Chapter One
North Yorkshire
Theodosia Bragg hustled down the street, eager to get home and escape the cold winds whipping wisps of hair into her face and sending the brightly colored leaves to scatter along the flagway.
The street was uncommonly empty and she frowned as thick gray clouds gathered, darkening the late afternoon sky.
The ominous setting was perfect to bring about the appearance of the ghost of Lover’s Crossing. She could envision the arrival of the conveyance being manned by a headless figure rushing over the cobblestone, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves thundering around her.
She shivered.
Warily, she looked over her shoulder and laughed nervously when there was nothing there.
“Of course there is nothing there, you silly ninny,” Theodosia scolded herself.
She was nowhere near Lover’s Crossing and the ghost had never been seen in any other location. She had never seen him herself, and oft wondered if it was only a fantastical story to make the moors even creepier than they already were.
With a deep breath, she pushed forward, hurrying home. Her gloved hands cinched the neckline of her cloak tighter in a desperate attempt to fight off the bite of the autumn air.
The weather had been unseasonably cold for this time of year and Theodosia couldn’t ignore the veil of foreboding the bitter temperature brought with it.
The cool air matched the ice that coursed through her veins at the information she had just uncovered.
She and her dear friend, Clementine Worthington, were in the town square, helping to prepare for the upcoming Withbey Harvest Festival—something they had done for the past several years. It was an event Theodosia always looked forward to.
Each year, she and Clementine would use twine to bundle oak leaves that had fallen from the massive trees outside, then they would use them to create beautiful wreaths. But this year, she overheard a group of men speaking near the entrance.
She was not one to normally eavesdrop, but when she heard one of the men mention her father’s name, her interest was piqued.
This was not out of the norm; her father was a prominent figure in Withbey.
Considering his position as magistrate and owner of the largest shipbuilding company on the east coast, he was oft the topic of conversation.
What heightened her curiosity was the name spoken shortly after the mention of her father.
Ellis Gordon.
The man she had been trying to forget, but could not, no matter how hard she tried. His piercing blue eyes continually haunted her dreams, and she could still feel the press of his warm lips upon hers, even though he had vanished without a word two years ago.
For the longest time, she was heartbroken, then heartbreak transformed to fury.
So, when she heard his name, her hands had clenched so tightly she had snapped the twig she was shaping for the wreath clean in two.
Clementine had raised her dark brows in question, as she was completely unaware of the conversation taking place nearby.
“This branch is quite thin, and I forgot to soak it.” Theodosia made up a lame excuse.
Her friend nodded in understanding. “I have done the very same myself.”
“I hear Gordon is working with Frederick Cole now,” one of the men said. “Down from the Highlands with quite the accolades in cartography.”
Ellis had always enjoyed mapping wild and unknown landscapes. From the sounds of it, he still did.
And he was back.
In Withbey.
Cold wind crept beneath the hem of Theodosia’s cloak as Braggdon Hall came into view.
She quickened her pace, hurried up the steps, and shoved the door open.
A powerful gust of wind blew in behind her, tossing the drapes wildly about and knocking over a small figurine on the nearby table before she was able to force the door closed behind her.
Theodosia fell back against the heavy wood, her breaths heavy from running.
“Miss Bragg, are ye unwell? Your color is all gone.” Lucy, one of Braggdon Hall’s young maids, rushed forward, concern drawing her dark brows together.
“Come sit. I will get you a cup of tea.” She ushered Theodosia into the parlor and, after sliding the cloak from her shoulders, she pointed to the upholstered chair nearest the hearth.
“Sit,” she ordered, and Theodosia complied. “I will return shortly.”
The soft, crushed velvet enveloped her, warming her skin.
Logs shifted and crackled in the fireplace, sending sparks floating upward. Theodosia stared into the flames. Flames that burned as brightly as the love she and Ellis had once shared.
Or so she had thought.
Not one letter did he respond to, of the many she had written after he left. Every single one of them went unanswered. Bitterness consumed her.
How could someone who had claimed to love her so deeply be so cruel?
She took a deep breath, tugged off her gloves, and tried to force all thoughts of Ellis from her mind.
Lucy returned with tea and biscuits, setting the tray on a nearby table. She poured the tea and held out a delicate china teacup and saucer.
“Thank you, Lucy.” She set her gloves on the chair next to her and accepted the tea.
“You need not worry about me. I promise you I am well. However, I must confess, the chill in the air affected me more than I expected.” She wrapped her cold fingers around the teacup, blew across the surface, then took a sip.
“Mmm.” She closed her eyes and breathed in the wonderful smoky aroma with fruity undertones of the bohea tea. “This will do perfectly. Thank you.”
“You are welcome, Miss Bragg.” Lucy excused herself, and passed Theodosia’s mother, Belinda, as she entered the parlor.
“I thought I heard you return.” Her mother settled into the matching chair on the other side of the small table. “How are preparations for the festival faring?”
“Very well,” she answered truthfully, happy for the distraction from her inescapable thoughts of Ellis. “I do enjoy the time spent helping with the decorating.”
“Do not forget the gathering this eve.” Her mother selected a biscuit from the tray and took a small bite.
Theodosia indeed had forgotten, but she would not confess that to her mother.
“I am looking forward to it.” It wasn’t a lie necessarily, but it certainly wasn’t the truth either.
The gathering brought everyone together. Which meant, if Ellis Gordon was already in Withbey, then he would surely be there as well. She would have to bolster her resolve for such a possibility.
“I shall freshen up before we leave.” With a resigned sigh, she stood. “Will Papa be attending with us as well?”
“Yes, he would not miss a chance to talk business.” Her mother placed the unfinished biscuit back on the tray and brushed her fingers together.
Theodosia had always looked forward to the gathering—until now. She dreaded the thought of the possibility of seeing Ellis again.
Sometime later, when she arrived at the gathering, her feelings of disquiet had not changed. Her gaze traveled around the large space in search of Clementine. Instead, she discovered a pair of familiar blue eyes watching her from across the room.
She blinked to break the hold his gaze had upon her, and quickly turned away, nearly knocking Clementine over as she did so.
“Did you see him?” her friend asked in a whisper.
Theodosia did not need to ask her to expound on who him was.
“Yes,” she snapped, then grabbed her friend’s hand and pulled her in the opposite direction.
Ignoring the anger bubbling just beneath the surface of her skin, as well as the conflicting and highly aggravating delight coursing through her veins at seeing Ellis again, she somehow managed to ignore him for the remainder of the gathering.
They never spoke—not once.
Throughout the evening, conversations of the ghost of Lover’s Crossing sparked as they always did this time of year. Talk of the poor man who lost his head on the night he was supposed to collect his future bride ran rampant amongst the crowd.
“You can hear him crying out for his lost love on the moors at night,” one woman said.
“Sometimes, you can hear the cries of the woman he lost, devastated over the death of the man that was to be her husband.” A man spoke as if he’d actually heard the woman himself.
“I have heard his horses.” Another woman looked from one person to the other as she dramatically shared her experience. “When you hear them, you must run, for if he catches you, you too, will lose your head.”
Theodosia shivered at the thought and from the lingering feeling of foreboding.
Beside her, Lucy leaned in close.
“It’s the ghost again.” She hurriedly crossed herself.
“Silly gossip.” Theodosia shook her head and rolled her eyes to hide her uneasiness.
She bid good night to several acquaintances, hugged Clementine, then she and Lucy returned to Braggdon Hall.
As they entered the grounds, something on the gate caught her eye.
Lucy started toward the steps, stopped, and looked back at Theodosia. “Are you coming?”
“I will be right in,” she promised, and waited until the young woman disappeared inside. She approached the gate, untied the knot of horsehair ribbon, and turned the item over in her hands. Her heart skipped a beat when she noticed her name embroidered on it in deep-red lettering.
She quickly spun around and scanned her surroundings, paying close attention to the shadows. Yet no one was there. With her nerves on edge, she quickly made her way inside.
Later that night, before she retired to her bed, she held the ribbon near the candlelight and examined it more closely.
An uneasy feeling washed through her.
As if it were a snake, she tossed the ribbon into the fire. She watched it burn for a few long moments, then slid beneath the thick coverings.
Her eyes grew heavy and memories of the final kiss she and Ellis shared assaulted her mind.
The kiss had ended with his promise to return to make her his bride.
Theodosia had been a fool to believe his lies.
Never again, will I be so gullible, was her final thought before succumbing to the weight of sleep.