by Julia Bennet
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more historical romance… Highland Salvation
When A Lady Deceives
The Love Match
An Artful Seduction
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Julia Bennet. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
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Suite 105, PMB 159
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Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Alethea Spiridon
Cover design by EDH Graphics
Cover photography by Hot Damn Stock, Deposit Photos, and 123rf
ISBN 978-1-64063-792-4
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition April 2019
Dear Reader,
Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.
xoxo
Liz Pelletier, Publisher
To Ben, my husband and first reader, for believing I could do this despite everything.
Chapter One
Yorkshire, 1882
A woman’s shriek pierced the silence.
William Carter spun toward the sound as a murder of carrion crows burst from the trees and filled the air with their ominous cries. He shivered in spite of his greatcoat and dug his hands deeper into the pockets.
Just down the lane, his mother’s cozy cottage waited, a warm fire crackling in the grate, but the scream had come from somewhere in the woods, and Hector was nowhere to be seen. Normally, Will couldn’t take more than a few steps without tripping over him.
“Where are you, Hector, you bastard?” Will muttered, his breath warm against his woolen muffler. He lowered the thick scarf half an inch and whistled—a single, long note ricocheting from tree to leafless tree, then fading into the empty sky.
No response, but Will had a shrewd idea what might have caused that scream a moment ago. Snow crunched underfoot as he followed what remained of the old track into the woods. The ground here was easier. Patches of green broke through the white like little oases in the icy desert.
He stopped again to listen. The crows cawed in the distance, but otherwise nothing, not so much as a rustle in the undergrowth. The skin on the back of his neck prickled in reaction to the unnatural-seeming stillness.
“You filthy cur!” The woman’s voice again. Less shrill this time and no longer afraid. Her anger cut through the eerie calm. “Get off me, you foul brute.”
Will struck out through the trees, her outraged squeaks and groans his guide.
Soon other sounds reached him—the trickle of water and a low, excited panting.
The woods had changed since his youth. Where once there had been saplings, a wall of evergreens stood between him and the stream. He had to push through, emerging on the other side with snow caught in his collar and the scent of pine clinging to him.
The woman stood on the bank, her back flat against a gnarled oak, her nose wrinkled in disgust. A man’s coat, much like Will’s own, swallowed her, making it impossible to establish much more than the color of her hair (red), her height (tall), and her sex (female). Comely or plain, fat or thin, it was impossible to tell. Yet he knew exactly who she must be.
They were looking for her up at the house.
“Ugh! You fiend,” she cried.
The object of her derision, a large black dog—Will’s large black dog, actually—nudged her hand with his muzzle and licked her fingers with his huge, pink tongue.
…
Helen’s heart simply ceased working as she waited for the gigantic beast to tear her throat out with its massive fangs. She’d been heading for the path when that thing came bounding through the trees, black and terrible—a true hellhound.
But then the dog ruined its dramatic entrance by barreling into her, tail wagging, hot, wet tongue lapping at her hands. Its slobber coated her chilled and sadly gloveless fingers, and disgust won out over fear. Shoving the creature off—or trying to, anyway—she launched into a stream of abuse.
“Here, Hector.” A man’s voice cut through the air like the crack of a whip.
She jerked her gaze to the right and saw him standing by the edge of the stream, a great bear of a man dressed in black.
Well, naturally. If the hellhound was here, Helen ought to have expected its master the devil to put in an appearance. But wasn’t Lucifer supposed to be beautiful? This man was plain, his features unremarkable, with no horns or tail in evidence, and his clothes—now that she’d had a good look—like those of a gentleman farmer, not the Prince of Darkness. On closer inspection, the master proved as underwhelming as the dog.
Even so, he had an air of authority. In the dog’s place, she’d obey, but though it had stopped its assault, the creature seemed loath to leave her side, looking up at her with wide eyes.
“Here, boy!” the man commanded again, and this time, miraculously, the dog—a Great Dane?—did as it was bidden. Padding forward, resentment plain in the set of its head and the droop of its tail, it parked its oversized rear on its master’s foot.
“That thing slobbered all over me,” she said, wiping her hands on her coat. No, not her coat, she reminded herself, but Dr. Sterling’s, purloined from the gunroom when no one was looking. If anyone deserved the spittle, it was him. A pity she hadn’t found gloves in the pockets, though.
“You ought to keep it chained up,” she said, giving the dog another good glare.
“My apologies, Miss Grey,” the man said, dislodging Hector as he stepped closer. “Are you all right?”
This stranger knew her. She opened her mouth to ask how then snapped it shut a second later. After all these years enduring prods and pokes, she ought to recognize a doctor at twenty paces.
“You have the advantage of me. Your name would be…?”
“Carter. Dr. William Carter.”
The name suited him. She found it easy to imagine him, with his broad shoulders and strong limbs, hefting heavy loads onto a laborer’s cart. He had a simple, coarse-featured face, too. Only his voice didn’t fit the picture. He spoke beautifully, with no hint of a regional accent.
A couple of days ago she’d overheard some of the nurses gossiping about the new doctor who was set to arrive. A local lad, they’d said, the son of a former Blackwell employee, from back before the house became an insane asylum.
“Oh,” she said, “you’re the old housekeeper’s son.”
He didn’t blush; nothing so feminine. A muscle worked in his jaw, and a slight redness tipped his ears. She hadn’t meant her words as an insult, but it was good to know she possessed a weapon if she needed one.
“We heard you were coming,” she added.
“Miss Grey.” He offered his arm, all politeness. “I think you must be very cold. Won’t you walk back with me?”
She took a step away before she caught herself. She would not show fear. Not in front of a doctor. Not in front of anyone. “How gentlemanly. And yet you are no true gentleman.”
In truth she thought no worse of him for his lowly birth. How could she when her own was so irregular? If he chose, he might with justice say that she was no true lady herself. As it was, her rudeness had no visible impact. She’d taken him by surprise earlier, but since then he’d girded himself against further insult. Sensible man.
“Did you mean to run away?” he asked.
That’s it, Doctor. Put me in my place. But you can’t make me answer.
Even as she’d donned the stolen coat, she’d recognized the futility of her actions. With no money, she had no hope of escape, especially at this time of year. But she owed this man, this doctor, no explanation. He was nothing to her.
He sighed—a short, exasperated exhalation that irritated her. “What did you mean to do, stay out here until you froze?” He’d used past tense, and yet Sterling, indeed any of the other asylum staff, would have dragged her back to the house by now.
“Perhaps.”
The dog crept forward and nuzzled her hand with its snout.
“For heaven’s sake, get off,” she snapped.
Dr. Carter flinched as if the words had been meant for him. “Here, Hector.”
The dog whimpered and obeyed. Its master placed his hand on its head and stroked absentmindedly. The gesture looked almost like sympathy.
“Are you in earnest?” he asked Helen.
Done with talk, she turned her back on the pair of them.
Now he must do one of two things: grab her and carry her back to the house over his shoulder like an errant child or walk away. She hoped for the latter. If he left her here, even if he sent someone else to do his dirty work afterward, he’d reveal himself as a weakling and a coward. She’d dealt with those before. They were much easier to predict than the Dr. Sterlings of this world.
“I’m not sure I believe you.” His words sent a thrill of shock through her.
The asylum staff bullied and cajoled her, but she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had confronted her like an equal.
“I beg your pardon?” She turned to face him again. “Do you…”
The words wouldn’t come, even though she knew what she wanted to say. Not a problem with which she usually struggled.
She tried again. “Do you always insult your patients? Did they teach you that at the Royal College of Physicians?”
Frowning, he inclined his head. “You’d freeze more quickly without the coat.”
A grudging spark of respect flickered within her. Best to stamp it out at once. If he wasn’t going to take her seriously, she’d have to show him how wrong he was.
Her fingers, sluggish with cold, worked clumsily as she felt for the row of buttons. Undoing them took much longer than it should have, but at last the coat sagged open. She shrugged free of the heavy wool and let it fall in a heap at her feet.
“There,” she said, or actually, “Th—the—there.”
With the coat on, she’d been cold, but now, where the air rushed to meet her skin, she burned. Her thin white day dress was suitable attire for a warm summer’s afternoon but woefully inadequate for the snow and ice of a January twilight. Her limbs shook so violently, she feared Dr. Carter might take it for a fit.
Teeth rattling, she wondered, not for the first time, if she was mad after all.
The doctor shoved his hands deep into his pockets, perhaps to keep from seizing hold of her. But he was difficult to read, and she couldn’t be sure of his motives on any score. Had he truly meant his words as a challenge, or was this all some colossal mistake?
Perhaps the latter, because Dr. Carter withdrew his hands again almost immediately and held one out to her. “Come back with me, Miss Grey.”
This wasn’t the almost formal gesture he’d made before. This time, his hand was open, palm up, almost as if he offered it in friendship. No weapon could hide in a hand held out so. It would feel warm even through his glove.
She could put the coat back on, take that hand, and let him lead her back to heat and light. Instead, she stared stupidly, her mind slowing, seizing up.
If I go back, they’ll never let me go again. Impossible. Blackwell had been her prison for nearly a decade, and she couldn’t endure another moment there. Better to freeze out here in the snow.
“Won’t you let me help you?”
“You medical men,” she said, and even her own words came to her ears as if through a long tunnel. “Always ready to help, always eager to strap me down and manhandle me.”
But she barely knew what she was saying anymore. Before she had a chance to marshal her sluggish thoughts, her legs gave out—just crumpled out from under her. Fire kissed her skin as she sank into the snow.
“Drat,” she whispered as Dr. Carter rushed forward and gathered her into his arms.
Chapter Two
Will struggled to his feet, the woman cradled clumsily against his chest. As he’d noted earlier, she was tall, and now that she’d discarded the coat, he could make out the abundant curves beneath the thin fabric of her gown.
“Miss Grey?” He gave her a gentle shake, but her eyes stayed closed, her head lolling drunkenly. First slowed speech and reduced coordination, and now a loss of consciousness. This wasn’t a fainting fit; this was hypothermia. “Bloody hell, woman,” he muttered and winced when the words came out pure Yorkshire. For years, he’d worked hard to obliterate every trace of his accent, but in times of stress, a hint of the north crept back.
Only a fool would try to carry her to the asylum when the village was closer, and after his first few steps, he knew the short walk through the trees and down the lane to his mother’s house would prove challenge enough. He was exhausted, the snow made progress slow, and the woman weighed heavy in his arms.
Hector ran in circles around them, his bounding strides kicking up a fine spray of snow.
“You’re no help,” Will told him.
As the daylight continued to dwindle, the temperature plummeted, and he cursed himself for leaving her coat behind, but he hadn’t dared stoop to retrieve it for fear of dropping his burden.
“We’ll be there soon, lass,” he whispered.
His scarf gaped where he’d pulled it aside, and the mist of his breath, trapped against her hair, was so warm that he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
Not long now.
By the time they reached the little cottage, the dog had vanished. A law unto himself, he tended to wander off unless he was chained. At least he’d be out from underfoot.
Will kicked the gate wide and trudged up the path. On the doorstep, he eased Miss Grey down until her feet met the ground. Still supporting her weight as best he could with the left side of his body, he hammered on the door with his fist.
“Mam?” he called and hammered again. “Mam!”
“Hold on.” His mother’s voice came from within, followed by the jangle of keys. “Slow down, boy. What’s your hurry?”
The door swung open to reveal a little old lady holding a paraffin lamp: his redoubtable mother but shriveled with age. Time galloped faster as people grew old, and two years had wrought a significant change.
“Good heavens, boy. Who’s this?” At least her voice remained the same—loud and strident, ringing with authority. “Bring her in, then. You can explain later.”
Between them, they half-dragged, half-carried Miss Grey into the warmth of the cottage and along the narrow passage that led past stairs and a kitchen to a tiny par
lor.
“Put her on the settee near the fire,” his mother ordered. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He eased the unconscious woman onto the cushions and began undoing her buttons. The thin white fabric rendered the dress little better than a glorified shift. They had to get her into something warm and dry as quickly as possible. Her skin looked almost as pale as the fabric, though whether that was the usual redhead’s pallor or something more sinister, he couldn’t be sure.
Six buttons in, he realized she wore no undergarments. He was a psychiater—a mind doctor—so undressing women wasn’t something he did with any frequency, and she was young and curvaceous.
Concentrate on her face. Christ, man, you’re a professional. Act like one.
Yes, her face. The square jut of her chin, the light color of her eyelashes, her ghastly pallor, the shadows underneath each eye. All the while, his hands continued their work. The buttons done, he needed to free her arms from the sleeves.
“I will prescribe regimens for the good of my patients…” he recited as he slid and jerked the fabric free. The Hippocratic Oath came to him in fits and starts. “I will preserve the purity of my art… I will keep myself far from all intentional ill-doing…seduction and especially…from the pleasures of love with women or men.”
“Stand aside, William Carter.” A gruff, red-faced woman he’d never seen before bustled into the room and slapped his hands aside. “That’s no work for you.”
Mam followed, her arms laden with blankets. “Don’t be a fool, Sarah. He’s a doctor.”
Sarah? Yes, he remembered now. In one of Mam’s letters several months ago, she’d told him about a widow she’d taken in as lodger. This must be she.
“Well, in my day, doctors left that sort of thing to the womenfolk,” Sarah grumbled. “They didn’t examine you unless they’d tried everything else first.”
“Be a love,” Mam said, “and fetch me the kettle off the stove. Oh, and the mixing bowl.”
Sarah nodded and stamped out, muttering under her breath.
“Well?” His mother regarded him, one hand on her hip. “Sarah’s right. Stand aside. No need for you to do that when I’m here.”