Peter had jumped, a gasp escaping him, at the unexpected desperation in his mother’s voice, at the strength in her fingers as they dug into his hand.
“I—I promise, Mama.”
His mother seemed to deflate in relief, the pain in her eyes diffused for a moment. Her hands shaking, she’d placed Peter’s hand in Lady Tesh’s before drifting off into a fitful sleep. As if entrusting him into her keeping.
“You were there,” Lady Tesh said now, dislodging the stranglehold the memory had on him. A memory he had not thought of in over a decade. “You remember. I know you do.”
“It matters naught,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to the door.
“It does matter, Peter,” she said softly. “You could stay here for a month with me as you promised her.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the guilt that dragged at him.
Lady Tesh’s arrival in their drafty attic room had given his mother more than relief from the never-ending pain of dying. It had also given her peace. Fear for his future had her holding on to life by the thinnest thread. Lady Tesh had made her feel she could finally let go, that her son would be in safe hands.
He had fled before she was cold in the ground, the idea of being thrust into Lady Tesh’s world terrifying him more than anything ever had. Yet the guilt he had carried from breaking the promise to his mother had sat heavily on his shoulders since. Would he ignore the chance to make good on the one thing she’d asked of him?
As if she heard the tortured thoughts swirling about in his brain, Lady Tesh spoke then, letting the axe fall. “It was her final hope for you. You would not want to see it unfulfilled, would you?”
Fury pounded through him. She was purposely using his mother’s memory to force him to stay. In answer, he tore the door open and hurried through.
What did she know of suffering, of fighting, of want and heartache? He would never cave to her machinations.
Yet he knew that, to ever find peace, he would be forced to concede.
Damn her.
His neckcloth felt too tight, the fabric strangling the very air from his lungs. He had to get outside to fresh air, where he could breathe and think and figure what his next step might be. But had he gotten lost in this labyrinth of a house? Again that tight feeling, of air being stolen from him. He had to find a way out, to find freedom.
Suddenly there was the front door, looming before him. Relief flooded him as he quickened his step, reached for the handle, pulled it open.
And nearly fell over the two young women on the front step.
Chapter 3
Having a very large male nearly bowl her over on Lady Tesh’s front step was certainly not how Lenora had envisioned her return to the Isle. Her world tilted, the stone steps rising up to meet her.
In the next instant, strong, warm hands came about her waist to steady her. A heady scent of spices and coffee assailed her senses, tangy and mouthwatering and reminiscent of sitting before a warm fire in winter, curled up in blankets and comfort.
Flustered, she found her feet and stepped back. Whatever words she would have said to berate or thank the man, however, quickly disappeared into the ether as she caught sight of him.
Goodness, but he looked like a Viking come to life. All broad shoulders and muscles that strained against the confines of his clothes. His hair was golden, hanging in waves to his collar, wild and untamed and sinfully thick. Pale blue eyes glinted under the slash of his brows, almost too beautiful for the harsh planes of his face. A short beard framed his jaw, shining gilded in the faint bits of sunlight that were able to battle their way through the increasingly heavy cloud cover.
She swallowed. Hard.
“I’m very sorry,” he said. His voice was deep and rumbling, shivering through her in the most disturbing way.
“No harm done,” Margery said beside her. “Isn’t that so, Lenora?”
Had she been staring at him all this time? Lenora felt herself flush hot as those cool blue eyes gazed back at her. “Of course, no harm done.” And if her voice was a bit breathless, she prayed he would attribute it to her near fall.
Still the man stood there, blocking their path into the house and the blessed escape from the cake Lenora was making of herself. Her face grew hotter, her gaze trapped by those oddly pale eyes.
“Mr. Ashford, your hat, sir.”
The butler’s voice cut through the moment with all the finesse of a spoon digging through rock. There was a beat of stunned silence.
“You are Mr. Ashford? Mr. Peter Ashford, my cousin from America?” Margery asked, disbelief ripe in her voice.
