Heart's Desire (Lost Lords of Radcliffe Book 2) Read online

  ISBN: 9781483554129 (E-version)

  ISBN: 9781508741381 (Print version)

  Copyright 2015 by Cheryl Holt

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  Cover Design Angela Waters

  Interior e-format by Book Baby

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  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

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE(S)

  PROLOGUE

  At first Boy didn’t understand what was happening. It was very dark and very late, and he couldn’t recall where he was or why he was there.

  Recently, so many terrible things had occurred. Where was Mother? Where was Father? Why had they left Boy all alone? How could he find them and bring them back?

  He was so sad without them. He wanted to go home and sleep in his own bed. He wanted to hear his mother laughing and singing. He wanted his dashing father to burst in the door—after being away for so long. His father’s happy excitement would flow over all of them, and they’d smile and be glad he’d arrived.

  His father would toss Boy in the air and say, “You’re so tall! Look how much you’ve grown!”

  It was all gone though, and he kept glaring at various adults, demanding they explain, demanding they fix what was wrong, but they wouldn’t listen.

  Someone was shaking him, but he was so tired he couldn’t open his eyes.

  “Wake up! Wake up!” a man bellowed.

  “There’s no time to rouse him,” a woman frantically hissed. “Just carry the blighter! Hurry!”

  He was whisked from under the blankets, and he glanced around, trying to make sense of where he was. Then he smelled it.

  Smoke…smoke everywhere…

  He could barely catch his breath, and he peered into the face of the man holding him.

  Mr. Wilson…

  Now he remembered.

  Mr. Wilson had been at the docks earlier that afternoon when they’d been allowed to say goodbye to Mother. Mr. Etherton had been there too, and he’d forced Boy to leave with Mr. and Mrs. Wilson.

  But Boy had refused to go with them, had tried to get onto the ship with his mother, to go where she was going. But Mr. Wilson had picked him up and carted him off, and though Boy had struggled and kicked, Mr. Wilson was too big, and Boy couldn’t wrestle free.

  They’d ridden in a carriage all day and had stopped at a coaching inn for the night. In the morning, they’d travel on to school, but Boy didn’t comprehend what that meant. He didn’t want to attend school, didn’t want to live with strangers.

  Boy was clasped to Mr. Wilson’s chest, and Mr. Wilson stumbled out of their room and into the hall. Stunned guests were coughing, running, shouting, “Fire! Fire!”

  The smoke was thicker in the hall, and down by the stairs, flames were burning on the wall. The curtains on the window ignited with a deafening whoosh!

  “Lord almighty!” Mr. Wilson cursed, and he turned and went the other way, but there were flames there too.

  Mrs. Wilson screamed, and Mr. Wilson spun to her, but Boy couldn’t see her anywhere. Suddenly she appeared, like a ghost stepping out of the gloom. She was clutching Brother, as Mr. Wilson was clutching Boy. Boy reached out to Brother. He was Boy’s twin, Boy’s friend, Boy’s other half.

  People always told them they should talk aloud—they were three years old after all—but when Boy was with Brother, there was no need to talk. They spoke to each other in their heads. They understood without speaking.

  Their fingers linked for just an instant, then Mr. Wilson whipped away. Boy squirmed and fought, trying to grab for Brother again.

  “Hold still, you wild cat,” Mr. Wilson scolded. “Let’s get you out of here, then you can huddle with Michael all you want.”

  Michael…yes. Brother was Michael and Boy was Matthew, but names weren’t necessary between them. They were one person, one no different from the other.

  Boy continued to tussle, watching for Brother, watching to be sure Mrs. Wilson was keeping up. Boy and Brother had to be together. They could never be separated, not for a single second. Everyone knew that.

  Someone called, “This way! This way!”

  Mr. Wilson ran toward the voice, hollering, “Stay close, Mrs. Wilson. Don’t lose sight of me.”

  But Mrs. Wilson didn’t answer.

  Mr. Wilson pounded down the stairs. The heat was intense, and when they arrived on the lower floor, flames were shooting around them. Unseen hands gripped them and pulled them outside. They lurched into the cold, bracing air.

  Mr. Wilson plodded on until they were a safe distance away from the building, then he dropped Boy to the ground. There were dazed groups everywhere, dressed in their nightclothes, as Boy and Mr. Wilson were dressed in theirs. They hovered in the grass, gulping deep breaths, the inn a red scar of fire against the starry black sky.

  It was very loud, the noises scary. People were wailing, begging for help. Cries of anguish wafted from those still trapped inside, while others who’d already escaped were shouting orders, shouting directions. Horses neighed with fear, pigs squealed, women sobbed.

  Boy stared at the building, silently commanding Mrs. Wilson and Brother to appear, but they didn’t emerge. He scowled, terrified and wondering what to do.

  “Dammit, Mrs. Wilson,” Mr. Wilson muttered. “Where are you?”

  He spun to Boy, leaning down so they were nose to nose.

  “I’m going in after them,” he told Boy. “They were right behind us. They have to be near the door.”

  Boy’s eyes widened with dismay, and he wanted to say, I don’t think you should go in there!

  But Boy was a child, and Mr. Wilson was an adult. He was supposed to know best.

  “You stay here,” Mr. Wilson said. “Don’t move a muscle, do you hear me?”

&
nbsp; Boy nodded, indicating he’d remain where he was.

  In their hasty flight from the room, Mr. Wilson had managed to retrieve a pouch of papers, the leather strap around his neck. He yanked it off and tossed it to Boy.

  “Don’t you dare lose that bloody thing. It’s important.”

  Boy nodded again. He wouldn’t lose it. It had been his father’s satchel. Mother had stored it in her closet. It was the only item he had of theirs. He’d keep it forever.

  For a moment, Mr. Wilson studied the inferno, then he raced to the spot from which they’d just exited.

  The windows were aglow with flames, the roof too. Smoldering globs of ash were falling, lighting their surroundings, so it was easy to see Mr. Wilson’s hulking form as he staggered to the porch and went in.

  “You deranged fool!” a man barked. “What are you about? Are you mad?”

  The man reached out to stop Mr. Wilson, but couldn’t grab him in time to prevent him from reentering.

  Mr. Wilson hurried inside, shouting for Mrs. Wilson, shouting for Brother, and though Boy waited and waited and waited, none of them ever came out…

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Wake up!”

  Matthew Harlow heard the curt summons, but he was dreaming fitfully and couldn’t rouse himself.

  It was a beautiful summer day in August, and he was napping on the ground, the grass providing a welcome cushion. The prior evening, he’d over-imbibed in a manner he normally never would, so he had a ghastly hangover. As they’d galloped down the country road, his head had been pounding so fiercely he’d finally had to stop.

  He’d found a shady spot under the bows of a huge oak tree and dozed off.

  “Wake up!”

  The voice came again, and he swatted with his hand and sank back into his dream. Or perhaps he should call it a nightmare. When he was a little boy, he’d nearly died in a fire at a coaching inn, and the memory had plagued him all his life. It seemed to represent a great loss, the final time he’d been truly happy—though why that would be so, he couldn’t imagine.

  He was trying, as usual, to escape the flames. The halls were chaotic, people running and crying. He reached out to someone who was hidden from view, and he stretched farther and farther, never quite able to grasp the person who was waiting for him out there in the dark.

  His nostrils filled with smoke. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t…

  “Matthew!”

  He jolted to a sitting position, the details vivid enough that he expected to be three years old again and racing down the burning stairs.

  But no, he was nestled under the oak. His annoying, dashing younger brother, Rafe Harlow, was seated next to him, their horses hobbled down by the creek and munching on the grass.

  “What time is it?” Matthew asked.

  “I’m not a clock,” Rafe replied. “How would I know?”

  “How long was I asleep?”

  “Too bloody long, and I’m sick of dawdling here, listening to you wail like a baby. Was it the fire dream or the ship dream?”

  “The fire.”

  Matthew had always had bad dreams, but they generally alternated between two subjects: a fire and a departing ship. He and Rafe had shared a bed when they were children, so Rafe had had plenty of opportunities to witness Matthew moaning with dismay and thrashing around.

  “Let’s get going,” Rafe said. “I want this over with.”

  “I don’t.”

  “So you’ve claimed on a hundred different occasions. You’re the most ungrateful lout.”

  “I’m not ungrateful,” Matthew said. “I’m…exhausted.”

  “Whose fault is that? You’ve been reveling like a man on his way to the gallows.”

  “This will be difficult—the whole affair. Our arrival. The transfer of ownership. I don’t have the energy, and with this hangover, I’ll probably make a mash of it.”

  “You always make a mash of it. You’re too stubborn and inflexible, so you simply bluster in and piss everyone off.”

  “I wish I’d never saved a single soul.”

  “You’d have rather they all drowned?”

  “No,” Matthew groused, “but if I’d been a tad less noble, we’d still be in Europe, tending to the sort of business we understand.”

  “Soldiering…” Rafe uttered the term like an endearment, like a caress.

  They were soldiers, with Rafe a lowly private and Matthew a tough, hardened captain. He had years of valorous combat under his belt. He wasn’t afraid of anything, never quailed or dithered, never cowered or retreated, and Rafe was learning his worst habits.

  Soldiering they comprehended. Soldiering was where they excelled. They’d been raised in a world of men, thrived in a world of men. It’s what they knew, what they enjoyed. Diplomacy and tact were what eluded Matthew. He said what he thought, spoke his mind, and deftly carried out every order and promise.

  People who assumed he wouldn’t, who misjudged or underestimated him, did so at their peril. He was too used to having his own way.

  He had all the traits necessary to be a good leader, to convince men to follow him. With his bold strength and unfailing courage, men yearned to imitate him, to be like him, but none of them could ever hope to muster his brave daring.

  As to women…?

  He had limited experience with women, other than the rough and tumble types in army camps and port towns. He’d never spent much time around females, unless it was to have them perform salacious services. His only variation had been his recent decision to keep a mistress.

  Penelope Bernard was British, and he’d met her in Belgium at an officers’ soiree. She was the daughter of an important government official, but he couldn’t see that her behavior was much different from any other trollop.

  She had several scandals in her past, which was why she’d been hiding in Belgium, having been banished there by her father. Her illicit path was widely recognized, so marriage for her wasn’t likely, and she was happy to find an idiot like Matthew to pay her bills.

  He’d involved himself in a manner he’d never intended, and already he was wondering what had possessed him. But then, she was extremely proficient on a mattress, and a man could never discount such a boon.

  “How far is it to Greystone?” he asked.

  “I’m not a map either,” Rafe snapped.

  “You’re a ray of sunshine today, aren’t you?”

  “My hangover is worse than yours, but you don’t hear me complaining every two seconds.”

  “No, you just bite my head off at every turn.”

  “Well, I’m tired of you.”

  “I’m tired of me too.”

  Rafe pushed himself to his feet. “Get a move on, you bloody hero.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “What, hero?”

  “Yes. You know I hate all the fuss.”

  “You didn’t seem to when we were standing in that cocked-up salon at the palace and everyone was cheering your name.”

  Matthew rolled his eyes. “It was pointless folderol.”

  “You had every beauty in the room hanging on your arm.”

  “There is that.”

  “It put Penelope’s nose out of joint to see that gaggle drooling over you.”

  “She needs to have her nose tweaked every so often.”

  “That she does,” Rafe agreed.

  For all of the life Matthew remembered, it had been just him and Rafe. Matthew was thirty and Rafe twenty-two, with Matthew the older, wiser, tougher brother who’d watched over Rafe, protected him, and never left him behind.

  With them being the only siblings in the Harlow family, Rafe had never had to share Matthew with anyone or compete for Matthew’s attention. Rafe loathed Penelope and was jealous of Matthew’s relationship with her, but it was silly for him to fret.

  She was stunningly pretty, but acted like a whore. She was also vain and greedy, so there was much about her that was unlikable. He suspected—if Greystone turned
out to be magnificent—she’d attempt to finagle a marriage proposal out of him.

  But Matthew wasn’t a fool and—should he ever wed—he’d never pick such a spoiled, immoral brat. He’d marry for love and affection, which were things he thought he might have once had, but had lost somewhere along the way.

  Rafe oozed appeal and charisma, his bravery and boldness indisputable, but he was a child at heart, and Matthew would never choose Penelope over Rafe. Matthew’s bond with Rafe was unbreakable and eternal.

  “Let’s go,” Rafe urged again. “Since we’re unsure of how far we still have to travel, I’d rather not arrive in the dark.”

  “Neither would I.”

  Head pounding, Matthew stood and brushed off his clothes while Rafe readied the horses. They mounted and rode on, the name of his new estate—Greystone—echoing with each clop of hooves.

  After another hour or so, they found the front gate, a pretentious arch over the entrance, with Greystone chiseled into the stone. They reined in and studied the lane that wound into the woods, the house not yet visible.

  “Ready?” Rafe asked.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “I’ll race you.”

  “We’re not racing,” Matthew scolded. “I have no desire to gallop in like a pair of bandits bent on robbery.”

  “Do you think the servants know we’re coming?”

  “The place is empty. It’s what I was told, anyway.”

  “What will we do for help?”

  “Rafe, we’ve lived in army camps for…what? Fifteen years? Twenty years?”

  “Yes.”

  “We can fend for ourselves for a few days.”

  “I guess we’ll survive.”

  “Plus, I imagine they’re all in the village, waiting to hear if I’ll keep them on.”

  “Will you?”

  “It depends if I like their looks or not.”

  “That’s what you say about soldiers under your command.”

  “It’s the same animal.” He nodded up the lane. “You first.”

  “No, you first,” Rafe insisted. “It’s your property. You should lead us.”

  Matthew might have presumed Rafe was being courteous, except that his words dripped with sarcasm.

  Ever since the night of his alleged heroics, they’d viewed the entire brouhaha as a hilarious nuisance. He’d been on that deserted beach by accident, watching as a ship had foundered in heavy seas, then been impaled on the sharp rocks of the coastline. It sank quickly, water sweeping over the deck.