Born Wild (Wild Hearts #2)

Chapter 1

Jensen

So that’s a moor then.

Bit of a disappointment, really.

I spent most of my childhood lost in books set in England, and to me, the moorlands of Yorkshire always had a distinctly magical feel—rolling expanses of wide-open space, heathered shades of fauna, dusky pinks and purples with splashes of apple green and moody blues in the shadows.

In my mind’s eye, there’s always a thick blanket of fog on the horizon, whispering my name, calling for me to venture into it.

In my daydreams, I’m the kind of guy who wears tweed when he goes for long walks, and makes it look good.

I look into the wind, narrowing my eyes mysteriously, and contemplate important matters.

I wear a flat cap that makes me look distinguished, not dorky.

And chestnut leather riding boots. It doesn’t matter that I don’t know how to ride a horse.

No one cares about that because I look hot.

In my fantasies, I’m the kind of man who’s never known heartbreak, but has inspired it many, many times.

Reality is nothing like that. Nor is the scenery.

I wipe the little patch of glass that’s steamed up near my face with the cuff of my jacket and sigh as the train chugs along, exposing me to yet more unmoody countryside.

When I reach my destination, a little village called Hutton-le-Hole—if you can believe that—I alight from the train with some difficulty. I based my decision on how many bags to bring with me on how much excess luggage I could afford, not on how many I could comfortably carry on my own.

It was a mistake.

My ass is sweating by the time I’ve made several fraught trips up and down the stairs from the platform to the street, and I can tell my hair is about two seconds from going into a major tizzy.

That’s the last thing I need. England might not have made a great first impression on me, but I’m damn well going to make a good first impression on England.

My ride approaches, and I’m buoyed at the sight. It’s a traditional black cab. A real-life Hackney carriage complete with shiny paint, swoopy lines, and classic round headlights.

Yes, I think as I strap myself into the back seat. This is more like it.

My cabbie’s name is Charlie, and he’s a chatty one with a fabulous Yorkshire accent. He shortens his vowel sounds and drops his Gs in a way that’s earthy, melodic, and totally charming.

“So,” I say, leaning forward in my seat to ensure he can hear me over the roar of the engine. “What’s Beaumont Craven House like then?”

I tack on the then at the end of the sentence without really thinking about it.

It almost comes naturally to me, and I’ve only been in England for a few hours.

I’m pretty sure I’m going to develop a strong accent while I’m here.

I bet everyone will be all, “Oh wow, Jensen, I can’t believe how much you’ve changed,” when I get home.

Can’t wait.

“Eh.” Charlie clears his throat and coughs up a bit of phlegm. “Seen one stately home, seen ’em all, know what I mean?”

My heart drops and a wave of disappointment weighs my arms down.

While I can forgive the moors for being lackluster, the same can’t be said for Beaumont Craven House.

When I took this job, I was promised a Georgian Palladian mansion, and I’m not being funny when I say I need this English adventure to deliver a Georgian Palladian mansion that’s worth writing home about.

I’m badly jetlagged. I didn’t eat well on the plane, and I haven’t showered since God knows when. Not to alarm anyone, but the thread between Jensen On A Good Day and Jensen On A Bad Day is wearing incredibly thin.

Charlie indicates and turns off our current narrow lane onto an even narrower one. This one is a gravel track about a mile long and leads to a dense cluster of oak trees.

My anxiety climbs steadily as we drive, and the hundredth inkling that I’ve made a catastrophic mistake coming here makes itself known. I can scarcely get a good breath by the time we approach the house, but miraculously, when the trees clear, the sight that greets me leaves my mouth gaping.

Beaumont Craven House is everything I thought it would be, and more.

My God, it’s so much more. The scale of it is hard to describe.

It’s vast, a massive, symmetrical four-story building, with red brick and stone detailing.

It has an imposing entrance dripping in ivy and framed by manicured formal gardens, complete with twin fountains.

My eyes are on stalks, and for once, I’m speechless. Literally speechless.

Charlie brings the cab to a stop and helps me with my bags. I’m a little dazed by my surroundings, so it takes me a second to realize that he’s brought me around to a back entrance of the property.

I’m quickly and thoroughly sobered when I see the discreet sign on the door: Servant Entrance.

Sweet Jesus! Is this how the other half live? Are they seriously calling people servants in this day and age? How awful.

And holy crap…am I a servant now?

Is this what I signed up for?

I read my contract meticulously, and I’m absolutely fucking sure I didn’t see anything about being anyone’s servant.

No. I won’t stand for it.

I blink away my shock and ready myself to tender my resignation with immediate effect. As I do, my vision clears, and I see that the sign actually reads Service Entrance.

Oh.

Okay.

False alarm.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Let’s take a deep breath and calm down.

Charlie rings the service bell and steps back toward the cab. He hesitates, mouth opening a fraction and closing. Then he tips his head furtively toward the house. “You’ll be careful of him, won’t you, lad?”