When selecting poultry for cooking, choose a chicken
with soft yellow feet, short thick legs, and a plump breast.
First, kill the chicken by wringing its neck…
—Emily Barrow's Cook Book Falkirk House,
England—1850
Cool hands sponged his forehead. Stephen Chesterfield fought
against the darkness that threatened to pull him into
oblivion once more. Pain lashed his skull, ripping through
him in violent waves. His mouth felt lined with cotton wool,
and his body ached with vicious pain.
'Drink,' a woman said, lifting a cup of warm tea to his
mouth. It tasted bitter, but he swallowed. 'You're very
lucky, you know.'
Lucky? He felt as though someone had cracked his skull in
two. He hadn't even the strength to open his eyes to see who
was tending him.
'How am I lucky?' he managed to whisper. Lucky to be alive,
she'd probably say.
'You're lucky I haven't got any arsenic for this tea,' she
remarked. 'Or another poison, for that matter. Otherwise,
you'd be dead by now.' A warm poultice dropped across his
forehead, scented with herbs.
'I beg your pardon?' His knuckles clenched around the
bedcovers, and he forced his eyes open. The room blurred,
and he tried to grasp his surroundings. Where was he? And
who was this woman?
The creature intending to murder him had the face of an
angel. Her hair, the color of warm honey, was pulled back
into a loose chignon. Long strands framed a face with tired
amber eyes. Despite the hideous serge mourning gown, she was
rather pretty, though her cheeks were thin.
She was familiar, but her name hovered on the outskirts of
memory. Like a childhood acquaintance, or someone he'd known
long ago.
'You broke your promise. If it weren't for you, my brother
would still be alive.' Anguish lined her voice, eroding the
waspish anger. Her eyes glistened, but she kept her chin up.
She blamed him for her brother's death? There had to be a
mistake. He didn't even know who she was, much less
her brother.
He pulled off the poultice, and glared at her. 'Who are you?'
She blanched. 'You don't remember me?' The question held
sardonic disbelief. And here I thought this day could not
get any worse.' With a clatter, she set the saucer down.
He had little patience for her frustration. Damn it all, he
was the one who'd been wounded. And each time he tried to
reach back and seize the memories, it was as if they faded
into smoke. What had happened to him?
'You didn't answer my question,' he responded. 'What is your
name?'
'My name is Emily.' She leaned in, her gaze penetrating.
Almost as if she were waiting for him to say something.
Hazy bits of the past shifted together. Emily Barrow. The
Baron of Hollingford's daughter. My God. He hadn't seen her
in nearly ten years. He stared hard at her, unable to
believe it was true. Though her rigid posture proclaimed her
as a modest woman of virtue, he remembered her throwing
rocks at his carriage. And climbing trees to spy on him.
And kissing him when he'd been an awkward, adolescent boy.
He shook the thought away, thankful that at least some of
his memories remained. 'What are you doing here?'
'I live here.' With an overbright smile, she added, 'Don't
you remember your wife?'
Her revelation stunned him into silence. His wife? What was
she talking about? He wasn't married.
'You must be joking.' He wasn't an impulsive man. He planned
every moment of every day. Getting married to a woman he
hadn't seen in years wasn't at all something he would do.
Unless he'd gotten extremely deep in his cups one night, she
had to be lying. And by God, if Emily Barrow thought to take
advantage of him, she would be sorry for it.
'I would never joke about something like this.' She held out
the cup of tea, but he dismissed it. He had no intention of
drinking anything she gave him. His vision swam, and a
rushing sound filled his ears.
Closing his eyes, he waited for the dizziness to pass. When
the world righted itself, he studied the room. Heavy blue
curtains hung across the canopied bed, while bookcases
overflowing with books filled another wall. The pieces of
remembrance snapped together as he recognised his bedchamber
within Falkirk House, one of the country estates. For the
life of him he didn't know how he'd arrived here.
'How long have I been at Falkirk?'
'Two days.'
'And before that?'
She shrugged. 'You left for London a week after our wedding.
I haven't seen you since February. Why don't you tell me
where you've been?'
He tried to reach for the memory, but nothing remained, not
even the smallest fragment of a vision. Like a gaping hole,
he'd lost a part of himself. It frustrated the hell out of
him, having pieces of his life gone. He could remember most
of his childhood and adolescence. He even recalled working
upon a list of accounts for one of the estates in January.
But after that… nothing.
'What day is it?' he asked, trying to pinpoint the last
memory he had.
'The twentieth of May.'
He clenched the bedcovers. February, March, April, almost
all of May… three and a half months of his life were
entirely gone. He closed his eyes, trying to force himself
to remember. But the harder he struggled, the worse his head
ached.
'Where were you?' she asked. There was worry inside her
tone, though he found it hard to believe she cared. Not
after she'd threatened to poison him.
'I don't know,' he answered honestly. 'But I certainly don't
remember getting married.'
'You might not remember it, but it's true.'
Something was wrong, something she wasn't telling him. There
was a desperate air about her, as though she had nowhere
else to go. Likely he'd caught her in the lie.
'You are welcome to leave,' he suggested. 'Obviously my
return offended you.'
Tears glimmered in her eyes, and softly, she replied, 'You
have no idea what I've been through. I thought I'd never see
you again.'
She dipped the cool cloth back into the basin, wringing out
the water. Then she set it upon his forehead, her hand
grazing his cheek. The gesture was completely at odds with
her sharp words.
'You're not my wife.'
She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing his gaze
towards her silhouette. A bit on the thin side, but the soft
curve of her breasts caught his eye. The top button of her
gown had come loose, revealing a forbidden glimpse of skin.
'Yes, I am.' She lowered her arms, gathering her courage as
she stared at him. But her full lips parted, her shoulders
rising and falling with a quickening breath. The fallen
strand of golden hair rested against the black serge.
She'd never been able to tame her hair, even as a girl. He'd
helped her with hairpins on more than one occasion, to help
her avoid a scolding.
Now the task took on an intimacy, one more suited to a
husband. Had he truly married her? Had he unbuttoned her
gowns, tasting the silk of her skin? From the way she drew
back, he didn't think so.
'I want to see a doctor,' he said, changing the subject.
'Doctor Parsons examined you last night. I'm to change your
bandages and keep the wound clean. He'll return tomorrow.'
She lifted the lip of the tea cup to his mouth again, but he
didn't drink.
The china clattered, revealing her shaking hands. Despite
her bitterness, there was a look on her face that didn't
quite match her words. He caught a glimpse of something
more… something lost and lonely.
He forced himself not to pity her. For God's sakes, the
woman had threatened to kill him.
At last, she gave up and set the cup down. 'I didn't poison
this cup,' she said with reluctance. 'There wasn't any
arsenic to be had.'
'Laudanum would work,' he advised. 'In large doses.' Though
why he was offering suggestions, he didn't know.
'I'll remember that for next time.' Colour stained her
cheeks, but she didn't smile.
'Why did I marry you?' he asked softly.
She picked up the tray containing the teapot and cup. 'You
should rest for a while. I'll be happy to answer your
questions. Later, that is.'
'I want to know now. Sit down.'
She ignored him and moved towards the door. He might as well
have been ordering a brick wall to sit. If the unthinkable
had happened, if he really and truly had gone off and
married her, one thing was certain. He had lost more than
his memory.
He'd lost his mind.
Emily fled to a nearby bedchamber and set the tea tray down
with shaking fingers. The Earl of Whitmore was back. And he
didn't remember a single moment of their marriage.
Damn him. Hot, choking tears slid down her cheeks, despite
her best efforts to keep herself together. It was like
having him back from the dead. He'd been away for so long,
she'd almost started to believe that he was dead,
even though there was no body.
She'd tried so hard to forget about him. Every single day of
the past few months, she'd reminded herself that she'd meant
nothing to her husband.
Her hand clenched, and she wept into her palm. Only a week
after their wedding, he'd returned to London. He'd gone into
the arms of his mistress. While she, the naive little wife,
tucked away at the country estate where she wasn't supposed
to learn about her husband's indiscretions. It made her
sick, just thinking about it.
Marriages were like that, she'd heard. But she hadn't wanted
to believe it. Such a fool she had been. She'd been swept
away by his charm. Her fairy tale had come true, with the
handsome Earl offering to marry the impoverished maiden.
But it had been a dream, hadn't it? He'd used her, wedding
her for reasons she didn't understand, and had all but
disappeared from her life.
Now that he'd returned, her humiliation tripled. She
knuckled the tears away, a chastising laugh gathering in her
throat. He wasn't worth the tears. The sooner he left
Falkirk, the better.
Emily forced herself to rise from the chair, suppressing the
desire to smash every piece of china on the tea tray.
Self-pity wouldn't get her anywhere. She was married to a
stranger, to a man who hadn't kept his promises.
And if he annulled the marriage, she had nowhere to go.
The sound of a shouting child broke through her reverie.
Emily gathered her skirts and rushed towards the bedchamber
she'd converted into a temporary nursery. Inside, her nephew
Royce sprawled upon the floor, playing with tin soldiers.
'Attack!' he yelled, dashing a row of soldiers to the floor.
The tin soldiers and a book of fairy tales were the only
things he had brought with him after Daniel had died. She
smiled at Royce's boyish enthusiasm.
When he let out another battle cry, the shrill fussing of an
infant interrupted. Royce's face turned worried. 'I didn't
mean to wake her up.'
'It's all right.' Emily lifted the baby to her cheek. Her
niece Victoria was barely nine months old. A soft fuzz of
auburn hair covered the baby's head. Two emerging teeth
poked up from Victoria's lower gums. The baby reached out to
grab Emily's hair.
As she extricated Victoria's fist, Emily strengthened her
resolve. Though her marriage was in shambles, she had her
family. She would keep her brother's children safe, for she
had sworn it upon Daniel's grave. Now she had to gather up
the shreds of her marriage and decide what to do next.
'Aunt Emily?' Royce stopped playing and drew his knees up to
his chest. 'Has Papa come for us yet?'
'No, sweeting. Not yet.' Like the worst sort of coward, she
hadn't yet told Royce that his father was never coming back.
How could she destroy her nephew's safe world of hope? Royce
would learn the truth soon enough.
She pulled Royce into an embrace with her free arm, holding
both children fiercely. 'I love you both. You know that.'
Royce squirmed. 'I know. Can I play?'
Emily released him. The seven-year-old waged imaginary wars
against the helpless tin soldiers, shouting in triumph when
one soldier defeated an enemy.
She sat down in a rocking chair, holding the baby. Victoria
wailed, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion. Emily patted
the baby's back, wishing she could join the child in a fit
of howling. She almost didn't see the shadow of the Earl
hovering at the doorway.
'What are you doing here?' She stood, clutching the baby as
though Victoria were a shield. 'You're bleeding. You
shouldn't be out of bed.'
His frigid gaze stared back at her. 'This is my house, I
believe.' Tight lines edged his mouth, revealing unspoken
pain. His dark brown hair was rumpled beneath the bandage
wrapped across his temple. He leaned against the door frame,
thinner than she'd last seen him, but he did not betray even
a fraction of weakness. A rough stubble upon his cheeks gave
him a feral appearance, not at all the polished Earl she'd
expected him to be.
And suddenly, she wondered if she knew him at all. Not a
trace remained of the boy she'd idolised as a girl. Gone was
his lazy smile and the way he had once teased her. His eyes
were a cold-hearted grey, unfeeling and callous. Even in his
wounded state he threatened her.
Emily took a step back, almost knocking over the rocking
chair. 'Your head took quite a blow. You're not ready to be
up and about.'
'That would be convenient for you, wouldn't it? If I were to
stumble and bleed to death.'
She kept her composure at his harsh words. 'Quite. But your
blood would stain the carpet. There's no reason to trouble
the servants.'
'I pay the servants.'
'And your fortune would continue to do so after you are dead.'
Why, oh, why did spiteful words keep slipping from her
mouth? She wasn't usually such a harpy, but arguing made it
easier to conceal her fear. He could make them leave.
'I am glad to see I married such a docile model of
womanhood.' His sarcasm sharpened her already bad temper.
Then his gaze narrowed on the children. 'Who are they?'
Emily's defences rose up. 'Our children.'
'I believe I would have remembered, had I fathered any
children.'
'They belong to my brother. You are their guardian.'
'Their guardian?'
Emily cast him a sharp look, praying she could stop him from
saying more in front of the children. It would break Royce's
heart to learn of his father's death. 'We will speak of
Daniel later.'
'Where is their nursemaid?'
'I don't want a nurse,' Royce interrupted. 'I want Aunt Emily.'
'Royce, now, you see—' Emily tried to placate him, but
he refused.
'I don't want one!' he shrieked, throwing a tin soldier on
the floor.
Emily knew what was about to happen. 'Here.' She stood and
thrust her niece into the Earl's arms. He took the baby,
holding Victoria at arm's length as though she had a dreaded
disease.