Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
Six Months Ago
A lady should never hurry. She should walk at an easy, admirable pace that evokes her grace and good upbringing. In short, as lovely as she is, so is her every movement.
Helena snorted as those words echoed in her head, her every movement as unladylike as a charger in battle, her long legs churning up the hillside. Of all dratted times to recall her tutor’s constant needling about her posture and walk—too fast, too tall, too hunched, too everything .
Too much, Lady Helena Lovell . Always too much.
“Oh yes,” Helena murmured to herself, “for even when a lady is running away, she should still evoke grace and good breeding, lest anyone mistake her for someone with a brain in her head.”
She grinned to herself, both for her quips and talking to herself—more unladylike habits that no tutor could ever rid her of. Not for lack of trying, of course. Helena shuddered to think of the constant smacks of reeds against her wrists as she tried to protect her hands from being injured—not because of the bruising or anything, not out of fear of not being able to write or hold a book.
Thankfully, ladies could have welts on their forearms but not their hands, even with gloves on.
At the top of the hill, she paused and turned, searching the road behind her. In the mellow evening air, there were no signs of pursuit or anyone else on the road. Nothing but the deepening hues in the sky as the sun dipped and seemed to sift through its crimson-hued jewels to hold up the brightest to the world.
She needed to hurry, though, for she was meant to arrive at her aunt’s seaside cottage yesterday. How her heart ached for it, the quiet murmur of the great sound, the cry of gulls, and the rambling walks she could take.
Emma shall arrive tomorrow, Helena thought, with a fierceness that belied her inner desperation. Once we rest and make our plans, we will set out for France and Italy, to find our own way—our own freedom—far from Scotland.
Adjusting her heavy bag, Helena pushed her glasses up her nose, and with a sharp nod to herself, set off down the hill to the town of Fallenworth. Even as she had to admit the irony of coming so close to the border of the land that she and her friend hoped to escape, even as their Queen meant for them to wed two Lairds of the North.
One of the last towns before England became Scotland, Fallenworth was a rambling, portside pile. The white sails of ships rose above the cluster of stone buildings at one end, while fields stretched out on either side, with farmhouses scattered here and there.
Helena felt the tension leave her shoulders. Beyond that small rise to the north, where a farmhouse stood, with smoke swirling into the twilight sky, was the beginning of her aunt’s land.
She let out a long sigh of relief, then quickened her pace even more and checked that her hood had stayed up. She wore a neat gray dress, with a navy cloak over it, hoping to pass as a governess or a maid, someone with enough of a salary to afford a bit of sup and a room, but not rich enough to bother.
Still, as she made it into town, she passed by a wall of fluttering paper notices and stopped dead. A man behind her barked at her, and she offered a swift apology before she moved closer, her heart pounding.
No.
Helena had to stop herself before she ripped the notice off the wall. It would attract too much attention. She forced herself to keep walking, to pretend it wasn’t her friend Emma’s beautiful face sketched there, gazing at her with imploring supplication.
Of course, Helena had known about the people looking for them, all that rot and nonsense, but when had notices gone up?
This must be Lord Cumbria’s work. Drat that man.
Helena chanced another glance, and something twisted inside of her, equal parts relief and guilt. There were no notices with her face.
“Is it true that the lady has not been caught yet?” someone asked near her, and she jumped, before realizing they weren’t speaking to her.
Someone else answered in the affirmative, and Helena watched them walk ahead, now speaking about the reverdie , a less famous but rollicking spring festival celebrated across Scotland and the Uplands of England.
As though in response, music came from up ahead, and Helena felt drawn toward it, even though she knew she should bunker down and find an inn. She always enjoyed music and dancing, even though no one would ever suspect a bluestocking with glasses of such a thing.
Helena glanced back for one final look, watching the notices flutter in the breeze, and wondering where Emma was.
At that moment, two men emerged from the shadows, their faces hard and their gazes keen—locked onto her. A bolt of nerves ran up her spine, and she sucked in a sharp breath before walking faster.
Her eyes darted from side to side as she listened hard, wincing when the sound of boot steps echoed behind hers. She managed to slip into a crowd moving toward a square where sparks from a bonfire shot into the air and the music had grown wilder.
Don’t look back , she told herself, even though she knew she could feel those cruel eyes boring into the back of her hood.
While there might not be notices up for the more elusive, second runaway lady, the bluestocking worth far less than her best friend, Lady Emma Wells, Helena was a prize, nonetheless.
After all, by the Queen’s Edict, Emma and Helena had both been promised to Highland Lairds.
Something her father was keen on seeing through, never mind her foolish stepbrother and stepmother. Those hunters were probably sent by them, as they’d been the most relentless and the hardest to escape—probably warned about her cunning by her father.
Rage spiked low in her belly. He never underestimated her, but he constantly sought to diminish and control her.
Her hands tightened around her bag’s straps. Though she did not wish to wed, she sometimes longed for an arrangement where things could be agreeable between her and her husband —a man who would protect her from her father’s taunts and temper, who would let her be free, who would let her be— all of her. Intelligent, prickly, focused?—
“Lovell!” someone shouted.
Helena couldn’t help it—her shoulders rose to her ears.
“You cannot get away.”
Swallowing hard, Helena moved faster, even as people around her stirred, and she thought she heard someone ask, “Lovell? Isn’t that the other missing English Lady?”
In her attempts to break free of the crowd, someone knocked into her, and she went stumbling toward the dancers. An idea came to her mind, and she straightened, her eyes scanning the crowd. There was a mix of sailors, townsfolk, and even some Scots mingling, laughing and toasting. She saw one man, but he was too genial. Another was offering a flower to a maiden.
Just as she was about to despair, a man stepped out of the shadow of an alley and folded his arms, glaring at the crowd.
One of the tallest men there, he was strong and lean, with broad shoulders, a mess of dark curls, and a tan, rugged face covered in a thick beard. The lines of his face were fascinating, for he was handsome in a way that Helena had never seen before—brutal and bold, like an ancient king. Indeed, his eyepatch, scars, and cold air of purpose only seemed to amplify her fancy.
Helena could not fathom what such a terrifying man was doing here of all places. A sailor from the north, perhaps, or a Scottish warrior, for who else would need two large blades? But no matter, he would do.
Indeed, other folk had noticed him and were pulling away, some staring in outright shock. She saw him notice, and a smirk flitted over his face.
Better and better, she mused, even though she knew she should not be thinking such a thing.
Hurrying forward, Helena adjusted her bag so that it sat on her lower back, pushed up her glasses, and fixed her hood. She heard another shout of her name, and the man in front of her glanced toward the sound, his one bright blue eye roving over the crowd before landing on her. His gaze narrowed, flicked away, and then returned when he realized she was coming toward him.
He straightened as she marched up to him, her heart pounding, and she told herself it was from the nerves.
Not at all from the electric sensation that danced under her skin as she drew closer or the excited jolt that went through her as his eyebrow rose with interest. And if her voice was higher than usual, a bit breathless, that was to be expected—for who else would ask such a man such a question?
“Would you care to dance?”