by Dayna Quince
Wildwood Flower
Hot Historical Romance
Dayna Quince
Copyright © 2017 by Dayna Quince
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contact Dayna at daynaquince.com
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Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
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About the Author
Also by Dayna Quince
Chapter 1
June 3rd 1820
Dear Duchess of Ablehill,
I know you insisted I not use your title, but I had to if only just the one time. Your wedding was a dream. I could not stop staring at the both of you. I’m so happy for you, Heather. I cannot think of anyone more deserving of such a wonderful ending to your fraught circumstances. It gives me hope that perhaps someday, I shall achieve such a happy ending myself. My hopes have dwindled since having to leave during the season, but Rose and I made the trip mostly together until we parted in Dartford. Faversham isn’t far from London, but it feels like a step back in time. I’ve never felt further from society than I do when I’m home. It’s a blessing and a curse. I miss all of you, and I miss the delights of the season. I’m not a success the way Lucy and the twins are. I don’t have their beauty and wealth, but I still enjoy the scenery. Coming home made it all feel like a dream. Time will tell if I will be able to return to the season or perhaps the next. I wish you all the happiness and joy in the world. I won’t pretend I don’t envy you. You’ve set the bar high, and I intend to match it with my own marital happiness.
Green with envy,
Charlotte
July 5th 1823
Charlotte’s eyes popped open as the first rays of dawn pierced the hazy veil of her dream world. There is no storm here, only in her dreams. But in her dreams, the storms are welcome. The rumble of thunder and flash of lightning bring her comfort as her hero, the almighty God Thor, comes to rescue her. Her dream hasn’t gotten that far, but she has hope that one day she will dream of more than dark storm clouds, and Thor himself will appear to carry her away.
Charlotte sat up and rubbed her gritty eyes. She shuffled from the bed, not sparing another glance at the window. The pink beams of light served as a warning, urging her to hurry and dress, racing the rising of the sun.
Pulling yesterday’s gown over her head, she didn’t bother with the back and pulled her black cloak over her shoulders. She stepped into her ankle boots, again not bothering with laces, and left her room on swift feet. The house was silent, not even the scullery maid could be heard tending to the fires in preparation for the family’s rise. Charlotte was not sure what Lord Shelding did in the morning. She was happy to see very little of him most days. If Lady Shelding was an early riser, she did not leave her room until half past ten. As for Edward, her betrothed, he slept past noon. It was a saving grace. Charlotte had enough time each morning to get outside and breathe without being afraid she would be caught.
Down the back stairs, through the back door, and forward into freedom. Charlotte smiled and sighed as crisp air touched her cheeks. Her steps were quick, but she wasn’t running. She didn’t look back as she wound her way through Lady Shelding’s rigid box garden, outside the back gate, and finally, into the freedom of the open heath.
She hitched her skirts to her knees and sprinted across the open field, gulping down tart cold air, heavy with dew and salt. She ran until she reached the first crop of trees, and leaned against the bark to catch her breath.
For the moment, she was free. Her heart and blood sang with sweet relief.
* * *
Christopher Thorn looked triumphantly toward the harbor. He could taste the success, the good fortune hidden just around the corner. His ship was coming in, literally and figuratively. His ship, which he loved saying because it was indeed his ship, crested a wave and swooped down again. Thorn’s eyes swam until he found equilibrium again. He still grinned, never taking his eyes from the shore as the rising sun at his back struck the windows of the buildings facing him, lighting them like candles.
It was a beautiful and welcome sight after a month-long voyage across the Atlantic. Faversham, England was his destination, and he was eager to see it, eager to see the earnest fruits of his labor and inevitable rewards.
Thorn pulled his gaze away from the shore and turned to Captain Pruitt. They were little more than friends when they began this journey, but a month in close quarters had remedied that. It helped that Captain Pruitt was just as ambitious as Thorn. They found kinship in shared experiences.
“Captain,” Thorn nodded once. “’Tis a fine morning.”
Captain Pruitt squinted as he looked back toward the open horizon and rising sun. “We arrived just ahead of a storm.”
Thorn clapped him on the back. “Luck favors me. Always has.”
Captain Pruitt raised both brows. “Until it doesn’t?”
Thorn shrugged. “I never waste time worrying about what-ifs. I focus on what is. It is certain we will dock, and we will find ourselves rooms and beds to sleep in, and winsome, flirty women to welcome us.” He winked at the captain.
Captain Pruitt chuckled. “You’re always chasing something, Thorn. If it isn’t a new business venture, or a prime bit of land, then it’s a woman.”
Thorn grinned as he looked back to the harbor. They would soon dock, and his legs would relish the steadiness of earth under his feet. He liked his ship, it was big—an old French frigate seized in the Quasi-war. It had 20 guns, or it would, if the cannons hadn’t been auctioned off. With some minor carpentry, the ship was converted to a merchant’s vessel with room for a small crew and lots of space for barrels of ale. As interesting as it was to imagine himself a privateer as he sauntered across the deck, Thorn was only a simple brewer.
Like a tenacious weed, his brewery business was spreading in all directions. He patted his coat pocket, taking comfort in the weight of the letter folded within it. This was the beginning of a grand adventure. He would soon see how his special breed of hops faired in this English climate.
“You seem agitated, Mr. Thorn,” Pruitt said from his side.
“Not agitated.” Thorn exhaled. “I’m ready. I’m ready to feel the soil under my feet and to walk on firm ground. I’m ready to feel the open embrace of a hops yard.”
“Rather than the open embrace of the ocean?” Pruitt chuckled.
“The ocean is not open.” Thorn replied.
Pruitt spread his arms wide and gestured to the vast water around them. “Then what do you call all this?”
“It’s a cage. I can only walk the length of this boat. The water confines me to this bobbing bit of wood. Open land is freedom. You can walk on it, run. You can move miles on
just your feet.”
“I suppose. I thought I’d make a seaman out of you, but still you speak with a farmer’s heart.”
Thorn turned to him and scowled. True, he was a farmer’s son, but he’d sell his soul before he settled for being just a farmer. He wanted so much more than that.
“So what is the first thing you will do once we dock?” Pruitt asked.
Thorn looked back at the rising sun. The sky overhead was still a deep sapphire. But the sun was cresting the horizon, shooting pink rays into the blue.
“I will walk.” Thorn said.
“Walk?”
“I need to move my legs. I need to see how far they will carry me.”
Pruitt remained silent at his side. Thorn didn’t expect him to understand. Some men were born to the sea, and some men were born to the land.
* * *
Charlotte spread her cloak over the damp ground and lay down upon it. She spread her arms wide and looked up at the pale sky. It was clear of clouds and silvery blue, the rising sun chasing away the last of the night. The birds were waking and flowers opening, so too was Charlotte. If she could place a bet at Weller’s Tavern, she’d bet there was a storm coming. She was surrounded by a ring of trees, but if she could see the ocean, she might even see the clouds coming. Could this be Thor coming to her rescue?
She stretched her fingers out into the grass and plucked a small flower. She held it above her face and looked at it, amazed that something so small and frail could thrive out here in the wild with no one to protect it, no one to tend it and make sure it wasn’t trampled. The peach petals and magenta center made quite the statement. Charlotte tried to recall the name. It was a common flower, a weed really. Perhaps that was why it survived so well. Though small, it’s delicacy was assumed. There was more to this little flower than most realized.
She broke off the leaves and tucked the little stem into her bodice. She looked back at the sky and watched as it changed before her eyes. She didn’t know precisely how long she had lain there, but it was long enough for determined clouds to invade her view. She should return to the house, but she did not move. It was drowsy and comfortable here in her little meadow. She was a world away from Shelding Manor. Far from the silent halls and malignant energy.
The risk of a little rain shower was worth the few extra minutes of peace here before returning to the nightmare. She watched the clouds grow thicker and darker with shades of gray, moving faster as the wind picked up and whistled through the trees.
Charlotte could feel the energy of the storm approaching. The sounds and scents changed; the air became charged with static. Her pulse accelerated as she fancifully wondered if this was it. Was Thor coming to claim her at last? The clouds rolled slowly over the sky, thicker now than before, and she prayed. She prayed for a terrible storm, for thunder and lightning, for the deafening crack of sound that came with it, even the fear.
Something had to happen. Something had to change.
Something damp hit her cheek.
Charlotte sat up and wiped it off, looking down at her hand. The sky rumbled, a low, ominous growl. She smiled. Even if Thor did not descend from the cloud to take her, there was still a lovely storm to be had.
“Pardon me, miss?”
Charlotte bolted to her feet and spun around. She stared at the man before her, frozen.
“I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said.
Charlotte sucked in a breath. Her chest ached from the sudden blast of cold air. It’s him! Her mind screamed, even as her logical head denied it. He stood before her, larger than she could have ever imagined, his strength evident even under an ill-fitting brown coat. His tawny hair was unfashionably long and tied back. His eyes took her breath away. They glowed vibrantly blue, like the hottest part of a flame.
She must be mad, or dreaming, or even dead. She had died here in her meadow, and this was her afterlife. That was the only plausible explanation for the beautiful god standing before her right now. He was Thor, in the flesh.
He cocked his head to the side and scratched his short beard. “Are you all right?”
Charlotte nodded stiffly. She couldn’t yet remember how her tongue worked.
“Are you alone out here?” He looked around the meadow.
Charlotte took in his attire. He was wearing buff breeches, worn black boots, and a plain brown waistcoat over a white linen shirt with no cravat, and the buttons at his neck left scandalously undone. He was rather disheveled now that she thought about it.
She licked her dry lips and shook her wits into place. A cool blast of air at her back reminded her that her dress was unfastened, as were her boots. She was equally as disheveled. In fact, if someone should happen upon them here, alone in the meadow, both haphazardly dressed, and her cloak spread upon the ground, they might think…
Oh, dear.
A full body blush washed over her skin.
He was looking at her strangely now, as if he thought she might be a bit addled, which Charlotte couldn’t argue at this point.
“I’m fine,” she said at last. “You caught me unaware, ’tis all.” She snapped up her cloak and swung it around her shoulders.
“I’m sorry. I’m not from here.”
“Obviously.” Charlotte was intrigued by his voice. She’d never heard such a strange accent before.
“I’ve recently arrived from America,” he stated.
Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re American?” She’d never met an American before. Did they all look like this? Were American women used to such startling masculinity?
“Aye.” He smiled crookedly. “Christopher Thorn, at your service.” He stepped forward and extended his hand.
Charlotte stared at it. “Thor-n?” She couldn’t help but giggle. This was surreal.
He pulled his hand back, and Charlotte looked up and met his eyes again. She felt the same shock as before.
“Have you heard of me?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’ve never heard a name like it.”
He nodded politely. Charlotte knew he was waiting for her to introduce herself.
“Why have you come to England, Mr. Thorn?”
He adjusted his stance and tugged on his jacket. “Business. I’m a brewer.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” Charlotte mused. “Faversham is widely known for its fine ale.”
“You haven’t tasted fine ale until you’ve tasted mine.” He grinned.
Charlotte bit her lip to stop herself from smiling back. “Oh?”
“I’ve come to see how my hops have fared in English soil.”
Charlotte was familiar with hops. Many of the farmers grew them for local brewers. It was a profitable crop if all went well, but could ruin a person financially if it did not. Charlotte knew that personally. She swallowed, a little of the magic fading. Her feet were firmly planted in the meadow once again and not in the thunderclouds above her. She was standing before a stranger and should fear him, but Charlotte had a lot of experience with fear now and knew this man would not harm her. He was strong and capable, and not just because he had exceptionally broad shoulders. There was something about his face, his eyes, his very essence. He was a good man, an honest man. She saw none of the shadows of deceit or bleakness she’d learned to recognize over the last two months.
“I’m working with a local lord. If my hops are growing well, he will invest in my brewery, and I will build here in Faversham. Do you know Lord Shelding?”
Charlotte closed her eyes as all the air quit her lungs. She nodded and prayed he didn’t notice her reaction. She peeked up to see him looking out over the meadow again. “I know of him.”
His gaze returned to her. “England is more beautiful than I realized, and I think I’ve lost my way. Could you direct me to Shelding Manor?”
Charlotte hoped her panic wasn’t visible. She must have learned something from living in Shelding Manor. He didn’t look alarmed when she met his gaze.
“I
t’s that way.” She pointed back the way she had come. She couldn’t recall the exact direction, north-east perhaps?
He looked up at the sky, squinting at the clouds. “A storm approaches. It’s early, but I hope Lord Shelding will offer me refuge and a ride back to the port once the storm passes.”
“You’re going to Shelding Manor now?” Charlotte was amazed her voice came out so calm.
He shrugged. “I’d rather not walk back in the rain.”
Charlotte looked at his clothing. Lord Shelding was a peculiar man, and he’d take Mr. Thorn’s present state of dress as an insult. She had to warn him of the snake’s nest he was about to enter.
“You cannot go dressed as you are. Lord and Lady Shelding are very strict about appearance. Their criticism can be harsh.”
He shrugged. “I care not what they think of my clothing.”
Charlotte’s jaw fell slack. She pulled herself together. “Well… You still cannot go at this hour. It would be the height of rudeness.”
He sighed. Charlotte was prepared to argue further. This American needed a primer in English decorum. It was obvious he was out of his depth.
“I take it you know them fairly well?”
Charlotte nodded.
“May I know your name?” he asked.
Charlotte swallowed. She dare not tell him her name. If Lord Shelding knew they had met, or that Charlotte was out of the house to begin with…
He waited expectantly.
“I know them because I’ve lived in this village my whole life. The village is that way, by the way.” She pointed to the east, where the sun was now cresting the trees and quickly being smothered by clouds.