Chapter One
June 25, 1821
The Edge of Baycliff Woods
Sommer-by-the-Sea, England
The lush, earlysummer countryside of Sommer-by-the-Sea was a welcoming sight, especially after the last grueling eighty miles. Captain Thomas Grenville rode along the familiar paths of Baycliff Woods. Now, away from the chaos of war, the Scottish Clearances, and their aftermath, he confronted the uneasy stillness of coming home. The boy who rode off to war had faded away a long time ago.
The terrain sloped upward, giving way to rolling hills thick with trees that stretched toward the horizon. As he rode beneath the green canopy, he glanced overhead, but the setting sun was obscured by the storm clouds gathering in the darkening sky.
He paused at the crossroads where the main road skirted Baycliff Mound. The roadway would be an easier ride, but it would add precious time to his journey. Thomas glanced up again. He’d never make it home without getting totally soaked if he followed the road. His decision made, he spurred his horse, Valor, forward. They veered off the path and began the steep but manageable climb up Baycliff Mound.
The wind picked up and howled through the trees the closer he got to the top of the hill. Halfway up the climb, the first raindrops fell. He pulled his coat around him in an effort tostay dry and cursed under his breath. “Welcome home, Captain. So much for getting home before the storm,” he added with a mocking chuckle.
It was fitting, in a way. Sommer-by-the-Sea had never been known for its predictable weather. If anything, the countryside seemed determined to give him a baptismal return, though he might have preferred a quiet brandy.
Within minutes, the rain was lashing down, drumming against his coat as the trail churned and turned into sludge beneath Valor’s hooves. For a disorienting moment, he wasn’t in England at all, but in the rain-soaked fields of France, where mud was as thick as gun smoke.
Valor shook, sending a spray of water from his mane in every direction. His ears flicked back before he gave a deep, rumbling snort.
Grenville exhaled and wiped his face. His hand drifted to his coat pocket and closed around the familiar shape, the cool, etched gold coin. Barrington’s calling card. A summons to action, but this time, the battlefield wasn’t across the sea. It was here.
He had left the service to take up the title, now Baron Greystone, whether he liked it or not, and manage the estate his father could no longer oversee alone. His days were consumed with settling disputes, managing tenants, and navigating the layered intricacies of the family’s holdings. The work kept him busy. Kept him focused. The responsibilities were better than pacing the halls at night. But they didn’t settle the restlessness, the unease that remained bone-deep and familiar.
A crack of thunder rolled over the ridge, startling a flock of birds from the trees. Grenville’s body tensed at the sound. Old instincts. He drew a breath and held it.
You’re not there. You’re here.
He let his breath out slowly, then drew in another. The scent was of rain on the rich soil and wet leaves, not the battlefield. He was in Baycliff Woods.
He’d be home soon, dry, with a glass of brandy. Not the cup of hot cocoa, Mrs. Cove, the family’s housekeeper, gave him with a cluck of disapproval over his muddy boots on her clean floors. A smile tugged at his lips. He hadn’t thought of Mrs. Cove in years.
“Come on, boy,” he murmured softly to Valor. “Let’s get home before this storm drowns us.”
He was eager to leave the ghosts of the past behind, at least for the night. With a gentle nudge, he urged his horse forward, hooves squelching through the mud.
As they emerged from the woods, the horse’s ears flicked sharply forward, muscles tensed under the saddle. Beneath him, his mount’s muscles tightened. Grenville’s gaze narrowed.There’s something ahead. He tightened his grip on the reins. “Steady,” he whispered. Through the downpour, a shape began to emerge.
“A carriage,” he muttered, tilting his head to the right. “And it’s listing awkwardly.”
The rain eased just enough for him to see the problem. One wheel had sunk deep in the mire. A figure, undeniably feminine despite the soaked cloak, struggled beside an elderly coachman.
Grenville urged Valor forward, stopping a respectable distance away. “It’s a nasty storm. Allow me to help you get out of this mess,” he called out.
The woman turned toward him, rain dripping from the brim of her hat. “That won’t be necessary.” She turned away from him. When he didn’t move, she glanced over her shoulder “We can manage on our own.”
Grenville huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Ah, but denying a gentleman the chance to be gallant? That, my lady, is a truescandal.” He gave a mock bow, the rain spilling off his hat’s brim as if nature itself disapproved of his jesting.
A crack of thunder split the air. Lightning followed, quick and sharp. The carriage horses startled, stamping and pulling against the wet reins. The elderly coachman struggled to calm the agitated team.
Grenville swung down from his mount, boots squelching into the mud. He moved quickly to the lead horse, murmuring steady nonsense in a low, firm voice. The reins jerked in the coachman’s hands, tugged taut by the horses as another crack of thunder spooked them.
But the lead horse beneath Grenville’s hand began to settle, ears twitching, head dipping slightly. A moment later, the others followed.
“I have them under control now, sir. Thank you,” the coachman said, his grip easing as control returned.
Grenville released the bridle and stepped back. The coachman turned to the young woman. “This rain isn’t letting up. One more pair of hands will make a difference.”
