asking any of the dozens of questions that tumbled about in her mind. Gentlemen didn’t take to one prying into their affairs.
She had directed him toward her grandmother’s cottage, for she had no intention of letting her precious gift die. If anyone could save the lad, it would be Granny Rose. It was a long drive, for Granny lived in a secluded cottage on the edge of Buckminster land, and Helen had had to walk the last part of the journey, carrying the boy in her arms, for there was no drivable road leading to Granny’s cottage. Mr. Fuquay had let her out and handed her the boy with a profusion of thanks, but she had hardly paid any attention to him. Her thoughts were all on the boy and getting him to her grandmother.
Helen glanced up now and over at her grandmother. Granny Rose, as she was known to most of the local populace, was a short, rounded dumpling of a woman. Twinkling blue eyes looked out of a face so wrinkled and brown it resembled a dried apple. Despite her merry, almost comical appearance, she was a wise and highly regarded woman among the local people. She knew herbs and healing wisdom, and when Helen had staggered in, carrying the feverish boy, she had known just what to do.
For two days now she and Helen had been caring for him, dosing him with Granny’s decoctions, sponging his flaming body down with cool rags, and forcing little sips of water and soup through his parched lips. The fever had racked his body until Helen had cried for him, and it seemed with every struggling breath he took, Helen loved him more.
“Is he—” She stopped, her throat closing on the words. He looked so frightfully still and pale.
But Granny shook her head, a smile beginning to curve her lips. “No. I think he’s past it. The fever’s broken.”
“Really?” Helen put her palm against the boy’s cheek. It was true; he was definitely not as hot as he had been minutes before.
“What are you going to do with him?” Granny asked quietly, watching her granddaughter’s face. “He’s Quality, you know.”
Helen nodded. That much was obvious. His fevered mutterings had been in the perfect tones of the upper class, and the clothes that he wore, though dirty and drenched in sweat, were of the finest cut and materials.
“I know. But he’s mine,” Helen added, setting her jaw. “We saved him, and he belongs to me now. I won’t let them have him. Besides…”
She hesitated, not certain whether she wanted to admit to her shrewd grandmother what else she suspected about the child. She thought she knew who he was, but if her vague suspicions were correct, it might very well mean the boy’s life if she revealed that he had survived. If she was wrong…well, then, she had no idea who the lad was, and it would not be her fault if she could not restore him to his proper family.
Either way, she told herself, the best thing to do was to remain silent.
“Besides what?” Granny Rose asked, her bright eyes boring into her granddaughter’s.
“I don’t know who he is. Where would we take him? And I—I don’t think they want him to live.”
“And what will you say if they ask you what happened to him?”
“Why, that he died, of course, just as they thought he would, and I buried him in the woods where none would ever see it.”
The older woman said nothing, merely nodded, and did not mention the matter of the boy’s return again. She, too, Helen thought, had fallen under the sick child’s spell.
After the fever broke, the boy gradually grew better, until at last his eyelids fluttered open and he looked up at Helen with dark brown eyes.
“Who are you?” he whispered hoarsely.
Helen took his little hand in hers and replied, “I am your new mother, Gil.”
“Mama?” he repeated vaguely, his eyes clouded, giving the word an inflection on the last syllable.
“Yes. Mama,” Helen repeated firmly, stressing the first syllable.
“Oh. I don’t—” His eyes teared up. “I can’t remember—I’m scared!”
“Of course you are.” Helen sat down beside him on the bed, taking him into her arms. “Of course you are. You have been very sick. But I’m here, and so is Granny Rose, and we are going to take care of you.”
He held on to her tightly as tears rolled down his cheeks. “Mama…”
“Yes, dear. I’m right here. Always.”
CHAPTER ONE
1815
THE CARRIAGE WAS DRAWING CLOSER to Exmoor’s estate, and the thought filled Nicola with dread. Why had she ever agreed to visit her sister here? With every passing mile, Nicola wished more and more that she had not. She would have much preferred staying in London and helping Marianne and Penelope with their wedding plans. But Deborah had looked so unhappy and frail, even afraid, and Nicola had not been able to deny her plea. Deborah was, after all, her younger sister, and Nicola loved her. It was only her marriage to the Earl of Exmoor that had caused the bitterness and estrangement between them.
Nicola sighed and shifted on her seat. She hated to think of the quarrels that had followed Deborah’s announcement that she was going to marry Richard. Nicola had done her best to dissuade her, but Deborah had been determinedly blind to Richard’s faults. When Nicola had pointed out that only months before Richard had been pursuing her, Deborah had lashed out that Nicola was just jealous and unable to accept that a man might want Deborah instead of herself. After that, Nicola had given up trying, and for the past nine years, she and her sister had seen each other only occasionally. Nicola had refused to enter the Earl’s house, and Deborah had grown more and more reclusive, rarely traveling to London or even venturing out of her house.
But when Nicola had seen Deborah last month at their cousin Bucky’s house party, Deborah had begged Nicola to come stay with her through her fourth pregnancy. She had miscarried three times in her marriage, never managing to provide the Earl with a son, and she was terrified of losing this child, too. Looking into her haunted eyes, Nicola had been unable to refuse, no matter how much she hated the thought of living under the same roof with Richard Montford, even for a few months.
Deborah, of course, could not understand Nicola’s hatred for the man. But Nicola could not escape the fact that every time she looked at Richard, she was reminded that he had ruined her life. That he had killed the only man she had ever loved.
The carriage lurched through a pothole, throwing Nicola across the seat and jarring her from her head down to her toes. She straightened herself, grimacing. It served her right, she thought, for not stopping for the night an hour ago, but insisting on going on through the dark. Little as she liked the thought of being at Tidings, she had wanted to get the journey over with, and they were only two hours from their destination. Impatience, she had been reminded often enough, was one of her besetting sins.
At that moment a shot boomed out, perilously close to the carriage, and Nicola jumped, her heart beginning to race in her chest.
“Halt!” a voice cried, and the carriage lumbered to a stop.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” a male voice drawled in an amused tone. His accent, curiously, was that of the upper class. “You, dear friend, have only one blunderbuss, whereas we
