BOOKS BY CAROLINE FYFFE
Colorado Hearts Novels
Heart of Eden
True Heart’s Desire
Heart of Mine
Prairie Hearts Novels
Where the Wind Blows
Before the Larkspur Blooms
West Winds of Wyoming
Under a Falling Star
Whispers on the Wind
Where Wind Meets Wave
The McCutcheon Family Novels
Montana Dawn
Texas Twilight
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Evie
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Heather
Moon Over Montana
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Kathryn
Montana Snowfall
Texas Lonesome
Montana Courage
Montana Promise
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2019 by Caroline Fyffe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542091671
ISBN-10: 1542091675
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
For my beautiful nieces,
Emily Spillmann and Sophie Meyer,
with love.
You’re both royalty in my eyes!
CONTENTS
Map
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
The eyes of green and blue come back,
To haunt, to laugh, to flaunt your fame,
But underneath what years have grown,
Remains the stain of utter shame.
Oh, man boy, raised in shadows was,
Returns now from across the sea,
Thinks all is good, but does not know,
Recompense is owed to me.
A pretty bride you bring with you,
What better way to crush your heart?
With emerald eyes and locks of golden hue,
She will regret your days apart.
So now good fortune comes to me,
At long last, victory snatched from defeat,
Beranger, your pain I’ll see,
And my revenge will be complete . . .
CHAPTER ONE
September 13, 1881
Brightshire, Kent, England
They dance just for me, Charlotte Aldridge thought, looking out across the ocean of swaying stalks of wheat.
A light breeze cooled her skin and lifted her mood as she walked beside her pony cart filled with loaves of bread. The spring yield, planted last January, reached greedily toward the warming sun. This crop would not bear as much as the winter harvest but would surely keep the small market town of Brightshire, as well as the countryfolk of Goldenbrook, fed through the winter months. The inhabitants of the nearby hamlet depended on each morsel the reaping machine left behind.
The cart bumped easily along the pitted dirt road, the pony’s lead line tossed across the animal’s back. A rare Adonis butterfly, known in Kent for its shimmery blue shade, flitted across the path and landed on a stalk of wheat. Slowly, its large wings opened and closed. Charlotte stopped to watch, wondering how a silk dress in that exact hue would feel upon her skin. Feminine, for one. Impossible, for another. She wrapped her arms around her middle, imagining, longing. Then, without so much as a by-your-leave for her breathless admiration, the lovely creature took to the sky and was gone.
She heaved a sigh and ran to catch her cart. Ahead, a stone bridge arched over a narrow brook. From there, the road leading to Ashbury Castle disappeared into forestland. It wasn’t visible now, but what she knew from living in Brightshire her whole life was that the road through the forest would emerge into a great open expanse and the five-hundred-year-old castle of the Duke of Brightshire. The tall, square tower and checkerboard-patterned battlements were partly visible over the treetops. Two flags fluttered in the breeze—one bearing the duke’s coat of arms and the other Queen Victoria’s.
Charlotte sighed again. The scent of wildflowers reached her nose, reminding her of costly perfume noblewomen took for granted as much as the air they breathed. Did they know how lucky they were? Charlotte would be happy with a single dress that hadn’t been handed down through the village but was new, hers alone.
She gazed at the tower. There was something magical about Ashbury. But since the death of William Northcott, Duke of Brightshire, and then his son and heir, who had worn the title for less than a year, a cloud had hung over the town. The Northcotts were the most important family in the area and employed many of the villagers. The lucky ones, with jobs inside the castle, relayed the goings-on and tensions from Ashbury on a daily basis. Charlotte’s cousin Amelia worked as a scullery maid, and her monthly visit home was anticipated with excitement. During the time the young duke had reigned, Amelia had brought rumors of parties and gambling, as well as tension between the duke and his mother, the dowager duchess. Then the young duke had died in a hunting accident and his body hadn’t been recovered for two whole days. The affair had been ghastly.
His death and the fact that a new duke or duchess had not been announced had been the subject of speculation for nine long months. And now rumors abounded that the knife wound that had killed him might not have been an accident at all—but murder.
The rumors made Charlotte fear for her brother. Thomas was twenty, older by a year, and seemed to be hiding someth
ing important about that day. She dared not pry for fear of learning something she would not like to know. She’d heard from Amelia that the young duke often went into the woods with his gun, sometimes just to shoot, and other times to hunt small game. That day the word was he’d gone out alone. That same day Charlotte had gone into Ashbury’s woods, basket over her arm, in search of the wild mushrooms that grew around the lake to use in the meat pies they sold at her family’s bakeshop. She’d seen movement across a large meadow and up the rise: two men, their backs to her. One was clearly the duke, for his bright red cloak was like no other. He was tall and his wide shoulders distinctive. The other man wore a long duster, much like the one Thomas owned. He’d been partly hidden by trees, making his identity uncertain. Thomas delivered the bread to Ashbury every Tuesday and ran into the young duke now and then; he’d spoken often of the duke’s conceit and condescending words. There was no love lost between them.
Soon the men moved out of sight, and Charlotte went about her chore. An hour later, and on her way home, she spotted Mr. Henderley, the gamekeeper, striding through the forest, wearing a long coat, a noticeable limp to his gait. Slipping behind a bush, she waited for him to pass. The gamekeeper’s job was to watch for poachers, and she didn’t want to get into trouble, even for poaching mushrooms.
Before long, Thomas—now she was sure it was him—jogged out of the tree line. He was too far away to call without alerting the gamekeeper. He looked distressed, and once or twice he glanced over his shoulder. She knew him well enough to believe he’d found some sort of trouble.
It wasn’t until she’d heard of the duke’s passing that she’d remembered she’d yet to ask Thomas why he’d been on the duke’s land. He hadn’t had a gun, so he wasn’t poaching. But when she inquired, he claimed to have been fishing on the other side of Brightshire. Why had he lied?
In the days that followed, the constable questioned the men of Brightshire and Goldenbrook, hoping to find a witness to what had transpired. A duke’s death was serious, and facts needed to be known. The lawman hadn’t doubted Thomas’s account, but she had. Even before the duke’s death, she’d noticed Thomas had begun to behave differently, and his frequent absences from the bakeshop created tension between him and their aunt. He seemed to avoid Charlotte’s glance, and sometimes her altogether. Recently, she’d misplaced a hair ribbon and later found the decorative length in the pocket of his coat, of all places, when she was tidying up. Questioning him turned his cheeks ruddy, and he’d shrugged.
She’d told herself that she needed to remember Thomas wasn’t a boy any longer, that he had grown up and must have some secrets. With that thought, she’d been able to lay her worries aside—until yesterday. Two women had come into the bakeshop whispering about the duke. They’d heard rumors there might have been a fight of some kind and he’d been killed. One woman had whispered that Thomas, the baker’s nephew, had been questioned by the constable. Charlotte’s back had gone stiff at that—as if the constable’s questioning made him guilty. All the men had been questioned! All of them. It had taken every ounce of restraint for her to simply smile and help the women with their purchases.
Charlotte glanced longingly at the clouds, wishing she had the ability to fly away from her problems like a sparrow. She reached out and stroked Sherry’s neck under her flaxen mane, taking note the small beast was hot and would soon need to rest. Only twelve hands tall, the old Welsh/Hackney cross had a cottonlike forelock and more than a few gray hairs around her muzzle and eyes. The scabby, fly-bitten area under her belly never seemed to heal no matter how much lard Charlotte slathered on.
A plume of dust appeared on the road ahead.
Someone is coming from the castle!
Charlotte had traveled from Brightshire to Goldenbrook many times before, but today she’d turned off her usual route and was now headed toward the dense forested woodlands that led to Ashbury. A whisper of uncertainty filled her chest. She thought of the dead duke, the gamekeeper, and her brother. Had something more than an accident transpired that day? Was the responsible person still lurking in the woods?
Not someone, but a group!
Taking Sherry’s lead, Charlotte guided the pony off the side of the road, making room as she waited for the procession to reach her. The gleaming black coach trimmed in gold was escorted by two riders and followed by the same. Were the duchess and Lady Audrey inside? Her heart thrummed against her ribs.
“Easy, little mum,” Charlotte mumbled, more to calm herself than the already drowsy pony. “We’ll be on our way soon enough.”
As the coach passed, Charlotte curtsied, keeping her gaze respectfully anchored to the ground even though she hungered for a glimpse of the women’s gowns. A quick insubordinate blink earned her a flash of bright scarlet and of cobalt trimmed in gold.
Such beauty! Oh, to see the dresses in full!
And then they were gone.
Charlotte waited until they were down the road before she nudged Sherry awake. “Walk on, little mum,” she whispered. “Fairy tales are not for girls like us.” The ache inside was real. Insistent. She pushed it away. “We have work to do and need not while the day away with silly daydreams. We certainly don’t need to anger Aunt Ethel.”
After crossing the arched cobblestone bridge, they entered the dark, forested lands that lay before the castle. Still early in the day, there would be plenty of light filtering in and around the densely knit trees.
“Watch your step,” Charlotte whispered as they approached a deep rut. She didn’t like this stretch of road. The mile-long tunnel of living green was spooky. Though the temperature was sunny and warm outside the forest, within the darkness a puff of cold air chilled her shoulders. Unnerved, she glanced behind at the disappearing daylight and then placed her hand on Sherry’s warm withers as they walked along.
The hamlet children spoke of witches and gnomes and fairies in the forest. Every now and again, the tale of the Lost Baby resurfaced—how the weeping could be heard on foggy nights, as the child cried for her mama. Aunt Ethel had scoffed at the myth, saying the account was nonsense. But why, then, did folks still come scurrying into Brightshire from time to time, saying they’d heard something—like a child whimpering in the trees?
The branches overhead swished, and the leaves of a holly plant tinkled. A mixture of alder, ash, and aspen filled the forest, as well as elderberry and buckthorn. She particularly liked the white bark of the silver birch and the delicate flowers of the burnet rose plants scattered over the mossy ground. The forest smelled musty and old.
Suddenly, a dog streaked out from under the brush and rushed her wagon.
Sherry reared and turned a half circle, ready to bolt for home. Charlotte jumped forward and grabbed the trailing lead line to keep her from running off. Loaves of bread flew to the ground, rolling here and there.
“Stop that!” Charlotte yelled at the gangly golden retriever barking playfully at Sherry’s legs. “Get back before I take my boot to you!” Although loud and obnoxious, the animal didn’t appear dangerous. She needed to see if any of the toppled loaves could be salvaged.
“Bagley,” a voice thundered. “Heel!” The command was followed by a tall stranger, who appeared out of the foliage.
The interloper barked again and grasped one of the loaves on the ground as Charlotte herself took hold. A tussle ensued. She lost her balance on the uneven path and fell onto her hands and knees. The dog, his prize clenched between his jaws, bounded off into the bushes.
Embarrassed, she climbed to her feet and brushed dirt from her palms. She felt a warm trickle of blood before the pinch of pain.
The man started in her direction. “You’re hurt, miss.”
She snatched her injured hand behind her back as she fished in her pocket for her kerchief with the other. “I’m fine, it’s just a scratch, but your dog has stolen my bread!” Humiliated by his fretful gaze, and how she must have looked playing tug-of-war with his unmannered beast, she made a show of picking up the ot
her loaves. “And your dog scared my pony. Where are his manners, sir?” With nothing left to do, she turned to face him.
He was tall and held a rifle in one hand, and his booted feet were spread wide. Fear streaked through her. Was he a road robber, here to steal the rest of her bread and anything else she had? He made no move toward her.
“I’m sorry.” He dipped his chin. “About your baked goods and the scrape on your palm. Bagley’s still a pup, more or less.”
Robbers didn’t go around with unruly upstarts, did they? When he did step closer, she realized he was younger than she’d originally thought, maybe five years older than she. His clothes were clean and free of patches and visible mending. He wasn’t a farmworker or peasant. A long coat, one much too warm if he were to venture out of the shade of the woods, fell all the way to his tall, black boots. A thick belt around his middle held a small leather bag, a sheathed knife, and what looked to be a coiled leash for his rascally scamp.
Not quite ready to forgive and forget, she said, “The missing loaf will cost you threepence, sir. I’ll not charge you for the fare that landed on the road unless the castle turns it away.”
“I have no money on me. I’ll have to pay you later. Just tell me where.”
The deep timbre of his voice pricked her senses. “Smith’s Bakeshop in Brightshire.”
“I’ve not seen you before,” he said. “Who should I ask for?”
Who was he and why was he trespassing on the duke’s land? “Miss Aldridge. My brother usually delivers the bread to Ashbury. He’s sick today, and so his job fell to me.” Sick? Ha! Early this morning, after Aunt Ethel was too busy in the bakeshop to notice, Thomas had climbed out his bedroom window and shinned down the wall with the dexterity of a mountain goat. At sundown, he’d no doubt appear with six or seven large golden trout.
Giving so much information, she felt she’d earned the right to ask who he was. “And you are?”
“Tristen Llewellyn, from Wales. Mr. Henderley, the gamekeeper, is my uncle.”
Mr. Henderley’s nephew? “Have you taken his job, then?” She remembered the older man’s limping gait the day of the duke’s death.
“No, just helping out until he’s back on his feet.”
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