Prologue
Lowarn Cove, Cornwall, England. June 1809.
“Catch me if you dare!”
With wildness surging, Tamsyn’s yelled challenge became lost beneath the galloping thud of hooves and the howl of the westerly wind, but grinning, she leaned low, urging her mare onwards.
Often, they raced across the headland to the boulder of Devil’s Claw, but not so often was she able to gain a lead. Tonight, however, she’d cheated, flashing an ankle to leave Jonathan cursing in her wake, red-cheeked and bright-eyed.
“Faster, Melyn,” she pleaded as the peculiar silhouette of stone emerged in the slow descent of dusk. “We can do it.”
The first to reach Devil’s Claw would be entitled to laze all evening, dipping toes in the rock pools of the hidden cove below, whilst the loser – namely Jonathan – built a fire on the beach and roasted the split partridge she’d snaffled from cook’s pantry.
“Cheats never prosper, Miss Tamsyn Penrose!” His voice boomed closer than she’d supposed, and she peered behind to see her beloved friend no more than a pisky’s breath from her horse’s tail.
Drat.
Melyn snorted, aware they were losing ground to the superior gelding, and stepped up the pace, hooves pounding the soft turf, mud flying up both their flanks. Tamsyn laughed loud and heard Jonathan’s own wild chuckle.
They were two sides of a coin, and she didn’t know why Father was sending her to London for a Season next year because she would marry Jonathan as soon as he’d made his fortune in the navy.
Genteel dances and sumptuous silks held no appeal; instead, she dreamed of racing across the Cornish countryside, hair wayward, feet bare, and most important of all, corset free.
Almost there.
The Devil’s Claw boulder loomed ominous, its petrified fingers reaching to the heavens. She would touch it and win at la–
“Watch out!”
Hooves reared. Yells and the creaking of wood as a farm cart emerged from behind the Claw, heaving to a halt across her path, black silhouettes brandishing ire.
She yanked on the reins, screamed, mare rearing in terror as men bellowed, snarling faces lit by dusk. Faces she didn’t recognise.
“What the hell?” Jonathan roared from behind, but it was all too late as her grip loosened and she fell, fast and tangled, head thudding to the earth before a shroud of dark descended.
∞∞∞
Harsh voices drifted through aching blackness as liquid trickled down Tamsyn’s forehead, eyes refusing to open.
The fierce words weren’t English, and she forced her scattered senses to still. Maybe French?
Panic clawed at her chest.
What would the enemy want on this stretch of coast? An invasion? Spies? Or perhaps smugglers?
But all the men of that trade were Cornishmen – men from the villages who would never hurt a Penrose.
Tamsyn strained to hear but the rush of tide upon pebble drowned their quarrel, and with half-numbed fingers, she stroked the ground where she lay.
Moist, jagged rock.
“Sacré bleu,” a voice growled. “How could I leave the dead English up there?”
Her eyes snapped open.
Dark crags gawped overhead, but night had not yet fallen and ashen gloom still stretched its withering fingers into this cave. Amber flickers from a lantern distorted the sea-hewn walls, casting monstrous shapes upon them.
Sluggishly, she twisted her head, gasped, blood freezing as Jonathan stared back through unseeing eyes, his neck wrong and askew. The gasp became a sob, fingers seeking his wild face.
