Chapter 1
Warlock, Northumberland
“It might be a while before I’m back this way,” the driver said as Eleanor climbed down from the mail coach.
She was the lone remaining passenger. The others had disembarked in the bustling market town of Alnwick.
A fellow widow had tried to dissuade her from continuing on to Warlock, warning her of the isolation.
As she turned to look up at him, her back twinged from sitting so long. “Excuse me?”
He removed the stick of licorice root he was chewing to point at the gray sky. “Snow, and lots of it, is on the way before the fortnight is over. Mark my words. It’s a bleak place in the winter.”
Eleanor shook out her heavy shirts and stared up at the sky. “It is December in the north. Snow is not unheard of. Anyway, I am not planning on leaving until spring at the earliest. I have family here.”
“Good luck to you then.” He shook his head and jammed the licorice root back between his stained teeth as if she were too ignorant to spend any more time on.
One did not need to be Nostradamus to predict snow would be likely in Northumberland in the winter.
Her sister Charlotte had written letters about changeable weather since settling in the village of Warlock after her marriage.
Eleanor had hoped Charlotte would have returned to the family home in the temperate climes of Hertfordshire after being widowed so early in her marriage, but she had chosen to remain in Warlock.
Three years earlier, Eleanor had visited Charlotte while her husband Daniel still lived and found her sister…
not deliriously happy like Eleanor imagined marriage to be at that time but at least content.
Daniel MacGrath had been pleasant and kind.
Not the picture of a dashing romantic hero, but now that Eleanor was older—wiser was still out for debate considering her current predicament—she understood heroes to be in short supply or altogether extinct.
The mail coach had dropped her in front of an inn at the end of a deserted street.
No one was about on the dreary day. Even the inn looked sparsely filled.
She stood for a moment to get her bearings.
A cold breeze snaked its way under the collar of her dark gray broadcloth dress.
It was an even more depressing gray than the sky.
The afternoon was brisk but not the bone-chilling cold she had feared the farther north she had traveled. Her last visit had been at the height of spring with a balmy breeze and riotous flowers to welcome her.
If she recalled correctly, her sister’s cottage was at the opposite end of the village. Before she could unfurl her cloak to settle it around her shoulders, she heard her maiden name said with no small amount of consternation.
“Miss Eleanor Hannings?” The voice was as low and gruff as she remembered and sent a shiver up her spine.
Not that she had thought about Callum Paxton in the years since her visit to Warlock.
Granted, she hadn’t been able to stop the man from traipsing through her dreams on occasion.
Although why such a boorish lout, even if he was heir to a baronetcy, had made a permanent impression on her psyche, she could not fathom.
Yes, they had shared a kiss. Her first (and a few others besides). Now that she had some experience, perhaps his kisses even qualified as her best. That was embarrassing to admit even to herself. But he had thrown her over with a rudeness that still chafed her pride.
She turned to face him, readying a tart reply, but her lips did not form words, only a whispered “oh.”
He was much changed in the three years since they’d spent time walking, talking, and flirting with one another.
His dark hair was longer, and the beginnings of a beard stubbled his cheeks.
Whereas before the light of mischief had made his dark brown eyes sparkle, now there was a depthless lack of warmth.
Compared to the finely carved patrician mien of her late husband, Callum was rough-hewn, his features blunt and masculine. His jaw was square and his lips firm.
In her memories, he had been tall and lanky with the grace of a greyhound.
Now he was more like a mastiff. The black greatcoat flung around his shoulders emphasized their broadness.
It was unclasped and showcased a chest that was deep and thick.
He wore no collar or cravat. His neck was a strong column and tanned even in December.
His waistcoat was a serviceable russet broadcloth that any gentleman farmer might own.
His limbs were encased in a pair of patched buckskins that fit him well.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise that he looked older, but it was more than just a few years’ growth he wore. He was no longer a boy but a full-grown man. A man who had experienced more than some did in a lifetime, although she could not hazard a guess at what had caused such a transformation.
Was he drawing similar conclusions about her?
She was certainly no longer the dewy-eyed girl full of unrealistic dreams he had teased and kissed senseless.
(Why could she not stop thinking about his kisses?) How did the intervening years sit on her?
She was afraid to examine herself in a looking glass for fear of seeing her unhappy experiences writ large.
“It’s Mrs. Denholm now.” She used to say it with pride, but now the admission was distasteful.
“Ah, I see.” Callum inclined his head and glanced to either side of her, no doubt looking for Mr. Denholm.
If he knew what had happened, no doubt he would have a cutting aside to make. She had had enough of those to last a lifetime. Correcting him would mean delving a toe into the sordid truth, which was exactly what she was trying to escape.
“I’m here to visit my sister,” she said simply.
“Of course. Is this your trunk?” He pointed to the case sitting beside her.
“Yes, but?—”
Before she could finish her protest, he lifted the case to rest on his shoulder. “I’ll walk you down to Mrs. MacGrath’s cottage.”
She trailed after him, suppressing a grimace. The last thing she wanted was to be beholden to him in any way. Her angst was replaced by concern. Callum was favoring his right leg, making his gait uneven.
“My trunk is too heavy, sir. Pray put it down, and I can send someone else for it.” She came up beside him and laid a gloved hand on the arm that balanced the trunk on his shoulder. The muscle was hard and twitched under her fingers. She jerked her hand back as if stung.
“Who?” he asked gruffly.
“Pardon me?”
He made a show of looking up and down the empty lane. “Who will you send for?”
Consternation filled her. “Your leg— I’m sure Charlotte?—”
The look he shot her made her clamp her mouth shut.
He resumed walking with his uneven stride.
“Your sister’s fingers are agile from her sewing, but she is not sturdy enough to lug this monstrosity to her cottage.
Are anvils the first stare of fashion for the fancy folk this season?
” The barest hint of tease threaded his words along with an emotion she recognized intimately—bitterness.
Still, it was good to feel her ire rise up to replace any sympathy she might have been feeling for him. “As if you would know the latest fashions. Anyone would send you to the servants’ entrance dressed as you are.”
“That would suit me just fine. I’ve always been able to charm a pasty or two from any cook.” His old charisma had bubbled up but quickly popped. “Of course, that was before. I would probably get chased away with a broom these days. Not that I could run as fast and far as I used to.”
She had no trouble keeping pace at his side and stared over at him. His profile was unsmiling and broody.
“Is it a recent injury?” The question popped out before she could stop herself.
She was horrified at her forwardness, especially toward a man she held such feelings of antipathy for.
They had reached her sister’s cottage but stood outside the gate. The withered remnants of fall flowers and leafless shrubs lined the path. He swung the trunk from his shoulder and cocked his injured leg out, putting most of his weight on his good one.
“Do you really want to know what happened?” he asked with no rancor in his tone.
The answer was an unequivocal yes. But the harder question to answer was why was she burning to hear the tale. Did she want to use the information to tweak him with later? Was it idle curiosity? Or would hearing of someone else’s misfortune lessen her own? Was she so selfish and pitiful?
Maybe. Probably. But she didn’t have time to examine her motivations. Her sister burst from the cottage door. “Eleanor! You have arrived safe and sound. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow’s coach. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you.”
Eleanor only had a blink to take in her sister’s stylish woolen forest green gown with gold accents before she was enveloped in a tight hug.
Tendrils of Charlotte’s beautiful honey-blond curls had come loose of their pins and tickled Eleanor’s cheek.
She smelled of rose water and herbs, fresh and so spring-like it was hard to believe it was approaching the winter solstice.
The welcome was warm and direct and the opposite of what had been aimed at her the past six months in London. Eleanor sagged and set her cheek against her sister’s shoulder like she had when she was a child with a skinned knee.
“You can set her trunk in the entryway, Callum. Thank you so much for escorting Eleanor from the inn.”
Eleanor knew she should thank Callum as well, but if she lifted her head, he would see the tears that had gathered and could imagine what sort of offhand hurtful remark he might make. She managed an indelicate sniff to keep from leaving a snotty trail on her sister’s lovely dress.
Charlotte slipped an arm around Eleanor’s waist and guided her inside while saying over her shoulder, “Will we see you at the festival, Callum?”
“I haven’t decided. Good day, ladies.”