As if he had conjured her, she entered the room. His pulse raced at the sight of her, long hair caught up in a smooth chignon instead of the curls that were fashionable at the moment. Her face, devoid of the paint that was also popular, looked fresh and innocent. He smiled to himself. Those lips certainly weren't innocent when it came to kissing.
“Excuse me,” someone said at his side and he turned to see Northrup. The man's face was unsettled, and for once, he didn't have a drink in his hand.
“What is it?”
“I think you should know,” the viscount said in a low voice, “that Southbury and Alcott are spreading word that Miss Bouvier is a spy.”
“What?” Andrew took a deep breath to quell the rage threatening to spill over.
Northrup nodded. “We had a talk yesterday about that ride you—she—took away from the hunt. Alcott and Lady Waitley followed her. Seems she was seen with a stranger. The subject of spies came up. Now, with the ship spotted...”
Andrew's jaw tightened. So that's how they knew about his kiss. And now, out of spite and vengeance, they were dirtying Ashley's name.
“There is talk about sending for the magistrate to question Miss Bouvier.”
Andrew started. “By God, what devilry is this? She is a guest of the duke's! He has a great deal of influence, lest anyone forget.”
“That is true,” Northrup answered, “but I heard Southbury tell the messenger, before he headed back, that this matter is of utmost importance to Prinny.”
The Devil's own blood! Once Prinny got wind of this—as unpopular as he was with the general public—he'd take delight in making an example of capturing an American spy in their midst. And the penalty for spying was death.
“Excuse me,” Andrew said abruptly. “I must speak with Miss Bouvier.”
“I thought you might. Good luck.” The viscount sighed. “I think I need a drink.
* * * *
Ashley stared at Andrew. “They think I'm a spy?” Even though they were seated in the gazebo, well away from the crowds, she kept her voice down. Never in her wildest imaginings had she thought of this. Andrew had told her of the frigate and that they'd both been followed the day of the hunt. The pieces all fell into place. Simon had said he'd get revenge for her refusing him, and the Earl of Southbury was dead set on getting Andrew to marry Felice. “They don't have any proof.”
Andrew took her hand in his. “Prinny does not always need proof. I need to get you away from here.”
A bubble of hysterical laughter welled up in her throat. “If I could find that coach with its white horses, I'd be as far away from here as I could get.”
“I have horses. Why is that coach so important?”
Ashley took a deep breath. “I tried to tell you last night. I'm not from here.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, even though his eyes were somber. “I know that. You are American. Do not worry. I have a place in Yorkshire that Prinny doesn't even know about. We will be safe.”
“We?”
“Yes.” He took her other hand in his. “What I meant to tell you last night is that Lady Waitley was right about one thing. I do need to make sure your reputation is not sullied. I will marry you.”
Ashley smiled and raised a hand to touch his cheek. “You don't have to marry me out of duty. It's not how it's done in my time.”
“It is not duty. I want to.” He slipped his signet ring off his little finger and put it on hers. Then he paused. “What do you mean, not how it is done ... in your time?”
She fingered the ring. “That's what I need to tell you. I'm from a different time. The twenty-first century, to be exact. I was on vacation and there was this Regency ball that the lady at the Visitor's Centre said a group of actors was giving. The coach with the white horses and big albino dog came for me. The next thing I knew I was here. In 1811.”
“White dog?”
“Yes. With red eyes and red ears.”
His face paled. “It cannot be.”
“You don't believe me.” She gently withdrew the hand that he still clasped. “I don't blame you.”
“No. It is not that. According to Celtic legend, Arawen rides a pale horse accompanied by a white hound with red ears...”
Ashley frowned. “The god of the Otherworld? But I'm not dead!” She took a shaky breath. “Am I?”
He caressed the side of her face gently, soothing her. “Only if I am as well. Who told you about this party again?”
“The woman at the Visitor's Centre in Barmby Moor.”
He looked nonplused. “That's where my property is. What was this woman's name?”
“Eponia.” Ashley gasped suddenly. “Eponia. Epona. The Roman version of the Celtic goddess Rhiannon. Queen of the Otherworld. Who just happened to ride a white horse, too.”
Andrew's eyes glittered like black ice. “So the goddesses still live?”
“But how...?” Ashley remembered stories of gods and goddesses trifling with mortals. Or rewarding them. Could this be her reward after the humiliation of dh's affair? “You don't think me totally crazy then?”
“No. My grandmother was a dreamer, much to my mother's dismay. I grew up on stories of the Tuatha de Danann. I cannot deny that you passed through Time.” He looked back at the house. “Still, I must get you away now. There is a convent two leagues from here. You will be safe there until I can arrange transportation to Manchester. Even Prinny cannot breach the convent walls, not if he wants to keep the slim hold he has on his popularity with the common people. Let us go.”
* * * *
Several hours later, Ashley clung to Andrew's arm as they approached the convent gate. The duke had lent them a carriage with one of his most trusted drivers, and they'd escaped without being seen, although there had been no time to pack her clothes. Andrew would have to return before he was missed.
“Do not worry,” he said and pulled her close to him. His mouth claimed hers in fierce possession that sent heat radiating throughout her body. “I shall come for you soon.” Reluctantly, he let her go as the driver opened the door.
The abbess stood waiting by the door. “Well-come, child,” she said and turned to Andrew. “She will be safe until your return.”
Ashley watched as Andrew climbed up beside the driver. He turned once to wave before the carriage disappeared around a bend in the road.
“Come, my lady,” the abbess said as she shut the heavy door and barred it. “Perhaps you would care to wait in the garden while we prepare a room for you?” She pointed. “It's just around the corner of that building.”
As Ashley crossed the small yard, a meadowlark trilled its song from a nearby tree and its mate answered. Somewhere nearby, a fountain splashed. How very quiet and peaceful after the hectic noise of the house party.
She turned the corner and froze in mid-step as one of the four white horses stamped a hoof and nickered softly. The dog turned its flaming eyes toward her.
The white-liveried footman opened the door to the landau. Eponia leaned forward and beckoned her inside. “You must come with me, dear. The Prince Regent knows where Andrew's place is and he will not hesitate to use you. We must take you back.”
“No! Not when I've finally found what true love can be. I won't go.”
The driver looked down at her impatiently and Ashley knew she stared into the eyes of a god. His were black as coal, but burned as red as fire. “If you do not get in, we will be taking you to the Other World sooner than you want to go.”
“But Andrew said he'd come for me!”
Arawen snorted. “Treason is what awaits him if he helps you. Do you want him dead, too?”
Ashley held back her tears. This couldn't be happening. Not when she finally found the right man. But, the god was right. If Prinny considered her a spy and Andrew granted her refuge, he would be held for treason. And she couldn't let that happen. She shook her head. “No. I don't want him dead.”
The footman bowed and held out his hand. “It's time to go home, my lady.”
With a heavy heart, Ashley stepped into the carriage.
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* * *
Epilogue
Ashley blinked against a slanted ray of the sun of late afternoon sunshine. She shook her head and looked around. The road in front of the boarding house was empty, save for a distant car. She was back in her century, dressed for the costume party. My God. What had happened to her? The trip to 1811 had been so real ... the horses and dog ... and gods, if that's what they were. Had she been so tired that she hallucinated?
She looked down at her hand and drew a shaky breath. Andrew's ring was still on her finger. Andrew. Tears welled in her eyes as she went inside the house. She still felt his hard, muscular body pressed against her as they made love. How he'd suckled her breasts tenderly and then drawing deep until she came for him before he'd even entered her. Could still feel his demanding, hot kisses as he'd plunged inside her, stretching and filling her completely, bringing her to ecstasy time after time through that long, wonderful night.
The knocker on the door clamored, breaking into her thoughts. The driver was here for the party. The last thing she wanted to do was meet a bevy of new people. What she wanted was to bury herself in her bed with the comforter drawn up and relive every moment of her fantasy—or whatever it was—and cry her eyes out.
“I'm coming!” she called when the knocker sounded again. She picked up the satin reticule from the small table and opened the door.
Andrew smiled at her.
She gasped and grabbed for the doorsill even as he reached out to steady her. For the first time in her life, she understood the definition of the word ‘swooning.’ Or was she having an illusion? But no, his hands were warm and solid, and his dark eyes glinted. He gave her his lopsided smile. “I told you I would come for you.”
“But how—”
“This is my place. The one I told you about.”
“But how—”
“Sometimes it pays to believe in the Auld Ways,” he said.
Then he wrapped his arms around her and bent his head to take her mouth, claiming her forever.
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* * *
The Farmer's Son
Erin E.M. Hatton
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* * *
Erin is a writer from Ontario, Canada with a passion for history and fantasy. Erin makes her home with her husband, one son, and three daughters—two of them twins. A life-long love of writing has finally taken off—if only during babies’ nap times. Erin has three other published stories: “Where the Sea Meets Skye” in Blue Moon Magic, “Counterpoint” in Romance Upon a Midnight Clear, and “Firstfoot", an e-publication.
Be sure to visit Erin at her website:
erinemhatton.com
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* * *
Chapter One
Ellen Spencer peered out from the coach window in utter rapture. The country was every bit as beautiful as she'd remembered. At seven and ten years of age, two summers hence seemed a lifetime ago, when she'd visited Highgrove with her dearest friend Kate Wintercroft. Then she'd only been a tagalong, awed by the sights of Kate's country manor. Now she was the heiress, about to preside for the first time over her own country society.
Father dozed in the seat across from her. Imagine sleeping at a time like this! Of course, he had been to Alderfield many times since he'd been a boy, to visit old Uncle Edwin. As a child, she had found Uncle Edwin tiresome in the extreme the first time she met him, years ago in London. But Father had said she must be respectful and humor him because he was old.
Well, years of respect and humor had paid off in ways they'd never imagined—Alderfield, along with a weighty title, was left in its entirety to Mr. Benjamin Spencer, the sole nephew of Sir Edwin Blake. And as said Mr. Spencer's only daughter, Ellen was entitled to inherit the estate when her father should die. Ellen's status, as well as her dowry, had dramatically gone up. She could hardly wait for the next Season, hopeful she would now appear about London with a train of beaux at her heels. Whether right or wrong, money had always spoken with the ton.
Thought of the ton brought back to mind the memory she hoped to forget, that fateful interview with the Patronesses of Almack's. They had seemed so kind, but she had seen the flicker of scorn in their eyes, heard the unspoken words in their awkward pauses. Membership is limited, they'd said with a token apology. Perhaps next Season, with the right liaisons ... The right husband, is what they had meant. Well, that was precisely what she would set out to get. After all, as everyone had told her since she was a child: one was nobody until one held an Almack's voucher in hand.
She adjusted the drape of her muslin gown over her knees and twirled her reticule back and forth on its cord. She'd just purchased some new pieces for her wardrobe and was anxious to show them off—not least of which was an exquisite new ball gown, which would show very well when she was admitted to Almack's, and that reminded her...?
“Father,” she inquired. Her father looked up from his nap and peered at her in that unfocused way that always meant he wasn't yet listening. Ellen waited for his attention. “Do you suppose we should throw a ball at Alderfield, to become acquainted with local society?”
“I am certain that would be fine. We will see to it, Nell, dear.” Father closed his eyes, and Ellen turned back to the window impatiently. She could hardly wait to arrive at her fine new home. And she could hardly wait for her first ball as an heiress. While she'd always been raised in a world of wealth, her elevated social status would take a bit of getting used to. It was certainly an adjustment she was looking forward to making.
At length, the carriage rounded the final bend, past a copse of alders for which the manor got its name, and Ellen caught sight of her new home. It presented a fine façade, if a little outmoded, of carved stone, gothic peaked gables, and dozens of windows all a-flash in the setting sun. It was altogether beautiful, and it was hers.
She stepped down from the carriage, to the attendance of a neat row of servants—Uncle Edwin had been exacting in his household affairs. She passed these by with a nod of acknowledgement and a smile and swept up the stairs to the front entrance. Inside she found a large oak-paneled hall with a staircase and upper gallery that curled around the perimeter, affording no doubt a fine view of the goings-on below. The entry was dim—she would have to remember to change those heavy drapes to something lighter, and put out more candles in the evenings when visitors were expected.
Directly before her, a set of double doors stood open upon a spacious drawing room, equipped with a curiously old-looking settle, a heavily carved table and chairs for whist, and the room's one redeeming quality—a handsome pianoforte. Ellen sat down upon the seat and began to play a piece from memory. Wincing, she pulled her hands away from the keyboard when the notes sounded dissonant from disuse. The instrument needed tuning badly. Standing and turning about, Ellen took stock of the room. Lighter drapes, again, a new carpet, and all new furniture ... and a tuner for the pianoforte.
Exploring the adjoining room, Ellen found anteroom, dining room, and morning room, among others, in much the same condition. Thank heaven for the extra pin money Father said he would allow her for improvements to their new home. She would soon remedy old Uncle Edwin's lack of style—before the ball.
Ellen prowled the upstairs halls, peering into one bedroom after another, and finally settled on one that suited perfectly. The bank of large windows overlooking a charming pond and green sloping hillside brightened the spacious room. A well-appointed desk—a lady's desk, no less—faced the windows, taking full advantage of the light and scenery. She set her bonnet on the edge of this desk and pulled out a sheet of paper for her first correspondence as mistress of Alderfield.
* * * *
Among the delightful luxuries of her new country house, Ellen found old Uncle Edwin's stables to be the finest diversion. When the silence of the great house grew too oppressi
ve, and the demands of transforming her new household grew too great, she would ride. In the first few days at Alderfield, she had already chosen a favorite, a gentle bay mare.
Bertie, the groom she'd made friends with her first days at the manor had saddled her mount with a lady's saddle, and Ellen was quickly on her way—with the wind lifting the tendrils of her hair and the frills at the neck of her new riding habit. She'd spent all of her allowance during the Season on new clothes, having little suitable for the rigors of country life.
Alderfield had extensive grounds, and each day Ellen had ridden in a different direction to become better acquainted with her new lands. Today she turned northward with a smile toward the deep green wood and bird-laden thickets. The bridle path had been well kept in the open meadows, but as the forest glade drew closer on either side, Ellen began to doubt the advisability of taking the forest path. Evidently, Uncle Edwin hadn't cared much to ride in the woods.
She was just about to urge her horse backward out of the clutch of branches—for the trail was too close to turn around—when she heard the low murmur of a voice. A male voice. Ellen's ears pricked with interest, and she urged her reluctant horse slowly through the tangle, ducking her head under low boughs, and dismounting when at last her horse would go no further.
“Stubborn beast,” she muttered under her breath as she secured the reins to a tree and continued on foot.
The voice was louder now, although still too soft to make out a word. Ellen pressed on, ignoring the pull of twig and bramble on her new riding habit. She was obliged to leave the proper path when the voice led her away, but curiosity was enough to spur her on. Who was the man, and whom was he speaking to with such tenderness in his voice? She would find out at any cost.
Some might call Ellen Spencer headstrong. And why should a lady not be headstrong? As long as she kept to the rules of decorum and maintained her virtue, why might not a gentle lady enjoy life and take what she wanted from it? Aunt Susan, Mother's youngest sister and not much older than Ellen, would call her to task for this willfulness, but Ellen had never been much for listening. The only voice she heard, beyond her own, was her father's, and he had ever spoken with gentleness and approval.
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