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  Also by Grace Burrowes

  The Windhams

  The Heir

  The Soldier

  The Virtuoso

  Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish

  Lady Maggie’s Secret Scandal

  Lady Louisa’s Christmas Knight

  Lady Eve’s Indiscretion

  Lady Jenny’s Christmas Portrait

  The Duke and His Duchess / The Courtship

  Morgan and Archer

  Jonathan and Amy

  Sweetest Kisses

  A Kiss for Luck

  A Single Kiss

  The First Kiss

  Kiss Me Hello

  The MacGregors

  The Bridegroom Wore Plaid

  Once Upon a Tartan

  The MacGregor’s Lady

  What a Lady Needs for Christmas

  Mary Fran and Matthew

  The Lonely Lords

  Darius

  Nicholas

  Ethan

  Beckman

  Gabriel

  Gareth

  Andrew

  Douglas

  David

  Captive Hearts

  The Captive

  The Traitor

  The Laird

  The Duke’s Disaster

  True Gentlemen

  Tremaine’s True Love

  Copyright © 2015 by Grace Burrowes

  Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Jon Paul

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Epilogue

  A Sneak Peek at Will’s True Wish

  Two

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To the wounded healers

  One

  “Why must all and sundry entertain themselves by telling me falsehoods?”

  Daniel Banks’s teeth chattered as he put that conundrum to his horse, who had come to a halt, head down, sides heaving, before the only building in sight.

  “‘Ye can’t miss it,’” Daniel quoted to himself. “‘The only lane that turns off to the left half a mile west of the village.’”

  This lowly dwelling was not Belle Maison, the family seat of the Earl of Bellefonte. Daniel had listened carefully to the directions given to him by the good folk at the Queen’s Harebell. They’d sent him, in the middle of a roaring snowstorm, to a mean, weathered cottage, albeit one with a light in its single window.

  “I’ll be but a moment,” Daniel promised his gelding.

  Daniel’s boots hit the snowy ground and agony shot up limbs too long exposed to the cold. He stood for a moment, waiting for the pain to fade, concocting silent epithets when he ought to have been murmuring the Twenty-Third Psalm.

  “Halloo, the house!” he called, thumping up three snowy steps. The porch sheltered a small hoard of split oak firewood. Somebody within burned that oak, for the frigid air held a comforting tang of wood smoke.

  The wind abated once Daniel ducked under the porch’s overhang, while the cold was unrelenting. He longed for a fire, some victuals, and proper directions, though only the directions mattered.

  A man of God was supposed to welcome hardships, and Daniel did, mostly because his store of silent, colorful language was becoming impressive.

  He raised a gloved fist to knock on the door. “Halloo, the—!”

  The door opened, Daniel’s sleeve was snatched into a tight grasp, and he was yanked into the warmth of the cottage so quickly he nearly bumped his head on the lintel.

  “I said I’d be home by dark,” his captor muttered, “and full dark is yet another hour away. I was hoping this infernal snow would slow down.” The young lady turned loose of Daniel’s sleeve. “You’re not George,” she said.

  Alas for me. “The Reverend Daniel Banks, at your service, madam. I lost my way and need directions to Belle Maison, the Bellefonte estate. Apologies for intruding upon your afternoon.”

  Though, might Daniel please intrude at least until his feet and ears thawed? Beelzebub was a substantial horse who grew a prodigious winter coat. He’d tolerate the elements well enough for a short time.

  While Daniel was cold, tired, famished, and viewing his upcoming visit to the earl’s grand house as a penance at best.

  “Your gloves are frozen,” the lady noted, tugging one of those gloves from Daniel’s hand. “What could you be thinking, sir?” She went after his scarf next, unwinding it from his head, though she had to go up on her toes. She appropriated his second glove and shook the lot, sending pellets of ice in all directions.

  What had he been thinking? Lately, Daniel avoided the near occasion of thinking. Better that way all around.

  “You needn’t go to any trouble,” Daniel said, though the warmth of the cottage was heavenly. A kettle steamed on the pot swing, and the scent of cinnamon—a luxury—filled the otherwise humble space. Somebody had made the dwelling comfy, with a rocking chair by the fire, fragrant beeswax candles in the sconces, and braided rugs covering a plank floor.

  “I can offer you tea, and bread and butter, but then surely we’ll be on our way. I’m Kirsten Haddonfield, Mr. Banks, and we can ride to Belle Maison together.”

  Haddonfield was the family name that went with the Bellefonte title.

  “You’re a relative to the earl, then?”

  She wore a plain, dark blue wool dress, high necked, such as a farmer’s wife would wear this time of year. Not even a cousin to an earl would attire herself thus unless she suffered excesses of pragmatism.

  “I am one of the earl’s younger sisters, and you’re half-frozen. I hope those aren’t your good boots, for you’ve ruined them.”

  “They’re my only boots.”

  Swooping blond brows drew together over a nose no one would call dainty, and yet Lady Kirsten Haddonfield was a
pretty woman. She had good facial bones, a definite chin, a clean jaw, and blue eyes that assured Daniel she did not suffer fools—lest her tone leave any doubt on that score.

  Daniel was a fool. Witness the ease with which the yeoman at the inn had bamboozled him. Witness the ease with which his own wife had bamboozled him.

  “At least sit for a moment before the fire,” the lady said, arranging his scarf and gloves on pegs above the hearth. “Did you lose your way because of the weather?”

  Daniel had lost his way months ago. “The weather played a role. Are you here alone, my lady?”

  She folded her arms across a bosom even a man of the cloth acknowledged as a fine bit of work on the Creator’s part.

  “I am on my family’s property, Mr. Banks, and they well know where I am. The weather is not only foul, it’s dangerous. If you must prance out the door to die for the sake of manners, I’ll not stop you. The groom or one of my brothers should be here any minute to fetch me home. We’ll note into which ditch your remains have fallen as we pass you by.”

  The fire was lovely. Her ferocity, though arguably rude, warmed Daniel in an entirely different way. Nowhere did the Bible say a Good Samaritan must be excessively burdened with charm.

  “You aren’t much given to polite dissembling, are you, my lady?” For an earl’s daughter was a lady from the moment of her birth.

  She marched over to the sideboard and commenced sawing at a loaf of bread. “I’m not given to any kind of dissembling. You should sit.”

  “If I sit, I might never rise. I’ve journeyed from Oxfordshire, and the storm seems to have followed me every mile.”

  “Why not tarry in London and wait out the weather?”

  Because, had Daniel spent another night in London, he’d have been forced to call on a bishop or two and explain why his very own helpmeet hadn’t accompanied him to his new post.

  “I am here to assume responsibility for the Haddondale pulpit,” Daniel said, moving closer to the fire. A copy of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman lay open facedown on the mantel. “I was given to understand filling the position was a matter of some urgency.”

  Her ladyship swiped a silver knife through a pat of butter and paused before applying the butter to the bread.

  “You’re the new vicar?”

  Amusement made this brusque, pretty woman an altogether different creature. She had mischief in her, and humor and secrets, also—where on earth did such thoughts come from?—kisses. Fun, generous kisses.

  When she smiled, Lady Kirsten looked like the sort of female who’d pat a fellow’s bum—in public.

  The cold had made Daniel daft. “Do I have horns or cloven feet to disqualify me from a religious calling, my lady?”

  She slapped the butter onto the bread, her movements confident.

  “You have gorgeous brown eyes, a lovely nose—though it’s a bit red at the moment—and a smile that suggests you might get up to tricks, Mr. Banks. You could also use a trim of that brown hair. Ministers aren’t supposed to look dashing. I have two younger sisters who will suffer paroxysms of religious conviction if you’re to lead the flock.”

  Olivia had found Daniel’s nose “unfortunate.” Daniel found his entire marriage worthy of the same appellation.

  Feeling was returning to his feet, and hunger writhed to life along with it. Lady Kirsten passed him the bread without benefit of a plate.

  “It’s not quite fresh, the bread, that is. The butter was made this morning. I’ll fix you some tea.”

  Daniel took a small bite, then realized he’d forgotten to send grateful sentiments heavenward before he’d done so. I’m grateful for this bread—also for the company.

  “Your tea, Mr. Banks. Drink up, for I hear sleigh bells.”

  Daniel downed the hot tea in one glorious go, the sweetness and substance of it fortifying him, much as Lady Kirsten’s forthright manner had. She swirled her cloak around her shoulders, then draped his scarf, warm from the fire and redolent of cinnamon, around his neck.

  “Let me do the explaining,” she said, passing him warmed gloves when he’d bolted his bread and butter. “The sleigh will afford us hot bricks and lap robes, but once we get to Belle Maison, we’ll hear nothing but questions. Nicholas is protective, and my sisters are infernally curious.”

  She crossed the room to bank the fire, then blew out the candles one by one.

  Lady Kirsten had been gracious to him, and Daniel wanted to give her something in return for her hospitality. Something real, not mere manners.

  An impoverished vicar had little to give besides truth.

  “I’m not lost,” he said. “I was misdirected by some fellows at the inn. I asked for the way to Belle Maison, and they sent me here. I did not confuse their directions, either, because I made them repeat their words twice.”

  He’d been taken for a fool, in other words. Again.

  “The joke is on them, isn’t it?” Lady Kirsten said, blowing out the last candle and enshrouding the cottage in deep gloom. “They might have entertained an angel unaware, and instead they’ll have a very uncomfortable moment when it’s their turn to shake the new vicar’s hand. I will enjoy watching that. My sisters will too.”

  She wrapped up the bread and butter and stuffed it in a brown brocade bag, then set the teakettle on the mantel.

  The sleigh bells went silent, and Daniel sent up a few more words of gratitude. Hot bricks and lap robes would be paradise itself compared to Beelzebub’s cold saddle. After he’d tied his horse behind the sleigh, Daniel climbed in beside Lady Kirsten, who wasn’t at all shy about sharing the lap robe with him.

  And that was a bit of paradise too.

  * * *

  You’re not George.

  Had a woman ever uttered a stupider observation? Kirsten put aside her self-disgust long enough to arrange the lap robe over her knees. Mr. Banks was on her right, Alfrydd, the head lad, on her left, at the reins.

  A great deal more warmth was to be had on her right.

  They reached Belle Maison in what felt like moments, before Kirsten could mentally rehearse the version of events she’d offer to her siblings. Not lies. She never bothered lying to them, though they doubtless often wished she would.

  “Come along, Mr. Banks. Alfrydd will spoil your horse rotten, and very likely the countess will do the same with you.”

  “I’ll be but a moment,” Mr. Banks said, untying his shaggy black beast from behind the sleigh. Ice beaded the horse’s mane and tail, and balls of snow clung to its fetlocks. “Beelzebub has seen me through much this day. I can at least unsaddle him.”

  A parson who named his horse Beelzebub?

  Kirsten’s brothers typically handed their horses off with a pat and a treat, then went striding away to the house, there to track mud, make noise, call for their brandies, and otherwise comport themselves like brothers.

  Mr. Banks wasn’t George, wasn’t a brother to Kirsten of any variety but perhaps the theological.

  “I’ll help,” she said, “but you need not fear your reception with the earl. Unless you hurl thunderbolts from the pulpit and insult women in the street, you’ll be an improvement over your predecessor.”

  Mr. Banks led his mount into the dim, relatively cozy stable, the scents of hay and horse bringing their familiar comfort. Kirsten didn’t share her sisters’ love of all things fine and pretty, though Mr. Banks had an air of careworn male elegance.

  “If you’ll take the reins, I’ll tend to his saddle,” Mr. Banks suggested.

  Kirsten obliged, stroking her glove over a big, horsey Roman nose. “Why did you name him after an imp?” An imp of Satan.

  “He’s blessed with high spirits and a fine sense of humor, though little stops him when he settles to a job.”

  “Your owner treasures you,” Kirsten told the horse. The gelding had dark, soft eyes, much like his o
wner’s, and equally fringed in thick lashes. On both man and horse, those eyes had a knowing quality, nothing effeminate or delicate about them.

  “I treasure my horse, while Zubbie treasures his fodder,” Mr. Banks said, unfastening the girth and removing the saddle but not the pad beneath it.

  Mr. Banks’s words held such affection, Kirsten envied the horse.

  “Have you had him long?” she asked, for there was a bond here, such as Nicholas enjoyed with his mare and George with his gelding. Kirsten’s brothers confided in their horses, were comforted by them, and fretted over their horsey ailments as if a child had fallen ill.

  Men were sentimental about the oddest things.

  “Beelzebub was a gift,” Mr. Banks said, taking the reins from Kirsten and looping them over the horse’s neck. “A parishioner getting on in years foaled him out and saw that Beelzebub would be too big and too energetic for an older couple. He was given to me when he was a yearling, and we’ve been famous friends ever since.”

  Mr. Banks produced a disintegrating lump of sugar from a pocket, and held his hand out to his horse until every evidence of the sugar had been delicately licked away.

  He patted the gelding, slid the saddle pad from its back, and led the animal into a loose box boasting a veritable featherbed of straw. The bridle came off, and some sentiments were imparted to the horse as Mr. Banks stroked its muscular neck.

  “Alfrydd will see that he’s properly groomed,” Kirsten said, because under no circumstances would she allow Mr. Banks to announce himself. She and the vicar would storm the sibling citadel together.

  Susannah would be especially vulnerable to the kindness in Mr. Banks’s eyes, a patient compassion that spoke of woe, sin, and the magnanimity of spirit to accept them both. Della would like the friendliness of those eyes, and Leah, though besotted with Nicholas, was ever one for intelligent conversation.

  “He likes the chill taken off his water,” Mr. Banks said, giving the horse another pat, “and he’s a shy lad around the other fellows.”

  “Nicholas prides himself on a well-run stable, Mr. Banks. Beelzebub will be fine. He’s nigh three-quarter ton of handsome, equine good health, not a sickly boy on his first night at public school.”