The yew’s roots formed part of the cottage’s foundation. They’d wanted their bed—like their home—to be immovable—a veritable symbol of an ideal world they wished to create. Then again, an immovable home must have been only whatshehad wanted. Not long after the thatch had been set, he had gone.
But she had not been alone forever, had she? First, the duchess had sent Mrs. Renton to help. Then later, the sailors began to arrive—each one in need. And Pensteague had grown, room by room, resident by resident. She’d had Pensteague, her son, and the sailors to love.
But none had replaced Chev in her heart.
That ungiven love had been spooling within for over a decade. Carrying all that hoarded love left her volatile, unstable. That lop-sided mass was what had gone still when she was standing with the captain inside the circle of stone.
That knowledge was the source of her unrest.
She fell into a restless slumber. And then, she dreamed of Chev.
In her dream, their limbs entwined under the sheets of their bed, knotted together, entangled like the yew’s roots as they dove deep into the earth.
Her hair was loose and flowing. She was a flower, opening, with trust, to the man by her side. The man that caught her breath with a single wink. A man whose laugh was the sound of bliss, whose touch was transcendent fire.
No man now or ever could take his place, even if she wished.
And she did not wish.
How could she?
Chev had been her first love. Her only true love. Father to her son.
She reached up to caress his face, but his cheek was not clean-shaven.
She dropped her hands to his chest, finding lean muscle, not brawn.
And the hair that flowed past her shoulders was not only hers, but his.
“Penelope,” he said, in his gruff, other-worldly voice.
This time the vine choked.
She awoke, her skin damp with sweat, blinking into the harsh, late-morning light.
Had your husband lived, you could have been a duchess.
She did not want to be duchess—she yanked the duchess’s pillow from beneath her head and threw it across the room—and she didnotwant the captain.
She squeezed her eyes closed.
She wanted Chev.
The door opened. She barely had time to erase her scowl.
“Lord bless me, my lady.” Mrs. Renton held her hand against her heart. “I thought you were up hours ago.”
“I overslept.”
Mrs. Renton’s gaze moved to the pillow, resting askew against the window sill.
Pen cleared her throat. “Is Thaddeus awake?”
“Master Thaddeus was up at dawn and to his studies. He’s determined to finish in time to make his appointment with the captain.
“The captain?” She wasn’t the only one falling under his influence, of course.
“Yes. I believe they intend to hunt rabbits.” Mrs. Renton stepped into the room and closed the door behind. “There’s something else you should know. Lord Thomas has just returned from London. And”—she lowered her voice—“he is not alone. There’s a woman with him in the drawing room.”
