© 2014 by Barbour Publishing, Inc.
Woman of Valor © 2001 by Jill Stengl
A Duplicitous Facade © 2005 by Tamela Hancock Murray
Love’s Unmasking © 2005 by Bonnie Blythe
A Treasure Worth Keeping © 2004 by Kelly Eileen Hake
Apple of His Eye © 2001 by Gayle Gaymer Martin
Moonlight Masquerade © 2005 by Pamela Griffin
Fayre Rose © 2004 by Tamela Hancock Murray
Fresh Highland Heir © 2004 by Jill Stengl
English Tea and Bagpipes © 2004 by Pamela Griffin
Print ISBN 978-1-62836-168-1
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63058-009-4
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63058-010-0
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683,
www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in Canada.
Table of Contents
Woman of Valor
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
A Duplicitous Facade
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Love’s Unmasking
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
A Treasure Worth Keeping
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Apple of His Eye
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
Moonlight Masquerade
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Fayre Rose
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Fresh Highland Heir
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
English Tea and Bagpipes
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue
About the Authors
WOMAN OF VALOR
by Jill Stengl
Dedication
To Kim, Phyllis, and Ruth:
When I think of England, I think of you and the experiences we shared there as military wives. Friendship like ours is blessing beyond measure.
Chapter 1
Norfolk County, 1631
Out, woman. This be as far as my coach goes. The road past here is all mud.” The driver wrenched open the coach door, placed the step in front, then proceeded to haul down Helen Walker’s small trunk and dump it upon the side of the road.
“I paid you to drive me to Biddlesham Fen.” One hand on the door frame, Helen peered out.
“And here you be.” The driver waved a gloved hand to indicate marshy fields on every side. “This crossroads is nigh the village. Make haste, woman. There be a fog comin’ in.”
Helen opened her mouth to protest further, but the coachman narrowed his eyes and lifted a brow. His bristly, pockmarked face reminded Helen of an ill-tempered pig. Shaking in every limb, she stepped down. Her shoes sank into mud. Lifting her petticoats, she sloshed over to her trunk.
“God be with you.” Kind words, spoken in a voice of lead. The driver climbed back to his seat.
“You cannot leave me here!” Helen cast a fearful glance skyward. Across the way, strategically placed at the crossroads to catch the attention of any traveler, an iron cage swayed in the crisp spring breeze. Racing clouds released a brilliant sunset ray to highlight its resident criminal’s decayed condition. Helen clapped a hand over her mouth.
Without another word to her, the driver coaxed his team into a sidetrack, turned the small coach around, and headed back to Thetford.
Gaping in disbelief, Helen watched until the coach passed out of view. Casting a glance down each vacant road, she felt tightness in her belly. A wind gust cut through her woolen cloak and stung her cheeks. Ropes and chains creaked. A ghastly shadow bobbed near Helen’s trunk until a cloud mercifully obscured the sun. Helen kept her gaze averted from the atrocity across the way.
Clutching her cloak at her breast, she sat on her trunk, closed her eyes, and begged God to send help quickly. “Not that I believe You unaware of the situation, Lord. I know that Your eye is upon them that fear You and hope in Your mercy. I ask to be delivered from all my fears and to have my feet placed upon solid ground.” She peeked at her soggy shoes, then squeezed her eyes shut. “As You know, my cousin expects to meet me in the town of Biddlesham Fen tonight and—”
A mournful cry drifted across the fens. Helen’s mind told her it was a bird, but her imagination insisted it was the ghost of her putrefied companion. Her face crumpled as she fought back hysterical tears. Am I doomed to spend the night in this place? I would walk to town, but I do not know which path to take. God, You promised not to allow trials too great for me to bear! Why did I ever leave Surrey? I might have married Wilmer the butcher and raised his six children. Anything would be better than going mad here in this marshland with no one to see or care!
A rhythmic beat caught her attention. Was the poor wretch on the gibbet rattling about again, or was a horse coming?
Screwing up her face, she peeked with one eye. A horseman approached from the north. Relief slackened Helen’s taut nerves until she realized the rider could be a highwayman … or worse, a phantom.
Trotting hooves splattered mud. The puffing horse pulled up several feet from Helen, sparing her skirts. Huddled within her cloak, she cast an anxious gaze upon the rider. He looked substantial enough in brown leather doublet, plain gray breeches, and cuffed boots. Unlike many men of fashion, he wore his hair short—falling just above his shoulders—yet a flowing cape gave him a dashing air.
“Helen W
alker?” The brim of his hat shaded the man’s face. Helen beheld only an imposing hawk nose and a clean-shaven chin. Could this be …?
“Cousin Cyril?”
“Surely you did not expect him to meet you in person. Have you been waiting long? I never thought of a trunk. Need a cart for that.” His mount, a fine palfrey, stamped a hoof and whipped its cropped tail from side to side.
“Where is my cousin?”
“Who, Biddlesham?” He sounded scornful. “The master is away on business. We will not see him for a se’ennight, I expect.”
“I–I see,” Helen replied.
After a short pause, the horseman said, “I shall return for the trunk tomorrow.” He dismounted in one motion and handed her his horse’s reins. Helen and the horse regarded one another uncertainly; then the animal lowered its head to graze.
Helen’s rescuer hauled her trunk into the brush and concealed it. Helen disliked the idea of leaving her possessions unattended overnight, but she was in no position to object.
“I shall give you a leg up. You will ride behind me.”
Helen accepted his outstretched hand and, rising, gazed into his eyes. “I must ride a-pillion?” she said, hating the wobble in her voice. Something about the man sent warning signals racing through her veins. She clutched her cloak at her throat.
“You will be safe.”
The padded pillion strapped behind the saddle gave little confidence of solidity, but Helen had no choice. Placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, she let him boost her to the seat. The horse shifted beneath her. Her skirts tangled around her legs, and for a flustered moment she sat astride, hands gripping the cantle between her knees.
“Put your feet to the off side; you will find a platform.” Once again she detected amusement in the man’s voice. Smoothing her rumpled petticoats, Helen drew a deep breath in an attempt at composure. Her rescuer climbed back into his saddle. His broad back was close; his cape nearly engulfed her. Pushing it aside, she clutched the saddle’s high cantle and tried to rise above her circumstances.
Warmth emanated from both man and horse. Helen’s nostrils twitched. Along with the expected pungency of horse, leather, and male body, she caught a spicy fragrance that made her think of summer and gardens. “Better hang on to me,” he said.
The horse started walking. Helen found it easy enough to balance her body, but her mind reeled with alarming speculations. The man’s elegant carriage, cultured voice, and the hint of gallantry in his manner were at odds with his plain garments. Was he, in fact, a highwayman? Was she allowing herself to be abducted? Her head felt light from exhaustion even as a thrill swept through her.
“What is your name?” she demanded.
“Oliver Kirby. This wind is pushing the fog inland. We must hasten.” The horse moved abruptly into a canter. Falling backward, Helen grabbed at Kirby’s shoulders and hauled herself against him. Terror clutched her throat.
“I told you to hang on. Wrap your arms about my body.”
Helen obeyed, keeping her hands fisted. His blowing hair tickled her face. His cape was cold and damp from fog or rain. She wanted to lash out at the man, but she held her tongue. He might decide to set her down beside the road and let her fend for herself. Which would be worse, abduction or desertion?
It was entirely improper for a lady to be so close to a man, on or off horseback. What would Papa think if he were to see me now? But the situation was oddly exhilarating—Oliver Kirby’s shoulders looked enormous from this angle, and it was not unpleasant to lean against his solid back. He seemed cleaner than most men; she hoped he carried no lice.
Kirby? The name was familiar.
Not far ahead, the road disappeared into a murky gray cloud. A similar cloud of uncertainty oppressed Helen’s soul. Dear Lord, guide me into Your paths. I know not what to do! Are You here with me?
“So you are the master’s cousin?” Oliver Kirby called back.
“Aye, Master Kirby, we share grandparents.” She lifted her face and voice against the wind.
“I am not your master; I am but a hired servant. Call me Oliver, as befits my station.”
Astonishment rendered Helen silent. A hired servant? Surely not! To address such a man by his given name would seem brazen.
“What of your other family?” he asked.
“My parents died one year since.”
“I am sorry. The plague?”
Helen was surprised to hear genuine sympathy in his deep voice. “Nay. They were both stricken in years. I was the child of their old age.”
“And you have traveled here alone from … London?”
“Surrey. I traveled first on horseback in a caravan, then by river to Thetford. There I hired a coach.”
“And the driver left you at the crossroads? The swine.”
Helen thought this characterization apt. “Does my cousin often travel on business?”
“He has always liked to travel, both for business and for pleasure. These past few months he travels even more.”
Helen found it difficult to imagine anyone traveling for pleasure. “Since his wife, Sarah, died, you mean. Her death devastated him, I know from his letters. But are there not three children yet living? Surely he must care for them,” she protested.
Helen felt Oliver’s shoulders move. “Now they have you.” The horse slowed to a jog, then a walk. “It becomes too dark for the horse to run. Wrap my cloak about you. I hear your teeth rattle from the cold.”
Helen thought he might actually be hearing the pounding of her head or the throbbing of her backside. She was far too chilled to disobey. Enveloped beneath the silk-lined cloak with only her face exposed, she refrained from further conversation.
Mist drifted along the ground. Above, lowering clouds concealed every star. Not one bird chirped a friendly good evening. No foxes yapped; not even a dog barked. Helen heard only the horse’s muffled hoofbeats. She could feel Oliver’s steady breathing. His back was warm. Helen could not determine which of her reactions to him took precedence, trepidation or security.
An unearthly cry floated through the fog. The horse snorted in response. “No self-respecting highwayman would be out on such a night,” Oliver said firmly, as if to convince himself. At first Helen thought he was addressing her, but when he continued speaking she realized that he was talking to the horse. “Almost there. Soon you’ll be back in your warm stall. However, you must be patient while I deliver the governess.”
What manner of man spoke to a horse as if it could understand?
“We have arrived,” Oliver announced.
The horse continued walking up a tree-lined drive, through an open gate, past several outbuildings. Torches lit the approach, yet light shone in only two of the manor house’s many glass windows. Helen extricated herself from Oliver’s cloak and scanned the looming brick building. “This is my cousin’s home?”
Without bothering to answer, he dismounted and reached for her. She placed her hands on his shoulders and swung her legs over the saddle. His gloved hands nearly spanned her waist, sending hot waves of alarm through her body.
Oliver tossed the reins over the horse’s neck and gave its haunch a slap. The animal trotted away, disappearing into the mist. “Enter.” Taking Helen’s arm, Oliver hurried her toward the house.
“Where are the other servants?” Helen planted her feet. “Where have you brought me?” Frost showered from her hood when she gripped it beneath her chin, and her quickened breath added to the surrounding fog.
He made no attempt to conceal his annoyance. “This is Biddlesham Hall, I warrant it. Wherefore no one has come to greet you, I know not … although, household matters have been in disarray since the mistress passed on and the house-steward left us. Now if you will but step inside, I shall find a maidservant who will relieve your fears.”
Helen lifted her chin and tugged her arm from his grasp. “I am not frightened,” she quavered.
“Oh, not in the least.” He opened the door and ushered her inside.
The great hall was dark except for glowing coals on the hearth, which did nothing to warm the icy expanse. A portrait hanging over the fireplace fixed Helen with a disdainful stare. She shivered. How could anyone live in such a tomb?
“The fire needs stoking.”
Helen followed at his heels to the stone hearth and watched while he blew the fire back to life. When the flames were crackling and bright, Oliver turned to face her, brushing off his breeches. “I’ll go find Jenny or Maggie to show you to your room. Or Gretel. She is the housekeeper and a veritable dragon.” A smile did little to soften his features.
Still gripping her cloak at her throat, Helen nodded. Frightening though it was to be so close to a man, the surrounding darkness was worse. How she longed for something, anything, familiar and secure!
“Once I find someone to show you to your room, you will feel better.”
The words were kind, yet Helen sensed contempt. She crept toward the fire and lifted shaking hands to seek its warmth. “I am grateful. You are very good.”
“Sit yourself nigh the fire. I shall return forthwith.”
Helen felt panic rise in her throat. “Mayn’t I come with you?”
He blinked. “To the kitchen? I suppose you may. You will need to learn your way about the house.”
As one in a dream, Helen followed him along a hall to the back door, then along a covered walkway to the detached kitchen. Two elderly servants looked up from their tankards when Oliver entered. “Where you been, Master Oliver?” The plump man sounded well into his cups.
“Don’t call me master,” Oliver growled. “This is Helen Walker, the new governess. Helen, meet Cook and Gretel. Has anyone prepared the nursery room? Where is Maggie or Jenny?”
The iron-eyed woman called Gretel said, “If you ain’t a master no more, you’ve no call to bark orders like one.” She summed up Helen in one glance. “Puny, ain’t she? Whiter than a ghost. I forgot she was coming.”
A huge mastiff rose from the hearth and shoved its muzzle into Oliver’s hand. Helen backed toward the doorway. Her mouth went dry. At any moment the dog might see her.
Oliver patted the animal absently. “Where are the maids?” he asked again.
“This is Friday; the others are gone to town or their homes, as you might recall if you would but settle your mind for a moment.”
British Brides Collection Page 1