The viscount frowned as he studied the fabric. “But I understood we were already quilting.”
“We’re piecing. Quilting comes later.” Star shook her head. “I sure do hope somebody will build a quilting frame for me. I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t work a quilt in that big manor house. Quilting helps me keep my thoughts in order; it makes sense out of the world when things are mixed up and confusing.”
“Rather like the Almighty,” he said, to Star’s surprise. “I’ve learned that when nothing else makes sense, He does. He arranges events in proper order and sets our lives to right after we’ve put everything at sixes and sevens.”
“If we let Him,” she murmured. She searched the man’s face, praying for recognition in those blue eyes. If Grey could understand what she wanted to tell him next, Star felt, she would make her first true soul-to-soul connection in this new country.
“I’ve always thought of God as the Master Quilter,” she explained softly. “He takes the little worn-out patches that we give Him, the mistakes, the terrible holes we’ve caused with our sins, the frayed edges of our lives, and He pieces them all together into something beautiful and useful. If we give him our scraps, He can make quilts.”
“I agree,” he said. “Miss Ellis, have you a name for the quilt God is making of your life?”
She looked down at her lap. “Lone Star, I reckon. I’d sure like to be Star of Bethlehem—a ray of brilliance that everyone could look up to and count on, a bright light pointing the way to the Savior. But I doubt I’ll ever go to India and teach anyone about Jesus, and I’m not sure I’ll shine at all once I’ve married that baron. Lone Star, that’s me.”
Feeling suddenly ill at ease for revealing so much of herself, Star began gathering up the strips of diamonds. When she reached for a length of fabric on Grey’s lap, he caught her hand.
“Miss Ellis,” he said in a low, urgent voice.
“Star,” she corrected.
“It must be Miss Ellis from this moment on. I’ve news I must share with you. It’s about the earl of Brackenhurst. About his son. He has two sons, actually, but first I must tell you about the man you’re to marry, and then I must explain—”
“Rupert’s ugly, isn’t he?” Star stuffed her piecework back into her bag. “I just know he is. I mean, what else can go wrong? Here I am, ten thousand miles from home, headed for a bleak old stone manor on the misty moors of England and marriage to a stranger. I’ve tried to prepare myself for the worst, imagining that Rupert looks like Frankenstein’s monster, or Count Dracula—”
“He looks like me.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “Really?”
“And furthermore—”
“I thought you said you didn’t know him.”
“I do. I know him well. When you first spoke the surname of your intended husband, I misunderstood your pronunciation.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Grey.” She laid her hand on his. “No one around here can understand me. It’s as though I’m speaking a foreign language. If I can’t talk to anyone, if I can’t quilt, if I’m not allowed to string bob wire—barbed wire—well, I don’t want to even think about it. These are the pieces of my life. The shreds. The tatters. I’m giving them to God, and I’m praying He can make a quilt out of me.”
She struggled to hold back the tide of hot tears that stung her eyes. It would do no good to feel sorry for herself. The best thing to do was pray . . . and rest.
She leaned against the back of the seat and shut her eyes. “You’ll go to India, Africa, China,” she whispered. “You’ll help people. You’ll make a difference in the world. There’s a quilt pattern called Trip Around the World. That’s who you’ll be. And I’ll just have to trust the Master Quilter to make this Lone Star into something useful.”
“That he already has done. Miss Ellis, if I may be so bold, I would term you useful, beautiful, and a far more brilliantly shining light than you are aware.”
“Star of Bethlehem. No, I’m afraid not.” She leaned her head against the viscount’s broad, firm shoulder, his words comforting her heart. “May I rest here, Grey? I feel like I’m running down faster than a two-dollar watch. I’ve traveled so far, and I have to be at my best when I meet Rupert Cholmondeley.”
“Chumley,” the viscount said.
Star drifted in the sound of his voice as sleep wound cozily through her mind. Chumley. Chumley. Was that the pronunciation of her new surname? Chumley.
“Rested, Miss Ellis?” the viscount asked. “We’ve stopped at Doncaster for the midday meal.”
“Mercy!” Star exclaimed, coming awake inside the carriage. “I forgot you were there. You just about scared the living daylights out of me.”
As the elderly couple made their way out of the coach, Star realized—to her mortification—that she was snuggled against the man as though he were a cozy pillow. He had slipped his warm arm around her shoulder, and his enormous black greatcoat lay draped across her knees. Sitting upright as straight as possible, she righted her bonnet and brushed at the wrinkles in her skirt.
“I can’t believe I slept away the morning,” she said. “You must think I’m as lazy as a chilled lizard.”
The viscount chuckled. “Not at all. My journey from India was exhausting. Had I not been occupied with such a fascinating activity this morning, I’m quite certain I should have dozed as well. But—” and he made a dramatic pause—“I have been piecing.”
He held up a length of calico diamonds that looked like a rattler run over by a wagon wheel. Star clapped a hand over her mouth, torn between horror and amusement. With stitches that looked like scattered hay, the jewel-colored patches marched this way and that as they dangled from the viscount’s fingers. Star would have laughed out loud had she not seen the serious expression on the man’s handsome face. His blue eyes were soft and his smile gentle.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer you, Miss Ellis,” he said, “but you’ve made this leg of the journey my most enjoyable experience since leaving India. I thought perhaps I could help you along with your quilt. I’ll admit to being more comfortable at polo and cricket, but—”
“It’s wonderful,” she exclaimed, receiving the gift with both hands cupped. The image of her father handing her mother his latest four-patch for the quilt they were piecing leapt into Star’s mind, and her eyes clouded with tears. “I’ll work your diamonds right into this pattern. And then you’ll always be a part of the Lone Star quilt.”
“You told me you were the Lone Star,” he said, dropping his voice. “Shall I always be a part of you, Miss Ellis?”
She looked into his eyes, hardly able to breathe. “Oh, Grey, but I must—”
“The baron is why I must take a moment to speak with you alone. It is essential that you know the situation ahead.”
“Plannin’ to sit there all day are you, milord?” The coach driver’s head popped through the doorway. “I’ve unhitched one ’orse already and the other’s restless to tuck into a nice sack of oats. I know I could do wi’ a bit of hot grub meself. The eel pie at this place is tip-top, mind you. What of it, now? Why don’t you and the young miss take your chat inside where it’s warm and friendly-like? That’s the ticket, milord.”
The viscount nodded at Star. “We shall speak at the table then. After you, Miss Ellis.”
“Go ahead,” she said. “I’ve got to round up my quilt scraps and needles.”
Though her scrap bag was in disarray, Star wanted a moment to mull over the viscount’s comment. “Shall I always be a part of you?” His deep voice reverberated through her. They had known each other less than two days, their words had been careful, their conversation limited, and yet she knew her answer would be yes.
Not only would the man’s creative stitching live on in her quilt, but his friendship and genuine concern would remain always in her heart. He had intrigued her with his tales of India, amused her with his attempts at sewing, and touched her with his understanding of
her plight. His smile dazzled her, and his blue eyes thrilled her. Oh yes, Lord Stratton would always be a part of her.
But Star sobered as she tucked his pieced calico diamonds into her bag. They would spend this meal and another half day together—and she must be wary. It was one thing to marry a Yorkshire baron for business purposes. A woman could find a way to tolerate such an unemotional arrangement. It would be quite a different matter to fall in love with a Yorkshire viscount first. Then her marriage to Rupert Cholmondeley would be a torment.
She could not allow it to happen, Star thought as she reached for the leather strap beside the door. She gathered up her skirts and prepared to distance herself from the viscount. It shouldn’t be hard. She’d run off plenty of suitors in the past.
As she stood to step down, the coach suddenly lurched forward, knocking her off her feet. She landed on the floor in a tangle of skirts and petticoats, the pouf of her bustle cushioning her fall. A dog barked, one of the horses neighed, and the carriage swayed from side to side. Star grabbed for the seat to keep from sliding through the open door.
“Blimey!” the driver hollered. “Me ’orse is boltin’! Wait for it, miss, don’t try to get off!”
Star watched her scrap bag tumble out as the carriage rolled wildly down the street. The clatter of iron horseshoes on cobblestone echoed through the crowded streets of Doncaster. People screamed and ran for cover. Clutching the edge of the seat, Star managed to scoot backward far enough to grab one of the dangling leather straps.
Well, if this didn’t beat all—a runaway horse!
At that moment the coach rammed into the corner of a half-timbered house. A wheel spun loose, wobbling on its axle and causing the carriage to bob and weave down the street. Star decided she’d had enough of being a passenger.
Gritting her teeth, she struggled to hold on as she inched toward the open door, her skirts twisted around her ankles. If she could climb onto the carriage roof, she might be able to grab the reins. Lord, she prayed, help me! Clutching the rolled canvas shade that protected the window, she leaned out through the open door.
“Miss Ellis!” Grey’s voice rang out over the shrieks and screams in the street. “Get back inside the coach!”
She peered over her shoulder as she clung to the side. A dappled gray horse galloped after the runaway carriage, its rider hatless as he urged the steed alongside the swaying vehicle. For a moment, Star’s senses lit up like an Independence Day bonfire. Grey was coming after her! But that would put him in danger, too.
As the coach bounced around a corner, she realized that she would have to be the one to stop the horse. If the viscount were injured . . . or killed . . .
“Stay back!” she cried. “I’m going for the reins!”
“You’ll be crushed! Please stop—I’m almost there.”
“The street is too narrow! You can’t get around the coach. I can do this, Grey.”
“Star, be reasonable!”
He edged forward until his horse’s nose was almost touching her. Star debated throwing herself onto the creature’s neck. But if she fell, she’d be trampled. No, there was no choice but to go up.
She set her foot on the sill of the open window and grabbed the slender iron luggage rack on the roof. Her bonnet had slid off her head and the ribbon was about to choke her. Half-gagged, she groped for a foothold on the lamp that jutted out from the side of the carriage. In the collision with the house, the glass shade had shattered, leaving a jagged fragment protruding.
“Star!” Grey shouted just as she heaved herself onto the luggage rack. “There’s a park ahead. Trees!”
Mercy! she thought. Fighting to hold on, Star flung one leg into the driver’s box. What if she pulled the brake lever? Would that spook the horse even more? She could feel the poor critter starting to slow. What on earth had caused it to bolt like that?
“Mind your head!” Grey roared as his horse thundered past Star. “Stay down!”
Star never had been much for obeying commands—and her stubborn streak had gotten her into a great deal of trouble. On the other hand, her life was at stake here. Struggling to breathe around the bonnet ribbon, she threw herself onto the driver’s seat and slid her wobbly legs down onto the footboard.
The carriage careened into the park, and the viscount managed to guide his dappled gray alongside the runaway. As he reached for the bridle, Star leaned forward and grabbed the reins.
“Whoa!” she called. “Pull up there, you crazy old cayuse!”
The horse made straight for a stand of trees, and Star held her breath as she tugged on the reins. The thick leather strips burned her palms, her toes mashing down into the points of her boots. Her eyes widened as she saw the low branches.
“Star, you must jump now!” Grey shouted. “I’ll catch you!”
The horse had begun to slow at last, but Star knew it would be too late. The nearest branch was only a few yards away, and the carriage rolled doggedly onward. Clinging to the edges of the driver’s box, Star glanced over at the viscount racing alongside.
“Jump, Star! I won’t let you fall!”
Sucking in a breath, she coiled against the footboard and then threw herself toward him. A strong hand clamped around her shoulder. An arm of steel scooped the back of her legs.
The dappled gray veered away from the trees just as the carriage slammed into the trunk of an ancient oak. Wheels flew in every direction as the body of the coach exploded like a barrel of black powder. Wood splintered in an ear-tearing screech, and the luggage rack splashed into a stone fountain. Still caught in the reins, the exhausted horse came to an abrupt stop, its foam-covered sides heaving.
“Grey!” Star clung to the man’s broad shoulders, imagining herself trapped in that tangle of wood, metal, and horseflesh. “Mercy sakes! I thought I was a goner.”
“Are you all right?” He turned his horse onto a side alley as people began pouring back into the streets. “Dear God . . .”
“He took care of me,” she choked out. “And you. I didn’t break anything, but my hinges and bolts are sure loose. Oh, Grey!”
His arms slipped tightly around her, holding her close as she shuddered at the near disaster. “You shouldn’t have tried to climb up,” he murmured. “Miss Ellis, you are a rash, impulsive—”
“Mule headed, addlepated—”
His lips brushed hers for a moment, a heartbeat. “Beautiful and amazing woman,” he finished. “If you hadn’t climbed up, you’d have been inside the coach when it hit the tree. But when I saw you clinging to the side like a . . . like a . . .”
“Like an ol’ bedbug.”
Grey laughed suddenly. “Dear heaven, young lady, you have me in such a muddle that I’m . . . I’m . . .”
He pulled her closer and kissed her full and warm on the mouth. Star unfolded inside like a blossoming rose. Never in all her days of courting had a man’s kiss lifted and floated her upward, unfurling her petal by petal. She clutched at his shoulders, reveling in the scent of bay rum on his skin, in the pressure of his hands against her back, in the heat of his lips on hers. Her senses danced up and over the snowy street, drifted above the chimney pots on the rooftops, soared into the downy flakes that sifted from the clouds. It was wonderful, magical . . . heaven. . . .
“Star, I want you—,” he began. Then he paused, his breath ragged. “Dash it, I can’t . . . can’t.”
She swallowed hard. “The baron.”
“Yes.” He set her a little away from him. “It’s the baron. Rupert Cholmondeley is—”
“Wicked?”
“No.”
“Cruel?”
“No.”
“Already married?”
“No, blast it. He’s a fine chap. A decent, honorable human being.”
“Then what’s wrong with him?”
“He’s my brother, that’s what.” The viscount looked up at the swirling snowflakes. “I’m Grey Cholmondeley, elder son of the earl of Brackenhurst. I’ve come all the way from India
to make peace with my family, to show them that I’m a changed man, to prove that I’m upright and honest and worthy of my father’s name. They’re to see that I’m no longer the sort of man who would lose a fortune at cards and drink whiskey until the wee hours. I’m not the sort of man who would . . . who would . . .”
“Kiss his brother’s fiancée?” Star grabbed his hand and squeezed it until every drop of rebellious spirit drained from her. “No, no, no,” she whispered. “This can’t happen. We can’t let it.”
CHAPTER THREE
Grey watched the familiar stone expanse of Brackenhurst Manor come into view as the carriage traveled through the iron gates and up the long, curving, graveled drive. They had managed to survive the hours since the incident with the runaway horse, but he felt less sure of his ability to manage the situation with Miss Ellis once they arrived at his family’s country house.
From the moment they had returned to the inn at Doncaster, she had withdrawn into a cocoon of silence, focusing all her attention on her quilt. Bidding farewell to the elderly couple, who journeyed on toward the Yorkshire Dales, Grey and Star had continued in the same carriage eastward across the open moors. Although the intimate situation had offered opportunity for conversation, she had shown no interest in talking. She had worked on her quilt as though it and it alone had meaning in her life. Unable to entice her into even the most mundane chitchat, Grey had opened his traveling bag and taken out a heavy text devoted to the cultivation of Camellia sinensis, the tea shrub.
“I’m developing a tea estate in India,” he said as the rattling coach approached the manor. It would be his final opportunity to engage the young American in conversation. If they arrived in the same carriage and hadn’t resolved their concerns, if they weren’t even speaking, his family would be wary immediately. “I’ve bought land near Darjeeling. It’s a small town in the foothills of the Himalayas.”
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