From one convenient marriage…

To another?

Shunned by society because of his parentage, half-Roma blacksmith Fell Barden lives a simple life alone in the forest until his peace is disturbed by an injured runaway lady. Fleeing a forced marriage, Sophia Somerlock needs his help. Caring for the intriguing miss, Fell feels an intense connection to her. The obvious solution is to save her by marrying her himself…but that would mean returning to the ton that rejected him…

JOANNA JOHNSON lives in a pretty Wiltshire village with her husband and as many books as she can sneak into the house. Being part of the Mills & Boon family is a dream come true. She has always loved writing, starting at five years old with a series about a cat imaginatively named Cat, and she keeps a notebook in every handbag—just in case. In her spare time she likes finding new places to have a cream tea, stroking scruffy dogs and trying to remember where she left her glasses.

Also by Joanna Johnson

The Marriage Rescue

Scandalously Wed to the Captain

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

His Runaway Lady

Joanna Johnson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90145-5

HIS RUNAWAY LADY

© 2020 Joanna Johnson

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Thanks—as always—to the ones who make the tea,

listen to the doubts and say the nice things.

I love you all!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The moment Sophia Somerlock had been told the name of the man she was to marry was the same moment she knew, without hesitation, that she had no other choice.

She would have to run.

Huddled into one corner of the swaying coach, Sophia twitched aside the dingy velvet curtain obscuring a window and looked out, attempting to distract herself from the terror that circled in her stomach. There was nothing to see other than ghostly trees, barely lit by the moonlight struggling through the dense canopy above. Savernake Forest stretched out silently on either side of the rough road to Marlborough, only the rattle of the wheels and hollow clip of hooves breaking the heavy stillness of the summer night. Another glance showed the white shape of an owl disappearing into the darkness, leaving the reflection of Sophia’s pale face to peer back at her in the glass.

Mother will be beside herself with rage when she realises I’ve gone. I can scarcely believe I found the nerve.

How many vases would Mother smash in her fury, now deprived of the usual target for her wrath? Sophia wondered with rising fear. Bearing the brunt of that foul temper was Sophia’s only purpose in life, after all, aside from one day being sold into a lucrative marriage from which everybody would profit but herself. That was the sole reason Mother hadn’t abandoned Sophia to a convent after the death of Papa as she deserved. She’d been told this almost daily ever since she was six years old, but now she had fled the future mapped out for her, the ungrateful little beast, and the passion of Mother’s anger made Sophia’s blood run cold at the mere thought. While Papa had lived Mother had hidden the worst of her cruelty from him, never in his hearing abusing the spirited little daughter she had never wanted and resented for claiming a share of his love, but since his passing Sophia hadn’t known a single day without guilt and fear and that spirit had been well and truly crushed beneath the heel of Mother’s boot.

Almost alone in the carriage, Sophia reached to tuck a stray sweep of bright copper hair back out of sight beneath the bonnet taken from her unsuspecting maid. The elderly gentleman seated opposite looked to be fast asleep, but she wouldn’t risk him waking to catch sight of her distinctive flaming mane. Long, thick and refusing to hold a curl—much to Mother’s annoyance, as though Sophia had grown such determinedly straight hair just to spite her—it was the only feature she had inherited from her real father, the final link between them Mother had never been able to sever. Lord Thruxton might insist she call him Father now, having become Mother’s husband the day before Sophia’s seventeenth birthday five years before, but nobody would ever replace the kind, handsome man she had loved and who had loved her in return until the fateful day her stupidity had cut him down. She would always be a Somerlock in her heart, no matter how many times she was introduced as Miss Sophia Thruxton. Papa’s name would live on inside her for ever and there was no way she would ever become a Thruxton for real, neither by marriage nor by force.

Sophia squeezed her clammy hands together so tightly it hurt, the reflexive action of many years’ standing, although nothing could drag her thoughts away from the great house she had left behind. Fenwick Manor had felt like a prison for all its splendour, caging Sophia within its walls and not a friendly face among those who lived there. Mother detested her, of course, and Lord Thruxton—never ‘Father’—remained coldly indifferent to her presence, only becoming animated when dear Septimus came to call—his beloved nephew and heir, and the most terrifying future husband Sophia ever could have dreamed of.

It was the worst-kept secret in Wiltshire society that Jayne Thruxton had been declared insane after only two years of marriage, Sophia thought with a shudder as the coach ploughed on through the night, each hoofbeat carrying her further and further from the fate she had fled. Everyone pitied Septimus and his bad luck in acquiring a lunatic for a wife—although from the whispered conversations she had overheard between her mother and stepfather Sophia knew otherwise. Jayne had seemed as rational a creature as ever lived before she was tormented half to death by the malice and brutality of her handsome, charming husband, a facet of his personality concealed from her—and society at large—until it was too late. If she had voluntarily entered an asylum it could only have been for one of two reasons: either Septimus’s treatment had addled her wits, or life in an institution had seemed a better prospect than remaining in her marriage. Neither motivation was one Sophia wished to experience for herself and the bleak truth had given her the courage to hide beneath the clothes of a servant and disappear into the night, a rash action that flew in the face of every instinct for her obedience. Quiet compliance was all she knew now, the strong will she’d once possessed hammered flat by years of torment—or so she had thought, before the prospect of a life even more miserable than her current existence forced the decision that even now clamped her chest in a vice of fear.

It’s hardly surprising Mother chose a man like that for me after what I did to poor Papa, a fitting punishment for my actions. She has told me often enough I was the reason she became a widow sentenced to mourn the only man she would ever love for the rest of her miserable life—as if I needed proof she only married again for the title. If she couldn’t be happy, why should I?

That had been the constant refrain of Sophia’s wretched childhood, she now thought grimly. Papa had died when she was just six years old and since that moment Sophia had known herself to be a monster, an unwanted creature starved of the approval and tenderness she craved so badly and yet knew she didn’t deserve. Grief and guilt so strong it almost drowned her was her inheritance, encouraged daily by Mother’s cruel tongue, and she’d certainly never expected to marry for love when the time came for Mother to see some return on her grudging investment in her only child. There was nothing about Sophia that might rouse fond feelings in a man, after all—how could she ever believe otherwise, told as much repeatedly from the first moment she could begin to understand?

‘I’ll marry one day, won’t I, Mother? To a man like Papa?’

‘You’ll marry, but not to a man like your father. He was kind and strong and handsome—now, tell me, would a man like that, who could have his choice of wife, want somebody as worthless and troublesome as you?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘You suppose correctly. My life with your father was perfect before you came and ruined everything with your wickedness, always getting between us and turning his attention from me. Why would any man look upon you with favour after learning of your sins?’

The elderly passenger twitched in his sleep as the coach rounded a bend and began to slow, the driver’s low command to the horses breaking into Sophia’s unhappy memories. A swift peep out of the window showed a couple of men waiting for the post carriage to draw near, the torch they stood beneath obscuring their faces in shadow, and Sophia felt her chest tighten with apprehension at the sight.

With each new passenger that boarded the coach the chance of her being seen by some acquaintance of the Thruxtons grew. All it would take was one dropped hint, one accidental glance, and her mother and stepfather would know which way she had fled. The midnight carriage had seemed such a safe bet—surely everybody she knew in the county would be abed by now—but evidently she wasn’t the only one with travel in mind, sneaking from Fenwick Manor with breath held for fear of discovery. If she was seen now the risk she’d taken would have been in vain, and she would be left with no choice but to face the consequences. She could do nothing but sit, helpless and afraid, as the coach drew to a standstill and the murmur of voices filtered in from outside, the light from the torch growing brighter as the door opened and the two waiting men climbed inside.

The first was a stranger and Sophia felt some of the tension leave her limbs as he dropped into a seat. He looked at her with a quick flick of appraisal, taking in her heart-shaped face and slanted green eyes with an appreciation he never would have dared had she been dressed in her usual finery. In a servant’s clothes she was evidently a fair prospect, however—Sophia might have spent a moment pondering the difference an expensive gown could make had the second passenger not made her mind stutter to a sudden halt.

Her stepfather’s bookkeeper settled himself in the far corner of the cabin, nodding distractedly at each of his fellow travellers as he carefully arranged his belongings beneath the seat. The elderly gentleman opposite woke for just long enough to mutter a quiet greeting but Sophia’s lips were frozen with dismay and nothing could have dragged a word from her suddenly dry mouth.

It was exactly what she had feared: somebody connected to her family sat mere inches away, currently fussing with his greatcoat but soon enough likely to take a better look at his travelling companions. He might know her—hadn’t the man visited Fenwick Manor on more than one occasion? It could take him a second to fit together the pieces of the puzzle, but how long until he spoke her name and every eye in the coach turned to look at the woman fleeing from a marriage brokered by people who cared not three straws for her happiness?

The horses began to move and the carriage creaked forward, the bookkeeper now smoothing down the knees of his trousers. Finally satisfied everything was as it should be he glanced about the carriage again—at last noticing Sophia’s stiff form seated next to the window and looking for all the world as though she wished she could burst through it.

She screwed her eyes closed, turning her head away to conceal her flushed cheeks and the tic of fear she felt working in the muscle of her jaw. If Lord Thruxton’s man were to recognise her now all would be lost. He’d never believe she had permission to be riding post at past midnight, dressed as a maid of all things, and in his good intentions would no doubt return her to the one place she wanted nothing more than to never see again.

For one golden moment she thought perhaps her luck had held. The man didn’t address her and when she dared open one eye she saw his gaze fixed on the floor—but then he leaned towards her and Sophia felt her lungs empty at his polite frown.

‘Begging your pardon, ma’am… I wasn’t sure at first, but now I think I must be right. Might you be—?’

She felt her mouth open in a grimace of horror, hardly hearing the rest of his enquiry.

He knows me. He knows me and he’ll try to take me back.

The picture of Septimus’s face swam before her, handsome as ever but with cruelty etched in every line, and her throat clenched at once. To be handed back to him made her feel faint with terror. Neither Mother nor her stepfather would be in the least concerned should Septimus decide to abuse his new wife. He would be allowed to treat Sophia however he chose and the sad fate of her predecessor was enough to convince her that his choice would be unbearable.

That poor woman will spend the rest of her life in an asylum and still she believed that a better path than to remain as his wife. Whatever Septimus did to drive her to such desperation is not something I wish to uncover for myself.

The bookkeeper still watched her with growing unease and Sophia took a deep breath in. She would have to do something if she wanted to slip free of his dangerous concern for her, and she would have to do it fast.

Sophia rose to her feet so quickly the man fell back in surprise, his eyes widening as she stood above him and hammered on the roof.

‘Stop the coach! I wish to get out!’

The coach jerked roughly as the driver brought the horses up short, the other passengers jolting in their seats and reaching to steady themselves in alarm. The elderly gentleman called out but Sophia paid him no mind as she wrenched the door open and half fell down the step, snagging her cloak as she went but stopping for nobody.

Her feet hit the ground harder than she’d expected and for a second she stumbled, but she righted herself and without pausing for breath waded through the scrub that edged the pitted road and bolted between the first bank of waving trees.

‘Miss Thruxton! Come back!’

The words echoed in the air behind her, slicing through the quiet of the night, although Sophia didn’t stop to look back over her shoulder. All she could think was that she needed to run, and keep on running, until the light of the carriage’s lanterns was swallowed by darkness and the voices were replaced by the soft rustle of leaves in the midnight breeze.

In every direction the forest stood about her like a labyrinth, the straight trees guarding her flight through the gloom so dense she could hardly see her hand in front of her face. Fleeing like a deer from hunters her breathing grew ragged as she blundered amid undergrowth and sharp branches that reached down to catch at her clothes, but still she kept up her blind charge, one foot in front of the other with no thought in mind but escape.

Sophia was falling before she had the chance to realise what was happening, her dress catching and the breath forced from her body by the ground hurtling up to meet her. Rolling in a tangle of long skirts down a steep slope, she came to a violent stop against a gnarled old tree—and felt her head spin with sudden agony as pain bloomed like a flower in her left leg.

She tried to sit up, but a grating sensation scattered stars in front of her eyes and she folded back again, chest heaving in mute despair at the hopeless predicament she found herself trapped in. Another attempt at moving was met with equal failure, all strength stolen from her shaking limbs by pain, shock and the effort of running faster and further than she ever had before.

How did this happen? How did my plan go so badly awry?

She licked dry lips, fighting the growing wave of fear that rose inside her. There was no way she could get up, let alone continue her aimless journey to a destination she didn’t even know.

Lying alone in the forest with no hope of walking and too dark to find my way even if I could. Perhaps this is what I deserve for disobeying Mother and trying to cheat the destiny I was intended to have. Whatever made me think I deserved anything more, after what I did?

How long she lay for Sophia couldn’t tell, her head swimming with pain and nausea swirling in her stomach. The leaf canopy that stirred above was thick and no moonlight slipped through to dapple the damp ground, only darkness and the whispers of the sleeping forest surrounding her as she closed her eyes and prayed for deliverance.

Something cold and wet pressing against her hand woke Sophia from her doze, feeble daylight casting a green haze over the forest floor. For a moment, the unexpected sensation almost succeeded in distracting her from the throbbing in her leg, before awareness set in once more to make her draw in a harsh breath.

A scruffy-looking dog gazed at her sympathetically, raising his nose from her hand and his ears twitching backwards at her wince. They moved again as a voice came from somewhere behind Sophia’s resting place—a man’s voice, cutting through the brush to set her heart pounding with sick apprehension.

‘Lash? Where are you?’

The swish of boots through long grass grew closer and Sophia attempted to push herself up from her bed of fallen leaves, desperate despite the fresh lights that flickered before her eyes as she moved. She dug her fingers into the rough bark of the tree at her back, feeling every muscle shriek from lying all night on the hard earth and her injured leg wanting to buckle beneath her as she hauled herself upright.

As soon as she was on her feet she knew she’d made a mistake. A hot gush flowed to pool in her shoe and the crackle of pain that fluttered made her cry out before she could bite it back. By the sounds of it the stranger was still approaching, the dog at her side gently waving his tail as his master drew near, and although every instinct screamed at her to run Sophia could no more hobble away than she could have flown. The unpleasant, liquid warmth still tickled on her skin and, swaying slightly, she reached down to press her shaking hand against it—just as a man appeared around her tree.

He stopped abruptly, dark eyebrows cinching together as one quick look must have taken in her bedraggled clothes and breathing fast and erratic. She in turn had just enough time to note the concern on his face—a handsome face, at that, she thought with a glimmer of surprise—before she saw the blood that slicked her fingers, and her eyes closed again in a dead faint that sent her crumpling back to the ground.

Fell Barden regarded the figure sprawled across his boots for a moment in silence. At his side Lash looked down at her likewise and the two exchanged a glance Fell could have sworn the dog understood.

Didn’t expect to find this while looking for kindling, did we?

A young woman falling at his feet wasn’t something he could recall experiencing before—and certainly not such a pretty one, he saw with faint bemusement. She lay among the leaves with her bonnet half off, exposing a great swathe of fiery hair, and the bloodless colour of her face was more than countered by the scarlet stain spreading across the cream fabric of her skirts. Who she was and how she came to be unconscious in the forest he had no idea, only that she’d looked terrified to see him in the split second before she collapsed, eyes the colour of sea-glass stretched wide in fear and pain that immediately set alarm bells ringing. By the look of her she’d been out all night, muddied and bleeding in the dewy dawn with no obvious explanation of where she came from—or where she might be going.

The dog sniffed cautiously at the red splash on the stranger’s torn gown and Fell ushered him away with the toe of his boot, crouching warily to look closer. It didn’t take a doctor to see the woman had hurt her leg, one ankle twisted at an angle, but it was the jagged slash to her shin that made him suck a breath in between his teeth. Although congealing slightly the wound had evidently opened up again at her attempts to move and with practised speed Fell staunched the worst of the bleeding with his own knotted kerchief.

‘No wonder she didn’t run. That must have hurt like the devil.’

He frowned, the already-creased plane of his forehead crinkling further. She couldn’t be left where she was, that was obvious, but what should he do with her? He could hardly take her back to his modest cottage with the forge, standing some distance apart from the other houses in Woodford Common behind a screen of trees. The woman would wake soon, no doubt, and be frightened half to death at finding herself alone with him, crippled by her injury and unable to escape…

But where else is there?

There was nobody in the village likely to help him, he thought with dark certainty as he rocked back on his heels, hoping for a flash of inspiration. Every community had its black sheep, the one only fit to live on the fringes and draw sideways looks from the rest—and Woodford Common had outdone itself, boasting a half-Roma bastard from who knew what English father. The villagers might tolerate him now for his skill with iron and anvil, but for all his thirty-one years Fell had known how far beneath them he was considered—until he himself had come to accept his lack of value and that he would never truly belong.

Ma had given birth to him in the forest like an animal, the village gossips were maliciously delighted to repeat time and again, a young Romani girl nobody had seen before, alone and unmarried and barely more than a child herself. It was nothing short of a miracle the parish rector had been visiting Woodford at the time and found her, later giving Ma a position in his household as a maid. That had drawn much protest among the busybodies of the community, but Rector Frost stood firm: let he without sin cast the first stone, he’d ruled, showing Fell’s mother the Christian charity some of his congregation preferred to preach rather than to practise. Essea Barden and her baby boy had been allowed to stay, Ma grateful beyond measure to her rescuer, but guarding the secrets of where she had come from and the name of Fell’s father with a determination nothing could touch.

Fell tapped his fingers on his stubbled chin, vaguely feeling the black bristles. If only the good rector was still alive, surely he would have cared for this mysterious woman, but he had passed away long ago and his replacement had shown little interest in the illegitimate son of a former servant. In truth, there wasn’t anyone Fell trusted enough to ask for help and, with a sigh of resignation, he carefully gathered the unconscious shape into his arms.

‘Looks like we’ll be having a guest at breakfast today.’

The dog stirred his wiry tail as if in agreement as Fell straightened up, the bundle of woman he carried as still and passive as a doll. She weighed next to nothing, a mere scrap of a thing wrapped in a cheap cloak and her face, scattered with an Orion’s belt of freckles, relaxed as though in the depths of sleep. Whether it was fear, pain or the sight of the blood on her fingers that had rendered her insensible he didn’t know, but Fell’s brows twitched briefly as a gleam of concern sparked swiftly into life.

What can she have been doing, out here all alone? The night’s no safe place for a woman on her own—and especially not a woman like this.

She was an undeniable beauty, he’d seen at once with a flicker of interest, even if his more rational side had no desire to notice. With a bright copper mane and delicate features the stranger was a rare sight and no mistake, and Fell found himself uncomfortably pleased by the feeling of warmth his soft burden spilled across his chest as he walked, a sensation he hadn’t felt since…

Give that a rest.

He shied away from the thought, the memories it dragged along with it nothing he wanted to revisit. Shunting the ghosts of the past back into the shadows where they belonged was second nature now, years of practice honing the skill until usually he could manage it with ease—but something about the shape of a woman in his arms again threatened to unleash the flood, snatches of images long repressed rising to break through the walls.

Charity’s eyes were brown, not green, and instead of copper her hair was the colour of wheat.

The memory tried to close its hands around his throat, but he flung it away, square jaw hardening in determination. One woman was quite enough to contend with without echoes of the past clamouring for his attention, too. If the stranger he carried stirred something in him he hadn’t felt in years, he’d pay it no mind, and certainly not while she lay unconscious against the rough front of his shirt. When she awoke she would doubtless be frightened and dazed, and nothing in his conduct should give her cause for additional alarm—even if the fine lines of her face tempted him to glance down more than once to take another look.

Lash padded ahead of his master and Fell followed with rising apprehension. This wasn’t at all how the day had been meant to start. He’d wanted to gather some kindling and cook breakfast before stoking the fire in the forge, melting iron for the best horseshoes for miles. The villagers of Woodford Common might not truly accept him but they couldn’t argue with the quality of his work—the one part of his existence about which Fell felt any measure of pride. Everything else about him was submerged in the doubt, uncertainty and feelings of inadequacy he’d had, despite Ma’s best efforts, since he was a child.

It was bittersweet when she returned to visit now. Fell could never shake a pang of something close to jealousy when she would arrive with no notice, slipping down from her horse with a cry of delight at his emergence from the forge. Ma was so sure of who she was, what she was and where she belonged, a certainty that always seemed to slip through Fell’s fingers when he tried to grasp hold of it. Neither fully Roma nor fully English, he wavered somewhere between the two worlds, never knowing where his true place lay or what identity he should adopt. Any talk about his father was skilfully dodged, but the question left a huge hole only shame and vague resentment of his mother’s impenetrable secrecy could fill, her stubborn concealment of the truth fostering tension between them even now he was grown. The taint of bastardy followed Fell wherever he went, both his illegitimacy and his Roma blood securing his place among the lowest of Woodford’s residents.

Not that I’m not used to it by now. I’ve had long enough to see how the world works.

His mystery guest had grown heavier by the time his cottage reared up out of the trees in front of him, watching his approach with friendly windows beneath a thick brow of thatch. Another snatched glimpse at her face showed her eyes still closed, amber lashes sweeping on to pale cheeks to free another glimmer of appreciation Fell set firmly aside. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d been a frail grandmother, or a tiny child, he would still have taken her in. The fact she fitted neither of those descriptions, but was instead the kind of young woman a more foolish man might lose his head for, made not a bit of difference.

A kick with one large boot was enough to dislodge the door and Fell stooped to enter the low building without hitting his head, crossing with only the barest hesitation to place the woman across his own bed. She lay without moving, only the steady rise and fall of her chest signalling she wasn’t made of wax as Fell awkwardly removed her bonnet, his eye drawn to the patch of darkening blood drying stubbornly on her skirt.

That’ll need tending before anything else.

He watched her for a moment before turning away. Hot water, cloth for bandages, rags to clean the wound… There were various things he’d require and none of them immediately to hand. With a sigh of resignation he raised an eyebrow at the dog sitting at his feet, who responded with a thump of that straggly tail.

‘Perhaps there won’t be time for breakfast after all.’

Chapter Two

A ceiling of rough boards stretched overhead as bit by bit Sophia’s senses collected themselves and she opened her aching eyes, the pain in her leg flaring to greet her return to consciousness.

Absolutely nothing in the small room she found herself in was familiar. The simple wooden furniture and plain bed she lay on were entirely alien—as was everything except for the dog that curled next to her on the thin mattress, the same one that had found her in the forest.

With a start of alarm she tried to sit up.

If the dog was here…

‘You’re awake. I was starting to wonder if I should be worried.’

The voice from behind made her jump, a movement she regretted as her injured leg crackled and a gasp escaped parted lips. She tried to look over her shoulder at the figure leaning against the doorframe, her heart slamming into the bodice of her dress as if fired from a cannon as he stepped into the room.

‘No need for that. I’ll not harm you.’

She watched with eyes wide in fright as the tall, dark-haired man she just recalled seeing before she’d slid to the ground moved slowly to sit at the foot of the bed, careful not to touch her. His movements were measured as if he suspected—correctly, as it happened—she might baulk and try to run, and his attempts to avoid startling her slightly dimmed the brightest spark of her fear.

‘Who are you, sir? Where am I?’

Now she could see him clearly Sophia felt herself colour beneath his direct gaze, heat simmering in her flushed cheeks. Her fleeting impression in the forest had been correct: the stranger was handsome indeed, olive-skinned and firm-jawed with a width of shoulder she’d certainly never seen on any idle gentleman. He wore a shirt with the sleeves turned back over brawny forearms and a blacksmith’s leather apron across his barrel chest, the hands that rested on his knees huge and scarred and ingrained with what looked like soot. The overwhelming impression was of a solid wall of male, sitting near enough that she could have brushed him with her stockinged foot—but it was his eyes that made her blink with surprise that veered sharply into wonder.

The left was dark and shrewd as a raven’s, obsidian in his weathered face, while the right was the colour of warm honey and moss, the hazel and green mixing together like a landscape in miniature. They were eyes to lose hours in, their uncanny colours the background for a complex mix of curiosity and—unexpectedly, Sophia thought dazedly—concern that danced in their depths. There was a beauty in their strangeness and Sophia felt her blush intensify as she realised how much she wanted to stare, the face they were set in almost as intriguing in its striking appeal.

What are you thinking? The sensible voice inside her head heaved aside girlish sentiment to regard her with a frown. You know nothing about this man. Plenty of dangerous individuals have comely faces—as Septimus should have taught you.

The thought of the man from whom she’d fled made Sophia’s face crumple in fresh fear, Mother’s glare joining it to increase the horrors racing in her mind. It was impossible to tell what time it was, although the sunlight attempting to stream through thin curtains signalled a new July morning, and the possibility her flight had been discovered turned her blood to ice. Would they have begun hunting for her yet? Had the bookkeeper already visited Fenwick Manor, full of apologies for being unable to stop Miss Thruxton from disappearing into the warm night?

The man must have seen the terror in her face and misunderstood it, for when he next spoke his voice was low and steady and, despite the rush of anxiety in every vein, Sophia felt a glint of feminine appreciation for its deep, pleasing tone.

‘No sirs here—only a blacksmith. My name’s Fell and this is my cottage. I found you in Savernake Forest and brought you back here, to Woodford Common. Have you been to this village before?’

Sophia shook her head distractedly, too many worries chiming in her ears to make them ring. Woodford Common? Surely she’d heard the name, or perhaps seen it written on a signpost at the side of the road through the forest. It was close to Marlborough and perhaps a distance of twenty-five miles from Fenwick Manor.

‘No. I’ve heard of it, but never visited.’

Fell nodded and she couldn’t help a swift glance risked in his direction, again glimpsing the dark shine of his hair complemented by skin far richer than she was used to seeing. The combination was alluring, a flit of interest Sophia shied away from in alarm. Any coy appreciation for her mysterious host would do nothing to unravel an already confusing situation, one that without careful management could all too easily get out of hand.

‘Do you remember anything about where you came from, or where you might have been going?’ He crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her narrowly, as though trying to read something in her glowing face. ‘I can’t imagine you came to be in the middle of the forest without good reason.’

Sophia hesitated, the truth stalling on her tongue. He’d rescued her from her initial predicament but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be tempted to deliver her back to Fenwick Manor if she told him who she was. Mother might offer a reward for the return of her wayward daughter, and with a stab of regret Sophia realised her own purse had been left in the carriage when she fled. She had no way of making a counter-offer without a penny to her name, no way of persuading Fell not to make the transition from rescuer to captor.

She saw how he watched her with those piercing eyes and felt her pulse skip beneath her skin at his scrutiny, unfamiliar and yet…

Not unpleasant.

Her experience of young men was scant, to say the least—even nuns in a convent might speak to the occasional male, more than Sophia had ever been allowed. At the few rare parties she had been permitted to attend Mother had held on to her arm with cold fingers like a vice, turning her basilisk glare on any who might have strayed too near.

She wouldn’t want to risk a kind man looking my way. Not that they’d have reason to.

Only Septimus would do as Sophia’s intended—his malice was exactly the repayment she deserved for her part in the tragedy of almost twenty years before, the weight of guilt around her neck something she knew couldn’t be escaped.

Even so Sophia had chafed under Mother’s pinching grasp, longing to be among the dancing couples and perhaps flirting her fan at some handsome partner. The desire to throw off the restraining hand was always so strong, her natural high spirits aching to be allowed free rein—but she knew what would happen if she disobeyed and the prospect was enough to douse the rebellious spark that glowed deep down inside, never permitted to see the light.

She’d lapsed into silence again without meaning to, only the slight sigh of the man waiting for her reply dragging her away from the thoughts that gnawed at her.

‘Your name, then? Will you tell me that at least?’

The mismatched gaze searched her face more and more doubtfully the longer she took to speak, her confusion and discomfort growing with every second she cast about for an answer. The novel sensation of being so close to a man, unchaperoned and on his bed of all places would have been mortifying enough without the added complication of his being so confoundedly attractive. She would have to conjure a story to explain how she came to be lying in the forest and a new name to match—both things that required more time to think than Sophia currently had at her disposal. With her cheeks burning, she blurted out the first thing that sprang into her head.

‘Marie. Marie—Crewe.’

Where that flash of genius came from Sophia wasn’t sure, but after a short pause Fell gave a small nod.

‘Well then, Miss Crewe, as I said, my name is Fell and this—’ he jerked his head towards the dog that lay near her with its head on its paws ‘—is Lash. As a pair of poor bachelors we weren’t expecting company, so if it’s any comfort we’re as surprised by this turn of events as you are.’

Surely nobody could be quite as surprised as she was, Sophia thought as she willed her heartrate to slow back to an acceptable speed. Opening her eyes in a strange man’s bedroom was not how she’d expected her moonlight flit to end, the most intimate encounter with a male she’d ever had—but then again, what had she expected? There had been no plan other than to escape Fenwick Manor and its inhabitants, her movements after that as unknown to Sophia as to anyone else. Perhaps stumbling into Fell’s path might turn out to be fortunate after all. For all her misgivings she was now under a roof, at least temporarily safe from the eyes of those hunting her, and for that she ought to be grateful.

The frenetic thumping of her heart under control a little more, Sophia shifted slightly higher on the bed to lean against the headboard. Fell sat impassive, awaiting a response as she settled herself, stalling for time while she groped for a plausible story. His silent presence was a curious mixture of calming and unnerving, determined patience strangely at odds with such a huge frame. Despite what could have been an intimidatingly large build there was no shadow of the subtle menace Septimus had always radiated, the difference between the two men like night and day, and Sophia’s sudden appreciation for the fact brought her thoughts to a sharp halt.

No more of that. Remember what you ought to be concentrating on. The man’s a blacksmith, for goodness’ sake, and you are…well, yourself.

That was the truth and there was nothing more to it, Sophia acknowledged grimly. He was far below her in status, but even if he’d been an earl there was no reason a man like Fell would so much as look at her twice. Handsome and clearly capable, if any other rank he would have been exactly the sort of man Mother had taught Sophia never to hope for. A suitor with those qualities could have his pick of women—why would he waste his time with her?

Thoughts of Mother helped focus Sophia’s mind, her fear rising again to stick in her throat. She would have to make the most of the chance she had been given and, to do that, she would have to lie.

‘I was in service to a family in Salisbury, as—as a maid. I had to leave suddenly and in the confusion of travelling I found myself lost in the forest, without any of my luggage and unable to find my way in the dark.’

Fell half-raised one eyebrow but said nothing to disagree, merely inclining his dark head as she spoke. For a horrible moment Sophia was sure she saw a glimmer of scepticism in his expression, although the next it disappeared back below the surface.

‘A maid?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I see. And where was it you were headed that made you take such a detour…in the middle of the night? Somehow deprived of your luggage?’

Sophia dropped her eyes to the patchwork quilt she lay on, thinking fast as dismay seized her.

You’ve always been a terrible liar. Yet another thing you could never do right.

‘It was—I thought, perhaps…’ she stuttered, stumbling over the words. ‘I didn’t have a precise destination in mind. I thought I’d get to Marlborough and then decide my route from there. Cutting through Savernake Forest seemed a good way to save time, but as I said, in the dark… My case and purse were left behind when I had to get down from the coach unexpectedly and, by the time I realised, it was too late to return for them.’

She tailed off, still refusing to meet his eye as she ran out of thread to spin her pitiful cobweb of a lie. There was no way he’d believe such a pile of garbled nonsense, surely, yet when he replied Sophia felt herself wilt with relief.

‘Fortunate I found you, then. You wouldn’t have got much further with that leg left the way it was.’

In the whirl that had spun her since she woke Sophia had almost forgotten her pain, but now Fell mentioned it she felt a renewed shard rake her. She looked down swiftly, her insides contracting briefly at the ugly stain of dried blood on her skirts. The stiff patch was as much as she could stand—any fresher and her innards would have turned, her horror of all kinds of gore so vivid even the memory was enough to make her swoon.

‘Nasty wound about this long.’ Fell gestured with his fingers, although Sophia’s thoughts were abruptly diverted by a new dread dawning in her stomach. The only way he would know what kind of injury she’d sustained was if…

‘I’ve cleaned and dressed it, but it’ll need time to heal. Your ankle seemed as though you’d turned it, too.’

Sophia’s blush gripped her entire body, roasting her in the fire trapped beneath her own skin.

He had looked. He had actually looked!

Even her eyes felt hot as she thought how Fell must have swept her skirt to the side to treat her leg, a liberty absolutely no lady of her standing would allow. To uncover something so private, so forbidden, went against every lesson in decorum Sophia had ever been taught. Only a woman’s husband might catch a glimpse of her calves, or even a scandalous knee if he was exceptionally lucky. Certainly no lady would so much as countenance a blacksmith, of all people—but of course, she wasn’t a lady here. In Fell’s cottage it was vital he believed she was a maid—Marie—and surely women of the lower classes had different standards. If she let her shame show in her face he’d suspect her even if he didn’t already, her safety dependent on sustaining her feeble lie.

‘Oh. Well. Thank you very much,’ she answered through teeth clenched in mortification, although Fell didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy softly rubbing the dog’s brown ears, huge calloused fingers again surprising Sophia with their gentleness. They were the same fingers that had cleaned and dressed her wounds, strong and tanned and scattered with healed burns shining here and there, and the knowledge increased the heat in Sophia’s cheeks to positively scalding. It was an unspeakably intimate thing for him to have uncovered her pale legs and washed the blood from them, all carefully enough not to rouse her. A large part of her was still appalled, embarrassed, thinking she ought to be offended, but another part, secret and more scandalous than anything else, couldn’t hate the notion he had touched her skin. He must have carried her in from the forest before anything else, she realised belatedly—his arms were like nothing she’d seen up close before, power barely contained by the scorched sleeves that covered them, and to know she had nestled within them lit a taper Sophia hadn’t known existed. It was unacceptable, and distinctly unladylike, yet there it was: an instinctive and irrepressible recognition of the attractions of a good-looking man over which she found she had no control.

The man responsible for such an unfamiliar reaction shrugged his sculpted shoulders. ‘Doesn’t take much skill to bind a leg. I’ve plenty of experience doing the same for horses and they’ve twice as many to contend with.’

Before Sophia could decide how she felt about being compared to a horse Fell got to his feet, towering above her with his hair almost brushing the low ceiling and for a half-second she felt a twinge of fear. He was truly one of the biggest men she had ever seen, obviously more than capable of lifting her if he chose. She couldn’t escape, her injury throwing her entirely into his power—yet the flicker dimmed as she saw how carefully he stepped away from her, such unfamiliar consideration for her comfort sending her pulse skipping again like a spring lamb.

‘You must be half-starved by now. I’ll find you something to eat.’

Fell stirred the tea leaves slowly, his thoughts too full of the woman lying in his bedchamber to notice it had begun to stew. The remnants of yesterday’s loaf and the last of his cheese were already on a tray and he wondered if it would be enough to sate his mysterious guest’s appetite—but that was the least pressing of the concerns that currently circled through his mind.

If she’s a maid named Marie, I’m the Prince Regent.

Far from being a worldly man, even he could tell the difference between a woman of his own class and one that was…not. From the moment she’d opened those pretty eyes of hers he’d known, the look in them that of a rabbit caught in a trap. A country girl might be bemused to wake in a stranger’s home, as would anyone, but her face wouldn’t flush scarlet at being alone with a man, nor freeze in horror at finding one had caught a glimpse of her apparently sacred legs.

I’ve never known a servant with such smooth hands or a voice you could cut glass with. She’s a lady and why a lady would be roaming alone after dark is something I couldn’t begin to guess.

There had to be a reason for her to go fleeing through the forest and it certainly wasn’t the hopelessly transparent lie she had wanted him to swallow. To tell a falsehood was to attempt to conceal the truth, which in turn meant there had to be a truth worth concealing—and what a gentlewoman might feel the need to hide was far beyond Fell’s remit. She was frightened, though, and the spark of concern that kindled inside him at the thought was one he tried to rationalise at once. Anybody alone and afraid would stir his pity—if Marie, or whatever her real name was, moved him with her fearful eyes and pale face it had nothing to do with her beauty.

Fell splashed some milk into a chipped dish and placed it on the tray before steeling himself to return to his bed. A woman daintily arranged on his pillows was the very last thing he had anticipated when he awoke that morning—both disturbing and agreeable at the same time, in spite of what his stern self-control might mutter. It wasn’t something he’d thought he’d ever see again, the last time he’d enjoyed such an honour now so many years ago the memory had frayed at the edges. If things had unfolded differently Charity would have been his wife long ago, but it wasn’t to be and Fell attempted to dismiss the recollection with dark brows drawn into a frown.

Good enough to shoe the villagers’ horses, but not to marry their daughters. A half-Roma bastard for a son-in-law wasn’t what her father wanted and neither did she, in the end.

Charity hadn’t cared a fig about his illegitimacy or the fact that Roma blood ran in his veins, or so he’d been stupid enough to think. It was as though she was blind to what everybody else saw so vividly and for that alone her worth was more than the rubies he’d wished he could buy for her. She had looked down deeply into the well of his soul and seen the real man inside staring back at her, her acceptance of all that he was a shower of cooling rain dousing the flames of inadequacy that had burned him all his life. She’d barely reached his shoulder, yet the power of her love had brought him to his knees, felled by the validation he saw in her eyes and finally the confirmation that he was enough. It was the stability he had always craved, the antidote to the poisonous whispers that had followed him since the day he was born into shame, wailing as if he already knew what future awaited him.

Young fool that he was, Fell believed every one of her sweet words.

It was only when she disappeared from Woodford without as much as a goodbye that he realised the depth of his mistake. Her father, a farmer usually humourless and grave, had laughed himself sick when Fell knocked at their cottage door and asked earnestly for her hand, promising to love her for the rest of his days if she would only be returned—but he was too late. She’d gone north to marry a distant cousin as she’d always intended, her father was happy to divulge, only passing time with handsome, low-born Fell until her betrothed could afford to take a wife. The farmer hadn’t approved of his daughter’s dalliance, of course, but she’d assured him there was nothing to it—how could there be when Fell was so far below her in every respect? The very notion that she might have entertained marrying such a creature was absurd and so Fell’s heart had crumbled to dust, his dreams for a lifetime of more than just derision and scorn scattered to the winds and his only chance of ever knowing tenderness from anybody but Ma carried away like dandelion seeds in a storm.

With an irritable grunt Fell turned his back on the memories that still pained him, threatening to make an already strange day worse. Dwelling on the past wouldn’t help him think what to do with allegedly-Marie, stretched out on his bed like a mermaid on a rock with her vibrant red hair tossed around her shoulders. She was too pretty by half, if truth be told—and Fell had no need of a pretty woman disrupting his quiet life. Since it had been driven home to him so cruelly that he could never hope to be worthy of a wife he had lived alone with only his dogs for company, Lash the offspring of his old bitch Queenie who had passed away the previous spring. Dogs didn’t care who his father was or whether his mother could speak a different tongue. Their loyalty was unshakable, ten times as kindly as the villagers who muttered as he passed. Lash and Ma were the only family Fell would ever have, the prospect of a wife and children torn to shreds the day Charity was ripped from him. A family of his own, with a loving wife and legitimate children to bear his name was all he’d ever wanted, the chance to finally anchor himself into a place he belonged, among his own people—but that would never happen for him now, instead condemned to continue life on the fringes with nowhere and no one to truly call home.

‘Mr Fell?’

The sweet voice from his bedchamber sent a flurry of something down the back of his neck, startling him with its timid civility. Usually it was his last name that hailed him, often barked or mumbled but never truly polite. Marie’s manners were oddly touching—yet more proof she was not who she claimed to be.

Fell strode back to his guest with the meagre tray of food balanced in one hand, the other clutching two cracked cups. Lash hadn’t moved from his position at Marie’s side, his eyes closed in delight as she tentatively stroked the shaggy fur of his neck as if not sure she was doing it right.

Fell lifted a brow in mild surprise, trying to ignore the fresh colour that had leapt into Marie’s cheeks at his return to the room. The bloom suited her, emphasising the peaches and cream of her complexion, so different to his own. ‘He likes you. He wouldn’t let most folk touch him like that.’

He set the tray and cups down on a little table beside the bed, almost missing the flicker of shy pleasure that flashed across her face. The next moment he wished he had missed it, as it was replaced by a small, uncertain smile that lifted the apples of her cheeks in a way too damn appealing for comfort.

‘Does he really? I always wished I might be allowed a dog of my own, but Mo—’

She broke off, eyes darting to meet his in swift apprehension. Evidently she had almost let something slip, as he saw a muscle move in her jaw as she clenched her teeth together to stop any more dangerous words slipping past dry lips.

They sat together in an awkward silence for a few heartbeats, until Fell unceremoniously deposited the plate in his blushing guest’s lap.

‘You need to eat something. It must be some time since your last meal.’

Marie nodded, taking the lump of bread with only a slight hesitation. She ate quietly and slowly although Fell could see in her face that she must have been ravenous, his humble bread and cheese probably as delicious in her hunger as the good food she was doubtless used to.

When every crumb had disappeared from the plate Fell poured her some tea, faintly amused by her concerned glance at his battered cups. Her pretence of being a servant was falling apart before his eyes, but she hadn’t seemed to realise and once again Fell wondered why she thought it necessary to play such a strange game.

‘What will you do now? Seems to me you’re in some difficulty, stranded with no luggage or anywhere real to go to.’

Marie paused in sipping her tea, the cup absurdly large and unwieldy in her small hand. She glanced from Fell to Lash as if the latter could tell her how to respond, but the dog’s silence gave nothing away and she dipped her head to fix on the patched bedspread beneath her.

‘I confess I don’t yet know.’ Her voice held such fresh worry and fear that it touched some forgotten part of Fell’s insides, covered in dust since Charity’s betrayal. Marie was like her in a curious way, the fragility they both shared shining through to make him shift uncomfortably in his seat. She was frightened, injured and all alone, with evidently no desire to return from where she had come.

And now she’s in my cottage—which makes her my problem.

A stab of conscience pierced Fell’s breastbone like a lance. Ma had been only a few years younger than Marie was now when Rector Frost had found her in the forest, terrified and all alone with her birth pains coming stronger with every moment that passed. If not for his kindness to a mysterious woman running from an equally mysterious past, who knew where Ma would have ended up, the old man’s compassion exactly what Essea had needed at her most vulnerable. Now in an uncanny twist of fate Fell was the one to come across a young woman in need of help, a situation that mirrored the events of thirty-one years before in a way starkly astounding.

Fell tapped his fingers on the leather front of his apron, reluctantly following the thread of his thoughts to their inevitable conclusion.

You’ll never be half the man the rector was, but you should at least attempt to follow in his footsteps. You know what you ought to do—but will you attempt it?

The words came out more gruffly than Fell would have liked, but his misgivings had apparently turned his throat to sandpaper. ‘You can stay here while your leg heals, if you’d like. Not that you’ve much choice the state it’s in at present.’

For a moment he thought she hadn’t heard him, her head still downturned and face hidden by that copper wave, although when she spoke there was something in her voice he couldn’t place.

‘Stay here? With you?’

‘Until you’re able to carry on your travels.’

She looked up at him then, and his heart gave an unpleasant lurch at the quiet pain in her eyes. It was unhappiness mixed with mistrust, the sorrowful acceptance of a dog used to a kick in place of a caress. ‘Ah. You’re mocking me, of course.’

He frowned, taking in her resignation as if she expected nothing else. ‘Of course I’m not. What reason would I have? I’m in earnest.’

Marie regarded him warily, suspicion and genuine bewilderment mixing in innocent wonder. ‘Why? Why would you help me?’

‘Why wouldn’t I, if I’m in a position to?’

The question only seemed to increase her puzzlement. She brought a hand up to gather her hair over one shoulder, casting Fell a sideways look that quite unconsciously enhanced the pretty shape of her profile in a way most unsettling.

‘But…how? How would that be possible?’

Fell swallowed, the unease already lapping at him increasing beneath her disbelieving gaze. She truly was the most beautiful woman he’d had in his cottage in almost ten years, the knowledge unwanted yet just as undeniable. It wasn’t a realisation he desired, nothing of any use coming from his appreciation for the soft glow of her flushed cheeks.

She’s clearly too high-born for the likes of you, even if you weren’t a bastard of questionable parentage. Which you are—and won’t ever forget.

Shouldering the thought aside, Fell gave the most nonchalant shrug he could manage.

‘Quite easily. I’m outside in the forge most of the day so I’ll not be under your feet. A bit of help with the cottage is all I’d ask in return, being as there’d be an extra body in it, but I’m not a man who wants looking after. You can sleep in here and I’ll go in the forge, save your blushes.’

He watched as several expressions chased each other across Marie’s smooth face, one after the other in a vivid stream of unconscious animation she couldn’t control. She seemed so eager to agree, so movingly hopeful he had provided her with a way out, yet still something in her held her back.

‘I couldn’t ask you to do that. It would be too much of an intrusion, surely.’

Her words were polite, restrained, although Fell sensed the desperation behind them as tangibly as a brick wall. ‘You didn’t ask. And there’s far worse places to sleep than a forge—it’s warm and, with a blanket, I’ll be more comfortable in there than you will in here.’

‘I’m still not sure… I would never expect you to go to such lengths for someone like me.’

‘Do you have somewhere else to go? A better plan in mind? I don’t believe you do.’

She blinked, eyes suddenly dropping to her hands—but not before Fell caught a glimpse of the pure relief in her face and his chest gave another wrench at her vulnerability.

‘I don’t know how to thank you. Your kindness… I’ve never known anything like it. I just don’t know what to say aside from thank you.’

Fell nodded briskly, determined at least one of them would maintain some stoicism. Marie’s shock at his concern was both touching and pitiful in equal measure—and revealed far more than she had intended. If she was so unused to the most basic civility she must be more accustomed to suffering—a notion that stirred worryingly close to the bone.

‘Someone like me’? What might she mean by that? I wonder.

‘Nothing to say. Couldn’t call myself much of a man if I wouldn’t help a lady in trouble.’

She gave another of those small smiles that sent a flicker through him, although she shook her head in earnest appeal. ‘I’m not a lady, though. I’m only a maid.’

He inclined his head, stubbornly ignoring the warning bells chiming in his ears. There was no going back now, even if he had just made the error in judgement that flicker of something long forgotten made him suddenly fear.

‘Of course you are, Marie. My mistake.’

Chapter Three

Laying his hammer down, Fell wiped the sweat from his brow with one forearm. The fires of the forge were fierce enough without the July sun beating down to heat the very air itself, not even a trace of a breeze to relieve the feeling of wading through hot soup. It was growing hard to remember the last time there had been any respite from the unrelenting sunshine turning grass to straw and cracking the dried mud of his path—certainly not during the five days since Marie had taken up her unexpected residence in his home, a turn of events he was still yet to fully understand.

His shirt lay plastered to his back and he plucked at it with a grimace, holding the damp fabric away from his body to let in some air. The leather apron fastened round his chest hardly helped in keeping him cool, either, and he untied the strings with an irritable tug to toss it across his anvil.

What I’d really like is to be in the cottage, out of the heat and possibly sipping some cold ale—neither of which I can do at present, thanks to my heroics.

It had seemed such an obvious thing to offer Marie a place to stay, Fell grunted to himself as he pushed open the forge’s door and scowled at the blinding sunlight that greeted him. She’d been friendless and alone, clearly scared out of her wits and running from something she didn’t want to share: all a mirror image of Ma’s situation when Rector Frost had stepped in as her salvation, prompting Fell to likewise sally forth. There were two key differences, however, that had escaped his notice five days before, and now they were getting more and more difficult to ignore.

The good, kindly rector had been past sixty when Ma appeared out of nowhere, a happily married man with a compassionate wife and a house more than big enough to take on a terrified eighteen-year-old and her newborn son. Fell’s cottage was tiny by comparison, already snug when only his large frame and a scrawny lurcher dog occupied it—and in his case there was no forty-year difference in age to make his appreciation of Marie firmly paternal. She was in her early twenties by the looks of it, only a handful of winters younger than himself and, despite his best efforts, he couldn’t manage to remain as frankly oblivious to her charms as Rector Frost had been to Ma’s.

Damnation. Why couldn’t I be an old man—or, better yet, why couldn’t she?

Fresh sweat prickled on his forehead and at the back of his neck, an aggravating tickle that did nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders. At least out here in the blistering yard or cloistered in the hellish heat of the forge he was safe from his unsettling guest. Her leg prevented her from moving much, instead confining her to the cool shadows of the cottage and out of his sight for much of the day. It was only at mealtimes he saw her really, when she would present him with a plate of bread and cheese and a mug of ale, but never anything more elaborate than that…hardly surprising if she didn’t have the first idea of how to cook, being either the most useless maid that ever lived or the lady Fell suspected. She would have had somebody to do all those tedious chores for her, never needing to learn how to take care of herself or anybody else if the unblemished skin of her hands was anything to go by.

And I’m still no closer to understanding what she meant by ‘someone like me’. As far as I can tell she’s got nothing to be ashamed of—the reverse is true and there lies the trouble.

Fell ran a finger around the collar of his shirt, feeling the unpleasant wetness of his nape. He caught sight of the pump standing in one corner of the yard, the sudden urge to place his head beneath the spout gripping him as tangibly as a fist, the longing to feel cold water drenching his soot-dusted hair now all he could think of. It would be a blessed relief after the roar of the fire and the buzz of too many thoughts that currently spun in his mind, the presence of Marie in his home an unfortunate reminder of everything he would never have for real. A woman in his cottage was something he had wanted for years, a wife to love and children a product of the union that would cement his place in the world—but Charity’s cruelty had taught him the folly of that dream, something a half-Roma born with the taint of bastardy should never set his sights so high as to wish for. Even now, almost ten years after her laughing escape, the sting of her harsh lesson left a bitter taste on his tongue and he couldn’t think of her without a wrench of his insides. If even a farmer’s daughter considered herself too good for him a woman such as Marie must be in another world entirely, beautiful and untouchable and more proof of the necessity for Fell to turn his face away from the pursuit of love. There was absolutely nothing to gain from noticing the different hues of copper and gold that shone among her hair, or the way her green eyes darted away from his so he might not catch her watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. She wasn’t for him and he wasn’t for her, or anybody else for that matter, his background something no power could change. Charity had laid that fact out quite clearly and the memory of her pretty, lying face made him flush anew with the pain of regret.

He was at the pump without really knowing he had walked towards it, unfastening the top few buttons on his shirt with practised fingers. He had to bend almost double to fit his head beneath the spout, but the sensation of the first drops of cold water falling on to his hair and neck was a relief for which he would have gladly concertinaed himself ten times. It ran over him in soothing rivulets, drenching the clammy material at his shoulders and running in a crystal stream down his chest to cool where bitterness had threatened to seize his lungs in a punishing grip. There was no fighting the way of the world, he thought as he scooped a handful of water to rub over his heated face. Things were as they were and he had little choice but to accept the cards he had been dealt.

A sudden squeak from the direction of the cottage prised open his eyes, stinging from the mix of sweat and water he wiped from them. It sounded a little like a startled mouse—although when he saw where it actually came from he couldn’t help but allow his lips to curve.

Marie dithered halfway down the cracked path leading from the back door, leaning heavily on a stout stick and her face the colour of a poppy field—simultaneously scarlet, yet green about the gills. Directly behind her Lash proudly offered up the unfortunate rabbit he held in his jaws, blocking her retreat from the evidently unexpected, mortifying sight of Fell’s damp, unbuttoned shirt and chest scattered with drops of water that glittered in the sun. Each awkward, ungainly step she hopped away from Lash’s macabre gift brought her closer to where Fell stood, watching their dance with growing amusement, the dog following eagerly, although politely confused by her lack of delight. Trapped between a rock and a hard place, poor Marie looked as though she didn’t know which way to turn and in the comical absurdity of it Fell couldn’t resist.

‘He wants you to take it,’ he called to her helpfully, although she didn’t seem to appreciate his efforts. Marie glanced over her shoulder at him, eyes skimming the open front of his shirt as if by their own volition before she could drag them away and her face flaring hotter in embarrassment so strong it was palpable.

‘I’d—I’d really rather not!’

Biting back a smile, Fell ran a hand through his wet hair, flicking droplets to the ground to soak into the dried mud.

‘Are you certain? He’ll have caught that especially for you, you know. I knew he liked you.’

‘I’m sure I’m very grateful, but…do you think you could ask him not to stand quite so close with it?’

Marie hobbled back another painful step, still clutching her stick and hurriedly snatching her bright skirts away from Lash’s trophy. The problem of her missing luggage had been easy enough to fix: Ma kept a few old dresses stowed in a trunk beneath Fell’s bed along with the handful of valuables she didn’t want to take on the road. She wouldn’t mind Marie borrowing a couple, Fell knew with certainty, and it was oddly pleasing to see the younger woman shuffling about in the vivid colours of a Roma rather than her own muted neutrals even if the dresses were a fraction too long. Rich reds and sunny yellows suited the pallor of her skin and flaming tresses of her hair, a distinctive shade Fell couldn’t recall the last time he had beheld—and shouldn’t try to, he reminded himself sternly, determined not to dwell on anything to do with his disturbing guest any more than was humanly possible.

Still determined she should claim her present, Lash advanced again and the object of his affections staggered back another pace, awkward in her alarm and evidently not paying enough attention to where she stepped. Her stick slipped on a raised stone and she dropped it, crying out sharply as her injured leg suddenly bore her weight and for a moment seeming as though she might crumple to the sun-baked ground.

‘Careful!’

Before he had time to think what he was doing Fell found himself at her side, one hand on her arm and the other at the slim curve of her waist. He hauled her upright, just catching the surprised stretch of her eyes before her face creased into a pained grimace.

‘I fear I shouldn’t have done that.’

The hand at her waist felt as though it was on fire, so much did it scald Sophia’s skin beneath the thin fabric of her gown, and despite the agony in her leg she couldn’t escape the heat that radiated from Fell’s grip to ignite her racing heart. She might as well have been caught in a flaming vice for how much she could have torn herself away from him, both the strength of his grasp and her own shameful reluctance to move away holding her firmly in place.

‘Probably not. That’ll set you back a couple of days, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Fell shook his head resignedly—at her clumsiness, no doubt, she thought with a hot rush of embarrassment—but didn’t release her from his hold. Instead, all the breath left Sophia’s body as in one smooth movement he gathered her in his arms and lifted her, steadying her against his chest where the unbuttoned shirt proudly displayed the expanse of honed muscle so mesmerising the first glimpse of it had made Sophia blush to the very tips of her ears. Now she found herself touching it, actually coming into contact with the still-wet skin Fell had doused with cold water, coarse damp curls mere inches from her face that felt so hot she now feared it might melt away entirely.

‘What were you doing out here? Your leg needs rest.’

She felt Fell’s voice rumble through that chest as he carried her towards the open kitchen door as easily as if she were a sack of feathers, each word vibrating in her ear to make her flush anew. Her own voice was unfortunately squeaky when she tried to reply, her throat as dry as a desert as the sensation of Fell’s sculpted arms around her almost robbed her of the ability to speak.

‘I thought it felt a little stronger today so came to see if you wanted a drink. It’s so fearfully hot outside and with the fires lit the forge must be unbearable.’

Fell lowered his head as he ducked through the cottage door, bringing his stubbled jaw down to almost touch Sophia’s face. She could have turned and kissed him at that distance, so close were his set lips to hers, and the very idea of doing so sent a sharp, unladylike thrill right through her breastbone to pierce the softness within.

Sophia stiffened in his grasp, her spine turning to marble at the dangerous direction of her thoughts.

Don’t be ridiculous. He’d be horrified—and I’d sooner lose my mind than do something so clearly unwanted.

Still, the urge to reach out and trace the hard line of his profile hovered at the edge of her consciousness, an instinctive desire she shied away from in alarm. If there was a less appropriate reaction to being so close to a blacksmith Sophia certainly couldn’t name it, her scandalous enjoyment of resting against a warm, work-toned chest something she never knew could stir in her quiet soul. Even the smell of him was tempting, a combination of coal soap and smoke that danced around him as Fell carefully placed her down on one of the low benches beside the kitchen table and turned away, his attention already moved on to the task at hand.

She watched as he took the rabbit from Lash and inspected it closely, her revulsion at the sight tempered by worrying thoughts that nipped at her composure.

Not since the death of her father had Sophia known what it was to be treated with the gruff kindness Fell had shown her since he’d scooped her from the forest floor. He hadn’t once raised his voice or seemed resentful at being made to sleep outside and, on more than one occasion, had even deigned to ask how her leg was faring, far more than she would have expected from her own mother, let alone a relative stranger with no reason to care. It was frighteningly tempting to think she might abandon her pretence in the face of Fell’s apparent sympathy, his consideration for her a shadow of the warmth she’d ached for so hopelessly for so many years—yet the dangers that lurked made her hold her tongue.

Fell might be friendly enough while he had nothing to gain, but how was she to know he wouldn’t drag her back to Mother for the promise of a heavy purse? Surely he wouldn’t turn down the prospect of a handsome reward for the sake of Sophia’s pleas—what man would choose her happiness over a pile of coins, or be moved by the sight of her tears? Nobody was above acting out of cruelty or selfishness. Sophia knew from bitter experience it was safer to assume Fell was like the rest, putting his own interests above those of the young woman who expected nothing different. Perhaps it was unfair to tar him with that brush, having so far only treated her fairly, but it seemed so unlikely anyone would break the mould of Sophia’s understanding. She was far more able to believe in the wickedness of people than the notion they might be something better.

Don’t be foolish just because he showed you some decency. In your desperation for tenderness you’d put yourself at risk of discovery, all for a man you’ve barely known five minutes.

Sophia frowned, almost too consumed by her thoughts to notice Fell rolling his sleeves up to the elbow. The movement unveiled his forearms, scattered with black hair, and she felt another prickle of that heat in her cheeks.

It’s not just his kindness you’ve a weakness for, though, is it?

It was a ridiculous thing for her to notice, she chided herself with swift discomfort. All the legitimate worries, guilt and fears that circled in her mind day and night should have made it impossible for her to register anything else, yet for some accursed reason the solid shape of Fell’s arms called to her, impossible to ignore and unsettling in the extreme. It wasn’t proper or decent for a lady to acknowledge a man even had arms, but her eye didn’t seem to grasp that message, even occasionally straying to visit Fell’s shoulders or daring a flick towards his unique face.

The mismatched colours of his eyes was something that grew more fascinating each time they fixed Sophia with their uncanny scrutiny, strange and intriguing—and far more attractive than any blacksmith should be allowed. Sleeping in his bed was almost too intimate for words, the idea of fitting her body into the hollow made by his frame something that didn’t bear thinking about.

‘You can watch if you like. It might be useful for you to learn how to prepare a rabbit for eating.’

Fell glanced at her sitting near the table, a trace of another grin flickering on his lips to make her blink. He had the most engaging smile she’d ever seen, no trace of the cold malice of Septimus’s or Mother’s angry sneer. It was a smile to gaze at, to appreciate the soft upward curve roughened by a chin full of dark stubble…

She brought herself up short before her mind could wander any further off course. Probably the last thing in the world she wanted, aside from to set foot in Fenwick Manor, was to have anything to do with what was about to happen at the kitchen table and she swallowed down a wave of queasiness at the thought.

‘Thank you, but I think not. I’ve never been able to bear blood—I believe that’s what made me faint in the forest the day you found me. The very notion makes me feel quite light-headed.’

‘You might wish to turn around then. I don’t want you stretched out insensible under the table.’

Sophia spun hurriedly as Fell reached for a knife gleaming in its wooden block. As if confused by her squeamishness Lash came to sit at her feet, peering up at her as she reached to stroke his ears with an unsteady hand.

‘It doesn’t trouble you, obviously.’

From behind her came a grunt of agreement. ‘Not in the least. All my dogs have been good hunters and as soon as I could be trusted with a knife my mother taught me how to deal with their gifts. The odd rabbit made us a bit more popular in the rector’s kitchen when winters were lean.’

The sounds at her back made Sophia wish she could stop up her ears, but the embers of her curiosity glowed brighter than her disgust. Fell hadn’t spoken of anything personal before, in fact barely stringing three words together over the past five days, and the chance of learning something more about the man who intrigued her so despite her best efforts was too tempting to ignore.

‘Your mother taught you? Is that not unusual?’

She heard the soft sound of Fell’s shirt moving as he shrugged. ‘She had no choice but be the one to teach me how to be a man. Practically everything I know came from her.’

‘Not from your father?’

There came an unpleasantly moist noise that made Sophia’s insides twist.

‘No idea who he is.’

Unseen by the man behind her Sophia’s brows contracted in a frown. How could such a thing be possible? She must have misunderstood. The identity of one’s father was one of the most important things in deciding one’s place in the world, the family name key to fortune and reputation. Her own papa had been both handsome and rich—no wonder Mother had wanted to keep him all to herself, not willing to share him even with the child they created together. If Sophia hadn’t come along things would have been so different, so much better for all concerned, a truth reiterated to her so many times she couldn’t remember a time she hadn’t known it.

‘Surely you must. Your mother must be able to recall the name of her husband, even if you never met him.’

Fell gave a dry laugh, finding some grim amusement in her words. ‘How can I put this delicately enough for a lady’s maid? I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, Marie. My mother was a young Roma girl who had the misfortune to meet a man who put a baby in her belly without intending to marry her and we’ve both had to bear that shame ever since.’

Sophia’s eyes flew wide as a flood of pure, burning mortification swept over her like a wave, slamming the door shut on any coherent response she might have made.

Stupid girl!

Mother’s venom rang in her ears, the constant refrain never more appropriate than at that moment. How had she stumbled into a conversation about legitimacy, of all things, the most taboo, unmentionably vulgar subject no lady should ever entertain? A Romani mother would account for Fell’s name and the pleasing distinction of his hair and skin, an interesting discovery Sophia would gladly have learned more about, but the circumstances of his birth was something entirely different, a secret a man of her own class would have taken to his grave.

When she didn’t reply Fell filled the silence with studied indifference that didn’t fool her for a moment. ‘I’ve asked Ma about my father many times, although she’s never been willing to discuss as much as his name. She was—is—the very best of mothers, but I won’t pretend her silence hasn’t irked me something fierce over the years. If she desires to keep her past a secret, I’ve no choice but to assume she has good reason. She’s been both mother and father to me and I’d defy any man to do better.’

Sophia took a breath, attempting to force some of the blood from her cheeks back to her brain. Shock and distinctly upper-class horror still ran through her at Fell’s confession, but with great effort she managed to tamp it down. It wouldn’t do for him to see her prim surprise, perhaps more suited to a lady than Marie the maid.

Carefully disguising the unsteadiness of her voice, Sophia chanced a nod. ‘She sounds like a singular woman. Does she live close by?’

‘She is that and, in truth, I’ve no idea where she is at present.’ Another noise Sophia would have been happy not to hear came to make her shudder. ‘The Roma are like the wind—impossible to pin down and never sure which direction they’ll move in next.’

He appeared at her shoulder, reaching for a seasoned-looking pot standing on the range, and Sophia angled her face away to avoid a glimpse of his hands.

‘You don’t move with her?’

Fell retreated again, but not before she caught the shake of his head. ‘She always struggled with living in one place and as soon as I was old enough I told her she could leave the village without me. I’ve made a life for myself here—not much of one, but it’s mine. I built the forge myself with my own two hands after the old smith I was apprenticed to died and it’s the one thing I’ve ever been proud of. It’s where I go to forget that I don’t truly fit anywhere else and it’s my biggest sorrow I’ll never have a child to pass it on to when my years are done.’

Surprise almost made Sophia turn around, only catching herself in the nick of time. Why would he assume he would never have children? He was still young and certainly comely enough to tempt a woman to wed him—a realisation that made her blush all the more.

‘Surely you’ve plenty of time to marry and have a family of your own, if it’s something you want so very badly.’

There came another of those dry laughs, this time with precious little humour, and although his voice was steady Sophia could have sworn she caught a whisper of stubbornly concealed sadness. ‘It’s the thing I want the most in all the world, yet I know it’s not to be. Do you imagine there’s a queue of fathers beating down my door for their daughters, or Woodford ladies lining up to wed the illegitimate son of a Romani maid? The villagers scarcely speak to me, let alone consider me a match for any of them. A Roma woman wouldn’t settle to village life either and I’d never be so cruel as to ask it of her. In the absence of a third option I’ve reconciled myself to remaining a bachelor. At least that’s peaceful enough.’

She heard him drop something into the pot and replace the lid before the sound of water splashing into a bowl suggested he was finally—mercifully—washing his hands.

‘And you? Do you have much in the way of family?’

The question hit Sophia squarely in the chest and she hesitated before answering. Sitting in the calm shade of Fell’s cottage with a dog at her feet and a bright gown on her back she could almost have pretended there was no sad little Sophia Somerlock, only Marie Crewe. It was so tempting to deny Mother existed, to dismiss her as though she had never been at all—but her claws were sunk too deeply into Sophia’s soul, her continual cruelty shaping Sophia’s very sense of self, and even miles away her daughter still shuddered beneath her spiteful shadow.

‘I, too, have only my mother. My papa died when I was six.’

It was Fell’s turn to pause. When he spoke, there was gruff sympathy in his voice that made Sophia finally twist to face him in confusion.

‘That must have been a terrible thing for such a young girl.’

He regarded her steadily and she saw she’d not been mistaken. Genuine compassion softened the lines of his weathered face, real feeling Sophia could scarcely comprehend. She’d never seen such pity directed at her before—it was always Mother who demanded consolation, insistent that nobody mourned Papa as keenly as her. Sophia was never allowed to show her sorrow or seek solace from her grief in anybody else—how dare she when she was the one who had spoiled everything by being born, when it was all her fault Papa lay in the churchyard, his grave crowned with flowers it was part of her penance to tend? She deserved no comfort and the look in Fell’s eyes unsettled her more than he ever could have known.

If he knew the truth of what had happened, there’s no way he would look at me so. He would turn in disgust and his revulsion would be my just deserts.

She flexed her hands from the tight fists they had clenched into without her noticing, nail marks marring her palms. So often her body acted of its own accord, finding painful little ways to punish her when the crushing weight of guilt became too heavy to bear. Small bruises, scratches and scrapes were forever appearing on her milky skin as if from nowhere, always the work of her own spiteful fingers and always ready to strike.

‘I suppose it was. I confess my life was never the same again.’

That much is the truth, she thought bleakly as Fell released her from his gaze to fix it on the scarred table.

While Papa lived the worst of Mother’s jealous malice had been contained, only seeping out in poisonous drips when his back was turned and Sophia was left unprotected. Once he was in the ground there was nothing left to stem the flow and she had been drowning in it ever since, the cause of her father’s untimely demise and never able to forget it. It was no wonder no man would ever want her for anything other than her fortune and the Thruxton name that had been thrust upon her: how could anyone be expected to love her, when even her own mother could not? How would anyone love her when she’d been a blight on so many lives that might have been happy without her?

Her confusion and sorrow must have formed a rigid mask on her face, for with another keen glance Fell artfully changed the subject.

‘That rabbit had a beautiful pelt. I can make you something from it, if you’ve a liking—although I can’t imagine a maid having much chance to wear furs.’

She peered up at him standing beside the table, face inscrutable again now the sympathy was hidden behind his usual brusqueness. There was real goodness in him, she realised with dawning wonder, the kind she had never dreamed might be shown to her and didn’t for one moment think she deserved. She’d lied to him to keep herself safe and had kept up that lie despite his kindness—all because of her fearful heart, now beating faster with both guilt and a growing appreciation for Fell she couldn’t understand.

The memory of her wardrobe, packed with expensive clothes, back at Fenwick Manor flitted through her mind to interrupt such thoughts and made her suppress a grim smile. Her collection of furs was the envy of all who saw them, proof of the wealth Mother was so eager to display. Septimus would have showered Sophia with gems, gowns and sables—and whatever horrors he saw fit to mete out on his trapped, friendless wife. A rabbit-fur stole might seem a poor thing in comparison to the luxuries she was used to, but she would rather that than a hundred gifts Septimus would lay at her feet if he were to discover where she had fled.

‘You’re so kind to offer, but I think you’re right—what reason would a maid have to wear furs?’

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