Blackthorne had shifted his gaze sharply to look his best friend in the eye. “That doesn’t make her any less in need of my help.”
“What are you going to do with her when you get her to England?” his friend demanded. “You’re engaged to be married. How do you think Fanny is going to react to this wild hair of yours?”
He’d turned his attention back to the girl, who’d shifted and moaned. “Fanny will understand.”
“You don’t know my sister as well as you think you do.”
“Go away, Seaton,” he’d said in a firm, ducal voice. And Seaton had left.
Blackthorne was surprised by what the girl said when she finally spoke.
“All my fault,” she muttered against the pillow. “Everything. If only they knew. All my fault.”
“Surely you can’t be responsible for the attack on your wagon,” he’d said in a soothing voice.
She’d clutched the pillow tightly with both fists and said, “The fire. The fire.”
For a long time he’d thought she was saying her back was on fire, which he could easily believe. But it wasn’t that at all. She’d remained out of her head, raving and incoherent with fever, and it had taken more than a week before he’d cobbled together enough of the story, which had been revealed in bits and pieces, to understand her guilt.
She’d been referring to the terrible conflagration in Chicago three years previously, the one supposedly caused by Mrs. O’Leary’s cow, which had kicked over a lantern in the barn. The resulting inferno, which had raged for three days, had burned down virtually the whole city, including this girl’s home.
She’d been terrified by the flames and smoke and had hidden under her bed, making it necessary for her parents to hunt through the house for her. She hadn’t replied, even when they’d pleaded for her to answer them. Her parents had finally found her, and her father had dragged her out. But by then, the bedroom doorway was blocked by fire. Her mother had tied the bedsheets together so her father could lower her out the back window. Safe outside, she’d watched her home burn to the ground with her parents inside.
He’d prodded her for her given name, or her family name, but she’d been too lost in her personal agony to respond. Apparently, she’d been orphaned. It was a mystery how she’d gotten from Chicago to the Dakota Territory, but presumably it involved travel in a Conestoga wagon, since she—and whoever was in it with her—had been attacked by the Sioux.
She’d mentioned a few names, but he had no clue whether they were relatives or acquaintances. Hetty and Hannah—always together. Miranda. Nick and Harry—again, always together. And a Mr. McMurtry. He wondered if she could be married to the man. But she wasn’t wearing a ring, and there was no mark on her finger to show that she’d worn a ring that might have been removed by the Sioux.
She made two other statements relentlessly: “I have to find them. I have to go back. I have to find them. I have to go back.”
He kept hoping she would recover enough by the time they landed in England to answer all his questions about exactly who it was she had to find and where she had to go. But she was still far from well when their journey ended.
To his chagrin, Fanny was at the docks to greet him, together with her mother, who’d come along to welcome home her son and future son-in-law. Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure Fanny would understand that he’d spent the entire crossing nursing a half-naked girl. Or why he’d parted with two irreplaceable heirlooms—a whalebone-handled knife and his grandfather’s gold watch—to “buy” a young woman. Or why he’d insisted on nursing her himself, rather than allowing the perfectly capable physician he’d brought along to do it.
When he saw Fanny waving to him—fragile Fanny, who’d fainted at the sight of a cut on his face from a bout of fisticuffs at Jackson’s Saloon—he realized Seaton was right. Fanny would never understand any of this. She would shortly be his wife, and he didn’t want to start off his marriage with an unnecessary misunderstanding.
“Seaton, I need a favor,” he’d said.
“Anything, Blackthorne.”
“I want you to make sure that, once the girl is well, she’s sent home to America.”
“Of course. Consider it done.”
Blackthorne had taken only one step toward the gangplank when he reversed course and hurried to the captain’s cabin. He found his patient sleeping on her stomach and touched her cheek to wake her.
Her hair was still damp from fever, and her eyes looked dazed. “What’s…happening?”
He stroked her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear as he spoke. “We’ve docked in London. I promise, when you’re well, arrangements will be made to send you back to America. Now, I must leave you.”
She grasped his hand, holding it against her cheek. “Don’t…go.”
Never had he heard a request he wanted to honor as much. But other obligations had to take precedence. He had to marry and produce an heir to the dukedom. His grandmother had insisted upon it, and he could no longer put her off.
He felt his heart twist, as he eased the girl’s hand free of his own. “You’ll be well taken care of, I promise. I’ll make sure you have the means to find those you seek. You’ll be on your way back to America as soon as you’re completely healed and can stand another voyage.”
She was still so weak, she was asleep almost before he finished speaking.
He leaned down to kiss her swollen cheek, which was a ghastly yellow and purple, now that the black and blue had gone away. “Sleep well, my dear.”
He’d been determined not to mention the girl, in order to spare Fanny any questions about his commitment to his future wife. But on the coach ride into London, she’d asked whether he’d managed to hunt down one of the shaggy buffalo that were supposed to roam the American plains.
And it just slipped out: “I rescued a girl instead.”
Fanny and her mother stared at him as though he’d said, “I not only killed a buffalo, I also sliced out its liver and ate it raw and steaming.” He took one look at their faces and made up his mind not to say another word about how his American exploits had ended.
But Fanny wouldn’t let it go. A sentence at a time, she coaxed the rest of the story out of him, beginning with how brave the girl had been in the face of torture.
Fanny’s mother had needed a sniff of hartshorn, as he gave a greatly expurgated description of the torture the girl had endured. At Fanny’s insistence, he explained how he’d given up his whalebone-handled knife and his grandfather’s gold watch to buy her from the Sioux brave who’d been whipping her.
Fanny’s mother harrumphed and said, “You’ll be sorry someday. How could you forfeit such priceless family heirlooms for some…nobody?”
He explained how he’d nursed the girl on shipboard.
Fanny had slid her arm through his, leaned her cheek against his shoulder, and said, “Oh, my.”
He explained how he’d left the girl—whose identity remained a mystery—behind at the docks, with instructions to Seaton that she was to be sent home to America, once she was completely healed.
“I can tell you admired her enormously,” Fanny said.
“I did,” he admitted. “I do.” As soon as the words—in the present tense—were out of his mouth, he’d felt compelled to reassure Fanny that the girl was no threat to her. So he’d added, “All she wants is to return home and find her family.”
“I’m so proud of you,” Fanny said.
He hadn’t expected that. “You are?”
“Your treatment of that poor girl only makes me love you more.”
“It does?”
She’d looked up at him with such love that, even though her mother was sitting across from them, he’d brushed a knuckle against her cheek, causing her to blush and lower her eyes. He was glad to be home.
At that moment, Blackthorne had felt sure he was marrying the most wonderful—and most compassionate—woman alive.
Much later, he realized it would have been far better if Fanny h
ad ranted and raged in a jealous frenzy, making it perfectly clear that he was never to think of that American girl again. Maybe then he wouldn’t have remained entranced by her forever after.
Seaton had accused him of being obsessed. He would admit to being fascinated. By her bravery. By her sense of obligation to her family. And by all the things he didn’t know about her. He wondered where she was. And how she was. He wondered if she’d ever been reunited with whoever it was she’d been so determined to find. He often felt saddened and frustrated by the knowledge that he was never going to have answers to his questions. That this elusive young woman was going to forever remain a mystery to him.
Most of all, he wondered why she’d never contacted him. He had no idea who she was, but surely, once she was well, she would have inquired about her benefactor. She would have been told she’d been rescued by the Duke of Blackthorne. She would have been told he’d nursed her on the long voyage from America, and that he’d provided her with the means to return from whence she’d come.
But he’d never heard a word from her. He could have asked Seaton if she’d ever mentioned him. But his pride—and his relationship with Seaton’s sister—had kept him silent.
“Your Grace?”
Blackthorne turned to look at the servant holding out a silver plate that held a missive. He took the note and dropped a coin on the plate, dismissing the man.
“What is it?” Seaton asked, as Blackthorne finished reading the note and folded it again.
He grimaced. “It seems another female hoping to become my duchess is seeking an interview.”
“Do you really have the luxury of refusing anyone at this point?”
“Perhaps not,” Blackthorne conceded. “But I owe it to myself to take a look, before I agree to sell myself.”
“And if she has a squeaky voice? Or sniffs? Or is redheaded with freckles? Or has a long nose or crooked teeth?”
“If she’s rich enough to save Blackthorne Abbey, I’m willing to overlook any or all of those faults.”
WHEN THE PINKERTON detective finally located her, Josephine Wentworth had been a maid-of-all-work at the Duke of Blackthorne’s estate in the northernmost county in England—and separated from her family in America—for two years.
“They’re all alive? Miranda and Nick and Harry? And well?” she asked, when the Pinkerton informed her that he’d been employed by her eldest sister, Miranda, to find her, after she’d disappeared two years ago. “What about Hannah and Hetty? Have they been located? Are they…” Her throat had swollen closed with terror at the thought of what she might hear had happened to her twin sisters, who’d been left all alone on the prairie after the Sioux attack, without oxen to pull the wagon.
“All five of your siblings are alive and well,” the Pinkerton confirmed. “And prosperous. In fact, Miss Wentworth, you’re quite a wealthy young woman yourself.”
Josie felt faint with relief that her entire family had survived, despite the calamities that had beset them. And then almost giddy at the thought of having enough money to liberate both herself and the two orphaned boys, wards of the Duke of Blackthorne, for whom she’d so often had to intervene to prevent unfair punishment over the past two years. Spencer and Clay had become the unfortunate victims of the trip wires and booby traps launched in the war between their London-born governess, Miss Adeline Sharpe, and the Scottish-born housekeeper at Tearlach Castle, Mrs. Edna Pettibone.
Mrs. Pettibone had ruled the roost for twenty-three years before Miss Sharpe had shown up with the two boys in tow and insisted that she must be accorded a spot one rung higher in the pecking order at the duke’s northernmost estate. Mrs. Pettibone had naturally taken umbrage at such a suggestion. By the time Josie arrived on the scene, the battle of wills was in full swing, and she had her hands full keeping the boys out of the line of fire.
Although only a small part of the ancient castle was livable, Mrs. Pettibone governed her domain with an iron fist. If the boys were underfoot—or naughty, as growing boys were wont to be—she accused Miss Sharpe of failing to control her charges. On the other hand, if the boys’ clothes weren’t washed and ironed to Miss Sharpe’s high standards, she accused Mrs. Pettibone of failing to instruct the maids in their duties.
And that was the mere tip of the iceberg. Miss Sharpe complained endlessly about the condition of the castle, which Mrs. Pettibone was responsible for keeping in good working order. The charge of neglect was clearly unfair, since Mrs. Pettibone could hardly be held responsible for the fact that the stone structure was a broken-down ruin.
The property had been deeded to a medieval Duke of Blackthorne by King John, for the duke’s assistance in taking Berwick-upon-Tweed from the Scots. As far as Josie could tell, nothing had been done since to improve it, and Tearlach had deteriorated to its current sad condition. Sheep dotted the green rolling hills that surrounded the castle and provided the income for those who lived and worked on the estate.
The Pinkerton’s pronouncement that she was rich enough to escape the castle that had been her prison for the past two years seemed too good to be true. Her brow furrowed in disbelief. “I’m wealthy? How is that possible?”
“It seems your father’s fortune wasn’t burned up in the Great Fire after all,” the Pinkerton replied. “Your uncle Stephen absconded with it. He has since been found, and most of your father’s fortune recovered.”
“I’m rich?” she asked again, not quite sure if she was making up the words coming out of the Pinkerton’s mouth because she wanted so badly for them to be true.
“Yes, Miss Wentworth.” He handed her a piece of paper and explained, “This bank draft should serve to get you back to your family in America. There’s more money waiting in the bank for you there. Along with your family, of course.”
“Where are they?” she asked. “Where should I go?”
“That’s up to you. Your sister Miranda is married to Mr. Jacob Creed and lives on a ranch near San Antonio, Texas, with your brothers, Nicholas and Harrison. Your sister Hannah is married to Mr. Flint Creed and lives on a ranch near Fort Laramie in the Wyoming Territory.”
Josie couldn’t believe Hannah had married again. Hannah’s first husband, Mr. McMurtry, had died of cholera during their journey from the Chicago orphanage, where they’d been living, to Cheyenne, in the Wyoming Territory, where Mr. McMurtry had planned to open a store. Josie had already opened her mouth to ask whether the two Creeds—Jacob and Flint—were related, when the Pinkerton said, “The Creed men are brothers.”
Josie wondered how two of her sisters could have met and married brothers living so far apart, but that could wait until she saw them again and could hear their stories in person. “And Hetty?” she asked anxiously. Hetty had been struck in the shoulder by a Sioux arrow during the attack on their wagon. All this time, Josie had worried and wondered whether Hetty had survived her wound.
“Your sister Henrietta is married to Mr. Karl Norwood and lives in the Bitterroot Valley in the Montana Territory.”
“No one lives near anyone else,” she cried in consternation. “How can they bear it?” They’d been a caring, close-knit family. Now, not only were all her sisters married to men who were strangers to her, but they resided at such vast distances from each other that visiting must be next to impossible.
“Do you know if they’ve been able to get back together anytime in the past two years?”
The Pinkerton doffed his black derby and ran a hand through his hair before replacing the hat and tugging it down low on his brow. He cleared his throat and said, “I believe they’ve been waiting until you could be located, before they attempted to reunite the family in one place. I have orders to escort you to London and make sure you have no trouble making arrangements to return home.”
Josie felt ashamed that she hadn’t tried harder to get back to her family in America. But she couldn’t figure out a way to take Spencer and Clay with her, and she wasn’t willing to leave the two persecuted boys behind. They’d needed her
as much—or maybe more—than her siblings. Besides, she’d had no idea how to locate her sisters and brothers, or even whether any of them were still alive. Now it seemed the Wentworths would all be together again someday.
But that day was going to have to wait awhile longer. First, she had to rescue Spencer and Clay from the clutches of the dastardly Duke of Blackthorne, whose neglect had allowed two unhappy women to make the lives of their charges miserable.
Josie had been the one to suggest that Miranda leave the rest of them behind at the Chicago Institute for Orphaned Children, so she could become a mail-order bride in Texas. She’d hoped Miranda might marry a man who had a large enough home that they could all go there to escape the cruel headmistress, Miss Iris Birch.
But after Miranda left the orphanage in the dead of night—sneaking Nick and Harry out the door along with her—she’d never been heard from again. Josie and her older twin sisters hadn’t known for sure whether Miranda and the boys were alive or dead.
During the three months after Miranda left, the beatings from Miss Birch had gotten worse, and Josie had pressured Hannah to become a mail-order bride as well, in order to escape Miss Birch’s wrath at Miranda’s middle-of-the-night escape with their two brothers. Hannah had married Mr. McMurtry, and the three remaining sisters had ended up on a wagon train headed to the Wyoming Territory.
That journey had ended in utter disaster. They’d been lost on the prairie when Mr. McMurtry died of cholera, and shortly thereafter, the three girls had been attacked by a marauding band of Sioux.
Mercifully, most of what came after her capture was a painful blur. Josie had no memory of being rescued from the Sioux village. She wasn’t sure at what moment she’d realized she was safe, that she’d been saved from the savage who’d taken her captive. She’d felt the sway of the bunk in which she lay and smelled the salt air and heard the men above deck singing sea chanties as they worked and realized she was on a ship. Her whole existence had narrowed down to the rough timbre of a soothing male voice, the touch of gentle hands, and the excruciating pain of having her wounds treated.
Blackthorne's Bride Page 2