Copyright© 2012
Born for Thorton’s Sake by Marcia Lynn McClure
www.marcialynnmcclure.com
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, the contents of this book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any part or by any means without the prior written consent of the author and/or publisher.
Published by Distractions Ink
P.O. Box 15971
Rio Rancho, NM87174
©Copyright 1996, 2005, 2007, 2012 by M. L. Meyers
A.K.A. Marcia Lynn McClure
Cover Photography by ©Konradbak/Dreamstime.com
Cover Design by Sheri L. Brady/MightyPhoenixDesignStudio.com
Third Printed Edition: 2012
All character names and personalities in this work of fiction
are entirely fictional, created solely in the imagination of the author.
Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
McClure, Marcia Lynn, 1965—
Born for Thorton’s Sake: a novella/by Marcia Lynn McClure.
ISBN: 9780985280710
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012934284
Printed in the United States of America
To Marnie,
Thank you for giving me the encouragement, advice, and resources
necessary to accomplish the many things you knew I could.
But most of all…
Thank you for your gifts of happiness, laughter,
and loyal, enduring friendship to me!
PROLOGUE
“Where is she then? Where is the child?” Lord Richard Thorton demanded. “The girl was to have been here with you!”
The small, frail-looking woman trembled as she considered the three men standing before her. The dark and looming Lord Thorton’s expression was no less than that of barely restrained fury. The expression of the dark and fine-looking younger man to his right was even more frightening. The third man, small and fair-haired, donned a pair of spectacles and seemed more disgusted than angry.
“What have you done with her then…madam?” the younger man asked. It was fully obvious this young man was Lord Thorton’s son. Had it not been for the evident years between them, the two may have been mistaken for brothers.
The old woman swallowed hard, gathered courage, and stammered, “They…they assured me of being her only surviving relatives. I…I understood they…I…I understood they were in earnest.” She breathed at last, glancing away from the faces of fury before her. She helplessly shrugged her shoulders when the man donning spectacles shook his head.
“You understood? Who are you to have understood anything, woman?” Lord Thorton bellowed. He placed a powerful hand at one temple and closed his eyes for a moment in an obvious effort to settle his temper.
“Father?” the younger man asked, placing a hand on Lord Thorton’s shoulder. “Are you indeed well?”
Lord Thorton nodded and inhaled deeply as the woman wrung her hands nervously.
“Forgive me, sire. I thought it would be best if—”she began.
“No, madam. You did not think,” Lord Thorton scolded.
His son began to pace back and forth, yet angry. “Is there an address?” he asked.
“No, sire. They just…they just took her,” the woman answered.
Lord Thorton sighed with exasperation. “A name then, woman! Did you even think to get a name?”
The woman shook her head, brushing at the tears fresh on her cheeks. “No, sire. I assumed—”
“She is lost to us, sire,” Jacob Peterson said quietly to his employer. He adjusted his spectacles and again shook his head disapprovingly at the old woman.
Deep concern crossed the face of the mighty lord, Richard Thorton, as he looked to his son Brockton.
“Yes, Peterson,” the great lord mumbled. “Lost to us.”
“For the time being, perhaps, Father,” Brockton said. “But fear not. She cannot be lost to us long. She will not be.”
Lord Thorton nodded in agreement with his son. “We will find her,” he said. “I’ll not let Charles Holt’s daughter be lost indefinitely.”
Lord Thorton lumbered away then, his son at his side, leaving their solicitor, Jacob Peterson, to contend with the sobbing proprietress of the orphan asylum.
“Madam,” Jacob began, “please…do calm yourself.” He reached into his pocket and produced a small calling card.“ Here is an address. If ever you hear from the couple who made off with the girl, do not, for any reason, hesitate to contact his lordship or myself. I am Jacob Peterson, Lord Thorton’s solicitor.” He paused and then added, “Forgive my employer and his son, madam. His lordship was deeply affected by the loss of the girl’s father. The best of boyhood companions, they were.” With a tip of his hat, Jacob Peterson exited, leaving the old woman still trembling in her slippers.
THORTON’S WARD
Maria was awakened by a furious beating at the cottage door. Who could it be, she wondered, at this late hour? Silently she rose from the pile of ancient quilts that served as her bed and crept from the dark loft to the door at the bottom of the stairs. Opening the door only a slice, for she knew better than to be caught milling about, she peered into the adjoining room. Her aunt and uncle, having left their chamber, grumbled and argued as they rather stumbled along together toward the cottage door.
“Who would dare disturb us at this hour?” Aunt Eula Holt complained, tightening her night robe about her and adjusting her nightcap. Her short, round husband followed her, cursing under his breath.
“Maybe that brat’s out and about stirring up mischief,” Edgar Holt growled. “Might as well drown children at thirteen years as put up with their nonsense.”
“Well said,” Eula grumbled, nodding her agreement.
The beating on the door suddenly increased in volume, causing Maria to startle slightly. She quickly forgot her uncle and aunt’s spiteful remarks about her age and uselessness as her eyes widened in anticipation. What goings-on could cause someone to beat on the door in the dead of night? Robbers perhaps? Maria shook her head, knowing full well robbers would no sooner knock on a door than verbally shout out their intentions.
“Just a moment! Just a moment! We’re coming!” her aunt screeched. Maria saw her aunt open the cottage door and heard her ask, “Who dares disturb us at such an hour? I hope you have good reason for…” The homely woman hushed, however, and Maria gasped as an enormous man suddenly burst into the cottage. The dark trespasser was followed by a small, thin man who wore spectacles. He nodded at her aunt and uncle in turn.
“Where is she, woman?” the tall, dark intruder growled.
Maria’s aunt quickly regained her composure and shouted, “Who do you think you are…forcing yourself into our home as such?”
“Where is the girl?” the dark man demanded. “You had better cooperate with me, woman! Otherwise, this will go very badly.”
The smaller man adjusted his spectacles and interrupted, “Is this indeed the residence of Edgar and Eula Holt?”
“Well…well, yes. But I still do not see why you think you can simply—”Eula began.
“Do you have residing here in your care one Miss Maria Castillo Holt?” the spectacled man inquired.
Maria tucked a strand of ebony hair behind one ear, her eyes widening, her heart pounding at the mention of her name. She held her breath, entranced as she watched the color drain from her aunt’s face. Her uncle cleared his throat and with a raspy voice answered, “My niece. My brother’s child. Yes. She lives here with us.”
“Give her over to me at once!” the towering man shouted. Taking a clearly threatening step in her u
ncle’s direction, he stopped when the spectacled man put a hand to his arm.
“Master Brockton, please,” the spectacled man said to him calmly. Turning, the man in the spectacles handed Edgar Holt a small calling card and said, “My card. I am Jacob Peterson, solicitor for Lord Richard Thorton and his son Brockton. I have here the last will and testament of one Charles Victor Holt. The will states, without question, that in the event of his demise—being his beloved wife, Lucia Maria Castillo Holt, had previously departed this life—his only child, one Maria Castillo Holt, is to be placed in the home of Lord Richard Benton Thorton…he also being appointed sole guardian until such time as…in short, we’ve come to transport the child to her rightful guardian and residence.”
“Let me repeat myself. Give the child over to me at once!” the larger man growled at Maria’s aunt.
“Master Brockton, please,” Jacob Peterson said quietly to his enraged companion.
The large man sighed heavily and turned from the others. The dim light from the lamp Maria’s aunt carried illuminated his face then, and Maria gasped at the sight of him. She was very young, it was true, but even eyes as young and innocent as hers could recognize pure perfection of face and form in a man such as stood there in the cottage. Maria moved to cover her gaping mouth with one hand, causing the door to creak open a bit more. The almost inaudible sound arrested the man’s attention, however. He stared then, frowning in the direction from whence it came.
“Oh, no! No, no!” Maria whispered to herself, panicked as he began striding in her direction.
“Master Brockton? Brockton? Sir?” Jacob Peterson called as he watched the son of his employer stride toward the door.
Brockton pulled the door open, and Maria stood unmoving staring up, up, up into the handsome but angry face looking down at her. A perplexed expression momentarily crossed the striking countenance of Brockton Thorton. Reaching out, he cupped the girl’s chin in one strong and gloved hand.
“Peterson. She is here,” he said, his tone somewhat softer than before.
“Now wait a moment.” Eula Holt began walking toward them. “She is our charge! I’ll not let you—”
“No, ma’am. She is not! She is the ward of my father…and she will be taken to my home this night!” Brockton growled, still gazing down at Maria. Maria was entranced, her breath gone from her, her heart pounding like some furious drum. The pure essence of the man before her seemed to wash over her like a warm summer rain, and she could only stare up at him in awed silence.
“Edgar!” Eula shouted, turning to her husband.
Edgar Holt cleared his throat once more. “Sir, I am her uncle…blood relation. We will be keeping the girl.”
Brockton Thorton ignored the man as he spoke to Maria. “Gather your things, girl. You’ll not have to reside with these…degenerates any longer.”
His voice was rich and low and sent a quiver of unfamiliar security erupting through Maria. She smiled warmly up at him, resisting the urge to throw her arms about his neck and embrace him thankfully.
His eyes narrowed and his frown softened as Maria spoke. “Do you mean to say…you’re truly going to take me away from…from here?”
“I do. This very night, child,” he assured her. Again, the sound of his voice caused Maria’s breath to still for a moment. “Now…run and gather your belongings,” he said.
Maria’s eyes were alight with delight, and fearing she might still be unable to resist embracing him, she rushed past him, saying, “I’ve no belongings to gather, sir.” Taking Jacob Peterson’s hand in her own, she shook it vigorously and said, “Thank you as well, Mr. Peterson.”
Maria smiled when the serious-faced, spectacled man smiled at her. She mused smiles from a solicitor were rare, and she felt warmed by his smiling at her.
“Now…see here—” Eula began.
“Constable Henry is just outside, madam. If you would prefer to invite him in to add validity to our claim, I’m certain he will be more than happy to oblige,” Jacob Peterson said firmly.
“She’s just annoyed because she’ll have to tend to the cottage herself and do her own washing now, Mr. Peterson,” Maria whispered to him. “She does not really care if I leave. Thus…may we go now?”
“Yes, girl. We’ll go now,” Brockton replied, coming to stand next to her. His eyes traveled the length of her then, a frown puckering his handsome brow. “Yet surely you have a cape? A wrap? Something to warm you. The snow is heavy out.”
“No. Just this,” Maria said, motioning to the threadbare gray dress she wore. It was obviously too small. Brockton looked the child up and down once more, his eyes resting on her feet, which were wrapped in articles resembling what had once been shoes.
Suddenly, the young man lunged toward Maria’s uncle as his anger exploded again. “You miserable…” he began, raising a fist. His intent was obvious: to let it go against the weak jaw of the fat, spineless man.
Edgar Holt doubled over to protect himself as Maria stepped between them. Looking up into the angry face of her defender, she smiled and said, “It’s all right and good now. You and Mr. Peterson have come, haven’t you?”
Jacob Peterson cocked one eyebrow, looking on in astonished wonderment as the powerful young man stared into the deep blue of the young girl’s eyes.
“Yes. Yes, we’ve come,” Brockton said, smiling, and lowered his fist. He turned to Peterson and chuckled, “She’s an enchantress, I believe, Jacob.”
Peterson smiled and nodded. “She would have to be to calm your anger thus, Master Brockton.”
“I’ll not let you take her,” Eula argued. “Think of it…two men taking charge of a young girl. It’s not proper, and I’ll not have the country saying I allowed—”Aunt Eula began, feigning concern.
Maria again smiled at her handsome rescuer. “This man is a gentleman, Aunt Eula. Of course, you would not be expected to recognize that.”
“Impertinent wench!” Eula gasped. “Take the little wretch then. Though I’d not wish her sharp tongue on even the likes of you!”
Brockton removed his heavy black cloak and wrapped it tightly around Maria. Effortlessly scooping her up in his arms, he strode to the door.
“Good evening,” he growled, smiling acidly at the remaining occupants of the cottage. “Come along, Peterson. We have what we came for.”
Maria glanced over Brockton’s shoulder, watching her aunt and uncle as she was carried from their home. Oddly, she found herself offering a wave of farewell, a strange yet small pricking of sentiment in her heart. They were, after all, her blood relations. Yet as they simply lifted their noses in the air and closed the cottage door, Maria was reminded of how she would never miss them.
Brockton mumbled to Jacob, “Vile couple, I’ll tell you that.”
Maria looked into the perfect face of the man who carried her. What must he think of her eagerness to go so easily with him? “Thank you, sir,” she began. “I’m certain you think me very ignorant to come away with you so willingly…but I’m assured nothing can be worse than living with them as I did.”
“Astonishingly, innocence is still evident,” Jacob Peterson said, shaking his head in disgust.
The scowl returned to Brockton’s face as he said, “And I am thankful for it.”
Maria chose to be silent, only partly understanding their inferences.
Opening the door to the coach, Brockton gently placed Maria inside. Moving aside, he allowed Peterson to seat himself first, following him into the conveyance. Maria was disappointed when Jacob sat next to her rather than the dashing Brockton. Yet she was safe and warm. Pursued, freed, and protected.
“Home then, Tom,” Brockton shouted to the coachman. The carriage lurched forward, and Maria pulled Brockton’s cloak more tightly around her. Even for the dark of midnight, the brilliance of the full moon allowed sufficient light into the coach, and Maria could not help but smile as she glanced quickly at her handsome rescuer.
“They’ve treated you badly, obviously,” B
rockton suddenly growled. Maria shrugged and turned her face to gaze out the window into the moonlit night. “To what extent were you…mistreated, girl?” he asked.
Maria continued to stare out the window as she answered. And answer she did, for such a voice and such a man could not be dismissed.
“Merely neglected, sir…perhaps overworked. Resented, as well, I suppose. Yet nothing I’ll not recover from quickly, I assure you.”
Brockton released an angry breath and continued, “Were you aware your father had named my father as guardian to you?”
Maria ventured to look at him then, battling the tears threatening to escape her eyes. “If your father is Lord Richard Thorton…yes. My father spoke of him often. I thought…I thought…”
“You thought you were not wanted by my family,” Brockton finished for her.
Maria nodded and returned her gaze to the night once again.
“Your aunt and uncle spirited you away before his lordship was able to locate you, Miss Holt,” Jacob Peterson explained.
Maria only nodded, afraid her voice would reveal the true depth of her emotion if she spoke. She wiped a tear from her cheek.
“Are you indeed thirteen at this point, girl?” Brockton asked.
She nodded again, pulling the massive cloak more snugly about her.
“Well, then,” Brockton continued, “this is Jacob Peterson, and I’m Brockton Thorton. My father, Lord Thorton, is extremely ill and was unable to attend to you himself. Please believe me when I tell you only illness as excessive as his could render him incapable of finding you. I hope I will suffice in his place. I assure you…you are more than wanted in our home. My mother will, no doubt, be beside herself with joy at the onset of your arrival.”
“Lady Thorton is a wonderful, kind, and loving woman, Miss Holt. You’ll feel quite at home with her,” Jacob Peterson added reassuringly.
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