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CHAPTER ONE
Cornwall, England 1816
Annabel Drake, widow to the Count of Winchester, turned her attention to the tilted carriage behind her, with a broken wheel. And then upwards to the lead sky speaking of soon-to-be rain. The situation did not bode well. Her coachman went for help and her footman circumvented the vehicle as if searching for a way to fix it.
She had been standing there for almost an hour, even though she knew where she was and why. The Duke of Blackthorne’s lands extended far beyond the point she found herself at that exact minute. So, she expected his guards, or whatever his castle held for surveying his property, to approach her at any moment. That was what she planned for after all. Certainty that the Duke himself would not be in residence offered little comfort against what she had to do.
The thought made a thrill course through her. She did not care for the Duke. He became a recluse after Napoleon went to Saint Helena. Sometimes, he took up residence in his opulent townhouse in London, which seemed to be the case lately, though he never showed up in any ton event. Her sources had kept her informed of his whereabouts.
Horse roofs sounded in the distance, together with a faraway thunder. She turned to her left to see four horsemen trotting in her direction. As the distance diminished, she saw her coachman was one of the riders. They came bringing a brisk wind that traversed her coak to chill her bones. The chill induced by more than the wind; the game was on.
Horsemen pulled their reins right before her, dressed in a kind of livery. One of them, seemingly the leader, dismounted and bowed without any special deference to her obvious status. He walked to the carriage wheel, carefully maimed by a contact in the last change of horses, a couple of miles back. He bent to the offending part, touched the crack in it and straightened again to raise his head to the fading light on the grey sky.
The man looked none too pleased as he came to her. “It can be mended only in the morning, my lady.”
She feigned contrariety at his news. “May we seek shelter here for the night?” There was no inn nearby, and they surely had no possibility to escort her far and away from their duties.
“Begging your pardon, my lady. The Duke would not be amenable to that, but I suppose there is no other option.”
“I shall be grateful for his generous hospitality.” Sarcasm underlining her remark. One night would have to do.
Her coachman got off his horse and brought it to her. The servant bent his head as if apologising for the astride saddle the animal exhibited. Her travelling dress would not allow even for a side saddle, let alone for an astride one. But she was not in a position to be picky, so she hid her discontent. The countess hoped her cloak would cover her legs, where her dress would inevitably roll up her calves. Decisively, she stuck her soft walking boot on the stirrup and gave just the right impulse to reach the horse, thanking her training that made her agile and strong. The livered men watched her with a mixture of admiration and strangeness, unaccustomed to see a woman mount alone. Her coachman and footman knew well of her skills and did not even bother. She covered her legs with her cloak and commanded the horse forward
. The estimative was they would have to ride two miles to the castle. It would not kill her, for sure.
To her servants. “Please, detach the horses and follow.”
* * *
The castle’s silhouette became visible against the lead sky. Initially, a Norman fortress, rebuilt several times through the centuries, it kept the lines of its original construction, she fathomed at the sight of it. It stood magnificent on the top of a hill. The granite made a perfect match to the weather, overlapping a gradient of greys in the horizon.
They dismounted in the inner bailey and the leader of the three showed her into the great hall. The smell of stone and wood invaded her nostrils with a pleasant ancient touch. The building, the furniture appeared in perfect conditions and well maintained though many pieces seemed to be from the time the Normans erected the structure. Annabel took an immediate, if somewhat resistant, liking to the pile as she always had a passion for all things mediaeval. The Duke might be an acerbic figure, but the abode reflected his praise for his family’s history.
“This way, my lady.” The leader, ushered her; the other two disappeared somewhere.
She followed him upstairs into a panelled chamber, probably the former solar and now a study. The door closed behind her and Annabel took precious seconds to adjust to the dimmer light in the interior.
“Welcome to Blackthorne Castle, Lady Winchester.” A deep, grave voice came from somewhere behind her, the tone anything but welcoming.
Heat laced with ice washed her skin. She would recognise that sound anywhere in the world. It made her want to run. To which direction was the question. Toward it? Away from it? The doubt forced her to freeze on the spot. She turned briskly in his direction, struggling to regain her composure, as her mind tried to reconcile his presence with the information of his absence. Swiftly, she left the questions for later and faced the situation at hand.
Curtsying with natural elegance, she addressed him. “Lord Blackthorne.”
Romulus Fabien Monteverdis Burroughs, a name that suited the man all too perfectly, stood before her, tall, broad and impassive.
He trod to her lazily, his murky green-brown focus on her. The eyes that changed colour with the lighting of the day and had mesmerized her one never-forgotten summer.
