by Cheryl Holt
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
PRAISE FOR CHERYL HOLT
BOOKS BY CHERYL HOLT
COPYRIGHT
PROLOGUE
“I want to go home.”
“You are home, so be silent.”
Rebecca glared at her Cousin Beatrice, but her firm look had no effect. She was only a little girl, and her cousin was a big, scary adult. Her voice was loud, her hands rough and quick to lash out.
In Rebecca’s prior world, she’d never been pinched or slapped. She’d definitely never been scolded and sent to bed without supper, but even after so much time had passed, her circumstances were so confusing, and the grownups in her new world were cruel, angry, and impatient.
She didn’t want to stay with them. She wanted to live where she’d previously lived. Her life there had been perfect, and she’d been treated like a princess. Why didn’t Cousin Beatrice understand how precious Rebecca was?
“Where are Mother and Father?” Ever since Rebecca had been forcibly conveyed to Cousin Beatrice’s house, she’d been posing the same question. “Nanny told me they’re in Heaven. Could I fly up to Heaven too? I’d like to be with them again.”
“Your nanny was lying. Your parents were sinners. They’re not in Heaven. They’re in Hell, and they’ll be there forever.”
Rebecca scowled. “Hell is a bad place. My parents weren’t bad.”
Cousin Beatrice was sitting at the dining room table, eating her breakfast. Rebecca wasn’t supposed to bother her when she was eating, but she refused to accept all the rules that had been foisted on her.
She was Viscount Blake’s daughter, so she was very special.
Her father had always told her so, her mother too. They’d been the best parents ever. At least she thought they’d been wonderful. She was five now, and she’d resided with Cousin Beatrice for ages, so her memories were fading. She was starting to forget her parents, was starting to forget what was true and what wasn’t.
“Where is Sissy?” she asked. “I shouldn’t be separated from her, and I have to find her.”
“You don’t have a sister. Stop pretending.”
Rebecca’s scowl deepened. She’d once been sure that she’d had a sister. They were exactly alike, and they’d spoken in a secret language others didn’t comprehend, but they had comprehended it. They’d been like one person, with not a speck of difference between them. People hadn’t been able to tell them apart.
“I had a sister,” Rebecca said, but less adamantly. “I know I did.”
“You have a vivid imagination, and I’ve warned you about making up stories. Will I have to whip it out of you?”
“She’ll be hunting for me.”
Cousin Beatrice leaned down from her chair, so she and Rebecca were nose to nose. “You’re not allowed in the dining room. Go away.”
“I don’t like it here, and I don’t like you,” Rebecca bravely stated.
“Well, we don’t like you either.”
“I’d like to leave. I’d like to live with Sissy and Brother again, and Nanny must be worried over where I am.”
Rebecca had asked about her old life so often and for so long that it had begun to be a habit. It wasn’t so much that she missed it anymore, but she suffered from a profound sense that she should continue to inquire. If she tucked away her concerns, she was terrified her family would become invisible, and she would hate to have them be invisible.
Yet she was feeling less and less certain over what she recalled. Perhaps Sissy and Brother didn’t really exist. Perhaps Mother and Father weren’t in Heaven. Perhaps they hadn’t liked her and had given her away as Cousin Beatrice repeatedly claimed.
“You were spoiled as a child,” Cousin Beatrice said, “and your mother did you no favors by letting you sass and disobey. It’s obvious you never learned your place. It’s beyond me why I should have to tolerate your cheeky impertinence.”
“My mother loved me,” Rebecca insisted.
“No, she didn’t. You were born wicked, and you constantly caused trouble. You were very expensive to raise too. Your parents were sick of you and that’s why they dumped you in my lap. They didn’t want you.”
“I don’t think that’s right. When my brother comes for me, you’ll be sorry.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.” Cousin Beatrice grinned an evil grin. “Your brother detested you even more than your parents. He was glad to be shed of you, so he’ll never search.”
A maid entered, and Cousin Beatrice straightened and said to the woman, “I have no idea why this brat is pestering me. She’s not permitted to, and you’re aware of the rules. If she disturbs me again during my breakfast, I’ll have you flogged.”
The maid hurried over and grabbed Rebecca. “My apologies, Mrs. Carter. I didn’t realize she’d snuck in.”
The maid dragged Rebecca out and marched her up the stairs and down the deserted halls to her dark, cold bedchamber at the rear of the manor.
The woman pushed Rebecca inside as she scolded, “Why antagonize Mrs. Carter? It only lands you in hot water.”
“I need to talk to my father.”
“Your father is dead, and you’re five already. Quit acting like such a baby. It’s pointless to whine about the past. You can’t change what occurred.”
“Did I have a sister?” Rebecca asked.
“No, you didn’t. You’ll stay in your room today and ponder your behavior. Maybe, when I let you out, you’ll have remembered to guard your tongue.”
She yanked the door closed and spun the key in the lock. Her footsteps retreated down the hall, then it was very quiet. But Rebecca was used to the quiet, was used to being all alone—with just her odd memories to entertain her. She simply wished they weren’t fading so quickly.
She walked to the window and stared out, content to listen to the birds chirping in the trees. It was a comforting noise, and she would watch them for hours—until the sun began to set and a footman brought her supper on a tray.
In her mind, she sent a message to her sister as she always had when she was tiny. Or was it her guardian angel? How could she know for sure?
Are you there?
The reply surged back immediately. Yes, I’m here—and I always will be.
CHAPTER ONE
Twenty-two years later…
Rebecca Carter strolled by the stables where a quartet of horses had arrived from a London auction house. For several minutes, she dawdled in the shadows, observing the beautiful animals as they stomped and snorted in the corral.
Her cousin, Clayton, was a connoisseur of fine horseflesh. He owned many more of them than he needed or could afford to feed, but he was very spoiled. Where money was involved, he thought it grew on trees. No one—not even his mother, her Cousin Beatrice—could convince him to rein in his expenses.
She scanned the area, eager to catch a glimpse of the two men who’d delivered them, but she didn’t see them anywhere. A housemaid had mentioned they were a pair of handsome, dashing rogues and definitely worth a glance, so Rebecca had come outside.
It was always interesting to meet someone new or to chat with someone from town. Rebecca had never been to London—or any place else for that matter. The city sounded so exotic and was so far away, it might have been up on the moon.
In their small corner of the kingdom, that being her cousins’ estate of Carter Crossing, they didn’t have many visitors, mostly because they were located in such an isolated spot on the coast, with the English Channel at their backs. But also, her relatives weren’t the easiest people to like.
Her cousin Millicent, who was twenty, could be cheery and pleasant when she tried, but her mother, Cousin Beatrice, had a knack for making enemies.
She viciously disciplined her servants, rudely fought with the neighbors, and constantly bickered with merchants in the nearby town of Frinton. Her foibles and quarrels were so renowned that she’d garnered an open reputation as a shrew and a harpy. Because of it, they rarely had callers.
The men who’d brought the horses would tarry for awhile to get them settled, so there would be chances to socialize, which was exciting.
Rebecca seldom crossed paths with any bachelors. The neighborhood was filled with families, but as with her cousin, Clayton, young men liked to revel in London, so they were hardly ever home. It was difficult to arrange a party or a dance when there were no fellows to partner with all the girls.
Clayton would slither in the next day to celebrate his thirtieth birthday. His appearance could be a blessing or a curse, depending on his mood. He was addicted to fast living and gambling, so if he’d had a run of bad luck at the card tables, he would be especially irritable.
Or if he’d drained the bank accounts again, he’d have epic battles with Cousin Beatrice over his being such a spendthrift.
Rebecca couldn’t abide their spats. They disrupted the entire house. She was an optimist though and would hope for a successful sojourn. He’d invited a dozen friends to join him for the festivities, and he had many lofty acquaintances. When any of them accompanied him to the country, he was on his best behavior.
There was a rumor circulating too that—on this occasion—a member of Sir Sidney Sinclair’s African expedition team would be included in the list of guests. Sir Sidney was a national hero who’d died on his latest excursion to Africa. The explorers who went with him were all famous too, and the staff was atwitter over the prospect of him showing up.
Rebecca couldn’t believe Clayton rubbed elbows with such a grand person. It would be like having the King stay with them, and Clayton wasn’t exactly a luminary. How could he have befriended such an icon?
As to herself, she’d love for the rumor to be true. She wanted to pepper the man with questions about his life and activities. What was it like to be out on the ocean, to ride a canoe in the jungle, or to mingle with native tribes? She couldn’t imagine.
Men were so fortunate. They were allowed to travel and have adventures, while women had to sit at home and read about their trips in the newspaper.
With Carter Crossing being situated on the coast, there were plenty of cliffs and coves where she could loaf and ponder the bigger world. She frequently climbed the nearby headland to stare out at the water. Most days, a ship or two would pass by, the sails whisking it through the waves, and she’d experience such a surge of wanderlust that it left her sick with desire.
She’d give anything to leave Carter Crossing, to bluster off to a better future, but a female such as herself had scant opportunities to alter her fate.
When she realized how dreadfully she was moping, she yanked away from the barn and marched over to the trail that led up to the promontory. She had no reason to sulk, and it was futile to pine away. She was stuck where she was, with no money and just her Carter cousins to offer her shelter.
Why lament? She had so much more than most people. She had food to eat and clothes to wear, chores to attend and servants to manage. What more did a woman need?
She clambered up the path, stopping every so often to catch her breath, but to study the horizon too. The sight was so spectacular. The blue sky and blue ocean stretched to infinity.
It was a chilly September afternoon, autumn approaching with a vengeance, and the wind whipped at her hair and shawl. She pulled it more tightly around her body, scolding herself for failing to grab a cloak or even one of Clayton’s wool coats. The temperature was cold and warranted more layers.
She reached the top, and the trail leveled out. It remained flat for a bit, then descended down the other side to the abandoned Oakley estate. Old Mr. Oakley had died without any heirs, and the property had been vacant for years.
When she had a free minute, she’d walk all the way across to Oakley. She liked to snoop around the deserted mansion, to peek in the windows and envision the place restored to its prior glory, with her living in the refurbished rooms.
At noting her flight of fancy, she chuckled and shook her head.
“What is wrong with me today?” she asked herself.
Usually, she ignored her circumstances and was content to muddle through. Perhaps it was her advanced age of twenty-seven, but recently, she was chafing more and more, yearning for her plight to change, but this was Carter Crossing where nothing ever changed.
On the uppermost point of the hill, there was an ancient stone bench that had been carved into the rocks. Once she’d been old enough to flit off by herself, she’d regularly snuck up to sit on it, vanishing for hours to enjoy the solitude and escape the pressures of the manor.
It was her secret spot and always empty, so when she saw a man hogging it, she was incredibly aggravated. Who was he? How had he stumbled on her private haven? And why would he feel it was all right to linger?
He was thirty or so, and he appeared sinister, being dressed all in black: black shirt and coat, black trousers, black boots. His hair was black too, and it was tied with a strip of leather and hanging far down his back, as if he’d fired his barber.
He hadn’t shaved for a week or two either, and a beard shadowed his face. He was wearing a hat, and it shielded his eyes so she couldn’t discern their color. She wondered if they’d be black to match his hair and clothes.
Because he was seated, she couldn’t guess his height, but she suspected he’d be very tall, six feet at least or maybe even taller than that. He was broad-shouldered and lanky, and looked sturdy and tough, as if he’d been swamped by many disasters in his life and had skipped by with nary a scratch or a scar.
The brisk wind had concealed the sound of her footsteps, so he hadn’t noticed her. Since he exuded the aura of a brigand or highwayman and had no business being where he was, she didn’t suppose she ought to tarry.
She would have spun away and tiptoed off, but as she began to turn, he glanced over, and when he observed her, he blanched with astonishment.
“Miss Robertson?” he asked as if they were acquainted.
“No, sorry, I’m not Miss Robertson.”
“Yes, you are,” he absurdly said. “Don’t jest.”
“I’m not jesting, and I’m not Miss Robertson.”
“Liar. Just because we loathe each other, you don’t have to pretend. I won’t bite you.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“Why are you out on the coast? How did you travel here? You don’t have a penny in your purse. What brought you?”
“I believe, sir, that you have me confused with someone else.”
He pushed himself to his feet, and he was as tall as she’d predicted he would be. She was only five-foot-five in her slippers, and he towered over her—but not in a frightening way. She didn’t perceive any menace. He was simply big and masculine in a manner she’d never previously encountered.
He was very handsome too, with an aristocratic face—high cheekbones, strong nose, perfect chin—but it was his eyes that were most riveting. They were a striking shade of blue, enhanced by the sapphire of the sky above and the water below.
A woman could get lost in those eyes.
He continued until they were toe to toe, coming so close that her skirt tangled around his legs. He scrutinized her white-blond hair, her blue eyes. Though her lengthy locks were tied with a ribbon, the breeze was wreaking havoc. He grabbed a strand and wrapped it around his finger so he could draw her nearer.
The move was so brazen and so unexpected that she was astounded by it. It was rare that anyone touched her, that anyone really looked at her. He was such a severe, forceful fellow that she found the moment to be very thrilling.
“I’ll be damned,” he muttered as he released the strand and stepped back. “You were telling the truth. You’re not Sarah Robertson. You must be her sister then. Her twin?”
At his voicing the word twin, a fierce wave of gladness swept through her.
For the briefest second, she suffered a vision from when she was tiny and still living with her father. She had so few recollections of that time, and she viewed it as a precious gift. There was a little girl with her, one who—in Rebecca’s dreams—she assumed was her guardian angel. They were nose to nose, an unspoken conversation darting between them as they talked inside their heads.
Then Rebecca blinked and the vision vanished. The worst sense of loss gripped her, but she shook it away.
“I don’t have any siblings,” she said.
“That can’t be right. Two women can’t be so similar without their being twins.”
“I’m serious. I’m an orphan and an only child.”
It was a small lie. She had a half-brother with whom she had no contact, but she never mentioned him.
The stranger studied her again, then smirked. “You’re lying. Why? You have a twin. Why deny your connection?”
“I have no sister. How can I convince you?”
“Let’s hope you’re not as bossy and obstinate as she is.”
“I’m never bossy or obstinate.”
“Praise be,” he grumbled. “I’d take you to town and introduce you to her, but there’s no point in meeting such a shrew.”