Heart's Desire

ONE

PROLOGUE

At first Boy didn’t understand what was happening. It was very dark and very late, and he couldn’t recall where he was or why he was there.

Recently, so many terrible things had occurred. Where was Mother? Where was Father? Why had they left Boy all alone? How could he find them and bring them back?

He was so sad without them. He wanted to go home and sleep in his own bed. He wanted to hear his mother laughing and singing. He wanted his dashing father to burst in the door—after being away for so long. His father’s happy excitement would flow over all of them, and they’d smile and be glad he’d arrived.

His father would toss Boy in the air and say, You’re so tall! Look how much you’ve grown!

It was all gone though, and he kept glaring at various adults, demanding they explain, demanding they fix what was wrong, but they wouldn’t listen.

Someone was shaking him, but he was so tired he couldn’t open his eyes.

Wake up! Wake up! a man bellowed.

There’s no time to rouse him, a woman frantically hissed. Just carry the blighter! Hurry!

He was whisked from under the blankets, and he glanced around, trying to make sense of where he was. Then he smelled it.

Smoke…smoke everywhere…

He could barely catch his breath, and he peered into the face of the man holding him.

Mr. Wilson…

Now he remembered.

Mr. Wilson had been at the docks earlier that afternoon when they’d been allowed to say goodbye to Mother. Mr. Etherton had been there too, and he’d forced Boy to leave with Mr. and Mrs. Wilson.

But Boy had refused to go with them, had tried to get onto the ship with his mother, to go where she was going. But Mr. Wilson had picked him up and carted him off, and though Boy had struggled and kicked, Mr. Wilson was too big, and Boy couldn’t wrestle free.

They’d ridden in a carriage all day and had stopped at a coaching inn for the night. In the morning, they’d travel on to school, but Boy didn’t comprehend what that meant. He didn’t want to attend school, didn’t want to live with strangers.

Boy was clasped to Mr. Wilson’s chest, and Mr. Wilson stumbled out of their room and into the hall. Stunned guests were coughing, running, shouting, Fire! Fire!

The smoke was thicker in the hall, and down by the stairs, flames were burning on the wall. The curtains on the window ignited with a deafening whoosh!

Lord almighty! Mr. Wilson cursed, and he turned and went the other way, but there were flames there too.

Mrs. Wilson screamed, and Mr. Wilson spun to her, but Boy couldn’t see her anywhere. Suddenly she appeared, like a ghost stepping out of the gloom. She was clutching Brother, as Mr. Wilson was clutching Boy. Boy reached out to Brother. He was Boy’s twin, Boy’s friend, Boy’s other half.

People always told them they should talk aloud—they were three years old after all—but when Boy was with Brother, there was no need to talk. They spoke to each other in their heads. They understood without speaking.

Their fingers linked for just an instant, then Mr. Wilson whipped away. Boy squirmed and fought, trying to grab for Brother again.

Hold still, you wild cat, Mr. Wilson scolded. Let’s get you out of here, then you can huddle with Michael all you want.

Michael…yes. Brother was Michael and Boy was Matthew, but names weren’t necessary between them. They were one person, one no different from the other.

Boy continued to tussle, watching for Brother, watching to be sure Mrs. Wilson was keeping up. Boy and Brother had to be together. They could never be separated, not for a single second. Everyone knew that.

Someone called, This way! This way!

Mr. Wilson ran toward the voice, hollering, Stay close, Mrs. Wilson. Don’t lose sight of me.

But Mrs. Wilson didn’t answer.

Mr. Wilson pounded down the stairs. The heat was intense, and when they arrived on the lower floor, flames were shooting around them. Unseen hands gripped them and pulled them outside. They lurched into the cold, bracing air.

Mr. Wilson plodded on until they were a safe distance away from the building, then he dropped Boy to the ground. There were dazed groups everywhere, dressed in their nightclothes, as Boy and Mr. Wilson were dressed in theirs. They hovered in the grass, gulping deep breaths, the inn a red scar of fire against the starry black sky.

It was very loud, the noises scary. People were wailing, begging for help. Cries of anguish wafted from those still trapped inside, while others who’d already escaped were shouting orders, shouting directions. Horses neighed with fear, pigs squealed, women sobbed.

Boy stared at the building, silently commanding Mrs. Wilson and Brother to appear, but they didn’t emerge. He scowled, terrified and wondering what to do.

Dammit, Mrs. Wilson, Mr. Wilson muttered. Where are you?

He spun to Boy, leaning down so they were nose to nose.

I’m going in after them, he told Boy. They were right behind us. They have to be near the door.

Boy’s eyes widened with dismay, and he wanted to say, I don’t think you should go in there!

But Boy was a child, and Mr. Wilson was an adult. He was supposed to know best.

You stay here, Mr. Wilson said. Don’t move a muscle, do you hear me?

Boy nodded, indicating he’d remain where he was.

In their hasty flight from the room, Mr. Wilson had managed to retrieve a pouch of papers, the leather strap around his neck. He yanked it off and tossed it to Boy.

Don’t you dare lose that bloody thing. It’s important.

Boy nodded again. He wouldn’t lose it. It had been his father’s satchel. Mother had stored it in her closet. It was the only item he had of theirs. He’d keep it forever.

For a moment, Mr. Wilson studied the inferno, then he raced to the spot from which they’d just exited.

The windows were aglow with flames, the roof too. Smoldering globs of ash were falling, lighting their surroundings, so it was easy to see Mr. Wilson’s hulking form as he staggered to the porch and went in.

You deranged fool! a man barked. What are you about? Are you mad?

The man reached out to stop Mr. Wilson, but couldn’t grab him in time to prevent him from reentering.

Mr. Wilson hurried inside, shouting for Mrs. Wilson, shouting for Brother, and though Boy waited and waited and waited, none of them ever came out…

CHAPTER ONE

Wake up!

Matthew Harlow heard the curt summons, but he was dreaming fitfully and couldn’t rouse himself.

It was a beautiful summer day in August, and he was napping on the ground, the grass providing a welcome cushion. The prior evening, he’d over-imbibed in a manner he normally never would, so he had a ghastly hangover. As they’d galloped down the country road, his head had been pounding so fiercely he’d finally had to stop.

He’d found a shady spot under the bows of a huge oak tree and dozed off.

Wake up!

The voice came again, and he swatted with his hand and sank back into his dream. Or perhaps he should call it a nightmare. When he was a little boy, he’d nearly died in a fire at a coaching inn, and the memory had plagued him all his life. It seemed to represent a great loss, the final time he’d been truly happy—though why that would be so, he couldn’t imagine.

He was trying, as usual, to escape the flames. The halls were chaotic, people running and crying. He reached out to someone who was hidden from view, and he stretched farther and farther, never quite able to grasp the person who was waiting for him out there in the dark.

His nostrils filled with smoke. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t…

Matthew!

He jolted to a sitting position, the details vivid enough that he expected to be three years old again and racing down the burning stairs.

But no, he was nestled under the oak. His annoying, dashing younger brother, Rafe Harlow, was seated next to him, their horses hobbled down by the creek and munching on the grass.

What time is it? Matthew asked.

I’m not a clock, Rafe replied. How would I know?

How long was I asleep?

Too bloody long, and I’m sick of dawdling here, listening to you wail like a baby. Was it the fire dream or the ship dream?

The fire.

Matthew had always had bad dreams, but they generally alternated between two subjects: a fire and a departing ship. He and Rafe had shared a bed when they were children, so Rafe had had plenty of opportunities to witness Matthew moaning with dismay and thrashing around.

Let’s get going, Rafe said. I want this over with.

I don’t.

So you’ve claimed on a hundred different occasions. You’re the most ungrateful lout.

I’m not ungrateful, Matthew said. I’m…exhausted.

Whose fault is that? You’ve been reveling like a man on his way to the gallows.

This will be difficult—the whole affair. Our arrival. The transfer of ownership. I don’t have the energy, and with this hangover, I’ll probably make a mash of it.

You always make a mash of it. You’re too stubborn and inflexible, so you simply bluster in and piss everyone off.

I wish I’d never saved a single soul.

You’d have rather they all drowned?

No, Matthew groused, but if I’d been a tad less noble, we’d still be in Europe, tending to the sort of business we understand.

Soldiering… Rafe uttered the term like an endearment, like a caress.

They were soldiers, with Rafe a lowly private and Matthew a tough, hardened captain. He had years of valorous combat under his belt. He wasn’t afraid of anything, never quailed or dithered, never cowered or retreated, and Rafe was learning his worst habits.

Soldiering they comprehended. Soldiering was where they excelled. They’d been raised in a world of men, thrived in a world of men. It’s what they knew, what they enjoyed. Diplomacy and tact were what eluded Matthew. He said what he thought, spoke his mind, and deftly carried out every order and promise.

People who assumed he wouldn’t, who misjudged or underestimated him, did so at their peril. He was too used to having his own way.

He had all the traits necessary to be a good leader, to convince men to follow him. With his bold strength and unfailing courage, men yearned to imitate him, to be like him, but none of them could ever hope to muster his brave daring.

As to women…?

He had limited experience with women, other than the rough and tumble types in army camps and port towns. He’d never spent much time around females, unless it was to have them perform salacious services. His only variation had been his recent decision to keep a mistress.

Penelope Bernard was British, and he’d met her in Belgium at an officers’ soiree. She was the daughter of an important government official, but he couldn’t see that her behavior was much different from any other trollop.

She had several scandals in her past, which was why she’d been hiding in Belgium, having been banished there by her father. Her illicit path was widely recognized, so marriage for her wasn’t likely, and she was happy to find an idiot like Matthew to pay her bills.

He’d involved himself in a manner he’d never intended, and already he was wondering what had possessed him. But then, she was extremely proficient on a mattress, and a man could never discount such a boon.

How far is it to Greystone? he asked.

I’m not a map either, Rafe snapped.

You’re a ray of sunshine today, aren’t you?

My hangover is worse than yours, but you don’t hear me complaining every two seconds.

No, you just bite my head off at every turn.

Well, I’m tired of you.

I’m tired of me too.

Rafe pushed himself to his feet. Get a move on, you bloody hero.

Don’t call me that.

What, hero?

Yes. You know I hate all the fuss.

You didn’t seem to when we were standing in that cocked-up salon at the palace and everyone was cheering your name.

Matthew rolled his eyes. It was pointless folderol.

You had every beauty in the room hanging on your arm.

There is that.

It put Penelope’s nose out of joint to see that gaggle drooling over you.

She needs to have her nose tweaked every so often.

That she does, Rafe agreed.

For all of the life Matthew remembered, it had been just him and Rafe. Matthew was thirty and Rafe twenty-two, with Matthew the older, wiser, tougher brother who’d watched over Rafe, protected him, and never left him behind.

With them being the only siblings in the Harlow family, Rafe had never had to share Matthew with anyone or compete for Matthew’s attention. Rafe loathed Penelope and was jealous of Matthew’s relationship with her, but it was silly for him to fret.

She was stunningly pretty, but acted like a whore. She was also vain and greedy, so there was much about her that was unlikable. He suspected—if Greystone turned out to be magnificent—she’d attempt to finagle a marriage proposal out of him.

But Matthew wasn’t a fool and—should he ever wed—he’d never pick such a spoiled, immoral brat. He’d marry for love and affection, which were things he thought he might have once had, but had lost somewhere along the way.

Rafe oozed appeal and charisma, his bravery and boldness indisputable, but he was a child at heart, and Matthew would never choose Penelope over Rafe. Matthew’s bond with Rafe was unbreakable and eternal.

Let’s go, Rafe urged again. Since we’re unsure of how far we still have to travel, I’d rather not arrive in the dark.

Neither would I.

Head pounding, Matthew stood and brushed off his clothes while Rafe readied the horses. They mounted and rode on, the name of his new estate—Greystone—echoing with each clop of hooves.

After another hour or so, they found the front gate, a pretentious arch over the entrance, with Greystone chiseled into the stone. They reined in and studied the lane that wound into the woods, the house not yet visible.

Ready? Rafe asked.

As ready as I’ll ever be.

I’ll race you.

We’re not racing, Matthew scolded. I have no desire to gallop in like a pair of bandits bent on robbery.

Do you think the servants know we’re coming?

The place is empty. It’s what I was told anyway.

What will we do for help?

Rafe, we’ve lived in army camps for…what? Fifteen years? Twenty years?

Yes.

We can fend for ourselves for a few days.

I guess we’ll survive.

Plus, I imagine they’re all in the village, waiting to hear if I’ll keep them on.

Will you?

It depends if I like their looks or not.

That’s what you say about soldiers under your command.

It’s the same animal. He nodded up the lane. You first.

"No, you first, Rafe insisted. It’s your property. You should lead us."

Matthew might have presumed Rafe was being courteous, except that his words dripped with sarcasm.

Ever since the night of his alleged heroics, they’d viewed the entire brouhaha as a hilarious nuisance. He’d been on that deserted beach by accident, watching as a ship had foundered in heavy seas, then been impaled on the sharp rocks of the coastline. It sank quickly, water sweeping over the deck.

Passengers had started jumping into the surf and almost all of them had been women and children. He’d always been a strong swimmer and had the courage of a lion, so he’d dove in and begun rescuing people. He’d done a fine job of it too, saving nearly everyone, with only a handful of the crew and some toddlers lost to the tempest.

Later, he learned that the ship was filled with the families of high-ranking British officers. They’d been on their way to visit their husbands and fathers in Belgium. And of course three of them had turned out to be favored royal cousins. After that discovery, Matthew’s intention to ignore the incident had evaporated.

He’d been decorated and praised and lauded until the clamor had grown embarrassing. The last straw had been his receipt of Greystone as a reward for his valor to the Crown and the citizens of Britain. It all seemed too much, and he’d planned to decline the gesture, but Rafe had yanked Matthew to his senses before he could make such a recklessly stupid decision.

Though no one would listen, Matthew kept insisting he’d simply behaved as any other man would have, but the honors had been foisted on him despite his protests. His acclaim had become so pronounced that he’d finally shrugged and opted to revel in the moment. It was interesting to have something different happen for a change, something that didn’t involve fighting and maiming and killing.

They rode into the woods, Matthew’s eyes alert, checking out the trees, the blue sky above. The woods opened to orchards, then meadows of grass where horses grazed and frolicked.

Eventually they rounded a bend, and it loomed in front of them. Greystone Abbey. It was huge, solid, constructed of grey brick and shaped like an ancient castle, with turrets—turrets!—on the corners, ivy clinging to the walls.

There it is, Rafe said. What do you think?

Matthew struggled to exhibit nonchalance. It’ll do, I suppose.

Bloody right, you lucky bastard.

Jaws agape, they stared and stared, taken aback by the grandeur, by the majesty. He’d expected a sturdy house, perhaps a few fields and a manicured garden. Not a castle fit for a king. Not orchards and herds of cattle and horses running in the pasture.

Matthew whistled and shook his head. Sweet Jesu…

How could you have ever thought to refuse all this, Matthew? Rafe asked. Are you sure this is the correct place?

I’m pretty sure. We can both read. The sign at the entrance said Greystone. I doubt there are two such estates in this part of the country.

Probably not. Rafe glanced over at him, his impish grin infectious. Are you ready for this?

Give me a minute. Matthew studied the Abbey, the barns behind, the rolling hills beyond. Clearly the servants were still in residence. He could see people going about their chores.

Rafe noticed the same. Nobody’s left.

No, it doesn’t appear they have.

If the servants are here, the Merricks are likely here too. If they are, this could get tricky.

It definitely could, Matthew agreed.

Greystone Abbey had previously been owned by a man named Harold Merrick who’d concocted a massive financial swindle. The deceit had ultimately defrauded several of the kingdom’s most notable aristocrats, as well as the Prince Regent and Duke of York.

As a result, Mr. Merrick had forfeited everything and been jailed, having had the good sense to hang himself in his cell before he could be shipped off to the penal colonies in Australia. His downfall had provided Matthew’s rise to prosperity, and while Matthew hated to consider Mr. Merrick’s loss, Merrick had obviously been an idiot, so no sympathy was warranted.

Yet…what about his family? If they were skulking about, feeling aggrieved and robbed of their heritage, they wouldn’t be happy to have Matthew riding in.

Let’s switch coats, Matthew said.

What?

For the moment, you’ll be Captain Harlow.

A promotion! Wonderful! Will I receive an increase in wages?

No.

But I’m to be your superior?

You’ll never be my superior, you wise buck. We’ll just play a game on the occupants until we learn the lay of the land.

They’ll think I’m you, but who will you be?

I’ll be Private Rafe Harlow, your trusted advisor and friend.

If we’re using the same surname, we have to admit we’re brothers.

All right, but no one ever believes we are.

And they weren’t, actually. Matthew had been raised by Rafe’s parents, taken in by them after the fire when Matthew was a little boy. Matthew’s parents had died in the tragedy, and in the chaotic aftermath, Rafe’s mother—who’d also been staying at the inn—had brought him home for what was to have been a short hiatus.

Yet no kin had ever searched for Matthew, and Mrs. Harlow had never been able to find a relative to claim him. Or so she’d said. She’d assumed herself to be barren, so she’d kept Matthew and reared him as her own. Then Rafe had come along and killed her during the birthing. Matters had gone downhill from there.

But they declared themselves to be brothers, though they were nothing alike. They were both six feet tall, with the tough, honed stature of soldiers, but Rafe was golden blond, charming, and dashing. Women studied him with keen interest whenever he passed by.

Matthew was handsome too, but his looks were more mature, more rough and tumble. His hair was dark, his eyes very, very blue, and with his dangerous air of menace and daring, he was more highwayman than gentleman. When he and Rafe stood side by side, they might have been an angel and a devil, the perfect pair for an artist to paint on a church ceiling.

How long do I get to be a captain? Rafe inquired.

Probably for a day or two. I’ll have a better feel for the place if no one’s certain of my status.

Can I act all arrogant and officious?

Yes, but if you grow too obnoxious, I’ll let you know.

"I could never be too obnoxious. I’m marvelous. Ask any of the ladies."

Matthew snorted with disgust. Give me your coat.

Rafe grinned. Once I have, can I order you around—as you’ve always ordered me?

No. Now shut up and give me your coat.

CHAPTER TWO

Clarissa Merrick walked down the path in the woods, a basket slung over her arm. She’d told her cousin, Angela, that she was off to pick flowers in the forest, but in reality, she’d had to escape the tension in the house. Life with the Merricks had never been calm or peaceful, but the past few years had been exceptionally trying.

Harold Merrick, the family patriarch, had perished in prison before he could be transported to the penal colonies. But in addition to that horrid fate, he’d been assessed many other penalties as punishment for his humiliating swindles. The largest was forfeiture of Greystone, a shock to all, but most especially to Clarissa who viewed Greystone as her home and couldn’t imagine having to leave.

The threat of eviction hung over everyone, casting a pall over every event and decision as they waited to learn what would happen.

Angela’s brother, Roland, had spent every second since their father’s downfall, fighting to save the property, fighting to ensure that Harold’s heirs—namely Roland—be allowed to keep what had been the Merrick ancestral seat for two centuries. So far, he’d lost every appeal, but he continued to plug away.

Clarissa had come to live with the Merricks when she was ten, when her mother had died, her father couldn’t be located, and Clarissa had had nowhere to go. Her childhood with her mother had been incredibly difficult, with little to eat and their constantly struggling to stay one step ahead of the debt collectors, so Greystone Abbey had seemed like Heaven.

She might have ended up in an orphanage, but a kindly preacher had prevailed on Harold—her mother’s distant cousin—to invite her to Greystone. For that compassionate gesture, she’d always be grateful, but Angela and Roland Merrick weren’t the most agreeable people with whom to reside. They were highly emotional, prone to exaggerated outbursts and temper tantrums.

Clarissa was unflappable and pragmatic, thoughtful and sincere, so she rarely participated in their frenzied explosions, which meant she’d never really fit in. Plus she was the proverbial poor relative, benefiting from their charity, and they never let her forget it.

She and Angela were the same age of twenty-five, and Harold had believed she and Angela would be great friends. But Angela found Clarissa to be a nuisance and treated her like a servant. No, she treated Clarissa worse than she treated the servants.

Angela was malicious and cruel, but Clarissa was used to it and couldn’t figure out why a person would be so hateful and petty, but there was no changing Angela. There was only quiet acceptance and a firm resolve to avoid her when she was in a snit.

Through the trees, Clarissa could see the chimneys of the Abbey. She paused to revel in the sight, even as she wondered how many more times she’d be able to dawdle in the woods and peer out at the magnificent place.

What if Roland ran out of appeals? What would become of them? She couldn’t guess.

With a sigh of regret, she started off again. She couldn’t hide in the forest forever, but as she rounded the last bend in the path that would lead her out into the manicured gardens, she stumbled, her basket dropping to the ground.

A soldier was blocking her way, his red coat a brilliant splash of color in the green hues of the foliage. His back to her, he stared intently at the Abbey, as if taking stock, as if assuming control. He heard her basket skid across the dirt, and he whipped about as if anticipating an attack.

His stern glower flummoxed her, and she gaped, uncertain whether to continue on or race off in the other direction.

He was very tall—six feet at least—but it wasn’t his excessive height that unnerved her. There was an air of authority about him, of power and ability, that was so stirring it wafted toward her like a tangible object.

Grand and imposing, imperious and magnificent, his shoulders were broad, his waist narrow. His hair was black, worn long and tied with a strip of leather, and he had the most spectacular, mesmerizing blue eyes. She’d never observed eyes like them before.

He was tan and fit, muscled and toned, his male form providing ample evidence of concentrated physical activity, of hours spent out-of-doors engaged in manly pursuits.

Madam. He dipped his head in greeting. You surprised me.

I’m sorry, but I wasn’t expecting anyone to be out here in the woods. She smiled, but he didn’t smile in return. And it’s not madam. It’s Miss.

I hope I didn’t startle you, Miss…?

Merrick. Miss Clarissa Merrick

You’re a Merrick family member?

Yes.

A daughter?

No.

What is your relationship to Harold Merrick?

He barked out his questions, his severe tone making it impossible to refuse to answer, and why wouldn’t she reply? There was no reason not to tell him of her connection to Harold.

Harold was my mother’s cousin.

I see. He studied her, his lazy gaze taking an inappropriate trip down her body, to her toes, then back up.

She wanted to ask, What is it you think you…see?

But she didn’t. She knew what inference was created when a woman of her advanced years announced herself to be a paltry cousin. It painted visions of an unwanted burden, a financial drain, and if the declaration hadn’t given him a hint of her status, her clothes definitely would have.

With her blond hair and blue eyes, she was pretty enough, but she’d never had an allowance, with Harold feeling he’d done plenty for her simply by offering her shelter. Clarissa’s wardrobe consisted of the garments Angela didn’t like, and with Angela being so spiteful, she handed off the most unflattering pieces in her closet.

Clarissa had become an excellent seamstress, necessity teaching her how to nip and tuck so the worst frills and fripperies were removed, but she couldn’t alter the colors of the fabrics.

Angela always parted with dresses that washed out Clarissa’s skin so she looked pale and sickly. Clarissa usually tried to be unobtrusive and inconspicuous, to never remind Angela and Roland that she was taking up space when they wished she wouldn’t.

Her current gown matched the modest image she normally sought to portray. It was grey with white trim at the neck and cuffs. She might have been a dowdy governess or unhappy nanny.

Why is the family still in residence? he asked.

Why wouldn’t we be? She frowned, realizing she had no idea who he was or why he was lurking. He had no business pressing her for information. You have me at a disadvantage, sir. We haven’t been introduced.

No, we haven’t.

He didn’t add more, didn’t supply his identity as he should have. Instead he marched toward her, covering the distance in four quick strides.

She stood her ground, watching him come, and she supposed she should have been afraid. After all, she was alone and far from the house. Yet she sensed no danger from him. He exuded power and control, but conveyed no impression of peril.

He towered over her, the toes of his boots slipping under the hem of her skirt. It was incredibly rude of him to stand so close, and in ordinary circumstances, she would have backed away. But it was obvious he was hoping to intimidate her, and he never could.

She’d lived with Angela and Roland for fifteen years, and if she wasn’t intimidated by them, she certainly wouldn’t be intimidated by a stranger.

She gazed up into his blue eyes, and it was the oddest thing, but with him so near there seemed to be a surge of energy flowing between them, as if the air around them was enlivened. She’d never previously suffered a similar reaction and wondered what could be causing it.

She’d had limited experiences with men and had never had a beau, although there had once been a neighbor boy when she was seventeen who’d been interested.

He’d decided to head to India to seek his fortune and had booked passage on a passenger ship, where he would work as a crewmember to earn his fare. She could have worked on it too, and he’d begged her to wed and travel with him, but Angela had swiftly put an end to the plan by scaring Clarissa with tales of risk and misery.

Yet Angela hadn’t needed to chide and fear-monger. Clarissa had declined simply because she’d possessed no affection for the boy. He’d kissed her a few times—her sole claim to amorous adventure—but his overtures had been half-hearted at best.

She’d understood that he’d been too cowardly to make the journey on his own, and there had been no other girl he could ask to accompany him. She was the only one with such scant ties to the area that she might have picked up and flitted off with him.

But she’d never felt special or wanted. Not as a child by her overburdened mother. Not by her kin who’d grudgingly allowed her to stay with them. She’d never had much in her life, but if she ever had the chance to marry, it would be to a man who loved her—as her tepid swain clearly hadn’t.

With his indifferent advances being her small foray into passion, she hadn’t been aware that bodily proximity to a handsome male could generate such turmoil. Was it common? Did it occur frequently between men and women? Or were their personal chemistries charging the atmosphere in a novel fashion?

Your name, sir. She demanded the information in the strictest tone she could muster. I insist you provide it, then you may explain why you’re hiding in our woods.

He didn’t clarify his presence, but said, You’re feisty, aren’t you?

At his assessment, she could have laughed aloud. Feisty was the last word she’d use to describe herself. Hardly, and you haven’t answered my question. Who are you and why are you at Greystone?

I am Mat… His voice trailed off, and he started again. I am Rafe Harlow.

It’s awfully difficult for you to remember your name. Why is that? Is it fake? Are you on the run from the army?

No, I’m not on the run. Why would you suspect something so ridiculous?

You’re hiding in the forest, and you can’t recall who you are.

I know who I am, and I’m not hiding.

Aren’t you?

No. I’m on furlough.

Furlough? she scoffed.

Yes.

But from the army?

Yes.

Your position?

Private.

"Private Rafe Harlow? She oozed skepticism. Seriously?"

Yes.

She finally took a step away, but it wasn’t because she feared him. She scrutinized his masculine demeanor and comportment. He was so striking and arresting, if he’d boasted of being a general, she’d have absolutely believed him. If he was a private, she’d eat her bonnet!

You’re lying, she said, about everything.

Am I?

Yes.

Why would I bother?

That’s what I’m trying to discover. Now admit what you’re about, or I’ll go to the house and bring some footmen to chase you away.

Even as she uttered the warning, she knew it was pointless. She was positive no one could chase him anywhere, certainly not a group of aging, arthritic servants.

He snorted with disgust. No footman could order me about.

He spun away and went to the edge of the trees again, to the spot where the woods ended and the gardens began. He studied the Abbey, the groomed lawns, the horses in the pastures. It was a bucolic sight, the sort an artist might paint as a rendering of a perfect summer afternoon in the English countryside.

She hovered behind him, wondering whether she should approach and stand next to him. She’d like to march on by, to proceed to the Abbey and notify Roland that an interloper was loitering, but she was disconcerted by how Private Harlow was evaluating the property. As if it was his own little kingdom. As if he ruled over all he surveyed.

She couldn’t let him slip away until he explained why he was prowling and spying. Hesitantly, she scooped up her