Dreams of Destiny E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: THE SCOTTISH DREAMS TRILOGY
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 525

Beschreibung

THE HEIRESS Gwyneth Douglas, a young Scottish heiress in London, writes scandalous adventure books under a pen name, doing so to protect her identity and her fortune. When an unknown blackmailer threatens to expose her secret life, she has no choice but to turn to an old family friend. But Sir Allan is a penniless baronet who will do anything to get his hands on Gwyneth's inheritance, even commit murder...     THE ROGUE Wounded by scandal and the unsolved murder of his sister-in-law, David Pennington is outwardly insolent and arrogant, but upon discovering Gwyneth's plans to elope, he steps in, determined to keep her from ruining her future at the hands of a fortune hunter...     THE ADVENTURE Forcing his company on Gwyneth during her journey to Scotland, David discovers that the passion he once shared with the feisty beauty has grown stronger than ever. But with their arrival in Scotland comes terrible danger. Now, if they ever hope to satisfy their fiery desire, they will need to thwart the evil that threatens to destroy both their lives...   "AN ENTERTAINING BOOK FILLED WITH MURDER, SUSPENSE, AND HUMOR …WHICH STANDS ALONE AS AN EXCITING TALE OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY." —LIBRARY JOURNAL, BOOKLIST

Leseprobe

DREAMS OF DESTINY

Scottish Dream Trilogy: Book 3

MAY MCGOLDRICK

Book Duo Creative

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Edition Note

Author’s Note

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

About the Author

Thank you for reading Dreams of Destiny. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors.

Dreams of Destiny: Scottish Dream Trilogy, Book 3

Copyright © 2015 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative.

First Published by Signet, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc.

Cover by Dar Albert, WickedSmartDesigns.com

False friends are common. Yes, but where

True nature links a friendly pair,

The blessing is as rich as rare…

—Anon. 2nd century BCE

To Shirley Hailstock

Our dear friend…a talented writer.

You give so much to so many.

1

Baronsford, Scotland

August 1771

The cold breezes of the spring morning brushed across his naked shoulder where the blanket had slipped down. Still more asleep than awake, he snuggled closer to the warm back that had fit itself to the contours of his abdomen.

He was not entirely conscious of the leg that was lying between his own, nor of his own arms that had encircled her body. Her head lay on his arm, and her back was pressed against his chest. The shirt that she wore had ridden up, and the skin of her legs lay warmly against his own.

The Highlander’s hand was lying on her breast, and when he moved, she responded to his tightening embrace by pushing her body even tighter against his.

As she did, his hand brushed lightly across the sensitive⁠—

“Gwyneth Douglas!”

At the sound of the deep voice, Gwyneth started, the tip of her Keswick pencil breaking and skidding across the paper. In her rush to shut the notebook, two letters inside slipped out and fluttered a moment in the air before sailing toward the ledge. She jumped to her feet from the stone bench beside the cliff walk and shoved her writings under one arm, grabbing in panic for the letters before they glided off the bluff and out over the river Tweed below. The first one proved an easy mark, and she quickly stuffed it deep in the pocket of her skirt. She whirled around and dove for the second, but as she did, Gwyneth was mortified to see the black boot descend upon it. She looked up at the officer’s uniform, and her heart leapt.

“David,” she cried and then tried to control her excitement. “I mean, Captain Pennington…so you are back in Scotland.”

“Could I miss my mother’s bloody birthday celebration? But why this formality between two old friends?”

Gwyneth gasped as the tall officer swept her into his embrace and lifted her off the ground, whirling her around. She closed her eyes, her arms wrapping uncontrollably around his neck. For those few seconds, she imagined the gesture was more than just the friendly affection toward a neighbor that he had not seen in over a year. Her head was spinning slightly when he finally put her back down.

“I cannot believe it. You have grown so since I saw you last.”

Gwyneth realized she was still holding onto him, her body pressed against his tall and powerful frame. He must have realized the same thing, and her face caught fire when David took her hands from around his neck. He held them, though, as he stepped back to look at her at arm’s length.

“Definitely taller. And your hair is more fiery red than I remember. But I’m happy to say those freckles on the bridge of your nose have not disappeared.”

Gwyneth freed her hands and took a step back, frowning up into the deep blue eyes that were so dear to her. She had fallen in love with David Pennington the summer she had turned nine years old, the same summer that she had been left an orphan. She’d been sent to the Borders to live with the family of her uncle, Lord Cavers, in his country house at Greenbrae Hall. David was the youngest son of the nearest neighbors to the east, at Baronsford. Gwyneth had grown up trailing after her cousin Emma and David, riding and running through the hills and forests between the two estates.

“I would suggest you keep all your comments to yourself, Captain, if you cannot think of anything nice to say.”

“You are even thinner than I remember, too,” he continued in the same tone. “Do they feed you nothing at Greenbrae Hall?”

“I am well fed, I assure you.” She spotted her notebook lying open at her feet and quickly snatched it up. David picked up the letter he still had trapped beneath his boot. Gwyneth could see it had been ground into the dirt. She extended her hand toward him. “That is mine, I believe.”

He gave it a cursory glance. “This had better not be a love letter from some secret admirer.”

“It’s no such thing!” She snatched it out of his hand and shoved it into her pocket with the other letter. With her secret safely tucked away again, she felt a bit of confidence return. “But on the slim chance that ‘twas a note from some gentleman, I cannot see why you should object, Captain Pennington.”

“I believe I have every right to object to a child receiving that kind of attention from some rogue.”

“Child, did you say?” she cried, trying to sound indignant, but fighting back her smile. “I’ll have you know I am seventeen…on the verge of turning eighteen. And just because you no longer come around to Baronsford or Greenbrae Hall, that doesn’t mean that life has ceased to move ahead. People do age, Captain. And mature. And make their own lives.”

The sun was sinking steadily in the western sky, and Baronsford—its majestic walls and towers a picture of gleaming gold and shadow—sat high on the hill behind him. David looked like a hero from one of her stories. He stood tall and straight. His jacket of crimson was brilliant in the setting sun, the color set off by the gold trim, the white breeches and the black boots. He had a face more handsome than any she could ever invent or describe. His hair was so dark it was nearly black, tied back in a long queue with a black ribbon. He studied her closely, and Gwyneth felt her blush return, scorching her skin.

“I can see that a few things have indeed changed.” He sat down on the stone bench overlooking the river and pulled her down beside him. “So tell me, my fiery-headed nymph. Who is the scoundrel?”

She laughed and shook her head. “There is no one.”

“You cannot fool me.” He tugged not so gently on a wayward curl, making her yelp.

“David!” she scolded.

“There are over a hundred guests milling about Baronsford. At least a dozen lasses your age are gliding arm in arm through the gardens, acting as if they’re promenading along the Grand Walk at Vauxhall. Still, you leave that excitement and come all the way down here to the river. And why? To read some villain’s letter.”

All Gwyneth could do was shake her head. Their shoulders bumped together, and he leaned over to look at her. Gwyneth’s breath caught in her chest as his blue eyes stared into hers.

“Not just reading. You were answering him, weren’t you?” he whispered.

A delicious tingle ran down her spine. Gwyneth wrapped her arms around the notebook, hugging it tightly against her chest. “I was only writing in my journal.”

“Oh, of course. That fascinating chronicle of pirates and Highlanders and bloody battles you used to read to me.” He looped an arm around Gwyneth’s shoulders and smiled into her face. “I’m glad to know you are still writing your tales. I always thought you had a gift for storytelling.”

Hidden in her pocket, the two letters that had nearly fallen down the cliff reaffirmed whatever gift she had, Gwyneth thought. At least, in the opinion of Mr. Thomas Ruddiman of High Street, Edinburgh. One of the letters had been accompanied by twelve pounds. The second, received two months later, had contained fifteen pounds.

A momentary lapse made her almost blurt out her news that Mr. Ruddiman planned to print and distribute her long tales in serial form. Gwyneth contained herself, however. She didn’t think it would be wise to share any of that with David now—considering the fact that these tales were scandalous enough that the publisher intended to print them anonymously.

“Would you read me what you were writing?”

She bit her lip and shook her head, looking away. In spite of the excitement of seeing him, that would be too embarrassing. She had been writing a tender scene between two people in love. The woman’s emotions were a mirror of how Gwyneth felt herself about the hero, who in her imagination was none other than the officer standing before her.

He took hold of her chin and drew her face back to his. “What have you done with my talkative and spirited Gwyneth? The young lass who could not wait to tell me everything she’d dreamed, or read, or written in her notebooks? What is the reason for this sudden shyness?”

Instead of searching for an excuse, she found herself studying every feature of David’s face. His eyes were a shade of blue that she’d never been able to describe in her stories. His lashes were dark and long, curling slightly at the tips. He had changed much this past year, too. There was a weariness about him, creases at the corners of the eyes and a furrow in his brow that Gwyneth had not seen when he had stopped at Greenbrae Hall for just a single afternoon thirteen months ago. David was no longer the tireless and carefree young man who rode between the two estates with Emma beside him.

The thought made her shiver and tear her gaze away from his face. Her cousin was the one David had always loved. Emma was the reason he was here.

Gwyneth knew the blade had cut deep when her cousin married David’s oldest brother two summers ago to become the Countess of Aytoun. That was when he’d begun to stay away from Baronsford for long stretches of time—just like a tragic hero in her stories.

“Well, it’s all the same to me,” he said breaking into her thoughts. He ran a hand affectionately down her arm and gathered Gwyneth closer to his side. “We can just sit here and enjoy the⁠—”

“So this is where you have been hiding!”

Gwyneth’s chin sank at the sound of Emma’s voice. David’s hand dropped away, and she carefully hid the notebook beneath her skirt on the bench. When he stood to greet the other woman, Gwyneth turned slightly to look at her.

The world around them suddenly paled with the appearance of Emma. The sun spread only its most radiant light on her. The breeze seemed to sweep the grasses clean for Emma’s feet. Her golden curls, stylishly arranged, shone in the afternoon sun. Her white and gold brocade dress fit her slim body to perfection, and the low neckline was perfect for drawing a man’s attention. Her skin was flawless. Her lips were red and turned up in corners. She looked as regal as a young queen, more beautiful than the moon and stars…and she knew it.

And now, Emma’s blue eyes were on David.

And his face.

Gwyneth’s heart ached as she noted the pain in his expression. He watched her every step. His gaze paid homage to her, from the tips of her silk slippers up to the feathers adorning her hair. She watched, though, as one large hand fisted once and opened. He did not walk toward her but stood waiting for her. Always waiting.

One did not have to be an expert in knowing people to recognize that he still loved her, and how tormented he was by her. Gwyneth turned her gaze back to the cliffs and the river below, unable to bear witness to his pain.

“I am very disappointed with you, David Pennington. I had to hear that you’d arrived from Mrs. MacAlister, the old dragon. Why did you not come looking for me?”

Gwyneth guessed her cousin was only a dozen paces from the bench. She grabbed her notebook and rose to her feet, intending to walk quietly away, giving them the privacy they sought. David’s hand on her arm made her look up, surprised. He wanted her to stay.

“I thought I would come see this one first. I cannot believe she’s had another birthday while I was gone.”

Gwyneth had no option but to remain where she was, and Emma’s gaze never wavered from David. She swept up against him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Her fingers lingered on the front of his jacket before reluctantly falling to her sides. Gwyneth noticed that he did not return the kiss, but instead quickly backed away a step. The obvious reserve in him brought a tint of red to Emma’s cheeks. Her eyes turned hard when they turned toward Gwyneth.

“Oh, indeed. Our little heiress. Always buried in her books and never having time to pay attention to how she looks or to the displays she makes of herself. And never a thought about the fortune she has coming to her. Mother keeps telling her that in another year, every wolf from London to Edinburgh will be knocking at the gate at Greenbrae Hall, hoping to steal her away.” As was her habit, Emma then shifted her attention to another topic without taking a breath. “But didn’t Augusta tell you that there would be many distinguished guests here at Baronsford for my party? I hope you are not planning to dine in that dress.”

“I am not staying for dinner,” Gwyneth replied quietly. “Nor staying for the party.”

“Oh, nonsense. Your endless scribbling can wait,” Emma scolded. With a pretty shake of her head, she cast aside her annoyance. “I have gone to a great deal of difficulty making the arrangements for this party, and I’ll not allow you to miss a moment of it. You might surprise yourself and actually have fun.”

Emma looped an arm through Gwyneth’s, and the other through David’s, turning them back up toward the house.

“Come, you two. I cannot allow you to hide yourselves away down here. I shall have Truscott arrange to have Augusta’s carriage take Gwyneth over to Greenbrae Hall and wait until you change into something appropriate. Wear that green gown I helped you pick in London last month, the one with the satin sash. The color matches your eyes. Also, bring back the yellow dress for tomorrow.”

“I really don’t think⁠—”

“Do not argue,” Emma ordered as they continued on across the fields toward Baronsford. “But if you must have a reason to come, then think of it as doing me a favor. I know that if you are not here, Augusta is going to fret over you in addition to her usual threats to leave every time she loses a hand at whist.”

At the age of fifteen, Gwyneth had lost another person she cared for, her Uncle Charles. Since the death of Lord Cavers, she had been under the direct control of his wife, Augusta. At the time, Emma had just married Lyon Pennington, and Lady Cavers had been quite amenable that Gwyneth should remain as her companion until she married and came into her inheritance.

Having Emma marry well—which meant finding a husband with a fine income and a title besides—had been a priority in Augusta’s life. She saw it as a reflection on herself, and she made it known to them both on many occasions. Gwyneth always sensed, though, that there were storm clouds ahead, for in her own mind she believed that Emma was destined for David, and Augusta would never allow her daughter to marry any third son, no matter what his income might be.

When Emma had married Lyon instead, and had become Lady Aytoun, Augusta had fairly crowed at her success, and Gwyneth had won a couple of years reprieve. This year, however, the subject of marriage was becoming a continuous source of contention between her and her aunt. Augusta wanted to place her on a marital auction block and take offers from potential suitors before the young woman had even experienced her first Season in London. Gwyneth rebelled at the mere idea of it.

She was happy with her life as it was. She was not fond of the burdens polite society imposed on someone of her age and gender. She enjoyed the solitude of the country. She needed no entertainment and was happiest when she was left on her own to spend endless hours on her writing. Without anyone knowing, she was even beginning to draw a modest income from it. She had no need for a husband in her life. Like the heroines in the stories she was writing, there was only one man in Gwyneth’s life. One love. She peeked at David, who was not looking entirely happy, but was staring straight ahead.

Emma released her arm, but Gwyneth noticed how her cousin’s arm remained linked with David’s. The three of them continued to walk up the long hill toward the house. Emma was telling some story about arriving at their townhouse on Hanover Square in London last month, only to be told that her husband had left that same morning, even though he had been informed that she would be arriving. She was complaining of Lyon.

Gwyneth took a step away from them, not wishing to hear any of this. Complaining about her marriage to anyone who would listen had become a favorite game for Emma. They were coming up to the formal terrace gardens, where numerous guests were enjoying the late afternoon sun.

David broke in on Emma’s story. “You know very well that one quality…or flaw…that Lyon and Pierce and I all share is our fondness for routines.”

As Gwyneth began to veer off toward the gardens, David came around and took her by the arm, keeping her with them.

“After two years of marriage, Emma, you should be an expert at knowing how long my brother likes to stay in London or at Baronsford, and when he likes to travel.”

“Indeed I do know, all too well, about his precious routines and schedules. But what I am finding out is that he is even changing those to avoid me.” Emma lowered her voice. “This might sound ridiculous, but it’s the truth. I need to make an appointment through his manservant Gibbs to have even a single private moment with him.”

“I am certain if you really needed to see Lyon, he would be available. You are making too much of a single incident.”

“I am not. That was one of the dozen incidents that I’ve kept to myself. He avoids me. Treats me like a stranger,” she said dramatically. “But when we are together, it’s even worse. I haven’t told you about his outbursts of temper.”

“Lyon’s temper has always been foul, but we all know how to handle him. He shows a lot of teeth, but he rarely bites.”

“That was the brother you once knew. But you have been away so much.” She took David’s other arm, leaning against him as they walked. “Lyon has changed. There is not a month that goes by that I do not hear of some duel he’s fought with some unsuspecting victim. He cannot control his temper. He overreacts to any innuendo or gossip, with no regard to how false it might be. He listens to no reasonable explanations—especially if they come from me. I am starting to fear for his safety, David…and for my own.”

Gwyneth wanted to shut her ears. She didn’t want to hear this drivel. Several times in the past two years, she’d been forced to overhear arguments between Lyon and Emma. Each time, she’d heard the provocation—generally the rumor of some indiscretion…or worse…that Emma had committed. She’d heard her cousin lie openly, too, all the while pushing Lyon as far as she could. No matter how explosive their arguments had been, though, Lyon had stormed off each time. Gwyneth had never thought to fear for Emma’s safety.

“I don’t know what is happening to us—to our marriage,” Emma continued in a whisper. “More than ever before, I need your support now. I need you to intervene on my behalf and make Lyon realize the error of his ways before it’s too late.”

“I cannot,” David said, his voice thick. “This is your marriage. This is something between the two of you, Emma.”

“Not any more. I cannot go on alone, feeling so helpless.” She slowed down. “With you away, I have taken only a few of my troubles to Pierce. But he already wearies of it all. He is tired of fighting with Lyon. You are my last hope, David. If you will not help me, I do not know where I can turn. I am desperate.”

Gwyneth pulled her arm free and stepped back. David turned to her. Emma stopped, too. Responses to her cousin’s words bubbled up within her threatening to spill out, but she forced them back.

“I’ll go and find Walter Truscott.” Gwyneth turned and fled toward the stables before David could say another word. She could not listen to one more lie.

She and Emma were almost six years apart. Coming to Greenbrae Hall as a child, Gwyneth had doted on Emma. She had followed her cousin, admired her beauty, her spirit, tried to imitate the older girl as much as her age had permitted. The fact that they both carried a torch for the same young man could not even diminish how much she idolized her cousin. Emma was the heroine in every romantic story Gwyneth read. Emma was the model for the early tales she weaved in her imagination. There was more to her than physical beauty. She was outrageous, daring, exciting. No walls could contain her. No man could resist her allure.

At the stables, Gwyneth asked a groom for a horse. One was brought to her, and in a few moments she was racing toward Greenbrae Hall. Even the feel of the wind in her face and hair could not cool her anger, cool the fever burning inside of her.

The first blow to Gwyneth’s adoration came when Emma openly shifted her attentions to David’s oldest brother. Lyon had recently inherited his title after the death of the elder Lord Aytoun. The new earl had returned to Baronsford after his years of military service. It did not matter to Emma that ten years separated them—that for all the years of growing up, David was the one she had been closest to. Once she made up her mind to marry Lyon, the eldest brother had no chance. They were wed that same summer.

The temple of devotion Gwyneth had built around her cousin began to crumble rapidly after that. And her growing disillusionment had nothing to do with the wrong that Emma had done to David. It was in London, not even a year after her marriage to Lyon that the walls came crashing down.

Emma’s mother always spent the spring in London, and Gwyneth was required to go. It was there that she realized the dangerous extent of the games Emma was playing with her marriage. The constant arguments with Lyon that started immediately following their union were a very small part of it. A side of Emma she’d never really seen emerged. Vanity, selfishness, cruelty. Emma lied to get her way. She accused others unjustly and was unkind to many. But what was most shocking, Emma had affairs.

Gwyneth had been stunned when she’d walked in on her cousin and a strange man in Lady Cavers’ townhouse in London. She had left behind her notebook after writing a letter that morning in the library. It was early in the afternoon when Gwyneth returned to fetch it. She’d hurried into the room, hardly suspecting that anyone would be inside. She could still see them so vividly. Emma straddling the man as he sat on a sofa. His breeches were down around his ankles, and her skirts were up around her hips. His mouth was suckling one exposed breast, and she was writhing on his lap and making noises Gwyneth had never heard before. Neither of them had even noticed her presence, and she’d fled.

Later, Gwyneth had confronted her cousin about it. Emma had just laughed, at first. Then, she had threatened her to keep the secret. Gwyneth had little choice. To whom could she go? How could she stop her cousin from such brazen infidelity? Augusta, still elated over her daughter’s advantageous marriage, would hardly be receptive to such a report…if she believed Gwyneth at all.

She skirted the wooded deer park along the river. Golden rays from the descending sun looked like streaks of fire across the sky overhead. It was so much easier to live one’s life within the pages of a book. To read or to create lives in which passion was shared between a man and a woman who were truly in love, where the union of two souls was forever. Gwyneth was not ashamed of the intimacy she weaved into her tales. Her characters were true to each other. They were honest. They loved each other. Lies and deceit belonged to villains, and they were punished in the end. Goodness and love always triumphed. At least in fiction.

Gwyneth’s admiration had vanished, and Emma knew it. But they remained outwardly civil. They even managed to display moments of friendliness for the sake of Augusta and others. Gwyneth decided finally that it was not her place to make a judgment about her cousin’s life, although there was more and more evidence of other affairs. There were moments, even in Baronsford and Greenbrae Hall, when Gwyneth felt she’d arrived in the midst of something, obviously spoiling a rendezvous. Still, she held her tongue. As David said, this was between Lyon and Emma.

Still though, she could not stomach seeing her cousin play the two younger Pennington brothers against Lyon. Emma was tearing their family apart. But they were at fault, too, Gwyneth realized. At first, it had been just Pierce who’d allowed himself to be blind when it came to Emma and her lies, but now David was doing the same thing. As far as they each were concerned, she had no flaws. They trusted her now as they had trusted the young child they all had adored.

She rode up the hill to the stables behind Greenbrae Hall and swung down easily from the panting steed. A groom took the reins from her and she started up the path toward the house. The sound of another rider caused her to look back. It was David. His irritation was obvious in the way he dismounted and strode toward her.

“You ride like a madwoman. Did you not hear me calling you?”

She shook her head. “What are you doing here?”

“You left so abruptly, without taking a carriage. I wanted to be sure you were not unwell.”

“I am quite well, thank you,” she said, unable to mask the sarcasm in her tone. “And you?”

“Quite well. Why shouldn’t I be?” His words were clipped. Whatever cheerfulness he’d displayed when she saw him first by the cliffs at Baronsford had disappeared. There was a fierceness in his face now.

She tucked her notebook under her arm and started up the path.

He fell in step with her. “Why are you acting like this?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I was eager to get back to Greenbrae Hall.” She was too angry to look at him. He’d been used. He’d been manipulated and formed into the shape Emma wished him to be. “So how did your talk go with Emma?”

“You were there for most of it. She is very glad I am back. She has problems, and she needs help. Lyon is being very difficult. It’s nothing new. I promised her that I would talk to him when he arrives.” He let out a deep breath. “She has gone through all this work—planning this affairfor the dowager. Two hundred guests, half of them already arrived, and he decides to wait until the last moment to make his entrance. I do not understand why he is treating her so badly. She does not deserve this, to my thinking.”

Gwyneth hurried up the path. His foolishness brought tears to her eyes. She needed to get away from him. David grabbed her arm, though, and he forced her to stop. She stood looking at the ground, her arms clutching her notebook to her chest.

“What is going on?”

“Nothing! Nothing is going on with me.” She looked up.

“You’re crying.”

“I’m not.” She stabbed at the runaway tears. “The wind blew something into my eye as I rode.”

He didn’t appear happy with her answer. “What are you running away from?”

“I am not running away. I just don’t care to be at Baronsford right now. That should not be too difficult for you to understand.”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t understand your behavior at all. But it’s obvious something is bothering you.” His tone became confidential. “Are you in any kind of trouble?”

“No!”

“You can be honest with me.”

“I am being honest with you.”

“Gwyneth…” Her name was spoken like a reprimand.

She stared at him, trying to keep her composure. She failed.

“What is it that you’d like me to tell you?” she asked curtly. “I am in no trouble. And no, I was not rushing back here for a secret rendezvous with my lover. And no, I am not carrying anyone’s child. Nor am I afraid that time is running out on me and unless I do something drastic, one more secret will be exposed and I’ll be truly ruined.”

“You are speaking nonsense.”

“Am I?” she challenged before turning up the path again.

His grip on her arm was hard when he turned her around. “What is this all about? Why these bloody riddles, Gwyneth? You were behaving normally one moment and then, as soon as Emma arrived, you turned into this enigmatic brat. What has she done to you?”

“Nothing.” She tried to wrench her arm free. “Let me go.”

“Who is having secret rendezvous? Who is carrying a child?”

“Why not ask Emma?” she snapped angrily. “Open your eyes, David. Why do you think she wants all these people around her? Why, suddenly, does she need so many protectors? And do you really think this whole affair has been arranged for your mother? The dowager is not fooled by that. Why are you?” She gentled her tone. “Try to see your brother’s side, as well. He is your own flesh and blood. For once, try to understand his suffering.”

David stared at her, obviously shocked by her outburst. But Gwyneth knew it would be no use. He was under Emma’s spell. He always had been. His large hands clamped onto her shoulders when she tried to turn away.

“I know, Gwyneth, that you must be going through a difficult time. Lady Cavers has never been much of a mother. Not to Emma, and I’m certain she must be doing even less for you. I’m sure it must be hard to watch Emma get so much attention.” He leaned down and looked into her face, speaking to her as if she were a child. “But this does not mean you should be so openly hostile to the one person who’s been like a sister to you. It’s understandable that you would be jealous, but I have never known you to be so disparaging of her. Emma truly cares for you. She does not deserve to be treated like this. Not by you and not by Lyon.”

Tears rushed into Gwyneth’s eyes. He was blind to it. He didn’t want to see the truth.

“I’ll wait for you to change your dress, and then we’ll go back to Baronsford. Emma never needs to know the things you have told me. She⁠—”

“No.” She shook her head and stepped back. “I am not going back. Tell them what you wish, but I am not going back.”

Gwyneth turned and ran up the path as fast as her legs would take her. The tears turned to sobs, but as she entered the house, she couldn’t decide for whom she was shedding them.

Perhaps for herself. She’d been made to sound like a jealous and foolish child for speaking the truth.

Perhaps for Lyon. His wife had churned up his life, making it a bloody mess, turning his own family against him.

Or perhaps she was crying for David, so blinded by love that he was incapable of seeing or hearing the truth.

Perhaps, Gwyneth thought, her tears might even be for Emma. She was a woman who didn’t know how to be happy, didn’t know what was enough. But how could she shed tears for someone who didn’t even know the misery her schemes were causing those who cared for her? For Lyon. For Pierce. And most importantly, for David.

No, Gwyneth realized, she could not cry for Emma. Not for the woman she hated.

* * *

Not long after sunset, the storm rolled in from the west, and a fierce rain pelted her windows through the night. Gwyneth tossed and turned every time the thunder rolled across the valley, every time the wind buffeted the walls of Greenbrae. A feeling of doom infused her dreams, lying like a shroud over her, suffocating her. She imagined hearing voices coming up the stairs, but she could not tell the reality from the dream. She thought she could hear arguments, but her mind excused it as the sound of the storm outside.

She wished she had gone back to Baronsford. She felt alone. She was horrified by the visions her imagination invoked on nights like this.

Dawn brought an end to the storm, but a light rain continued to fall, and the skies remained low and gray and heavy. Gwyneth found no relief in the soft whirr of activity that she could hear as the servants readied themselves for the day. It was mid-morning when she finally forced herself to dress and leave her bedchamber. Coming down the steps, she heard shouts and the sound of horses clattering up to the front door.

At the top of the landing, Gwyneth clutched the banister as the door was thrown open and the steward rushed back in. He looked up at her.

“It’s horrible, miss,” he cried, wringing his hat in his hands.

“Emma,” she whispered, sitting down on the steps.

“Aye, miss. She’s…she’s dead! They say Lord Aytoun threw her from the cliffs with his own hands…and then went over himself!”

* * *

Emma’s hair caught and reflected the sun like curls of spun gold. Wherever she went, men and women stopped to stare and admire. She was like a fairy creature from a verse of a poem or the page of an ancient story. Many afternoons, he found himself standing by the ledge, looking down at the river as she and David raced along the bank and waded or swam in the pools where the Tweed turned one way or the other.

She would climb the wet rocks to the cliff walk with her dirty hands and bare feet with surprising speed, and he tried to be waiting there for her at the top, stretching a hand down to her when she triumphantly reached the ledge as David climbed steadily beneath them.

Emma always had a special smile for him at moments like this. A wee thing, her face conquered all with the brightness of that smile and the shining and restless blue eyes. But the woman was emerging in her. He shouldn’t have noticed, but at his age a boy’s gaze couldn’t miss the curves of her growing breasts, especially when she’d been swimming and her thin dress was wet and clinging. There was no way he could ignore her affection for him either, when she looped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him when she reached the top. She would pretend she was afraid and was going to fall off the cliffs.

He was young, but he knew the truth. The last thing Emma was afraid of was the cliffs.

2

London

One Year Later

He’d had enough. It was time for a change.

The decision had been one he’d been thinking about for months. Then, when the orders had come through, transferring him from his regiment in Ireland to a special assignment in Massachusetts, Captain David Pennington finally made what his superiors believed was an imprudent choice. He simply decided not to go, resigning his commission instead.

No one outside of the regiment had yet been told about it. Admiral Middleton, to whom David was to report in Boston, had been sent a letter written by the regimental commander that perhaps there was still a chance that the young officer might change his mind. David had not given them any specific reason for his resignation, nor had he mentioned to anyone what he planned to do now that he was giving up the army life.

This last question, however, had become the topic for dozens of toasts from the group of officers who had gathered in the Rose Tavern near St. James Square. The drinking had started hours ago, however, and the more articulate comments were now only a foggy memory.

“Nonsense! I hear David is leaving us to pur…pursue his love of singing and learn to play the harpsichord.”

Though few could understand the slurred enunciation of the final word, a loud cheer went up and everyone drained their glasses. In an instant, the serving lasses—some sitting on the laps of revelers, some fighting off wandering hands—had filled the glasses again.

Another officer, jacketless and missing a shoe, staggered to his feet. “I heard that our good fellow here plans to work with those Scotch country lasses on perfecting his technique of…er, his dance steps. A gennelman cannot work too hard on such things.”

“Aye,” another pitched in. “And hard is the right word, lads. It’d never do for our David to fall in the middle of a dance.”

Lewd comments and laughter followed. More glasses were raised. David had lost count of the number of toasts an hour ago. But he decided he must be soberer than the rest of the men, for he could still count eight of them sitting around the table.

A buxom serving wench, a bottle of wine in her hand, continued to lean against his shoulder, her large bouncing breasts spilling out of her dress as she laughed at the toasts. The heavy curtain that separated his party from the rest of the tavern had long ago been drawn back, and David peered through the smoke at the ever-watchful proprietor, standing on the tilting floor at the far end of the room. Happily, the man still had only one head.

As he watched, a woman wearing a hooded cloak entered the tavern and took the proprietor aside. David vaguely recalled there were rooms upstairs for travelers who were arriving or departing London.

One of the older officers stood, gathered himself, and bowed gravely to the party. “I propose a toast to David’s aspiration of mastering his skill with the feminine coiffure. In his new profession as a hair dresser here in this fine city, one only hopes that instead of simply demolishing these spectacular structures when he services the ladies, he may apply his talents of erection⁠—”

The loud cheers and laughter of the men drowned out whatever was to follow. The other patrons of the tavern were beginning to join the cheering and the toasts. Ignoring them all, David stared at the woman speaking with the proprietor. Locks of fiery red hair had escaped the hood of the cloak.

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” The same officer waved his cup in the air, sloshing half of it on David’s arm. “Allow me to finish, gentlemen.”

The din lessened momentarily.

“What I intended to say was this…may David’s creations be filled with entire gardens of shrubs…and rose gardens…and clumps of peonies…and of course every other bit of nonsense that fashion dictates.” He raised his cup higher. “And may our good fellow have ample opportunity to drive his erections…of ladies’ hairstyles…to new heights.”

Laughter and calls of “Hear, hear!” went around the table, and everyone drank heartily to that. As the glasses were again filled, two men across the table started arguing over who was to give the next toast.

David’s gaze was drawn to the woman again. Her hood had inched backward on her head. The red curls framing her face caught the light. He had a brief glimpse of an upturned nose, pale skin. He leaned forward, tried to focus, but she turned her back to him and headed for the steps. He immediately rose to his feet, nearly upending the wench hanging on his shoulder. The room whirled around him, and he had to sit down. But planting his hands on the table, he pushed himself up again.

The officer to his right stood, too, draping an arm around David’s shoulders to keep his balance. “Gentlemen, may I have the…the divine honor of introducing a man we all know, Captain David Whatsisname, late of His Majesty’s 46th Regiment.”

Cries of “Speech!” and “A toast!” rang out, quickly giving way to shouts of laughter as the officer tried to sit down again but missed the chair and went sprawling. Paying no further attention to their fallen comrade, they all waited for David to say something, their glasses raised.

“Considering the gravity of the moment,” David started, “I’ll need a few moments to weigh the merits of your thought-provoking career suggestions. Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen. I raise this glass to you all, and I’ll return…perhaps.”

Ignoring the loud cheers and protests, he made his way unsteadily across the room toward the tavern keeper. The floor was rolling like the deck of a ship on the Irish Sea. What should have been a straight path to the man was a blurry hazard of moving tables, chairs, faces and serving wenches. David couldn’t recall the last time that he’d been this far gone.

Not that there was any fault in that. He’d worked bloody hard for too many years, and he was now at…well, at a changing station on his life’s road. He needed a fresh team of horses and a new direction, by the devil. He could do as he wished. He had ample income. His father had provided both the younger brothers with enough to live in luxury for the rest of their lives.

Still though, he was not accustomed to idleness. He needed to make choices about what team of horses to pick, which clubs to spend his evenings in, which direction to go. True, he had no immediate plans, but he found no fault in that, either. He would remedy that soon enough. For tonight, he was too drunk to care about such things. Tomorrow would come soon enough to deal with the future.

The tavern keeper’s bagwig had to be older than the wine he served, but David knew the heavyset man did all he could to please his patrons. Everyone in the place, including the proprietor, knew he was the guest of honor in the party of officers. The bewigged head bobbed when David asked about the woman who had just come in.

“Aye, sir, I know who ye mean. She’s a pretty little thing, and well dressed. Quite young, I should think. Gave the name of Mrs. Adams when she came by earlier to take a room. I had one of the lads take her trunk up, and not a moment or two later, she went off to make her final arrangements for a carriage, she told me. She just come back, Captain, but she’s off tomorrow, she is.”

“Is the lass traveling alone?”

The tavern keeper glanced toward the stairs where she had disappeared. Winking his eye, he leaned toward David confidentially. “She wishes to make it look that way. But the carriage she was asking about has taken more than a few of these young folk to Gretna Green. I’d put my money on some scoundrel tricking her into meeting him along the way.”

David wished he’d gotten a better look at the woman’s face. Since the Marriage Act, an underage woman could no longer be married without the banns being read or her parents’ consent. An eloping couple needed to go to Gretna Green now, just across the Scottish border.

The red hair and pale profile looked the same as Gwyneth’s. She was about the same height and nicely built, just as he remembered the nymph looking last year. He was too drunk to recall where Augusta took her niece at this time of the year. But what would she be doing alone at this tavern? And where the devil did the name ‘Mrs. Adams’ come from?

“What room is she staying in?”

“Begging your pardon, Captain,” the man said apologetically after a slight pause. He pointed at the table of revelers across the taproom. “But all my serving wenches here are of the eager sort, if it’s companionship ye seek. I’d wager you might have your pick of any of them. If it’s the red hair ye fancy, I’m sure we can find⁠—”

“Which room, man?”

“Begging yer pardon, sir, but I’m thinking that the young miss upstairs might not be so willing to have a strange gentleman calling on her tonight.”

David reached in his pocket and took out few guineas. His vision was too blurred to count them, so he dropped them all on the counter. “Well done, man. You’ve done your duty. This is a place of honor and discretion, to be sure. Which room?”

“I can’t take yer money, sir.” He shook his head apologetically. “She might be telling the truth, and her husband might be waiting for her in Scotland. In your condition, Captain, I cannot be sending ye up there⁠—”

“I don’t want to bed the blasted creature,” David said irritably. “She looked like a family relation…and if she is who I think she might be, then she has no right to take a room alone or use a fictitious name or go meet some bloody fortune hunter in Scotland. If she’s the person I think she is, her kin knows nothing of her doing all of this.”

The energy to say that much with any coherence—at least David thought he sounded coherent—took a great deal out of him. Still, he drew himself erect and looked down at the tavern keeper, who was clearly thinking hard.

“Well, man?” David roared. “Will you tell me, or must I find the bloody chit myself?”

Quickly, the man swept the coins off the counter and pocketed them. Hurrying around David, he gestured for him to follow.

“In that case sir, I’ll take ye up to her room myself.”

Though he knew he was not thinking too clearly, David knew it was better this way, in case he had the wrong woman. He was also glad the tavern keeper hadn’t just given him directions. In his condition, he might arrive at the door of St. James Palace as easily as the right door.

The stairs heaved and shifted as he tried to follow the proprietor. He needed to stop a couple of times along their way and lean heavily against the walls. They seemed to be moving in and out on him. The older man chatted away the whole time they were moving up the steep steps, but David didn’t hear most of it. He should have drunk more…or dipped his head in a bucket of cold water before coming up.

Upstairs, the hallway was dark. It was hot and airless in the narrow passageway. Doors lined both walls. One swung open when he swayed a little, banging it with his shoulder. David found himself staring in at a good-sized bed. The window was open and—though it was August—he could smell smoke from a bonfire on the street below. The sudden urge to lie down and sleep almost overwhelmed him.

“This one’s not let for the night. Ye can have it no charge, Captain. A nice comfortable bed, that one is, sir.”

He tore his gaze away from the temptation and turned to the man at his shoulder. “The woman…take me to this Mrs…Mrs…what was her bloody name?”

“Mrs. Adams.” The man pointed. “This way, sir. Her room is the last one there on the left.”

Curiously, it appeared that his legs had turned to stone. By the time David got his feet moving again down the hallway, the other man was already knocking on the door. A muffled response came from inside.

“I’ve a gentleman here, Mrs. Adams,” the tavern keeper called out. “He says he’s some relation to ye, ma’am.”

David thought it was stupid to warn the woman that she’d been found out. Talking took too much effort, though, and the narrow space was starting to feel like a crypt. Pushing the proprietor out of the way, he leaned heavily against the woman’s door, waiting. She was taking her bloody time. He thought to ask if there were a window she might climb from. His mouth was too dry, though, to say anything, and he decided to rest a little where he was.

“He must be mistaken,” she answered from the other side of the door. “I have no kin in London, and my husband would not be happy if I were to open this door at this time of the night to⁠—”

“Gwyneth,” David managed to say. “Is that you?”

There was another pause. Then a latch lifted hurriedly on the other side. The surface he was leaning on suddenly gave way, and David went tumbling into the room.

The young woman tried to get out of the way, but David reached for her, and both of them ended up landing on the hard floor…her on top of him.

“David? Are you hurt?” She slid off to his side, her hands touching his chest, his face, running over his hair. There was worry in her voice.

He somehow got hold of her wrist. He wanted to make sure she didn’t run away.

“I guess the Captain was right in saying he knew ye, ma’am,” the tavern keeper said with a chuckle, backing out of the room and closing the door.

She worked her wrist free and leaned over him again. “What are you doing here?” She caressed his face. “The last I heard, you were in Ireland.”

David blinked to clear his vision. She wore no fashionably tall headdress. She didn’t need such ridiculous ornamentation. Her curls were the color of fire in the flickering candlelight. He reached up and touched her hair. It was so soft. The way it used to be. His finger looped around one and he tugged once, the way he always did. She didn’t cry or complain though. Instead her fingers gently freed the curl. His gaze caressed her face, focused on her lips. This was not the girl he remembered, though. She had become a woman.

“You are not helping me. Sit up, David.”

She stretched her arm under his shoulders and tried to lift him. He stared at the pulse fluttering beneath the ivory column of her throat. The skin looked soft. Her eyes were huge and as green as the hills of Eildon. She smelled of lavender and a freshness not found in London. He did help her. He raised himself onto one elbow, facing her.

“Who is this bloody Adams?”

“Never mind that.” She leaned over him, trying to get him to sit up. “You seem to have too much wine in you. I should like to get you out of here and downstairs. We can find you a carriage or a sedan chair. I do not think your family even knows you’re back from Ireland. And why are you not wearing your uniform?”

He reached over and cupped the back of her head, drawing her face close.

“Who is Adams?” he asked again.

“You are in no condition now for any explanations. I should like to get you to your brother’s house.”

Her mouth fascinated him. He kissed her. If she was surprised, there was no struggle. David pressed his tongue into her mouth, and his hunger surged as he heard her make a small surprised noise in the back of her throat. Her taste was sweet, her breath warm. He took a fistful of her hair and her mouth opened. In an instant, he was devouring her, mindless of why he had come up here. All he knew was that her mouth was like some luscious flower, and he was drawing the nectar.

Suddenly she came alive. Her tongue answering his call to play. When he finally drew his head back a little, her mouth followed. David lay back, pulling her body on top of his. Her soft curves fit in all the right places, and he felt his body growing hard. His hand slid downward over her bottom, and he kneaded the sweet, firm flesh.

“David.” She lifted her head, breaking off the kiss. Her skin was flushed. She was breathless. “We shouldn’t.”

“Why is that?”

He rolled them on the floor, cradling her head as he moved on top of her. He fit himself against her and saw the pulse in her throat now beating wildly. He put his mouth on it.

“I love the taste of you here.” He trailed his mouth down to the neckline of her dress. “And here, too.”

His hand gently squeezed her perfect breast, and a small gasp escaped her lips as she arched her back into his touch. Lowering his head, he nipped at one breast through the layer of clothing.

“I would like very much to strip this garment off of you, so I can taste you here, too.” His hand moved downward beyond her belly. “And here.”

Her body grew still, and then she took hold of his face in both hands. She drew his head up until he was looking into her face again.

“I fear you are too far gone with wine to know whose body is lying beneath yours,” she said quietly. “Look at me, David.”

His body throbbed. The woman was beautiful, and he knew she was willing. He tried to focus on her face, though. Green eyes. That dusting of freckles on her nose. He wanted to make love to her. He pressed his hip into her flesh.

“David,” she pleaded. “I want you to see me. It’s Gwyneth.”

He tried to focus again, and this time reality sank in. Gwyneth! He closed his eyes for a moment to gather his sanity. He opened them and looked at her again. Her eyes had grown misty.

“Bloody hell! I am so sorry, I⁠—”

She pressed her fingers against his lips and shook her head. “Do not apologize. I understand.”

He couldn’t roll off of her fast enough. He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. As he stretched down a hand to help her up as well, the room tilted, lurched once, and began to spin wildly. He staggered back, hitting the door with his back.

“I think I am going to be si⁠—.”

* * *

The window was open. But there was no breeze, no relief from the heat burning Gwyneth’s face and body.

The sounds of the taproom below had finally quieted. Outside, the noise of the street was dwindling, too. Dawn was only a few hours away, though, and soon the early coaches leaving London would rattle through the town, the harnesses of their teams jingling and the drivers’ gruff shouts breaking the silence. Then the calls of the early morning vendors would begin to be heard.

Gwyneth walked away from the window and came to touch David’s brow for the hundredth time. He was not feverish, but his sleep was restless and fitful. She’d helped him out of his jacket when she’d laid him down. Still though, she thought he must be far too warm in his waistcoat and shirt, but she didn’t dare touch any of his clothing.

He had been so sick, but he wouldn’t let her help him. The only thing he’d asked of her was to go downstairs for a clean pitcher of water. She’d done that, and afterwards neither of them had said much before he’d fallen asleep on the narrow bed in her room. She had little experience in dealing with effects of drinking too much wine. She assumed sleeping, though, would be his best medicine.

She quickly snatched her hand away from David’s face when he rolled toward her in his sleep. She moved to the window again and sat on the rickety bench. The moon was still high, though she could see thickening clouds covering much of the starry sky. They would be setting off in the rain, she decided. His jacket and his sword lay beside her and she ran her fingers over the fine new cloth of his coat and the ornate metalwork of the weapon, which gleamed in the moonlight. She looked across the room, watching him as he slept.

Her body still tingled from the way he’d touched her. No one had ever touched her like that. No one had ever kissed her the way he’d kissed her. She touched her lips, which still felt slightly swollen. She remembered how shocked she’d been to hear his voice outside the door. Actually, how thrilled she’d been.

Of all the times that she might have run into him here in London, though, it had to be the hand of fate that had arranged their meeting tonight.

She was eloping in the morning. She was leaving an hour after dawn in a carriage she’d hired. North of London, in Hampstead Village, Sir Allan Ardmore would join her, and from there they would travel north and marry at Gretna Green, just over the border in Scotland. It was not love, of course. She looked at David, who stirred slightly at that moment. No, it was not love nor passion nor even affection that was driving her to elope. It was just business.

Gwyneth didn’t want to think about any of that now, however. Instead, she stared at David’s muscular arm draped over the side of the bed, the knuckles of his large hand brushing the floor. She groaned inwardly. She’d been so tempted to let him have his way with her. Ardmore had hinted that after the ceremony he expected their marriage to be consummated. During those few wild moments, lying beneath David, feeling his hands touching her, she’d considered how much more meaningful it would have been to give her innocence to the one man she had always loved—as the heroines in her stories might have done. At least she would have been left with a precious memory to carry with her for a lifetime.