Page 1 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

Chapter One

September 2nd, 1822

York, England

The walls of York, though perhaps not the easiest to traverse, circled the ancient city as though it still had need of defense against the realm’s enemies. Roman Eastwood, Baron Hartwell, stood on the northern wall staring over its stone and into the distant hills.

How many of his distant ancestors once stood in this spot, or near it, looking out over the same landscape? What were their troubles and hopes?

They certainly could not have imagined what the city or kingdom had become. New merchant houses stood alongside historic buildings, the clamor of trade reaching even these elevated heights—evidence of York’s prosperous markets. The winding streets were bustling, not just with the local gentry and the common man, but with visitors from afar who had heard of the city’s growth and grand social events. If it were up to Roman, the city would continue to flourish and grow upon the solid foundations built by those who had come before.

The scrape of shoe on stone made him turn—to see a gentleman coming toward him, holding the hand of a little boy. Both wore black, in mourning, but the child practically skipped alongside the man.

“The soldiers would stand all along the top here, wouldn’t they, Papa?” the boy said cheerfully.

The father glanced up, making eye contact with Roman, a glimmer in his eyes as he replied, “Indeed, they would. The longbowmen, envied by the kings of Europe, would have stood here to defend the city from Scottish raids.” He tipped his head to Roman as they passed, a polite acknowledgement between strangers.

Roman returned the gesture, touching the brim of his hat.

“Longbowmen? Will I learn how to shoot a bow?” the boy asked, hardly aware of the stranger who watched them pass.

As they walked on, Roman turned back to the wall. He ran a hand over the stone, worn smooth by weather and time, then looked farther along where small sections had crumbled or fallen into unnoticed disrepair.

He shook his head. Other English cities had followed London’s example and dismantled many of their ancient walls, claiming they were naught but relics of the past. But the people of York had stood firm. They would cherish the walls their ancestors had labored to build and defend.

Just as Roman would keep his own defenses raised, and his family and home protected.

The boy and man reached one of those dilapidated sections, carefully climbing down the hill-like bank before making their way to the street—all while holding hands. The father’s head tilted as he continued to listen to his child’s rapid observations of the world around them.

More than twenty years ago, Roman had navigated the wall holding his father’s hand. Later their father had taken both Roman and his brother, Lyness, along the walls as the late baron spoke of their history. The War of Roses. Further back, the assault of Scottish raiders. Right to the beginning, the history of the Romans building the first walls and leaving them behind for the people of York to reinforce and rebuild as needed.

“The history of our city is protected and represented by these walls,” his father had said many times to both his sons, pressing his palm against a stone.

Roman had listened and believed it. “I continue to protect it, Father,” he murmured to the memory, laying a gloved hand against the gray stone, above the invisible handprint of men long gone. “York’s walls will not fall under my watch.”

Before he’d turned twenty, his father’s heart had given out, the title descending to Roman who had tried to carry forward his father’s title and wishes. He hoped to succeed in that.

A bark from below pulled his gaze away from stone to inside the walls, where his carriage waited. The groom gripped the leashes of Apollo and Athena, the German boarhounds staring up at him. They never understood why he left them below, when they were nearly always by his side or his brother’s.

Though Lyness had not kept them company as often of late. He was far too busy courting his bride-to-be, their wedding set for December. The city walls might remain the same, but Roman’s life was changing more with each passing day, the foundations of his life…shifting.

He strode across the twenty feet of carefully maintained wall to the stairway descending to ground level, protected by a small tower. He paused at the top of the steps and moved aside for an elderly gentleman and his wife as the two slowly climbed upward, likely to take in the view for themselves.

Were they only visiting? Perhaps they had climbed the walls a thousand times, always arm in arm. Roman watched as they passed him, the gentleman nodding politely, and felt a moment of envy.

Not long ago, he’d decided it was high time to marry…but the woman he’d most recently chosen would now be wife to his brother. Not him.

“And rightly so,” he muttered aloud, going down the stone steps.

His pride had been stung when Lady Emily revealed she loved his brother, even though he understood—exactly as he had when a duke’s daughter had chosen another man, and an earl’s sister told him she could not see them getting on together well enough to wed.

The baron held no ill will toward any of them. Each lady had done what she thought best, as he must do for himself.

Which meant finding another lady and trying again.

A child’s delighted laughter met his ears as he came out onto the street as the same voice squealed, “Are they lions?”

A moment later he saw his dogs sitting, perfectly behaved, on either side of the groom—their heads turning to a little boy coming toward them in a rush. He did not jump at them, thankfully, but stopped directly in front of Apollo and stared up at the dog with wonder.