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  All her life she had felt at home near the water, both in England and in Boston. She learned to swim at a young age, an event Amber remembered clearly—one of the memories she had of her father before his death. It had been a particularly sunny day, and he had taken Amber on a long walk through the forests lining the rear of his estate. She had worn a simple day dress, and together they walked for what seemed like hours. It was midday when they reached the small pond in the middle of the wood, the cool water inviting.

  “Do you want to go in?” Robert Townsend had asked his four and a half year old daughter, who stood only as high as his waist. She looked up at him, and then back at the pool, the desire evident on her face. When she smiled at him he had to laugh, for she had prematurely lost her front tooth after falling from a tree, and it made her all the more endearing. He stripped off his coat, waistcoat, and cravat, setting them in a pile next to a willow tree. He then bent down to unbuckle his shoes, and lost his balance pulling off his stockings, sending Amber into a fit of giggles. He stood up straight with his hands on his hips and regarded her with a smile, wearing only his breeches and shirtsleeves. “Your turn, little monkey, take off your stockings. Your mother will punish me if we ruin another pair.”

  “Won’t she be mad if we get my dress all wet?”

  “Good thinking, Amber,” he said, ruffling her hair. He loosened the bow on the back of her dress, and then waded into the water, turning in time to watch her fold her dress and lay it on top of his clothes, careful not to let any part of it touch the ground. He smiled to himself as she approached the water in her chemise and petticoat, hesitating before dipping her toe in. “Ready?” he asked, his arms spread wide.

  She nodded, and began to splash her way into the clear water. Within seconds she had reached her father and flung herself into his arms, laughing as he swung her around.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon teaching her how to hold herself afloat, and how to use her arms and legs to propel herself forward. Amber couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day; the sun warm on her back, the water cool and refreshing, and her father by her side. By the time the pair returned to the manor the sun had already begun to set. Molly looked at their elated faces and damp hair.

  “You took her to the pond?” she asked with a knowing grin.

  Robert flashed her a dazzling smile and brushed a lock of brown hair from his eyes. “Your daughter is a brilliant swimmer. I closed my eyes for one moment, and when I opened them she had gone. I was afraid she turned into a fish and had swum away from me.”

  “Papa, I’m not a fish,” she scolded him, shaking her head and sending her curls bouncing at her shoulders.

  “No? Then what are you?”

  “I’m your little monkey!” she cried, shocked that he would fail to remember such an important title.

  “Ah, little monkey, how could I forget?” he said with a chuckle, swooping her up and onto his shoulders. “Come little monkey, it’s time to wash up for dinner.”

  Amber returned to the pond every day for weeks, sometimes with her father, sometimes with her mother. Her mother chose not to swim with her, but would sit in the sun and read a book, keeping a close eye on her daughter and applauding her accomplishments. Amber loved it best when both her parents came with her. Robert would take turns swimming with his daughter and lying in the grass with his wife, and would sometimes even convince Molly to join them.

  Returning to the present, Amber stared into the fire blankly, her eyes dry. She had no more tears left.

  She lifted the cup to her lips again and recalled the summer her father had taught her how to ride a pony, and then surprised her with a Shetland of her very own for her eighth birthday. She had named him Leonato from Much Ado About Nothing, the play her mother had been reading to her.

  She remembered her father’s hunting dogs that she had befriended, despite his countless warnings that they were not pets. He had been slightly irked that his hounds would stop whatever they were doing whenever Amber appeared, their tails wagging in anticipation of whatever treat she had in her pocket. Instead of chastising her for stealing scraps of food from the kitchen, however, he would wait patiently for her to finish feeding them and then shoo her away so as not to distract the dogs further. And when his prize bitch gave birth he let his daughter have the pick of the litter. She selected the runt and named him Caesar, visiting him daily until he was old enough to be separated from his mother. Caesar had been her best friend until she had had to move, forced to leave him in England.

  The afternoon that her mother had come into her bedroom, her face pale and sunken, was another vivid memory. She had been curled up in the window seat with an apple and a book, absently scratching Caesar’s head in between turning the pages. Amber had immediately known that something was different about her mother as she entered the room.

  In the space of one day, Molly Townsend seemed to age ten years. Wrinkles were apparent that had never been there before, and her eyes were somber, lacking their usual vibrancy. Amber got to her feet, the book sliding off her lap and onto the floor.

  “Mother? What’s wrong?”

  Her mother swallowed heavily. “Amber, darling, there’s been a terrible accident. Your father was thrown from his horse.”

  “Is he going to be all right?” Her mother didn’t answer, but her reply was unnecessary. Reading the grief-stricken expression on her mother’s weary face, Amber knew at once that her father was dead. Unable to control herself any longer, Molly had begun to cry, and she crumpled to the floor with her daughter in her arms.

  Almost as hard to bear, Amber recollected, was the news of their immediate departure for the colonies. She knew her mother had lived in Boston, Massachusetts before moving to London a month before her seventeenth birthday. It was there that the Irish beauty fell in love with Lord Robert Townsend and made the decision to stay in Europe. She would sometimes tell Amber stories about Boston, expressing her desire to return someday.

  Independent and proud, the newly widowed Molly could not bear the sympathetic glances that she received every time she made an appearance in public. And so she decided to take her daughter back home with her across the sea, where they could live without being pitied.

  It was then that Amber remembered the slip of paper in her pocket. Setting her teacup on the end table she reached in and pulled it out, unfolding it. It was a small piece of parchment, on which had been scribbled in her mother’s familiar handwriting: A Midsummer’s Night Dream.

  Amber studied it, turning it over and searching it for more writing. Save for an ink stain in the corner, the only thing on the paper was the title of her favorite book. Her mother would read it to her as a child, and then when she was older, she would take the tattered copy out into the garden and re-enact the scenes. The hanging branches of the willow trees provided the curtain for her make-believe stage, and with a flower garland about her head she would escape into the magical realm of fairies and love triangles. She remembered getting scolded when a sudden downpour of rain sent her running inside, clutching the muddy book to her chest and apologizing, not understanding her mother’s anxiety regarding the welfare of that particular play. Amber wondered now if it had something to do with why she had written it on the strip of parchment she clutched in her hand as she died.

  She quickly finished her tea, then followed her feet toward the far side of the room, where her fingers automatically reached for the book and pulled it from the shelf. The creased spine cracked as she flipped through the pages, stopping at her favorite scene. She smiled as she scanned the lines, each one still committed to memory.

  Taking the book, she moved to the desk and sat studying by the light of the fire. She read for two hours, stopping to analyze any passage that might provide insight to her mother’s cryptic note. When she reached the final lines, Else the Puck a liar call;/ So, good night unto you all./Give me your hands, if we be friends,/And Robin shall restore amends, she knew no more than she had when she started. She shut the boo
k with an exasperated sigh and rubbed her throbbing temples.

  “How are you holding up?” Amber jumped at the sound of her uncle’s voice, her elbow knocking the book off the table.

  “What are you doing back so early?” she asked sardonically, as she bent to pick it up.

  He snorted. “Early?”

  Glancing at the clock, Amber realized with a surprise that it was nearly one in the morning. She set the leather tome onto the table with a heavy thump. “I guess I fell asleep. Where have you been all day?”

  Turning red, he inched towards the door, his hands tucked behind his back. “Oh, here and there.” She could smell the alcohol on his breath from across the room. “I uh, have a friend waiting downstairs, and I was just about to show him out…” He stumbled over his own feet.

  “Uncle Neil?”

  He paused, halfway into the hallway. “Yes?”

  “Put the candelabra back on the mantle, please. And tell your friend you’ll pay him back out of your own pocket.” His sunken face flushed as he replaced the sterling silver candleholder.

  “Ungrateful child…too much spirit…” she heard him mumbling as he stormed out. Amber rolled her eyes, her gaze falling on the open book.

  With curiosity, she noted that the lining on the inside cover had come unglued in the top left corner. She ran her fingers along the perimeter of the lining, disappointed when she came across no other imperfections. But then she felt a slight bulge in the center.

  She reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a letter opener, sliding it into the flap where the lining had pulled away from the leather. Carefully she separated the two, and as the lining pulled away she could see a folded piece of paper tucked inside. Triumphantly she pulled it out, tossing the lining and the book to the side and unfolding it, her heart fluttering wildly.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she scanned the page. It was her father’s will, dated sixteen years ago. She quickly read through it, noticing nothing out of order. He had left his prize thoroughbreds to his sister, his celebrated greyhounds to his cousin in Wales, and the rest of his estates to his wife, to be passed on to his daughter.

  Then she read the final sentence, and for the second time that day her blood turned cold. “In the case of my wife’s death, control of the estates shall go to Amber’s guardian until she is wed to a suitable gentleman, with a title equal to or greater than her own.”

  Her knuckles were white as she clenched the will, a feeling of devastation washing over her. Her mother had been seeking to protect Amber all these years by hiding the will from her uncle. The scribbled note was a warning.

  Letting the will flutter to the floor, she dropped her head into her hands. Her father had been a Baron, though her mother had relinquished the title of Baroness upon his death and her departure from Europe. This meant that Amber must herself wed a baron, a viscount, an earl, a marquis or a duke. She had no way of knowing how she would accomplish such a feat, but she was aware of one thing: she would have to travel to England immediately and rub noses with the elite, hoping and praying that one of them would find her an agreeable enough companion to marry. And then she would have to relinquish what she prized the most—her independence.

  All because she could not let control of her family’s wealth fall into the greedy hands of her uncle. Her gut twisted at the thought of her beautiful home being sold, piece by piece, to pay off bets Neil made and lost while he was intoxicated. She couldn’t let that happen.

  She retrieved the will from the floor and slipped it back into its hiding spot beneath the lining of the book, careful to seal up the edges again. Then she tucked it under her arm and returned to her bedroom. She didn’t bother to turn on any lamps. She just slid the book under her mattress, climbed into bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Two

  “Logan darling, I really wish you wouldn’t go. Please stay the night?” Logan Jeffries turned as he finished buttoning his breeches, sending a devastating smile down at Alyssa Landon.

  “Sorry sweetheart, I’m not one for confrontation if I can avoid it. Though the offer is extremely tempting,” he said as his gaze raked her naked body appreciatively. She pouted.

  “My husband’s not coming home tonight; he’s still in Connecticut on business,” she promised him.

  He leaned over to kiss her as he laced his shirt. With determination she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him closer, but he took a step back and reached for his waistcoat, which he had tossed over a chair in his haste to remove it earlier. Shrugging into it, he ran his thumb along her jawbone and lower lip. “Sorry.”

  She watched silently as he pulled on his coat, tied his cravat, and reached for his belt before trying again. “If it’s Joseph you’re worried about, he hasn’t fought a duel in years!”

  Logan laughed as he set the baldric around his waist, resting his hand on the hilt of his cutlass. “I thank you, my dear, for your concern regarding my well-being, though I’m fairly sure I could take care of myself should a conflict arise. Besides, everyone in the colonies is aware that your husband has turned a blind eye to your many…” he paused to grin down at her, “indiscretions.”

  “Then why won’t you stay?”

  Logan’s smile disappeared. “I have business to take care of before I sail tomorrow.”

  “But you just got in two days ago! Surely you can’t be leaving already?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He picked his hat off the dresser and placed it on his head. “Goodnight, Alyssa.” Without another word he left, closing the bedroom door behind him.

  He sighed. It was a shame that Alyssa was getting too attached. Her husband was often traveling, leaving her alone in a large, understaffed house. It was even rumored that when he was in town they slept in separate bedrooms. So it made sense that she was such a willing partner whenever Logan docked and came to call in the middle of the night. Still, it was his habit to remain emotionally detached from his companions, as he was in no way prepared to settle down. He made this clear at the start of every relationship. As a general rule he never spent the entire night with a woman, fearing it would foster attachment, and awkward mornings were to be avoided at all costs.

  He walked down the hall, descended the staircase, and with a nod to the footman he would never see again, he walked out into the cold winter night. The light in Alyssa’s room shone through the large window, making visible her alluring silhouette pressed up against the glass. He avoided looking up as he hunched over and began the walk towards the inn near the harbor.

  The promise of a warm fire and a clean bed hastened his steps, and within minutes he was shaking off the snow and ordering a drink. Mug in hand, he scanned the room until his eyes settled on the scarred face of a man sitting alone by the hearth.

  “Evening Roderick,” he said cheerfully as he settled on the bench across from the sullen person, who pulled out a pocket watch and scowled.

  “S’about bloody time you showed up,” he grunted. “Another ten minutes and I’d have left, and then where would you be?”

  “You know I’d be lost without you mate, that’s why you put up with me. Out of the goodness of your heart. I do recommend, however, that you tone down that accent a bit. You know how these colonialists get whenever they hear an accent from the motherland. They think you’re trying to steal their ships or something,” he said with a smile as Roderick choked on his ale. “Now, what have you got for me?”

  “It’s not fair,” his friend grumbled. “Here I am, running around in the cold trying to arrange everything, while you’re lying in the arms of some comely wench.” He glared at Logan. “You look like a right dandy, all dolled up like that.”

  Logan glanced down at his floral waistcoat and red-heeled shoes. “Come on Roddy, it’s not that bad, and besides, it helps me blend in. Actually, you might think about getting yourself a new ensemble. Who knows? The ladies might fall at your feet.” Roderick struggled not to smile.

  “So tell me, just how comely was she
?”

  Logan groaned as he finished the contents of his mug. “Incredibly so. Long blonde hair, large blue eyes, a soft body, and an absent husband.”

  “Then why the frown? You did bed the chit, didn’t you?”

  “Course I did,” Logan said with a disgruntled sigh. “It’s unfortunate, but tonight marks the end of our short affair.”

  Roderick grinned knowingly, aware of the effect Logan had on the fairer sex. Women had a tendency to fall head over heels for the rake, despite his best efforts to remain unattached. True, he had little to do but walk into a room and they would swoon. Standing at six feet four inches he stuck out in a crowd, even if he wished to remain unnoticed. His body was well tanned and toned from a harsh life at sea, his broad shoulders and sinewy arms noticeable even when he was fully clothed. His shoulder length black hair was currently held back from his face by a strip of leather tied at the base of his neck, and his stormy grey eyes were the first to belie his emotions. When they narrowed and flashed with anger, it was in your best interests to calmly excuse yourself from his presence. Especially if you were the one who had sparked his fury.

  “What did this one do to send you from her bed, propose marriage? Claim she was carrying your child?”

  “Calmly told me that her husband had no desire to challenge me.” Roderick threw his head back and guffawed, an ugly sound that had half the patrons turning in their seats to stare at him.

  “I’m assuming the lass doesn’t know about your current occupation?”