HEARTS AFLAME

by Nancy Morse

  Chapter Twelve

  Late July, 1214

  The clip-clop of hoof beats on the drawbridge drew Helena’s gaze to Kellenham’s bailey, barely visible through the leafy, fruit-laden boughs of the apple trees in the castle garden. Frowning, she closed the book of folk tales she’d been reading and set it aside on the stone bench. She and her father were not expecting visitors today. The carpenters had taken the day off, since they were waiting for roofing materials to be delivered. Who, then, could be arriving?

  Tavis, her heart whispered.

  Tucking stray hair back behind her ear, she tamped down a flare of excitement. Tavis wasn’t due to visit the keep for several more days. He’d reminded her in his most recent letter.

  Still, she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the gatehouse.

  The tree boughs swayed in the afternoon breeze, blocking her view. She stood and peered into the bailey.

  A rider emerged from the gatehouse, sitting tall upon his horse.

  Light glinted off an object fastened to his cloak, drawing her gaze down to the young girl sitting in front of him on the horse. Yet, Helena had already recognized the man.

  Tavis. Oh, God, Tavis!

  Helena ran to the garden gate, yanked it open, and raced out into the bailey.

  He saw her and his face broke into a broad grin. Merry waved.

  “Tavis!” Helena cried, half-laughing, half-sobbing.

  He halted his horse and dismounted then lifted Merry down.

  The little girl ran to Helena and wrapped her arms around Helena’s waist. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too,” Helena said, ruffling Merry’s hair.

  “I did not bring Dandelion,” Merry said. “He stayed at Dumfries.”

  “I see.” Helena’s eyes were damp as she looked up at Tavis. He was smiling. How handsome he was, his hair a bit longer than before, his jaw dark with stubble.

  What should she say? How did she tell him how incredibly glad she was to see him and how much she loved him?

  “I am a few days early,” he finally said.

  “I know,” she whispered, her fingers still stroking Merry’s tresses.

  “I could not go another day without you.”

  “Oh, Tavis—”

  “I hope you do not mind that I did not wait four weeks.”

  She mock-frowned. “Hmm. Let me think about that…”

  “I see Sylva,” Merry said. Breaking away from Helena, the little girl ran off. Tavis stepped forward and at last, Helena was in his arms. She caught his face and kissed him, over and over. He groaned and kissed her back. He tasted of heartfelt promises, and true love, and…

  Whistles and clapping intruded, and Helena drew back, to find they were surrounded by servants, including Sylva, who had her arm around Merry. Helena’s father was there, too, smiling.

  Helena’s face grew hot, while Tavis chuckled and kissed her cheek. Then, he dropped down on one knee on the hard-packed dirt. From his cloak he withdrew a ring set with a blood red stone.

  Helena gasped, for the gold ring had been designed to resemble a thistle.

  “Lady Helena Marlowe,” he said solemnly, in a voice loud enough for all to hear, “Will you be my wife?”

  Without the slightest hesitation, she said, “I will.”

  As more whistling and cheering erupted, he slid the ring onto her finger and then stood. With a triumphant cry, he kissed her, so deeply, her head spun. Laughing, Helena kissed him back, her soul brimming with so much happiness, she could barely breathe.

  “May I be the first to congratulate you two,” her sire said. He winked at Helena and clapped Tavis on the shoulder.

  “Thank you, milord,” Tavis said.

  “When you are ready, come to the great hall. We will celebrate this wondrous occasion.”

  As her sire strode away, Tavis murmured, “Only one thing could make this day more perfect.”

  She kissed him again. “What is that, my love?”

  “If you finally said you forgive me.”

  Helena squinted as sunlight glinted off his brooch. “Forgive you? Whatever for?”

  “That day at the lake.”

  “Oh, Tavis. I forgave you for that a long time ago.”

  “Thank God.” He kissed her, and as she savored the bliss of being his, she knew their days together would be filled with adventure, laughter, and love—and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

  About Catherine Kean

  Bestselling, award-winning novelist Catherine Kean is a Kindle Unlimited All-Star author of medieval romances. Her love of history began with visits to England during summer vacations, when her British father took her to crumbling medieval castles, dusty museums filled with fascinating artifacts, and historic churches. Her love of the awe-inspiring past stuck with her as she completed a B.A. (Double Major, First Class) in English and History. She completed a year-long Post Graduate course with Sotheby’s auctioneers in London, England, and worked for several years in Canada as an antiques and fine art appraiser.

  After she married a tall, handsome, and charming Brit and moved to Florida, she started writing novels, her lifelong dream. She wrote her first medieval romance, A Knight’s Vengeance, while her baby daughter was napping. Catherine’s books were originally published in paperback and several were released in Czech, German, and Thai foreign editions. She has won numerous awards for her stories, including the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence. Her novels also finaled in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards and the National Readers’ Choice Awards.

  When not working on her next book, Catherine enjoys cooking, baking, browsing antique shops, shopping with her daughter, and gardening. She lives in Florida with her husband, teenage daughter, and two spoiled rescue cats.

  Website: http://www.catherinekean.com

  Love Historicals Page: http://www.lovehistoricals.com/historical-romance-authors/catherine-kean/

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/catherine.keanauthor

  Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/695820.Catherine_Kean

  Also by Catherine Kean

  A Knight to Remember (Novella)

  A Knight’s Desire (A Kindle World of de Wolfe Pack Novel)

  Bound by His Kiss (Novella)

  Dance of Desire

  My Lady’s Treasure

  One Knight Under the Mistletoe (Novella)

  Knight’s Series Novels

  A Knight’s Vengeance (Knight’s Series Book 1)

  A Knight’s Reward (Knight’s Series Book 2)

  A Knight’s Temptation (Knight’s Series Book 3)

  A Knight’s Persuasion (Knight’s Series Book 4)

  A Knight’s Seduction (Knight’s Series Book 5)

  Boxed Sets

  Charmed by an Emerald (includes A Knight to Remember)

  Medieval Rogues (includes A Knight’s Vengeance, My Lady’s Treasure, and Bound by His Kiss)

  The Knight’s Series: Books 1-4

  Love Remembers

  by

  Nancy Morse

  About this book

  Photojournalist Julia Rowan traveled to Africa two years after the Great War ended to photograph the wildlife migration, but something happened that sent her back to America unable to remember her past. Now, hoping to find out what happened and regain what she lost, she has returned to British East Africa and turns to Jonathan Shane for help.

  Grandson of European settlers, Jonathan is struggling to put his wartime experiences behind him and save his coffee farm in the midst of the worst drought in decades. Bitter over Julia’s unexplained disappearance from his life two years ago, reluctant to open his heart to her again, yet unable to refuse her plea for help, he waits with tortured patience for her to remember him and the love they shared.

  As they journey into the African bush in search of the answers to unlock her memory, the legacy of the ancient stone she wears around her neck, and the dangerous secret embedded in her memory, can cost t
hem both their lives. And as Julia finds herself falling in love with the blue-eyed coffee farmer, she discovers that what her mind cannot recall, love remembers.

  Chapter One

  In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni

  British East Africa, 1922

  It was one of those hot, clear days typical of the Mara Triangle. The high equatorial sun bleached the sky. In the far distance a giant storm was moving slowly westward. Bolts of lightning shot out from great mushrooming thunderheads. The peal of thunder sounded faintly in the distance, and the earth trembled from the far-off storm. But here in the rolling savanna country the rains did not come.

  Sitting erect in the saddle, Jonathan Shane’s gaze seared across the land. There was a menace in the great landscape, the possibility of the unexpected. To a man like Jonathan, it was the only thing that made everything else in life bearable. It was that very menace that made him glance down at the .470 double rifle laying across his legs, a weapon powerful enough to stop a charging rhino while providing for a very quick second shot.

  Jonathan removed the wide-brimmed cloth hat from his head. Droplets of moisture fell from the tips of his sandy brown hair to dot the shoulders of a khaki shirt that matched the drab surroundings. He ran a rolled-up sleeve across his brow to blot the wetness as he watched the storm in the distance. He could see it all, self-contained, from one side to the other, as it moved slowly, inexorably away. With it went any hope of a reprieve for the drought-stricken land.

  This was the worst drought Jonathan had seen in decades. Waterholes were drying up. The grasses of the Serengeti were like straw. Tornadoes of dust skipped across the land. The animals were thirsty and irritable, as if the hot, dry wind was sucking at the marrow in their bones. But it was more than the devastating effects of the drought on the land and the wildlife that affected him. If the rains didn’t come soon, he stood to lose this season’s coffee crop, and the farm would surely sink into bankruptcy.

  The red dust of Africa billowed behind his horse’s hooves as he rode away. He’d come much farther than usual today in order to observe the drought conditions. For anyone who didn’t know better, it was by all indications a quiet day. But having been raised in this vast, unforgiving land, Jonathan knew better.

  Sure enough, vultures were circling the sky. Something was out there, just over a rock-studded hill, something dead or dying. His fingers flexed nervously on the reins. It was hot. The elephant skeleton he’d seen earlier, its bones bleached white by the sun, tusks hacked out for the lucrative ivory trade, had put him in a short-tempered mood. Ivory was as precious as gold, and he had no desire to view the carcass of another dead animal shot by a greedy hunter. He wanted to get back to the farm before nightfall, eat whatever his Indian cook put before him, and then lay atop his mattress and wait for sleep to take him away from thoughts of poachers and drought, but most of all, from the memories that haunted him.

  Two years, he thought, should have been long enough to crawl out from under the weight of all the things he wanted to forget. He’d gotten to the point where he could actually go a day or two without thinking about the past and experiencing the pain that accompanied the betrayal. But the nights were different. He would lay in bed, peering through the mosquito netting at the hazy moonlight that filtered in through the window, listening to the far-off roar of lions, praying for the sanctuary that only sleep could bring, only to awaken in a fevered state from dreams of a beautiful face and a deep-throated laugh.

  How could his instincts about her have been so wrong? He’d gotten himself in too deep, and the fall, when it came, was so hard that even now, two years later, he was still reeling from the repercussions of it. Nevertheless, the truth of it was that he wanted to remember every last agonizing minute of it so that he would never make the same mistake again.

  But on this hot, hazy day an even stronger impulse made him turn in the direction of the vultures in the sky. He rode to the base of a hill and tethered his horse beneath a fever tree. Grasping his rifle, he climbed to the top of the hill and dropped to his belly to peer into the donga below.

  A pride of lions was stalking an Overland Roadster lying on its side in the narrow, steep-sided ravine. Jonathan counted eight lionesses. The cubs were hanging back in the grass. An adult male emerged from the brush, all lean muscle and stealth. It was Black and Tan. The big cat had been killing the cattle of the Masai herdsmen and had a price on its head, making it a target for game hunters. He’d been tracking it for months, hoping to catch it and release it in the Serengeti. But all thought of capturing Black and Tan vanished from Jonathan’s mind when he spotted a movement in the motorcar. Someone was in there. Someone who was about to become lunch for a pride of hungry lions.

  Lifting his rifle, he fired into the air, but the pride didn’t scatter. Several tenacious females hung in, unwilling to give up their prey. Black and Tan let out a chilling bellow.

  Jonathan had to do something quick. With rifle in hand, he took a deep breath and made a run for it. He didn’t have to see the lions to know they were behind him. He could hear the dry grass rustling from their rushing bodies and smell the strong musk of their summer coats. He managed a hasty look over his shoulder. One female was closing in on him. To stop and turn around now to shoot would be suicide.

  The sunlight momentarily blinded him as he ran. He didn’t see the figure that emerged briefly and then disappeared back into the car, but there was no mistaking the shot that cracked the summer air, nor the acrid odor of gunpowder that stung his nostrils. Turning back, he saw the lioness drop in the grass and the rest of the pride scatter.

  Jonathan’s heart hammered as he approached the vehicle and climbed onto its fender to look inside. What he saw stunned him.

  There was a woman inside, her body slumped in the seat, lips cracked, face unrecognizable beneath dirt and matted strands of hair. Close by was the Rigby .350 bolt-action rifle she’d used to kill the lioness.

  He lifted the nearly unconscious woman out and carried her to a nearby tree, then dashed back to his horse to retrieve his canteen. Dropping to his knees beside her, he raised her head and held the canteen to her lips. At first the water slid unnoticed over her mouth. Then, with a flutter of dust-laden lashes and a quiver of swollen lips, she regained consciousness and gulped as much as she could, coughing in the process.

  “Take it easy,” he cautioned, removing the canteen from her lips

  He untied the white cotton bandana from around his neck and saturated it with water. She made no protest when he slid the wet cloth to the back of her neck to cool her overheated skin. He opened the top button of her safari shirt and was about to apply the cool compress to her skin when he froze in mid-motion.

  Around her neck, suspended on a chain of silver links, was an iron cross. At its center a translucent red disk glowed in the brilliant sunshine. A bolt of recognition slammed into him. He’d seen that red disk before. Turning it over, he ran his thumb across the inscription worn thin by the passage of centuries. In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni. The shining red orb cast a reddish glow over his fingers as he let it slip back against her flesh.

  With a knot in his throat, he bathed her face with the wet bandana, starting at her forehead and working down across her checks. The layer of dirt he washed away revealed smooth cheeks and a brow that were all too familiar to him. Her lashes, no longer caked with red dust, framed eyes that were the color of dark coffee, eyes he remembered only too well. He glanced around. The lioness lay lifeless in the grass. The tilting vehicle looked like a giant carcass. Overhead, the vultures were still circling. Looking back down at the woman, he felt sick.

  He staggered to his feet and returned to the Roadster. Inside, he spotted a calfskin suitcase. He grabbed the suitcase and the rifle and returned to the barely conscious woman. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her to his horse. Her body felt slender and supple, as light as a feather and incredibly warm to the touch. Securing the suitcase and rifle to the back of th
e saddle, he got her onto the horse and mounted behind her. The vultures didn’t wait for him to ride away before swooping down to feed on the dead lioness.

  Twilight was stretching across the African plain as Jonathan headed for home. A blood-red sun touched down on a cloudless horizon in a burst of crimson afterglow just as a crescent yellow moon rose in the eastern sky. The simultaneous panorama of sun and moon lasted only minutes before the land turned pitch black.

  Jonathan tried hard to concentrate on something other than the woman, but her warm body, lithe and pliant against him, and her dark-haired head resting against his shoulder made it impossible to think of anything except her.

  Beautiful seemed too simple a word to describe her. She seemed oddly out of place amidst the parched surroundings. He snorted at the cruel irony of it. Of all the places on earth for her to wind up, why did it have to be in the middle of his world? What was she doing here? Why had she come back?

  Chapter Two

  The moon was high when Jonathan arrived back at the mud brick house in the misty blue shadow of the Ngong hills. Kibbi appeared on the veranda, firing questions at him in Swahili. Moving past the tall, lanky Masai, Jonathan made his way through the parlor to the bedroom.

  “Bring her valise inside, would you?” he grumbled. “And make a glass of lemonade. And don’t ask me any more questions, because I don’t know.”

  He laid her gently on his bed, and then stood over her for several minutes looking down at her pallid face, studying the smooth and perfect features and feeling the bitterness welling up inside of him.