THE TREASURE OF THE ISLES

CAROLINE WARFIELD

MERLIN’S OWL PRESS

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Author

Copyright 2023 by Carol Lynn Roddy, writing as Caroline Warfield

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

ISBN and ASIN to be determined upon publication.

Cover art Clam Shell Cove on the Island of Iona by Anthony Vandyke Copley Fielding, in the public domain, resized to fit.

DEDICATION

This story was written to order for Fredine Purvis who requested a story about a necklace and a stranded hero, in gratitude for her interest in and support for my work!

CHAPTER 1

Ramnasay, Scotland, south of the Western Isles

August 1820

Jacob Goodfellow leaned one hand on either side of the ancient window and glared out the rain lashing the empty harbor. Stuck in a drafty stone inn—more tavern than hostel—he kept his temper in check by a thread. The ship meant to take him back to the mainland sailed two hours before their agreed upon time, leaving him stranded on this godforsaken island full of sheep, flocks of squawking ravens, and a handful of scowling Scotsmen.

They sailed, he’d been told, to miss the storm. No, he’d been told, there were no fishing boats available. All would have put in on the larger islands when the storm blew up. And no, he’d been told, no one knew how long a storm of this magnitude might last. It had taken every ounce of patience he owned to get that much from the laconic woman he took for the innkeeper.

The woman in question came from the back room, and Goodfellow pushed himself upright. She’d been gone when they got back from visiting the elderly troll lurking in the keep on the promontory. He assumed she had been in the rear of the building, a low thatch-roofed extension that must serve as private quarters, all this time. The only other people in the public room were the skinny boy she’d left to clean the tables—one she called Wee Alec—and Private Craigie.

“Another pint, mistress, if you please,” Goodfellow said. He glanced at Gareth Craigie the unfortunate private who had been singled out from his troop to accompany him to Ramnasay. Gareth slumped sullenly in the corner absently plunking on his lute. “And one for Private Craigie.”

She filled two pints and plunked them down hard on the table before him. She said nothing. He already knew she’d add it to his tab.

“Would you sit for a while?” The words were out of his mouth before he could pull them back. He must be desperate for company, if he was ready to ask the irritating woman to join him in a pint. Still, she intrigued him.

“You’re not paying for my company, Englishman. Not at your table nor anywhere else.” She stalked, chin high, behind the counter and began putting away linens she’d carried out casting glances at her worker, and, rather too often, harsh glares at Goodfellow. She seemed too young to own an inn, though he suspected she hid powerful strength behind her dainty build, but she didn’t act like an employee.

She was pretty enough, he thought, or would be if a perpetual scowl didn’t mar her face when she saw him. Her hair, blond with a hint of red, flowed luxuriously past her shoulders and on down her back, tied with a ribbon. Her eyes were icy grey. He wondered how they would look if she smiled–or experienced pleasure.

Jacob cringed at that inappropriate thought. He wasn’t the sort of man to take advantage of a woman. Particularly an innocent unmarried one. Was she? His instinct told him she was both. Perhaps she had reason to distrust men. Still, she intrigued as much as she irritated. Nothing about her appeared bowed down with poverty or hard work. She glowed with health. Even more interesting, she had the manner of a lady and her English sounded polished. Educated even. It didn’t fit here.

Craigie stumbled over and sat with him. “This entire island business is a disaster; we’ve nothing to show for it and now we’re stuck.”

“I can’t argue. We have no useful information, no damn necklace, and no recourse but to report back to the Duchess of Argyll that we’ve seen no sign of it.”

“I thought our job was to protect the woman on her journey north. Security detail. It’s what we do. Rockford and Benson didn’t order us to scour this rock for some necklace,” Craigie grumbled.

All true. Newly made sergeant, Goodfellow had been gratified to command a small force, and he’d managed the journey easily enough in spite of the lady’s crochets and demands. When they arrived at Inveraray Castle, however, she had discovered her necklace had gone missing. When he asked when she’d seen it last, she’d gone shifty.

“No, they did not, and I’m not entirely sure the necklace disappeared on route. I think she left it in Inveraray the whole time. The lady seems to think our assignment stretches to cover it, however, and I for one would prefer she not complain to Viscount Rockford,” Goodfellow replied.

“She threatened us with complaints to Prinny!”

That she did. When Goodfellow tried to tell her chasing the ghost of some supposed sneak thief across Argyllshire and the isles was not their job, she had gestured dramatically and pronounced, “I will write to Viscount Rockford, and have you sacked. What sort of guard are you to let my necklace disappear? Argyll will speak to the Regent himself.”

Of the two, Viscount Rockford worried Goodfellow more. The viscount ran an elite force dedicated to the protection of the cream of society and the diplomatic corps. He had his hands in numerous clandestine pies as well. Goodfellow valued his own part in it all. He didn’t want to lose it.

Gareth drained his ale, the servant boy kept sweeping, and the woman leaned on the bar. Watching.

Goodfellow snapped at Craigie. “Can you do more with that lute you dragged along than plunk at it? You’re a Scotsman. Give us one of your morose ballads. This rain is perfect for it.”

* * *

Interesting. The duchess herself sent them, and they’re none too pleased. That they didn’t seem to be in the woman’s pay lifted them a bit in Isla’s judgement. Not enough to trust them.

Isla Meldrum knew Ramnasay for the bleak rock they called it, but she had good reason to be here; the intruders didn’t. She had pursued Hamish MacPhee across the channel for his own sake, only to lose him beyond the old keep. The bloody fool had taken to the hills, but that was just the start of her problems. The Englishman didn’t even appear to know he existed.

Sitting morosely over his ale, the Englishman obviously longed to depart, and she cursed herself for complicating it. She knew Hamish wouldn’t hold out long, especially in this weather, and so she had sent the boats away and told them to stay gone three days. That well and truly trapped Hamish on the island. Unfortunately, she trapped the Englishman as well. If they found out there’d be hell to pay. She could kick herself for that error.

From the sound if it, they put no more store in the old cockamamy story of ancient clan honor and retribution they heard from Malcolm MacPhee, Hamish’s granda, than she did. She heard it often enough. Malcolm would have denied having the necklace while insisting the MacPhees were the proper owners.

She had heard the tale of Alice MacPhee’s diamonds, granted her by a lover from the Argyll who n’er returned a dozen times before. The Campbells of Argyllshire had another tale, of thieving raiders of Ramnasay who stole the thing from the wife of the first earl three hundred years before, long before the earls became dukes. She’d never seen the necklace. She’d often wondered if the thing even existed, or if the two sides had simply been thieving back and forth down the centuries.

She leaned an elbow on the bar and gave herself over to the sweet sound of the singer’s voice. The young private might be Scots, but Isla trusted him no more than the Englishman who gave him orders. Still, he had a lovely voice and a fine hand with that lute.

The Englishman stared at his ale somberly. She admitted to herself that he’d treated Malcolm with more respect than the wretch deserved. If she knew him, Malcolm no doubt raved and told them they could go “back to those Campbells at Argyll, the real thieves.” The blasted Englishman seemed ready to do that, to leave them to sort out the thing for themselves. If only she hadn’t sent his transport away.

She counted that in his favor. He’d treated Isla with respect too, considering he thought her a tavern maid. Maudy McInerny’s illness had been another misfortune, but Isla could hardly refuse to help, and she couldn’t help the impression she’d given him.

Perhaps keeping her distance had been a mistake. Most men have loose tongues when in their ale. She needed to know how much he knew.

CHAPTER 2

“It’s a dark day for certain.”

Goodfellow, startled, gazed up at the woman’s sharp grey eyes.

“Your friend’s music softens it. May I take you up on that invitation?”

Has music sweetened the woman’s black mood? Or is she up to something?

His brows rose of their own accord, but he gestured her to a seat. He didn’t rise, but then she hadn’t given him much opportunity. “Dare I ask the name of the lady I’m sitting with?”

Her smile appeared guarded to Goodfellow, but then his time with Rockford’s operation had made him habitually suspicious.

“My name is Isla Meldrum.”

“Jacob Goodfellow at your service,” he said with a nod. “You are our landlady, I gather.”

Her laugh, deep and throaty, sounded genuine. “No. Maud McInerny has that privilege. Her husband left her this the Ravensclaw, Ramnasay’s only public house. I fear she is ill; I’m merely helping as a friend.”

Goodfellow had no response to that.

“You are far from home,” she said into the quiet.

Probing Miss Meldrum? Honesty, he decided after a thought, was best. As little of it as he could manage, though he had naught to hide.

“London is my home, so yes.”

He had startled her. “So far? I don’t recall seeing a Londoner out here before.”

“Have you lived here your entire life?” Two could interrogate.

“I—” The grey eyes flashed as she sorted her answer. She seemed to come to the same conclusion he had. A small dose of honesty. “I dwell across the water mostly. But my family roots are here.”

“Where across the water? Would I have come by it?”

“Unlikely,” she said to a spot over his left shoulder.

Yes, then.

She cleared her throat and went on. “What brings you here?”

He studied the woman closely. His mission was simple enough. He saw no harm in honesty. Perhaps she might even help. “I was sent by the Duchess of Argyll.”

“You’re in the employ of the duchess?” The tension in her voice told him the question mattered.

“No. On the contrary. I work for a… A security firm belonging to Viscount Rockford. We supply protection, largely in London. I was sent north to guard her trip as a courtesy.”

She visibly relaxed. “But Ramnasay?”

He shrugged. “When she discovered her necklace missing, she insisted it was my responsibility to find it. She was adamant she knew who took it. She demanded I come here to question Malcolm MacPhee.”

“You don’t agree?”

Her intensity intrigued him. He decided to answer. There was no loss to his real job in doing so. “No. I was meant to return to London once she reached Inveraray Castle safely. I’m not a trained investigator, but I came. I let him fill my ear with some nonsense about feuds and thieving Campbells.”

She grinned then a swift vision of good humor, gone as soon as it appeared. “He would.”

“I am tempted to believe the old man lurking in his stone pile up the hill planned to strand me here, nasty old bird that he is, but what would the old man gain? If he had the damned necklace, he’d want me gone.”

She looked a bit shifty eyed at that, and took a sip of ale. She was keeping things from him. That much was certain. Goodfellow let the silence grow, Craigie’s playing a soothing back drop.

“You could try the ravens,” she said. “Shiny thing, a necklace. If they saw it, they would steal it.”

What an odd suggestion.

* * *

The imp in Isla suggested he try the ravens. Birds of all kinds were Ramnasay’s only treasure. She meant to tease him. If everything the man says is true, he’s harmless enough.

He peered at her for several moments, a smile on his handsome face. He glanced to the window. “In the storm? Do you mean me to catch my death of cold?”

She grinned back. “Why not? Would you rather perish of boredom on a dark afternoon?”

“You make a valid point. And you? Would you rather chase birds than Malcolm MacPhee’s phantom thieves?”

She kept her gaze on the Englishman’s eyes. Those deep blue eyes, the color of the ocean on a clear summer day—not one stormy like today—challenged her to admit her suggestion for the nonsense it was. Hamish MacPhee is no phantom. Dare I risk it? He didn’t look away and neither did she. Let’s see who backs down. Hamish is up in the hills; he won’t be near the ravens. What is the risk?

“Of course. Shall I fetch my cloak?” She smiled sweetly, daring him. Two could offer a challenge.

He held her eyes, clearly amused, for a few more moments before rising and holding out a hand as if to call her bluff.

Moments later the pair of them stepped out into the wet weather. Clad in a thick cloak and heavy bonnet, Isla relaxed. If the torrent had continued, she’d have been tempted to back down; she gave thanks the rain had slowed to a mist. God looks after women who make foolish challenges.

She peered off to sea, studying clouds and the color of the waves. “We have at least an hour,” she said.

“Before what?” Standing next to him, the Englishman towered over her. He’d pulled a beaver hat over his dark brown hair, and wore a greatcoat from his boot tops to his shoulders. His very broad shoulders.

“Before the heavy rains return. This is a lull.” She gestured to the west, but the Englishman was no islander. He couldn’t read the storm.

“I’ll take your word for it. I’m grateful to stretch my legs in any case. Lead on!”

CHAPTER 3

Goodfellow matched his stride to hers. Ravens! Why this odd little sprite is humoring me I cannot say.

He followed her along the cove, past fishermen’s cottages and up a track that led toward a promontory, an outcrop of the hills that dominated the center of the island. As they walked, she pointed out shore birds, naming each and describing habits, as if they were old friends.

Bright, intelligent, and, when she wasn’t scowling, beautiful, he found himself enjoying her company. If he didn’t think she was keeping something from him, he would allow himself to take pleasure in her company. Since his promotion a year ago, Jacob Goodfellow had been thinking of taking a wife if he could find a woman that intrigued as much as she attracted. Rather like Isla Meldrum. He pushed the unbidden thought away.

The track rose upward past the village, gradually follow a rising cliff on one side. A third of the way up they came upon a large nest. It was, alas high in a tree. Does she expect me to climb up?

She moved on ten feet or so before veering off to the left toward the cliff. Before he could shout to stay away from the edge, she stepped around a boulder and then downward, her movements as sure and agile as a goat’s.

He followed her down a rocky path along the cliff face past protrusions, overhangs, and large piles of sticks. Raven nests lay every dozen feet along the way. She made a show of peering in them. She pulled out a strip of ribbon from one. A bit if tin from another. An entire spoon from yet another.

“Where are the birds?” he asked.

“Roosting together at the top. They’ve finished nesting for this year.”

“I don’t see any diamonds,” he observed dryly. Not that he expected to.

“Alas me either, she said, starting up a narrow path at the end of the ridge. He peered across the cliff face where it curved toward the sea. Nests of all sorts and cavities covered it. He followed her back up to the wooded track.

They reached the top where, as she said, ravens roosted in trees and swooped overhead, some diving down the cliff, none with diamond necklaces in their beaks.

“I don’t suppose that convinces you there is no diamond necklace on the island,” she said with a sly glance up at him. Bright and clever, the woman obviously didn’t expect him to believe that.

He grinned down at her, enjoying her dry humor. “Ah, no. None small enough to be left lying around for a bird to find, in any case.”

His conscience pricked him. He wasn’t on this island to flirt. He peered down at her intently. “What do you know about this necklace in truth, Miss Meldrum?”

“The legend is—”

He wasn’t having it. “I’ve heard the legend. I’m asking about the real thing.” He could swear her refusal to meet his gaze meant guilt. Of what kind, he couldn’t say.

She glanced up and away toward the sea. “The storm is returning.”

* * *

She darted back toward the track downhill, the Englishman close on her heels. The blasted man was unlikely to give up. The wind and rain picked up, the noise making conversation impossible. Thank the good Lord! It gave her the distance down to come up with a convincing answer.

When the woods thickened half way down she ducked under a low hanging branch and into a thick stand of trees, grateful for shelter as the rain began to pelt harder. She slowed her steps, another mistake.

“Isla, please. I need help.” Shadowed in the undergrowth, soaked and shaking, Hamish MacPhee held out a pleading hand. “I have grandda’s necklace and…”

Before the boy realized she wasn’t alone, the Englishman had him by the scruff of the neck. “It appears we have my thief, Miss Meldrum.”

Caught. There was no help for it. She sighed. “No point in chatting out here in the storm. Bring the boy down to the inn.”

The Englishman gave Hamish a shake. “I’ll have that necklace now, boy,” he growled twisting the lad’s left arm behind his back. It was a matter of seconds before the Englishman had rifled Hamish’s pockets and pulled out a necklace. He stuffed it unceremonious into a pocket inside his coat.

“Yes. Let’s get out of the rain, and then we’ll talk.”

CHAPTER 4

Craigie sat in a corner staring morosely out the window when they reached the inn, his lute set aside. Goodfellow dragged the boy into the public room trailing streams of rainwater across the floor and tossed him in a chair. “We have our thief. Tie him up,” he barked at Craigie.

“He’s but a lad too full of his grandfather’s nonsense.” Isla Meldrum stood with her back against the closed door, water flowing down her cloak, her sodden bonnet in one hand, her face bleak.

Goodfellow hung his dripping hat on a hook by the door and unbuttoned his greatcoat. “You’re getting ahead of things, Miss Meldrum. I have questions for both of you, so take off those wet things and fetch us all a hot drink.” She disappeared to the rear of the building.

Craigie used the cord that held his lute case together to tie the boy’s feet to a chair.

Goodfellow carefully removed the jewels from his pocket before laying the coat over the back of a chair facing the fire. Craigie’s eyes flew wide when Goodfellow put the necklace on a table and pulled up a chair. He unwrapped his cravat and handed it to Craigie to tie the boy’s arms.

The dratted thing was old enough to fit MacPhee’s story, he’d give the old man that. It looked nothing like the brilliant necklaces Goodfellow had seen at London events, and he could see why the duchess wouldn’t wear it there. The large gold medallion hung from a heavy gold chain. It had four rounded, unfaceted diamonds set around it with four pairs of pearls between them. The center had an enameled picture of the Christ Child holding a large orb in his hand, only the orb was another rounded diamond, this one the size of a sparrow’s egg! Old and valuable without doubt. But who owns the necklace?

“It's Alice MacPhee’s necklace,” the boy whined, as if to answer Goodfellow’s unspoken question.

“Leave his hands untied so he can eat.” Miss Meldrum had returned with a plate of sandwiches. She set them before the boy. “He’s not eaten much in three days I suspect.” Her eyes darted to the necklace.

“One hand,” Goodfellow growled.

She scurried back to the rear of the inn. She had, he noticed, let her hair go free so it could dry. It was a glorious fall of thick gold with flashes of fire. He shook his head to clear the image of that hair. He had a task to perform

Goodfellow watched the boy, Hamish, stuff food in his mouth. He looked to be fourteen or so, just the age to think stealing back a family treasure was some sort of heroic quest. “…too full of his grandfather’s nonsense,” she’d said, and he believed she had it right.

She returned carrying a thick wool blanket, followed by the servant boy she called Wee Alec carrying a tray with a teapot and four cups. She wrapped the blanket around Hamish, and Goodfellow’s eyes followed every move of her delicate hands, wishing— Hell. Wishing nonsense.

She sat at the table across from Goodfellow and felt the pot with those lovely hands before covering it with a towel while it steeped. “Old Malcolm is the law on Ramsanay. He won’t let you take the boy off the island.”

“The boy is not my problem,” he shrugged. “The necklace is. Is there any rum for this tea?”

There was. A graceful hand gesture brought the boy with a bottle.

* * *

Isla felt her body relax. He wasn’t the sort to harm Hamish, she knew that much already, but he might bring the law down on him. The duchess would see the boy transported or worse. Isla needed to keep her guard up.

“What do you know about this necklace?” The Englishman demanded.

She poured the tea, using the process to calm her nerves. The Englishman poured rum in his tea, reached over and poured a tot in hers. He glanced at her face and added a few drops more. “Courage, Miss Meldrum. I don’t bite.”

“I know nothing about the blasted necklace except Malcolm’s stories. I’ve never seen it before. I do know Hamish. He isn’t a bad lad.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you do know—the whole truth—and we’ll see if we can sort this out. To begin with, you weren’t surprised to see him.”

She stirred her tea, cupped it in both hands, and inhaled the heady aroma of tea laced with spirits. She held her piece, sorting her thoughts until the big man at her side grew restless. “Hamish is the reason I’m here.”

His brows shot up. “You don’t live here?” She shook her head and he went on. “You came to catch him.”

“I came to rescue him from folly. My father suspected he had raided the Campbells. Hamish is inclined to view that as a custom and a duty.”

Hamish wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and glared at her. “Ye’re a traitor Isla Meldrum and your da has gone all English on us.”

At his use of “English” as an insult, she thought Sergeant Goodfellow almost laughed. “Quiet or we’ll gag you,” he said. He would too, and she might help him. Hamish was his own worst enemy.

“We thought he’d taken something, but didn’t know what,” Isla explained. “I hoped to get to him before he entangled old Malcolm in whatever it was and the situation got out of hand.” She looked at the ancient piece of jewelry. “I had no idea he’d actually found the famous necklace. I’m astounded.”

Hamish sat up straighter and grinned. “I’m not telling y’how neither.

The Englishman quieted him with a glare and turned back to Isla, his expression purposefully blank. “So, you chased him across the water hoping to get whatever it was back before the situation got out of hand. But then the duchess found it gone and—”

“She sent you.” Isla sighed. “I had sent all the boats away. I was trying to strand Hamish so I could trap him.”

Goodfellow’s outrage was as fierce as she feared. “How did you expect that to work?” He growled.

“We had the folks at the keep poised to keep him away from the old man. If he couldn’t sweet talk one of the fishermen or get passage back, I knew we’d starve him out, and I’d be ready. That’s exactly what happened. He called to me up on the promontory because he was hungry. Only he didn’t expect you to be there.”

“You didn’t either,” he said.

“You were up at the keep when I sent the boats away. I didn’t realize I was stranding you as well. I’m sorry about that.”

“I would wager you are. I complicated things, didn’t I?” He glared at her so fiercely she dropped her eyes to the drink still cupped in her hand.

“Whose necklace is it?” he asked.

“The MacPhees!” Hamish shouted.

“It depends who you ask,” Isla responded at the same time.

“Is there a room we can lock him in until we sort this out?” Goodfellow asked.”

Isla led Craigie and Hamish, both hands bound and led by a tether, to a storeroom off the kitchen. She locked it herself and handed the key to the private, amused to see he had his lute in hand.

“I’ll just sit here and practice,” Craigie said, pulling a chair up against the door.

CHAPTER 5

Goodfellow held the necklace in the palm of one hand, moving it to and fro to watch the play of candlelight off the stones and gold carving in which they were set. “It is a beautiful thing.”

“Awe inspiring,” she said. “How old do you think it is?”

He glanced up at Miss Meldrum and saw his own fascination mirrored in her face.

“I saw a similar piece in the British Museum. The sign indicated it was from the time of Queen Elizabeth. This could be older.” He held her eyes, willing her to understand what he was about to say. “It is priceless. A theft of this magnitude could easily see that boy hung.”

She paled. “Malcolm MacPhee is the law on this island. He’d never let his grandson be taken.”

Goodfellow quirked one eyebrow. “Do you think he could prevent it?” She appeared to sink into herself.

No then. “I can’t just walk away from a crime. What can we do to protect the boy? Is old MacPhee the magistrate or merely a law unto himself?”

“He isn’t the magistrate.”

“Who is?”

“My father.”

Goodfellow stared at her. “Let me be certain about this. The man who believed the boy stole something valuable, who sent you here to intercept him, is the local magistrate?” He sat back in his chair, astounded. “Where is he?”

“His manor is just above Kilmartin on the mainland.”

“But his authority extends to Ramansay? Why is that?”

“He believes it is some sort of punishment from the Duke of Argyll, him having to oversee the doings of the MacPhees. He’s the legal voice here, although old Malcolm believes otherwise.”

He laughed, unable to control the outburst. “I can see why he might think so. This mess belongs in his lap.”

She nodded sadly. “He’ll be disappointed in me that I didn’t put a stop to it.”

Goodfellow lifted the necklace by the chain, letting the medallion spin around. “Then it is his to decide who owns this beauty. “

She dropped her head back. “He’ll be sorry to know it even exists, much less that he has to determine who owns it, or how to pacify the duchess without bringing catastrophe to Hamish.” She sat upright and peered at him earnestly. “Hamish lives with his aunt in the village near us. Father is fond of him, but worries he lacks a man’s guiding hand.”

“He may not like it, but the problem is his. If we ever get off this island.”

A mischievous grin on the sprite’s face captivated him. “You’re right, and we’ll just have to notify him.”

“How exactly do you plan to do that?”

The grin devolved into a slight smile, as mysterious as it was attractive. He didn’t know whether to be delighted by her or terrified.

“Follow me,” she said.

* * *

The Englishman didn’t mean the boy harm. He asked what we could do to protect Hamish. We. For the first time in a long time Isla felt like she had a friend, or at least an ally.

He watched impatiently while she wrote a message explaining what they found, and the Englishman’s presence. Though obviously puzzled he didn’t ask how she planned to deliver it. Neither did he hesitate going back out into the storm when she asked him to, but he tucked the necklace in his pocket first, and insisted she bring the oiled cloth he held over her head the entire way to the Meldrum cottage. They walked away from port along the shore, over a rise to the cove where the ancient thatch cottage sat nestled against the hill above the rocks and the high tide line.

She led him past the door, around the back, and the few steps up to where the coop lay sheltered from wind and rain in a rocky outcrop.

“Pigeons!” His face lit with delight.

“Our family has homes on two shores. The birds are our lifeline,” she said proudly.

He held the oiled cloth above her still while she cooed at one sturdy bird. “Come little Raphael. We need you to brave the rain. It’s settling so don’t you worry. The worst of the wind is gone.”

“Raphael?”

“I named the best of them for archangels. They can fly through anything,” she explained, efficiently tying the message in a tube to the bird’s leg. She carried him around to the front of the cottage and let him fly across the water. “That’ll bring Da, and the boats back too,” she said a bit sheepishly.

She gazed up at his face watching the bird disappear into the mist, his strong jaw and chiseled cheekbones holding her fascinated. The rain on his face gave her a jolt, however. He’d been keeping her dry.

“Come in and dry off, Sergeant Goodfellow,” she murmured, her voice catching and her face heating when she realized she’d just invited a gloriously attractive man into her home. Alone.

He must have had the same thought. His intense gaze moved to the door and back to Isla.

“I won’t bite,” she said, echoing his earlier words. For reasons she didn’t understand the words seemed to shock him but his expression shifted to amusement.

“I am certain, little bird, that my virtue will be safe with you,” he said, laughter giving a lift to his words. “Lead on.”

His virtue? What about yours, Isla? She gave herself a mental shake. Nonsense. He’s a good man and he needs to come in from the wet cold weather. That is all this is. “If you could start a fire, I’ll heat water for tea. There’s wood in the box.”

Soon they were seated in front of the fire, in the Meldrum’s worn padded chairs. “No rum for the tea I fear,” she said.

“Probably for the best,” he murmured and she felt her cheeks heat again.

Stop being a ninny, Isla. You aren’t a school girl.

“Are you fond of rum, Miss Meldrum?” he asked. She thought she saw a twinkle in his eyes.

“Upon a cold night in this part of the world it can be a blessing,” she said. “Do your fancy London ladies not indulge?”

“I suspect they do in private. Not the very young like yourself.”

Isla choked on her tea. “I’m hardly young, sir. I fear I passed two and twenty last summer.”

“You’re hardly an old hag,” he laughed.

“Well thank the good Lord for that,” she said dryly.

“How is it you aren’t married?”

She choked again

CHAPTER 6

Goodfellow berated himself as a ham-handed fool. That was no question to ask a lady under any circumstances, even when cozily seated alone with her in a remote cottage, as improper as it was. He couldn’t find words to apologize that wouldn’t make it worse.

“Argyllshire is not thick with suitable choices,” she murmured, staring at the fire. “None of the strutting peacocks sporting titles that visit Inveraray castle would give me a second look, even if I was interested in them. I’m not. Fishermen and farmers keep their distance from the squire’s daughter. There was a gentleman once, a solicitor from Glasgow. We walked out a few times, but we found we would not suit.”

“What happened?”

She grinned up at him impishly. “He found the waves irritating lest they wet his feet. The wind disordered his hair. The mist wilted his cravat. Worst of all, he disliked birds. He called them dirty, odiferous, disease carriers.”

“Did not like birds? What a monster.” They both laughed so hard, Goodfellow had to put his cup down lest he spill his tea. He glanced up at the narrow shelves along one wall lined with birds’ eggs and the watercolors of shore birds on the walls.

“Did you bring him to Ramansay?”

“Goodness no! The thought of a sea voyage horrified him,” she said.

Goodfellow chuckled. “I can’t think of a man who might suit you less than that one!” He felt a glimmer of something at the thought that the little bird cast her interest in the middle between the titled gentlemen and the farmers. There was little of a middle class in Argyllshire. She might even consider a sergeant. Perhaps the glimmer was hope. He turned the subject. “Did you paint the birds?” he asked indicating the paintings with a nod.

“I did. It is what I love doing more than anything.” Her face glowed with pride.

He rose to take a closer look, and asked questions about the setting and behaviors she portrayed. Her answers were informed, enthusiastic, and even, he might have thought loving.

“Would you like to see my sketch books?” He would. Soon they were seated at a table while Isla described her work, and Goodfellow’s attraction blossomed into admiration for this little bird whose life force lit up the room.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a while. “I do go on about it, don’t I. Folks at home run and hide when I get started nattering about them. Do you even like birds?”

“I admire their energy, their freedom, and the sheer diversity among them,” he said. “I have since boyhood forays on my grandfather’s farm in Northumberland. Even the larks and sparrows of London bring joy to the world.”

“London is your home now.” She made the words sound significant.

“Yes. I have rooms there, but I’ve been saving money. My promotion to sergeant helped. I’m looking at houses near the city. Islington, or perhaps even Chelsea. A place of my own, somewhere quieter and greener than the city. Have you been to London?”

She nodded. “My Aunt Mae has a house near Russell Square. We visited the museums and libraries both times I went. It was quite exciting.”

“And no London gentleman took notice of you? I find that hard to believe.”

“I fear Aunt Mae’s soirees were full of elderly barristers, university dons and aspiring poets with more interest in their waistcoats than the company. She’s a bit of a bluestocking.” She leaned toward him a bit confidentially and added, “I did find some lovely bird life in Regent’s Park however. Not quite Ramnasay standards however.”

The smiled at each other at that, and something coiled around Goodfellow’s heart. He wondered if she felt the same thing. He swallowed. Hard. “I think it best we get back before Craigie thinks you’ve abducted me,” he said.

She ignored the humor, nodding in agreement. Soon enough, he doused the fire, she put the tea service away, and they were on their way back, their brief idyll over.

CHAPTER 7

There being little enough to do except supervise the feeding and housing of one exasperating prisoner, listening to Craigie’s music, and preparing dinner, Isla and Goodfellow soon sat across a table talking just as they had in the Meldrum cottage. The air of the inn felt quieter, less charged with electric feelings.

She asked him about his work, and, with some encouragement, he seemed proud enough to describe security duties inside and outside the great houses. He told her about being called upon to wear disguises as a footman at one ball or another attended by the diplomatic corps and the highest-ranking peers, in order to eavesdrop on conversations, about journeys around the kingdom and over to the continent to guard dukes and princes. He spoke of the tsar’s time in London. Most of all, as the evening went on, he spoke of his fellows, the men he worked with and the ones he worked for. His admiration for Major Robert Benson, his superior was palpable.

“We served in the army together. We could still be called to duty but we’re assigned to Viscount Rockford’s operation. The pay is far better than army pay, the work less harrowing, and the fellowship the best. It is my life.”

He smiled down at her. “Now I’m the one nattering on.”

She didn’t mind. He could talk all night.

Cards came out and Craigie joined them, with Hamish—strictly warned against trying anything funny—making up a fourth. Laughter, music, and rivalry kept them entertained far later than they meant. Hamish’s eyes eventually began to shut.

“You best get our prisoner stowed, Craigie,” Goodfellow said. They’d set up a pallet for him in the locked store room. Isla couldn’t fault it.

“I should be going home,” she said

His brows went up. “You’re not staying here?”

“When I have my grandmother’s cottage? No,” she replied.

He surprised her by donning his greatcoat. “At least the rain has stopped,” he said, lighting a lantern.

“Where are you going?” She sounded more suspicious than she intended.

“I’m walking a lady home as a gentleman ought,” he said. And after a glance at her face, “To the door, Miss Meldrum. To the door.”

Her heart glowed at that, and she allowed him to escort her, though she knew the path as well as she knew the back of her hand.

* * *

She placed her dainty little hand on Goodfellow’s arm, and he felt as though they strolled through Mayfair, lantern light adding a note of magic to the night.

The smell of the sea and the lap of the waves accompanied them. All too soon they rounded into the cove, and a waxing moon peeked through the thinning clouds. In the mist and moonlight, the Meldrum cottage had added to the mystical atmosphere.

Lingering at the door, Goodfellow searched for words to extend their evening, but it wasn’t words he wanted. Isla Meldrum, his little bird, had enchanted him utterly. She gazed up at him with perfect trust, a tentative smile lurking.

“We should say good night,” she whispered.

“Yes. We should.”

They didn’t. Did he imagine it, or did she move a bit closer? Perhaps he did. He could feel her breath when she raised her head toward his.

“I think I’m going to kiss you now,” he murmured.

“I hope so,” she whispered rising on her toes.

His mouth touched hers tenderly once and then twice before he set the lantern aside and raised his hands to hold her face gently for firmer kisses, ones that lingered and flowed one into the next.

When she gripped his lapels to hang on, one arm dropped around her waist to hold her close, her enthusiastic responses driving his need. When she opened for him, he wasn’t sure it was intentional, but he was swift to take advantage.

Advantage. Too much, Goodfellow, too fast, his gentlemanly instincts chided. He loosened his hold and she slid down his front, driving his arousal higher. He held her in his arms on her front steps in the moonlight, cuddling her head against his chest as his breathing and hers slowed.

He tipped her chin up so he could make out her face in a shaft of light. She looked stunned but not horrified. “I should apologize.”

She stiffened at that. “Don’t you dare. It was wonderful.” She gave a gentle shove and he let her go immediately.

“Miss Meldrum—Isla—I—”

She quieted him with two dainty fingers to his lips. “Good night, Goodfellow. I will see you tomorrow.”

She shut the door behind her before he could respond, and he stood on her step for a long while, breathing the sea air and listening to the waves.

* * *

Isla had been kissed before but not like that. Never like that. He could have taken more liberties, and she’d have let him. She wasn’t sure if she was grateful or disappointed. She debated in the night whether she should keep some distance between them, lest she stray too far. After all, he meant to return to London, and she? She would spend her life on and around the islands painting seabirds.

When she woke, however, her first thought was that she’d have one more day of his company, and she meant to enjoy it. She dressed quickly and hurried off to the Ravenclaw Inn for breakfast.

Craigie came in with Hamish in tow. Literally. He’d located some fishermen’s rope to tie the boy’s hand so he could lead him to the necessary and for a walk around the port area. “Good morning, Miss Meldrum,” Craigie said. Hamish merely shot her a hateful look, muttering as Craigie untied his hands and bound him to a chair.

“Good morning!” Goodfellow’s deep voice sent her heart racing as she spun around to see him at the foot of the stairs, a slight smile on his lips. She took a sharp breath at the sight.

He approached and spoke softly. “I wondered if you would come.”

Did he think he’d given her a dislike of him. Foolish man. She grinned back at him, feeling equally foolish.

“Will you two quit ogling one another so I can eat?” Hamish growled.

“Quiet you. Insult the lady again and I’ll have you in yon closet without breakfast,” Craigie spat.

They ate breakfast in silence, and Craigie took a sullen Hamish back to his makeshift cell.

Isla cleared the dishes, but before she could carry them to the kitchen, Goodfellow took the tray from her. “If you can help a friend, I can too.”

Craigie shot the sergeant a cheeky grin when they went to the back but Goodfellow ignore it. He dried dishes while she washed. He had, he told her, often helped his mother when their cook was gone.

She stored that tidbit away. He came from a house fine enough to hire a cook but not so fine that the family couldn’t care for themselves if need arose.

“What shall we do while we wait…” she glanced around. No point in telling anyone she’d summoned a magistrate. Even Maudie in her sickbed might hear. For that matter, she wondered where he kept the necklace. She decided not to ask. “…For the boats to come and fetch you.”

“You could show me Ramnasay’s birds,” he suggested, adding a teasing, “Anything but the ravens.”

Isla wrapped cheese, bread, and apples in a cloth and put it in a basket with a jug of ale. There’d be no traffic at the Ravenclaw until the boats returned. They’d have all of today and probably tomorrow before her da made it over. Goodfellow didn’t argue. Craigie could manage Hamish.

She took him over the top to the Atlantic side of the island, avoiding both MacPhee Keep and the ravens’ promontory. They hiked by flocks of skylark and snow buntings, but as the day went on talk of birds turned more personal. They shared stories of schooling and village festivals, summers visiting grandparents, and early friends. He shocked her when he told her he lied about his age to enlist at fifteen.

“How old are you now?” she asked.

“Not much older than you,” he said with a grin. “Twenty-seven.”

“Did you like the army?”

“The food was scarce and hardly edible. The battles bloody and terrifying. The orders unreasonable. The punishments cruel.” Her eyes widened with every phrase, “But there’s pride in service and the comradeship was priceless. I’m one of the lucky ones. Benson’s troop gives me that part without the rest.”

They ate their food on a hill overlooking the sea, watching eagles fish. By midday they’d become Jacob and Isla to one another, and when they hiked back toward the Ravenclaw, they held hands. The sun was low in the sky to the west toward the mainland, when they went over the top and saw a ship making its way toward them.

She gasped. “He must have left as soon as the bird arrived. I wonder if he sent a message?” She altered course toward the Meldrum cottage. The sky turned bright pink to the west when they got to the dovecote.

A bird waited for her, perched above the cages. “Ah, angel,” she cooed. “It was a long trip for you.” She removed the message but fed and watered the bird before opening it. Goodfellow’s patience was admirable.

“It is short. He says, ‘Keep the boy locked up and the necklace secure until I come. I have a plan. Yr Father.’ You have it?”

“I do. I carried it with me. I’m not sure who we can trust except one another,” he said, warming her heart that he included her. He was right. Wee Alec was Old Malcolm’s valet’s son. Maudie was his cousin.

Isla rocked on her feet when they reached the port and saw the ship gliding in. She waved frantically to her father. They waited while the sloop docked and a gangplank came down for her da to disembark.

Familiar arms engulfed her in an affectionate hug.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to get Hamish back before there was trouble for you,” she said.

“Och. Not your fault. The duchess came back sooner than expected. Are you going to introduce me to this gentleman?” her father said.

“Da, this is Sergeant Jacob Goodfellow. He was dispatched by the duchess when she found it missing. Jacob, this is David Meldrum, magistrate of Kilmartin and Isles.”

Her father frowned. “Jacob, is it? We’ll need to talk about that. First, though, I trust everything is in order?”

“Yes, sir,” Goodfellow said.

But it wasn’t.

CHAPTER 8

Chaos reigned in the Ravenclaw Inn. Wee Alec sat with an ancient pistol pointed at Craigie who was nursing a sore head. At the sight of Isla and Goodfellow he opened his mouth to speak, but he spied David Meldrum behind them, dropped the pistol, and ran like a scared rabbit up the rear stairs shouting some sort of warning.

Goodfellow charged after him. He grabbed the boy at the top of the stairs but dropped him when he saw Hamish come out of his room. He advanced on Hamish, but the boy ducked into the room and slammed the door. Goodfellow could hear a dresser being shoved against it, but he was faster. He crashed his shoulder against the door and smashed it open. The room was in shambles. Two pairs of eyes stared back at him.

“Where is it,” snarled Malcolm MacPhee? “Where have you put Alice MacPhee’s necklace.”

“Enough!” David Meldrum had come up behind Goodfellow. “I’ve had enough of your nonsense to choke on, MacPhee, and now you’re corrupting your grandson with it. Sergeant Goodfellow, kindly escort this gentleman and the boy down to the public room, where I’ll see what is to be done.” He glared straight at the old man. “Give me any trouble, MacPhee—anything at all—and I’ll have you clapped in irons at Inveraray. Or maybe Fort William.”

Goodfellow tried to take the old man by the arm, but he shook it off and stomped down the stairs on his own. “Damned Sassenach locked up my grandson, Meldrum. Are you a party to that?”

“Not another word, MacPhee. I meant what I said,” Meldrum answered hauling Hamish behind them. He ordered both MacPhees and Wee Alec to sit. “Do I need to order you bound?”

MacPhee muttered something unintelligible.

“What did you say,” Meldrum’s voice had a menacing tone.

“I said no.”

“Good then. Now stay put and don’t talk until I ask you something. Sergeant Goodfellow, would you care to tell me what has happened?” Meldrum asked, though his face told Goodfellow he knew full well. He planned to do this formally. Isla stood across the room binding Craigie’s head wound, but she watched and listened.

Goodfellow spoke about his orders to escort the duchess, the missing necklace, and her request that he look into it. “She sent me to question Mr. MacPhee here. He claimed no knowledge.”

“But you found it.”

“Yes, sir. Hamish MacPhee appeared asking for help. It was in his pocket,” Goodfellow said.

“He stole it from me!” Hamish shouted.

“Silence, boy. You are in more serious trouble than you can imagine. Your damned fool grandfather would see you transported or worse over a bauble,” Meldrum said.

“Hardly a bauble,” Goodfellow murmured.

“I assume you have it secure,” Meldrum said.

Goodfellow reached inside his coat, pulled out the necklace, and handed it to him. “Of course, I do.”

Isla, finished with her task came over to look at the marvel closely. Even Meldrum wasn’t immune to the thing. He was awestruck. “I saw it once,” he murmured. “I was with Argyll’s steward looking at documents in Inveraray’s muniments vault. He showed it to me. How that little rascal got in, I am at pains to guess.” Hamish squirmed in his chair; Meldrum raised a staying hand. “Servants on both sides of the water have been taking sides for centuries.”

“It’s ours.” Malcolm growled the words, his glittering eyes staring at the necklace. Goodfellow wondered if he’d ever seen it before.

Meldrum pulled himself upright, the magistrate again. “What it is, is a historical artifact. I am not qualified to judge ownership of such an item.” He gazed around the room, making sure the MacPhees heard and the others witnessed. “I’m taking it to London, to the British museum.”

Brilliant. Bloody brilliant. If they get their hands on it… Isla’s da is a genius. Goodfellow couldn’t resist smiling at her. Meldrum caught the look and frowned. “Sergeant Goodfellow, I believe there are four more of your men in Kilmartin. Can I call on you and them to protect the necklace during the journey?”

“That you may, sir.”

“Is there any reason you need to return to Inveraray?” Meldrum asked.

Brilliant and devious. “Why no, sir. I completed my mission delivering the duchess safely. My men and I are meant to return to London posthaste.”

“In that case, we’ll have to send word to the Duchess of Argyll that the necklace has been secured.”

“Perhaps I should let her know I turned it over to your authority. It should be easy to send a message from Glasgow.”

“Alas, I fear we’ll take the sea to Liverpool. The roads are better from there.”

And it will give us several days start.

“What do you plan to do with the MacPhees?” Isla asked.

Malcolm glared back and Hamish wiggled in his seat. Meldrum scratched his head. “If there’s a question of ownership, there may be no theft involved.” Hamish relaxed. “But…” he paused for effect. “There’s the matter of the attack on Private Craigie and the damage to inn furniture and Sergeant Goodfellow’s belongings. Is that storage closet secure again?”

Craigie spoke up. “I believe so. I’ll nail them in if I have to.”

“Let them spend the night there. We’ll decide in the morning before leaving for London. Right now, I want my dinner and then a talk with my daughter and this gentleman making free with her hand.”

Goodfellow dropped Isla’s hand as if burned.

CHAPTER 9

They ate a hardy dinner of lamb stew and warm bread. Goodfellow could hardly manage it, so on edge was he over what her father might want to say to him about Isla. As it happened, hardly a word was spoken beyond Isla’s obvious satisfaction with her father’s plan to take the necklace to London. They were almost finished when she finally plucked up the courage to ask what Goodfellow suspected she had been worrying over the entire time.

“May I come to London with you, Da?” Goodfellow held his breath.

Meldrum took a final spoonful of his stew, put down the spoon, picked up his serviette, and carefully wiped his mouth. He pushed his bowl back. “Is that what you wish, daughter?”

“It is. I thought—” Her eyes darted to Goodfellow and back. “I thought I might visit with Aunt Mae.” There was a silent pause. “Besides,” she went on, “I want to see the end of this necklace business.” She gazed at Goodfellow again.

Meldrum nodded thoughtfully, as if all this was about the necklace and only that. He ignored her glances but Goodfellow felt each one, and his heart beat an errant rhythm.

“Here is what I plan,” Meldrum said at last. “We will confine Malcolm MacPhee in Kilmartin to keep him from interfering, but promise him that his grandson can speak for the MacPhee claims. We will take Hamish to London. Goodfellow and his crew will guard the necklace, Hamish—and my daughter— while we travel. Does that meet your approval, Sergeant Goodfellow?

“Aye, sir,” Goodfellow said.

“Good. Now young man, you and I shall take a walk. It is a pleasant night.”

Isla’s eyes were as wide as saucers when they left.

Meldrum didn’t speak until they were beyond the sight of the Ravenclaw windows. When he did what he said wasn’t what Goodfellow expected. “Now sergeant. What do you have to say to me?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

“You had my respect Goodfellow. Don’t spoil it. What are your intentions toward my daughter?”

“I would like to ask your permission to court Isla, but—”

“There’s a but?” Her father sounded astonished.

“My life is in London. Hers is here.”

Meldrum nodded then. “Don’t you think she has some say in that? Did you hear her question at dinner?”

“Yes sir. It gave me hope.”

The older man smiled then. “Perhaps you might tell me about your prospects. What is the security team of yours? And then we’ll talk about courting my daughter.

Goodfellow described it all, including his finances and his plans for a house. The mention of Viscount Rockford’s name appeared to weigh heavily in his favor.

“A recent promotion you say? In Rockford’s organization?”

“Yes, sir.”

Meldrum nodded. “It speaks well for you. So does your treatment of Hamish MacPhee. Another would not have been as kind. I think you’ll do but that doesn’t matter. What matters is what Isla thinks. If she’s willing to be courted, you have my permission to do so.”

“Tha—”

Meldrum interrupted before Goodfellow could voice his gratitude. “Not quickly mind. You take at least six months. If she can stand the city, and she still wants it, you can marry then.”

* * *

Isla paced the public room. What is taking them so long? If father plans to let him down, wouldn’t he do it more quickly?

Craigie had begun singing romantic ballads with his lute, drowning out Malcolm’s curses, and melting Isla’s battered heart.

The door opened at last and she scanned the man she’d come to love for battering or bruising. There was none. His eyes, however, seemed somber, devoid of his habitual good humor. What did Da say to him?

“Where has wee Alec gotten to? I need a tot of rum,” Da said. The boy popped up from behind the bar eager to please. So far, he’d escaped punishment for his part in the earlier fiasco.

“Well, if you wish to talk to the woman, get on with it. Walk out with her now,” Da said. “Just a few minutes mind. She and I need to go up to the cottage to get some sleep. We leave with the tide in the morning, over to Kilmartin then down the coast.”

Goodfellow—Jacob, her Jacob—put out a hand, and she took it.

They walked down to the water and sat on a large rock where they could watch the play of moonlight on the water and her father’s sloop at anchor. “Tell me before I burst. What did he want? What did he say? Was he angry with us?”

“Isla, would you accept my courtship?”

She drew back. “Is that a proposal?”

“Not quite. I have his permission to court you in London. If you want it. He wants us to take our time to see if we suit.”

“Suit? No one has ever suited me better, Jacob Goodfellow, and no one ever will.”

“You think that now, but London is another place. If it hasn’t driven you straight back here, and you still fell the same in six months, I can—”

She silenced him in the most effective way possible. She kissed him. When he drew breath to speak, she kissed him again. After several moments in which his waistcoat came undone, his hair was mussed and his shirt disordered, Goodfellow being breathless and beyond speech, she said. “I’ll obey my father, Jacob Goodfellow, and stay with Aunt Mae, but you better be looking for that house because I’m not changing my mind.”

The moon in his eyes held her transfixed momentarily before she went on. “Now kiss me good and proper.” He did. Leaning against his chest she sighed. “And we have the entire journey together starting tomorrow, too.”

He had no complaints about that. He kissed her again.

EPILOGUE

They were married a scant six months later at Chelsea Old Church. Major Robert Benson, Jacob’s superior, stood up with him, and the major’s wife Lucy witnessed for Isla. Aunt Mae wept in the pew next to Isla’s father. Jacob’s parents beamed proudly from the other side. His brother brought his wife and three charming children, but his sister sent regrets. Married to a barrister in York, she had eight children, so Isla suggested it was just as well.

The Duchess of Argyll unbent to attend. Viscount Rockford, sitting next to her, had managed to convince her that so precious an artifact as the necklace would be better preserved for the nation at the museum. The sign over it read “Alice MacPhee’s necklace, presented with the generosity of the Duke and Duchess of Argyll.” The formal reception celebrating the gift during which she loftily accepted gratitude didn’t hurt.

Hamish did indeed speak for the MacPhees when they brought it to London, rather eloquently Isla thought. Now he’d come down for the wedding with her father.

They had a wedding breakfast at the Benson house to get through and then they would finally be alone in their precious house, the one Jacob had found surrounded by flowers known to attract a variety of birds, near shrubs and trees suitable for nesting, and a rear garden just large enough for children to play.

She longed for that little house, though Jacob had suggested a honeymoon on the Devon coast, having heard the bird life was abundant there. The Devon coast would keep. For now, all she wanted was their home, but she planned a trip to the Meldrum cottage on Ramnasay as soon as they were able.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I hope you enjoyed this little story.

My readers will recognize Jacob Goodfellow from The Ashmead Heirs Series, in which he appeared frequently. Major Sir Robert Benson is the hero of The Wayward Son. Viscount Rockford, who also appeared frequently in that series, will have his own book. Look for that one in early 2024.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Caroline Warfield has been many things. Now in at least her third act, she works in an office surrounded by windows where she lets her characters lead her to adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the British Empire. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart, because love is worth the risk.

www.carolinewarfield.com

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