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Chapter One
Scotland—1882
Lady Alexandra Mannerly hurried down the back stairs of her father’s hunting lodge, trying to tiptoe so no one would see she had escaped her governess. Even in Scotland, where life was much more free than London or at her father’s ducal seat in Kent, she was supposed to have lessons in the mornings. But she did not want lessons. She was nearly thirteen now. Surely she deserved to be free? At least for a little while?
And besides—she knew exactly where she wanted to go now. Who she wanted to see.
She could hear the clatter of the kitchens, the cook shouting for more salmon to make mousse for dinner, the maids dropping pans, her brother, Charles, begging for cakes. Her father was out shooting for the day, as he always did in Scotland, and her mother was locked in her chamber with a tisane for her headache, as she always did in Scotland. Alex knew her governess would like a free hour to flirt with the butler, so Alex was free for a little while.
She slipped out through the back door unseen and ran through the kitchen garden to the gate. The brisk, cool wind, smelling of the green hills, caught at her loose, slippery pale curls and the skirts of her blue-muslin dress, biting through her jacket, but she didn’t care. She could run now, run and run with no one to stop her!
The weeks they spent in Scotland every early autumn were her favourite of all the year. In England, she always felt so shy, so nervous of everything, so sure she was not being a proper duke’s daughter. That was what her mother lectured her about all the time—what a duke’s daughter should do.
In Scotland, no one was looking at her. She was just Alex, especially when she escaped to run outside and make her own friends. One friend in particular.
She pushed the gate closed behind her and ran through the thicket of woods. She could hear the wind whistling through the branches, rustling the drying leaves. From far off, she could hear the bang of the guns, but she knew they wouldn’t come near. Her father wouldn’t be home for hours, when there would be dinner, bagpipes and dancing, which she and Charles would spy on from above-stairs.
Beyond the woods wound the river, rushing fast over the rocks, a silvery tumble that made its own music, flowing down icy-cold from the heather-purple hills above.
And waiting for her was just the person she sought so eagerly. Malcolm Gordston.
Well—maybe he wasn’t waiting, not for her anyway. He was fishing, as he did nearly every day from the same large, flat rock, casting his line into the water and coming up with salmon for the cook’s mousse.
Alex stood very still for a moment, hidden behind a tree, and watched him. He was older than her by several years and thus quite ancient, yet he fascinated her. The son of one of the crofters on her father’s estate, he was unlike anyone she had ever met. So handsome, tall and strong, with dark gold hair that was too long for any London fashion and features as sternly carved as the rocks around the river. His rough, working clothes never seemed to matter; he was too much like some long-ago king, even in patched trousers and old boots.
And he was always kind to her when they met. He spoke to her as if she was herself, Alex, not Lady Alexandra. Not a child who couldn’t understand anything. She especially liked it when he told her old stories, legends of the Scottish hills, which his
