Prologue
Kent, England 1840
The rawboned Barbary stallion looked out of place standing before the Duke of Moreland's family estate. The august mansion, golden-hued and "boasting magnificent proportions, was the epitome of grace and elegance, while the sweeping lawns and topiary yews had been clipped and manicured and cultivated within an inch of their civilized existence.
In contrast, die fiery Barb with its sinewed haunches esq over- long mane seemed almost swage. Indeed, it bore scant resemblance to the sleek thoroughbreds in the fabulous ducal stables. This animal had been bred for endura ice and speed in the harsh desert climate of the Sahara, and trained for war. Held by a wary, liveried groom, the bay stallion snorted defiancé and pawed the ground while awaiting its master.
The horseman who at last cams bounding down me wida stone steps of the ducal mansion aiscs contrasted with his noble surroundings—despite his tailored frock coat and si&reiisc. cravat of black silk, despite even hi? claim to noble birth. The young gsntlemajj was the duke's grandson, but his bronzed skin and hawklike gaze lent him a hard, ruthless air that the refined British gentleman of his class would never attain. There was nothing refined, either, about the way he leapt oa. the stallion's bach or wheeled his mount as if he'd been born in the saddle.
Muscles quivering in response to its rider's innate restlessness, the horse strained eagerly at the bit, in anticipation of freedom.
Yet Nicholas Sterling kept the Barb tightly reined as they traversed the smooth graveled drive between two rows of stately oaks; for once he checked his impatience to be away. He could afford this last mark of obeisance, this final show of respect for his grandfather. His interview with the duke successfully concluded, he was at last free to pursue his own life. Ten years. Ten long years in this foreign land, enduring what had felt like captivity. But at last he could shed the trappings of his civilized English upbringing, as well as the English name that had been thrust upon him.
The taste of freedom was sharp on his tongue, as sweet as the spice of fall in the air, as vivid as the oaks turning the colors of autumn. The stallion seemed to sense his mood, for the animal began a spirited dance, nostrils flaring, ears pricked forward, as they passed beneath the canopy of the giant oaks.
The horse never flinched as an acorn whistled over its head and fell to earth, a credit to the stallion's training. Nicholas absently murmured a word of praise, his thoughts occupied by his impending departure from England.
The next instant he heard another faint whistling . . . then a small, dull thud as his silk top hat went flying off his head to land in the drive. Scattering gravel as he spun the stallion around, Nicholas reached for the curved dagger at his waist—a habit learned in youth—before remembering he had no reason to carry a weapon in this tame country. He had not expected danger to be lurking in a British tree.
Or a female, either.
But that was precisely what met his astounded gaze as he stared overhead. She was hard to see. If not for the acorns he would have passed her by; her black gown was nearly hidden in the dappled shadows. Even as he peered up at her through branches and leaves, she defiantly flung another acorn at his fallen chapeau, missing it by mere inches.
The bay stallion, taking exception to this aggression, thrust its forehooves squarely on the ground, tossing its proud head and snorting in challenge. Soothingly Nicholas laid a gloved hand on his mount's neck, but his mouth tightened in anger.
"The first acorn," he said softly, "I mistook as an act of nature. Even the second, when you targeted my hat, I excused as an accident. But not the third. Would you care to know the consequences of a fourth?"
When she didn't reply, Nicholas's gaze narrowed. By now his vision had grown accustomed to the shadows, and he could see that the perpetrator perched on the limb overhead was a young girl of perhaps thirteen, with chestnut hair, several shades darker than his own dark gold, styled in ringlets. The hem of her gown was a scant
four feet from his head, giving him a glimpse of lace-edged pantalettes. The quality of the material was unmistakable, bespeaking wealth if not current fashion.
Even as he fixed her with a hard stare, the girl tossed her head defiantly, much like his stallion had just done. "Tuppence for your consequences! You don't frighten me in the least."
The novelty of her reply gave him pause. He was not accustomed to being challenged by a female, certainly not by a child. Staring at her, Nicholas was torn between amusement and the urge to turn her over his knee. Not that he had ever raised his hand to a woman. But he didn't intend to divulge that particular fact just now. Repressing amusement, he schooled his features into suitable fierceness.
"If you decide to throw another acorn," he warned, "I shall be persuaded to give you the thrashing such willful misbehavior deserves."
In response, the girl raised her chin another notch. "You will have to catch me first."
"Oh, I shall. And I guarantee you won't like it if you put me to the trouble of climbing after you." His tone was pleasant, yet carried a hint of something soft and deadly. "Now, do I disarm you, or will you surrender your weapons without a fight?''
She must have believed his threat. After a moment's hesitation, she let the fistful of acorns drop harmlessly to the ground.
Nicholas was satisfied that she wouldn't again dare hurl one of her missiles at him, but he couldn't leave her to pelt other unsuspecting travelers with acorns. "You should have considered what might have happened," he added more casually. "Had my horse been any less well-trained, he might have bolted, perhaps even sustained an injury or delivered one to me."
"I wasn't aiming at your horse, only your hat. I would never hit an animal. Besides, he didn't bolt. You didn't have any trouble holding him, for all that he looks so savage."
"You presume to be a judge of horseflesh? I assure you, this beast is far more valuable to me than any of the pampered animals in the duke's possession."
"Will you sell him to me?"
The sudden question, delivered in such a hopeful tone, took him aback.
"I can afford his price," she said quickly when he hesitated. "My papa was exceedingly wealthy."
Several answers immediately came to mind. That his horse was not for sale. That a stallion was not a suitable mount for a young lady. But his curiosity was aroused. "What would you want with him?" Nicholas asked instead.
''I shall need a horse when I run away.''
He raised an eyebrow at her. The rebellion was back in her tone, echoing a sentiment that was familiar to him. "Where do you intend to go?"
"India, of course."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm afraid you cannot ride a horse to India."
"I know that! But if I am to find a ship to take me, I must first travel to a seaport. And I cannot steal a horse, you see."
"Ah . . . no, I fear I don't see."
"I am not a thief!" She sounded indignant. "And if I were to steal one, they would discover it missing and come after me sooner. Well," she demanded as he silently pondered her logic, "will you sell him to me or not?"
"This particular horse is not for sale," Nicholas said, managing to keep the laughter from his voice. "And in any case, I expect your parents would be rather concerned if you were to run away."
He expected her to be disappointed, but to his surprise, the girl suddenly swung down from the tree limb with a flurry of skirts to land on the low stone wall beside the drive. There she stood for an instant, staring back at him.
She was an intriguing child, with huge storm-gray eyes that seemed too big for the rest of her plain features. Eyes that were angry, defiant . . . anguished. He caught the reflection of tears in those haunted eyes, before her defiancé crumbled. "I don't have any parents," she whispered in a grief-stricken voice.
The next moment, she leapt down from the wall and fled across the manicured lawn, to the shelter of a copse of willows.
So strong was the impression of a wild young creature in pain that Nicholas had to follow. Reining back his mount, he urged the stallion over the low wall, then cantered across the lawn and skirted the willows. He found her lying facedown on the grass beside an ornamental lake, sobbing as if her world had shattered. Unexpectedly, he felt guilt. Had he caused her tears?
Dismounting, Nicholas sank down beside her and waited. Not moving, not touching her, merely letting her feel his nearness, the way he would one of his horses. She didn't acknowledge his presence in words, yet he knew by the stiffness of her shaking young body that she was aware of him. And after a while, her sobs lessened enough for her to speak.
She didn't want to answer his probing questions, though. Her first reply, when he asked her what was troubling her, was a husky "Go 'way."
"What kind of gentleman would I be if I left a young lady in distress?"
"I am n-not in distress!"
"Then why are you filling the lake with your tears?"
She didn't reply; she only curled her knees up more tightly and buried her face in her arms, in an effort to shut him out.
"Tell me what the trouble is and I will go away." Again no answer. "I can be very patient," Nicholas warned quietly as he settled back for a long wait. "Why do you not have any parents?"
He heard a watery sniffle. "They . . . they died."
"I'm sorry. Was it recent?"