Rescued by her enemy

Will she meet him at the altar?

Romani Selina Agres has despised the gentry ever since her mother was murdered by a cruel aristocrat. But she’s not sure what to think when Edward Fulbrooke, that very man’s nephew, rescues her from an angry horde. Edward may be different from other nobles, but Selina’s distrust runs deep. So she’s shocked when he proposes marriage to protect her and her people! Can she accept?

JOANNA JOHNSON lives in a pretty Wiltshire village, with her husband and as many books as she can sneak into the house. Being part of the Historical Romance family is a dream come true. She has always loved writing, starting at five years old with a series about a cat, imaginatively named ‘Cat’, and keeps a notebook in every handbag—just in case. In her spare time she likes finding new places to have a cream tea, stroking scruffy dogs and trying to remember where she left her glasses.

The Marriage Rescue

is Joanna Johnson’s gripping debut for

Mills & Boon Historical Romance!

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Marriage Rescue

Joanna Johnson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08900-5

THE MARRIAGE RESCUE

© 2019 Joanna Johnson

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Selina Agres was going to die, and it was all her own fault. Hadn’t she been warned, time and time again, to stay as far away as possible from those upper-class English animals?

Grandmother Zillah’s words echoed in her ears as she rode for her life, her horse Djali’s hooves pounding over waterlogged ground and leaving deep tracks in their fleeing wake.

Stupid girl.

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t seen the proof of their wickedness for herself, either.

The last clear memory she had of her mother was the way her eyes had changed at the moment of her death. Many of the other details she could recall were blurred: snatches of lullabies sung on summer nights, when the rhythmic swaying of their creaking caravan had rocked young Selina to sleep; the barest suggestion of a comforting floral scent she could never quite pin down. But the memory of those eyes—so bright and sharp in life, missing nothing, holding a world of wisdom and humour—had clouded to a flat black, staring unseeing at the little girl who had gazed back, who had wondered where the light had gone from Mama’s face...

She bent lower over the horse’s neck, urging him onwards ever faster. A swift glance behind showed her pursuers losing ground, hindered by their own far clumsier mounts. Selina grasped at a tentative new hope: stubborn and scarred he might be, but nobody was as fast as her Djali over level terrain. He had been her mother’s horse before she’d passed, then barely more than a colt, and Selina blessed Mama in that moment for training the bad-tempered creature so well. Perhaps they might survive this after all.

The wind tore at her clothes, an autumn squall that threatened the rapid approach of winter tugging her riot of midnight curls free from their ribbon and tossing the heavy tresses into her face. She flung them aside with desperate haste, her other hand tightening its death grip on the horse’s reins.

She couldn’t stop now. Just one more fence to jump and then it was all downhill to a thick copse of trees, if her memories of this wretched place were correct, and there she might just be able to hide—if she could only put enough distance between herself and those behind her... Twelve years had passed since she had last set foot on this land, and all she could do was pray her scattered recollections were right.

‘Come on, Djali!’ Her voice was loud, battling against the roar of the wind, belying the way her heart railed against her ribs like a trapped animal.

The horse plunged onwards, his breath coming short and fast in a pattern that matched Selina’s own.

She hadn’t even wanted to get so close. But what else could she have done? Left the poor girl alone in the forest? Perhaps she should have; look at where taking pity on a landowner’s child had got her.

Seeing a Roma woman carrying a sobbing English child through the woods—Squire Ambrose Fulbrooke’s own daughter, no less—of course his men had jumped to the wrong conclusion. The idea that the little girl had escaped her governess and got herself lost would never have occurred to them, whereas everybody had heard how the Roma were a community of thieves and vagrants. Of course she was stealing the child; what other explanation could there be?

Selina knew from bitter experience the prejudices that existed against her people. Shunned and almost feared, the Roma were well used to living on the fringes, making do in whatever ways they could. But they were strong, and that characteristic spirit was more than evident in Selina.

Almost from her first steps she had worked hard: foraging food for the pot, fetching water, helping Papa break in horses to sell. Her hands had grown calloused and her skin tanned, and with each passing year she had become more and more like the kind, capable mother ripped so cruelly from her.

Even Papa had commented on the resemblance once, years ago, on a camp a hundred miles from this damned estate, as he’d watched her lunge a new pony. The animal had been skittish and afraid, but with gentleness and determination Selina had brought him on well, and her father had nodded at her as he’d sat on the back porch of their wagon, pipe in hand.

‘What do you think, Lina? Will you make a mount of him yet?’

‘I believe so, Papa.’ Selina had smiled across at him and wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of a hand. ‘He’s clever, and a good worker.’

‘I think you might be right. You’ve a good eye for horses. You get that from me.’

He’d pulled on his pipe for a moment and Selina had seen the smile fade from his weathered face.

‘Everything else comes from your mother. You’re looking more and more like her every day.’

‘Thank you, Papa.’

Selina’s voice had been quiet and she’d turned back to the pony, wishing with all her heart she hadn’t noticed her strong, tall Papa quickly pat a tear from his face with his old red neckerchief. The picture had stayed with her ever since, and never failed to bring a lump to her throat.

The fence was looming fast—a straggling construction that leaned back drunkenly at an angle that would make it difficult to jump. Selina cursed beneath her breath and chanced another raking glare backwards. They were still coming, three of them now. Two were dressed in the usual muddy colours of gamekeepers, riding out in front of a third too distant to see in any real detail. She thought she made out a flash of blue, stark against the muted grey of the sullen autumn sky. When had he joined the chase?

But it didn’t matter how many there were. She would escape them all or die trying.

‘Get up, Djali—good boy!’ Clicking her teeth in command, Selina touched the horse with her heels. He was galloping flat out, lips pulled back from ivory teeth and mane flying, ready to take the jump.

She felt the rush of air as they left the ground. It hit her squarely in the face—a stinging slap that brought tears to her eyes—but they were sailing over the lolling fence and nobody would catch them now.

And then they went down.

Djali struck the fence with a back hoof and veered to one side, stumbling to right himself. Selina pitched forward, tumbling from the saddle in a tangle of crimson skirts and bright woollen shawls.

She lay gasping, winded and dazed. She’d fallen from horses before, many times, but never from one so tall as Djali—one of the reasons he had been officially given over to her ownership on her eighteenth birthday, aside from sentiment, had been his surefootedness. After the fate that had befallen her mother, Papa hadn’t wanted to take any chances with his only child.

What a cruel irony if I were to die here, too.

The thought crossed Selina’s racing mind before she could stop it. A fresh bolt of terror tore through her heaving chest and her head swam as she struggled to regain her breath.

We never should have come back here, even if that murdering devil Charles Fulbrooke is on the other side of the ocean.

Her pursuers had seen her fall. She could hear them now, the unmistakable beat of hooves growing closer as she lay prone on the sodden ground, one arm flung out and the other twisted beneath her.

She pushed herself up, wincing as she felt a dart of pain crackle through the wrist that had borne her weight. Where’s Djali? A wild scan of the grass showed him standing a short distance away, ears back as he eyed the approaching horses.

There was no time to reach him, Selina calculated. By the time she managed to get back into the saddle her hunters would be upon her and she would have nowhere else to turn. There was only one option open to her and she seized the lifeline with both hands.

Selina ran.

The copse lay mere feet away from her now; if she could reach the safety of the trees she would be able to climb high enough to conceal herself among the orange canopy of leaves that swayed in the chill wind. Djali would be fine, she knew. The obstinate creature was well capable of defending himself and would likely trot back to the campsite if she didn’t reappear to guide him home herself.

Grandmother Zillah would be beside herself with worry when the horse came back without his rider, but there was nothing Selina could do about that now as she reached the first line of trees and plunged headlong through the rusty carpet of fallen leaves.

‘After her!’

‘Don’t let her get away!’

Selina heard the rough shouts at her back and fought onwards, crashing through the undergrowth. Sharp boughs whipped at her face, drawing blood, but she kept running, searching for a tree whose lower branches would allow her enough purchase to haul herself up.

There! As if by divine providence a huge oak reared up in front of her, its gnarled roots thrust out and wide boughs sweeping down to hold out their arms to her. It was the work of moments to heave herself up, and she lunged upwards, ignoring the scream of her jarred wrist, moving through the leaves just as her pursuers lurched into view, now on foot, with faces flushed red with exertion.

‘Which way did she go?’

‘I didn’t see!’

‘You mean you lost her?’

Selina peered down through the branches at the two gamekeepers standing just metres from her hiding place. Secreted among the boughs, her crimson skirt blending with the autumnal colours of the leaves, she felt her palms prickle with sweat. If they looked up...

Why hadn’t she just pointed the child in the right direction and then left? She hated the landowners for their wealthy arrogance, their hypocrisy, for the way they treated her people and, of course, for their part in Mama’s death. It hardly mattered that the Squire himself—owner of this vast estate and the imposing Blackwell Hall that sat within it—had not been directly responsible for the fate of Diamanda Agres; the upper classes were all cut from the same cloth.

For all Selina knew, Squire Ambrose had aided his brother Charles’s flight to the Continent after the events of twelve years before that had scarred her young life so violently, allowing him to neatly avoid any unsavoury accusations. If only Selina had treated the girl with the disdain she deserved, coming from such a family, and hadn’t tried to return her to the great Hall, less than a mile away...

Damn. Selina sighed to herself. You always were too soft.

The sight of the little thing in her muddy gown, clutching a tow-headed doll, had moved Selina in a way she couldn’t explain. Perhaps having lost her own mother at just eight years old had made her more sympathetic. The child had sobbed as she’d called for her mama, and Selina had had only a moment of hesitation before bundling the mite up in her own shawl and making for Djali.

It wasn’t the child’s fault she’d been born to such a man, she’d reasoned. Not that the girl’s father could do much harm now, Selina had thought grimly as she settled into the saddle. Squire Ambrose Fulbrooke had been six feet under for the best part of a month—a deadly combination of port and rich food had caused his heart to give out in the middle of a poker game, if the rumours that had reached the Romani were to be believed.

Apparently his son was in line to inherit, but no sign of the man had yet been seen, and in the absence of a master the Romani had judged it safe enough to make camp temporarily on Fulbrooke land—a judgement that, given her current situation, Selina now regretted with every fibre of her being.

The third man was approaching, kicking his way through the fallen leaves. One of the gamekeepers groaned, just loudly enough for Selina to hear. ‘I knew he’d follow us. I said so, didn’t I? And now he’s going to see we let her get away...’

‘Harris! Milton! What happened?’

Selina curled her lip instinctively at the sound of the man’s voice. Cut-glass vowels and the confidence of a man born into luxury. He was one of them—she was sure of it.

A peep down through the branches confirmed her suspicions: the tall man standing with his back to her was the epitome of a well-bred English gentleman, dressed in a well-cut blue coat with breeches tucked into immaculate leather riding boots and with hair of a distinctive dark burnished gold. She frowned as a flicker of something stirred in the back of her mind, like a gentle breeze through long grass. That unique hair colour, so different from the Roma darkness...had she seen it somewhere before?

‘Well? Don’t keep me in suspense!’ The voice was deep and edged with humour. ‘I see my sister being carted off in the direction of the house by your wife, Milton, and then you two on horseback in hot pursuit of somebody—I ask again: What happened?’

‘Well, sir,’ began one of the gamekeepers, sounding nervous, ‘we were just doing our rounds when we saw Miss Ophelia being carried off by a gypsy woman—sobbing her heart out, wasn’t she, Harris?’

‘Fit to burst, sir,’ continued the other. ‘So we snatched her back. The girl tried to tell us she came upon Miss Ophelia wandering all on her own, but of course we knew that wasn’t true. Trying to steal her, she was.’

‘So you gave chase, did you? Two of you against one woman and she still gave you the slip?’

The other men shuffled slightly. ‘You know what they’re like, sir, those gypsies. Eels they are. Too tricky by half.’

‘Yes. I can see how she would be difficult quarry.’

Although Selina couldn’t see his face, she was sure the man was smiling. ‘Never mind. All’s well that ends well—my sister is back safely with her governess.’

‘Thank you, sir. But you know...’ The other man’s voice lowered menacingly; the hairs on the back of Selina’s neck stirred in response. ‘If we ever come across her again, or find where those gypsies’ grubby little nest is, well...’

‘We wouldn’t hesitate to teach them a lesson, sir. Be happy to do it.’

‘Yes, Milton. I think I quite catch your drift.’ The educated voice was cool—bordering on cold. ‘Let’s hope for everybody’s sake that the woman in question is far away by now.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I think we should all be on our way. Bid you good day, gents.’

‘Good day, sir.’

The men moved off. Selina listened to them go: footsteps on damp earth, then the telltale jingle of their horses’ tack as they rode away, growing fainter and fainter until only the swaying creak of the forest remained.

She exhaled, long and loud. She was safe. She’d ventured into the lion’s den and escaped by the skin of her teeth.

‘You can come down now, miss. It’s quite safe.’

Selina froze. There was still someone down there!

Her heart checked for the briefest of painful moments before slamming back into a pounding rhythm so hard she was sure the man standing below her must be able to hear it.

She drew herself sharply against the oak’s knotted trunk, pressing herself closely to the bark. A quick look down through the leaves allowed her nothing more than a view of the back of the uncannily familiar fair-haired head, its owner resolutely positioned at the base of her tree.

‘I know you’re up there. Don’t be afraid. I won’t harm you.’

Selina swallowed—a quick convulsion of her dry throat. Celebrating too soon. She was trapped. There was only one way down and he was guarding it; there was no way she could pass without being seen.

‘Please, miss. You have nothing to fear from me.’

Selina’s pulse was racing as she registered his words. What kind of simpleton did he think she was? Surely that was exactly the sort of claim he would make.

‘Nothing to fear? You just hunted me for three miles like an animal—please excuse me if I don’t hop down at the click of your fingers.’

There was a huff of laughter from below. ‘I understand why it may have appeared that way. I’d be more than happy to explain if you would just come down.’

‘I think not.’

Peering down through the leaves once more, Selina trained her eyes on her captor’s blond curls. He hadn’t moved so much as an inch, blast him. She herself was beginning to feel the sharp texture of the bark digging into her skin, forcing her to shift her position, and she could have cursed aloud when the movement sent a rotten branch crashing down through the canopy.

Hearing the sudden noise, the man whipped his head round, searching for the direction of the sound, and as his profile turned Selina saw the face of her tormentor clearly for the first time.

It was as though she had been winded all over again.

She knew him. Not by name—it hadn’t seemed the right time for formal introductions many years ago, when Selina had come across a strange boy in these very woods and held a pad of moss against his cheek to stem the flow of blood that had seeped between his fingers.

How old had he been then? Perhaps twelve to Selina’s eight? He had been the first gentry boy she’d ever seen up close, and the rare combination of his hazel eyes and golden hair, so foreign to Selina’s childish mind, had burned itself into her memory. There could be no mistaking the fact that this man was the same person, and Selina felt a thrill of some unknown feeling tingle down the length of her spine as she watched him searching upwards, confusion rushing in to replace where moments previously she had felt only fear.

He’s handsome. The thought came out of nowhere, taking her by surprise, and she shook her head slightly as if to clear it. Don’t be absurd, she admonished herself fiercely, although nothing could stop the slow creep of colour she knew was stealing over her cheeks as she took in his defined jaw, in turn well matched by a straight nose and a mouth just teetering on the brink of a smile, and she felt another dart of the same unexplained feeling lance through her.

It was uncomfortably, unacceptably similar to the admiration she had felt once or twice before when confronted with an attractive man. On those occasions, however, she hadn’t felt her heart rate pick up speed, and neither had she felt such a disturbingly instinctive appreciation for the fine colour of his eyes. How this gentleman managed to affect her in such a powerfully unexpected way she had no clue, but she knew she didn’t like it.

He was hunting through the branches in earnest now, and Selina forced herself closer against the tree’s rough trunk. She screwed her eyes closed, trying to bully her brain into ordering her whirling thoughts while her pulse skipped ever faster.

Who is he? Why is he here?

It was exactly her luck to have such an unlikely encounter, she acknowledged helplessly, even as the strange feeling crackled beneath her skin and she felt the urge to look down pull at her once again. He wouldn’t remember her, that was for certain. She had been a skinny, dirt-streaked child, and he...

He now bore a scar, exactly where she had staunched the bleeding gash on his cheek—a pale crescent that somehow only served to enhance the otherwise unblemished perfection of his features...features that looked as though they had been designed to be traced by female fingertips.

Selina’s own face felt uncomfortably warm as she sat motionless, horrified by the spontaneous reaction of her body. Each nerve tingled with the desire to take another peep at the man below, to make doubly sure her disbelieving eyes had been correct and he truly was the same person she had encountered all those years before—as well as to take another glimpse of the face that made her heart beat a frenzied tattoo against her ribs.

If it was him, could there be a slim chance her predicament might not be as dire as she had feared?

As a boy he had accepted her help and seemed grateful for it, she was forced to recall. There had been no sign of any upper-class prejudice then, only two children, both too young to fully grasp the social gulf that would divide them so completely as adults. Perhaps he might be as gracious now he was fully grown, and allow her to leave without too much trouble?

It was the most Selina could hope for, and she clung to that hope as she prayed for his disconcerting effect on her to wane.

* * *

Edward Fulbrooke frowned lightly as he craned his neck upwards. Where exactly was she? He’d known she was there the whole time. Poor Harris and Milton...it was the most obvious hiding place imaginable.

He’d arrived on the scene just after the two gamekeepers had thundered off, his own horse blowing powerfully from their afternoon ride. Milton’s wife, Ada, had been attempting to drag a wailing Ophelia towards the Hall, and Edward had dismounted swiftly to aid her.

‘Oh, Mr Fulbrooke. I’m that glad you’re here!’ Ada’s voice had been barely audible above Ophelia’s sobs, and Edward scooped the child up immediately in one strong arm.

‘Ophie. That’s enough. What’s the matter?’

The little girl quieted at once, though her eyes—the same hazel as Edward’s own—had glittered with unshed tears. ‘Ned, the lady was only trying to help, and now they’re going to hurt her!’

Ophelia had told him the full story. She’d been ‘exploring’ again, having escaped from the watchful gaze of her governess, and had walked so far she’d been unable to find her way back home. She had been about to give up all hope of ever seeing her mama again when a lady had appeared through the trees, dressed in strange clothes and singing a song Ophelia hadn’t understood.

When she had seen the child she’d stopped and looked almost frightened, but after Ophelia burst into tears and explained that she was lost and alone the lady had wrapped her up snug in a shawl and taken her towards a waiting horse—a huge grey stallion, with great scars marring his flanks—and said she would take Ophelia safely home.

‘But then Harris and Milton came, and they were so angry. Harris pulled me away and Milton tried to take hold of the lady. But she ran—and nobody would listen to me!’

Edward had set Ophelia back on her feet and leapt back into the saddle without a word. He hadn’t doubted for a moment that the child was telling the truth; there wasn’t a moment to lose.

He peered upwards yet again. Was that a scrap of fabric? It was hard to tell against the leafy backdrop.

‘What is it that concerns you? Are you afraid I’ll come chasing after you again?’

There was only silence from above, and Edward forced back a grin.

The pert creature. Sitting pretty as a picture up her tree, deciding whether the Squire’s own son is worth coming down for.

The smile faded and a small crease formed between his eyebrows. The late Squire’s son, now. He was still getting used to that, having returned from London only two days prior to find the Hall quieter than he had ever known it before.

‘I can’t deny I have some slight misgivings.’

The smoky voice was edged with an undercurrent of something Edward could not identify, and his frown deepened.

‘Well, what if I gave you my word as a gentleman that I won’t? Would you allow me the honour of an introduction then?’

Another silence stretched out, this time less amusing, and Edward raised an eyebrow. This was getting a little out of hand. He was well within his rights to order her down, trespassing as she was on his own land—or what would be his land once he took formal possession of his inheritance.

‘Miss, I would have you know my word is my law. I would think myself beyond contempt if, once given, I were to break it.’

There was a moment’s quiet. Then, ‘I suppose there’s no chance you’d leave and let me go about my business without an audience?’

‘None whatsoever, I’m afraid.’

‘Not very gentlemanly of you.’

‘Alas, I remain unmoved.’

There was another pause. Edward was certain he could hear the grinding of teeth and allowed himself a small smile at her reluctance. She really was an unusual woman.

The branches above his head swayed suddenly, and then with a shower of falling leaves the woman dropped to the ground in front of him.

Edward felt his eyes widen in surprise. She was younger than he had expected: her tawny face, flecked with mud and with a long scratch across one cheek, belonged to a woman no older than twenty. Perhaps it had been the modest clothing that had confused him—she was certainly dressed like no fashionable young lady he had ever met. Her bright skirt was paired with a loose-fitting blouse, half hidden beneath a number of colourful tasselled shawls, and raven hair hung in thick waves about her shoulders.

Her effect on him was both immediate and startling. A distant part of his mind knew it was rude to stare, but for some reason he didn’t seem able to tear his gaze away as he took in the vibrancy of the scarlet wool against the deep black of her curls, the delicacy of the bone structure beneath the dirt on her face and even the oddly intriguing lack of a wedding ring on the hand that clutched her shawls to her chest.

There was something about her that seemed to call to him, to make him want to drink her in, and he felt a sharp pang of surprise at the very thought. There she stood, a complete stranger and an intruder on his land. He ought to be unmoved by their chance encounter and yet there he stood, a full-grown man, apparently struck dumb by the power of a lovely countenance. For lovely it most certainly was.

Where had he ever seen its equal?

It was the strangest sensation—almost as though he had surrendered control of his senses for the briefest of moments before coming back down to earth with a bump. So she was handsome—what was that to him? He was only human, and now his rational mind must take charge again. Her beauty counted for nothing—just the same as any other woman’s. He would not be making that mistake again.

She stood watching him with eyes as mistrustful as a feral cat’s. There was a feline grace to her posture, too, in the way she held herself, ready to run at the slightest provocation, and it highlighted the contrast between her lithe elegance and his broad stature. Although he easily topped her by a good head and a half, the tense wariness of her frame radiated an untouchability that would have stopped most men in their tracks.

Thrusting his moment of madness firmly to the back of his mind, Edward offered a short bow. ‘Thank you for indulging me.’

The woman inclined her head slightly but said nothing.

This might be a little more difficult than I thought, Edward mused. He wanted to thank her for trying to help Ophelia, but apparently conversing with her was destined to be like drawing blood from a stone.

She couldn’t know who he was, he was sure. If she did she would be far more interested in conversation. The young women of his acquaintance always seemed to open up at the first hint of his name and prospects.

Not that it was necessarily a good thing. Edward had lost count of the number of ladies who had breezed up to him at balls and revels, affecting shyness, confiding that they had a dance reserved for him in the event that he might be ‘inclined to take a turn’. Bitter experience had taught him not to be tempted.

‘My name is Edward Fulbrooke,’ Edward continued. ‘I’m the son of the late Squire of Blackwell Hall, and this is my family estate.’ He watched as something sparked in the woman’s eyes—something akin to fear. ‘Might I have the pleasure of knowing your name?’

He saw her throat move as she swallowed, his gaze drawn there by some impulse he couldn’t control. The look in her eyes had been fleeting, but there had definitely been a reaction. Was it something I said? Far from impressing her, the revelation of his name had seemed to unnerve her even more. Why was that?

‘Selina. Selina Agres.’

‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Agres.’

The woman nodded again. An odd expression flickered across her face, mingling with the ever-present wariness; it was half watchful, half curious. She seemed on the brink of saying something before evidently thinking better of it, instead folding her full lips into a tight line.

‘I’m afraid I might have frightened you earlier.’ Edward spoke quietly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle; the last thing he wanted was for her to bolt before he’d had a chance to explain. That was the least he could do, given the circumstances. ‘Please allow me to apologise for the misunderstanding.’

‘Misunderstanding?’ Selina’s eyebrows almost disappeared into her hair. ‘You and your men wanted nothing more than to hunt me down like a fox running from hounds!’

Edward frowned. ‘That’s not quite right. Ophelia told me what happened, and what your motives were. I went after Harris and Milton to—’ He broke off. To stop them from lynching you, he concluded internally. Not a fit topic of conversation for a lady, traditional or not. ‘They’re very fond of her, and I was uneasy that in their concern for her safety they might get carried away. It was my intention to defend you, if necessary.’

Edward watched a spark of surprise kindle in Selina’s eyes and felt another jolt of that unwelcome electricity as he saw how it enhanced their beguiling darkness. Their rich ebony was a colour rarely seen, and so entirely different from the china-blue set he had once thought the finest in the county.

Even if Harris and Milton hadn’t told him Edward would have known at once that she was Romani. The realisation was oddly pleasing. Surely her presence indicated an encampment nearby? A fact that flew directly in the face of his late father’s orders?

Passing groups of Roma had been a familiar sight to him on this land years ago, and Edward was momentarily lost in fond memories of brightly painted caravans pulled by gleaming horses, and the dark-haired boys his own age who had invited him, a shy, affection-starved child, to join their games. Although each group had rarely stayed for very long before moving on, Edward could still recall the brief happiness he had felt at their acceptance of him, all of them too young to have yet developed the prejudices of their parents.

His own father had disapproved enormously when Edward had told him of his newfound friends—but then, as usual, Ambrose’s attention had been caught by something far more interesting than his lonely young son, and it had been an older Roma boy who had taught Edward to fish, and how to play cards, and any number of other things his father should have taken the time to share with his child so desperate for some tenderness.

A vivid pang of nostalgia hit him like a sudden blow as he remembered the friend he had made the last year the Roma had crossed Fulbrooke land—a little girl, younger than himself, who had cared for him after his fight with the neighbouring family’s two sons. Edward felt a dull ache spread through his chest as he recalled how the pain of his cheek had been nothing compared to the crushing realisation that the other boys had been right: his mother was not going to return, and perhaps the unkind things they had said about her were more accurate than he’d wanted to accept.

Still, he’d given as good as he’d got. One cut cheek had been a fair price to pay for doling out a black eye and a broken tooth, and Edward almost smiled at the memory of his young nurse. She’d shown him more kindness in their short encounter than he had experienced in months, and again shown him the warmth of the Romani, almost unheard of among the upper classes.

There had been some unpleasantness soon after that incident, he recalled—some trouble with Uncle Charles and a Roma woman—and his father’s reluctant permission for the travellers to cross his land had been swiftly revoked. If they had returned it meant Ambrose’s grip on the estate was loosening, and Edward could truly step into his place.

He realised he was staring again. Selina returned his gaze uncertainly, a trace of a blush crossing her cheeks under his scrutiny, and Edward looked away swiftly, cursing his apparent lack of self-control.

‘My sister has a bad habit of escaping. If you hadn’t found her who knows what would have happened?’

Ophelia was the precocious daughter of Maria, the Squire’s second, much younger wife. Little Ophelia had breathed new life into the ancient house and, at just seven years old to Edward’s twenty-four, she held the key to her half-brother’s heart in one tiny hand. She’d been quick enough to take advantage of her mother’s absence from the Hall, visiting friends in Edinburgh, and go tramping about the estate on one of her ‘expeditions’.

‘It was never my intention to frighten you. Please forgive me if that was the case and accept my heartfelt thanks for your service to my sister.’

Selina shrugged—a fleeting movement of one slight shoulder. ‘It was what anybody would have done under the circumstances.’

Edward nodded as though she had said something more gracious. She really did have the most disarming manner, he thought. Not at all polished, or even very polite, but there was honesty in her words, a lack of affectation that was oddly refreshing.

He shouldn’t admire it; indeed, his interest in her was unnerving. Get a hold of yourself, man, he chastised himself uncomfortably. You’re not some green lad, swooning over a milkmaid.

‘Well. Thank you all the same.’ After a moment’s pause Edward delved into his waistcoat pocket, wrestling with something contained within.

Selina flinched backwards at the movement, glancing this way and that; she seemed on the point of darting away through the trees—

‘No! Wait.’ Edward held up both hands. Bunched in his right was a snowy handkerchief, which he held out to Selina as gingerly as he might on approaching a wild bird.

‘You have some mud on your face, and a scratch—it’s been bleeding.’ He smiled wryly, one hand moving to the moon-shaped scar below his right eye. ‘I know from experience that it’s best to treat such a wound as soon as possible.’

Selina stiffened, and Edward saw another complex look dart across her countenance before she regained her composure.

‘Oh. Thank you.’

She tentatively took the handkerchief from Edward’s outstretched hand, her eyes never leaving his face. He watched as she dabbed at her cheek and cleared the dirt from her skin.

She may well be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

For all the scratches that marred her face, she was strikingly lovely in a way totally apart from the celebrated society belles of his circle. The notion was unsettling: hadn’t he long thought himself immune to the charms of women? The fact that in that moment, with the trees whispering around him and leaves strewn at his feet, he found himself as vulnerable as any other man was alarming in the extreme.

He would disregard it. She confused him, straying dangerously close to stirring something deep within him that he wanted left undisturbed, and that he couldn’t allow.

When she tried to return the handkerchief, he backed away with a shake of his head. ‘You keep it. Call it a memento.’

‘I’m not sure how much of today I’m like to want to remember.’

Edward bowed. ‘I understand. Whatever else you might feel, I hope you won’t forget that you have a friend in me. If I’m ever able to repay your kindness I shall endeavour to do so. I pay my debts.’

Selina’s answering smile was strange and still mistrustful, as though she knew a secret she didn’t intend to share. She was moving away from him, backing out of his reach in the direction of the place where Edward had seen her horse waiting for her. He watched her go, wishing the graceful movement of her stride wasn’t so damnably intriguing.

‘If that’s the case, you owe me twice over.’

‘Twice?’

She was almost out of sight. Edward frowned as she turned away from him, confusion clouding into his mind. Twice? How was that?

‘Once for today. Once for before.’

She threw the words over her shoulder and with a whisk of her crimson skirt disappeared between the trees.

Chapter Two

Selina gazed up at the ceiling of the darkened caravan, arching in a perfect curve above her head. Orange embers glowed in the grate of the compact stove set against one wall, dimly illuminating the gilt-painted woodwork of the shelves and bunks to gleam like real gold. A sliver of moonlight fell from one not quite shuttered window, slicing down to leave a pale splash on the polished floor.

Like all Roma women, Selina kept her vardo spotlessly clean, and even Papa, when he came to call for a cup of tea, knew to wipe his boots before he was allowed to cross the threshold.

A sideways glance across the narrow cabin showed her grandmother was asleep, the mound of colourful crochet blankets she slept under rising and falling with each breath. In the eerie stillness of the night even that small movement was a comfort.

Selina sighed. It’s no use.

Sleep evaded her, just as it had on the previous three nights. Each time she closed her eyes pictures rose up to chase each other through her mind: Edward as a young lad, on the day she had first encountered him all those years ago, attempting to smile through gritted teeth as she cleaned his wounded face, and then his adult counterpart, the blond curls just as vivid but his shoulders so impressively broad beneath his fine coat that Selina felt her heart beat a little faster at the memory.

Would that distinctive hair have been soft beneath her fingertips, she wondered, if she’d leaned down from her tree to touch?

The very notion made her breath hitch in her throat before she slammed the brakes on that train of thought, horrified by its wayward direction.

You can stop that this moment, Selina. What’s the matter with you?

At least the mystery of who he was and why she had encountered him there had been solved. Edward Fulbrooke. Ambrose’s son and Charles’ nephew. Perhaps she should have suspected, she mused as the image of his face drifted unstoppably across her mind’s eye once again, wearing the same dazzling smile he had flashed her mere days previously. But Edward’s father and uncle shared the same chestnut hair and ruddy complexion, quite unlike his cool fairness. There was no physical resemblance. And as for character...

Certainly as a boy he had been agreeable, she recalled as she lay in the darkness. He’d looked surprised to see her there in the woods, hunting for wild mushrooms, and she herself had felt nothing but sympathy for him at the state of his bloodied cheek. In those days she’d had no real reason to fear the gentry; Mama had still been alive, and in her childish innocence it had felt the most natural thing in the world to go to him, to help tend to his wound and to feel a slow creep of pleasure at having made a new friend who delighted her with his strange old-fashioned manners.

But then they had killed Mama. The Roma had left the Fulbrooke estate, never intending to return—and Selina’s hatred of the gentry had been burned into her heart like a brand.

It was just as well he didn’t remember me. He might have wanted to talk, otherwise, and that would never have done.

Selina shifted beneath her bedclothes, attempting to make her body more comfortable than her mind. The fact Edward had been just as courteous as a grown man as he had been as a lad was as surprising as her apparently instinctive attraction to him—and almost as confusing. The upper classes were renowned among her people for their contempt of the Romani, fostering the animosity that raged on both sides.

Had her care of Edward as a child opened his mind to the possibility the Roma were more civilised than he would otherwise have believed? she wondered. Or perhaps she was giving herself too much credit, Selina thought wryly. Certainly she was giving him too much space in her head.

The fact that she had slipped Edward’s handkerchief beneath her pillow meant nothing. There just wasn’t anywhere else to keep it. Zillah, with her hawk-like eyes, would spy it at once if she left it on her shelf, and carrying it upon her person seemed unduly intimate. Perhaps she should just get rid of it, wad it into the stove, but the thought made her uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t quite identify.

Beneath her pillow it would have to stay, incriminating embroidered initials and all, and Selina could only pray nobody would find it.

‘You’re still awake, child.’

Selina jumped, and sat up so quickly she almost hit her head on the low shelf above her bunk. ‘I thought you were sleeping, Grandmother.’

‘So I was—until you decided the early hours would be a good time to begin talking to yourself. A sign of madness, as well you know.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t realise I’d spoken aloud.’

‘You didn’t.’ Zillah rose up in her bunk, arthritic bones creaking. ‘You’ve been tossing and turning all night; any fool could tell you have something on your mind. I’d wager it’s the reason why you rode back into camp three days ago as if the devil himself was after you.’

‘It’s nothing, Grandmother. Go back to sleep.’

‘I will not. Make a cup of tea, girl, and tell me what ails you.’

Selina groaned inwardly. There really was no stopping Zillah once she got the bit between her teeth. A lifetime on the road—a hard path for any woman—had instilled in her an almost legendary resolve. There was no room for weakness in a vardo. At past eighty years old, with silver hair and a face lined with the countless creases of age, Zillah had a mind that was still sharp as a knife, and she was revered among the Roma for her experience and wisdom.

Of course she’d noticed Selina’s absence from camp, and how distracted she had been for the past few days—how could Selina have expected anything less?

She swung her legs down from her bunk and shuffled, still cocooned in blankets, the few steps towards the stove. She could have made a fire in her sleep by now, she was sure, and it wasn’t long before their copper kettle was whistling shrilly. Two doses of strong, sweet tea were poured into china cups, and she conveyed them back to where her grandmother sat, swathed in a thick woollen shawl and regarding her expectantly.

‘Well?’

‘Well, what, Grandmother?’ Selina hopped up into her bunk, cup clutched to her chest.

‘I would like to know what it is that bothers you. Start from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.’

‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’ Selina glanced at Zillah from beneath her lashes. Even in the darkness she could see her grandmother’s eyes were fixed on her, gleaming bright as a pair of new pins. ‘There isn’t anything I can think of.’

Edward’s face rose up before her mind’s eye before she could stop it, his hazel gaze locked onto hers, and she frowned down into her teacup. How was it that the only man ever to make her blush was a gentleman, and a Fulbrooke at that? She had every reason to loathe his family, and yet the pull of Edward’s powerful appeal was impossible for her to ignore.

No Roma man had ever tempted her so much, that was for sure. Although plenty had vied for the hand of Tomas Agres’s pretty daughter, Selina had never felt more than a passing flicker of interest in any of them beyond a stolen kiss or two.

The only one who had ever made her think twice was a handsome youth named Sampson, and even his charms had quickly vanished when she’d overheard him boast of his confidence in winning her without even needing to try. Since her swift and loud rejection of him nobody else had dared approach her, for which Selina felt nothing but relief.

The only man whose good opinion she needed to consider was Papa, and that had suited her just fine—until Edward Fulbrooke had come striding back into her life, his handsome face making her question every rational thought she’d ever had.

‘Are you absolutely sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘You lie,’ stated the old woman flatly. ‘Do you think I’m blind? That I’ve finally lost my aged mind after all these years?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Then don’t play games with me, girl. I can read you like a book.’

Selina sighed, shoulders slumping in resignation. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a terrible idea to talk things over, she mused. There had never been any secrets between the two of them; living in such close quarters didn’t really leave much room for intrigue. Besides, she had too much respect for Zillah to continue with such an unconvincing lie.

Edward’s image surfaced once again, all disarming smile and broad shoulders, and she forced it back roughly. It was definitely because she was overtired. She wouldn’t waste a single, solitary second thinking about him or the musculature hidden beneath his coat under usual circumstances. The distress of that day must have disturbed her more than she’d realised, and now her mind was playing tricks on her. Perhaps the benefit of her grandmother’s wisdom would help her regain her mental equilibrium. She just wouldn’t tell her every detail.

‘Very well.’ Selina took a sip of tea and braced herself for the inevitable. She had no doubt it would not be pleasant. ‘There was an incident while I was scouting for food.’

‘What kind of incident, child?’

‘I was set upon by two men. They chased me for a few miles, then I managed to climb a tree and hide until they left.’

‘Did they hurt you?’ Zillah’s voice was soft in the darkness—ominously so.

‘No. No doubt they would have done, had they caught me, but another man came and threw them off the scent. I suppose it’s to him I owe my escape.’ She hadn’t thought of it that way before, she had to confess, and, looking at events in such a light, didn’t it make her earlier behaviour towards Edward seem a little ungrateful?

Not to mention rude, she chided herself. You didn’t do much to show him Roma aren’t really insolent and ill-mannered.

But, no. One good act could never hope to negate generations of malice. Even if Edward had surprised her that day, there was nothing to say he wouldn’t revert to his class type on any other. Besides, she thought grimly, if he’d known where they were camping would he have acted entirely less chivalrously?

‘I see. And this heroic figure of a man—what of him?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean what of him, Lina? Why did he intervene? What manner of person was he? Roma?’

‘No, Grandmother.’ Selina’s mouth twitched at the thought as a sudden recollection of Edward’s refined features flitted through her mind, his lips curved yet again into a distressingly attractive smile. ‘Most definitely not Roma.’

Zillah’s eyes narrowed. ‘Come along, Selina. At my age I don’t have time for guessing games. What is it you think you cannot tell me?’

Selina took a deep breath.

‘He was gentry.’

There was silence.

‘Grandmother...?’

‘Speak on, girl.’

The mound of crochet blankets shifted as Zillah turned to face her directly with a close scrutiny Selina could have done without.

‘What strange circumstances led such a high and mighty gentleman to concern himself with the likes of you?’

‘I found his sister lost in the woods. I was trying to return her to where she came from and I was seen. The men who saw me assumed I was trying to steal her—and they weren’t pleased.’ Selina shivered suddenly and drew her blankets round her more tightly. What exactly would they have done if they’d caught her? The endless possibilities made her feel sick. ‘The gentleman saw where I was hiding but sent the men away before they realised. He said his sister had told him what happened, and if I ever needed help I was to call on him.’

Zillah gave a short caw of laughter. ‘Call on him? What does he think we would ever need him for?’

She clucked to herself for a few moments, evidently tickled. Selina tried to smile, but found her face was cold.

‘And did he have a name, your new friend?’

‘He—yes. Grandmother, he was the late Squire’s own son.’

Every trace of mirth died from the old woman’s face. ‘Selina! Say you didn’t tell him we were camped on his land?’ Her voice was earnest, and her eyes fixed on Selina’s own. ‘I had not thought he would come so soon. If he learns we’re here we’ll have to move. With winter coming, and the babies so ill, we can’t—’

‘I would never endanger our people,’ Selina breathed. ‘I gave no clue where I had come from. He has no reason to suspect we’re on his land.’

Zillah gazed at her a moment longer, before exhaling slowly. ‘Good.’

It would be disastrous to move the camp now, and both women knew it. Winter was approaching fast—the hardest time of year for those living on the road, whose lives were a trial at the best of times.

All their menfolk, with the exception of just two elderly grandfathers, were away working on the Oxford Canal, undertaking the backbreaking labour of widening it. Even their adolescent boys had gone, taking up shovels and picks and toiling alongside the grown men. The work was hard, and the hours long, but they were able to make a few coppers to take back to the waiting women on their short visits home that would allow them to buy provisions for the entire winter—including costly coal to feed the stoves that kept their caravans warm.

Such opportunities didn’t arise every day, and Selina’s father had jumped at the chance. Even the prospect of returning to the Blackwell estate, with all its nightmarish memories, would be worthwhile if it meant securing the survival of the camp. If the Roma moved on now the men would have to give up this precious source of reliable income.

It isn’t just the men’s jobs at stake, though, is it?

Selina bit her lip as she thought of the women who’d had the misfortune to bear autumn babies: three of them, all born within a few days of each other, struggling to breathe in the raw mornings and coughing their hearts out at the first suggestion of a frost. They would never survive the jolting journey along pitted roads if the camp had to move. The chill would get into their tiny lungs and one of the women would be sewing a miniature shroud before they knew what had happened.

No. There was no way they could leave now.

‘I mean it, Grandmother.’

With a supreme effort Selina once again attempted to banish Edward from her mind. He had no place in her world; their chance encounter could so easily have ended in disaster.

‘You know nothing in this world is more important to me than the safety of our people.’

Zillah seemed about to reply when the silent night was shattered by a terrible scream.

* * *

Edward couldn’t sleep.

That damned letter from Father certainly hadn’t helped, he reflected drily. How unfortunate that even now the Squire’s missives brought so little happiness to their recipients.

Edward’s mouth set in a grim line as he recalled the weight that had settled in his stomach when he’d heard the news of his father’s passing. Their relationship had been strained in life. Each had been as stubborn as the other, and Ambrose’s unsuccessful attempts to control his son had damaged their already shaky bond.

Edward remembered the many times his father had pushed him to the limits of his patience with his demands. His move to London, ostensibly to take care of their business in the capital, had allowed Edward to put a distance between them, and that was the only reason their relationship had managed to survive at all. They had disagreed on so many things, and their heated arguments had been the cause of more than one servant running for cover.

But Ambrose was the only father Edward would ever have, and in his own way he had begun to mourn the man who had caused him so much frustration; or at least he had, until anger had seeped in to mingle with his complicated grief.

He threw back the red coverlet and left his bed. The cold night air raised goosebumps on his skin and he shrugged his way into his best brocade dressing gown. The fire in the grate had burned down to ash, and he toyed momentarily with the idea of calling for a maid to bring it back to life before dismissing the thought in irritation. When had he become the kind of man to consider dragging a girl from her warm bed in the middle of the freezing night solely to pander to his own needs?

He’d been in London too long; it was as well he’d returned to Warwickshire when he had. The capital, with all its diversions and frivolous pursuits, had threatened to turn him into a ‘perfect’ gentleman—selfish, hedonistic and mainly decorative. Now he was back where he belonged he could feel the countryside and its ways seeping back into his bones, gently erasing the hardness city living had threatened to instil in him.

Edward struck a match and lit the candle standing on his desk. The light illuminated the Squire’s final letter, lying on the green leather top, and Edward picked it up. He’d read it a dozen times already, and it did not improve with further scrutiny.

His father’s solicitor had seemed almost apologetic when he’d handed it over, having taken it from his ancient safe at the reading of Ambrose’s will. It was written in a bold and flowing hand, and Edward ran his eye over the last communication he would ever receive from the man to whom he had been so deeply vexing.

As my only son and heir, you have repeatedly disappointed me in your duty to continue the line of our great and noble family. Nothing in your life could be more important, and your persistent failure to marry has provoked me to act.

I have instructed Mr Lucas to amend the terms of my will and add a condition on your inheritance. If you have not taken a wife within two months of my death the entirety of your inheritance will revert to my brother, your Uncle Charles, in his position as next in line.

He dropped the letter back onto the desk and extinguished the candle. He’d half expected it. His reluctance to marry had been like a red rag to a bull for Ambrose, for whom the continuation of the family name had been almost an obsession. Pretty heiress after pretty heiress had been paraded under Edward’s nose, but of course the damage had been done long before then.

His mother had been the first to crush his faith in gentry women, but the Right Honourable Letitia James had driven the lesson home with brutal clarity. With her blonde ringlets and china-blue eyes Letitia had the face of an angel but not the morals to match, and her thoughtless betrayal of Edward with a richer suitor had opened the wounds he had hoped she would help him to heal. She was the only woman he had ever entertained marrying, and her actions had only proved to Edward his reticence had been justified.

Edward felt a hot pulse of anger course through him as he wrenched his mind away from past pains and recalled the full contents of the letter. Unable to dictate terms while alive, Ambrose had in death finally managed to find a way to bend Edward to his will, and recognition of the fact that he had no choice but to obey caused Edward’s hands to curl into fists. He wasn’t a simpleton; he knew he would have to wed eventually. It was the notion of being ordered, instructed like a child, that turned Edward’s blood to fire.

In fairness, I suppose my bride might not be entirely like Mother or Letitia, he mused grimly as he dropped into his favourite armchair by the cold hearth. You never know. Her pretty ringlets might be dark instead of blonde, for instance.

The thought of dark hair stirred something in the back of his mind.

The girl from the woods. Selina. Now, that’s the sort of woman a man might be persuaded to marry, were such a feat ever to be managed.

What had she meant, he owed her twice? The words had puzzled him ever since their chance meeting. Surely they had never met before. Edward knew he would never have forgotten one such as her. It must have been simple mischief on her part, doubtless for her own amusement, and he had resolved to put her from his mind.

Unfortunately the Romani girl had persisted in working her way into his thoughts with vexing regularity since their encounter three days before. The memory had troubled him to begin with—what was he doing, allowing a woman so much space in his mind?—until he had reassured himself that it meant nothing.

It was simple human nature to admire a pretty face, and that was surely all his idle thoughts amounted to. Couldn’t a man enjoy the mental picture of a handsome woman without it meaning anything more? He was in little danger of ever seeing her again—and besides, his disinclination for spending too long in the company of young ladies ran deep.

Thoughts as to her suitability as a wife were as laughable as they were entirely hypothetical. Still... She wouldn’t be self-centred and idle like the women of his class, he was sure of it. She certainly wouldn’t spend too much money on dresses and amusements—in a stark contrast to the wasteful extravagance of the gentry. Of course it helped that she was beautiful, but a beautiful wife was often more trouble than she was worth—and besides, it wasn’t as though he had any intention of loving a woman. He doubted he was even capable anymore, his heart having twice been battered by thoughtless rejection.

The only female with any sort of claim to his affections was little Ophelia, and he resolved there and then never to allow her to be moulded into an upper-class Miss. If she were to be subjected to endless lessons in etiquette and how to be a true lady he feared his sister would one day become conditioned to be more concerned with herself than other people. Just like his mother.

Edward grimaced. Now you’re getting maudlin, he chided himself. Ophelia was nothing like the first mistress of Blackwell Hall and thank goodness for it. His sister would never be so cruel as to abandon her own child and run away with another man, leaving without so much as a goodbye for the boy she’d left behind, who had spent months waiting in vain for her return and defending her reputation with his fists.

At least she’d done him one favour—even if accidentally. From her harsh teaching he had learned a valuable lesson: he knew never to fall in love with a woman lest she leave and shatter his heart all over again. That was his mother’s legacy.

Letitia had been the only one to break through, and Edward had dared to believe she might be a better woman than the one who had given him life. But instead she had proved herself almost a copy of his mother, and after her duplicity he had rebuilt his defences with even higher walls.

Edward drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair as thoughts of Letitia flitted through his mind. The notion that he had once thought she could be his bride seemed so ridiculous now he might almost have seen the humour in it if she hadn’t ripped open the emotional scars he’d borne since childhood.

She knew how Mother’s leaving had affected me, and yet she betrayed me in exactly the same way Mother betrayed Father.

If what he’d felt for Letitia had been love he could do without it. For when the loved one left—as apparently was inevitable—the pain was almost too much to bear.

The gilt clock on the mantelpiece struck two, but Edward was only half listening to the feeble chimes. The idea of another fashionable young lady parading around his countryside sanctuary appalled him. This was where he came to escape the cloying falseness of high society—the notion of inviting it into this last outpost of peace was unthinkable.

He sighed and rubbed his aching forehead with one hand. ‘Think, Ned,’ he said aloud. ‘Put that Cambridge education to use for once in your life.’

Inspiration wouldn’t come.

Edward got to his feet and paced the floor, boards creaking as he moved. ‘Think! This is your future. Do you really want to be bound to such a creature for the rest of your life?’

Anger at his father’s last actions churned within him once again, and he felt his chest tighten with the now familiar mixture of grief and rage. The Squire had been dead almost one month already; only a few weeks remained for Edward to find a suitable match or risk forfeiting his inheritance forever.

He could barely even remember Uncle Charles, the man to whom all his future could be lost. The only communication they had shared in the twelve years since Charles had left for the Continent was the occasional letter, never concerning anything warmer than news of business affairs. The injustice of his situation made Edward curse out loud.

He crossed to the window and drew aside one heavy curtain. There was no sign of dawn. Darkness would cover the estate for hours yet—until the sun sulked into view and its pale autumn rays signalled the start of a new day.

His rooms were at the front of the Hall, positioned to make the most of the natural light, and from the window Edward could just make out the line of manicured trees that stood to attention on either side of the long drive leading up to the Hall’s imposing front door. He gazed out at the night, watching the trees stir gently in the moonlight.

A movement further down the drive caught his eye. He frowned. Even from a distance he could tell that whatever was out there was approaching the house at some speed, and getting ever closer. Edward squinted, straining his eyes against the gloom. Was it an animal of some kind?

Yes, he could just see it now: a great horse, bleached bone-white by the moon, galloping towards the Hall as though fleeing the fires of hell. Its rider was swathed in a cloak, with only her hair uncovered, flying out behind her like streamers in a storm—

‘Selina?’

A thrill of something unknown flared in Edward’s chest. It was definitely her—the closer she drew, the more Edward’s certainty grew that the figure flying towards him was the girl from the woods. Now she was in range he could even recognise her horse: a huge grey beast, flecked with scars and knotted with hard muscle, speeding down the gravelled drive with a gracefulness that belied its size.

Momentarily frozen in surprise, all Edward could do was watch her approach, his confusion growing with every moment. He hadn’t expected to see her again, and yet here she was. A less sensible man might have called it fate, and the unwanted suggestion was enough to galvanise him into action.

His heart pounded in his ears as he wrenched on his breeches, a rapid succession of thoughts chasing each other through his mind. Why was she here? At this hour? And why had she approached so swiftly? Something must be gravely wrong. She had given the impression that she distrusted his offer of friendship. What events could the intervening few days have wrought to bring about such a change?

A disloyal corner of his consciousness registered the thought that he was, despite his rational mind, pleased she had sought him out. Whatever it was she wanted, it was to him that she was turning. He dismissed the thought as soon as it arose—ridiculous notion!—but the echo of it stubbornly remained.

A thunderous sound at the front door drove him onwards in even greater haste. She’ll break it in two if she’s not careful, he thought in wry amusement as he thrust his feet into long leather boots.

The creak of an inner door being hurriedly flung open signalled the emergence of Blackwell’s aged butler, Evans, and Edward couldn’t restrain a grin at the prospect of the faithful retainer confronted with Selina.

Poor Evans. He smiled. He won’t know what’s hit him.

She was trying to pull away from the butler’s firm grip when Edward reached the top of the grand sweeping staircase that led down into the entrance hall, all the while waving something in Evans’s heated face—something white. Or at least it might have been white originally, but now it was streaked with mud and perhaps...dried blood?

‘Mr Fulbrooke!’ Selina spotted him and her attempts at escape doubled. Her hair was windswept and tangled from riding and her eyes were wild. ‘Mr Fulbrooke! Please, sir, I must speak with you—let me go!’

Evans was trying manfully to restrain her, but the woman appeared to be as strong as an ox. The older man’s face was puce with effort, and one of his slippers had come clean off in the fracas.

‘You can’t just push in here, waking the whole house—’

Selina paid him about as much attention as Edward would have paid a gnat. ‘I brought this with me. We met in the woods—do you remember? You gave me this—this handkerchief!’

‘Of course, Miss Agres.’ Edward reached the bottom step and gently laid a hand on the butler’s heaving shoulder. ‘Thank you, Evans, you’ve done very well, but Miss Agres is a friend of mine. Please let go of her.’

The other man’s face was a picture of surprise, and he opened his mouth as if to argue. Edward watched as the butler took a good look at Selina, taking in her disordered hair and unusual dress, but years of unfailing service prevailed and he hesitated for only a moment before sweeping into a low bow and stepping away.

‘Please forgive me, miss. I should never have laid hands on you had I realised you were known to the master.’

Edward turned back to her, a smile forming on his lips. But it flickered and died when he saw the expression on her face, and he registered for the first time how her entire body trembled as though she suffered from an ague. Her slim form, so perturbingly attractive to him upon his first sight of her, now seemed to radiate a vulnerability unlike the defiance of their previous meeting. Was it for that reason he felt a glimmer of protective concern?

‘Miss Agres? What’s the matter?’ She was very pale, he saw with alarm—could she be ill? The pallor served to highlight the rich darkness of her eyes, a fact that did not escape him. ‘You seem unwell. Won’t you please sit down and I—?’

‘There’s no time!’ Selina burst out.

She was wringing her hands, and Edward had to fight the unwelcome urge to take them in his own and hold them still.

‘Please, Mr Fulbrooke, come with me at once! You said you’d be a friend to me, and that your word was your law—I need you to prove it!’

Edward gazed down at her. He had been right; something truly terrible had occurred. There could be no other explanation for her coming to him, and in such a state of obvious distress.

‘You must try to calm yourself.’ He spoke with such firmness that Selina’s agitation seemed to check a little. ‘I will, of course, do anything within my power to help you, but first you must explain to me the particulars.’

Selina took a deep breath and clenched her hands into fists. Behind her, Edward caught sight of the below-stairs maids peeping from the servants’ corridor, their eyes wide with curiosity.

‘Evans. Would you please ensure the maids return to their beds and tell Greene to saddle my horse immediately? I have a feeling I’ll be going out, and I’m not sure when I shall return.’

Chapter Three

Selina glanced across at Edward, riding next to her on his sleek thoroughbred mare. Even in the silvery moonlight she could see his sharp jaw was tightly clenched as he bent low over his horse’s neck, urging her on at full speed. She swallowed. Even at this pace they might still be too late.

At that first cry Selina had vaulted from her bunk and thrown on her clothes. Something within her had known what was happening even before the woman had stumbled up the steps of her caravan and hammered on the door, shouting out what she had seen and moaning in fear.

‘They’re coming! They’re coming for us! What will we do? How can we defend ourselves?’

‘We can’t.’ Zillah had stumped the short length of the cabin, unbolted the split door of the vardo and taken the wailing woman outside firmly by the shoulders. ‘The only hope we have of surviving this is to lock ourselves in and pray for a miracle.’

‘Is that all?’ The woman had stared at Zillah, and Selina had seen the horror in her eyes. ‘Is that all we can do?’

‘Yes. With the men away we have no protectors. We don’t even have any tools with which to arm ourselves—curse our foolishness! We should have planned for this.’

In the dim light Zillah had looked haggard with fear, and for the first time in her life Selina realised her grandmother was afraid. The knowledge had shaken her to the core. If weathered, unflappable Zillah was frightened, their situation must be every bit as bad as Selina feared.

‘We bolt our doors and we pray.’

‘And if they break down our doors? What then?’

Zillah closed her eyes. ‘Then we try to save the children. Whatever the cost.’

That was when they’d heard it: men’s voices, perhaps ten in all, punctuated by the excited baying of a pack of hounds. The woman had paled and fled back to her caravan, to drive home the heavy bolt across her door and gather her children round her, as though there was something she could do to keep them safe.

‘So this is where you’re hiding, is it?’

‘Did you think we wouldn’t find you, child-stealer?’

Selina’s blood had run cold. She had known those voices—Harris and Milton, Edward Fulbrooke had called them. She’d remembered their threats, and her stomach had begun to knot in animalistic terror.

‘We’ve brought some friends with us. Why don’t you come out and meet them? Such a shame you ran from us before—if you hadn’t we wouldn’t have needed to come and find you...’

Selina’s heart slammed into her ribs now, as she and Edward rode onwards. They were so close. Was there a chance they would get there in time? She imagined the children, cowering behind their shaking mothers as the sound of the men’s mocking laughter echoed around the camp and heavy clubs began to whistle towards shuttered windows—

She gasped for air. No. She couldn’t allow herself to think like that. If she went to pieces how would Edward find the camp? She had to stay strong and do whatever it took to protect her people. She had already taken the biggest risk, in the name of salvation.

Zillah had stared at her, eyes wide with horror. ‘What? What did you say?’

‘You said yourself—we need a miracle!’

‘That would be no miracle, girl, only madness!’ Zillah had backed away from her. ‘You would go to them for help? Our enemies?’

‘What choice do we have?’ Selina cried. ‘He gave me his word; I mean to test it!’

‘But, Lina—’

‘This is all my doing. I’m the only one with even the smallest hope of getting us out of this unscathed.’ Selina had grasped both of Zillah’s hands in her own and felt them tremble. ‘Do you think I would go if there was any other way? You know I would not. You know I don’t make this decision lightly.’

From outside the caravan both women had heard a fresh scream, followed by a bray of boorish laughter.

‘Grandmother, please. I have to try.’

Zillah had peered up at her, an unreadable expression in her ebony eyes, and given a shuddering sigh. ‘Your mother wouldn’t want this, Selina.’

‘Perhaps. But I know she wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt if I had a chance to protect them.’

She’d slipped from the caravan and out into the meadow. Keeping to the shadows, she’d called softly to Djali and been up onto his back and gone from the camp before anybody could stop her.

She felt Edward’s eyes upon her, although she didn’t dare turn her head to look. She’d been grateful when he’d saddled up and followed her—more grateful than he would ever know—and amazed, too. She hadn’t really expected him to keep his word, but to try had been her only option. What had been the real chances that an upper-class gentleman would honour his promise to a Roma?

She had obviously underestimated him in that moment, but that didn’t mean she trusted him. The canker of suspicion ran too deep, and even now Selina had the unpleasant feeling of having jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

Even the horror of her current circumstances hadn’t managed to completely obliterate her disloyal senses, however. A furtive glance towards him was like a swift punch in the guts. Once again she was assailed by the handsomeness of his face and the powerfully masculine frame of his body, and she felt her throat contract as she caught a glimpse of a tantalising expanse of toned chest: Edward’s shirt had apparently been thrown on in great haste, with a few buttons left unfastened. There was a smattering of hair there, far darker than the gold on his head—fascinatingly so, in fact...

Selina wrenched her eyes away before he could turn and catch her looking. Even more mortifying than she ever would have believed was the realisation that she was enjoying the sight of him improperly dressed. It caused her great agitation, and her cheeks were flushed with both shame and guilt as she rode next to him in pained silence. Shame for appreciating such a trivial thing at such a time, and guilt at being appreciative of such a man at any time whatsoever.

Her instinctive attraction to Edward seemed to be tightening its grip on her, not loosening as she had hoped, and her grip on Djali’s reins tightened likewise at the thought.

‘Are we getting close?’

Selina swallowed hard, trying to force her voice into some semblance of normality. ‘Yes. The camp is just beyond the line of trees up ahead.’

Edward nodded and spurred his horse onwards. Refusing to be outpaced, Djali surged forward too, and the horses flew neck and neck across the final stretch.

As they approached the screen of branches Edward began to slow. ‘Miss Agres. Stop.’ He pulled his mare up short.

Frowning, Selina did the same, and watched as Edward dismounted and hooked his reins over a branch. ‘I want you to wait here.’

‘What? No!’ She slipped down from Djali’s back and moved to stand at his head. ‘Mr Fulbrooke, there’s no way I’ll be leaving my people to face this alone!’

‘Be sensible.’ Edward’s voice was steady. ‘If what you have told me is true, these men were drawn here by your presence. What effect do you think it will have if you suddenly appear in front of them?’

Selina opened her mouth, but her reply was quickly cut off by Edward’s outstretched hand. He stood so close he could have touched her if he’d chosen to. His proximity made Selina’s heart skip an unwilling beat and she quickly took a step backwards.

‘The last thing either of us wants is to make things worse. I would consider it a personal favour if you would stay here until I come to find you.’ He looked away. ‘I would also like to know that you’re safe.’

Selina blinked at him. He actually sounded concerned for her welfare. In all probability it was an affectation, born out of some misguided upper-class notion of honour, although she might have been fooled, had she been the foolish type, into believing he was genuine. And yet—to her shame—the notion that he might harbour some kind of regard for her wasn’t unpleasant. Certainly some small part of her—a disloyal part, she thought crossly—hoped, against her better judgement, that he might be sincere.

Why, Lina? Because he’s handsome? Selina scoffed at herself, irritated by her own brief weakness. You should know better than that. Why should he feel any kind of concern for you? And why should you want it?

‘I’ll stay here,’ she said reluctantly. ‘But only because I know you speak the truth. I can well imagine what would happen if those men laid eyes on me again.’

Edward nodded. ‘I’m glad. Now I’ll go and see what can be done to help your people.’

Selina stared at the ground. Edward’s boots really were the best she had ever seen, and it was much easier to look at them than into the eyes of their owner. ‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me yet.’

There was an edge of grim humour to Edward’s voice, and Selina chanced a glance up at his face. His firm jaw was fixed, and even in the pale light of the moon she could see the set of his expression. He looked determined, yet calm, and the combination only served to emphasise the handsome lines of his features. Selina twisted her fingers together beneath the cover of her cloak.

‘We need to make sure I’m successful first. I intend to seek out every man who thinks he has the right to do this, and show him the error of his ways. Now, please, hide yourself. I hope to be back soon.’

Selina watched as he moved cautiously through the trees and vanished from her sight. Well, I did what I could. It was all up to Edward now, she supposed as she settled herself against the thick trunk of a spreading oak.

And what of Mama? Zillah’s earlier rebuke echoed through Selina’s mind. Would she really be so appalled? Or would she understand that family came first and must be protected even if at great personal cost?

Edward had taken her by surprise so far, she could not deny it. His conduct towards her had been far better than she would have expected from a gentleman—and a Fulbrooke, come to that. His face was undeniably pleasing, though his fair looks were in stark contrast to the dark Roma handsomeness, strange but not unappealing in their novelty.

Not that you should care for such pretty manners, or notice the colour of his eyes, she reminded herself sternly. It took more than such trivial things to impress her. It was just an observation, and one she would continue to strive to banish from her mind.

She shivered. A glance down at her hands showed that they still shook—with cold or fear? she wondered. She strained her ears, both hoping and dreading to catch a whisper of a clue as to what was happening beyond the trees, but there was nothing save the quiet breathing of the horses and the sigh of leaves stirring in the night air.

Selina squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, Mama. What would you have done?

* * *

Edward felt the brutal atmosphere change to one of shamefaced fear almost as soon as he stepped from the camp’s shadows into the light of Harris’s torch and swept it from his hand with rough force. One glance at Edward’s flame-lit face—rigid with cold fury—was enough to make the group of men, frozen in the act of battering the spoked wheels of a caravan, decide that perhaps the Roma had learned their lesson, and Edward might almost have laughed at the instantaneous change of their voices from jeering to pleading.

‘We were just trying to protect Miss Ophelia, sir,’ Milton ventured meekly, attempting to hide a club behind his back as his friends shuffled from foot to foot, their eyes sliding past Edward to fix on the ground.

‘Do you think me a simpleton, man?’

Edward turned to him, feeling the rage that bubbled within him course hotly through his veins. The Roma women inside their caravans must have been beside themselves, he thought disgustedly. What kind of man could take pleasure in such a thing?

‘We both know this has nothing to do with my sister and everything to do with your need to bully those you feel beneath you. Am I wrong? Do you disagree? Answer me!’

The gamekeeper stared down at his boots, the ashen shade of his face visible even in the moonlight. ‘I... I’m not...’

‘Not a bully? Of course you are. You all are. What other possible explanation could there be for ten men to go to the effort of seeking out and then attacking a camp full of women and children?’

Edward glared down at the man from his great height. The image of Selina’s terrified expression and shaking body flashed before him and he felt his fury surge upwards. Even if the Romani woman hadn’t been such an undeniable beauty—which, he had to admit to himself, was part of the reason he had extended the hand of friendship in the first place—he still would have interceded on her behalf. How dared these men take it upon themselves to behave so appallingly on his estate? And, to add insult to injury, to pretend they did so out of loyalty to his sister?

‘You didn’t do this for Ophelia.’

He gestured across the camp, catching glimpses of the damage as he turned. Cooking pots and blankets lay strewn across the ground, evidently kicked about by heavy boots, and more than one lantern had been hurled down to burst into shards of glass. The caravans had fared better than he had feared, at least. The half-hour it had taken for Selina to return with him hadn’t left the men enough time to destroy any of them, although several now bore the marks of savage blows to their wooden walls.

‘Not for her. You did it because you wanted to.’

It was an ugly truth, Edward knew, but a truth nonetheless. He’d heard tales of abuse before, from the Roma boys he had played with as a child, when their easy laughter and unselfconscious warmth had seemed poles apart from the stiff propriety of playmates in his own class and their welcome of him had left a permanent impression of their decency.

There was no basis for this mistreatment—no justification at all. But folk inherited their intolerances from their fathers, as had their fathers before them, and prejudice was passed down through generations to rest in the hearts of men such as Harris and Milton—men with little power of their own, whose low social standing fanned the flames of their desire to find someone, anyone, they perceived to be worth less than themselves to bear the brunt of their frustrations.

He surveyed the men surrounding him, taking in their various attempts at contrite expressions, and felt his rage renew its vigour. He could dismiss them—throw them off his land just as they had wanted to drive off the Romani—but they had wives who had committed no crime other than making a dubious choice of husband, and children, too, reliant on their fathers’ employment for survival. To remove the men from his service would be to punish their families, some of whom had served the Blackwell estate for generations, and he felt a twinge of conscience at the thought of that.

Damn it all. These animals should count their blessings.

He looked down at them, his face set in an expression of grim dislike. ‘I have decided on this occasion to let you off with a warning. Make no mistake, however,’ Edward went on. ‘I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour on my property. If I hear anything of this nature has happened again, next time I will not be so lenient.’

The light of their torches illuminated the men’s faces, each sagging with relief.

Only Milton looked mutinous, and Edward raised a challenging eyebrow. ‘Something troubles you?’

‘No, sir.’ Milton shook his head quickly, although resentment gleamed dully in his sunken eyes. ‘Thank you for your kindness, sir.’

‘Very well.’ Edward nodded his head in the vague direction of where the estate workers’ cottages lay. ‘You may all return home now, to reflect upon what I have said.’

The men slunk off, dogs creeping at their heels. No doubt to tell their wives of Squire Fulbrooke’s unfair and malicious treatment of his well-intentioned, faithful servants, Edward imagined. He snorted as he watched them go, slouching away between the trees. It was almost an anti-climax, how easily he had been able to intervene. They were cowards indeed.

Long grass knotted about his boots as he fought his way back up the bank and through the line of trees to where Selina waited, a silent shape at the base of an ancient tree.

‘Mr Fulbrooke!’ She leapt to her feet when she saw him coming, one hand at her throat and the other on the tree’s trunk to steady herself. ‘What happened? Is the camp—?’

‘Do not fear.’

Edward could hardly keep himself from reaching out to touch her shaking hand. She looked as though she might faint, he noted in alarm. Not that he would blame her if she did. She’d had the most terrible experience, and if anything he was rather impressed by how well she’d handled it.

The notion almost made him frown. ‘The men have gone and your camp is safe.’

‘Gone? Safe?’

Edward looked at Selina a little more closely. Pale and beautiful in the soft light of the moon, she appeared to be swaying now. ‘You look a little faint. Here, take my arm. We can walk together.’

‘No.’ Selina shook her head wildly. ‘I’ll ride—it’ll be quicker. I have to get back now.’

‘You’re in no fit state to ride anywhere. Let me help you. You’re no use to anybody unconscious.’

‘But Djali—’

‘Will follow us, I’m sure. Now, come. Take my arm.’

She hesitated, suspicion sparking in her eyes once more. Edward sighed, supressing a flicker of irritation. Mistrustful as a feral cat.

‘Miss Agres. I have risen in the middle of the night, ridden for miles and dispersed a mob—all in the name of your safety. Do you really think it likely that I undertook all that only to lunge at you on the pretence of offering my arm?’

Selina’s eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth to reply before evidently thinking better of it. She took a shaky step forward and, with the air of one with a gun to her head, slipped her hand beneath his arm and gripped tightly.

It was a warm little hand, Edward noted with a jolt of surprise. The night was chill, but the patch of forearm covered by her palm suddenly didn’t seem cold at all. It was an unexpectedly pleasant sensation. Usually having a woman on his arm felt intrusive, but Selina’s touch, although firm, was not invasive.

He wondered for a moment at how it was that her grasp was so much more bearable than anybody else’s had ever been. If he were to be honest with himself, it was more than merely bearable... At the first touch of her fingers he’d felt a sharp pulse of something unexpected shoot through him—a bewilderingly quick nameless rush that had caused him to frown in surprise. He glanced down at Selina, searching her face for any indication that she had felt a similar sensation, but she studiously avoided his gaze, the faintest suggestion of a blush colouring her cheeks.

‘Can we go now, please, Mr Fulbrooke?’

Edward smothered a smile at the careful politeness of her tone. ‘Of course. Watch your step.’

The slight pressure of her hand on his arm was the only way Edward knew she walked beside him. Her steps were almost silent, graceful as any wild animal.

It was only a short distance to walk: down a small slope, through a band of trees and then out into the secluded meadow that Selina’s Roma community had thought so safe.

Edward surveyed the scene in front of him. Fires had been lit in his absence, their orange tongues dancing in the night air, and a group of women stood to one side, conversing in low voices that flared with both sorrow and relief. Among them a young girl was singing softly in a tongue Edward didn’t recognise, gently rocking a baby on her hip. An old man, bent almost double with age, seemed to be tending to an injured horse, while a small boy carefully swept up a heap of spilled oats from an upended sack. Another cluster of women were gathered around one of the caravans, its painted sides still gleaming cherry-red in the firelight but heavily dented by brute force.

He approached cautiously. Despite Selina’s presence at his side he could almost feel the cold stares of the women upon him, their fear and uncertainty palpable.

‘Grandmother!’

Selina slipped away from him and the place where her hand had rested on his arm felt suddenly cold. She had held it there for mere minutes, and yet he felt a curious sense of loss at the withdrawal of her touch. Edward pulled his coat closer about himself, shrugging off the uncanny sensation. He must be getting tired... His mind was beginning to play tricks on him.

Selina was in the arms of an old woman, being folded into a fierce embrace. The woman was small and frail-looking, but with a similarity around the cheekbones that suggested a family connection. The embrace ended and the two began to talk. He heard the rise and fall of their voices, soft at first, but swelling to such a pitch that the neighbouring Roma glanced across in concern.

He thought he saw the glint of tears on Selina’s face, shining like rubies in the light of the fire, and turned away. You shouldn’t be here, he warned himself. You’ve played your part. Selina and her grandmother evidently had much to discuss, and none of it his business. He should enquire as to whether he could be of any further assistance and then leave these people in peace.

‘Mr Fulbrooke?’ Selina stood close to him, her fingers working in apprehension. The fire lit up one side of her face, making flames dance in one jet iris while throwing the other into shadow. ‘My grandmother told me what happened, and what you did to help us. We are so grateful.’

Edward smiled. ‘It was a pleasure.’ The tears had gone, he saw: she’d rubbed them away with the back of her hand when she’d seen him looking. There was softness under her tough facade, he was sure. Why was she so determined that he not see it?

‘We are forever in your debt.’

‘There is no debt, Miss Agres.’ He shook his head. ‘You were kind to my sister when she was in need and I’ve just shown the same kindness to you and yours.’

Selina nodded, although Edward saw unhappiness in the lovely oval of her face. The sight niggled at him, creating an uncomfortable feeling of concern that took him by surprise. ‘Has something else occurred?’ he asked.

‘Something else?’

‘You were so relieved before we arrived in camp. Now you’ve spoken with your grandmother and you seem distressed again. What has she said to you?’

‘It’s nothing that need trouble you.’ Selina’s voice was quiet and she looked away from him across the camp.

Edward followed her gaze to where a little girl was attempting to coax her trembling dog out from beneath a caravan, the wheels of which were scarred by the blade of an axe.

‘It’s only—they said they’d be back.’

‘What?’

Selina turned to him, her eyes huge with worry. ‘As they were leaving Grandmother heard them. They said it was only on your land that you would feel obliged to protect us, and that as soon as we moved they would come to find me.’

Edward felt his pulse quicken. Those two-faced, disobedient rogues. How dared they make new threats? How dared they try to get around his express word? And yet...

There isn’t much I can do to prevent it, he thought darkly. Edward couldn’t control what they did outside his estate, and short of catching them in the act he would have no concrete proof of their involvement in any future incidents.

Selina’s voice was hoarse. ‘It’s all my fault.’

‘It is not.’

‘Oh, but it is.’

She smiled then, a tight stretch of her lips filled with such sadness and fear that Edward felt another sharp stab of that something lance through his chest, only to flicker and fade the next moment.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because it’s me they want. And they’ll continue to hound us, over and over, until they find me.’

He gazed down at her. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the group of women watching him, Selina’s grandmother among them. Nobody seemed willing to come nearer, and the contrast between their wary distance and the way women of his own class clustered around him at any given opportunity was so absurd a part of him wanted to laugh.

The sight of Selina’s rigid face stopped him. ‘What is your plan?’ he asked.

She sighed—a long drawn-out shudder of breath that seemed to come all the way up from her toes. ‘I’ll have to give myself up to them. There is no other way.’

‘You cannot possibly!’ Edward stared at her, hardly able to express his disbelief. ‘You cannot mean that!’

‘What choice do I have?’ Selina stepped away from him, her face shuttered and blank. ‘Apparently I’ve made fools of them—and they won’t stop until they’ve proved they’re the victors and I’ve lost.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘They’ll continue to terrorise us when we leave here, and with the health of the babies and our menfolk’s jobs we can’t get far enough away to escape them. This is the only way.’

Edward passed a hand through the tousled thatch of his hair. Selina had given him a brief outline of the Roma’s current situation as they had ridden out from Blackwell. To move the community now would indeed spell disaster.

‘So, you see, it’s what I must do. Grandmother forbids it, of course.’ There was a ghost of that terrible smile again. ‘But I won’t allow a repeat of what happened tonight.’

It was unthinkable. Edward paced a few steps away from her, noting with perverse amusement the way the group of women standing nearby flinched backwards. She couldn’t. The very idea that Selina would consider sacrificing herself for the good of her community was madness.

A commendable sentiment, Edward thought, but utter madness.

The fact that he couldn’t see how to prevent it from happening pained him more than he cared to admit. He had no choice other than to acknowledge that she was a remarkable woman, quite unlike any he’d met before, and the notion of her in such danger was abhorrent to him. Of course she would face that danger bravely—there was that damned flicker of admiration again—but still...

If only there was a way he could reliably intervene...a set of circumstances that meant Harris and Milton could never touch her and she would be permanently out of their reach...

They would continue to hunt Selina, of that he was certain. Their lust for vengeance for her perceived victory and the pull of that generations-strong prejudice was too powerful. Neither common decency nor the pleas of their wives would prevent them from attempting to punish Selina and the other Roma. She had escaped them not once, but twice, and now their resolve would be firm.

No doubt it was the rumours of his family’s mistreatment of the Roma that had made the men feel safe in persecuting them, Edward mused darkly. Charles had done something terrible, and Ambrose had all but chased the travellers off his land. Their prejudices had been clear to all—perhaps people suspected that Edward shared their sentiments.

The idea that he might so easily have followed their unthinking bigotry was uncomfortable. Thank goodness I was taught better than that, he thought, his eyes on Selina’s silent face.

His childhood Romani friends had done him that favour, by including him in their play and allowing him to be himself in a way frowned upon at his austere home.

And that little Roma girl who showed me such rare kindness will never know the difference she particularly helped to make.

Her tender care of him was something he hadn’t experienced at Blackwell Hall; his mother had been only occasionally attentive, in a detached sort of way, and Ambrose had never so much as lain an affectionate hand on his shoulder.

The thought of his father caused a pain in his chest Edward could have done without, and resentment swelled within him once again as the contents of that enraging final letter ran through his head.

Having been temporarily replaced by the severity of Selina’s situation, his own troubles now returned to the forefront of his mind with a vengeance, and Edward felt his insides twist with renewed anger at the late Squire’s meddling. Time was running out for him to claim his inheritance—a needless pressure born out of one man’s obsession with control.

But Edward was his own master and always had been—that was what his father had hated so much. To make Edward obey him in death in a way he hadn’t managed in life would have been Ambrose’s final victory.

An idea exploded into Edward’s consciousness with such vigour he could have sworn he heard it. Of course. It was so simple—and wouldn’t it neatly solve Selina’s problem at the same time as his own?

He would obey his father’s will to the letter—right down to the final dot of the final ‘i’. He would marry as instructed—but not to the kind of woman Ambrose would have so ardently desired, nor one in any way reminiscent of the lady who had taken his heart only to grind it into dust.

It was risky. People wouldn’t like it. Certainly his father would have been beside himself with rage. But the opinion of society had never mattered much to Edward and, given the desperate circumstances of both parties involved, it now mattered even less. There was even some satisfaction to be taken in knowing he was, as always, acting according to his own wishes—dictated to by nobody but himself.

‘Miss Agres?’

Selina had turned away from him. Standing before the fire, only her silhouette was visible to Edward’s gaze, outlined in sparks and tongues of curling flame. He could see the tension in her back and knew it was only by sheer willpower that she was maintaining her composure.

‘Yes.’

‘I think I may have a solution to your current dilemma—depending on your answers to two questions.’

‘Have you?’ Her tone was flat and devoid of curiosity. ‘And what would those questions be?’

Edward ignored how dull she sounded, feeling his hopes beginning to build. ‘The first is: What is your age?’

She didn’t turn to look at him, her eyes still fixed on the flames before her. ‘How is that of any relevance?’

‘Please. Humour me.’

She sighed, as though it was an effort to find the words to reply. ‘Very well. I am recently turned twenty.’ The fire crackled, sending sparks swirling into the night sky. ‘Your second question?’

Edward reached for her. At the first touch of his hand on her shoulder Selina jumped and swung round to face him, a frown of distrust clouding her features. Edward smiled as the expression in her dark eyes, at first wary and fearful, turned to frozen astonishment as she watched him drop to one knee and take her small hand in his own.

‘Selina Agres. Will you marry me?’

Chapter Four

‘I—What? What did you say?’

Selina gaped at him, feeling her mouth drop open in shock. Had she misheard? Surely he could never have said what she thought he’d—

‘I said, will you marry me?’

She stared downwards, first at Edward’s intent face and then at their hands, joined together in a clasp uncomfortably like that of a pair of lovers. His hand was so much larger and yet it held hers so gently—almost tenderly, a disloyal voice in the back of her mind murmured.

To her horror, a sensation not unlike the warmth of a fledgling fire kindled beneath Edward’s firm fingers, flickering against her skin and stealing upwards towards her arm. The feeling crept higher, warming her against her will, until it reached her chest and settled there, burning inside her with an inexplicable heat that sent her heart fluttering.

On the very edge of her field of vision she could just make out Zillah, watching them in uncharacteristically mute shock, for all the world as though she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Selina wasn’t sure she believed it either. He couldn’t be serious—of course he couldn’t. Whatever had possessed him to make such a cruel joke at such a moment?

‘Have you run mad?’ The flickering embers of sensation sparked further, beginning to smoulder, and Selina snatched her hand from Edward’s grasp, cradling it against her body with the other as though he had truly burnt her with his touch. ‘Or do you think to mock me?’

‘Neither, I hope.’ Edward rose lightly to his feet again, and Selina took a step backwards, out of his long reach. He didn’t attempt to come closer, but instead regarded her calmly as she glared at him. ‘I asked in earnest.’

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