by Cheryl Holt
SOMEONE TO LOVE
Prologue
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
Chapter 24
SOMEONE TO WED
Praise
Books By Cheryl Holt
Copyright
About the Author
“Are they bad men?”
Caro peered at Libby, waiting to hear her decision. Libby was their leader. Libby was in charge. She was very bossy and liked to tell them how to behave, and Caro was happy to let her. They were only five, and there were too many huge problems to solve. Libby liked to pretend she knew what was best.
Caro didn’t bother to seek Joanna’s opinion. Joanna hadn’t talked in ages, so it was pointless to expect a response.
“They might be bad,” Libby said, “or they might not.”
“How can we be sure?”
When Joanna’s mother had still been alive, she’d warned them to watch out for strangers. The Caribbean was awash with pirates and other criminals who would be eager to kidnap a little girl. They had to constantly be vigilant.
They were up on the promontory, the highest point on the island. Earlier that morning, sails had appeared on the horizon, and gradually, a large ship had come closer and closer. Finally, it had dropped anchor out in the bay.
Sailors scurried about, tying down the canvas and seeing to various chores. A man in a blue coat studied the island through a brass spyglass. He gestured toward their dilapidated hut, then orders were shouted, and two long boats were lowered.
A dozen sailors scampered down the rope ladder and jumped into the boats, then they rowed for shore.
“What should we do?” Caro asked Libby.
“Hide,” was Libby’s quick reply.
“Where?”
Joanna slipped her hand into Caro’s and gripped it tight. She was trembling, but then, she was younger than Libby and Caro. She frightened more easily and fretted more intensely.
“In the hut,” Libby said. “In the traveling trunks.”
Many objects from their sunken ship had washed ashore, including several trunks filled with adult clothes and other personal items.
“It’s the first place they’ll look,” Caro complained.
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Let’s sneak into the jungle.”
“The traveling trunks are safer.”
“No, they’re not.”
The long boats were getting nearer, the man in the blue coat perched at the front like an angry statue. His coat was covered with medals, ribbons, and gold braids.
Joanna was tired of listening to them argue. She started off, dragging Caro away from the cliff and out of sight of the men who were swiftly approaching. Libby and Caro glared at each other, then Libby ran in one direction, while Caro and Joanna ran in the other.
The island was very small, so there weren’t many spots where they could conceal themselves. Caro chose a tree in the center where rain had carved a hole around the roots. They snuggled into it, Joanna still fiercely gripping her hand.
“Don’t worry,” Caro whispered. “They won’t find us.”
Joanna stared, wide-eyed with alarm. From the minute so many months prior when the storm had struck their own ship, people had been telling Joanna that she’d be fine. She didn’t believe it anymore, and neither did Caro.
They hovered under the tree forever, but ultimately, three sailors stomped toward them. One of them blustered over and knelt down.
“Out with you,” he said, but they didn’t move. “Come out. Do you understand me? Do you speak English?”
They still didn’t move, but gaped at him as if he were a peculiar creature they’d never observed previously. For an eternity, it had just been Caro, Libby, and Joanna, and the encounter seemed to be occurring in a dream, as if they’d never seen another human.
He grabbed Joanna’s ankle and pulled her out. She wailed with dismay, and her fear galvanized Caro. She always yearned to be more like Libby who wasn’t afraid of anything, and Libby and Joanna were Caro’s only friends, her only family. They were like sisters, only closer than sisters. She wouldn’t permit anybody to harm Joanna.
She burst from the hole like a wild animal, and she attacked the man, wrestling and clawing to yank Joanna away from him, but the other men seized her and pinned her arms to her sides until she lost the energy to keep fighting.
“We won’t hurt you,” a sailor repeated over and over. “You don’t have to be scared of us. We’ll help you.”
“Is your mother here?” another asked. “Or your father?”
“No.” Caro’s voice sounded rusty and rough.
“Are there any grownups with you?”
“No.”
“Where are they? What happened to them?”
“They died. What would you suppose?”
“Were you in a shipwreck?”
“Yes. In a really, really big storm.”
The men exchanged glances Caro couldn’t decipher. What were they thinking?
“We should take them to the captain,” one of them said. “He’ll be stunned. They’re like a couple of orphaned wolf pups.”
“We’re not wolves,” Caro protested. “We’re girls. Can’t you tell the difference?”
“Yes, you’re girls, very pretty little girls.”
Caro figured he was simply being polite. At the moment, they weren’t pretty, but were incredibly bedraggled.
Their hair was knotted and bleached white from the sun. They were scrubby and barefoot, their dresses faded and bleached white too. Their skin was bronzed though, the slow, lazy days on the tropical beach burnishing them so they were the color of copper coins.
The men marched off, with Joanna and Caro encircled so they couldn’t dash away. They walked out of the jungle and onto the sand where their meager hut sagged under a palm tree. Joanna’s mother had built it before she’d passed away. It was merely some logs they’d scrounged and stacked together, and they’d covered them with palm fronds. It wasn’t much, but it provided shelter from the occasional rain squalls.
For a brief instant, she hoped Libby had escaped, but no. She’d been found too. The man with the medals and ribbons on his coat was standing beside her. While Caro watched, he picked up Libby and balanced her on his hip—as if she were a baby.
Caro’s first reaction was jealousy. She wished the man would pick her up too; she’d feel so much better if he would. Her second reaction was that the men weren’t bad or dangerous. They might actually fix what was wrong.
As she realized adults would be in charge, that adults would begin making the decisions, tears flooded her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. Maybe everything would finally be all right.
Twenty years later . . .
Caroline Grey strolled down the lane, her heavy basket banging against her thigh. She’d been to the village, having offered to complete some errands for their housekeeper, Mrs. Scruggs. She was on her way back to the manor, but she was in no hurry.
It was a beautiful July afternoon, the sky blue with fluffy clouds drifting by. The
temperature was so warm she hadn’t needed a shawl, and she’d left her bonnet behind too, enjoying the chance to have the sun shine on her face.
Though it was considered unladylike to have her skin darken even the tiniest bit, she always worried that she looked much too pale. It was an exasperating affectation she’d adopted after she’d been rescued from her deserted island where she’d lived with Libby and Joanna.
When those navy sailors had stumbled on them—quite by accident, she’d been told—she’d been bronzed as a penny. Over the subsequent weeks and months, as her tanned hue had faded, she’d suffered from the constant perception that she was becoming invisible and that, shortly, no one would be able to see her.
As with so many aspects of that terrible period, she’d never shared the story with others. Her relatives didn’t like to be reminded of her history, so at an early age, she’d learned not to talk about it, but whenever she could revel in the sun, she did.
She wasn’t invisible. She hadn’t disappeared. She’d survived the very worst ordeal a person could survive, and it had imbued her with odd quirks and old fears she kept carefully hidden.
If her uncle or cousins had the slightest inkling of some of the musings that consumed her, they’d probably lock her in an asylum. Her family liked to blend in and never be noticed for any peculiarity, so they didn’t like people gossiping about what had happened to her.
Then of course, there was the issue with her parents who’d perished in the shipwreck. Her father had been a wastrel who’d driven her Puritanical grandfather to fantastic levels of outrage. The last straw had occurred when he’d wed Caroline’s mother without permission, so at the time of his death, he’d been disowned and disinherited.
Her grandfather had never forgiven her parents. In his stern, unbending opinion, not even their violent demise absolved them of the sins they’d committed. She’d been exhaustively lectured over how she had their tainted blood flowing in her veins and that she would have to fight the immoral urges that would rule her if she wasn’t cautious.
She thought it was all very silly. She didn’t remember her parents and couldn’t guess if they’d been wildly immoral.
When she, Libby, and Joanna had arrived in England from Jamaica, they’d been dubbed the Lost Girls and the Mystery Girls of the Caribbean. Shocking articles had been printed in the newspapers about their being abandoned and alone on their tiny island.
They’d been too young to provide much information about their kin, and the authorities had struggled to locate their relatives. In the process, they’d fended off charlatans and liars as various criminal types had stepped forward to claim connections.
She’d been sent to live with her Grandfather Walter who hadn’t wanted to have her thrust on him. To her great dismay, there had been no more dour, grim man in the whole kingdom, so it had been a horrific spot for her, and it had guaranteed her recuperation from the tragedy was very slow.
His household had been a quiet, miserable place, so even though she’d returned to England with a myriad of emotional problems, there had been no kindly aunties or even any servants who might have helped her adapt.
Every adult had pretended that no unusual incident had transpired, so she’d had to pretend too. With it being the twentieth anniversary of their rescue, she was more overwhelmed than ever, but putting on a good show.
She spent every second trying to fit in, to prove she’d overcome the dreadful event, but she hadn’t really. Who would have?
A horse’s hooves clopped on the gravel behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder, curious as to who was approaching. Over the next week, they had company arriving, with numerous people scheduled to roll in from London, so it could be anyone.
She wasn’t nearly as excited about the pending festivities as she should have been, which was the main reason she’d gone to the village for Mrs. Scruggs. Caroline was the lady of the house, serving as hostess for her widowed Uncle Samson, and she should have been pacing in the front parlor and eager to greet their guests.
Yet she was conflicted about what was occurring, conflicted about her role, conflicted about her future. When she was distressed, she felt very claustrophobic, so she’d had to get outside, knowing she would calm down once she could breathe the fresh air.
The walk had been beneficial. It had settled her down, so she could display a modicum of civility. She forced a smile and spun toward the horse. A man was on its back, and she caught herself gawking at him. She couldn’t stop.
He was incredibly handsome in a way that was stirring. His hair was blond, the color of golden wheat, and he had aristocratic features—high cheekbones, strong nose, generous mouth. He was thin and muscular, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow, his legs muscled and impossibly long.
His eyes were the most riveting. They were very blue, very direct and probing. They seemed to cut right through her and catalogue every detail.
He reined in and studied her too, and she didn’t have to wonder what he saw. Her grandfather had relentlessly scolded her about pride, but she wasn’t blind.
With her black hair and blue eyes, she was very pretty and, in a world where practically everyone was blond, she was unique. It was a fact that had always thrilled her. She wasn’t curvaceous though, as an adult female should be. She was short and too slender, her body never fully recovering from her ordeal on the island.
She’d been in England for two decades, but they hadn’t been easy decades. She never ceased fretting over the most trivial things, and she had worry lines that made her appear older than she was.
“Hello,” he said, his voice a deep baritone that tickled her innards. “I’m bound for Grey’s Corner. Have I ridden down the correct lane? Or am I lost?”
“You’re on the correct lane.”
“Praise be. I’m a Londoner, and all these country roads look exactly the same to me. I was afraid I might never reach my destination.”
“You’re almost there.”
He dismounted and came over to her. He had a confident swagger, as an army soldier might have, and she suspected he was a veteran. He was that impressive and imposing.
He was very tall, six feet at least, so he towered over her. He was dressed casually, in leather trousers and black boots. As a bow to the temperate weather, he’d shed his coat as she had her shawl. He wore a flowing white shirt, the sleeves rolled to reveal his powerful forearms.
“Are you headed to the manor?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“May I accompany you?”
“Of course.”
“And may I carry your basket?”
The request had her momentarily taken aback. She ran the house for her Uncle Samson, and she was in charge of the servants and the daily operations, but it was a rare circumstance when she was offered even the most paltry assistance.
“Why, yes,” she said, “you may carry it for me.”
He shifted it from her hand to his, and for the briefest instant, their fingers touched. It was very strange, but she felt that light caress clear down to her toes.
She introduced herself. “I am Miss Grey. Are we expecting you?”
“I hope I’m expected. I’m Mr. Caleb Ralston.”
On learning his surname, she tamped down a blanch of surprise. The captain who’d rescued them in the Caribbean had been a Captain Miles Ralston. They’d spent a few days on his ship, then he’d delivered them to the authorities in Jamaica. They’d never seen him again, and Caroline occasionally pondered him.
Might he still be alive? At the time, he’d seemed very old to her, but she’d been so young. She couldn’t guess what his current age might be, but she’d love to correspond with him, to thank him for saving her. She never had. When they’d parted from him, she hadn’t realized it would be forever.
She possessed such an intense fondness for him, and whenever she heard his name, she wondered
if she’d stumbled on a relative. But because her grandfather had forbidden her to discuss her past, she never raised the topic, so she never inquired about Captain Ralston, and it was probably for the best.
If she was revealed to be a Lost Girl, people stared as if she had two heads or blue skin, so her history remained a dear and private secret.
Fortunately, Mr. Ralston hadn’t noticed her heightened interest over his identity. She smiled up at him, and when he smiled back, it was so dazzling that she was practically knocked over by it.
She warned herself to buck up and stop acting like a ninny, and she calmly said, “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Ralston. I’m delighted that so many of Gregory’s London friends could attend.”
“My brother, Blake, will be here too, but not until tomorrow. Gregory tells me the manor will be filled with beautiful women.”
“Gregory told you that? I can’t imagine him boasting about it. He’s not exactly the type to wax poetic.”
“No, not usually, but in this case, he was very vocal on the subject. He claims to have gorgeous female kin, so which Miss Grey are you?”
She chuckled, but with exasperation. “I am his cousin, Caroline.”
He assessed her cryptically, then murmured, “Ah. . . the blushing bride-to-be.”
“Yes.”
Gregory was her Uncle Samson’s only son and heir, with Samson having sired a daughter too, Caroline’s other cousin, Janet. Caroline had been engaged to Gregory since she’d turned seventeen, with her Uncle Samson announcing the plan and giving her very little latitude to object.
And she hadn’t objected. Not really. It made sense for her and Gregory to wed—cousins always did—and it wasn’t as if she’d had a thousand suitors lined up and demanding to marry her instead. She had no dowry or prospects, and she was considered to be very odd due to her being a famous Lost Girl.
Gregory was the sole nuptial choice ever presented. Why wouldn’t she wed him? Why wouldn’t she have agreed?
If she’d refused the match, he’d have ultimately picked someone else. He was thirty and had to get on with the business of starting a family. If he’d selected a different bride, Caroline would have had to let a stranger take over in the manor. She might even have been asked to move out, but where would she have gone?
