SARAH MALLORY was born in the West Country and now lives on the beautiful Yorkshire moors. She has been writing for more than three decades–mainly historical romances set in the Georgian and Regency period. She has won several awards for her writing, most recently the Romantic Novelists’ Association RoNA Rose Award in 2012 (for The Dangerous Lord Darrington) and 2013 (for Beneath the Major’s Scars).

Prologue

       Cornwall—1808

      The room was very quiet. The screams and cries, the frantic exertions of the past twelve hours were over. The bloodied cloths and the tiny, lifeless body had been removed and the girl lay between clean sheets, only the glow of firelight illuminating the room. Through the window a single star twinkled in the night sky. She did not seek it out, she had no energy for such conscious effort, but it was in her line of vision and it was easier to fix her eyes on that single point of light than to move her head.

      Her body felt like a dead weight, exhausted by the struggle she had endured. Part of her wondered why she was still alive, when it would be so much better for everyone if she had been allowed to die with her baby.

      She heard the soft click of the opening door and closed her eyes, not wishing to hear the midwife’s brisk advice or her aunt’s heart-wrenching sympathy.

      ‘Poor lamb.’ Aunt Wilson’s voice was hardly more than a sigh. ‘Will she survive, do you think?’

      ‘Ah, she’ll live, she’s a strong ‘un.’ From beneath her lashes the girl could see the midwife standing at the foot of the bed, wiping her hands on her bloody apron. ‘Although it might be better if she didn’t.’

      ‘Ah, don’t say that!’ Aunt Wilson’s voice cracked. ‘She is still God’s creature, even though she has sinned.’

      The midwife sniffed.

      ‘Then the Lord had better look out for her, poor dearie, for her life is proper blighted and that’s for sure. No man will want her to wife now.’

      ‘She must find some way to support herself. I cannot keep her indefinitely, and my poor brother and his wife have little enough: the parish of Cardinham is one of the poorest in Cornwall.’

      There was a pause, then the midwife said, ‘She ain’t cut out to be a bal maiden.’

      ‘To work in the mines? Never! She is too well bred for that.’

      ‘Not too well bred to open her legs for a man—’

      Aunt Wilson gasped in outrage.

      ‘You have said quite enough, Mrs Nore. Your work is finished here, I will look after my niece from now on. Come downstairs and I will pay you for your trouble …’

      The rustle of skirts, a soft click of the door and silence. She was alone again.

      It was useless to wish she had died with her baby. She had not, and the future seemed very bleak, nothing but hard work and drudgery. That was her punishment for falling in love. She would face that, and she would survive, but she would never put her trust in any man again. She opened her eyes and looked at that tiny, twinkling orb.

      ‘You shall be my witness,’ she whispered, her lips painfully dry and her throat aching with the effort. ‘No man shall ever do this to me again.’

      Her eyes began to close and she knew now that whenever she saw that star in the evening sky, she would remember the child she had lost.

Chapter One

       Exmoor—1811

      ‘Nicky, Nicky! wait for me—oh!’

      Zelah gave a little cry of frustration as her skirts caught on the thorny branches of an encroaching bush. She was obliged to give up her pursuit of her little nephew while she disentangled herself. How she wished now that she had put on her old dimity robe, but she had been expecting to amuse Nicky in the garden, not to be chasing him through the woods; only Nurse had come out to tell them that they must not make too much noise since the mistress was trying to get some sleep before Baby woke again and demanded to be fed.

      As she carefully eased the primrose muslin off the ensnaring thorns, Zelah pondered on her sister’s determination to feed the new baby herself. She could quite understand it, of course: Reginald’s first wife had died in childbirth and a number of wet nurses had been employed for Nicky, but each one had proved more unreliable than the last so it was a wonder that the little boy had survived at all. The thought of her sister’s stepson made Zelah smile. He had not only survived, but grown into a very lively eight-year-old, who was even now leading her in a merry dance.

      She had allowed him to take her ‘exploring’ in the wildly neglected woodland on the northern boundary of West Barton and now realised her mistake. Not only was Nicky familiar with the overgrown tracks that led through the woods, he was unhampered by skirts. Free at last, she pulled the folds of muslin close as she set off in search of her nephew. She had only gone a few steps when she heard him cry out, such distress and alarm in his voice that she set off at a run in the direction of his call, all concerns for snagging her gown forgotten.

      The light through the trees indicated that there was a clearing ahead. She pushed her way through the remaining low tree branches and found herself standing on the lip of a steep slope. The land dropped away to form a natural bowl and the ground between the trees was dotted with early spring flowers, but it was not the beauty of the scene that made Zelah catch her breath, it was the sight of Nicky’s lifeless body stretched out at the very bottom of the dell, a red stain spreading over one leg of his nankeen pantaloons and a menacing figure bending over him.

      Her first, wild thought was that it was some kind of animal attacking Nicky, but as her vision cleared she realised it was a man. A thick black beard covered his face and his shaggy hair reached to the shoulders of his dark coat. A longhandled axe lay on the ground beside him, its blade glinting wickedly in the spring sunlight.

      Zelah did not hesitate. She scrambled down the bank.

      ‘Leave him alone!’ The man straightened. As he turned towards her she saw that beneath the shaggy mane of hair surrounding his face he had an ugly scar cutting through his left eyebrow and cheek. She picked up a stick. ‘Get away from him, you beast!’

      ‘Beast, is it?’ he growled.

      ‘Zelah—’

      ‘Don’t worry, Nicky, he won’t hurt you again.’ She kept her gaze fixed on the menacing figure. ‘How dare you attack an innocent boy, you monster!’

      ‘Beast, monster—’ His teeth flashed white through the beard as he stepped over the boy and came towards her, his halting, ungainly stride adding to the menace.

      Zelah raised the stick. With a savage laugh he reached out and twisted the bough effortlessly out of her grasp, then caught her wrists as she launched herself at him. She struggled against his iron grip and her assailant hissed as she kicked his shin. ‘For heaven’s sake, I am not your villain. The boy tripped and fell.’ With a muttered oath he forced her hands down and behind her, so that she found herself pressed against his hard body. The rough wool of his jacket rubbed her cheek and her senses reeled as she breathed in the smell of him. It was not the sour odour of sweat and dirt she was expecting, but a mixture of wool and sandalwood and lemony spices combined with the earthy, masculine scent of the man himself. It was intoxicating.

      He spoke again, his voice a deep rumble on her skin, for he was still holding her tight against