‘Save your warnings, Mr Grimshaw.’ She stood toe-to-toe with him and fixed him with a blistering glare.

Did she not realise the danger in which she’d placed herself? He had only to raise his arms and bend forward a few perilous inches and she would be captive in his embrace again, his lips on hers, taking what they wanted.

Or did she know exactly what she was doing? Was she trying to provoke his lust to test how much power she could exercise over him? Every muscle in Simon’s body tensed with the effort to keep his hands from her.

‘I am not the kind of woman you think,’ Bethan insisted. ‘I would never have come to your bed last night if I’d known that was all you wanted from me. I suppose you reckoned that once you’d ruined me I’d have to take what I could get from you, but you’re wrong. I may have been a green little fool for trusting you, but I’ll be no man’s whore!’

Wanted: Mail-Order Mistress
Deborah Hale

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In the process of tracing her Canadian family to their origins in eighteenth-century Britain, DEBORAH HALE learned a great deal about the period and uncovered plenty of true-life inspiration for her historical romance novels! Deborah lives with her very own hero and their four fast-growing children in Nova Scotia—a province steeped in history and romance!

Deborah invites you to become better acquainted with her by visiting her personal website www.deborahhale.com, or chatting with her in the Harlequin/Mills & Boon online communities.

Previous novels by the same author:

A GENTLEMAN OF SUBSTANCE

THE WEDDING WAGER

MY LORD PROTECTOR

CARPETBAGGER’S WIFE

THE ELUSIVE BRIDE

BORDER BRIDE

LADY LYTE’S LITTLE SECRET

THE BRIDE SHIP

A WINTER NIGHT’S TALE

(part of A Regency Christmas)

MARRIED: THE VIRGIN WIDOW*

BOUGHT: THE PENNILESS LADY*

* Gentlemen of Fortune

This book is dedicated to my faithful readers, who waited so patiently for the release of this series, and to editors Suzanne Clarke and Jenny Hutton, who were committed to making it the best it could be.

Author Note

Welcome to the third book of my series, Gentlemen of Fortune, about the self-made men of Vindicara Trading Company! While I love reading and writing about dashing aristocrats, I’ve always had a fascination with the man who makes his own fortune and charts his own destiny. Such men make great romance heroes, because they have large, definite objectives and an intense motivation to succeed. They will fight for what they want and refuse to let anything or anyone get in the way of achieving their goals—even when it comes to love.

Ford Barrett, Hadrian Northmore and Simon Grimshaw all left Britain for various reasons, going halfway around the world to make their fortunes. Now, though they have money, power and success, they discover those things mean nothing without a special person to share them. As destiny throws three unique women into their paths, these driven men discover that achieving material success is easy compared to the challenge of forging a close, passionate relationship that will last a lifetime.

WANTED: MAIL-ORDER MISTRESS is the story of Simon Grimshaw, the partner left behind in Singapore to carry on the business after Ford and Hadrian return to England. Betrayed by every woman he has ever trusted, Simon is determined never to wed again. When he enlists Hadrian to find him a mistress, Simon gets far more than he bargained for in Bethan Conway. The spirited Welsh beauty mistakenly believes Simon wants a bride, while she has her own secret reason for coming to Singapore—a reason she dares not confide in him!

I hope you will enjoy WANTED: MAIL-ORDER MISTRESS, and the stories of those other Gentlemen of Fortune!

Chapter One

Singapore—June 1825

“So this is it, then?” Brushing a stray auburn curl out of her eyes, Bethan Conway leaned forward in the boat that was ferrying her and her travelling companions into the harbour. “Not a very big town, is it?”

While part of her was thrilled to reach her destination after five months aboard ship, another part wanted to plead with the man at the tiller to turn the boat around and head back out to sea!

“This place would fit into Newcastle’s pocket, right enough.” Bethan’s young friend Ralph gazed around at the mix of buildings that lined both banks of the river. Some were made of timber with huge, shaggy thatched roofs while others had white-plastered walls topped with orderly rows of neat red tiles. “Hasn’t been around long, though, has it? I heard Mr Northmore say there was nowt much here at all when him and his partners landed six year ago.”

“I wouldn’t care if it was nothing but jungle,” croaked Wilson Hall. “As long as I can get solid dry ground under my feet again, I’ll be happy.”

Poor Wilson! Bethan recalled how seasick he and the other three lads from Durham had been at the start of their voyage. They’d envied her ability to keep her food down even in the roughest weather, but they’d been grateful, too. If she hadn’t tended them so capably when they retched and moaned in their hammocks, some might not have recovered.

For the past several days they had talked of little else but how happy they’d be to reach their destination and start work at the Vindicara Trading Company for Mr Simon Grimshaw. Every time she heard that name, a bilious wave had roiled through Bethan like a belated attack of seasickness. While the lads had been hired from the coalmines of northern England to work for Mr Grimshaw, she’d been recruited to marry him.

If she hadn’t been so desperate to reach these distant shores, she never would have pledged her life to a stranger. But she’d been anxious to get there soon, while there was still a faint hope someone might recall what had become of her brother or his ship. At the time, her marriage had seemed too far in the future to be quite real. The closer it came, the more it worried her.

As the boat eased up to the jetty, Bethan inhaled a deep draught of warm air that mingled the tang of the sea with an exotic whiff of coffee and spices. She had made her bargain. Now she must honour it by doing her best to be a good wife to Mr Grimshaw. She only prayed her new husband would not be too old, ugly or ill tempered.

The mooring lines were barely secured when the Durham lads swarmed ashore. Only Wilson had the manners to turn and offer Bethan a hand to disembark, while the others asked anyone within earshot the way to the Vindicara warehouse.

There was no shortage of people on the quay to question. There were a great many men with bare chests the colour of mahogany wood, who wore white turbans and bright-hued skirts wrapped around their legs. Other men, with lighter skin and slanted eyes, carried sacks slung from poles draped over their shoulders. They wore baggy trousers and black-sashed tunics. The front parts of their heads were shaved bald while the jet-black hair further back was braided in long tight plaits. Tall bearded men, wearing white turbans and long robes, looked as if they’d just stepped out of a Bible story. The only thing all these strange people had in common was trouble understanding the broad north-country English of Bethan’s companions.

After a good deal of shouting, waving and pointing, Ralph turned to her. “I think they’re trying to tell us Mr Grimshaw’s warehouse is on the other side of the river.”

“There’s a bridge.” Wilson pointed up the sweeping curve of the quay to a spot where the river narrowed and a slender wooden span connected the two sides of the harbour. “We can walk around.”

The rest agreed and they set off at once. Though Bethan forced one foot in front of the other, her shoes felt strangely heavy. It did not take long for her to fall behind her companions.

The men working on the quay turned to stare at her as she passed. Could it be because they noticed her resemblance to a young man they remembered? Reason told her it wasn’t likely. Their curious interest was probably on account of her skin colour, or because she was a woman.

But it wouldn’t hurt to ask, would it? She’d come all this way and bartered her freedom in hope of finding the last bit of family she had left in the world. She needed to start somewhere.

“Pardon me.” She turned toward a young man wearing white leggings and a turban who smiled at her. “I’m looking for news of a crewman from the barque Dauntless. His ship came to Singapore three years ago. Do you remember it?”

The man’s smile broadened further and he answered in a language she didn’t understand.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what that means.” Bethan shook her head and gave an exaggerated shrug. “I didn’t even understand English very well until the past year. And I don’t suppose you know any Welsh.”

Another voice spoke up, heavily accented but in English. “Say again who you look for, lady?”

Bethan turned eagerly towards the speaker, a man with dark, almond-shaped eyes, who wore a large, round straw hat. “I’d be grateful for any help you could give me. His name is Hugh Conway. He’d be taller than you.” She raised her hand to indicate her brother’s height, then pulled back her bonnet and pointed to her head. “His hair is almost the colour of mine.”

She could do better than try to describe him with gestures and words the man might not understand. Reaching back to her nape, Bethan unfastened the silver locket that was her most precious possession. Then she opened it to show the miniature portrait inside. “He looks like this. At least he did the last time I saw him.”

The tiny painting wasn’t of Hugh himself, but it was the nearest likeness she had.

A flicker of interest kindled in the man’s eyes as he stared at the locket. Did he recognise the handsome young face? If Europeans were as scarce in Singapore as they appeared to be, those few must stand out, easily noticed. Perhaps easily remembered.

“Have you seen him?” she asked. “Please, I’m very anxious to get word of him.”

The man nodded slowly. “Maybe I saw this one. Not sure.”

Bethan’s heart leapt. Even in her most hopeful dreams, she’d never imagined getting a lead on her missing brother so soon. “He was in Singapore three years ago. I got a letter posted from here. Do you know what happened to him or his ship?”

The man’s high forehead furrowed as if trying hard to remember where and when he’d seen that face. “I look closer?”

“Yes, of course.” Bethan pushed the locket into his hands. “I wish I had a bigger picture to show you.”

A small crowd had gathered around them as they talked. Suddenly someone tapped Bethan on the shoulder from behind. Did another person recognise Hugh from a distant glimpse of the miniature? Or did they recall his name?

She spun around only to find a bank of expressionless faces staring back at her.

“Did one of you have something to tell me?” she asked. “Have you seen Hugh Conway? Do you remember his ship?”

None of them replied except with sheepish grins.

“Think it’s great fun hoaxing a stranger, do you?” Bethan snapped. “I see some things are the same wherever you go.”

With an indignant huff, she turned back to her informant. By now he’d had plenty of time to study the likeness. But when she looked around, all she glimpsed of the fellow was the back of his faded blue tunic disappearing into the crowd.

“Come back!” she cried, tearing after him. “Thief! He has my locket. Someone please stop him!”

But no one on the quay seemed willing to help her. Quite the opposite, in fact. Men who moved aside to let the thief escape quickly stepped back into Bethan’s path, hindering her pursuit.

“Wilson! Ralph!” she called, though she knew her travelling companions must be far out of earshot by now. She didn’t dare stop to look around for them or she might lose sight of the man who’d stolen her locket.

“Please,” she cried, “you can have the necklace! Just leave me the picture!”

Catching sight of the bridge out of the corner of her eye, she hoped the thief might run that way and perhaps overtake her friends. Instead he darted down a crowded street in the other direction with Bethan in breathless pursuit. After five months aboard ship, she was not used to running, especially in such oppressive heat. Sheer desperation pushed her forwards.

The thief dodged into a side street. Bethan reached it just in time to glimpse him entering the mouth of an alley. By the time she staggered to the spot where she’d seen him disappear, she was gasping for air while a hot flush smarted in her cheeks. No doubt he would have slipped away, leaving her with no idea which way he’d gone.

But, no. When she peered into the alley, there he was, strolling towards her as brazen as could be—the same clothes, dark eyes and shaved head.

Planting herself in front of him, she signalled him to stop. “I want my picture back. Come now, it can’t be worth anything to you.”

The man scowled at her as if she was the one who’d done him wrong. He muttered an answer in his language.

“You could speak English well enough a few minutes ago!” cried Bethan. “Or did you forget it all while you were making away with my property?”

The man’s scowl turned into an outright sneer as he pushed past her.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” She caught his sleeve and hung on. “I’m not about to chase you through the streets again in this heat. Just give me back my picture!”

Tugging his sleeve roughly out of her grasp, the man unleashed a flood of words Bethan could not understand. But she recognised violent anger when she heard it, no matter what the language. This was the man who’d stolen her locket, wasn’t it? Were his cheekbones perhaps a little higher? His face a trifle thinner?

“I—I beg your pardon if I mistook you for someone else.” She pointed down the alley. “Another man ran that way. He had something he stole from me. Did you see which way he went?”

The man she’d accosted heaped more abuse upon her. Suddenly Bethan realised he was not alone. She was surrounded by a score of men all dressed the same, all glaring at her in a way that sent a shiver down her spine.

Was she in danger of disappearing in this lawless, foreign outpost the way her brother had? And if she did, would anyone care enough to come looking for her?

“The mace and nutmegs sell for seventy-five Spanish dollars a picul,” Simon Grimshaw informed the Swedish captain from whom he’d just bought a cargo of iron. “You won’t get them cheaper from any of the other merchants in town. The situation in Java has driven prices up for everyone.”

The craggy Swede scowled. “Maybe I take my iron to Batavia and trade direct with the Dutch for their spices.”

“Be my guest,” Simon bluffed. He’d hate to lose that cargo of Swedish iron. “Pay the outrageous tariffs they charge in Batavia. You’ll have less money in your pocket at the end of your voyage. That is, if you’re lucky and the pirates don’t get you between here and Sumatra. Perhaps I could come down a dollar or two on the mace, but not the nutmegs. My partner is due back from England soon and he’ll have my hide if he catches me giving our goods away at such prices.”

Part of him eagerly awaited Hadrian Northmore’s return. It would be a relief to have someone else shoulder half the workload. Since both his partners had gone back to England—Hadrian for a brief visit and Ford to stay—Simon had taken on the responsibility of three men.

In spite of that, he was reluctant to surrender control of the company to his senior partner. Hadrian was an ambitious, astute man of business, but he had a reckless streak of which Simon had never approved. He preferred the steady, cautious course and seldom acted on impulse. The few times he had, he’d later regretted it.

Might he regret asking his partner to fetch back a young Englishwoman to be his mistress? While the Swedish captain considered his terms, Simon mulled over that question.

When the south-west monsoons had signalled the arrival of ships from the West, he’d begun to have second thoughts about his plan. It would be good to have a safe outlet for the desires he had not entirely managed to stifle with long hours of work. But what kind of woman would willingly journey halfway around the world to serve as a hired bedmate? Only one with an unsavoury past, he feared. How could he risk taking a woman like that into his home?

The Swedish captain gave a deep rasping cough that jolted Simon out of his troubled thoughts. “What is it you English say—‘a bird in the hand…’?”

“‘…is better than all your birds in the hands of pirates.’ That’s what we say here in Singapore.” Simon extended his hand to seal their bargain.

Few things gave him as much pleasure as making an advantageous deal. Unlike affairs of the heart, he knew where he stood in a clear-cut matter of business. That was the sort of relationship he’d had in mind when he asked Hadrian to find him a mistress—a straightforward exchange of things they wanted from one another, without dangerous sentiment to complicate matters. Now he wondered if such a thing would be possible.

As he and the captain shook hands, one of Simon’s Malay workers appeared, leading four European lads who looked quite distressed. “Master, these boys say they came from England to work for you.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it.” Simon eyed the four suspiciously. “Captain Svenson, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to this. Ibrahim, send some boats to begin unloading the iron.”

As Ibrahim and the captain headed away, Simon rounded on the boys, who were growing more agitated by the minute. “What is all this about? I didn’t hire any of you.”

“Please, sir,” said a sturdy, handsome lad who looked to be their leader, “Mr Northmore sent us. He said there’d be work for us with his company.”

Before Simon could reply, a gangly lad with a shock of red hair cried, “The boat let us off on the wrong side of the harbour!”

“And we’ve lost Bethan!” added a third fellow. “She was right behind us…and then…she wasn’t.”

They all started jabbering at once, so that Simon could not make out what they were trying to say.

“Quiet!” he ordered at last, silencing them with a fierce scowl. “You say Mr Northmore sent you. Why didn’t he come with you?”

“I don’t know, sir,” admitted the leader. “Perhaps he explained it in the letter he gave Bethan.”

One of them had mentioned that name earlier. Could she be the mistress Hadrian had engaged for him?

“But she’s lost!” The rusty-haired lad pointed back toward the quay. “We’ve got to find her!”

“So we do.” Simon marched towards the quay, his heart hammering against his ribs. “This part of town is no fit place for a woman alone.”

Especially not a European woman, of whom there were only a handful in the whole settlement. “Where did you last see her?”

“I thought she was right behind us when we crossed the bridge,” said a lumpy lad with overgrown teeth. “But now I’m not sure.”

They’d reached the quay by this time, heading for the bridge with as much speed as Simon could muster. “You left her on her own in Chinatown? If any harm comes to her, none of you will be working for me, I don’t care what Northmore promised you!”

Work? Simon fumed. They’d be lucky if he didn’t have them all flogged. Though Singapore was a place of great opportunity, violence always lurked beneath the surface. Piracy had been a way of life in these waters for centuries and it wasn’t much safer on land. Since coming here, he’d witnessed riots and outlaw raids. Murderous rampages were common enough that there was a term for them in the Malay language—such attackers were said to run amok.

As Simon marched across the bridge and on to the south bank of the harbour, crowds of labourers parted to let him pass like waves cloven by the sharp-angled prow of a ship. The four English lads scrambled along in his wake.

“Where is the white woman?” he demanded in Malay, then again in mangled Cantonese. “Did anyone see which way she went? If any harm comes to her, there will be bad trouble!”

Answers came hurling back at him.

“She was accosting strange men on the quay.”

“She ran after Jin-Lee, shouting at him like a savage with no manners.”

“She chased him into the Chinese kampong,” a Malay speaker informed Simon, “up Oxcart Road.”

What sort of brazen harlot had Hadrian procured for him? Simon was half-tempted to let the hussy face the consequences of her scandalous behavior. But he could not bear to have another woman’s death on his conscience.

One of the English lads tugged at his sleeve. “Please, sir, what did they say? What’s happened to Bethan?”

Simon could not deny the genuine note of concern in the young fellow’s voice. He and his friends obviously cared about this woman. That did not tally with what he’d just heard of her actions.

“This way.” He charged up the wide dirt path, which lead away from the south end of the bridge, pausing only to seek further information.

People were eager to talk, venting their outrage over the woman’s forwardness. Simon sensed a gloating satisfaction at their being free to criticize a member of the small but powerful European community.

He and the boys followed her trail down a side street rife with gambling houses and opium dens. Simon had supported the efforts of Sir Stamford Raffles to ban such places, but Raffles’s more pragmatic successor had insisted on licensing them as a source of revenue. Simon shuddered to think what could happen to an unprotected woman in this part of town.

Then he glimpsed a billow of ruddy hair amid a sea of straw-sedge hats. Curls of that colour did not belong to any true native of Asia. Simon waded into the crowd, shouldering the gawkers aside, issuing all manner of dire threats about troops being summoned. At last he reached the woman.

There she stood, backed against the timber wall of a gambling house, surrounded by a crowd of angry Chinese. Her bright hair had come undone, tumbling over her slender shoulders. She held a wide-brimmed bonnet in front of herself, like a flimsy shield. Her face was flushed bright red and misted with sweat. Her eyes were wide with fear. She was the perfect picture of a damsel in distress.

Distress she had brought upon herself with her brazen behaviour. And yet…

As he got a closer look at her, Simon found she was not at all what the onlookers’ reports had led him to expect. There was nothing coarse or common about her features—indeed, they were uncommonly delicate. Her nose was dappled with freckles that lent her an air of wholesome innocence. Her lips, full and pink as hibiscus petals, looked as if they had never been properly kissed.

That thought sent a bolt of heat surging through him to settle in his loins, where it smouldered. An ominous silence jolted him out of his dangerous distraction. He needed to get this woman and her four young friends back across the river before this unfortunate incident turned even uglier.

“There you are.” He seized her by the arm and began to scold her loudly in Cantonese, for the benefit of their large, hostile audience. “Have you gone mad to act so shamefully? Come with me now or you will be sorry!”

He must make the onlookers believe she would be harshly dealt with. Then they might leave her punishment to him rather than taking matters into their own hands. If he made sufficient fuss, it might distract the crowd long enough to get her and the boys to safety. Simon’s left leg was beginning to throb with familiar pain, but he ignored it, hoping it would not slow down their retreat.

In this situation, any delay could be very dangerous indeed.

Chapter Two

When the broad-shouldered man with brown hair and a stern, handsome face waded through the angry crowd to her rescue, Bethan had never been so happy to see anyone in her life. For as long as she could recall, she’d secretly hankered for a chivalrous protector like Tristan or Sir Gawain from the old Welsh hero tales. Her knees grew weak as she pictured the stranger sweeping her into his arms and carrying her off to safety.

Those soaring fancies crashed to earth when instead her gallant rescuer grabbed her by the arm and began ranting at her in a language she could not understand. The harshness of his tone and the severity of his stark blue gaze did not frighten her the way the sullen hostility of the crowd had. Instead it ignited a blaze inside her, part indignant anger, part a strange fevered yearning she’d never felt before.

Compared to the native Asians, he appeared tall and imposing. He was smartly dressed in buff-coloured trousers and a tan coat. A wide-brimmed straw hat cast a shadow over his straight, jutting nose and chiselled cheekbones. His lips were neither too full nor too thin, but set in such a rigid line that Bethan fancied they might shatter if he tried to smile.

“Let me go!” She struggled to throw off his iron grip, but couldn’t quite manage to. “It’s no use jabbering on at me that way, for I don’t understand a word you’re saying. You’ve got no call to be vexed with me and neither do any of these people!”

Her bold words did a better job of loosening his grasp than her squirming had.

Leaning towards her, he muttered, “Save your protests and come with me, now, while there’s a chance we might get away in one piece! If you give me any more backtalk, I swear I’ll leave you to your fate.”

The insistent pressure of his hand and the urgency of his tone convinced Bethan to abandon her defensive position against the wall. She sensed he was a man of strong will, whom others crossed at their peril.

From the moment she’d first glimpsed him striding towards her, she’d had eyes for no one else. Now, as her forbidding rescuer marched her down the street, Bethan suddenly realised he’d brought Ralph and the other lads with him. Whatever happened, she did not want her young companions to suffer for her folly. If that meant she had to obey the stern orders of this overbearing man, she would. But she didn’t have to like it.

As they moved down the side street and out on to the main road, he continued to berate her in that other language, now and then slipping in a few words of English. “Keep a steady pace. If we look like we’re on the run, some of them may pounce. Keep your eyes downcast. Pretend you’re ashamed of yourself, as you should be.”

“I’ve got no call to be ashamed,” Bethan protested, but she did bend her head as if burdened by the weight of his reproaches. “One of those men stole something from me. I went after him to try to get it back.”

“I don’t care if he stole every penny you own.” The man pitched his reply for her ears alone. “You should have stayed with your friends and not gone chasing into Chinatown. You could have lost a good deal more than whatever that thief took. And you still might, so stop arguing and keep walking.”

He switched easily back into the other language, scolding her more fiercely than ever. Was it only a show he was putting on for the benefit of the angry crowd? A grudging flicker of admiration stirred inside her for the man’s cleverness. If he’d rushed to her rescue brandishing a weapon, he might have made the situation worse.

As if to signal that he did not mean the insults he was heaping upon her, the man rubbed the pad of his thumb against the sensitive flesh of her inner arm. It felt almost like an encouraging caress. That trifling sensation made Bethan’s knees grow weak. She almost stumbled, but her escort tightened his hold again to keep her from falling.

At the end of the road, the bridge beckoned with a promise of greater safety on the other side. If nothing else, its narrow width would prevent them being followed by the crowd that had dogged them this far with dark scowls and darker mutterings.

Her rescuer seemed to sense Bethan’s thoughts. “We aren’t out of danger yet. If we’re attacked, run across the bridge and keep going until you reach the sepoy lines. Tell the soldiers they’re needed here.”

“What about you?” Bethan whispered back. “And the lads?”

“We’ll slow down anyone who tries to go after you.”

Slow them down, how? Bethan wondered, more anxious for their safety than hers.

Fortunately her rescuer’s feigned bluster continued to divert the crowd and no attack came. When they reached the bridge, he called out something to the people behind them. No one followed as their small party crossed over the river.

“What did you say to them?” asked Bethan. “It seemed to do the trick.”

“So it did, thank God.” The man exhaled a sigh of relief. “I offered the entire community an apology for your disgraceful behaviour and assured them you would be severely dealt with.”

“Apology?” Bethan sputtered. “Punished? For being robbed and threatened? What sort of mad place is this?”

“Not mad—just different. These people have different ways than ours. We may not understand or approve, but if we hope to live among them in peace, we must try to respect local custom. We transgress upon them at our peril.”

What did he mean? Bethan hated to look a fool by asking. Since leaving Wales she’d worked hard to learn English, but this man used some words she didn’t yet know.

“Besides,” he continued, “I have no real intention of punishing you further for your folly. I trust you’ve learned your lesson.”

The nerve of the man, to talk as if she were a naughty child!

Before she could summon her voice to protest, Wilson spoke up. “Are you all right, Bethan? Nobody hurt you, did they?”

“I’m only a bit shaken.” A shiver went through her as she glanced across the river to see the crowd breaking up. “I’m safe and sound now, thanks to all of you and Mister…Mister…?”

Much as she resented his high-handed manner and gruff rebuke, Bethan could not deny she owed the man her gratitude. Wilson and the others could never have got her out of such a dangerous scrape on their own.

Abruptly letting go of her arm, the stranger bobbed a curt bow. “Simon Grimshaw, of course. What other man in Singapore would have reason to storm into Chinatown and pluck you from the mercy of an angry mob?”

Bethan’s mouth fell open. Why had she never thought her rescuer might be her intended husband? Perhaps because she’d never pictured him so young and fine looking. That was two of her three worries well scotched. She wished she could say the same of his temper.

“Why are you staring like that?” Simon snapped at Bethan as he ushered the five young people into his warehouse. Her expression reminded him of a freshly gutted jackfish in the wet market—eyes wide and mouth hanging open. “I suppose I am not what you expected.”

She shook her head slowly. “Nothing like it.”

Had she been daft enough to imagine her keeper would be a handsome young buck? Perhaps. After all, she’d been daft enough to pursue a thief into the back alleys of Chinatown.

“Well, you are not what I expected either,” he snapped, vexed with himself for giving a damn what she thought of him. “But there’s no help for it. I reckon that’s what comes of making such arrangements by proxy.”

Her dazed stare changed to a look of bewilderment, as if he’d slipped back into Cantonese. “Speaking of my proxy, where the devil is Hadrian Northmore? I’m told you have a letter from him. I hope it will explain what’s going on.”

“Er…yes.” Bethan rummaged through a reticule that hung from her elbow. “Mr Northmore told me to give it to you.”

Simon eyed her reticule with suspicion. “I thought you said one of the coolies stole that from you.”

“Not this.” She fished out a sealed packet of paper and offered it to him gingerly, as if she did not want her hand to brush his. “A silver locket I’ve had for a long time that means a great deal to me.”

Seizing the letter from her, Simon broke the seal and unfolded the paper. He wondered why a thief would have taken the locket but ignored her reticule. And how had the fellow managed to get her locket? The easiest way would be to yank it off her neck, breaking the chain. But that would have left marks and her lovely neck did not bear the smallest nick or bruise.

While a brief inspection of that fair flesh made Simon’s breath quicken, it also made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. Was she lying to him already, over something so trivial? His earlier misgivings about taking her as his mistress redoubled, even though the prospect stirred all his senses to a keen pitch.

An awkward silence followed while he read Hadrian’s letter and digested the news. It seemed he would remain in sole charge of the company’s Singapore branch for the foreseeable future. Though he welcomed the challenge, Simon didn’t like being ambushed by this abrupt change of plans. That included taking on four new workers, none of whom impressed him a great deal at the moment. Not to mention a prospective mistress who provoked as much doubt as desire.

While he scanned the last few sentences of Hadrian’s letter, one of the boys addressed Bethan. “I’m sorry we didn’t take better care to keep you an eye on you, lass.”

“As well you should be.” Simon stuffed the letter into his pocket. “My partner confirms that he has promised you all employment. Considering how poorly you looked after Miss Conway, I shall be reluctant to trust you with much responsibility.”

He’d learned Bethan’s full name from the letter, which also confirmed she was the woman Hadrian had hired to be his mistress. But it was already too late for Simon to think of her except by her given name.

“Don’t be angry with them.” She stepped between him and the boys, as if to shield them from his anger. “What happened was my fault. I was so taken with all the strange new sights that I dawdled behind the others. I’ve lived most of my life in the Welsh countryside and they come from a little mining village in Durham. None of us had any idea how dangerous a place this could be.”

Simon’s opinion of her rose, for being willing to accept responsibility and defend her companions. “Now that you have discovered how easy it is to land in trouble around here, I trust you will all tread more carefully.”

None of them answered with words. The boys hung their heads, duly chastened. But Bethan tilted her chin a little higher and fixed Simon with a direct, challenging stare. He was not convinced she’d learned her lesson.

“Let us consider the matter closed.” He forced himself to look away from her bewitching grey-green eyes. “While I arrange quarters for my new workers, Miss Conway, I will send you on to my house to get settled.”

Simon beckoned them to follow him, but when he took a step, shards of pain slashed through his leg, making him stagger and bite back a groan.

“What’s the matter?” Moving too fast for Simon to evade, Bethan grabbed his arm to steady him, as he’d done for her on the bridge. “I thought you were walking with a bit of limp. Did someone in the crowd strike you?”

He was not prepared for the warmth of her touch or the soft note of concern in her lilting voice. It had been a very long while since anyone had cared what happened to him. At the same time his pride chafed at being reminded of his slight infirmity by a beautiful young woman. Concern was too close to pity for his liking.

“It’s of no consequence, I assure you.” He pulled away from her, with some difficulty. “An old injury I forget half the time—unless I’ve had a long day on my feet or I am obliged to move quickly on short notice.”

“A battle wound?” Bright glints of silver and green sparkled in her eyes. “Were you a soldier before you became a merchant?”

She sounded intrigued, admiring. The truth was far less heroic, but Simon had no intention of revealing it to her. He’d never told anyone about his ordeal and he was not about to start with a woman who’d thrown his well-ordered world into turmoil within minutes of her arrival.

“Nothing of the kind.” Steeling himself against the pain and the tormenting memories it stirred, Simon moved forwards again, trying not to be too obvious about sparing his injured leg.

Bethan scurried along beside him. “What did happen to you, then?”

This was the first time his curt tone and stony scowl had failed to discourage intrusive questions about his past. No wonder the woman had landed in trouble the moment she’d stepped off the boat.

It alarmed Simon to find himself tempted to confide in her. With ruthless force, he quelled the mutinous urge. “I prefer not to dwell on the past. I will thank you not to raise the subject again.”

Bethan’s lush lower lip thrust out in a rebellious expression. Her changeable eyes flashed with sparks of emerald vexation and something even more dangerous to his peace of mind.

Burning curiosity.

What had happened to the man that he was so grimly determined not to speak of? Bethan fairly sizzled with curiosity as he bundled her into a two-wheeled gig driven by one his workers.

“Mahmud, fetch Miss Conway back to the house and tell Ah-Ming to make her comfortable.” Simon Grimshaw took leave of Bethan with a stiff bow. “I will see you at dinner this evening. We can talk then.”

As the gig pulled away, she wondered what they would talk about. How would they ever become acquainted if he refused to tell her about his past? It was bad enough having to wed a stranger. But how much worse would it be, married to a man who seemed resolved to remain one?

She didn’t know what to make of Simon Grimshaw. As she had freely admitted, he was nothing like what she’d expected. In many ways he was a great deal better. He could not be much above thirty and he was quite attractive in spite of his grave severity. He’d shown great courage, facing down that hostile crowd to rescue her from danger. And he’d used his wits to do it, rather than brute force. Set against all those fine qualities was his forbidding manner and secretive, solitary air.

Besides, he was clearly disappointed in her. No doubt he’d wanted a meek, mousy wife who would never question him about anything and always behave with perfect propriety. What would he think if he suspected she’d come to Singapore in search of a mutineer? He might toss her back on the streets, among those angry people whose language and ways were a dangerous mystery to her.

Bethan was still so shaken by what had happened that she did not dare speak to the driver, a brown-skinned man who wore a white turban. It felt rude to ignore him, but she feared he might take offence at her innocent overture. To cover her confusion, she stared around her as if spellbound…which was not far from the truth.

The gig moved quickly through a tight-packed, bustling area of shops and warehouses along the banks of the river. Then it passed through a large open square with only a few large white buildings around the edge and lines of tents off in one corner. A hill topped by a cluster of low buildings and a tall flagstaff towered behind it. After crossing the square, the gig headed down a wide road lined with large properties, each occupied by a big white house nestled in spacious grounds.

“My word!” Bethan’s eyes widened as they drove through a gate and stopped in front of a sprawling villa with spotless white walls and a vast red roof. A deep, pillared veranda wrapped around the whole house.

She’d known Simon Grimshaw was a successful merchant, but only now did she realise how great a fortune he must have. Why had such a man been obliged to send all the way to England for a wife? And why on earth had Mr Northmore thought an inexperienced Welsh nursemaid would be a fitting mistress for this grand house?

Her driver turned Bethan over to the care of an Asian servant woman, whose high-necked tunic and baggy trousers looked three times too large for her tiny frame. With the most perfect courtesy and no hint of surprise at her master’s unexpected guest, she introduced herself as Ah-Ming, the housekeeper. She wasted no time seeing to Bethan’s comfort, offering all manner of food and drink. When those failed to tempt the guest, Ah-Ming made another offer of hospitality that Bethan could not refuse—a bath.

After her long voyage it felt blissful to bathe and wash her hair. The luxurious soak relaxed Bethan, restoring a measure of her usual hopeful spirits. By the time she finished, her trunk had arrived and she was able to change into clean clothes.

With her hair combed out and left hanging long to dry, she thanked Ah-Ming and accepted her offer of tea. While the housekeeper went to fetch it, she wandered into the spacious sitting room.

In some ways it looked like the house where she’d worked back in Newcastle. But the ceiling was much higher and the walls were not papered but clean, stark white. There were many more windows, too, all tall and narrow, with rolled-up blinds made of thin wooden slats instead of curtains. And there was no sign of an imposing mantelpiece the likes of which dominated most rooms back home. The whole place had an air of light and openness that appealed to her free spirit.

A warm breeze blew in through the windows, carrying the fresh tang of the sea mingled with aromas of tropical flowers and spices. After the bustle of the harbour, Simon Grimshaw’s house was a haven of tranquillity. The only sounds Bethan could hear were the familiar, calming rhythm of the sea and a shrill clicking sound she’d never heard before.

Then she picked up another sound, faint but growing louder as it drew nearer—a pair of high-pitched voices talking back and forth in hushed tones, speaking a language Bethan could not understand.

A moment later, another Asian woman appeared. She wore the same sort of loose tunic and trousers as Ah-Ming, but she looked older and even tinier. She was accompanied by a little European girl. The child wore a white muslin frock with a pale green sash. Her dark hair was plaited in two long braids, tied with green ribbons to match her sash. She had delicate features and enormous brown eyes that fixed on Bethan with a look of uneasy curiosity.

“Pardon me.” The child made a graceful curtsy, then began to back away. “I didn’t know we had company.”

She spoke with a charming accent, a bit like the French governess at the house in Newcastle where Bethan had worked.

“Please don’t go on my account.” Bethan dropped to one knee and smiled warmly. “Shall we introduce ourselves? My name is Bethan Conway. I’ve come from England. Do you live here?”

Perhaps Simon Grimshaw had another partner besides Mr Northmore.

Before the child could reply, her companion spoke in a sharp tone, as if offended by the question. “Missy lives here, of course. She is Rosalia Eva da Silva Grimshaw. Her father is master of this house.”

Father? The word rocked Bethan. She was quite certain Mr Northmore hadn’t said anything about Simon Grimshaw having a child. But perhaps this explained why he’d chosen a nurserymaid as a wife for his partner.

She could not decide how she felt about coming into a ready-made family like this. The childlike part of her longed for a little playmate to romp about with, and this dainty little creature was vastly appealing. But marriage would be a difficult enough adjustment without the added responsibility of a young daughter right away.

“You came from England?” Rosalia gave Bethan no time to sort through her confused feelings. “That is where Uncle Hadrian went. Ah-sam says it is very far away. Did he come back to Singapore with you?”

It was clear from her tone that Rosalia was eager to see Mr Northmore again. Bethan hated to dash her hopes. She remembered the bitter disappointment of waiting in vain for the return of a loved one.

“I met your Uncle Hadrian in England.” She tried to break the news as gently as possible. “I think he means to stay there for a while. I don’t think his wife would want to make such a long journey with a wee one on the way.”

Rosalia’s dark brows bunched. “A wee what on the way? Where was it coming from?”

“Er…” Bethan chided herself for speaking so freely to a young child about such matters. She was certain Rosalia’s father would not approve.

Fortunately the servant woman rescued her from awkward explanations by crying out, “Wah! Mr Hadrian has found a wife and started a family? This is good news! First Mr Ford, now him. Only one left now.”

All trace of her earlier annoyance with Bethan disappeared, replaced with a beaming smile reserved for the bearer of welcome news. “What brings you to Singapore, my lady?”

A shrewd twinkle in the woman’s dark eyes suggested that she guessed the reason. Bethan made a special effort to mind her tongue, for the child’s sake. If Mr Grimshaw had not told his little daughter of his marriage plans, she did not want to blurt out the news that Rosalia would soon be getting a stepmother. She would rather make friends with the child first.

“I’ve come for a…visit.” With a beseeching gaze she silently urged the servant not to betray her suspicions. “And I might stay longer if things work out.” Quickly she changed the subject. “Rosalia isn’t a name I’ve heard before, but it’s very pretty. It sounds a bit like Rhosyn. That’s a Welsh name I always liked.”

“Yours is very nice too.” One corner of the child’s rosebud lips arched upward in a bashful half-smile. “I hope you will stay. So many ships come here, but we never get any company.”

Rosalia’s wistful tone went straight to Bethan’s heart. “When I was your age, I lived in a quiet little village. We never got much company, either. At least you have your father here with you. My daddy had to go away to work.”

His visits home had been the best times of her young life. The worst had been the day her mother told her he would never be coming home again.

The servant woman said something to her young charge in another language.

Rosalia replied with an eager nod, then held out her hand to Bethan. “Would you like to see our garden?”

Rising from her crouch, Bethan took the child’s outstretched hand. “Yes, I would, thank you. Tell me, what’s that clicking sound? It seems to be getting louder.”

“The cicadas, you mean? They’re bugs who chirp—the hotter it gets the louder the noise they make. Do they not have cicadas in England?”

As Rosalia led her away, the servant called after them.

“What did she say?” asked Bethan, marvelling at such a young child being fluent in two languages.

“Ah-sam told me to be a good girl so you will want to stay with us.”

The offhand remark troubled Bethan. She knew how easily a sensitive child could take such well-meant warnings to heart.

“I’m sure you are a very good girl.” She gave Rosalia’s hand a squeeze. “Whether or not I stay in Singapore will have nothing to do with how you behave.”

More likely it would depend on her behaviour, Bethan reflected. After the trouble she’d caused at the harbour and the way she’d questioned him about his injury, Mr Grimshaw might decide she was not the proper sort of wife for him.

Provided he let her stay long enough to look for her brother that might be for the best. Despite Simon Grimshaw’s fortune and his fine looks, Bethan was not at all certain she wanted to surrender her newfound freedom to such a cold, disapproving man.

Chapter Three

“What is that noise?” Simon Grimshaw demanded as he strode out on to the deep veranda of his new villa.

Though his housekeeper hovered nearby, attentive as always, Simon’s question was not addressed to her or anyone else. He scarcely realised he’d spoken aloud as he scanned the back garden for the source of the unfamiliar sound. Was it the call of an exotic bird he’d never before encountered? Or perhaps the music of some traditional Malay instrument wafting down from the Sultan’s istana?

The sound rose again from among the brightly flowering shrubberies below, this time accompanied by a similar one, deeper and warmer in timbre. Together they created a beguiling harmony. With a start, Simon realised he was hearing the clear, merry laughter of a woman and child. Had he not heard that sound for so long he’d forgotten it?

An instant later Bethan Conway burst into view, her vibrant auburn hair streaming behind her as she ran. The fluid grace of her movement reminded him of a wild antelope he’d seen in India. Her winsome peal of laughter seemed to reach into his chest and strike a reluctant trill over the cords of his heart.

As he fought to subdue that foolish reaction, Rosalia appeared from behind the rhododendron bush and called out to Bethan. Her accent, which mingled Portuguese and a trace of Cantonese, sounded very much like her late mother’s. Had the child grown taller since the last time he’d seen her?

That thought dealt Simon a faint stab of guilt. Ever since he’d taken sole charge of Vindicara, he’d had little time to spare for Rosalia. After they’d moved to this spacious new house from the old one beside the godown, he’d seen less of her than ever.

His attention was so tightly fixed on the garden below that he did not notice Ah-Ming standing beside him until she spoke. “Mr Hadrian chose well for you. The lady is polite and cheerful. She will make you a good wife.”

“She is not here to be my wife,” Simon replied firmly in Cantonese. “I mean to take her as my…concubine.”

He knew that was not precisely the right word, but it was the closest he could come in her language.

“Aiyah!” Ah-Ming shook her head. “You will take a concubine before a wife?”

“Instead of a wife,” Simon growled. He was sick to death of the constant, subtle pressure to remarry from his housekeeper and Rosalia’s amah. “One marriage was more than enough for me. I will not wed again.”

The housekeeper responded with a smug chuckle. “Mr Hadrian and Mr Ford said they would never marry, but something changed their minds.”

“My partners and I are very different men.” Simon turned and strode away.

Perhaps Hadrian’s remarriage should not have surprised him so much. After all, his partner had been happily wed once, but lost his wife and child in an epidemic. It made sense that one day his grief would ease and he would risk trying to recapture what he’d lost. As for Ford, he’d inherited an estate and title that would require an heir. His marriage might have been a matter of necessity.

Simon had better reason than either of them to be wary of marriage and he was by nature far more cautious. He’d already begun to wonder if taking a mistress might be too great a risk. Meeting Bethan Conway had done nothing to ease his misgivings.

But her beauty had roused long-stifled desires that ached for relief. What else could he do with her now that she was here? It was not as if he could pop her on another ship tomorrow and send her back to England. Sea traffic could not sail west again for several months, when the winds shifted. He was not about to subject her to an eastward voyage across the vast Pacific and around the treacherous tip of South America, simply because he had second thoughts about their arrangement.

Having brought her all the way from England, he had an obligation to take care of her. If he did that, everyone in Singapore would assume she was his mistress. And if it got out that she was not sharing his bed, he would be the laughing-stock of the European community, not to mention what the she might think of him.

He was in too deep to back out now. He must go forwards with assurance and make it clear to his imprudent young mistress that he would not tolerate any nonsense.

What had Simon Grimshaw been thinking as he stood on the veranda, glowering down at her and his daughter? Bethan mulled over that question as she dressed for dinner. She’d spied him out of the corner of her eye as she chased about the garden with Rosalia, but pretended not to notice.

Had he been looking her over, trying to decide whether he should call off their wedding? Was he pleased to find her getting on so well with his daughter or did he disapprove of their noisy laughter? The latter, most likely, by the look of him.

She hoped he wouldn’t spend the whole evening finding fault with her. She’d never been able to accept correction in the proper meek spirit, even when she deserved it. Unfair criticism made her bristle like a cornered cat.

Once she’d fixed the final pin in her hair, Bethan hesitated at her bedroom door. She was half-inclined to avoid this encounter with Simon Grimshaw by snuffing out the lamp and crawling under the insect netting into bed. But the mouthwatering smells wafting up from the kitchen tempted her out. After months of shipboard rations, it would take worse than her forbidding host to keep her from a good meal!

She found Mr Grimshaw in the sitting room, planted in front of the open windows with his hands clasped behind him. He looked the very picture of severity.

Refusing to be cowed, she breezed in as if she had not a care in the world. “Am I late? You should have sent someone to fetch me.”

He hesitated a moment before answering, his icy blue eyes fixed upon her. Was there a stain on her dress? Something wrong with the way she’d done her hair?

“You are not late.” The words burst out of him, followed by others, stiff as starch. “Ah-Ming will inform us when dinner is served. I hope she took good care of you this afternoon and that you found everything to your satisfaction?”

“She couldn’t have been kinder. She drew me a bath and washed my hair. She and Ah-sam were so pleased to hear about Mr Northmore getting married.”

Bethan knew at once she’d said something wrong by the way the line between Simon Grimshaw’s brows deepened. “I suggest in future you refrain from gossiping with the servants. The European community is very small and private matters can too easily become public tattle.”

There! Just as she’d expected. Almost the first words out of her mouth and already he was finding fault.

“I wasn’t gossiping.” Two spots on her cheeks blazed with heat. “Ah-Ming asked me about Mr Northmore and I told her. I don’t know why his marriage should be a secret. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

What about her speculating that Mrs Northmore might be breeding, her conscience demanded, not only to the servants but in front of his young daughter?

“Perhaps I don’t know my place as well as I should,” she admitted. “I was in service myself, back in Newcastle, so I’m more at ease with servants than masters.”

What would Simon Grimshaw make of that?

“Were you?” The news did not seem to surprise him as much as she’d expected. “In what capacity?”

“I was a nurserymaid.” She threw the words down like a challenge, daring him to sneer at the honest work she’d done.

“That might explain what you were doing out in the garden with Rosalia.” From his tone it was clear he objected to that as well.

“I like the company of children,” she retorted. “They don’t mind about position and fortune and they don’t look to find fault with everything you do.”

Mr Grimshaw’s firm jaw clenched tighter and his deep-set eyes narrowed.

Bethan wished his severity made him look sour and ugly, then she might not have a single regret over what he was about to do. More the pity, he still looked far too attractive for her liking. “Go ahead and say what’s really on your mind, Mr Grimshaw.”

Her words seemed to catch him off guard, but he soon rallied. “Do you presume to know my mind, Miss Conway? Perhaps you should tell me what I am thinking.”

“Very well. You’re thinking Mr Northmore made a bad choice and I don’t suit you at all. You want to send me back to England. Well, let me tell you, after the way you’ve treated me today, I’ll be glad to go!”

Her feelings all churned up, Bethan spun away from Simon Grimshaw, only to find his housekeeper standing in the wide, arched entry. Ah-Ming looked calm and composed, as if she hadn’t heard a word of the bristling exchange between them.

“Dinner is ready.” The housekeeper bowed. “Cook has prepared a fine feast in my lady’s honour.”

“Thank you, Ah-Ming,” Mr Grimshaw replied. “We will be along shortly.”

The servant bowed again, then padded away.

“You must stay and eat.” Mr Grimshaw didn’t sound the way Bethan had expected—outraged or disapproving.

“Is that an order?” Keeping her back to him, she flung the words over her shoulder.

“More a sort of…plea.” He sounded almost amiable. “There will be no living with Cook if he went to all that trouble for nothing. One of the other merchants might finally succeed in hiring him away from me and that would be a domestic disaster.”

While Bethan was deciding how to reply, he added, “You see, servants are not without power in my house.”

She steeled herself against the hint of wry humour in his tone. “All right, then. But only because the food smells so good and because I don’t want to hurt your cook’s feelings. And I have one condition.”

“What might that be?”

“I don’t want a nice meal spoiled by carping and quarrelling. If you can’t say something pleasant to me over dinner, don’t say anything at all.”

“Agreed,” Mr Grimshaw replied after a moment’s hesitation. “You could have driven a much harder bargain than that, you know.”

He walked around to stand in front of her. “I admit I had doubts about your suitability. But you are wrong to assume I intend to send you back. I fear we got off on the wrong foot today. Is it too late to put that behind us and start again?”

His firm, determined lips spread into a smile that came and went as swiftly as a flash of summer lightning. Like a bolt from the blue, its potent force jolted Bethan’s heart and made her breath catch.

Simon Grimshaw wanted to give her another chance? Didn’t she owe him the same after the way he’d come to her rescue? Besides, while she chafed at criticism, she had never been very good at holding a grudge.

“It can’t be too late already, can it?” She returned his sudden, fleeting smile with one of her own that blossomed more slowly but lasted longer. “We should give it at least a week before we decide we can’t stand each other.”

Her quip coaxed a bark of rusty-sounding laughter from him. “I agree. We should not become sworn enemies on the strength of anything less than a week’s acquaintance.”

“Can we start over properly, then,” she proposed, “and pretend like I just arrived in Singapore this minute?”

He nodded. “An admirable suggestion.”

“I’m pleased to meet you at last, Mr Grimshaw.” She thrust out her hand. “My name is Bethan Conway.”

“Allow me to welcome you to Singapore, Miss Conway.” Instead of shaking her hand, as she’d expected, Simon Grimshaw bowed over it. Lifting her fingers, he grazed them with his lips as if she were some elegant lady. “Or may I call you Bethan? I think I might be allowed that familiarity under the circumstances. Don’t you?”

The velvet brush of his lips sent a strange warmth tingling up her arm. When she tried to speak, her voice came out husky. “You may call me whatever you please.”

He straightened up. “And you are welcome to call me by my given name, if you would care to.”

The turnabout between them, in the few minutes since she’d entered the room, was enough to make Bethan quite dizzy. “Thank you…Simon. I think I would.”

His name sounded so appealing, spoken in Bethan’s clear, lilting voice—almost like an endearment.

She was a most unusual woman in Simon’s experience, so forthright in her manner. She didn’t say one thing while meaning another, then expect him to guess what was on her mind. And when he’d made an effort to put things right between them, she’d accepted without sulking, wiping the slate clean to begin afresh. Perhaps Hadrian had made a better choice for him than he’d first thought.

“We have a lot of getting acquainted to do.” He offered Bethan his arm. “Tell me, how was your voyage from England? Not too great an ordeal, I hope.”

“Not at all.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, a sensation he had not experienced in a very long time. “It was a great adventure! The seas were rough at first and the lads from Durham were sick as dogs, poor fellows. But as we sailed further south and the seas grew calm, they got better. They all complained it wasn’t fair, me not being ill a minute. But who would have looked after them if I’d been seasick too?

“I loved the smell of the ocean and the rocking of the waves,” she continued as they entered the dining room and Simon held out her chair. “I’m glad your house is near the sea so that I’ll still be able to hear it. Though I never expected the place to be so big and grand!”

“This villa is a far cry from our first quarters in Singapore.” Simon rounded the table and took a seat across from her. “Hadrian and I, and our third partner, Ford, built our first house out of timber with a palm-thatched roof.”

That was one part of his past he didn’t mind revealing. “Until recently, no one was allowed to own land or erect permanent buildings, because it was feared the Dutch would invade or the government would order us to leave. Once we got word that a treaty had been signed to make Singapore a British possession, there was a great scramble for land and a building boom. Hadrian was a canny fellow to have invested some of our profits in a brick kiln.”

Simon caught himself. “Forgive me. I meant to find out more about you. Instead I am boring you with all this talk of business and politics.”

Carlotta had often chided him and his partners for continually turning dinner conversation towards their two favourite subjects.

“Don’t stop on my account. I want to learn all I can about Singapore.” Bethan’s rapt expression assured him her interest was genuine. “It sounds like such an exciting place with so much going on. How many ships stop here in the course of a year?”

Before he could answer, Ah-Ming padded in and set shallow bowls of steaming soup before them.

Bethan seemed to forget her question as she inhaled deeply. “This smells very good. What kind is it?”

“My favourite—turtle.” Simon sipped a spoonful of the broth, relishing its hearty flavour.

“I’ve never had that before.” Bethan seized her spoon and began to consume the soup with the sort of gusto some English ladies might have considered unmannerly.

But Ah-Ming beamed with approval.

“Mmm.” Bethan set down her spoon at last with a sigh of satisfaction. “That tasted even better than it smelled. I feel sorry for people who don’t like to try new things. They don’t know what they’re missing.”

“You should have been here a few months ago,” said Simon. “One of the Chinese merchants hosted a banquet of all their rarest delicacies. Shark fin and bird’s nest soups. Rashers of elephant tail in a sauce of lizard eggs. Stewed porcupine in green turtle fat.”

Bethan’s eyes grew wider with every dish he mentioned. He kept expecting her make a sour face at the thought of eating such outlandish foods. But her expression conveyed fascination rather than distaste.

“The highlight of the banquet,” he concluded, “was a dish of snipes’ eyes, garnished with a border of peacocks’ combs. I was told it cost two hundred Spanish dollars. That’s almost fifty pounds.”

“I could feed myself for years on fifty pounds!” cried Bethan. “Here now, you aren’t hoaxing me to see if I’m daft enough to believe you? When I first got to Newcastle from Wales, the other servants used to have great fun doing that.”

The miserable rascals, having a jest at the expense of an inexperienced girl! The rush of indignation he felt on her behalf surprised Simon.

“You should take some unlikely stories with a grain of salt,” he advised her as Ah-Ming removed their bowls and served a dish of Bengal mutton. “But I wouldn’t hoax you, I promise. You can ask anyone who attended the banquet. There was even a report of it in the newspaper. The snipes’ eyes weren’t bad, as a matter of fact. A bit like caviar without the fishy taste.”

Bethan cast him a puzzled look and it occurred to Simon that she’d probably never tasted caviar…perhaps never even heard of it.

“Mutton should be familiar to you if you lived in Wales.” He steered the conversation back to her again. “What part of the country do you hale from?”

Bethan took a bite of meat, rolling her eyes appreciatively. “I’ve eaten plenty of mutton in my life, but none as tender as this. I come from a little village up north on the River Aled. It’s as different from Singapore as can be—nothing but hills and sheep and lots of snow in the winter. What about you? Have you always lived in the Indies or did you come here from England?”

The silvery sparkle of interest in her eyes made Simon answer, in spite of his resolve to guard his privacy. “I grew up north of Manchester, in the Ribble Valley.”

It was a harmless enough scrap of information, yet it stirred up more memories that he preferred to forget. Bethan Conway had an unfortunate knack for doing that.

“Your village does sound very different from Singapore,” he continued before she could ask him another question. “What made you leave it to come halfway around the world?”

Bethan almost choked on the bit of meat she was trying to swallow. But a cough and a sip of ale got it down.

When she was able to speak again, she replied, “I was looking for a change, I suppose. Some place new and exciting, in the middle of things.”

Ah-Ming set another dish before them.

“This isn’t like anything I’ve seen before.” Bethan inhaled the mouth-watering aroma rising from the savoury jumble of food.

“Something else new that I think you’ll enjoy,” said Simon. The prospect of introducing her to all the novelties of Singapore appealed to him. “It’s one of Cook’s specialties—rice with duck, yams and shrimp.”

“Oh, my,” breathed Bethan after she’d savoured her first mouthful of the spicy-sweet-salty dish. “This must be what they eat in heaven!”

Simon nodded. Had Cook added some new, secret ingredient to his duck rice tonight? It tasted even better than usual. Or was it Bethan’s contagious enjoyment that made him feel as if he, too, were tasting it for the first time?

“When my mother died,” she continued between bites. “I had my own way to make and there was nothing more to keep me in Llanaled. I decided it was time to see the world and really live my life rather than letting it pass me by.”

Surely she didn’t expect him to believe she’d made such a long, perilous journey and sacrificed any hope of a respectable future in a naïve quest for adventure? Simon sensed Bethan was concealing something from him. The way she avoided his gaze and the note of false brightness in her voice gave her away.

The truth was not difficult to guess. Some man in Newcastle must have taken advantage of the green country lass eager to experience new things. Things like love, perhaps? Once her reputation was compromised, she must have decided she had nothing to lose by sailing to the Indies to become the mistress of a rich merchant.

A rush of hot anger swept through Simon at the thought of her innocence exploited.

In response to his outraged silence, she added, “That all sounds like a daft dream to you, I suppose.”

Simon marshalled his composure before replying with more gentleness than he’d thought himself capable, “Not daft. A big dream, I would say, carrying greater risks than you might have realised. Your little Welsh village may not have been the most exciting place, but at least you were safe there.”

Now that she had come to distant, dangerous Singapore, he felt an obligation to be her protector in every sense of the word. He suspected her greatest peril lay in her own impetuous, trusting nature.

Despite whatever trouble had befallen her in Newcastle, Bethan did not seem convinced that she’d have been better off staying in rural Wales. “No harm has come to me yet. And even if you were to send me home tomorrow, I’d still have seen and done more than my mother did in her whole life.”

Was she ashamed to admit what he knew must have happened to her? Simon wondered. Or did she truly not consider the betrayal of her trust and the loss of her virtue as harmful? He wanted to ask her, but he was enjoying this pleasant meal with her too much to risk spoiling it with such probing, judgemental questions.

“Let us have no more talk of sending you home,” he insisted. Though he still had doubts about Bethan Conway, the prospect of giving her up no longer appealed to him. “Besides, I couldn’t do it tomorrow, even if I wanted to.”

He explained about the fluctuating monsoons and how they prevented ships sailing westwards for part of the year.

“Fancy that!” Bethan appeared as delighted with this scrap of information as she’d been with the toothsome new foods he’d offered her. “So I shall have to stay in Singapore until November at least?”

He directed a warm gaze across the table at her. “I hope I can persuade you to remain here longer than that.”

She did not avoid his gaze this time, but met it squarely. Simon caught a glimmer of uncertainty in her changeable eyes, as well as a glow of wondrous possibility. A deep hum of awareness vibrated between them.

“Perhaps you can.” Her lilting murmur fell on Simon’s ears like a favourite melody.

It took only those words and that gaze to stir up the ashes of his long-suppressed desire and make the embers smoulder once again. Simon tried to blame it on the turtle soup, which the local folk credited as an aphrodisiac. But he knew better.

Chapter Four

She had five whole months in Singapore to find out what had become of her missing brother. Bethan could have kissed Simon for providing that precious assurance! But would she wed him for it? Her feelings on that question were sharply divided.

On one hand, he had paid her passage and she’d made an agreement with Mr Northmore on his behalf. If he still wanted to marry her, how could she refuse? But what if she discovered her brother had gone somewhere else? Marriage to Simon would leave her trapped in Singapore, unable to follow Hugh’s trail.

Aside from those practical matters there were other things to consider—such as her intense but confused response to Simon Grimshaw. His nearness, his touch and even his gaze stirred her senses in ways no other man’s ever had. Finally there was his young daughter. The child seemed starved for lively company and the affection of someone other than her father’s servants.

“Your daughter’s a dear wee thing,” said Bethan, as Ah-Ming brought the pudding. “A bit quiet at first, but I think she enjoyed our romp in the garden.”

“It sounded that way. I can’t recall the last time I heard her laugh like that.” Simon did not seem as pleased as she’d hoped.

For the first time since they’d agreed to begin their acquaintance afresh, Bethan sensed that stern Mr Grimshaw was still lurking beneath Simon’s amiable surface. “I suppose she misses her mother, poor thing. How long is it since your wife died?”

Simon’s fingers clenched tightly around his spoon and he stared down at his pudding as if it might be poisoned. His answer came out stiff and halting. “I’ve been widowed for more than three years. I doubt Rosalia has any recollection of her mother.”

“I’m so sorry for you both.” Bethan longed to reach across the table and give his hand a squeeze. She pitied his young daughter more than ever. “Rosalia must take after her mother, does she? She doesn’t look like you at all.”

Simon raised his eyes to hers and spoke with quiet but ominous insistence. “Rosalia is the very image of her mother. Now, if you please, I would rather talk about something else. As I mentioned earlier, I prefer not to dwell on the past.”

“Of course,” Bethan murmured, though she was fairly bursting with questions about his late wife.

How had she died? Did it have anything to do with how Simon had injured his leg? Perhaps that was why he hadn’t wanted to talk about it earlier.

But there were other things she was curious about that should not stir up any painful memories for him. “You never did tell me how many ships come to Singapore in a year. I’m sure it must be a great many.”

“It is, indeed, and more come every season.” He sounded grateful for her change of subject. “The Bugis arrive in their prahus on the north-west monsoon. They bring spices from the South Seas. Then there’s the junk fleet from China. They bring silks and tea. Ships from India and Europe come on the south-east monsoon, like yours did. They trade cotton, iron, glassware and such for goods from China and the South Seas.”

As they ate delectable mango pudding and drank rich Java coffee, Bethan plied Simon with many more questions about Singapore and his business, gleaning pieces of information that she hoped might help her track down Hugh. Simon answered readily, impressing her with his masterful grasp of everything that affected his business.

It was clear he enjoyed telling her about it, too. She sensed he was becoming less tense and guarded. The beguiling hint of a smile seemed to hover on his lips, ready to blaze forth in full potency at any second. Bethan drank in the sound of his voice, noting every confident gesture and subtle change in his features.

A faint stab of disappointment struck her when Simon laid down his napkin at last and rose from his chair, for it meant their pleasant evening was coming to an end. “Before we burst at the seams, shall we step out on to the veranda to enjoy the night air?”

“That sounds lovely.”

A few moments later they stood on the deep, roofed veranda that looked out over the garden where she had played with Rosalia. Beyond the garden lay a road and on the other side of the road stretched the beach. A tangy ocean breeze rustled through the leaves of several tall trees near the house. From the sea came the constant, soothing pulse of the breaking waves.

Bethan inhaled deeply. “What’s that smell?”

“What smell?” Simon’s hand covered hers as it rested upon the veranda railing. “I’ve become so used to it all, I don’t notice any more.”

It took a moment to muster her reply. Simon’s touch seemed to reach beyond her fingers, sending an inviting sensation to whisper under her skin. But where was it inviting her? She was too inexperienced to know.

She sniffed again. “It’s very sweet, but I don’t think it’s flowers. Something cooking, maybe?”

While she tried to describe the strange, appetising aroma, she drank in his scent too. It had a briny tang with a faintly bitter edge that was strangely appealing—like strong, dark coffee or rich chocolate.

“It might be coconut oil.” Simon edged nearer until his arm rested against hers. “We use it in lanterns to light the streets at night.”

“Singapore is full of nice new things.” Bethan gave a sigh of pleasure, intensely aware of Simon’s nearness. “I can hardly wait to see, hear and smell them all.”

“Don’t forget touch,” he reminded her in a deep rustling whisper as he turned towards her and raised his hand to skim her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

It was such a different sensation from the way he’d clutched her arm on the quay. It intrigued her that a man who could command such protective force could also be so gentle.

“You’re not at all what I expected, Bethan.” When he’d said that during their disastrous first meeting, she’d been certain he was expressing displeasure. Now he seemed to be telling her something quite different. “How on earth did Hadrian ever find you?”

Uncertain of the proper response to Simon’s touch, she made none, though she was powerless to stifle the blush that flared in her cheek beneath his fingers.

“He put a notice in the newspaper,” she replied in a breathless voice, “and I answered it.”

“He did what?” Simon drew back abruptly, as if her innocent blush scorched his hand. “What in blazes was he thinking?”

“Does it matter how he found me?” Bethan shrank from the harshness of his indignation. Was he worried people would laugh at him for getting a bride out of the newspaper? “I’m here. That’s what matters, isn’t it?”

To her relief, Simon’s voice softened. “I suppose so.” He reached for her hand, twining his fingers through hers. “I’m surprised, that’s all, by Hadrian’s unconventional methods. And more surprised that a woman like you would answer that kind of notice in a newspaper. There must have been plenty of men in Newcastle who wanted you.”

Bethan sensed a different question lurking beneath his words, but could not think what it might be. Anyway, she wasn’t comfortable with this whole subject. What if her tongue ran away with her, as it so often did, and she told him her true reason for coming to Singapore? She wanted to be certain she could trust him before she mentioned her brother.

“I didn’t meet many men working in the Bainbridges’ nursery. And I didn’t care much for Newcastle. So when I heard about Mr Northmore’s notice, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try. I never expected him to pick me, but when he did, I felt as if I’d been offered a lucky chance. I couldn’t refuse it.”

The pale moonlight cast deep shadows over Simon’s features, making it impossible to tell if he believed her. But his thumb rubbed over her palm in a way that roused her whole body and made her breath quicken. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

Lifting their entwined hands, he bent forwards and pressed his lips to her wrist…then her forearm, then the inner crook of her elbow. Each kiss brought Bethan a different, delightful sensation, even better than the smell of coconut oil or the taste of mango pudding. They woke a strange slumbering hunger in her—a craving that could not be satisfied with food, no matter how delicious. As Simon kissed his way up her arm, shoulder and neck, her mouth fell open, the better to inhale breath after urgent breath.

Simon must have taken it for an invitation. Leaning towards her, he tilted his head slightly and took possession of her lips with firm, certain purpose—not rough and demanding, but not tentative or awkward either. His tongue slid between her parted lips, exploring and tasting as if she were some new delicacy he was eager to relish.

Bethan had been kissed once before by Hugh’s friend Evan. While stealing a hasty, awkward peck in a dark corner, he’d bumped her nose. That kiss had been as different from Simon’s as a bowl of cold tripe from a dish of duck and rice. It had made her feel all sheepish and shameful, anxious not to let it happen again. Simon’s amorous attentions had quite the opposite effect.

It sent ripples of heat pulsing through her body to pool in her breasts and loins. It whetted a ravenous craving that shocked her with its intensity. She could not seem to inhale enough air through her nose to feed the blaze he had kindled.

His breath hastened too, gusting from his nostrils like a hot wind against her cheek. His hands began to rove over her body, spreading a sultry yearning wherever he touched. Overwhelmed by the potent, bewildering sensations that possessed her, Bethan pulled back abruptly from Simon’s embrace.

“Please! We only met…for the first time…this morning. I need a chance…to get to know you…and see more of this place…before I…” marry you—that was what she meant to say, but somehow the words stuck in her throat “…take such a big step.”

How would Simon react to her request? Bethan searched his shadowed features. For an instant he looked shocked. Then his mouth tightened into a grim line and his icy blue eyes glittered with outrage.

Jagged shards of frustration slashed through Simon’s body as Bethan jerked away from him.

An instant before, he’d been relishing the flavour of her kiss—a fresh, delicate sweetness that rivalled the prized mangosteen fruit. Together with the soft ripeness of her body beneath his hands, it had whipped up a tempest of long-stifled desires. His flesh throbbed with anticipation of the delights he would find in her arms. Any doubts he’d had about the wisdom of taking a mistress were drowned out by the swift crash of his heart and the wild gust of his breath. He could scarcely wait to whisk her off to his bed.

Then, without warning, she tensed and tore herself away from his embrace. It was as if a plaster had suddenly been ripped from his body, taking a great patch of skin with it. Instinct urged him to retaliate.

But one glimpse of her wide, anxious eyes doused the blaze of his desire with ice-cold shame. She looked far more frightened now than she had that morning, backed against the wall of an opium den by an angry mob.

“I need a chance…to get to know you…and see more of this place…before I…She’d hesitated as if ashamed to speak aloud the scandalous reason she had come to Singapore “…take such a big step.”

The obvious truth slapped Simon in the face. He’d guessed some man must have taken advantage of her trusting innocence. But Bethan’s terrified reaction to his advances convinced him there’d been more to it. A girl like her would not have willingly surrendered her virginity. It must have been taken from her by force!

The realisation made Simon’s belly seethe with violent outrage, like a volcano preparing to erupt. From tightly locked chambers of his memory, anguished screams escaped to ring in his ears.

He regretted his earlier suspicions about Bethan. No wonder she had tried to evade his questions about why she’d come to Singapore, with flimsy excuses about seeking adventure. What she really must have craved was safety and a complete change of scene to help her forget what had happened to her. The truth of her situation should have been obvious to him of all men. But he had let the urgency of his need blind him to it.

“Of course.” With a supreme effort of will, Simon strove to bring his turbulent emotions back under control. It had been a long time since anything had come so close to shattering his composure. “Forgive me! I did not mean to alarm you. It is a great while since I have been close to a woman. I fear your beauty overcame my discretion.”

Damn! That was the wrong thing to say. He should never have implied that what happened was in any way her fault—that her attractions somehow justified his loss of control.

Simon burned to know exactly what had been done to her. He wanted to learn the name of the blackguard who’d ruined her, so he could curse it. And if by some unlikely chance they ever met, he would thrash the vile dog within an inch of his life!

But how could he ask Bethan to dredge up such shameful memories when he’d refused to discuss parts of his own past that he longed to forget? He must respect her privacy and her efforts to put those troubles behind her.

To Simon’s surprise, his ill-chosen words seemed to ease her alarm.

“You think I’m beautiful?” she mused as if she found it hard to believe.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured, half against his will. “Far more beautiful than I ever expected.”

A shimmer of starlight reflected in her eyes. “Well, I never thought you’d turn out to be so young and handsome.”

Though the bashful sincerity of her admiration made Simon’s chest swell, it also threatened his tenuous self-control. “You really shouldn’t say things like that if you want me to keep my distance.”

He spoke gently, almost jesting, but perhaps she sensed the dangerous undercurrent of desire lurking beneath his words.

Her lovely features tensed and she caught her lush lower lip between her teeth. “It isn’t that I don’t like you or don’t ever want to…to—”

“I understand!” Simon cried, anxious to spare her from speaking the words that might have unpleasant associations for her. “You need time to become accustomed to…your new situation.”

Time to learn she could trust him to treat her as she deserved. Time to conquer her fears of intimacy with a man. Time to come to terms with giving up any hope of respectability in exchange for his protection.

“How long do you think it will take?” The words slipped out before he could stop them, betraying the urgency of his need.

That might have been what made Bethan retreat a step further, clinging to the veranda railing. “I hadn’t thought, really. I suppose a month should give us time to get to know one another better. Would that be all right?”

A whole month? Simon bit back a groan. Thirty evenings like this, struggling to ignore the old gnawing hunger she’d whetted with a fleeting taste of her favours. How could he stand it?

But how could he resist her lilting entreaty and her whole air of vulnerable innocence?

“If it’s a month you need, then a month you shall have,” he assured her. “You are quite right to call it a big step. I want to make certain it is one you won’t regret.”

That did not mean he would have to go a whole month without a single kiss or touch. Simon sought to pacify his thwarted desires. He must help her become accustomed to his attentions a little at a time, with the reassurance that he would not go too far or too fast. He must show her that he could be relied upon to protect and to provide for her, to treat her gently, and to bring her pleasure. He needed to kindle her desires while keeping a tight rein on his own, so that by month’s end she would be as eager to take her promised place in his bed as he would be to have her there.

Simon bid Bethan goodnight with a restrained, mannerly bow as if their passionate embrace on the veranda had never happened. Though she knew he was only trying to oblige her request, Bethan could not subdue a perverse wish for something more. Another gallant kiss on the hand, or a lingering brush of his lips on her cheek.

As she undressed for bed, she found herself listening for sounds of him moving around in the room next door. The bewildering thrill of his kiss seemed to have awakened something in her. She was conscious of her body in a way she had not been in years, since it began the mysterious change to womanhood. When she stripped down to her shift, she could not ignore the sweet, subtle ache in her breasts. Her nipples jutted out against the fine linen like a pair of firm pink pebbles.

When she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass above her dressing table, she wondered if Simon was listening to her movements, picturing her undressing. That thought sent a sultry blush sweeping from her bare toes all the way to the roots of her hair. And when she pictured him removing his crisp white shirt then sliding his trousers down over his thighs, all the air seemed to go out of the room, leaving her gasping for breath. Ater her sheltered early years, Bethan had never expected to have this sort of response to the man she’d arranged to marry. She was not certain what to make of it and whether it was a good or bad thing under the circumstances.

Dousing the lamp, she dived under the tent of insect netting on to her bed. All was quiet in Simon’s room, now. A warm breeze wafted through the slats of the window shutter, bearing a mixture of exotic fragrances, the call of a night bird and the swish of waves breaking upon the nearby shore.

As she thought back over the day’s events, she could scarcely believe she had been in Singapore less than twenty-four hours. So much had happened in that short time and her feelings had shifted back and forth to such opposite extremes, she wondered if she would ever sort them out. Hopefully the one month’s grace that Simon had granted her would be long enough to make a start. So much depended on what she was able to find out about her brother in that time.

Bethan prayed she would have better luck in her search over the next month than she’d had that day.

Chapter Five

“How do you like it here, so far?” Simon asked Bethan a few days after she’d arrived in Singapore.

Between a surge in shipping traffic from the West and four new workers to train, he’d been run off his feet since then. Last night he hadn’t even been able to get home to dine with Bethan, much to his disappointment. With business running smoother today, he’d come home early to join her on the veranda.

“Very well, thank you.” Bethan smiled at him, but quickly looked away as if she still wasn’t quite comfortable around him. “Your servants have gone out of their way to make me welcome.”

“But…?” Simon prompted her, sensing an undercurrent of discontent in her tone.

“It’s nothing really.” She fluttered her fan more rapidly. “I’m just not used to being idle. I wish there was more I could do, but I suppose it’s not proper for the mistress to be doing maid’s work. Ah-Sam did let me take Rosalia for a walk on the beach. I think she enjoyed it.”

Simon’s spirits rose at hearing Bethan refer to herself as his mistress in such an offhand way. Still, he wasn’t certain he approved of Rosalia spending too much time in the company of his mistress. Not that he feared Bethan would corrupt the child’s morals, as might have been the case if Hadrian had sent the sort of experienced ladybird he’d expected. But it did put Bethan on a different footing in his household—too much like a wife for his comfort.

“I hope you don’t feel obliged to earn your keep for the next month by looking after Rosalia. She has an excellent amah.”

“I know that.” Bethan bristled slightly. “I’m not trying to take Ah-Sam’s place. It’s just that I enjoy your daughter’s company and we have a jolly time together.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” That wasn’t altogether true, but Simon was relieved she didn’t dislike Rosalia and want the child sent away. “Though I was hoping you would enjoy my company. That is why I brought you to Singapore, after all.”

“I do!” she cried, then immediately appeared flustered by her outburst. “I mean…I know that. But you’re a busy man. You don’t have much time to spend with me.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get home for dinner last night.” Though he meant it sincerely, it irked Simon to apologise for his absence. He hadn’t bargained on answering to his mistress for his comings and goings, as he would a wife. Then again, so many things about Bethan were not as he’d expected. “That’s why I came home early today. I thought we might take a drive before dinner to see a little more of the town. Would you like that?”

He knew her answer almost before the question was out of his mouth. Her whole face lit up with a winsome glow that took his breath away. “I’d love it!

She started towards him was if she meant to throw her arms around his neck. But before she could complete the impulsive gesture, she caught herself and jerked back.

Simon stifled a pang of disappointment. Perhaps an unguarded overture of that sort had led to the loss of her virtue. He must help her overcome such troubling memories and show her she had nothing to fear from him.

“Can Rosalia come with us?” she asked. “I’m sure she would enjoy a drive.”

Simon bit back an impatient reply. “Another time, perhaps. I don’t like to upset her nursery routine.”

For a moment Bethan looked as though she might argue his decision, but when she spoke it was only to ask, “Should I change clothes first?”

Simon swept a glance over her as she rose from her chair. Her high-waisted muslin gown had an air of elegant simplicity that he liked very much. The colour reminded him of the unripe apples he and his brother had once hurled at each other in the orchard of his boyhood home.

“You look fine.” He rose and offered her his arm. “Better than fine. All you’ll need is a hat and a parasol.”

What Simon neglected to mention was that there would be no need for her to dress up. He didn’t expect to meet anyone on their little jaunt. Most of his acquaintances would be dining at this hour, then going for a stroll or a drive afterwards. He wanted to spare Bethan the necessity of introductions that might prove awkward, especially since their arrangement was still not fully settled.

His plan worked perfectly. When they drove up North Bridge Road a short time later, the street was quite deserted.

Bethan did not appear to notice. Perched beside him on the seat of the gharry, she peered about, trying to looking in every direction at once, firing questions at him. “What is this great empty space doing in the middle of town? Is it the market square?”

Simon shook his head. “At present its only function is to provide the sepoys with a parade ground.” He pointed towards the military encampment at the base of the hill. “Our founder designated this part of town for public buildings. Originally he wanted them on the north bank of the river. But since that was the best commercial land, we merchants built our godowns there and Raffles was obliged to alter his plans.”

“So trade is more important than government in Singapore?” Bethan flashed him an impudent grin that Simon could not resist returning.

“Without trade, how would those fine public buildings be paid for?”

She chuckled. “I think that makes sense. What about all those fine white houses overlooking the shore—do they all belong to important merchants like you?”

There could be no mistaking the sincere admiration in her tone when she referred to him as important. Simon’s chest swelled.

“Most of my neighbours are merchants. The lot on my right belongs to Carlos Quintéra, the local agent for a large Calcutta firm. Others are officials, like the Surgeon, Dr Moncrieff.” He nodded toward one of four houses facing into the square on the shore side.

They drove past the soldiers’ encampment, taking a carriage road that wound around Government Hill.

“Where are we going?” asked Bethan.

Simon cast her a sidelong glance. “I want to show you the best view in Singapore. Several of the best, in fact.”

“I’m certain they’ll be very fine indeed. I can’t get over the size of some of the trees here.” Plucking Simon’s arm to gain his attention, Bethan pointed toward a lofty jelawi. “That one looks as tall as the Lantern Tower of old St. Nicholas church back in Newcastle!”

Her unexpected touch sent a bolt of heat searing through Simon’s veins. It took him a moment to master his voice. “Majestic, isn’t it? The younger trees beyond it are all spice-bearing varieties. They are part of an experimental garden, a pet project of Sir Stamford Raffles. He had a number of trees and shrubs of commercial value planted here to see if they would thrive. The place has been rather neglected since he left. Our current Resident is more interested in politics than botany.”

He’d barely finished speaking when Bethan grasped his arm once again, holding on a little longer this time. “Oh my gracious, look at those birds! Did you ever see such colours?”

Simon forced his gaze toward a pair of parrots with vivid dark-red plumage and bright blue markings on their faces and wings. Spectacular a sight as they were, he would rather have feasted his eyes on Bethan’s face, aglow with the wonder of discovery.

“You’ll see plenty of those around Singapore,” he assured her. “There’s another kind even more amazing—feathers every colour of the rainbow, only more vivid. You’d swear they were cast out of emeralds and rubies.”

In truth, he’d never paid much heed to the bright colours of the birds or the soaring height of the trees. When he’d first arrived on the island, he had been too preoccupied with helping Ford and Hadrian establish their business, and trying to forget the humiliating situation he’d left behind in Penang. Now he found himself taking in his surroundings with fresh appreciation.

As the gharry rounded the far side of the hill, Bethan let out a soft gasp. Spread before them was mile after mile of wild, verdant jungle.

“I never thought there could be so many different shades of green,” she whispered.

Simon hadn’t either, though, in his opinion, none of them could match the elusive, mutable grey-green of her eyes. Until now, he’d thought of the surrounding jungle as nothing but a source of danger, harbouring tigers and bands of outlaws. Bethan made him see something more.

They drove on in silence for a while, privately contemplating the lush, untamed grandeur. Only when the road wound higher, bringing the town and the sea back into view did Simon venture to speak again. “The Malays call this Forbidden Hill. They say their kings of long ago are buried here.”

“Does that other hill have a name too?” Bethan pointed towards a slightly lower rise to the north.

Simon nodded. “Selegi Hill, which I’m told means something to do with spears. Captain Flynn and his family live there. He is the harbour-master.”

“Harbour-master?” Bethan sounded more intrigued by that than tales of ancient Malay kings. “Does he have any children Rosalia’s age? Do you ever go there to visit?”

Her questions struck Simon as a trifle odd, but then again Bethan had proven herself an unusual young woman. “The captain does have children—a stepdaughter who’s almost grown and an infant daughter. He has a son Rosalia’s age. Ah-Sam used to take her to visit until the boy was sent to live with relatives in England.”

“A child that age sent so far away from his family?” Bethan fairly trembled with outrage. “How could his parents do such a terrible thing?”

“They didn’t have much choice, I’m afraid,” Simon replied. “His elder brother died and the climate did not agree with him. Surely the child is better off in England than lying in the cemetery.”

Bethan did not seem convinced.

In an effort to distract her, Simon began to point out other sights of interest. “Over there is the dhobi village. They are the Indian laundry folk who wash clothes on the banks of the Kallang River and down there in Bras Basah stream. They have raised the task almost to a science. It amazes me how they get all the laundry back to its proper owners without ever losing a single scrap of linen. I wish I could keep as good an account of Vindicara’s inventory.”

His distraction seemed to work.

Bethan’s frown eased and she surveyed the view from the top of the hill with interest. “I can see your house and your godown by the river. My, what a lot of ships there are at anchor.”

By now they had reached the hilltop. Simon stopped the gharry some distance away from the tall signal flagpole and hurried around to help Bethan out. He did not release her hand when she had alighted, but tucked it into the crook of his elbow and led her towards the best lookout spot. He was gratified when she betrayed no hesitation in taking his arm. He hoped it meant she was growing more comfortable around him and not simply that she was too fascinated by the vast number of ships to notice.

“Do many of the crews come ashore?” she asked.

Simon shook his head. “Only the odd few. There isn’t a great deal for them to do. Very little of our food is grown here, so Singapore is not the best port for provisioning.” He sensed her dissatisfaction with his answer. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” The bright, carefree tone she affected struck a false note. “I’m interested in everything about the place, that’s all. Tell me, what’s that cluster of buildings over there near the shore?”

Simon recognised an evasion when he heard one, though he could not fathom why she felt it necessary. “That’s the Sultan’s istana. A palace of sorts.”

A melodious trill of her laughter made him forget his niggling suspicions. “Living just up the road from a sultan’s palace, am I? What would the folks back in Llanaled make of that, I wonder?”

He turned towards her, gazing down into her eyes. They reminded him of a Lancashire meadow swathed in springtime mist. “If those people have any sense, they’ll say you belong in a palace, showered with the best of everything.”

“If any of them could see your house, they’d think it was a palace.” She lowered her gaze briefly, only to look up at him again through the delicate fringe of her eyelashes.

Was that an invitation to kiss her? It made Simon incapable of resisting his inclination. The best he could manage was to proceed slowly so as not to alarm her. That took every scrap of will-power he possessed.

Closer and closer he leaned, watching for any sign of reluctance, which he hoped would not come. Bethan had ample time to evade his kiss or fend him off with some remark about the view. But she did not speak or move, except the slightest quiver of her lips as his whispered over them.

Ever since their first evening together, the memory of her kiss, her scent and the feel of her in his arms had clung to Simon. By day they distracted him from his work and by night they invaded his dreams. Though they made a pleasant change from the nightmares that sometimes plagued him, they were a sweet torment, whetting his hunger for her to an even sharper pitch.

Now the glancing brush against her warm, pliant lips unleashed a tempest of urgent desire within him. Simon clung tight to Bethan’s hands in case the temptation to take further liberties overwhelmed him.

He was fighting so hard to control his hands that he had no will-power to spare for his lips. Bethan’s kiss tasted like sweet cider to a man parched with thirst. How could he imbibe it by slow, cautious sips when he longed to quaff it in great, lusty draughts?

His lips ranged over hers and she responded with natural, innocent desire that only made him want her more. When her lips parted, he slid his tongue between them, immersing himself in the delights of her soft, sweet mouth even as he strove to ignore the hungry ache of arousal they inflamed.

Then suddenly Bethan tensed and jerked away from him.

Silently cursing himself, Simon struggled to regain his composure. He’d intended to maintain tight control of his desires, to tempt Bethan without frightening her. It vexed him to realise how relentlessly she tested his self-restraint. His flash of frustrated anger sought an outlet.

The low murmur of voices jolted Bethan out of the dark, lucious depths of Simon’s kiss.

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