Born and educated in Scotland, MARGUERITE KAYE originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practise. Instead she carved out a career in IT and studied history part-time, gaining first-class honours and a master’s degree. A few decades after winning a children’s national poetry competition she decided to pursue her lifelong ambition to write, and submitted her first historical romance to Mills & Boon^®. They accepted it, and she’s been writing ever since. You can contact Marguerite through her website at: www.margueritekaye.com

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      Contents

       Cover

       Introduction

Praise for Marguerite Kaye

       Title Page

       About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Epilogue

       Historical Note

       Extract

       Copyright

Chapter One

      England—August 1815

      The small huddle of women and the bedraggled children who clung to their skirts stared at him as one, wide-eyed and unblinking, struck dumb and motionless with fear. Only the compulsive clutching of their mother’s protective fingers around the children’s shoulders betrayed the full extent of their terror. He was accustomed to death in combat, but this was a village, not a battlefield. He was accustomed to seeing enemy causalities, but these were civilians, women and young children...

      Jack Trestain’s breathing became rapid and shallow as he tossed and turned in the throes of his recurring nightmare. He thrashed around on the sweat-soaked sheets. He knew he was dreaming, but he couldn’t wake from it. He knew what was coming next, but he couldn’t prevent it unfolding in all its horror.

       His boots crunched on the rough sun-dried track as he walked, stunned, around the small village, his brain numb, unable to make sense of what his eyes were telling him. The sun burned the back of his neck. He had lost his hat. A scrawny chicken squawked loudly, running across his path, making him stumble. How had the mission turned into such a debacle? How could his information, his precious, carefully gathered knowledge of the enemy’s movements, have been so wrong?

       It was not possible. Not possible. Not possible. The words rang in his head over and over. He was aware of his comrades’ voices, of orders being barked, but he felt utterly alone.

       The cooking fires were still burning. From a large smoke-blackened cauldron the appetising aroma of a herb-filled stew rose in the still, unnaturally silent air. He had not eaten since yesterday. He was suddenly ravenous.

       As his stomach growled, he became aware of another, all-pervading smell. Ferrous. The unmistakable odour of dried blood. And another. The sickly-sweet stench of charred flesh.

       As the noxious combination seared the back of his throat, Jack retched violently,