another pretty English village. They were taking a scenic route north. Samantha didn’t know the details, didn’t have a map. She wanted to relax and enjoy the scenery. But here she was, worrying about her thirty-six-year-old cousin. Normally she’d never worry about Charlotte. No one did. She was ultraindependent, competent, good at so many things and yet not one to draw attention to herself. Not showing up for her wedding had been out of character in that sense. In character in the sense that Charlotte Bennett took decisive action once her mind was made up about something.

“Do you want to warn Charlotte?” Justin asked.

Samantha thought a moment. “No. There are too many variables. I don’t want to get her worked up about something that might not even happen if she’s about to get on a transatlantic flight.”

“This is what life’s like with our two families.” Justin brushed his fingertips on her cheek as they stopped for a traffic light. “Welcome to the Sloans and the Bennetts.”

“I love you, Mr. Sloan.”

“And I love you, Mrs. Sloan. Shall we enjoy our honeymoon?”

“Every minute.”

Six

Knights Bridge, Massachusetts

As Greg switched off the bedside lamp in his corner room at the Red Clover Inn, what felt like a million years after breakfast on the wet terrace of his Cotswolds pub, he could hear scurrying in the walls.

Mice.

He crawled under the top sheet and lightweight blanket on his lumpy double bed. Built in 1900 as an inn, the place nonetheless had the feel of a large, rambling house. It was run-down but not in disrepair, at least from what he’d seen so far. He’d arrived after dark and had turned on a few lights and headed upstairs to find a room. He didn’t have a good fix on the inn’s layout, but he didn’t need one. All he’d needed was to peel off his clothes and fall into bed. Everything else could wait. Red Clover Inn was about what he’d expected.

He’d chosen a corner bedroom on the second floor. Someone had left a set of sheets and a cotton blanket folded at the foot of the bed. He hadn’t minded making the bed himself. It wasn’t as if he could call housekeeping. He hadn’t bothered to get every tuck just right. Nobody cared. It wasn’t a real inn.

He’d opened a window and settled in, lying on his back in the pitch dark, relishing the late-spring breeze.

And then came the scurrying.

Whatever.

If the mice stayed in the walls, they weren’t his problem.

The scurrying stopped, at least for the moment. He’d considered changing his plans and checking into an airport hotel when he’d landed in Boston, but he’d had coffee while he waited for his luggage. Good to go. A flight delay, a guy snoring next to him for six hours, one fateful wrong turn coming out of the tunnel from Logan Airport—it’d been one of those travel days best forgotten.

He’d half hoped Charlotte had beaten him here but no sign of her. He was alone.

It was almost morning in Edinburgh.

Greg couldn’t keep his eyes open. He sank into the mattress—for all he knew, it had been new in 1982—and relaxed, letting his travel fatigue and twitchiness ooze out of his body. He didn’t hear any squeaks or telltale sounds of flapping wings that would indicate bats were about. A bat on the loose he’d have to deal with. Mice... He could go to sleep with mice doing their mice thing in the walls and ceilings.

How would Charlotte do with mice and bats?

No mystery. He knew.

She’d have no problem.

* * *

Hours and hours after she’d left her cozy Edinburgh apartment for her westward journey, Charlotte relished the first sips of her coffee at Smith’s, a small restaurant in a converted house just off Main Street in picturesque, totally adorable Knights Bridge, Massachusetts. She was already in love with the tiny New England town.

In love.

She smiled, relaxing, at ease now that she had arrived. She’d be fine unwinding at Red Clover Inn for a few days. No wonder Samantha had decided to make her home here. Even without hunky Justin, Knights Bridge was home-worthy.

Charlotte cautioned herself against overreaching with her expectations. She didn’t want to set herself up for a crash later when she started noticing Knights Bridge’s warts. So far, though, her inn-sitting adventure was working out even better than she’d expected.

Smith’s first customer on the early Monday morning, she ordered a three-egg omelet with green peppers, onions and ham, home fries, local cob-smoked bacon and multigrain toast.

Just what she needed to get her internal clock onto her new schedule.

As she drank her coffee, she became aware of someone sliding into her booth across from her.

She blinked. No.

But it was true. Greg Rawlings had materialized in the little restaurant as if out of thin air. Maybe actually out of thin air. How else could Charlotte explain him? She hadn’t heard the front door, felt a breeze—anything.

“Don’t say a word,” she said. “You’re not here. You’re not real.”

“I’m not?”

“I conjured you up in a caffeine-deprived, jet-lagged haze. People can hallucinate after a long trip, a wedding, too many hours without coffee. It’s not possible that Diplomatic Security Agent Rawlings is here with me in a Knights Bridge café.”

Unfazed by her dismissal of him as a figment of her imagination, he motioned for the waiter to bring coffee, then turned back to her. “It’s a stretch to call this place a café. I like it, though.”

The waiter, a local teenager, brought Greg coffee, a sign that, in fact, Charlotte hadn’t dreamed him up. Maybe she was in a somnambulant state. Maybe she wasn’t really awake, or her flight yesterday had messed with her head due to her recent decompression illness.

“We need to work on your situational awareness,” Greg said, lifting his mug.

“I see you drink your coffee black. Is that only when you’re conjured up, or do you add cream in real life?”

“Always black. Never any cream. I don’t drink latte, cappuccino, café au lait, flavored coffee. Just coffee.”

“Of course. Not surprised.” She blinked. Then blinked again. “Nope. You didn’t vanish.”

“You’re a riot, Charlotte. Okay if I order breakfast or do you want me to pretend to be invisible?”

“I doubt you’d succeed.”

“You’d be surprised. I can be invisible when it suits me.”

“Order breakfast,” she said. “I’m not imagining you?”

He shook his head. “You are not imagining me.”

“I suppose we do need to work on my situational awareness. I didn’t notice you come through the door.”

“You also didn’t notice you had company at Red Clover Inn.”

She really needed more coffee and a few more hours’ sleep. “Company?”

“Correct. The car in the driveway was your first clue. Second was the house key missing by the hose spigot. Third was finding the back door unlocked.”

She ignored the quickening of her heartbeat. “How do you know all this?”

“Because I’m the one who used the key and left the door unlocked. Apparently we’re both inn-sitting this week.”

Charlotte gaped at him. She had no words.

Greg settled back on his cushioned bench. “I bet that doesn’t happen often—you not knowing what to say. I was up early and heard your car purring outside my window. Whose Mercedes-Benz?”

“It belonged to my great-uncle Harry. Samantha is sorting through his house in Boston. He...” She stopped, breathed. “Why didn’t you let me know you were there?”

“You were only inside for a minute and I didn’t want to scare the hell out of you. I needed to get dressed. I’d just come out of the shower and only had this threadbare towel tied around my waist.”

The image of him in only a towel did Charlotte in. She covered for herself by grabbing her water glass but then took a huge gulp, a dead giveaway.

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