ZEBRA BOOKS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      To My “Sisters”

      Janet Harrington Gambarani

       &

       Karen Frary Gambarani

      Many thanks to you both for your friendship, encouragement and support and for always managing to overcome my Bah, Humbug attitude every Christmas.

      You are the best!

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Epilogue

      Chapter 1

      Taunton, England

       November 1845

      Somewhere in the distance Rebecca could hear the sound of a baby crying. Soft, muffled. The pitiful, lonely whimpers tore through her heart. She got to her feet and forced her limbs to move forward, seeking the source that conveyed such anguish. But it was dark and difficult to see and she had no candle to light the way.

      The whimpers ceased suddenly, then began anew, this time as an indignant howl. The infant’s cries grew steadily louder, stronger. Disoriented, Rebecca quickened her pace, rushing toward the noise, frantically trying to reach the babe.

      She found herself turning down a long, winding corridor and her confusion mounted. The sounds of the infant’s distress engulfed her but there were so many chambers. Where was the child? Panicking, she randomly threw open the nearest door. All was instantly silent.

      Had she found the infant in time?

      The chamber was bathed in shadows; all Rebecca could distinguish was a table in the center of the room, upon which rested a basket covered with a thick blanket. Cautiously, she approached. As she drew near, the night clouds parted and a shaft of moonlight fell on the basket. With trembling fingers she reached down, gently pulled back the soft wool and peered inside.

      Nestled beneath the covers was a tiny, newborn baby. With a cry of pure joy, Rebecca stared down at the perfect little face, so sweet, so innocent. There was a thatch of downy dark curls upon its head, a blush of rose coloring on its cheeks, the hint of a dimple in its chin.

      “Oh, my.”

      At the sound of Rebecca’s voice the infant stiffened, then slowly lifted its spiky wet lashes. Solemn dark eyes regarded her quietly and a delicate curled fist flailed toward her.

      “Precious, love. No need for tears. I’m here now. I’ll keep you safe.”

      Eagerly, Rebecca reached inside to pick up the priceless bundle. Yet when her hands drew near, the baby arched its back and let out a lusty wail. Startled, Rebecca pulled away. But the crying continued and Rebecca knew holding the child was the only way to bring it comfort.

      She reached out a second time, yet her arms were suddenly too short, the basket too deep. Stretching on her toes, Rebecca leaned forward yet still could not touch the infant. The cries grew louder, more frantic, more distressed.

      Rebecca doubled her efforts, but it was impossible. She could not grab hold of the child, could not pick it up and cradle it in her arms, could not soothe and protect it.

      Tears of distress and frustration ran down Rebecca’s cheeks. If only she could—

      “These letters just arrived with the afternoon post, Miss Rebecca. Among the bills I am certain there are one or two expressions of condolence. Your father, the Good Lord rest his soul, was respected and well liked by one and all. Do you want to sort through the mail now or would you prefer to wait until afternoon tea?”

      Rebecca Tremaine opened her eyes with a start. Disoriented, she blinked rapidly, then sat upright.

      Gradually, the familiar furnishings of her father’s private study came into focus. There were papers arranged in neat piles on the floor, half-full boxes were clustered along the wall beneath the window, stacks of books sorted and waiting to be packed in the appropriate containers.

      “Miss Rebecca?”

      Rebecca turned her head. Directly in front of her, the short, round form of a middle-aged woman hovered close.

      “Mrs. Maxwell?”

      The family housekeeper patted her shoulder. “Aye, ’tis me. You must have fallen asleep. Poor lamb. No surprise, with all that’s been going on these past few months. Naturally you are exhausted. Oh, dear, were you dreaming about your father?”

      The housekeeper fumbled in her pocket, pulled out a clean white handkerchief, then pressed it into Rebecca’s hand. Absently, Rebecca lifted it to her face, hastily wiping away the tears she had not realized were on her cheeks.

      “Thank you,” she said, putting her usual calm expression back on her face. She had no intention of correcting the housekeeper’s misconception that the disturbing dream had been about her father. “You are always so kind.”

      “I wish I could do more,” Mrs. Maxwell