‘I find it hard,’ the Captain said, ‘to believe you would flee from the prospect of becoming a countess, when you walked to my house, in the pouring rain, thinking you were about to become a mere governess.’

Countess?

‘Not that it makes any difference now,’ he said, in a tone of chilling finality.

‘Oh, but …’ she began, but he had turned away. His shoulders stiff with affront, he stalked from the room, shutting the door behind him with the exaggerated care of a man who would have got a great deal more satisfaction from slamming it hard.

Aimée rolled onto her back, thumping the counterpane at her sides. Yes, why had he gone to such lengths to get her to his house? Why had he placed an advertisement in a London newspaper that made it sound as though he wanted to employ a governess when what he really wanted was a wife?

AUTHOR NOTE

The Earl of Caxton has two granddaughters. One of them, Miss Aimée Peters, has grown up in exile, knowing only poverty and hardship. She is desperate to find some security. To put down roots.

To the outside world the other, Lady Jayne Chilcot, has been her family’s pampered darling. But she feels suffocated by the stultifying propriety that hems her in on all sides, and longs for adventure.

These cousins have one thing in common. Their mothers were proud women, who instilled that pride into their daughters, teaching them that a lady will always rise to the occasion, and to look upon adverse circumstances as a test of character.

I am still writing about how Lady Jayne finds her adventure at the moment, but first you can read about Aimée.

In this story Aimée goes looking for the respectability she craves in a job as a governess. What could be safer for a single woman than living quietly in the country, teaching children all the things she has learned in her so far turbulent life? She does not dream that in her new employer, Captain Corcoran, she will face the greatest challenge of all. A challenge to her heart …

About the Author

ANNIE BURROWS has been making up stories for her own amusement since she first went to school. As soon as she got the hang of using a pencil she began to write them down. Her love of books meant she had to do a degree in English literature. And her love of writing meant she could never take on a job where she didn’t have time to jot down notes when inspiration for a new plot struck her. She still wants the heroines of her stories to wear beautiful floaty dresses and triumph over all that life can throw at them. But when she got married she discovered that finding a hero is an essential ingredient to arriving at ‘happy ever after'.

Previous novels by Annie Burrows:

HIS CINDERELLA BRIDE

MY LADY INNOCENT

THE EARL’S UNTOUCHED BRIDE

CAPTAIN FAWLEY’S INNOCENT BRIDE

THE RAKE’S SECRET SON

(part of Regency Candlelit Christmas anthology) DEVILISH LORD, MYSTERIOUS MISS

Also available in eBook format in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone:

NOTORIOUS LORD, COMPROMISED MISS

CAPTAIN

CORCORAN’S

HOYDEN BRIDE

Annie Burrows

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To my editor, Sally Williamson, for all your patience with me on this one, your insightful revision suggestions, but most of all for reminding me to write from the heart.

Chapter One

Wanted: For Gentleman’s family in Yorkshire. A Healthy Young Person from good family, to supervise education of young children. She will not be expected to dine with servants or do any menial work. Any person able to provide proofs of their pedigree, education and character may call at the Black Swan, Holborn, on Tuesday, 6th June, between the hours of three and four in the afternoon.

Miss Aimée Peters sighed as the church clock of Beckforth chimed the half-hour. Again.

It meant she had been sitting on her trunk in the coaching yard of the King’s Arms for well over an hour.

Of course, no governess could expect her employers to send one of their other servants to wait for the stage to come in, and to meet her as though they regarded her as a significant member of the household. There was not a creature on earth of less significance than a governess.

Which had been the whole point of going to such lengths to secure this position. Nobody ever looked twice at a governess. Her background and education separated her from the servants, and her status as paid employee kept her apart from the family. She would belong neither above nor below stairs.

To all intents and purposes she would be invisible.

Which was exactly what Aimée wanted.

Though—she shivered as the wind skirled round the corner of the yard in which she was sitting—it was one thing to have pulled off such a successful disappearing act, but where on earth was Mr Jago?

He had left a letter for her at the Black Swan, telling her that if she still wanted the position for which she had undergone that rather cursory interview, it was hers. All she had to do was go to the Bull and Mouth and collect the tickets he had purchased for her transport as far as this inn in Beckforth, which was the closest village to her employer’s home.

But what if the letter she had sent, along with the requested references, to tell him she was indeed accepting the post, and would be travelling to Yorkshire immediately, had gone astray? What if nobody was expecting her to arrive today at all? She could not just sit on her trunk in this ramshackle inn yard indefinitely!

She gripped her overnight bag, which she had kept on her lap the entire way, a little more firmly, stood up, and brushed a few stalks of dried, muddy straw from her skirts.

It was not as though she was not perfectly used to fending for herself. Her lips twitched into a wry smile. Her willingness to travel—nay, her experience of travelling had been, she was convinced, the deciding factor in landing her this post. Mr Jago had scarcely asked anything about her pedigree, but had sat up and looked very interested once she had told him how she had spent her childhood becoming fluent in Italian and French by flitting from one European city to the next. Naturally, she had not mentioned that these moves had usually occurred at dead of night, with outraged creditors in hot pursuit.

Mr Jago, after pursing his lips and looking her up and down with those keen blue eyes of his, had unbent far enough to tell her that his employer, the man who had placed the advertisement in the London papers and had sent him to conduct interviews, was a naval captain who was looking for a woman with backbone. Aimée had only briefly been puzzled by his choice of words, for she perceived that a naval officer would probably need to uproot his family regularly, depending on where he was to be stationed. She saw that she would adapt to a peripatetic lifestyle more readily than any of the other applicants, and so had proudly replied that she had a backbone of steel.

Aimée picked her way carefully through the piles of droppings, refuse and puddles that made up the surface of the yard, to the half-open inn door. If Mr Jago really had hired her because he had thought nothing would daunt her, she had better prove him right! Beginning by finding out how far it was to The Lady’s Bower, the charmingly named house where her new employer and his family now lived, and making her own way there.

She might have cheated her way into this post, but she was so grateful for the chance to earn her living doing honest work that she was utterly determined that neither Mr Jago nor the naval officer whose children she would be caring for would ever have cause to be sorry they had hired her.

The smell of spilled ale, tobacco fumes and unwashed working men hung over the threshold like a thick curtain. She had to mentally push her revulsion to one side before she could go inside.

‘Can you tell me, sir, how far it is to The Lady’s Bower?’ she asked the stringy individual who was leaning on his elbows on the far side of the bar. ‘And whether it is practical for me to walk there?’ She could probably hire some form of conveyance from this inn, if not. She had enough coin in her purse, tucked into a side pocket of her overnight bag, to provide for such contingencies.

He sucked air in through his teeth. ‘You don’t want to be going there, miss,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You want to put up here for the night, and take the stage back to London in the morning. I’ll have a room made up for you, shall I?’

‘No, thank you!’ Aimée drew herself up to her full height and glared at the slovenly landlord. She had enough experience of his type to tell from the state of the yard and his clothing that his bedrooms too would be dirty, the sheets damp, and any food on offer poorly cooked.

‘I most definitely do not want to return to London. I just want to reach The Lady’s Bower before nightfall!’

The landlord’s patronising expression hardened into a sneer.

‘On your own head be it, then,’ he said, eyeing her in a way that made her even less inclined to sample the dubious quality of his lodgings. ‘T’aint more than three, mebbe four miles across Sir Thomas Gregory’s lands. Course, a stranger to these parts, taking the direct route across his land would like as not run foul of his gamekeeper …’

‘You expect me to believe this area, being so far from London, is so savage that people go around taking potshots at strangers?’ she scoffed.

‘Poachers, aye …’

‘Do I look like a poacher?’ she exclaimed, indicating her neat little bonnet, deep green travelling dress and serviceable cloak. She had chosen each item carefully, from second-hand dealers that stocked a better class of cast-offs, so that the entire outfit made her look exactly what she thought a governess ought to look like.

‘Or an imbecile?’ It had suddenly dawned on her that her outfit actually made her look fairly well off, as well as eminently respectable. The man was obviously trying to scare her into giving him her custom. Just because she was a stranger to the area, he thought he could hoodwink her into staying the night, then hiring some overpriced conveyance from his stables in the morning to take her on a journey that would probably turn out to be hardly any distance at all!

He sucked air through his teeth again, running his eyes over her slender frame with a decidedly hostile expression.

‘You could go by the roads, I dare say. If you’re so set on going there.’

‘I am,’ she snapped, her initial plan, of asking if he could provide some form of transport evaporating in the heat of her increasing irritation.

The directions he then gave her were so complicated, with a couple of left turns by the corners of beet fields, followed by right turns after blasted oaks, and making sure to take the right fork after Sir Thomas’s beech plantation, that she was half-convinced she was going to go round in a great big circle and end up right back where she started.

In this benighted inn yard.

Having left instructions as to the care of her trunk, she strode off with her head held high, her overnight bag gripped tightly in her left hand, and a confirmed dislike of the inhabitants of Yorkshire simmering in her breast.

She eyed the fields to either side of the lane, wondering if the funny-looking reddish leaves within them belonged to beetroots. If they did, then she had to turn left at the end of the next one, then left again once she had crossed the little footbridge over the stream.

That she found a stream, complete with a footbridge, did not encourage her as much as it might have, had she not suspected the innkeeper was sending her on a wild goose chase. She had annoyed him, by not immediately falling in with his suggestions, and surely this was her punishment! She ought to have been more conciliatory, she supposed.

Her mother always used to say that there was never any excuse for forgetting her manners. Or surrendering to displays of emotion in front of vulgar persons.

How right, Aimée sighed, her mother had been. Vulgar persons did not waste time in getting their own back. Vulgar persons took great delight in sending you out on six-mile hikes. When rain was on the way.

She hefted her bag into her other hand, and glanced warily at the sky. When she had set out, the clouds had not looked all that noteworthy, but now they were building into a decidedly threatening mass. And there were no other buildings in sight. She was right out in the countryside now.

But she could, at last, see the woodland that the innkeeper had told her belonged to Sir Thomas Gregory. A stone wall delineated the boundary of his property, but if it really came on to rain hard, she would have no trouble nipping over it and seeking shelter under the trees.

She could only hope that the gamekeeper was the type who stayed at home on wet afternoons.

She shrugged down into her travelling cloak, flicking up the large shawl collar over her bonnet, forming it into a hood, as it began to rain. The shopkeeper had promised her that the cloak, though lightweight, would keep out the wet.

And had she been walking back to her lodgings from the shops, through city streets, it might well have done so. But the kind of rain that gusted across open fields, building up speed and force by the acre, could not be halted by one layer of merino wool, no matter how finely woven.

She eyed the wall uncertainly. And the trees on the other side. They did not look, now she was up close, as though they would offer that much shelter after all. Every time a gust of wind shook the branches, great cataracts of water flowed from the leaves, as though a million tiny housemaids were emptying buckets out of invisible upstairs windows. And the wall that from a distance, when it had been dry, had looked so easy to climb, looked positively treacherous up close, now it was slick with rain.

She had no wish to turn up on the first day of her new job looking like a drowned rat. But it would be far worse to look like a drowned rat in torn and muddy clothes. The only thing that could have been worse was to have stayed huddled on her trunk, in the inn yard, looking like the kind of helpless female that required the services of a nursemaid to so much as wipe her nose!

She stayed on the road. It was not as if she could get much wetter, anyway. The unmannerly Yorkshire rain sneered at cloaks fashioned for city dwellers, using its playmate, the wind, to flick it aside so that it could soak her dress directly. And because she was having to clutch her makeshift hood to her throat, to keep it in place, it also managed to trickle down her cuffs. Not to mention the way it alternately splashed up under her skirts, and dragged her hem down into the mud. And although her sturdy brown boots were watertight, it did her feet no good, because her stockings were soaked, which meant that the water oozing down her legs had no means of escape. She should have purchased a coat, she sighed, that buttoned fast all the way down the front. Had she had more experience of weather in the north of England, she would have known that labelling the season between June and September ‘summer’ was no guarantee that light clothing would suffice.

And to cap it all, she could hear a distant rumble that sounded as though a thunderstorm was approaching. She shivered. The way her luck was going today, that probably meant hailstones.

But then she spotted the fork in the road that the innkeeper had mentioned about halfway through his convoluted directions. Hopefully, that meant she was geographically halfway to her destination.

She changed her bag to her left hand, clutched her hood to her throat with her right and strode out a little faster.

The sound of thunder grew steadily louder; in fact, so steadily it began to sound more like carriage wheels.

She glanced over her shoulder, and, sure enough, cresting the brow of the undulating lane behind her came a carriage and pair at a spanking pace. Such a spanking pace that she had to leap nimbly over the ditch that flanked one side of the road to escape being run down.

She managed to stay upright, even though the stubby crops made for a most uneven surface. Though naturally, given the way her day was going, she landed ankle deep in mud. She looked up from the quagmire in which she stood in some surprise when the driver hauled on the reins, drawing the carriage to a halt abreast of her, and shouted, ‘Miss Peters?’

When she nodded, he pointed his whip at her and bellowed, ‘Do you have any idea how long I’ve been driving up and down these lanes attempting to find you?’

His words sent a shiver of dread coursing through her. Surely he could not be a Bow Street Runner? Not after she had taken such pains to cover her tracks. Nobody could possibly know she was in Yorkshire.

Though how could he know her name, if he was not a paid investigator of some kind? She eyed him with trepidation, rapidly taking in the many-caped coat and tricorne hat of a typical coachman. His appearance was no consolation. A really good thief taker would naturally be a master of disguise. If he was masquerading as a coachman, then he would take care to handle the ribbons nonchalantly, as well as dressing the part so convincingly!

With the tip of his whip, he pushed back the hat that had been pulled low down over his forehead, sending a shower of water cascading over his broad shoulders, and revealing the fact that he wore an eyepatch. It gave his harsh, weatherbeaten features such a sinister touch that she promptly abandoned all thought of either begging him for mercy, or offering him double whatever he had been paid to capture her to let her go.

Then he tugged down the muffler that had covered the lower half of his face, and said, ‘What the devil do you think you are doing out in this weather?’

She had been cautiously feeling her way backwards with her feet, but the incongruity of the question halted her. Why on earth would a man paid to hunt down fugitives care what kind of weather she was out in? Unless it was on his own account. That must be it. He resented having to be up on that exposed box, in such foul weather.

Well, it served him right! As she surreptitiously tried to ease one foot out of the mud that held it fast, she glared right back at him, the villain! What kind of man took on such work?

He watched her freeze, then frown up at him in bewilderment. And felt as though somebody had reached into his chest and squeezed hard. It was as though somebody had cast a spell on the figurehead from The Speedwell, bringing her to life and casting her ashore in that muddy beet field. Dripping wet, confused and somewhat afraid, she still had sufficient spirit to lift her chin and square her shoulders, as though daring him to do his worst.

‘Mr Jago!’ he bellowed. Behind him, he heard the coach window come rattling down. Miss Peters tore her eyes from her appalled perusal of his wreck of a face. He saw the moment she recognised Mr Jago, then closed her eyes, her whole body sagging with what looked like profound relief.

Just who the hell had she thought he was? And what was she doing out here anyway?

He half-turned, and roared over his shoulder, ‘Did your letter not specify that we were coming to fetch Miss Peters from the King’s Arms?’

Aimée wanted to kick herself. Of course this vehicle and its driver were the transportation arranged for her by her new employers. It was just because her nerves were in tatters that she had immediately jumped to the conclusion that Bow Street Runners or thief takers must have caught up with her.

Thank heaven she had honest work now! She was not cut out for a life of crime. Her guilty conscience had left her fearing arrest every minute these last couple of weeks.

Perversely, the stupidity of her mistake made her absolutely furious with the coachman for giving her such a fright.

‘Don’t you yell at him!’ she yelled at the piraticallooking driver. ‘The letter offering me this job did say someone was coming to fetch me, but I had been waiting for an age in that filthy inn yard, and assumed that my arrival must have been forgotten. So I decided to walk.’

‘In this weather?’

‘It was not raining when I set out,’ she replied tartly. ‘Besides, I am not made of spun sugar, you know. I will not melt.’

Mr Jago opened the carriage door fully and clambered down. ‘Well, never mind who thought what,’ he said, crossing the road. ‘The thing is to get you out of this rain now.’ He extended his hand to her across the ditch.

A fleeting look of chagrin flickered across Miss Peters’s face as she regarded Mr Jago’s outstretched hand. Then her mouth compressed into a thin, hard line. She looked as though she wished she could consign the pair of them to perdition. But in the end, he saw a streak of practicality overcome her pride. He nodded to himself in approval as she reluctantly took hold of Mr Jago’s outstretched hand. The former bosun had come back from London telling the rest of the crew that he’d found a woman who boasted she had a backbone of steel. Which was just as well, considering what lay in store for her. But even better, her swift suppression of that little flash of temper showed him that she was sensible enough to know when to bow to the inevitable.

He could not help grinning when she consoled herself by pausing to bestow one last, fulminating glare at him before accepting Mr Jago’s assistance into the carriage.

Coxcomb! Aimée fumed, gathering the folds of her sopping wet cloak around her as she settled herself into the seat. It was his fault she was covered in mud now. And the shaft of pure terror that had lanced through her when she had thought he had come to arrest her and haul her back to London had left her shaking like a leaf.

‘Captain Corcoran intended to pick you up in the gig,’ said Mr. Jago, his face creasing with concern as she knotted her fingers together on her lap in a vain attempt to conceal how badly they were shaking. ‘But seeing the weather likely to blow up a storm, he went to his neighbour, Sir Thomas, to see if it would be possible to borrow his carriage, so you would not get wet.’

His eyes slid to the little pool of water that was forming around her boots, and added, with a faint tinge of reproof, ‘It all took a bit longer than we anticipated. But you really should have waited.’

Aimée’s chin went up. She absolutely hated being criticised for showing some initiative. Looking Mr Jago straight in the face, she considered telling him exactly why she had set out on her own across unknown terrain. How could she possibly have known what this Captain … whatever his name was, had arranged? It was not as if anyone had bothered to inform her. Why, the Captain had not even deigned to put his name to the letter his man of business had left for her at the Bull and Mouth.

And was she supposed, then, to just meekly accept any arrangements he might or might not have made on her behalf? As though she had no brain in her head?

However, she reined in her impulse to inform him exactly what she thought of him and his employer. It would not be a good start to her new life, to spend the journey to The Lady’s Bower arguing with a man who seemed to be very much in her employer’s confidence.

The fact that the carriage, with her in it, was even now rattling into the very yard of the King’s Arms she had hoped never to see again almost overset her good intentions. All the time and energy she had wasted, getting thoroughly soaked into the bargain, and here they were, back in the King’s Arms, presumably in order to collect her trunk.

She seethed. If anybody had thought to inform her of their intentions, she need never have set out in the rain at all!

And Mr Jago was still looking at her with that faint air of reproof as though he expected her to be grateful to his employer!

For one moment, just one, she admitted to herself that perhaps she ought to feel grateful. She could not remember anyone going to such trouble to see to her well-being, at least not since her mother had died.

But on the very day of that wretchedly pathetic little funeral, she had discovered that it was no use sitting about waiting for somebody else to look after her. Her father had taken to the bottle; if she had not swiftly learned to shift for herself, she would have starved.

And half a lifetime of facing neglect, of having to be self-reliant, was not going to dissipate under the meagre weight of Mr Jago’s disapproving frown!

The coach lurched to a halt, rocking as the driver jumped down from his box. She tore her eyes from Mr Jago’s disapproving ones to follow the driver’s progress across the yard to the inn door.

He had one of those voices that carried. Even from this distance, she could hear him berating the landlord for not stopping lone females from going wandering about the countryside in foul weather—in such highly colourful terms that she wondered whether she ought to be covering her ears. She was quite sure she ought not to know what half those terms meant. And Mr Jago, to judge from the way he shifted in his seat and cleared his throat loudly, was alive to her embarrassment, but at a complete loss to know what to do about it.

He ought, of course, to have got out and told the man to mind his manners.

Although perhaps not. She was merely a governess now, and not worthy of much consideration. She had to content herself with displaying her disapproval by glaring out of the window at the driver as he instructed the ostlers to stow her trunk in the boot at the back of the carriage.

She hoped she would not have to have too many dealings with this bad-tempered man. She thought it unlikely. A governess would not have much to do with the outdoor staff.

Thank goodness.

Having strapped the trunk in place with a violence that had the whole carriage jerking, and which to her mind seemed completely unnecessary, the driver whipped up the horses and the carriage lurched out of the yard at a cracking pace. She grabbed for the strap as they rattled down the lanes she had so recently trudged along, with a speed that had both passengers bouncing around the interior.

Wonderful. She was going to arrive at her first proper job in a state of bruised, chilled exhaustion! She had so wanted to impress her employers with an image of neatness and competence. Instead, she had the feeling that if this nightmare ride continued for much longer she was going to tumble out of the carriage looking like something the cat had dragged in.

What was more, if she had been a delicate sort of female, she had the notion she would promptly go down with a severe chill and take to her bed. The Captain might well have taken some pains to procure a closed carriage for her, to prevent her from getting the wetting that her independence of mind had ensured she got anyway, but he had not thought to equip it with a hot brick. No, there was not so much as a blanket to keep off the chill that was seeping through to her bones.

She had been far less uncomfortable outside! At least the activity of walking had kept her warm, whereas now, sitting still in her wet clothes in the unheated confines of the carriage, she was starting to shiver.

Yes, if she were not as tough as old boots, the incompetent Captain would be summoning a doctor for his new governess, within hours of her arrival.

Perversely, cataloguing the fallibility of her new employer went a great way to consoling her for her uncomfortable physical state. Like all men, he had decided he knew what was best, without either consulting, or informing, her what he was about. And his plans, like the plans of every man she had ever met, had been woefully inept. As well as being deleterious to the health of the female they intended to dominate.

She gripped the strap a little harder, bracing her feet against the opposite seat as they flew over the potholed, rutted road.

Oh, how she hoped some of his children were girls. She would thoroughly enjoy teaching them to think for themselves. To warn them that though men thought they were the superior sex, they were not to be trusted, never mind depended on!

She had cheered herself up no end with a series of similarly subversive plans by the time the carriage finally slowed down, to make a sharp turn between two gateposts topped with stone acorns. And the smooth glide along the short, but impressively maintained, driveway came as a welcome respite to her bruised posterior.

Mr Jago opened the door, got out and extended his arm to help her alight.

Aimée found herself standing on a neatly raked gravel turning circle in front of a three-storeyed, slate-roofed house.

The front door opened, and three men in a livery that consisted of dark blue short jackets, and baggy white trousers, which made them all look vaguely nautical, came tumbling out. One of them, a bow-legged, skinny man with eyes that each seemed to work totally independently of the other, came scampering up with an umbrella, which he unfurled with a flourish, and held over her head.

Far too late, of course, to do her any good, but it was a lovely gesture. She smiled her thanks and the man grinned back, revealing a set of teeth that appeared to have been stuck into his jaws at random.

‘I am taking the carriage straight back to Sir Thomas,’ the driver bellowed, shattering the feeling of welcome that had briefly engulfed her.

‘Get Miss Peters’s trunk and see her settled!’ he barked at nobody in particular. Yet one of the men ran directly to the boot of the carriage, unstrapped her trunk, hefted it on to his shoulder and trotted with it to the house. Her eyes widened in amazement. It had taken two sweating ostlers to manhandle it into the rear boot of the stage when she had left London, yet he was treating it as though its weight was negligible.

Mr Jago waved his arm in the direction of the front door. ‘Welcome to your new home,’ he said.

With the bow-legged man holding the umbrella over her, the support of Mr Jago’s arm, and the way the other two men stood each to one side like a guard of honour as she trod up the three shallow steps to the front door, Aimée almost felt like a queen being escorted into her palace.

She shook her head at the absurd notion. It was only the latest in a string of strange fancies that had popped into her head today. The certainty that she had been forgotten, when in fact her new employer was going out of his way to help her, the conviction that the piraticallooking coachman he’d sent was a Bow Street Runner, and now, the odd feeling that had not Mr Jago frowned at them so repressively, the oddly liveried staff here would have burst into applause as she alighted from the coach.

She raised her hand to her brow. Perhaps she was sickening for something after all. Her nerves had been strained almost to breaking point over the last few weeks. And her journey from London had seemed never-ending, because of the persistent feeling that at any minute, somebody was going to point at her, and cry ‘There she is!’ and drag her ignominiously back again.

And yet, here she was, her muddy boots staining the strip of carpeting that ran down the centre of the highly polished wooden floor of The Lady’s Bower. And the front door was closing behind her.

Shutting her off from her past.

Oh, they would keep on looking for her for a while, she had no doubt of that. But nobody, surely, would ever guess she had managed to get herself employment as a governess. Or if they did, by some peculiar quirk of fate, pick up her trail, she was surely not worth following this far north. Not all the way into the wilds of Yorkshire!

She had done it.

She had escaped.

And suddenly, the realisation that, against all the odds, she had reached her chosen hiding place came over her in such a great rush that she began to shake all over. The room shimmered around her, the heat, which had seemed so welcome only seconds before, now stifling her.

Tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet, she tottered to the staircase, sat down heavily on the bottom tread and bowed her head down over her damp knees.

She was not going to faint! There was absolutely no need to.

Not now she was safe.

Chapter Two

Somebody, no, two somebodies took her by one elbow each, and hustled her across the hall and into a small parlour. They removed her wet cloak, her undone bonnet sliding from the back of her head in the process. And then they lowered her gently on to an armchair in front of a crackling fire. Again, she leaned forwards, burying her face in her hands to counteract the horrible feeling that she was about to faint.

‘Get some hot tea in here!’ she heard Mr Jago bark, swiftly followed by the sound of feet running to do his bidding. ‘And some cake!’ She heard another set of feet pounding from the room.

Eventually, the lurching, swimmy sensations settled sufficiently for Aimée to feel able to raise her head. Mr. Jago and the wall-eyed man who had held the umbrella over her were watching her with some anxiety.

‘I will be fine now,’ she murmured, attempting a smile through lips that still felt strangely numb.

‘Yes, you heard her,’ Mr Jago said, starting as though coming to himself. ‘And the sight of your ugly mug is not going to help her get better. Be about your business!’

‘Looks like a puff of wind would blow her away,’ she heard the man mutter as he left the room.

‘Aye, far too scrawny …’ she heard another man, who had apparently been lurking just outside the door, agreeing.

And then there was just Mr Jago, assessing her slender frame with those keen blue eyes.

As if she was not nervous enough, that comment, coupled with Mr Jago’s assessing look, sent a new fear clutching at her belly.

‘I am far stronger than I look,’ she declared. ‘Truly, you need have no fear that I am not fit for work!’

Indeed, she did not know what had come over her. She could only assume that the strain she had been under recently had taken a deeper toll on her health than she had realised.

She knew she had lost quite a bit of weight. To begin with, she had felt too sickened by what her father had done to feel like eating anything. And then flitting from one cheap lodging house to another, whilst racking her brains for a permanent solution to her dire predicament, had done nothing to counteract her total loss of appetite.

And the people she’d been obliged to approach, in the end—people nobody in their right mind would trust! She had not been sure they had not double-crossed her until she’d boarded the stage, and it was actually leaving London.

‘I am just tired,’ she pleaded with Mr Jago. ‘It was such a long journey …’ And it had begun not the day before, in the coaching yard of the Bull and Mouth, but on the night she’d had to flee from the lodgings she shared with her father. When she had to finally accept she needed to thrust aside any last remnants of obligation she felt towards the man who had sired her.

For he clearly felt none towards her!

To her relief, Mr Jago’s expression softened.

‘You must rest, then, until you have recovered,’ he said. ‘Do not worry about your position. It is yours. Quite secure.’

The door opened, and the burly man who had taken her trunk upstairs came in with a large tray, which he slapped down on a little side table at Aimée’s elbow, making the cups rattle in their saucers. Mr Jago shot him a dark look, which the man ignored with an insouciance that immediately raised him in her estimation.

Once she had drunk two cups of hot sweet tea and consumed a large slice of rich fruitcake, Mr Jago led her up the stairs to a charming little bedroom on the first floor. On the hearthrug, before yet another blazing fire, stood a bath, already filled with steaming, rose-scented water.

‘You will feel much better for getting out of those wet clothes and having a warm bath,’ said Mr Jago, and then, going a little pink in the cheeks, added, ‘I hope you will be able to manage unassisted.’

‘Naturally,’ she replied, determined to erase the impression of a helpless, weak and foolish woman she was worried might be forming in his mind, after the way she had behaved today. ‘A governess has no need for a maid.’

He cleared his throat, going a tinge deeper pink, then said briskly, ‘Have a lie down, after your bath. There is nothing for you to do until this evening, when the Captain requests the pleasure of your company at dinner.’

Mr Jago had phrased it like an invitation, but, of course, it was an order. Her new employer would want to look her over. And find out what kind of creature his man of business had hired to take care of his children.

‘Thank you. I shall be ready,’ she assured him.

She wasted no time, after he had left, in slithering out of her wet clothes and slipping into the warm bath with a sigh of contentment. She could not recall the last time somebody else had drawn a bath for her! Several large, soft towels had been draped over an airer before the fire to warm. Having dried herself, she wrapped one round herself, toga style, and set about getting herself organised. The first thing she did was to drape her chemise, petticoat and stays over the frame that had been used to warm the towels. Then she went to her trunk, which somebody—the burly man, she assumed—had placed at the foot of the divan bed, which was up against the far wall. She unpacked the silver-backed hairbrush first, an item she had purchased for the express purpose of placing in a prominent position on her dressing table. She did not know much about being in service, but she did know that a governess had to establish that she was no ordinary servant from the outset, by employing such little ruses as this.

Then she took out the gown she had bought in case she ever had to dine with the family. It looked almost new. And not too badly creased, either. She had pressed it again before packing it. She had got a laundress to carefully run a hot iron over the seams the very day she had purchased it, as she was in the habit of doing with every item of second-hand clothing she ever bought, to make sure that no lice the previous owner might have carried could survive to plague her. It was not a very flattering style, and the dove-grey silk did not suit her colouring, but apart from the fact that it was the only thing she had been able to find that struck the right balance between decorum and style, it added to the impression she wished to give, of being in mourning.

She grimaced as she hung it from two pegs on the back of the door. The day she had bought it was the day she had decided her father was dead to her. She had fulfilled her filial duty by making sure he was free of debt before she left town. And paid for one more month’s rent on his lodgings. But that was it. She would have nothing more to do with him.

Her stays and petticoat were still slightly damp when she put them back on later, upon rising from her nap, but she could not leave them lying about her room! The coins she had sewn into the hem of her petticoat bumped reassuringly against her calves, reminding her that the safest place for the amount of money she was carrying was on her person. And that it was where it must remain, no matter what.

Having dressed, and brushed, braided and pinned up her hair in the style she had decided made her look the most severely governess-like, Aimée lifted her chin, straightened her back and left her room.

The burly servant was lounging against the wall opposite, his brawny arms folded across his massive chest.

‘Evenin’, miss.’ He grinned at her, straightening up. ‘They call me Nelson.’ He shrugged in a way that suggested it was not his real name at all, but that he was not averse to the nickname.

‘I’m to take you down to the front parlour, where the Captain is waiting,’ he explained.

‘Are you the footman?’ she asked as he led the way along the corridor to the head of the stairs. She knew that as governess, her position would be outside the hierarchy that governed the rest of the staff, which she did not mind in the least. No, so far as she was concerned, if the only people she spoke to, from one end of the day to the next, were her charges, the safer she would feel. Nevertheless, it would be useful to ascertain the status of every person working in this household, so that she did not inadvertently tread on anyone’s toes. Mr Jago was easy enough to place. He was in a position of some authority. But Nelson was something of a puzzle. He had hefted luggage about like a menial, but then served tea with an air of doing Mr Jago a personal favour, and had come to fetch her as though he had a fairly responsible position himself.

He turned and looked at her over his shoulder, his leathery, brown face creasing even further as he frowned.

‘In a manner of speaking, just now, aye, I suppose I am,’ he said. ‘Down to minimum complement of four side-boys, just now, on account of—’ He stopped short, his eyes skittering away from hers. ‘And, well, we all do whatever’s necessary,’ he finished, crossing the hallway and flinging open the door to the parlour.

She could not help noticing his rolling gait, which, coupled with his nautical outfit, and the incomprehensible jargon he used, confirmed her belief that this man was an ex-sailor. In fact, now she came to think of it, all the men who had gathered at the front door, upon her arrival, looked more like the crew of a ship, loitering on the dockside, than formally trained household servants.

And when he announced, ‘Miss Peters, Cap’n!’ before bowing her into the room as though she were a duchess, she wondered if Mr Jago had hoped all her years of travel had rendered her broad minded enough to deal with what was looking increasingly like a very eccentrically run household. Because, from what Nelson had just said, it sounded as though the Captain expected all his staff to adapt themselves to the circumstances, rather than rigidly stick to a narrow sphere of duty.

Well, that did not bother her. She could cook and sew, manage household accounts and even clean out the nursery grates and light the fires if necessary. As long as her wages came in regularly, and nobody asked too many questions about her past, she would not mind taking on duties that were, strictly speaking, not generally expected of a governess.

A tall man dressed in naval uniform was standing with his back to the room, gazing out of the rain-lashed windows. His coat was of the same dark blue as that of his staff, though cut to fit his broad shoulders and tapering down to his narrow waist. Gold epaulettes proclaimed his rank. And instead of the baggy trousers of his men, he wore knee breeches and silk stockings.

He swung round suddenly, making her gasp in surprise. For one thing, though she could not say precisely why it should be, she had always imagined her employer would be quite old. Yet this man did not look as though he was much past the age of thirty.

But what really shocked her was the scarring that ran from one empty eye socket to his right temple, where a substantial section of his hair was completely white.

What a coincidence! His coachman, too, had worn an eyepatch over his right eye.

No, wait … Her stomach sinking, she studied his face more closely.

Earlier on, she had only glimpsed the coachman’s features fully for a few seconds, when he had pulled his muffler down, the better to berate her. And the hat had concealed that thick mane of dark blond hair.

But there was no doubt this was the same man!

Her stomach sinking as she recalled the way she had shouted right back at him, she sank into a curtsy, hanging her head.

He must have had a perfectly good reason for driving the coach himself. Nelson had said the household was short of staff at present. Perhaps that accounted for it. Perhaps that accounted for him coming to fetch her so late, too. Nelson’s ambiguous comments indicated the place was in turmoil, for some reason he did not care to divulge to her, the newcomer.

But did that excuse Captain Corcoran from not introducing himself properly? Or shouting at her, and scaring her half to death?

Oh, if he were not her employer she would …

But he was her employer. And he had every right to shout at her if she angered him. And since she needed this job so badly, she would just have to bite back the remarks she would so dearly love to make.

She clenched her fists and kept her eyes fixed on the floor just in front of the Captain’s highly polished shoes, knowing that it was a bit too soon to look him in the face. Not until she had fully quenched her ire at being so completely wrong-footed could she risk that!

She had never imagined how hard this aspect of getting a job as a governess would be. She supposed it came from not having to submit to anyone’s authority for so many years. Not since her mother had died. Though she had never had any trouble doing exactly as she had told her.

At least she would not have to resort to asking a few of the questions she was sure this man would think impertinent, to work some things out. For one thing, she could see perfectly why Mr Jago had said he wanted to hire a woman with backbone. This Captain Corcoran clearly had a hasty temper, as well as a completely unique way of organising his household. She had been on the receiving end of it herself already, as well as witnessing his treatment of the slovenly landlord in Beckforth. A more sensitive female would wilt under the lash of that vicious tongue, let alone the force of the blistering glare she could feel him bending upon her now!

As she continued to stand, with her head down, the Captain emitted a noise that was just what she guessed a bear, prematurely roused from its hibernation, would make before devouring the hapless creature that had woken it.

It surprised her into looking up. She caught him fumbling a patch into position over the empty eye socket, his lips drawn into a flat line as though he was experiencing some degree of discomfort.

He might have known the sight of it would turn her stomach, he thought as her eyes skittered away from the ruined right side of his face. Mr Jago had said she did not seem to be the squeamish sort, but you never could tell what was going on inside a woman’s head, not unless you shocked them into revealing it.

‘C-Captain Corcoran?’ she stammered, wondering how on earth to get past this awkward moment.

‘Miss Peters,’ he said crisply, as though her mere presence in the room was causing him intense annoyance. Though she could not imagine why it should. He was not the one who had made a complete fool of himself out there in the road!

‘Shall we go in to dine?’ he said, holding out his arm. ‘Unless you are not hungry?’ She would not be the first woman to find his features so repellent they robbed her of her appetite.

Just then her stomach rumbled so loudly that even the Captain must have heard it, for he looked down at it in surprise, at the exact moment her hands fluttered to her waist. Though she was appalled at such a loss of dignity, she swiftly decided that it had at least gone some way towards dissipating the tension that thrummed between them.

‘There is no point,’ she said with a rueful twist to her lips, ‘trying to pretend that I am not completely famished!’

It was quite true. The nausea that had been roiling in her stomach ever since the night she had learned her father had attempted to auction off her virginity in some noisome gambling hell in a last-ditch attempt to escape his crushing debts had completely vanished the moment she had crossed the threshold of The Lady’s Bower. She had enjoyed every mouthful of that cake, and now she felt as though she could eat a horse.

The ferocity of the Captain’s frown abated by several degrees.

‘Then let us go in,’ he said.

She laid her hand upon his arm, and he led her through a door into a generously proportioned dining room. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over a terrace, and thence to grounds that were obscured by the driving rain.

There was an oval table in the centre of the highly polished floor, beautifully set out, with a centrepiece of artistically arranged roses that filled the air with their perfume.

It was only as a servant came to pull out one of the chairs for her that it struck her how odd it was that it was only set for two.

Where was the Captain’s wife?

She darted him one curious glance as he took his own place and signalled for service to begin.

She toyed with her napkin in her lap, as she bit back the thousand-and-one questions she wanted to ask. It was so frustrating, having to constantly remember her place! He would only tell her whatever he thought she needed to know, in his own good time.

He sat stiffly, eating his soup in brooding silence. But it was so delicious that before long she no longer cared that her new employer was turning out to be a bit of an autocrat. A man would not have risen to the rank of Captain, she decided, at such a relatively young age, without having a forceful personality. Nobody would put a man in charge of a fighting ship if he were not extremely capable.

The navy was not run in the same way as the army, where a man could rise through the ranks merely by buying commissions. In the navy, a man had to earn his promotion. Even pass exams in seamanship, she seemed to recall having heard somewhere.

And he definitely looked intelligent. It sparked from that one, steely grey eye. There had been an uncomfortable moment, just before dinner, when she had felt as though he was looking into her very soul. But then, fortunately, her stomach had rumbled. And although that hard mouth had not curved into a smile, she had seen a flash of humour lighten his expression somewhat. And if he was capable of seeing the funny side of things, perhaps he would not turn out to be a complete tyrant.

It was a shame, she mused, about his scars. Because without them, he would be quite handsome. Though even before he had lost that eye, she did not think he would have had the sensuous kind of good looks that had some women practically swooning with desire. No, he would have had … still had, in fact, the rugged features of a man with plenty of character.

She laid her spoon aside, astonished to find she had devoured her soup in complete silence, whilst musing over the Captain’s looks and character.

‘So, you spoke no less than the truth,’ the Captain remarked as the servant whisked her empty bowl away. ‘I do not think I have ever observed any female eat with such gusto.’

Though he looked faintly amused, again, she felt rebuked by his remark. Her mother had taught her better than this! She ought to have sipped at her soup daintily, not revealed she was utterly famished.

She folded her hands in her lap, pulling herself upright as more servants bustled about with dishes containing the next course.

She had not forgotten her table manners entirely, thank goodness. She had not slurped her soup, or grabbed a couple of the rolls and stuffed them into her pocket for later. But she felt as though she might just as well have done.

A lady, her mother had always insisted, should never betray the fact that she was starving. Not even when her clothes hung in rags from her skinny shoulders, and they were obliged to subsist on handouts from friends.

‘Adverse circumstances,’ her mother had been fond of saying, ‘are only a test of character. Never forget you are a Vickery,’ she would say, while her father had rolled his eyes in exasperation at the way she continually reminded Aimée of that side of her heritage. ‘A Vickery will always rise to the occasion.’

Oh, Mama, she thought, a guilty flush heating her cheeks. How I have let things slide, of late! Today, especially. Losing my temper with that innkeeper, and shouting at my employer in the road! Even though he was disguised as a coachman, I had no business letting my emotions get the better of me. I will do better, she vowed. I will rise to the occasion.

‘You are blushing,’ the Captain startled her by observing. ‘Directness of my speech too much for you?’

She turned her head to look directly at him. The pugnacious set of his jaw made her wonder if he was deliberately trying to unsettle her. Perhaps he was. Had she not expected her new employer to want to test her mettle for himself? When a woman was to be put in charge of a man’s children, he would want to be quite sure of her character.

If she really wanted to retain this post, it was past time to swallow her pride and account for her earlier, inappropriate behaviour.

She cleared her throat.

‘I have no objection to speaking directly. So, while we are being direct with one another, I would like to take the opportunity to clear the air between us. There is still some awkwardness, I believe, resulting from my earlier reaction to your appearance.’

If she had thought his face had looked harsh before, it was as nothing to the expression that darkened it now. Hastily, she explained, ‘You see, the first time we met, I was under the impression you were merely a coachman. And I believe I may have been somewhat impolite …’

‘May have been?’ For a moment, he glared at her so intensely she thought she had seriously offended him. But then he flung back his head and barked with laughter.

‘You gave as good as you got, and you damn well know it! Mr Jago promised me he had found me a woman of spirit, and you certainly have that, Miss Peters.’

He took a sip of wine, then added, ‘But you are not too proud to apologise, when you know you are in the wrong, either.’

‘Not quite,’ she agreed with a rueful smile, reflecting how hard it had been to broach the topic of her folly.

‘Ah, you’ll do.’ He leaned back in his chair. And smiled back.

It was amazing how drastically the change of expression altered his appearance. She had already thought he looked like a man used to command. But now there was such a compelling aura about him she could well believe men would follow him slavishly to their deaths.

‘Yes, you’ll do nicely!’ he said again. ‘You really are tough enough to take on the task I chose you for.’

‘Ah, yes!’ Finally, they were going to put aside any personal feelings and discuss her professional role within his household. She had been so nervous during her interview with Mr Jago. She had been too busy looking over her shoulder, at what she was escaping from, to ascertain exactly what he expected from her. She had not asked nearly enough questions. Why, she did not even know how many children she was to take charge of, nor their ages!

‘When will I be meeting the children?’ she asked. ‘And your wife?’

The young man with eyes like a spaniel, who had been carving the duck, dropped the knife on to the table with a muffled clunk.

‘Give me that, Billy,’ Captain Corcoran snapped, getting to his feet, retrieving the knife and setting about skilfully carving the bird himself.

Oh, dear. From the young man’s nervous start, and the Captain’s set jaw, she could tell she had somehow put her foot in it. After rapidly reviewing the events of the day to see if she could work out in what way, it occurred to her that she had seen no sign that any children lived in this house at all. Surely, if they did, the first thing that would have happened, upon her arrival, would have been a visit to the nursery. Though she had been unwell …

‘My wife is dead,’ he bit out, as he placed a slice of duck on to her plate.

‘I am so sorry,’ she gasped, her heart going out to his poor little motherless children. No wonder he had sent as far afield as London to find just the right woman to take charge of them! She would be the primary female influence upon their lives.

‘You need not be,’ he said, pausing in his dissection of the duck for a while, before continuing, in a lighter tone, ‘Since I took up the lease on this house, not a single female had crossed its threshold. Until today. The locals think it a great joke, since it is called The Lady’s Bower.’

From his abrupt change of topic, she deduced that he did not wish to discuss his deceased wife. She completely understood. Though his comment made her wonder if perhaps the landlord of the King’s Arms had not been trying to fleece her after all. He might just have thought that The Lady’s Bower was not the kind of place into which a lone female ought to stray.

She lifted the lid of the tureen that Billy had placed beside her plate and helped herself to a portion of peas.

‘And your children? I take it, they are all boys?’

‘I have no children.’

No children? No children!

She replaced the lid of the tureen carefully and reached for the dish of cauliflower. She was not going to fly into a panic. Just because he had no wife. Or children.

And because she was the only female in the household. The only female who had ever been in this household.

But her will, it seemed, had no control over her heart, which began to stutter uncomfortably in her chest.

‘You need not worry about my men, Miss Peters,’ said the Captain, who was clearly aware how nervous she felt, despite her attempts to conceal it.

‘Not one of them will lay so much as a finger on you. They would not dare.’ His face darkened.

‘I would not have taken a single one of them in if they were not completely loyal to me.’ He gestured with the carving knife to emphasise his next point. ‘Every man jack of them has served under my command at some time or another, and knows I don’t hesitate to flog a man who transgresses.’

When her eyes flew wide, he added, ‘They also know I won’t do so without good reason.’ Abruptly, he tossed the knife aside, sat down and picked up his knife and fork. ‘Not that I need to flog a single one of them to ensure their good behaviour.’ He began to saw away at the meat on his plate. ‘Any infringement of the rules here—’ he impaled a piece of duck on his fork ‘—and they would be back on the streets where I found them. Each of ‘em damn lucky I took him on. No, you need have no worry about being a lone female in a household of men. Besides, it won’t be for long.’ He raised the fork to his mouth and began to chew his meat.

‘Oh?’ She ladled a generous helping of béchamel sauce over the cauliflower on her plate, noting with a detached sense of pride that her hands were scarcely shaking at all.

Though all his talk of flogging was hardly comforting. And what had he meant, it would not be for long?

Unless …

‘Are you intending, perhaps, to marry again?’

He looked up from his plate, a strange smile playing about his lips.

‘You are very perceptive.’

Though it did not fully explain why he had hired a governess … unless his new bride already had children from a former marriage.

Yes, that must be it! She gave a sigh of relief, gripped her knife and fork tightly and forced herself to cut up her vegetables as though she saw nothing bizarre about the whole situation.

There must be a perfectly logical reason for the Captain to have had her brought here. She was being extremely foolish to assign nefarious motives to everything every man did. She had already jumped to far too many wrong conclusions today.

‘We did not get off to a very good start,’ he commented. ‘But I was pleased to see the way you weathered that storm.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, accepting a slice of tongue from the plate the Captain nudged in her direction, along with the compliment.

‘You find me somewhat rough around the edges, I dare say,’ he observed.

‘Not at all,’ she murmured mechanically. It was not her place to comment on her employer’s manners, or lack thereof. Besides, working for somebody who was ‘rough around the edges', as he put it, would be a great improvement on habitually dealing with men who were rotten to the core.

‘Hmmph,’ he grunted, clearly unconvinced by her reply, then went on, in a conversational tone, ‘I have spent most of my life at sea, in the company of men such as Billy and Jago. Not used to females at all.’

She could not help raising just one eyebrow as she lifted another forkful of food to her mouth. With the kind of rugged good looks he still possessed, in spite of the scarring round his empty eye socket, she was sure he must have had his flings. She knew what sailors were like when they got shore leave. Particularly the young officers, who got more liberty when a ship was in dock than did the ratings. Besides, he had been married!

‘At least, not society females,’ he amended, confirming her opinion that a man as brim full of vitality as him would have had plenty of experience with women.

‘Not that I ever really understood my wife, either, and she was merely a chandler’s daughter. She did not mind … did not seem to mind my ways. I thought she saw marrying a lieutenant as a step up the social ladder.’ He frowned. ‘I know better now. Once bitten, twice shy. Besides which, my needs now are nothing like the expectations I had when I was a callow youth. And I’ve a sight too much self-respect, at my age, to try to play the suitor to a succession of society beauties in Almack’s or some such place. I have neither the time, nor the inclination, to go down that route.’

Though Aimée was somewhat baffled by the turn the conversation was taking, she smiled politely, and took a sip of her wine.

‘But Mr Jago said you would suit me down to the ground. You have lived much harder than most gently born ladies, have you not?’

Her eyes flickered back to him uncertainly. When she had been a little girl, her mother had shielded her from knowing about their constant financial hardships. Living within the orbit of Lady Aurora Vickery was like being on a grand adventure. She had even managed to make fleeing lodgings where the rent was overdue, at the dead of night, into a game. A game of hide-and-seek, she smiled sadly, that had been played out over an entire continent, from an ever-increasing army of creditors. It was only once she had died that reality had set in with a vengeance. Her father had always been a little too fond of drinking and gambling, but without her mother’s restraining influence, he shed any veneer of decency. Then the man she had called father had progressively crumbled away, until even Aimée had been forced to admit there was nothing left of the man who had inspired her mother to elope with him.

So it was pointless to quibble about how she regarded her past. She just nodded her head, murmuring, ‘Yes.’

‘Then it is about time we came to terms,’ he said.

‘T-terms?’

He shifted position, as though his chair had suddenly become very uncomfortable. ‘Yes, terms. I was not planning to lay my cards on the table quite this soon, but you have already guessed that I got you here under false pretences, have you not? I knew, of course, that a woman applying for a job as a governess would have a certain level of education, but you really do have a quick mind, Miss Peters. I admire that about you.’

He looked her over, in a way that made her very aware of her body.

‘As well as being every bit as pretty as Mr Jago told me. I could not find,’ he said, with evident satisfaction, ‘a woman more suitable for my purposes if I were to trawl society ballrooms for a month.’

She bent her head over her plate, carrying on eating as though nothing troubled her. Thank heavens she had already reminded herself of what her mother would have expected of her, and buckled her manners in place like armour!

She had begun to suspect the Captain was up to something when she had discovered he had no wife or children here. Really, she ought to have been put on the alert by the fact he had been so coy about revealing his identity until after she was already committed to travelling up here. No wonder the interview had been so cursory. Captain Corcoran did not need a governess for his fictitious children!

No, now he was freely admitting that he had lured her to this isolated spot under false pretences. And had then gone on to tell her that he found her pretty. Put that together with the way he had said he admired her spirit, but was relieved to see she was not too proud … She felt the soup curdling in her stomach. Even though he had no desire to remarry, and he was discerning enough in his tastes now to want a well-born, intelligent woman to warm his bed whilst he was ashore, it was not the least bit flattering to hear that he was so delighted with her that he could not wait to offer her carte blanche.

‘Miss Peters, I am, nowadays, such a wealthy man that you can have as many fancy clothes and jewels as you wish,’ he said, confirming her worst fears. ‘And servants. Though I will not have you trying to lay off any of the men who have served under my command at sea,’ he warned her sternly. ‘Apart from that one proviso, you may have a free hand. Yes, a completely free hand.’ He sat back and regarded her expectantly.

She laid her knife and fork down with precision, reaching for her wine glass and taking a ladylike sip. Thank heavens she had grown so adept at remaining outwardly calm. That she had so many years’ practice in keeping up appearances, no matter how severe the strain she endured.

Even if, as now, real fear was gripping her.

‘Well, what is your answer?’ Captain Corcoran said impatiently after she had remained silent for several moments. ‘Surely you must see the advantages of the position I am offering you? It is not as though you can have anything to go back to London for, or you would not have applied for work as a governess in the first place!’

No, nothing awaited her in London except certain degradation. For her father’s career there had followed the same path as it had in every other city they had ever visited. An initial flourish to persuade the citizens he was wealthy, entrée into several of the less select gaming clubs, and then the rapid descent into horrendous debt. Only this time, her father had been so lost to any sense of decency, he had attempted to sell her to some … lecher.

Had sold her!

Lord Matthison had sent his servant to her lodgings with the money, and instructions that she was to deal with him directly in future. So much money, there was no mistaking his intent.

It had been the last straw. The final outrage that had made her sever all ties from her scandalous father for ever.

She had vowed then and there that she would never trust a man again.

How right she had been. She lifted her head and regarded Captain Corcoran coldly. She had escaped from London’s sewers, only to fall into the clutches of another such as Lord Matthison.

In fact, worse. At least Lord Matthison had been completely open about his intentions. This man had as good as kidnapped her, then taken pains to inform her that all his staff were utterly loyal to him. And that he would have them flogged and dismissed should any of them take pity on her, and help her escape!

Her heart beating fast, she patted her lips with her napkin. She was not going to let him see how scared she was. That would be fatal. She had learned long ago, given the numerous precarious positions to which her father had so frequently exposed her, that nothing inflamed a potential predator more than the knowledge his victim was afraid.

‘Your proposition has taken me by surprise,’ she said, proud of the even tone of her voice. ‘May I have some time to think about it?’

When he frowned, her heart beat so fast that she began to go light-headed. If he was the type of man who was not averse to using violence in his dealings with women, her appeal would go unheeded. He could swing her over his shoulder, heave her upstairs to one of his bedrooms, and …

She flinched from picturing the awful deed. She had to fill her mind with something other than the fear that threatened to blot out all ability to reason. Think, Aimée, think! How on earth was she to get out of this?

She took a deep breath, reminded herself she had escaped from sticky situations before. Ever since her shape had first started to change from that of a girl to a woman, she’d had to evade the groping hands of the drunken lecherous men who made up her father’s coterie.

Though the Captain was not drunk. Nor was he simply an opportunist, trying to make sport of a defenceless girl who had strayed into his path. No, he had coldly, calmly, planned this seduction!

But his mistake would be the same as all other men made: in underestimating her determination to thwart his vile schemes.

‘Very well,’ he grudgingly conceded. ‘You may have until the morning. But no longer. I have no time to waste.’

Outwardly calm, she got to her feet. Captain Corcoran did so too. Aping the gentleman, she mentally sneered.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ she said graciously, inclining her head as though she fully intended to think about his disgusting proposition.

The moment she left the dining room, she saw her way to the front door barred by Nelson. Lounging against the far wall, his arms folded across his chest, he no longer looked like the amiable, salt-of-the-earth character with whom she had fleetingly felt a connection. His stance, and then the over-familiar grin he bestowed upon her, put her in mind of the kind of men employed to guard the doors at brothels.

And he insisted on escorting her upstairs.

But she refused to give him any indication that she resented him guarding her, and her ruse was so successful that, the moment she was inside the room with the door shut, she heard him go straight back downstairs.

Probably to report back to his master, she thought, opening the door a crack, and peeping out. But the Captain did not hold all the cards. She could still employ the element of surprise.

Since nobody else seemed to be about, she darted out of her room and leaned over the banister rail to check that the downstairs hall was clear. It was! Now or never, Aimée, she told herself, her heart pounding with terror of discovery. And she ran swiftly back down the stairs and straight to the front door.

She had no need to waste time collecting anything from her room. Long before leaving London, she had sewn most of the banknotes Lord Matthison had sent to her into her stays. And the hem of her petticoat was weighted down with guineas. She could buy anything she needed later. If only she could get well away from her captors!

To her intense relief, when she clawed at the handle, she found the front door was neither bolted, nor locked, and it swung open easily on well-oiled hinges.

The cold wet air that gusted into the hall made her gasp. But she did not regret the lack of a coat. Retaining just enough presence of mind to shut the door quietly behind her, to prevent her flight being detected for as long as possible, she slipped out into the rain and ran. And ran.

Only for a few seconds on the gravel drive, because it made too much noise. Then along the grass verge, though it was treacherously slippery. She made it to the twin stone pillars at the end of the drive. Then, with her tortured breath rasping in her throat, across the lane and into the woods, where a branch promptly slapped her in the face. As she recoiled with a yelp, it raked over the crown of her head, tearing the pins from her oh-so-carefully-arranged hairstyle. Her braids came tumbling over her face, but she kept on running. It was almost pitch black under these trees in any case. It was only after she had been crashing through the undergrowth, heedless of the branches snagging at her hair, and the brambles tearing at her skirts, that it occurred to her she had no idea where she was running to.

She had long been prepared to take flight at a moment’s notice.

But she had thought her flight would be in London. From Lord Matthison.

Not out here in the howling wilderness, where there were no signposts to tell her which way to go. No convenient alleys to duck into. No rooms to rent with no questions asked if the price was right. Just trees, she panted, and brambles and rain and wind and mud.

She stopped. And bent over slightly from the waist to get her breath back. And her powers of reasoning.

The lane.

If she kept close to the lane, she could probably make her way back to the King’s Arms. The innkeeper had tried to warn her to stay away from Captain Corcoran and his henchmen. And, after the way Captain Corcoran had berated him, the man would be only too pleased to do him an ill turn.

It was only a matter of finding her way out of the woods and back to the lane. And praying that her absence would not be noticed for some considerable time.

Chapter Three

But her luck was out.

The shadowy blackness surrounding her resolved itself into distinct shapes as light streamed into the woodland. From the opened front door of the house.

She heard somebody shout, ‘This way, lads! I saw her dart in amongst the trees!’

And then several somebodies were crunching along the gravel path, straight towards her!

How could they have discovered her flight so quickly? Had Captain Corcoran posted a lookout? Or, worse, had he followed her straight up to her room? Oh, he might have said he would give her until morning, but what reliance could she, of all people, place on what a man said?

Thank heavens she had followed her instincts and just got out of the place as fast as she could!

She pressed her hands to the stitch in her side. She was still not out of the woods yet—not in any sense!

She was already panting from her dash for the trees, and now that she knew the pursuit was hot her heart began pounding even faster than ever. Her eyes darted wildly from side to side, hating the trees that were stopping her from just picking up her heels and running.

But then a vision flashed into her mind of a deer, hotly pursued by a pack of slavering hounds, closely followed by the chilling awareness that dogs always ran their quarry to earth in the end. She could tell exactly how close the pack was getting already by the amount of noise they made crashing through the undergrowth.

If she ran, they would hear her, and outrun her, and then …

Think, Aimée, think! She had no chance of outrunning them. Not even if she was out in the open. But here in this dense woodland … well, she might run smack into a tree in this darkness. Or trip and fall flat on her face.

But then … if she could barely see her way, then nor could they. Still half-crouching, she stretched her hands out in front of her and began to inch her way forwards, as quietly as she could, searching for the nearest tree. It would make an effective shield in this darkness. Her questing hands soon grazed against rough bark, and not a moment too soon. Her pursuers were closing fast. She straightened up to flatten herself against the massive trunk.

And a slim branch struck her right in the face.

She recoiled, her heel caught in a tree root and she went flying, landing upon her back so hard that all the wind was knocked out of her. The smell of damp earth and crushed bracken was like a hand pressing down on her chest, smothering her.

She thrashed like a fish on a riverbank, desperately trying to gasp in air. At last, it went whooping back through her constricted throat, but with such force that she knew Captain Corcoran’s pack must have heard it. She could hear them all veering from their random search patterns and converging in her direction.

And then it was no further use telling herself to keep calm. Wild panic had her leaping to her feet, but agonising pain, tearing from her ankle and up her leg, had her falling to the ground again with a shocked yelp.

And it was all over.

Shadowy figures encircled her, breaking ranks to allow Captain Corcoran himself to come striding through. He alone of the men had taken a few moments to provide himself with a lantern before setting out after her. He held it aloft now, the shadows it cast over his face making him look positively demonic.

‘What on earth possessed you, you damn fool woman?’ he yelled.

He looked so angry that Aimée could not help emitting a frightened little whimper as she clutched at her ankle.

‘I told you I would wait for your answer until morning. Do I give you such a disgust that you must run out into the night?’

He thrust the lantern into the hands of one of the men lurking behind him, and bent over her.

She could not help cowering deeper into the bracken, the look on his face was so murderous.

‘For God’s sake,’ he muttered, ‘I may look like your worst nightmare, but wouldn’t you rather I carried you back to the house than one of my men?’

She looked past him to the shifting shadows, imagining the hands of Nelson on her, or that one with the bow legs and splayed teeth, and shuddered. What choice did she have? She had hurt her ankle so badly, there was no escape now. With a faint moan, she nodded her assent.

‘Brace yourself, then,’ he sneered, crouching down and sweeping her up into his arms. Rain dripped from the ends of his long, shaggy hair on to her face, making her blink.

‘Just shut your eyes if you can’t bear the sight of me!’

How could he mock her terror like this? Had he no pity? No, she whimpered, or he would not have lured her up here, hand-picked his accomplices … set the whole thing up so … meticulously!

He set his jaw as he settled her into the cradle of his arms before striding back through the woods to the lane. Oh, God, he was so strong! The shoulder under her cheek was like a rock, the arms that held her against him bulging with muscle. She did not stand a chance!

As he carried her back through the gateposts, it was all she could do to hold back the tears. How could she have been so stupid as to fall into his trap?

The fear that had been her constant companion since she’d had to flee from her father had clearly addled her wits, as well as robbing her of her appetite and prodding her awake, night after night, with sickening visions of what the future held in store. It had escalated to such proportions that she could think of nothing but escape. Clinging on to the slim hope that if only she could get out of London, and away from her father, she would be safe, she had entirely overlooked the fact that men could be as wicked in the wilds of Yorkshire as they were in the gambling hells and back alleys of town.

At least in London, she would have known places to hide!

But now Captain Corcoran was carrying her into the house, and up the stairs, shouldering the door to her room open with barely suppressed fury. And for the first time in her life, Aimée felt real despair. In spite of all her cunning, she had ended up falling prey to the very type of man she had gone to such lengths to evade.

It really was a case of out of the frying pan, into the fire, for he was bound to make her pay for trying to foil his plans.

He flung her on to the bed and reared back, swiping the rain from his face with the palm of his hand. The way he had dropped her jolted her ankle, sending a fresh wave of pain shooting up her leg. She could not help wincing and gingerly trying to move it into a less painful position, though she did not dare take her eyes off his face as she awaited his next move.

His mouth flattened into a grim line. He turned and strode to the door, leaned his head out, and roared, ‘Billy! Fetch some wet cloths to strap up this woman’s foot!’

Then he turned and strode back to the bed, swiftly pulling off her sodden indoor shoes. Oh, how she now regretted not pausing to change them for sturdier boots!

How she regretted so many of her choices.

She swallowed nervously, then lifted her chin. She might be completely in his power, but she was a Vickery. No man would break her spirit!

Her flash of defiance lasted just as long as it took him to reach up under her dress and untie one of her garters. She scuttled back up the bed so quickly her shoulders slammed into the headboard.

‘Stop looking at me as though I am about to rape you, damn your eyes!’ he snarled at her. ‘Do you think I would get any satisfaction from forcing a woman to endure my unwelcome attentions?’

What? Breathing hard, she blinked up at him, pushing the straggling hanks of wet hair away from her face.

And really looked at him.

To her amazement, she realised he was not leering at her. There was not even the faintest trace of lust mingled with the scalding anger blazing from his one eye.

He was not, she suddenly perceived, another Lord Sandiford, the man who, according to her informant, had started the bidding for her virginity. He would not have cared whether she was willing or not. On the contrary, Mr Carpenter had warned her that he would have enjoyed making her suffer as much as he possibly could.

It felt like a reprieve. She was still in considerable danger, but having the threat of violence removed from the equation left her feeling weak with relief.

As she slumped down into the pillows the Captain’s lips twisted into a sneer.

‘Though how on earth you could think that a skinny little half-drowned rat like you would be capable of rousing any man’s lust is beyond me.’

He looked so full of contempt that her whole perspective suddenly changed. She was little more than skin and bone these days. Skin and bone, clad in a sodden, torn, stained dress, wild-eyed with panic, and her hair all over the place. Though earlier he had said he found her pretty, that had obviously been a piece of idle flattery, intended to win her over. Now that she had angered him, the truth was out.

It set the seal on her humiliation when he said, ‘God only knows what Jago was thinking to bring you here. I told him to pick a woman who could at least look as though she belonged in society.’

He bent down and yanked the wrinkled stocking over her rapidly swelling ankle, making her gasp with the pain.

She thought she caught a look of remorse flicker across the Captain’s face, but it was swiftly replaced by a glare so fierce, she decided she must have imagined it. Particularly when he swore colourfully, and said, ‘It is your own fault! Now you won’t even be able to leave in the morning, like as not, which you could have done had you told me to my face that you did not want to marry me!’

He turned away from her abruptly then, as Billy came in carrying a bowl of crushed ice, and a pile of what looked like somebody’s neckcloths. And so he missed her soundlessly gasping, ‘Marry you?’ The shock of hearing him speak of marriage was so great her voice had dried up completely.

‘Tell me what I need to do,’ he was saying to Billy, while she pressed one hand to her forehead.

Aimée’s mind was reeling. When had he ever said one single word to her about marriage?

Surely that proposition he had made to her, outlining his willingness to shower her with jewels and servants, had not been one of marriage? Why, it had sounded exactly like every single one of the many other dishonourable propositions she had received since her mother died.

Could she really have just fled, in total panic, from the only proposal of marriage she had ever had?

Or was ever likely to have.

There had been only one occasion before, when she had thought she stood a chance of marrying, and thereby crossing the boundary that existed between her precarious existence and that of a decent, respectable woman.

Young Mr Carpenter had professed himself wildly in love with her. He had written her odes, comparing her to ‘Beauty enmeshed by poverty’ in which her father figured as a bloated spider. He had declared he would be her champion, and took to following her father to some of the lowest haunts he frequented, in a vain attempt to put a brake on his downhill slide.

Instead, he had returned with the tale so vile she’d had nightmares about it ever since. Lord Sandiford and Lord Matthison had only just begun the bidding when Mr Carpenter left the Restoration Club and ran to warn her she must flee.

‘Where will we go?’ she had naïvely asked him, assuming that the time had come to stop holding him at arm’s length and accept his protection, even though she did not love him.

‘Oh, but, ahh … d-don’t exactly have the blunt to set you up. Not right now,’ he had blustered.

‘Take me to your mother’s house then. Just until we are married—’

‘Married?’ he had squeaked, actually taking a step back and going pale.

And she had seen that in spite of the number of times he had declared he would do anything for her, that anything did not encompass making the ultimate sacrifice of giving her his name.

‘N-not that I don’t adore you, sweet one, but … bring a man like your father into my family?’

The scales had fallen from her eyes. When Mr Carpenter married, it would be to a fresh-faced, innocent débutante with a handsome dowry and a cast-iron pedigree, not the daughter of a pair of vagabonds whose escapades had scandalised half of Europe.

He had fled from her lodgings, with the air of a man making a narrow escape, and she had finally seen that she would never have anyone to rely on but herself. Nobody would ever come riding to her rescue on a white charger. She was on her own.

And so she had pocketed the down payment Lord Matthison had sent to ensure her compliance, God forgive her, and used it to go into hiding.

That was when she had seen Captain Corcoran’s advertisement. It had seemed like the perfect solution. If she could persuade the man who interviewed her that she had what it took to be a governess, she could support herself, honestly, and in total anonymity. Or so she had thought.

Billy brought the bowl and towels to the nightstand beside the bed. She closed her eyes while he gave the Captain detailed instructions about how to form a compress, and the best way to strap it on, shutting him out while she rapidly reviewed the only lengthy conversation she’d had with Captain Corcoran.

Where, or when, had there ever been any hint that what the Captain was seeking was a wife? All he had said upon the topic of marriage was that his needs now were very different from the expectations he’d had as a callow youth. Naturally she had assumed he meant he saw no need to actually marry a woman he wanted to bed.

Her eyes flew open in shock as the Captain applied the first, icy cold layer of bandages to her ankle. But then, this seemed to be a night for shocks. First of all in hearing him admit he had no wife or children, followed by what she had thought was an indecent proposition. And now finding out that he had been speaking of marriage. To her.

She could still not quite believe it. She looked at him closely, not as a prospective employer, or a would-be ravisher, but for the first time as a suitor.

And her heart turned over. His hair was dripping wet, and so was his coat. Yet he was selflessly tending to her injury before making himself comfortable. She had already discovered how strong he was, yet now his fingers were gentle as he deftly wrapped layer after layer of ice-cold cloth round her swollen joint.

He was handsome, in spite of his scars, and strong and affluent.

And capable of reining in his anger. It was a rare thing, in her experience, to see a man exercise any selfcontrol, let alone to such a degree. He had been furious with her. Completely furious. Yet even though he had shouted, and, yes, sworn at her, he had still managed to consider how she would have felt if he had delegated the task of carrying her back to the house to one of his men.

‘You’d better give ‘er some of this, too,’ Billy was saying, pulling a small brown vial from his pocket.

‘No …’ she whispered, shaking her head as Billy unstoppered what was clearly a bottle of laudanum.

In a voice as cold as the iced water in which Billy had soaked the towels, Captain Corcoran said, ‘She clearly suspects that you are offering it only so that I can tear her clothes off and ravish her the moment she loses consciousness.’

It was probably just as well she did not want to marry him. The woman affected him far more than he would like. It was not just that her beauty appealed to him, though God knows it did. Too much. Though he had railed at her, telling her she looked like a drowned rat, in truth she resembled nothing so much as a mermaid, with all that ripped grey silk streaming over her luscious little body. The image had started the moment he had seen her thrashing around in the undergrowth, as though she was unable to walk on land, with her hair flowing like so much deep-brown kelp down to her waist. And men, he reminded himself, got snared in such weed. It tangled round their legs and drowned them.

Just as he was drowning in the reproach in those sea-green eyes of hers. The sight of her tears coursing down her cheeks had made him want to drop to his knees, and kiss that tiny, perfectly formed foot, and beg her forgiveness, even though he was utterly determined he would never let another woman bring him to his knees. When he married again, he would be the one in control.

‘No!’ she said again, this time pulling herself together and sitting up straight. There had been quite enough misunderstanding between them already. One after the other, from the very moment she had read that confounded advertisement! Maybe she could do nothing about the others, but this one, at least, she could nip in the bud.

‘The fact that I do not wish to take laudanum has nothing to do with you, sir. It is just that I prefer not to take it. It makes me feel so sick, and leaves me feeling so confused—’

‘You do not need to worry about keeping your wits about you,’ he bit out. ‘I have never taken a woman against her will, and I am not about to start upon one who has injured herself whilst under my care.’

He straightened up to his not inconsiderable height, clasped his hands behind his back, and said, pacing over to the window, ‘Moreover, you need not worry that I shall importune you with repeated requests that you consider my proposal, since you find the idea so repugnant.’

Billy, his head lowered, began to tidy up the scattered towels, bowl and the stockings the Captain had tossed to the floor.

‘In the morning,’ he continued, ‘Jago will make whatever arrangements are necessary for your transportation back to the slums he plucked you out of.’

‘No, please,’ said Aimée, aghast to think of being sent straight back to London.

‘I find it hard,’ he said, not even breaking his stride, ‘to believe you would flee from the prospect of becoming a Countess, when you walked to my house in the pouring rain, thinking you were about to become a mere governess. Am I so repulsive to you? ‘

Countess? Mr Jago had told her that he was a naval officer. Not that a man could not hold a title, as well as a post in the navy, but …

He strode to the end of her bed, his large hands clenching on the footboard, and glared at her while Billy scuttled out of the door.

‘Not that it makes any difference now,’ he said in a tone of chilling finality.

‘Oh, but …’ she began, but he had turned away. His shoulders stiff with affront, he stalked from the room, shutting the door behind him with the exaggerated care of a man who would have got a great deal more satisfaction from slamming it hard.

Aimée sank back into her pillows.

‘Oh, no,’ she moaned, curling up into a ball and covering her face with her hands.

If only he had not used the very words Hincksey had employed when she had gone to him to request the services of one of his underlings, to forge her some convincing-looking character references!

‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’ Hincksey had said, as he handed the documents to her. ‘It’s a miserable business, being a governess. You’d have a lot more fun sticking with me. And better conditions. You could have fancy clothes and jewels. Even set up your own house with servants, if you was clever about the way you worked your clients …’

‘Oh,’ she moaned, rolling on to her other side. No wonder she had jumped to the wrong conclusion, after the way her own father and that weasely Mr Carpenter had let her down.

Especially after his admission that he had lured her to Yorkshire under false pretences!

She rolled on to her back, thumping the counterpane at her sides. Yes, why had he gone to such lengths to get her to his house? Why had he placed an advertisement in a London newspaper that made it sound as though he wanted to employ a governess, when what he really wanted was a wife?

Men! They were all so untrustworthy. No wonder she had not recognised his meanderings about the glowing future he could provide as an honest proposal of marriage.

‘Marriage,’ she groaned, pressing the heels of her hand to her eyes. If she had not been so suspicious, so very frightened of the man, she might be an engaged woman by now. Not that marriage necessarily meant safety for a woman. Her mother’s marriage had been a mistake of monumental proportions.

But Captain Corcoran was not a penniless charmer like her father had been in his youth. He was not attempting to get his hands on her fortune, for she hadn’t one. Quite the reverse. He was offering to provide for her in a style she had hitherto only dreamed of.

‘Jewels and servants,’ she moaned.

Not that she was tempted by them, as such. If they were all she cared about, she could have become some man’s mistress years ago! Or thrown in her lot with Hincksey.

It was just … what would it have been like to never have to worry about where the next meal was coming from? Or what means she might have to employ to procure it?

What would it have been like to have had a home of her own? Somewhere she could put down roots? To be able to make friends with neighbours, rather than keeping everyone at arm’s length lest they see through the latest story her father had fabricated to explain their current mode of life?

Above all, to have become respectable.

No, more than that. The Captain had told her she might have been a Countess. She could have screamed with frustration. Her mother had always insisted she should set her sights on that kind of rank, should she ever consider matrimony.

She groaned again. She could not believe she had thrown away such a golden opportunity!

Not that the marriage would have been a great success. He thought she was too plain. Too thin and ragged to rouse his desire. She brushed a tear from her cheek.

What was she to do?

As ever, when faced with a dilemma, Aimée wondered how her mother would have reacted in similar circumstances.

Well, to start with, her mother would not have panicked, and run from the house without a bonnet and coat. She would have remained calm and dignified. Lifted her chin, and told Captain Corcoran to his face that he was a cad who ought to be ashamed of himself.

Instead of which, it was Aimée who felt ashamed of herself. She curled into a ball and wrapped her arms round her waist, burying her face in the sodden pillow. She might have had everything she had ever wished for. Instead of which, tomorrow, she would end up right back where she had started. No, she would be even worse off, because she would not even have the hope of being on her way to a decent job!

Oh, how she wished she had never met Captain Corcoran!

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.