Also by Grace Burrowes
The Duke’s Obsession Series
The Heir
The Soldier
The Virtuoso
Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish
Lady Maggie’s Secret Scandal
Lady Louisa’s Christmas Knight
Lady Eve’s Indiscretion
Novellas
The Courtship
The Duke and His Duchess
The Lonely Lords Series
Darius
Nicholas
Ethan
Beckman
Scottish-Set Victorian Romance
The Bridegroom Wore Plaid
Copyright © 2013 by Grace Burrowes
Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Dawn Adams
Cover illustration by Jon Paul/Lott Reps
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
An excerpt from Mary Fran and Matthew
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To those struggling with grief. You grieve because you loved, and it’s the love that will abide.
One
When Tiberius Lamartine Flynn heard the tree singing, his first thought was that he’d parted company with his reason. Then two dusty little boots dangled above his horse’s abruptly nervous eyes, and the matter became a great deal simpler.
“Out of the tree, child, lest you spook some unsuspecting traveler’s mount.”
A pair of slim white calves flashed among the branches, the movement provoking the damned horse to dancing and propping.
“What’s his name?”
The question was almost unintelligible, so thick was the burr.
“His name is Flying Rowan,” Tye said, stroking a hand down the horse’s crest. “And he’d better settle himself down this instant if he knows what’s good for him. His efforts in this regard would be greatly facilitated if you’d vacate that damned tree.”
“You shouldn’t swear at her. She’s a wonderful tree.”
The horse settled, having had as much frolic as Tye was inclined to permit.
“In the first place, trees do not have gender, in the second, your heathen accent makes your discourse nigh incomprehensible, and in the third, please get the hell out of the tree.”
“Introduce yourself. I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
A heathen child with manners. What else did he expect from the wilds of Aberdeenshire?
“Tiberius Lamartine Flynn, Earl of Spathfoy, at your service. Had we any mutual acquaintances, I’d have them attend to the civilities.”
Silence from the tree, while Tye felt the idiot horse tensing for another display of nonsense.
“You’re wrong—we have a mutual acquaintance. This is a treaty oak. She’s everybody’s friend. I’m Fee.”
Except in his Englishness, Tye first thought the little scamp had said, “I’m fey,” which seemed appropriate.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Fee. Now show yourself like a gentleman, or I’ll think it’s your intent to drop onto hapless travelers and rob them blind.”
“Do you think I could?”
Dear God, the child sounded fascinated.
“Down. Now.” That tone of voice had worked on Tye’s younger brother until Gordie had been almost twelve. The same tone had ever been a source of amusement to his younger sisters. The branches moved, and Rowan tensed again, haunches bunching as if he’d bolt.
A lithe little shape plummeted at least eight feet to the ground and landed with a loud “Ouch!” provoking Rowan to rear in earnest.
***
From the ground, the horse looked enormous, and the man astride like a giant. Fee caught an impression of darkness—dark horse, dark riding clothes, and a dark scowl as the man tried to control his horse.
“That is quite enough out of you.” The man’s voice was so stern, Fee suspected the horse understood the words, for two large iron-shod hooves came to a standstill not a foot from her head.
“Child, you will get up slowly and move away from the horse. I cannot guarantee your safety otherwise.”
Still stern—maybe this fellow was always stern, in which case he was to be pitied. Fee sat up and tried to creep back on her hands, backside, and feet, but pain shot through her left ankle and up her calf before she’d shifted half her weight.
“I hurt myself.”
The horse backed a good ten feet away, though Fee couldn’t see how the rider had asked it to do so.
“Where are you hurt?”
“My foot. I think I landed on it wrong. It’s because I’m wearing shoes.”
“Shoes do not cause injury.” He swung off the horse and shook a gloved finger at the animal. “You stand, or you’ll be stewed up for the poor of the parish.”
“Are you always so mean, mister?”
He loomed above her, hands on his hips, and Fee’s Aunt Hester would have said he looked like The Wrath of God. His nose was a Wrath-of-God sort of nose, nothing sweet or humble about it, and his eyes were Wrath-of-God eyes, all dark and glaring.
He was as tall as the Wrath of God, too, maybe even taller than Fee’s uncles, who, if not exactly the Wrath of God, could sometimes be the Wrath of Deeside and greater Aberdeenshire.
As could her aunt Hester, which was a sobering thought.
“You think I’m mean, young lady?”
“Yes.”
“Then I must answer in the affirmative.”
She frowned up at him. From his accent, he was at least a bloody Lowlander, or possibly a damned Sassenach, but even making those very significant allowances, he still talked funny.
“What is a firmative?”
“Yes, I am mean. Can you walk?”
He extended a hand down to her, a very large hand in a black riding glove. Fee had seen some pictures in a book once, of a lot of cupids without nappies bouncing around with harps, and a hand very like that one, sticking out of the clouds, except the hand in the picture was not swathed in black leather.
“Child, I do not have all day to impersonate the Good Samaritan.”
“The Good Samaritan was nice. He went to heaven.”
“While it is my sorry fate to be ruralizing in Scotland.” He hauled Fee to her feet by virtue of lifting her up under the arms. He did this without effort, as if he ho
isted five stone of little girl from the roadside for regular amusement.
“Do you ever smile?”
“When in the presence of silent, well-behaved, properly scrubbed children, I sometimes consider the notion. Can you put weight on that foot?”
“It hurts. I think it hurts because my shoe is getting too tight.”
He muttered something under his breath, which might have had some bad words mixed in with more of his pernickety accent, then lifted Fee to his hip. “I am forced by the requirements of good breeding and honor to endure your company in the saddle for however long it takes to return you to the dubious care of your wardens, and may God pity them that responsibility.”
“I get to ride your horse?”
“We get to ride my horse. If you were a boy, I’d leave you here to the mercy of passing strangers or allow you to crawl home.”
He might have been teasing. The accent made it difficult to tell—as did the scowl. “You thought I was boy?”
“Don’t sound so pleased. I thought you were a nuisance, and I still do. Can you balance?”
He deposited her next to the treaty oak, which meant she could stand on one foot and lean on the tree. “I want to take my shoes off.” He wrinkled that big nose of his, looking like he smelled something rank. “My feet are clean. Aunt Hester makes me take a bath every night whether I need one or not.”
This Abomination Against the Natural Order—another one of Aunt Hester’s terms—did not appear to impress the man. Fee wondered if anything impressed him—and what a poverty that would be, as Aunt would say, to go through the whole day without once being impressed.
He hunkered before her, and he was even tall when he knelt. “Put your hand on my shoulder.”
Fee complied, finding his shoulder every bit as sturdy as the oak. He unlaced her boot, but when he tried to ease it off her foot, she had to squeal with the pain of it.
“Wrenched it properly, then. Here.” He pulled off his gloves and passed them to her. “Bite down on one of those, hard enough to cut right through the leather, and scream if you have to. I have every confidence you can ruin my hearing if you make half an effort.”
She took the gloves, which were warm and supple. “Are you an uncle?”
“As it happens, this dolorous fate has befallen me.”
“Is that a firmative?”
“It is. Why?”
“Because you’re trying to distract me, which is something my uncles do a lot. I won’t scream.”
He regarded her for a moment, looking almost as if he might say something not quite so fussy, then bent to glare at her boot. “Suit yourself, as it appears you are in the habit of doing.”
She braced herself; she even put one of the riding gloves between her teeth, because as badly as her ankle hurt, she expected taking off her boot would cause the kind of pain that made her ears roar and her vision dim around the edges.
She neither screamed nor bit through the glove—which tasted like reins and horse—because before she could even draw in a proper breath, her boot was gently eased off her foot.
“I suppose you want the other one off too?”
“Is my ankle all bruised and horrible?”
“Your ankle is slightly swollen. It will likely be bruised before the day is out, but perhaps not horribly if we can get ice on it.”
“Are you a priest?”
“For pity’s sake, child. First an uncle, then a priest? What can you be thinking?” He sat her in the grass and started unlacing her second boot.
“You talk like Vicar on Sunday, though on Saturday night, he sounds like everybody else when he’s having his pint. If my ankle is awful, Aunt Hester will cry and feed me shortbread with my tea. She might even play cards with me. My uncles taught me how to cheat, but explained I must never cheat unless I’m playing with them.”
“Honor among thieves being the invention of the Scots, this does not surprise me.” He tied the laces of both boots into a knot and slung them around Fee’s neck.
“I’m a Scot.”
His lips quirked. Maybe this was what it looked like when the Wrath of God was afraid he might smile.
“My condolences. Except for your unfortunate red hair, execrable accent, and the layer of dirt about your person, I would never have suspected.” He lifted her up again, but this time carried her to Flying Rowan, who had stood like a good boy all the while the man had been getting Fee’s boots off.
“I have wonderful hair, just like my mama’s. My papa says I’m going to be bee-yoo-ti-full. My uncles say I already am.”
“What you are is impertinent and inconvenient, though one can hardly blame your hair on you. Up you go.” He deposited her in the saddle, bracing a hand around her middle until she had her balance.
“Oh, this is a wonderful adventure. May I have the reins?”
“Assuredly not. Lean forward.”
He was up behind her in nothing flat, but that just made it all the better. Flying Rowan was even taller than Uncle Ian’s gelding, and almost as broad as the plow horses. Having the solid bulk of an adult male in the saddle made the whole business safe, even as it was also exciting.
He nudged the horse forward. “Where I am taking you, child?”
Fee could feel the way he rode, feel the way he moved with the horse and communicated with the horse without really using the reins.
“Child?”
“That way.” She lifted her hand to point in the direction of the manor, feeling the horse flinch beneath her as she did. “If you go by way of the pastures, it’s shorter than the road.”
“How many gates?”
“Lots. Papa has a lot of doddies.”
“Has your upbringing acquainted you with the equestrian arts?”
He didn’t even sound like a priest. He sounded like nothing and no one Fee had ever heard before. His voice was stern but somehow beautiful too, even when he wasn’t making any sense at all. “I don’t know what equestrian arts are.”
“Do you ride horseback?” He spoke slowly, as if Fee were daft, which made her want to drive her elbow back into his ribs—though that would likely hurt her elbow.
“I don’t have a pony, but my uncles take me up when I pester them hard enough.”
“That will serve. Grab some mane and don’t squeal.”
He wrapped that big hand around her middle again, and urged the horse into a rocking canter. The wind blew Fee’s hair back, and it was hard not to squeal, so delightful was the sensation of flying over the ground.
“Hold tight.” This was nearly growled as the man leaned forward, necessitating that Fee lean forward too. In a mighty surge, the horse leapt up and over a stone wall, then thundered off across the pasture in perfect rhythm.
The sensations were magnificent, to be borne aloft for a timeless moment, to soar above the earth, to be safe and snug in the midst of flight.
“Do another one!” Fee called over her shoulder, even as the horse bore down on a second wall.
They did three more, cutting directly across the fields, leaving the cows to watch as the horse cantered by, the placid expressions of the bovines at such variance with the utter glee Fee felt at each wall.
When the man brought his horse down to a walk at the foot of the drive, she leaned forward and patted the gelding soundly on the shoulder. “Good fellow, Flying Rowan! Oh, that was the best! I will write to everybody and tell them what a good boy you are.” She lapsed into the Gaelic, too happy and excited not to praise the horse in a more civilized language than the stilted, stodgy English.
Behind her, she felt the man’s hard chest shift slightly, and she fell silent.
“Mama says it’s rude to speak the Gaelic when somebody else can’t.”
“I comprehend it. Is this your home?”
“I live here. Aunt Hester lives here too, but Mama and Papa
are away right now.”
“Shall I take you around to the back?”
He was scowling at the manor as he spoke, as if the house wasn’t the most lovely place in the world, all full of flowers and pretty views.
“Here comes Aunt Hester. I expect she’ll want to thank you.”
Fee felt Rowan’s owner tense behind her. It wasn’t that his muscles bunched up, it was more that he went still. The horse beneath them went still too, as if both man and horse understood that the look on Aunt Hester’s face did not at all fit with Fee’s prediction of impending thanks.
***
A female thundercloud was advancing on Tye where he sat his gelding, the little girl perched before him. Beneath his hand, he felt the child’s spine stiffen and her bony little shoulders square.
This particular thundercloud had golden blond hair piled on top of her head, quite possibly in an attempt to give an illusion of height. She wore an old-fashioned blue walking dress, the dusty hems of which were swishing madly around her boots as she sailed across the drive.
He’d always liked the sound of a woman’s petticoats in brisk motion, they gave a man a little warning—and something to think about.
“I bid you good day.” He nodded from the saddle, a hat being a hopeless inconvenience when a man rode cross-country. “Spathfoy, at your service.”
Some perverse desire to see what she’d do next kept him on the horse, looking down at her from a considerable height.
“Hester Daniels.” She sketched a hint of a curtsy then planted her fists on her hips. “Fiona Ursula MacGregor, what am I to do with you? Where have you gone off to this time, that a strange man must bring you home at a dead gallop, over field and fence, your hair a fright and—” The lady paused and drew in a tremendous breath. “Why are your boots hanging about your neck? What have I told you about running off barefoot, much less when you’re in the company of horses, and when will you remember that we eat meals at regular hours, in a civilized fashion, and what do you expect me to tell your dear mother about this latest escapade?”
When she fell silent, Tye was somewhat taken aback to see the lady’s eyes shining, quite possibly with tears.
“I am sorry,” said the girl, hanging her head. “I went to visit the oak, that’s all, and it was a fine afternoon for singing in a tree, and then I jumped down, but I landed wrong, and this fellow came along on Flying Rowan. I didn’t mean to hurt my foot, but we had such fun galloping home, didn’t we, sir?”
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