Also by Leigh LaValle
The Runaway Countess
The Misbehaving Marquess
To the St. Vrain River,
and the animals and mountains that love her waters.
You remind us what it is to be wild and free,
and you inspired this story from its start.
Chapter One
1824 Whatstandwell Woods, Nottinghamshire
Hunting for treasure was not nearly as entertaining as Helen Gladstone had thought it would be, nor as glamorous. And certainly not as thrilling. Indeed, the shine of excitement had worn off days ago, about the time her best kidskin gloves had been ruined. But all this searching was dramatic, in a terrible, awful, exhausting way.
She dumped the heavy shovelful of mud to the side and arched her back. A thousand pulses of complaint fired through her, from her blistered fingers to her sore feet. Her body was not made for digging.
But dig she must.
Cursing the ridiculousness of the male species, and brothers in particular, she shoved her spade into the earth again.
And hit something! By God, finally! She actually hit something solid that sent a burst of reverberations up her arms. Too excited to breathe, she tapped the object with her shovel and was rewarded with a mellow thwunk.
Wood.
Not the tink of rock, or the quiet sinew of root. No, this thwunk meant something big and hollow. Like a box.
Anticipation raced up her spine and shot across her chest. With the back of her hand, Helen swiped a loose strand of hair from her eyes and bent over. The hole at her feet was dark, cast in late afternoon shadow, but, yes, she could just make out the dirty grain of wood, scraped by her spade.
She’d found it. By the Heavens, she’d truly found it.
Oh, she would return to London in style. She’d hire a travelling coach with matching bays and parade about Mayfair. That ought to stop the gossip, or at least change the tone. Then, disdainful as a queen, she’d settle Harry’s accounts with the moneylenders and bid the unsavory, unwashed brutes never to return to her doorstep. She’d pay the remaining servants, with a bonus for their loyalty, then the solicitor and the tax collector and the butcher. Last but not least, she’d see to the tenants’ needs and repair the fields at Slipstream Hall. A bright laugh scampered through her.
All their problems were solved.
Careful now, she edged her shovel around the rectangular object and laughed again. If she was correct, James had buried almost sixteen thousand pounds in this box. It was everything they needed to save the earldom from ruin. Harry, the useless brother he was, had insisted it was a fool’s errand and refused to come along. But she had known, in the deep place where one knows such things, that she would be successful.
And she was.
Helen threw her shovel to the side and knelt, barely taking notice of the damp soaking through her skirts. Her heart pounding in her ears, she reached into the musty hole and finally—finally—wrapped her aching fingers around the slippery wood. The mud squelched and squished and refused to let go of its treasure. She shook out her arms, which trembled from the day’s exertion, and tried again. More wriggling and twisting and, at last, with a hard yank, the box broke free from its hole. She fell back on her heels, her breaths heavy in her chest, and considered the object in her hands.
The wood was terribly warped from the damp, being buried for the better part of three years. She wiped off some of the filth, a useless endeavor, and turned the box around and around.
But where was the lid? The small chest seemed to be some kind of clever design that held no seam, no clasp. James would have chosen such a puzzle.
Holding the box up to her ear, Helen gave it a good shake. Nothing. No clank of gold, no shift of weight. She shook it harder. Again, nothing moved, as if the wood were solid.
Oh no. No, no, no.
Dread sank low and unwanted in her belly where it settled, a poor neighbor, with her hunger. Fumbling in her haste, Helen knocked against each surface of the box. She shook it again, then rubbed her aching fingers over the square of wood.
Blast and blast and double damn. This was no bloody box. Simply a chunk of wood cut for the fire. A useless, worthless, wet piece of wood. Three days of digging and nothing. Nothing.
Frustration lapped at her with a hot tongue, and desperation twisted her gut. Helen let loose a clenched yowl. A flock of goldfinches rose from a nearby bush, twittering in protest. Happy little birds, they did not require coin to stave off ruin.
With a great heave, she slammed the moldy log back into the hole. Mud splattered across her face and skirts. Lovely. Just lovely.
She picked up her shovel, the devil’s own instrument, and threw it across the meadow. It landed in one of the holes she’d dug earlier. The entire area was pocked with holes, as she’d been digging all day. And her footman the day before. And the day before that.
She knew the money was here. Everything in her brother’s journals pointed to this exact meadow. James would have hidden his winnings somewhere mathematical. Halfway between this tree and that. Or forming a perfect triangle with these rocks. She had tried everything she could think of, but she would have to try again. The biggest tree and—
A big, fat plop of rain landed on her nose. Another on the top of her bare head. Then one made a long, triumphant slide down the back of her neck. Perfect. Just wonderful. Even the weather was mocking her.
At least the rain would clean her off.
Helen lifted her face to the sky, only then noticing that the weather had grown gloomy and dark. Night was coming, and a storm with it. Good Lord, she needed to return to her room in Cromford before darkness fell. But then what? Would she walk back to the meadow again tomorrow? Would she keep digging and digging? Perhaps her lady’s maid and footman had the right of it; perhaps the entire project was a doomed failure. The two servants had fled at first light, presumably to find an employer who could actually pay their wages.
The situation was growing increasingly dire.
Panic welled, high and insistent, in her chest. She had been so certain she would find the treasure. And now she was covered in mud like a…like a… pig.
No one could think, covered in this much dirt.
First things first. Helen crossed the meadow, grabbed her shovel, and slid down the ravine to the stream. It took some time, coaxing her ruined gloves off her blistered fingers, but finally she managed to peel them off. The cold water felt heavenly against her torn flesh.
With a quick glance around, she untied the laces of her apron-front gown and lowered it to her waist. She washed her face and arms, hardly noticing the droplets of water running down her neck and dampening her corset.
The sun would return tomorrow, and she’d try again. She had to. Their once-boisterous family had dwindled down to just two—herself and Harry. Just the two of them to carry on the work of the earldom and care for their dependents. And it wasn’t as if Harry would get off his arse and actually help. Of course not. Once again it was left to—
Something flashed in the corner of her eye and Helen jolted upright, then dropped to crouching by the rock beside her.
Twenty yards downstream, a man on horseback edged out of the woods. He rode a great big hulking beast of a horse. A large hat hid his face from view, and a muddy greatcoat covered the rest of him.
Unease slid down her spine as the man studied the swirling water and let his mount navigate the crossing toward her side of the stream. Quiet, disheveled and dangerous, he was too lonesome to be a local farmer, too tattered to be a gentleman, and too devilish to be a vicar.
This was not good. Not good at all. Please, please, let him not look h
er way. Helen caught her breath and held herself tight as fist. Still as the rock beside her.
By some miracle, the man didn’t look upstream, just kept his gaze trained on the water. As quickly as he had appeared, he disappeared up the steep ravine.
He was heading right toward her hole-pocked meadow. And her fortune.
She sprang out of her crouched position and fell against the rock. Blood poured into her aching muscles like little needles. Her numb, blistered fingers were useless and she abandoned her attempts to right her clothing, just grabbed her shovel. Never did she think she would be so glad to take up the implement of torture. It was a paltry weapon, but solid in hand, and all she had.
Her heartbeat rushing and turbid like the water beside her, she stumbled upstream to a stand of pines. The trees were not thick but enough to keep her hidden. She hoped she was hidden, anyway, as she leaned against a pitch-sticky trunk and peered into the meadow.
He was there, a dark figure looming over the holes she had dug. His head was bent, as if investigating clues in the mud. A wet breeze rolled down the hillside and ruffled his dark cloak, then blew over her like cold, prickling panic.
She shrank back behind a tree and held the shovel tight in her hand. Only the top of her head peeked around the trunk as she watched him.
She should run. She should stay. She should—
He lifted his eyes and scanned the pines where she was hiding. The hair on the back of her neck rose, as if lightening waited on the horizon. Helen forced her ragged breaths to be shallow, lest he hear her. He couldn’t possibly see her, hidden behind a tree. But he started walking toward her, straight toward her, and she thought her heart would leap from her chest. A violent trembling started in her legs, then spread out until she had to clench her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.
Still, he came toward her. She dared not move. Willed herself to be invisible.
It didn’t work.
He stopped short when he caught sight of her, not ten paces away. Then he advanced slowly, his ragged and unkempt cloak billowing around his dirty boots.
She had no choice but to fight. She jumped out from behind the tree.
“Stay back.” She poked her shovel into the air. “Go away.”
Chapter Two
Roane grantham could not believe his eyes. There was a woman in the shadows. He half thought she was a ghost. An apparition of his fantasy—blonde, wet, and disheveled. The top of her gown fell open as she raised her shovel, exposing the pale, lush curve of her left breast.
Welcome home to England, old boy.
He stopped in place and lifted his hands, assuring the beautiful and wild chit that he was not a threat. Not yet, anyway.
“I’ll not hurt you.” He kept his voice calm and low, as if she were a wood creature easily startled.
“Go away.” She jabbed her shovel in the air again. That lovely swell of feminine flesh bounced.
His pulse bounced as well. Some men appreciated a shapely arse. Others just wanted a bit of fluff. Roane enjoyed the whole of a woman but loved breasts most of all. And this woman had a luscious pair. “What are you doing here, sweetheart? Are you in some kind of danger?”
“I am perfectly well. Now take yourself off.” Her body betrayed her words. She was scared out of her wits. Shaking and breathing fast.
“Are you alone?” She seemed to be alone. There was only one set of prints in the muddy clearing.
She stood taller. He tried, he really did, to keep his gaze on her face. But her dress slipped lower and, lord, her corset was threaded with some kind of pink ribbon that played peekaboo with the lace covering her nipples. It’d been years since he’d seen anything so delicate and so utterly feminine. Blood surged to his muscles and fired them with one purpose. Want. Her. He swiped a hand over his eyes, forcing himself to look away. Did she realize her bodice had fallen open? He should tell her, if only so he could think.
“Who are you?” She stepped forward and poked his shoulder with her shovel.
He dropped his hand from his eyes and batted the shovel away. “A friend.”
“You are no friend of mine. My brothers will be back soon. They will be looking for me. ‘Twould be best you are gone before their return.”
“I see.” Hopefully, she lied. He hardly needed to fight off a pack of angry brothers. And fight he would. This clearing—more specifically, the treasure within it— was his.
And the woman, with her flashing eyes and pink ribbons, he wouldn’t mind making her his as well.
He shot her a wide grin.
She frowned.
“You’ve been digging today, sweetheart. What are you looking for?”
Her gaze flicked to the meadow behind him. Guilty, guilty. “’Tis none of your concern.”
“Ah, now, I hate to argue with a woman, especially a beautiful one. But this meadow, and everything in it, is very much my concern. Including you.” He winked at her but received no response.
Her face, with its flawless color, high cheekbones, and pert little chin, was set in flat, hard lines. She was obviously cultured—from London, he would wager—and a long way from home. But she looked down her nose at him as if he’d trampled mud into her drawing room. “I am not your sweetheart,” she said. “Neither am I your concern. Best you climb atop that great beast of a horse and take yourself off before my brothers return.”
She jerked her chin toward his mount. Everything about her demeanor said leave. But her breasts were half-bared and her hair falling from her pins. She was coming undone before him and it was erotic as hell. Everything within him said stay.
Pinecones crunched beneath his boots as he took three steps to the right. She followed his movements with the tip of her shovel, her disquiet palpable. There was nothing in the woods behind her. Only a thick stand of pines and no sign of a camp. He took a few steps to the left. The trees were more open here but showed no indication anyone would be spending the night.
Roane propped his shoulder against the closest pine, the picture of nonchalance, and smiled. He was docile as a puppy.
There were no brothers.
And she would tell him who she was and what she was doing here, alone in his clearing. Her cultured speech and ruined dress certainly piqued his curiosity. Not to mention other parts of her anatomy currently hidden from view. What if she came totally undone? Now there was a thought worth pondering. “Why don’t you put your weapon down, darling, so we can talk this through. Because, you see, I cannot leave.”
“And you cannot stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Have you eaten? I have a fresh loaf of bread in my pack, and a bit of—”
“I’m not hungry.”
“No? You look hungry.”
She frowned at him. “Are you always this charming?”
He grinned. “I do try.”
“Well, don’t try. I do not need nor want your charm. Leave.”
He didn’t move. Her long, pale neck still glistening with drops of water. His eyes dropped lower—to her plump breasts and those pink ribbons. Christ. He would untie her corset slowly, like a present, then take her in his—
“Cad.” She must have realized her state of undress, for she yanked up the front flap of her gown. Ah, well, probably for the best. “You, sir, are no gentleman,” she muttered, holding her bodice in place with one hand.
Finally, he dragged his gaze back up to hers. “Never in my life have I claimed to be a gentleman.”
Her cheeks pinkened. “Will you please go away?”
“What were you digging for in the meadow?”
Her sigh was long and hard as she relaxed the tip of her shovel to the earth. Victory. “Oh, very well. If we truly must talk, at least turn around that I might…ah…” Her face flushed brighter.
Roane rubbed a hand over his eyes and turned. He wondered if she would smack him across the head with her shovel and kept his ears open for her approach. Instead, she walked away.
> Would she flee?
“How did you know to look here?” he asked. If he could hear her voice, he’d know where she was.
“Look here for what?”
So they were to play this game. He had no patience for it. Not after visiting his aunt’s grave earlier that day. “You are obviously digging for something of great value. Unless this is your penance? Have you done something naughty, darling?”
She huffed in annoyance. Fabric rustled. He imagined how she might look beneath her wet gown. Her pink-laced corset. A sheer, damp shift clinging to her curves. The darker V between her legs. The shape of her waist. Sweat broke out over his skin.
He wandered a few steps away, to the open clearing, and studied the location of the holes she had dug. A better use for his thoughts. No, not better, but less torturous. A moment later, he heard her approach.
“I am not your sweetheart, nor your darling,” she grumbled from behind him. “Nor your honey.”
Roane turned to find her dressed in the same wet, muddy gown with the bodice securely in place. Over that, she wore an emerald green cloak of very fine wool with embroidery around the hood and sleeves. Her hair was tucked up in a silk bonnet, and ruined gloves finished her unlikely ensemble. Her outfit, though stained and torn, was elegantly tailored and obviously expensive.
In an instant, he knew who she was. “What is your name?”
She narrowed her eyes—her blue eyes, he could now tell in the brighter light. Ah, well, this would make sense. “Why?”
“Are you a Gladstone, perchance?”
She drew back, startled.
His comment had hit the mark. “You have the look of James.”
Keeping her expression blank, she considered her response. He wondered what reaction she would choose. In the end, curiosity won out. She tried to peek under the wide brim of his hat. “You knew James?”
“Yes. And you would be his…sister?”
“In what manner were you acquainted with him?” she asked, evading him with her own question.
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