Read the book: «Reckless»

SHANNONDRAKE
Reckless

To Jeanne Havens Beem,

with deepest thanks for the love she always gave Vickie,

and the encouragement she has always given me.

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 1

“DEAR LORD! HE’S GONE into the water!”

Katherine Adair—Kat to her friends and beloved family—gasped and leapt to her feet. Just seconds before, she’d been sitting on the deck of her father’s vessel—sadly misnamed The Promise—reading and indulging in dreams. The day had been like many other Sundays she had spent throughout the years with her small family aboard the boat on the Thames. Often, as they’d watched the elite in their far more magical vessels, she had smiled as her sister, Eliza, mimicked the upper-crust accents, then joined her in singing old sea chanties—all the while looking to see if their father was about before adding a few of the more risqué lyrics.

But there were times, of course, when she did nothing but indulge in dreaming…about the very fellow whom a wave had just swept from the deck of the far finer leisure yacht The Inner Sanctum!

David. David Turnberry, youngest son of Baron Rothchild Turnberry, brilliant student at Oxford and avid sailor and adventurer.

“Kat! Do sit down! You’ll rock this old scow and we’ll be in the drink, too,” Eliza chastised. “Don’t worry. One of those Oxford chaps will dish him out!” she said with a sniff.

But none of them did. The river was wicked that day—fine for Kat’s father, who used the turbulence in his work—but a poor time for entertainment. The young swains who had accompanied David on the sail were clinging to the rigging, looking into the water, shouting…but not jumping in and attempting a rescue! She recognized one—Robert Stewart, handsome, landed and charming, as well, David’s best friend. Why wasn’t he in the water? And there was another of his chums…she couldn’t remember his name…Allan…something…

Oh, the fools! They hadn’t even thrown in a life preserver, and David was so far from her own vessel that any attempt on her part to do so would be useless.

They shouldn’t have been out on a day like today. They imagined themselves to be such sailors, and they were still so young, so raw. The river was far too rough, only for fishermen and fools. And, she thought ruefully, her father.

But now they’d lost David! And still, there was no one aboard heroic enough to dive in for the dear man’s salvation.

Indeed, the waves were high, and she could understand their trepidation. But her heart cried otherwise. He was beautiful, magnificent. No fellow in all of England or surely even beyond had such a smile. Nor had she ever heard a fellow of his social position speak so kindly to those who were hard put to earn their meager living from the sea. She had watched him so often.

“They’re not going for him!” she cried.

“They will.”

“But he will drown!” Kat looked around quickly. Her father had brought in their own sails; the scow was merely riding the waves now.

In fact, her dear father was not working or paying the least attention to her. Lady Daws had come with them today; and she was laughing—the sound something like that of a sea-witch cackling, Kat thought sadly, something her father simply didn’t hear—and that completely enraptured the hardworking man upon whom she had set her sights.

Kat looked back anxiously at the river. Maybe what had seemed like an eternity to her had been nothing more than a few seconds. Maybe the fellows had needed a moment to draw on their reserves of courage. But no…time ticked away, and none of those young swains aboard the richer vessel had made the slightest attempt to effect a rescue.

“Kat! Don’t look so perplexed. Come, come…he can probably swim. The beaches are still all the rage with his crowd, even though the poor can now reach our beaches by train. Of course, the elite, they say, prefer to frolic in the Mediterranean.”

Though Eliza spoke of the rich with disdain, in these moments with the sailing almost done for the day and the afternoon near its end, she always had her nose thrust into the pages of Godey’s Lady’s Book. She did love her fashion. And she could sew delightfully, creating fantastic designs from such bizarre materials as cast-off sails and canvas.

Kat paid her sister little attention. Her heart seemed to have lodged in her throat. She couldn’t even see the young man’s head bobbing in the waves.

Ah, there! And far from his own sleek vessel.

“The sea is too rough!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “He will die!”

“There is nothing you can do. You’ll but kill yourself,” Eliza warned fiercely.

“Ah, but I would die for him. I would sell my very soul for him!” Kat returned.

“Kat, what…?” Eliza began in horror.

Too late.

Being poor sometimes had its advantages. Kat shed her heavy, solid and sensible shoes and slid her cotton skirt down her hips to the floorboards. In seconds, she had also shed her secondhand jacket. She had no corset, no bustle, no darling little hat to discard, and so, despite her sister’s protests, she leapt into the filthy water in her shift.

The chill hit her viciously.

And the waves were mercilessly rough.

But she had spent her life nearly as one with the sea. So she took a big lungful of air, plunged beneath the surface and swam hard.

She bobbed up first near the sleek yacht. She could hear the fellows on deck shouting, their voices sounding desperate.

“Can you see him?”

“His head… He’s down again. Oh, God! He’s going to drown…Bring her around, bring her around, we’ve got to find David!”

“I can’t see him anymore!”

Kat took another deep breath and plunged beneath the surface again. She kept her eyes open, straining to see through the murky depths. And there…

There she saw him. To the right and a few feet below her.

Dead?

Oh, Lord, no! She prayed as fervently as she sought to reach the man. David. David the beautiful, the magnificent. Eyes closed…body sinking…

She grasped him, as her father had taught her to grasp a fisherman fallen overboard, catching him beneath the chin with the palm of her hand, allowing her to draw his head to the surface, while leaving her torso, legs and the solid strength of one arm to draw him toward shore.

Ah! The distance.

She could not make it!

But it seemed that both the luxury yacht and her father’s fishing vessel were ever farther out to sea. What other vessels were at sail or anchored seemed at even greater distances. She had to make the shore.

She kicked, trying to stay calm, to remember that she mustn’t lose her strength by using it to fight the rough water—that she must go with it, let the tempest take her until it drove her toward the shore.

She tried hard to keep David’s head above the water, tried harder to keep breathing and moving herself against the waves, white-tipped, gray and brown, like living, breathing, beings anxious to suck her into their depths. How slender the river could seem at times, but…how great its span!

And yet, chilled and desperate as she was, it occurred to her…

He was in her arms. Oh, God! He could die in her arms.

As she would gladly die in his.

“GOOD LORD! WILL YOU LOOK at those young fools!” Hunter MacDonald stared at the young swains who raced around their yacht like simpletons. They’d lost one of their number, yet none was doing a damn thing about it.

He cursed them roundly, then called out to Ethan Grayson—his mate at sea, manservant and his friend. “Bring her in! I’m going for the boy.”

“Sir Hunter!” Ethan, weathered and strong and far too sensible a fellow not to have risen far, protested strongly. “You’ll but go down yourself!”

“No, Ethan, I’ll not.” Hastily removing shoes, jacket and trousers, he offered Ethan a grimace. “My good man, I’ve escaped crocodiles in the Nile. I shall be fine in this bit of English weather.”

And so, stripped down to his drawers and shirt, he dove neatly overboard in the direction where he had last espied the young fellow’s bobbing head. As he did, he could hear Ethan scolding him angrily: “Being a ‘sir’ does not give a fellow common sense, no, it does not! He survives famine, war and the evil in the hearts of men, but then drowns himself like the young idiot he would save!”

Too late! thought Hunter. The Thames closed around him as he cut through the waves, swimming with strong exertion to bring the heat of movement to his person.

The water was bitterly cold.

It had been easier to swim in the Nile with crocodiles, he ruefully admitted to himself.

AT LAST! KAT AND HER BURDEN had nearly reached the embankment.

She was far from the docks, closer to Richmond now than the City of London. A mist of rain was falling as she struggled through the remaining few yards of water, hitting mud beneath her feet at last, mud and God knew what else, some broken crockery that cut into her sole. She barely felt it, however, for she had him to land at last. Exhausted, near crawling at the end, she dragged David’s dead weight up onto muddy sod and scraggly grasses, but not far from the road; homes and businesses and even ships at dock were visible nearby. She fell to his side at first, breathing, ah, doing nothing at all but breathing! Then as her lungs filled, she looked at his face and was roused to fear. She jerked up, then leaned on his chest, hard, pushing, determined to expel the water from his lungs. He choked, and water dribbled from his blue lips. Then he coughed and coughed…

And finally fell silent, other than the slow rasp of his breath.

She stared down at him, shaking. He lived. “Thank you, God!” she whispered fervently. And then, seeing his long lashes sweeping the contours of his noble face, she added, “You are so beautiful!”

His amber eyes opened. He stared up at her.

And she was horrified, for she was far from looking her best. Her hair was, as a rule, rich and long, if a bit glaringly red, but now it hung in sodden ropes. Her eyes—normally the oddest shade of green and hazel, sometimes almost the color of grass and at others almost gold—must be quite pinkened. And her lips were surely as blue as his. Her linen shift clung wetly to her body, and she was shaking uncontrollably. That he should see her so, when she still lived in a world of dreams, when society did not allow for the daughter of a humble, struggling artist, an Irish one at that, to so much as dare imagine a life among the elite, was the worst thing she could have imagined.

His hand moved. Fingers touched her face. For a moment, his own was dark and troubled, as if he sought an answer as to where he was, and why. “We were with the wind, listening…laughing…for there were songs on the air, as if the Sirens called to us, and then…pushed!” he murmured. “By God, I swear I was pushed! Why…”

Then his eyes focused on her. And a smile flitted over his lips. “Yes, yes, I felt hands against my back, pushing…but who the devil…and then…the cold…and the darkness. Then…you! Am I seeing things? You’re an angel!” he whispered. “A sea angel…an angel, and I love you!” Then he laughed. “No! A mermaid, and thus I am alive!”

His fingers—on her face!

And the words he had said!

Ah, she could have died then and drifted to heaven in pure bliss.

His eyes closed. Panic seized her. But she could see him breathing, his chest rising and falling, and she could feel his warmth.

Voices suddenly sounded. Looking up, she saw a group coming from the gravel road that led down to the embankment. She jumped to her feet, aware of her near-naked state, her shift plastered to her body, providing not the least bit of modesty. And she was very chilled, of course, making that immodesty all the more apparent. She wrapped bare arms around herself.

“Oh, they’re searching for him…but I saw…something!” The voice was feminine, sweet and touched with the sound of a sob.

“Now, now, our boy can swim, Margaret!” returned a male voice. “He’ll be just fine.”

Kat now saw a very pretty woman, slim and elegant in a late-summer day dress, a jaunty little hat sitting at an angle on her head, a parasol in her hands, her bustle twitching as she walked on dainty heels. Her hair was a soft ashen blond, and her eyes were as blue as the sea. Beside her was an older gentleman in a resplendent suit, cape and top hat, and they were coming closer and closer.

Kat’s heart seemed to stop. In her mind’s eye, she saw only the contrast between the elegant lady and herself, and she knew she had to escape. Quickly.

As she turned to run back into the water, a man rose from the waves not twenty yards away.

He was tall, lean and sinewy, his musculature quite evident, for he, too, but for an open shirt, was stripped down to his unmentionables. His dark hair was plastered to his head, and his classically sculpted face was frowning.

“Miss!” he called.

And that was it. She cried out softly, sprinted the few feet back to the muddy water’s edge and plunged in, diving beneath the surface as soon as she could and swimming harder than she had ever done in her life, unaware now of the cold and the aching in her lungs and limbs.

She surfaced, she knew not where, just as the rain began.

“MARGARET!”

David blinked, staring up through the mist of rain. And there she was, Lord Avery’s fair daughter, the very lovely and rich Lady Margaret, on her cheeks tears of a greater substance than the rain, staring down at him. Heedless of the mud, she sat on the embankment, his head cradled in her lap.

His heart leapt. Although she often appeared to care for him deeply, in fact, in the race for her hand, he had thought both Robert Stewart and Allan Beckensdale to be far ahead of him.

And yet now…how sweet to see her face!

For a moment, he was puzzled. There had been a fleeting moment when…he had thought he’d seen someone else. A different face. Fair and comely, with eyes a strange green fire and hair a searing flame-red. An angel? Had he come so close to death? No, then perhaps a mermaid, a sprite from the sea, or rather the river?

Had he imagined her?

And had he imagined, too, in the bluster of the day and the roll of the yacht, the hands at his back, pushing him, forcing him into the river?

“David! David, please, speak to me again, are you all right?” Margaret demanded anxiously.

“I…oh, dear, dear Margaret! Yes, I…I’m fine!” Not true. In fact, he was quite cold, but that mattered not in the least, not when this much-sought, beautiful lady was so gently tending to him.

Those eyes, so brilliantly blue, so studded with tears!

But…

“You saved me,” he said, still confused.

“Well,” she murmured, “I did drag you up the bank, hold you here, so dearly, in my lap.”

“He will live!” These words, dry, rough and impatient. And a spray of icy water falling on him.

“Sir Hunter?” David gasped, looking toward the voice. And, indeed, he was there, the renowned sailor, soldier, excavator and all-round adventurer; the toast of London society, standing above him, furious and frowning.

And dripping.

“He’s safely in your hands now, Lord Avery,” Hunter said dryly to Margaret’s father, who stood, David saw then, anxiously watching just a few feet away. “I must find the girl.”

“The girl?” David echoed, blinking again.

“The one who saved your life,” Sir Hunter said curtly, and David could hear the unspoken “You fool.”

“Good God, Sir Hunter, you cannot mean to plunge back in—” Lord Avery began.

“Oh, but I do,” Hunter said. “Lest she drown.”

“You’ll drown yourself!” Lord Avery argued. “If there is a girl out there, the boatsmen or fishermen will find her surely.”

Lord Avery’s protests were apparently insufficient for Hunter turned and strode back into the water.

“Father, he’ll be all right!” Margaret called, adding with a touch of admiration that sent a pang through David’s heart, “Sir Hunter MacDonald can withstand any hardship.”

Sir Hunter, David thought, ever the hero, strong and brave and invincible. And I myself here on the muddy shore, gasping, barely alive…

But in her arms!

“I hope you’re right, my dear,” Lord Avery said, kneeling down beside David as well and, slipping his fine jacket from his shoulders, placed it around David. “Thank God you survived, my boy! Can you rise? We’ll get you to the road and then to the town house before you catch your death of cold.”

David, trying to fathom what was real and what lay in the soul of his imagination asked, “There really was a girl?” He looked at Margaret.

“Yes…that or, truly, a sea creature!” Margaret said.

“We’ll see that she’s rewarded for the act, assuming that Sir Hunter can indeed find her. How very odd that she ran back into the river. She must be quite mad. Or perhaps she’s a lady of some fine family, afraid to be seen!” Lord Avery said gruffly. “One can only speculate, however, David. Right now, we must get you warm. That blasted river! Rarely is it anything less than wretched!”

“Yes, of course,” David murmured, “Thank you. But if there was a girl…a strong girl, rich or poor, we must indeed see that she is rewarded.”

Again he remembered—imagined?—being pushed into the river. It had been an act of pure malice and evil intent.

Whoever had done it had meant for him to die.

But why?

Margaret? To eliminate the competition for her hand?

Or was it something else entirely?

Suddenly he was afraid, deeply afraid, though he dared not show it. The thoughts tore through his mind. He and his friends had simply gone out for a day of sport and fun. Alfred Daws, Robert Stewart, Allan Beckensdale, Sydney Myers, all fellows he knew well. He’d studied with them, played cricket with them, trusted them….

He had to be mistaken!

And yet, if it hadn’t been for the girl who’d—

“David?”

His name was said with such anxiety! And Margaret smelled of roses, so delicious, and her arms were around him as she helped him to his feet.

“The girl saved your life,” Margaret agreed. “Your precious life.”

He forgot Lord Avery, forgot his fear regarding his friends, everything, as he stared into the sky-blue of her eyes. He needed his future secured. As the son-in-law of Lord Avery, it would be.

“Ah, but we know the real truth! You saved my life,” he declared. “You, with your gentle caring. You have brought me back. Even here, upon this shore, I might have died. Indeed, I would have died had I not opened my eyes to see your beautiful face!”

Her cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink, and he dared to mouth “I love you so!”

She did not reply, but the pink suffused to a darker shade as she reminded him softly, “My father, David!”

Yes, he thought, Margaret was indeed beautiful. And sweet. And very rich. For him, she would be the perfect wife.

He vowed then and there that he would be her husband.

SAVING THE OBJECT OF HER deepest desire had been difficult, but never in the long, cold struggle to bring him to shore had Kat feared for her own life.

Now, suddenly, she did so.

What a fool she had been to plunge back into the water! True, her sad state of undress might have brought about a few snickers and she’d certainly be considered rather scandalous. But what was scandalous compared to being dead!

Tired, cold and disoriented, she fought to retain her strength, to rise enough within the growing fury of the river to find either the shore or one of the vessels—fine or misbegotten—that braved the Thames no matter the weather. But though the rain had not come in heavy sheets as the sky had seemed to warn, it had formed a thick, blinding mist atop the churning waves. She was adrift in a cold sea of gray in which she seemed entirely alone.

She treaded water, turning this way and that, trying to see something through the haze. She knew she had to keep moving, lest the chill enshroud her. The euphoria she had felt after her rescue had faded completely, along with her strength. She was not sorry she had saved him—was his life not worth far more than her own?—but only sorry that she had been so foolish to run—or swim!—away. She struggled to give herself the impetus to go forward. She was her father’s daughter, after all. A creature of the sea, a part of this wet, murky world.

At last, she calmed herself and rolled onto her back, then frog-kicked sideways into the current. But as she relaxed, a new fear—that of the darkness, of knowing that the Thames was little more than a sewer pit, seized her as she saw something move. Ridiculous notions shot into her mind. Snakes! No, none in the waters here, surely. Serpents—just as silly. Sharks—in from the sea? Here? In the Thames? Heavens, no, but still… Oh, God, there was something in the water!

She let out a scream, then choked on water from the wave that splashed over her, gagged. Desperate, choking, barely able to breathe, she started her frog kick again.

Something touched her!

Something…against her bare leg, and then on her hip. She kicked harder, to propel herself away. Then she felt it again. Something smooth, strong, slippery…

“No!” she shrieked. She would not die so—definitely not on the day he had told her he loved her! She would not die in the water. Water was her home, it was what she knew, and she would not, could not, give in.

When the thing rose near her, she lashed out with a fist as hard as she could.

“Good God, girl! What on earth ails you? I am doing my best to save your life.”

It was a man. Just a man. She could make out little of him against the waves, but his voice was deep and rich and commanding. And then she remembered that a man had come out of the water when she’d been at David’s side, that his appearance, along with that of the elegant young woman, had been the impetus to send her back into the dreadful river.

“Save my life! You’re the reason that I’m threatened with the end of it!” she shouted back.

“Child, my craft is but a hundred yards south!”

A wave crested and washed over her. She had not been prepared, and she chocked in water, coughing, gasping.

And he was there, a wall of steel, an arm coming beneath her breasts, sliding most immodestly against her. She struggled.

“Damn you, be still! How on earth will I save you?”

“I don’t need to be saved!”

“Indeed, you do!”

“If you’d cease trying to drown me, I’d be doing quite well!”

But she was lying, she realized. She was truly spent. Staying on the surface and fighting the waves was becoming ever more difficult.

Naturally, however, as she cried out her accusation, he released her.

And just as naturally, another wave smacked over her just as she was still recovering from the last. And she went under.

A mighty kick brought her back to the surface and into his arms.

“Be still!” he snapped. “Else I shall slap you into unconsciousness so that I can save your wretched life!” The sting of his words was far worse than a slap.

“I’m telling you—”

“Don’t tell me!”

“But—”

“Dear God, woman, will you shut up!”

She had to then, for once again her mouth filled with river water, and she choked. She felt that steely power wind around her again, and despite the cold, his arms were warm, and despite her fury, exhaustion was winning. She felt a blackness creeping over the gray and brown of the day and the river, and suddenly it seemed right to close her eyes, give in….

His strength was great, for she was no longer moving on her own, yet felt as if she had been lifted, as if she were skimming over the water. Her head and nose remained above the surface.

Then there were voices, men’s voices, and she realized that they had come to a sailing vessel, a very fine one.

“Ethan!”

The shout startled her and she jerked violently away. Her head slammed against the bow of the yacht, making her gasp with pain.

Stars burst brilliantly before her eyes.

And then…blackness.

“SWEET MARY!” ETHAN exclaimed, his powerful arms capturing the slender being Hunter had salvaged from the sea, lifting her as if she were no more than a toy. And holding her tenderly, he stared at Hunter for the briefest moment before hurrying with his bundle down to the cabin.

The yacht yawed, and Hunter stumbled to the helm, grasping control as the wind ripped around them. Ignoring the fact that he was soaking wet and chilled to the bone, he swore as he struggled with a wicked shift in the wind, furled the sails on his own and brought the craft around. Ah, well, he was a sportsman, was he not? Still, he had not intended such sport today.

Ethan returned topside bringing a blanket and a cup of warm brandy. With a nod of thanks, Hunter took the latter first, drained it and felt the heat seep back into his body. He took the blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders, while Ethan took the helm.

“She’s all right?” Hunter asked, shouting to be heard.

“Nasty crack on her head!” Ethan shouted back. “But she opened her eyes. I’ve wrapped her in several blankets and given her a sip of brandy. She’ll be warm enough, and well enough, I imagine, while we make for shore. Where do we take her? To hospital?”

Hunter frowned and shook his head. “They say such places are improving, but I’d not take even a dog there. We’ll go to the town house. You’re sure she’s all right? She fought me like an insane woman….”

“Begging your pardon, Sir Hunter, but when you reached the yacht, I believe her head might have struck the hull.”

Ethan had seen a number of injuries, since he’d served alongside Hunter in battle and across several continents. He was a fine man when it came to setting bones, and he was equally adept at dispensing medications. He knew a mortal injury when he saw one, and this one certainly didn’t qualify.

“Who is she?” he demanded.

“I haven’t the faintest notion,” Hunter replied. “She apparently dived in to save young David, but from where, I do not know.” He paused, thinking. Had he seen her before? She was not among last season’s display of coming-of-age young society beauties, of that he was certain. He would have remembered her. Even wet and bedraggled, she was striking.

She had the abilities of a fish in water, so it seemed, and had been quite positive she didn’t need rescuing. Her hair…what color! Even wet, it was like fire. And her eyes, when opened, flashed fire to match that hair.

Then, of course, only a blind man could miss the perfection of her form. She was no hothouse flower, but all lean muscle and sinew, long legs, trim hips and…beautiful breasts. Firm, full, straining against the taut fabric.

He winced at his lascivious thoughts. But he wasn’t a blind man. He couldn’t have missed them.

“Brave little thing!” Ethan said. “Diving in when none of his fine, hearty companions could manage to do so.”

That, too, was true.

But then again, Hunter had seen the way she had looked at David on the embankment. Utterly rapt. She hadn’t dived in for someone who was a stranger to her. There had been something about that look, something that any man or woman living seldom achieved, yet might crave with all the heart. Indeed, she would have gladly given her life for David.

She’s in love, he thought.

“You think she’s a friend of the chap?” Ethan asked now.

“I’ve never seen her before,” Hunter said. “But then, I’m certainly not privy to all of young David’s acquaintances. Indeed, I’ve only come to know him because he is due to take part in the upcoming excavations along the Nile. And because, of course, his father is interested in financing such work.”

“Good Lord! You don’t think she’s a…”

“Doxy?” Hunter cocked his head, musing. “No,” he said after a moment. “She hasn’t the look. No hardness in her eyes. Not yet, anyway. But whoever she is, she will be a bit richer than she was, for Lord Avery is determined she be rewarded. Meanwhile, let’s just see to her welfare, eh?”

In another thirty minutes, the yacht was in and duly berthed. Hunter held the girl in his arms, wrapped warmly in the blankets Ethan had provided her, while Ethan brought round the carriage. Though the area at the docks had been much busier early in the day, the fair-weather sailors had come to realize that such a day was not for sport. Now there was no one about.

Certainly not young David, or any of his party. Though Hunter knew that Lord Avery would be true to his word and reward the girl, the man would not be overly concerned about her welfare. David would be his first concern.

And, of course, Margaret.

Ethan reined in the handsome carriage horses, and the two stood still, awaiting their burden. Hunter entered the carriage with the girl in his arms, needing little assistance.

“Home then, and quickly,” Ethan said, closing the doors and climbing up top to take the reins.

And as they rode, Hunter looked down at her face. It was truly beautiful. Skin, though ever so slightly tanned, as smooth as alabaster. Straight nose, lips perhaps a bit too wide and full for the current accepted state of fashion. Her cheekbones were high, her eyes large, lashes long and dark.

She stirred. Frowned.

A smile creased her lips, so sweetly.

She seemed to doze and to dream, and whatever she dreamed, it was sweet.

The dark lashes twitched and then rose.

Her eyes focused upon his, and she frowned.

“You’re with us,” he said softly.

Her lips moved. She seemed to have lost her voice.

“What?” he coaxed.

Something about her at that moment awoke a deep tenderness in him. He wanted to protect her. To bring all that was warm and gentle around her.

Her lips moved again.

He leaned close to catch the least whisper.

“You!” she breathed.

He heard the intense dismay. He clenched his teeth, forced a smile. And remembered the way she had looked at young David.

“Indeed, dear girl, ’tis I. And I do apologize. I should have left you in the water!”

Her eyes closed again. Apparently she still hadn’t realized where she was.

He was tempted to throw her off his lap, but he held his temper. Even in his most wretched moments, he had never been that bad a scoundrel.

“All right, then, who are you? And when we return you safely to your home, just where would that be?”

Once again, her eyes flew open and assessed him with what appeared to be anger. By all the gods, they were truly magnificent eyes, blazing with their unusual color. At this close range, he could truly inspect them. Blue-green along the outer rims, fading to green, then to gold. Extraordinary. Hmm, she was definitely a redhead, but it wasn’t a carroty color, rather like a deep, rich flame. And those dark lashes…

Wherever she came from, she was probably pure temper, and some poor father, brother or lover might well be glad of a holiday from her tongue!

She continued to stare at him, her expression becoming perplexed.

“Well? Who are you?” he demanded.

Her lashes fell. “I…”

“Good God, answer me!”

“I don’t know!” she snapped.

And so saying, she pushed from his hold, righting herself most regally—until she realized that she’d lost her blankets. She flushed, cast him a furious glance, and dragged the blankets back up to sit in noble silence.

Chapter 2

HUNTER EYED HER LONG AND carefully, then a slow smile crept onto his lips.

“You’re a liar,” he told her quietly.

“How dare you!” she accused.

He shook his head. “I simply do not believe you struck your head that hard.”

She turned to gaze out the carriage window as the busy streets of London passed by. Then she lowered her eyes, the wealth of lashes concealing her thoughts. Her hands, which showed small signs of hard work, were resting on the fine upholstery of the carriage seat and he could see that she was enjoying the soft feel of the fabric.

“My head pains me a great deal!” she snapped, and her gaze returned to his.

Again, he had to smile. “But you are alive,” he said.

“I was doing quite well without you.”

He didn’t bother to respond.

Her frown deepened and she eyed him warily, drawing the blankets more tightly to her throat. “Who are you?” she demanded.

“Hunter MacDonald.” He inclined his head in an ironic gesture. “At your service.”

He thought that he saw her eyes widen just a bit; she was quick to hide any sign that she might have recognized his name, if indeed, she had done so. Had she? His exploits were frequently in the papers, he knew, something about which he seldom gave a thought. He was equally referenced in the society pages, usually with a gleeful note—readers loved a touch of scandal.

Frankly, and certainly as of late, he did not deserve most of the more scandalous items of gossip, but he had long ago determined that no matter what one did, it was impossible to live up to the high standards set for a man such as he. He was able to be quite entertained, fortunately, by what fabrications might come along.

His passenger didn’t appear at all frightened to be in the company of such an ill-reputed fellow. Indeed, she seemed to be scheming within her own mind.

“Where are we going?” she demanded.

“Why, my town house, of course,” he told her.

At that, he was pleased to witness the slightest bit of alarm pass briefly over her countenance.

“I may not know who I am,” she said, “but I’m quite certain that I…” Her voice trailed off as if the right words failed her. “That you what?” he offered helpfully.

She lowered her head. “If you would just return me to the sea, I believe I might recognize something…someone.”

“The sea?”

She flushed. “The area by the river.”

He appraised her with both his mind and his libido, ever more fascinated. She spoke well, extremely well, as if she had been decently educated. But he suspected that, nevertheless, she belonged to the poor area of the river.

And a class of Victorian society from which she might never hope to encounter her precious David except under unusual circumstances.

He found himself looking away, feeling the oddest little ache, as if he wished that he were the object of that deep affection she most obviously felt for the youngest son of the Baron Turnberry. It didn’t matter that David would not inherit his father’s title—there wasn’t just one or two male siblings above him in line, but five!—he was surely something of a shining, glittering star to this girl.

And if she felt such an affection for himself?

Ah, well. Some of his reputation was deserved. But never had he tarried with a member of the fairer sex who was truly young and innocent, and tender of heart, as well.

Then, again, what made him believe that she was truly innocent? She had plunged into the Thames nearly naked. For a man.

“I believe that he’s about to become engaged,” Hunter said harshly.

She was good at her charade.

“Who?”

“David Turnberry, my dear.”

“And why should that concern me?”

“I beg your pardon, I forgot. You do not know yourself, so how would you know of Mr. Turnberry?”

She looked at him, red tendrils of hair, drier now, falling softly across her face. “How would you happen to know about the relationships of…this man to whom you refer?” she asked.

“We run in the same circles,” he responded. “In fact, the man you saved—I’m sure you must remember dragging a man out of the water?—is due to leave shortly for a season working the excavations in ancient Egypt. When he returns, I believe he will be married.”

“Is he officially engaged?”

“No,” Hunter admitted. “But he has been a contender in the quest for the hand of Lady Margaret for some time, and I believe that today, after such high drama and fear for his life, she may have decided that he’s the one she’ll choose to marry.”

She turned away quickly, as if she felt distressed and would prefer he not see it. Then she lowered her head and murmured, “Please…if you would take me back to the river, I would be most grateful. I’m sure I shall find out who I am and where I belong.”

He leaned forward, absently setting a hand on her knee as he spoke. “But, dear girl, Mr. Turnberry is anxious to thank you for his life. We must allow him to do so.”

She visibly winced. “As I am? I would deeply appreciate a return to the sea.”

“River.”

“River!” she snapped.

She moved. He realized that his hand touched her still—and that it was far more disturbing to him than to her. He withdrew.

“We are nearly at my town house. My sister often spends time there—I’m quite sure we will find something appropriate for you to wear.”

“Sir! I cannot go with you to your town house alone.”

“Fear not,” he said, smiling. “I have the most proper housekeeper one might ever hope to have. You’ll be in the best of hands.”

They came at last to the town house with its elegant wrought-iron gates and handsomely manicured lawn. He wondered if she had not caught his attention before because, in a very strange way, she reminded him of himself. In his younger years, he’d seen what he was and what he was not. And he’d realized he must improve his own lot, which he had managed to do quite nicely, first in the military, then by charming the queen, and then with his very real fascination for all things Egyptian. He had written a number of books on his experiences, and therefore earned a fair penny from his publishers, and if his own efforts had not seen him to financial success, the death of his beloved and landed godmother had increased his position most pleasantly. The boon had not been expected, because the old girl, who had been a true adventurer herself and had always engaged him in tart conversation, had always pretended poverty and gratefully accepted his many gifts.

The carriage passed through the gates to the porte cochere at the side door. It opened as Hunter jumped down from the carriage, reaching back to assist his unwilling guest. She hesitated, but at last accepted his hand, apparently deciding that it would be churlish to refuse it.

“Dear me, dear me!” This from Mrs. Emma Johnson, his housekeeper. She gave Hunter a scathing look, as if he had committed a crime. “Sir Hunter! What in heaven’s name? Dear child, do come in and I will see to you! Do your parents know where you are? Hunter, did you take this young lady sailing on such a day and lose her in the river? Oh, child, thank the Lord you’re all right. I shall see to you immediately.” She slipped an arm around his red-haired sea vixen, staring him down. “Now, Hunter, it’s none of my business, but—”

“No, Emma, it’s not!” he said, but smiled. She was very dear to him. When he was quite young and struggling, she had even suffered many a week without pay, assuring him that he could pay her when…well, when he could. He had done his best to reward her for those days of service when her work had been based on loyalty alone.

She narrowed her gray eyes in a severe warning, and again he had to smile. “Emma, I did nothing terrible, I assure you. She was drowning—”

“It was not until he tried to help me that I was drowning!” the girl protested.

“It’s amazing what you do seem to remember,” Hunter murmured.

“Good heavens! What did happen?” Emma demanded.

“I suppose we must let the young woman explain,” Hunter said.

“Young woman? What is your name, dear?” Emma asked.

“Yes, dear, what is your name?” Hunter repeated. He watched her face heat with color. “Ah! Dear me, how could I forget so quickly? She suffered a bump on the head and has forgotten everything. Can you imagine, Emma?”

The housekeeper looked horrified. “Hunter, what did you do?”

“I’m innocent, I swear!” he said.

“Aye, mum, he’s innocent this time, I can vouch for that,” Ethan said, coming round from having led the horses and conveyance on to the carriage house and the groom. “Sir Hunter saw a friend swept clean off the deck of another yacht, and he dived to rescue the fellow. Seems that, wherever she came from, the girl had the same idea.”

Emma stared her. “Child! You went into the Thames? Why, ’tis filthy with the rot of thousands, no matter what they say has been done for sanitation in the reign of our good Queen Victoria!”

“I’ve been in it before,” the girl murmured. She flushed again, catching Hunter’s glance, “I…uh…think I’ve been in it before! I mean…perhaps I’ve been in water quite frequently…at least, I believe that I have….”

Emma glared at Hunter once more. “Well, and look at you, in just your drawers and a blanket! Humph!” She wagged a finger at Hunter. “You, sir, have your reputation, but it shall not sully mine. I’ll see to it that our poor dear guest has a bath and is set right up. Ethan! You must go for the doctor immediately—”

“Doctor!” the girl protested.

“Of course! You’ve lost your memory. And with the master of the house around, dear, we wouldn’t want to add to that the fact that you’ve lost your senses! No, no, this must be handled in all proper haste!”

“Emma, I’m hardly likely to seduce the girl beneath my own roof,” Hunter murmured wryly.

“Indeed, hardly likely,” the girl muttered.

“In fact, Ethan will help me out of this river sop I wear, Emma, and you see to the young lady here. They’ll be wanting to know about this at Lord Avery’s manor—it was David Turnberry who went into the drink, and he’ll want to thank our mystery girl properly. I’ll give a call to the manor—assuming the blasted telephone decides to work—let them know that I’ve got the girl.”

“But I do think we should have the doctor—” Emma began to protest.

“I’m fine!” the girl assured her.

“Humph!” Emma said.

“Let’s see…perhaps we should give her until the morning, see how she is faring then. Emma, I’m sure you will have a delightful room ready somewhere in this place?” Hunter said.

“A bath…and a bit of rest. Alone. If I may. That would be lovely,” the girl said. “And if I feel at all ill in the morning, I swear I’ll see a doctor!”

“All right, then, Hunter, be gone up the stairs. Young woman, I’ll get a good deep bath going, and you’ll be warm and cozy in no time. Now, Hunter, you must stay away.”

“Good Lord, trust me, I intend to!” he assured Emma. He couldn’t help winking at his less-than-gracious guest before he passed her by. His fine deck shoes squeaked and he was beginning to feel more than a chill, despite the blanket around his shoulders.

Ethan followed him to his room, dragging out the hip bath, ready to be of service. “Stop, my friend,” said Hunter. “I’ll heat my own bath. See to it that there are coins left on the dresser in the blue room—which is surely where Emma will take our guest. Oh, and see that there are enough coins for transport in the pocket of whatever piece of clothing Emma chooses for our guest.”

Ethan arched a brow.

“Believe me, my friend,” said Hunter. “It is for the girl’s benefit.”

“You want her to run away?”

“She’s going to run back to the river. You mark my words. Besides, don’t worry. I intend to run after her. Ah, Ethan! Please, just do as I say!”

Ethan grunted but left to do as bidden.

KAT, HER MEMORY QUITE INTACT, found being and talking with Mrs. Johnson—Emma, as she preferred to be called—easy and comfortable. The woman was so warm and caring! Kat didn’t think that she’d ever had such a delightful bath, the water so deliciously warm. The house and furnishings were exquisite. Kat had never been in such luxury!

Emma chatted about the neighborhood—charming, she adored it, they’d been there almost a decade. Then there was the amazing way one could now get about—on a train in a tube underground! “Oh, that it had been there when I was a young girl!” she declared. She mostly talked about Sir Hunter MacDonald, the love of her life, it seemed.

Kat wished desperately that she’d been taken to the home of David Turnberry, instead, for she was certain that there she’d have heard from his housekeeper and might have learned all kinds of delicious little nuggets about his life. But it wasn’t to be. She had to remember where she was. And why.

And remember to be grateful. So she listened. Sir Hunter had been an impressive soldier, and it had been for his gallant service to his country that he had been knighted. Why, Emma gushed, he was called upon often to play the diplomat for the queen! And, well, of course, he did have his reputation, but only because there were so many widows and even a few divorcées who did not understand mourning as did their dear queen. And Americans! Well…they were a breed of their own, adventurers-adventuresses, all. And then, of course, there was his obsession with Egyptian antiquities. Yes, there had been quite a hullabaloo at the museum just a year ago. Dastardly going-ons, but all settled in the end, the evil ones out of the picture, and those involved would be sailing off again, learning more and more, and adding to the grandeur of the British Empire!

Yes, yes, yes, Kat thought. But how much could a girl listen to, especially about a fellow who had almost drowned her? All right, it was true that that had not been his intention, and he had made her a guest in his very beautiful home. So she held her tongue while his housekeeper worked her hair with sweet-smelling suds and prattled on. She didn’t have much of a choice.

“But, of course, you’ve read about him, I’m certain,” Emma continued. “He has been the idol of the country many a time. Oh, I forgot! Poor thing. Your memory is gone. But if anything stirs in the darkness, let me assure you, despite his wretched reputation as a ladies’ man, Sir Hunter is a gentleman, a true gentleman.” Emma seemed determined that Kat should understand that.

The woman added ruefully, “I’m certain that many of the rumors are fact, I’m sorry to say, but as I told you, he tarries only with divorcées and widows, women who are quite adult and mature, and responsible for their own actions. I don’t believe he frequents houses of ill repute—well, not the lower sort, anyway. But surely, you must be aware that he has a kind heart. And courage! Why, he has fought again and again in the queen’s service, held his own, even when he didn’t think we had the right to be where we were—Good Lord, child, you mustn’t ever repeat that! He is a loyal subject of our good queen, right down to the toes! And then, of course, there is his constant hunt for Egyptian antiquities.”

“Do you mean treasures?”

Emma Johnson sniffed. “Treasures? Not as we think of them, dear. Treasures to Sir Hunter are relics of the past, the older, and so it seems, the nastier, the better! But then again, it is such a thing among almost all of the British aristocracy and elite these days. That, and mesmerism!” she said with a snort. “Still, he might have chosen a season by the Riviera or in Italy. Oh, he enjoys his stops in Rome and such, but it’s Egypt he goes for, Egypt he loves. He works with the museum, you know. And he always manages to wrangle the best dig for himself or be granted the best location, through our own embassies and the Egyptians, who are in charge. Well, we say that Egyptians are in charge, but it’s still our influence that guides it all. And glad they are of English intervention.”

“English money, I would think,” Kat murmured softly.

Emma laughed delightedly. “Well, now, and there’s the truth. But the Turks were there for a quite a long time, as well, and the Egyptians are glad of our protection, you mark my words. And, of course, the French are forever around. But…I do so wish Sir Hunter would settle for an autumn in a lovely European city!”

“But…it sounds fascinating. Really.” Kat leaned back. “I’ve only ever dreamed of Ancient Egypt!” She jerked back up. “David Turnberry is going for this season in Egypt, as well, isn’t he?”

“Many go, as I said. And you must understand, this is when the season for archeology begins—summer is far too hot! Fall into winter…well, they’re all about to set sail for the mysteries of the past as it is…next week!”

A week! Kat thought. A week. A week in this country, and then…

David Turnberry would go to Egypt. When he returned, he would marry?

Kat sighed softly. It was insane to think, just because he looked up at her after she had saved his life and said I love you, that anything in the world could bring her to his true attention. He was about to become engaged to be married. To an elegant creature of his own class.

He can’t love his presumed fiancée! Not when he said those words to me!

But she had panicked and run away. In part because of Hunter MacDonald. But now…he meant to introduce her to the man. She would have a formal introduction to David Turnberry.

“All right, step out now, child,” Emma was saying. “I’ve a fine set of clothing for you. The Lady Francesca—she’s Sir Hunter’s sister, married Lord Hathaway—leaves ample here, and she’ll be more than pleased that she could help out with a girl pulled from the river, one willing to risk her own life to save another!”

Kat suddenly felt terribly uncomfortable, hearing the words of praise. She had to wonder if she would have attempted the rescue if it had been anyone other than David Turnberry. The thought troubled her, and she barely noticed the silk of the drawers she stepped into, or the simple elegance of the gown Emma slipped over her head, with exquisite lace on the bodice.

“And, oh dear! If a night’s sleep doesn’t help your memory, we must do something,” Emma said suddenly. “There is bound to be some young fellow somewhere, terribly worried about you. No ring on your finger, though.”

Kat’s heart seemed to stop in her chest. No, there was no young fellow worried about her. But her father would be. And her sister, and so many dear friends…

How far had she come? How was she going to get back? If she had to walk…

She lowered her head, biting her lower lip. Surely, a man such as Hunter MacDonald would have left a few coins somewhere about. She would not steal! She would see that they were returned. Public transport was getting very good indeed, and she knew London well.

Like the poor man’s daughter, the urchin, that she was!

“Yes, indeed,” she managed to say somberly. “By tomorrow, I’m sure I shall be fine. I do believe that when I wake up, everything will rush back,” she lied. Then she yawned. “Forgive me. I’m exhausted.” She lifted her hands with her words, then let them fall. She heard a soft tinkle within the folds of the dress. Her fingers moved dexterously over the pockets. The relief that swept through her almost caused her to faint in reality. Coins!

“As well you might be after such a day! Now, just sit before the fire while I brush out your hair. I’ll have you upstairs napping in no time.”

Kat could barely sit still while the kindly woman dried her hair before the fire, brushing all the snarls from the long tresses. When she was done, her hair was as soft as silk, far softer than it had ever been. But she was so riddled with guilt about the hasty departure she planned that she had to force herself to stop fretting long enough to voice a sincere thank-you for the housekeeper’s help.

That same guilt made it difficult for her to appreciate the subdued elegance of the house or the little touches that made it so uniquely Sir Hunter MacDonald’s residence—the relics sitting atop the newel posts, the hieroglyphs that adorned the walls. The fine oil paintings, some of English country sites and some of ancient Egypt. One was of the Sphinx at sunset, and it was so breathtaking that her steps did falter.

“I can show you more of the house, dear,” Emma offered.

“Thank you, I shall so enjoy that…later. But I beg of you, I must have a few hours of undisturbed rest.”

“Of course!”

And so she was led up the grand staircase to a room. It was planned for female guests, or so it appeared, for the furniture was a light and lovely wood, and the canopy and spread of the four-poster bed were blue and white, enhanced by the shades of an Oriental rug.

“Rest well, my dear. I will see to it that you’re not disturbed,” Emma vowed.

“Thank you again, ever so much!”

The door closed. Kat moved to the bed and lay atop the spread, keeping herself still for several long seconds.

Then she rose. She started for the door, then noticed the coins sitting on the dresser. She placed them in her pocket with the others and took the time to look in the lovely little Oriental bedside table for paper and a pen.

“I will return the dress and the coins,” she wrote. The words looked cold and rude. She hesitated, then added, “Thank you ever so much.” No, it wasn’t enough. But time was ticking away. She sketched herself as a Sphinx, with a smiling face, and as the caricaturists did, she added a little balloon at the side of the lips, writing in, “I do thank you!”

Enough. She had to leave, make her way home, then return here before anyone was the wiser and be ready to allow David Turnberry to thank her for his life.

She hurried for the door and out into the hall. There, she listened. There was no sound other than that of the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer.

She fled down the stairway to the front entry. There was no lock on the front door. Not now. What would she do when she returned? Perhaps it would be locked by then; dusk would surely be coming on.

Well, that was a worry she would have to contend with when she returned. Right now, she had to go to her father and sister.

And worry that she would be able to return at all!

On the street and down the block, she paused to draw a breath.

She was out. She had gotten out very easily.

Now the great problem—was she going to be able to get back in?

“THE BIRD HAS FLOWN!” Hunter noted.

He sat astride Alexander, his riding mount, hidden against a small field of trees in the narrow side yard of the town house. Ethan, at his side on Anthony, glanced his way, his features wrinkling in a silent question.

“We shall follow,” Hunter said.

She obviously knew where she was going. She quickly made her way through the streets by Hyde Park, finding a station for the omnibus.

There, she boarded.

Following the bus, which was pulled by heavy draft horses, was quite easy. The streets were busy, and the pedestrians often careless, so the going was somewhat slow.

His redhead changed vehicles and headed, as he had suspected, for the river. And, there, of course, his concealing themselves became a bit more difficult. Hunter dismounted, handing Alexander’s reins to Ethan, and bidding the man to wait with the horses.

“I don’t know what either of you is about!” Ethan grumbled.

Hunter laughed. “I’m not at all sure I know myself!”

He hurried then, for once the girl had departed the vehicle, she began to move quickly through the streets, the rows of tightly packed houses, the people milling in the walkways and alleys. He assessed the neighborhood.

It wasn’t the poorest section of the city, but rather the old City of London itself, where some of the architecture of the late sixteen hundreds remained, simple homes built soon after the Great Fire had ravished the city. Most of the inhabitants were hardworking tradesmen, though the area attracted students, musicians and artists. The streets, if not grand, were clean.

“Why, core and blimey!” an old woman who’d been sweeping called out. “It’s Kat!”

“Shh, Mrs. Mahoney, please!” the girl cried, and she raced past the woman. “Is Papa in the house?”

“Frettin’ and wailin’, he is!” the woman said. “Why, he has some of his friends in the police out looking for you, child! There was a rumor that you had been rescued from the water, but…well, no one knew just who had done the rescuing and where you’d gotten to!”

“Oh, no!” the girl cried.

“And what is that you be wearing, Mistress Kat?” the woman demanded.

“I must see Papa,” the girl said, and rushed by the woman, heading into a small house that was painted and finely detailed with new gingerbread trim. The place surely dated back to the days of the Flemish weavers, Hunter thought.

Determined to avoid a conversation with the old woman, Hunter slid quickly against a wall. There was a narrow alley leading to a rear courtyard, and he sidled down the length of it. He did not need to go far.

An open window and drawn draperies allowed him an excellent view of the show within. There she was, the girl whom the old woman had called Kat, wrapped tightly in the arms of a tall, bewhiskered fellow. Another girl, also red-haired, though of a lighter shade, stood by. She embraced Kat next, then stepped away as the dignified older fellow wrapped Kat in his arms again.

When at last the embracing ended, the second girl—her sister?—demanded, “Katherine Mary! What on earth are you wearing? Goodness! Where did you get such an elegant dress?”

“I shall explain,” Kat said.

“Indeed, you shall!” the old fellow responded gruffly. “I have been out of my head with fear and grief. Eliza told me of this insane thing you felt you must do, and I was left to convince myself that you would return, that you had not gone down to the bottom of the Thames! There are police officers out looking for you, young woman. Eliza, send Maggie to inform the police that my child has been found, that we will not need to dredge the river!”

The man was truly furious, and yet obviously greatly relieved. Hunter felt guilty, as he knew the girl must. She appeared stricken, as if she had not realized till now just how painfully her absence had been experienced.

The girl Eliza hurried from the room to summon this Maggie—a servant of some sort, Hunter assumed—despite the fact that this household seemed rather poor—but was very quickly back, not about to miss an instant of what was going on.

“Papa,” Kat said, apparently in an effort to soothe. “Poor Papa, I am so sorry, I hadn’t imagined such a fuss. Why would you send the police after me? You know that I swim better than a fish.”

“Aye, that I know,” her father said proudly. “But you’d gone after a university bloke, and then disappeared from sight! What will I do with you, what will I do? If only your dear sainted mother were still alive!”

“Kat, where did you get the dress?” her sister demanded again.

“It is borrowed… Papa, please, all will be well. You see, I was helped by another gentleman after I helped the first gentleman. I have been at a safe and truly gentle place, I swear it! You see, I am to meet with David Turnberry, the first gentleman, who is soon to be affianced to Lord Avery’s daughter, and I must—”

“Lord Avery!” Eliza exclaimed. She looked across the room. “Papa, she will get a reward. A good reward!”

“I needed no reward,” Kat said.

“Well, I’d be happy for it!” Eliza exclaimed. “Scrimping and saving for something other than fish on the table.”

“Eliza!” the father said sadly, shaking his head.

Eliza apologized quickly. “Papa, Papa, you do so well, I am truly sorry for my words of complaint. But…Kat! That gown! It’s exquisite—where did it come from? Oh, my God! I should get dressed. I must go back with you and—”

“No,” the man said firmly. “No one is going anywhere.”

“But we must give this serious consideration,” Eliza pleaded.

“Katherine Mary, you are my child. My daughter. And you’ll not go off among young men, whether they’re poor as paupers or rich as Midas, without proper escort. Without me!” he bellowed.

“Oh, Papa, please! I must go to Lord Avery’s on my own. I swear to you, I am safe. There is a wonderful woman named Emma Johnson, and she is like my guardian angel.”