Kentucky Bride

by Hannah Howell

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Scottish & Highlander

Synopsis

Beautiful Clover Sherwood never expected such a cruel fate. Her father's death has left her penniless, ostracized from Pennsylvania society, and abandoned by her fiancé. All she has now is a grieving mother, two hungry little brothers and no prospects. . .until a wealthy Kentucky backwoodsman with a deep Scottish burr comes to town--and inspires her to make a most daring move. . . It's no secret that rugged, roughhewn Scotsman, Ballard MacGregor is ready to marry. Nonetheless, he is surprised by genteel Clover's sudden proposal. . .and more than pleased. For the lass's sweet innocence is bewitching. But settlement life proves harsh on his refined young wife. And Ballard fears that unless he can awaken her passion and win her love--as she has won his--he may lose his Kentucky bride. . . "The superbly talented Howell never disappoints." -- Romantic Times

Release date: April 15, 2010

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 383

Sample

Langleyville, PennsylvaniaApril 1794

“You are not getting married?”

“No, Mama, I am not getting married. This is a letter from Thomas in which he ends our engagement. Very politely, of course.”

Clover Sherwood sighed and glanced out the small parlor window of their brick town house. It was a beautiful morning, but she was unable to appreciate it. Spring was a time of renewal and hope, but she, her mother, and her young twin brothers were weighted down by scandal and poverty.

Her pale mother, Agnes, almost looked worse than Clover felt. Almost. It was an effort for Clover not to tear at her blond hair—the hair her fiancé had so often admired—but she had no wish to display such unseemly emotion. Her fiancé, Thomas Dillingsworth, a prominent man in Langleyville, had been the rock upon which they had built their hopes and that rock had just crumbled to dust. Clover knew her own personal hurt over being so rudely jilted was insignificant compared to the desperate uncertainty her family now faced, but that did not make it any easier to bear.

“Oh, heavens, what are we going to do?” whispered Agnes.

As her mother covered her face with her dimpled hands and began to weep, Clover bit back a stream of angry words and fought hard to restrain her own tears. The letter she clutched was indisputable proof that Thomas Dillingsworth was not worth even one tear. For all his flowery protestations of love and sweet poetic murmurings about her periwinkle-blue eyes, he had deserted her with no lack of speed the moment her family’s troubles began. His love was a complete sham, a fleeting, shallow thing. Clover was determined that her pain would be no less fleeting.

Her mother continued to weep. Clover decided to get her a cup of herbal tea. Since the servants had abandoned them shortly after her father’s suicide, she had to go to the kitchens herself, but she did not mind. It would give her a moment alone, and her poor mother time to compose herself. She knew her mother had every right to cry, but Clover was growing heartily sick of misery.

As she set the heavy iron kettle over the kitchen fire, she reflected that there would undoubtedly be a lot of misery yet to come. All the debts her late, desperate father had left behind were now paid off, but the family was totally impoverished. In just two weeks they would be forced to leave their fine brick home. As yet, they had no new place to live. Even finding food to put on the table was becoming a problem, one that was bound to worsen unless their fortunes suddenly improved. Now that Thomas had deserted her, she saw little chance of that.

That dismal picture of the future occupied her thoughts as she took the tea back to her mother. To her relief her mother looked more herself. Strength and calm were what they needed now. There simply had to be something they could do to halt their plummet into utter ruin and destitution, but they would only discover it if they refused to succumb to self-pity.

“Here, Mama, drink this. It will soothe you.” After handing her mother the tea, Clover sat in a dainty chair facing the settee upon which Agnes was seated. “We must keep our heads if we are to overcome this trouble.”

“Perhaps you should go and speak with Thomas,” Agnes said after taking several sips of the aromatic tea.

Thinking that was a poor start to solving their problems, Clover struggled to keep the sharpness from her voice as she replied, “Why should I do that?” She took the letter from the pocket in her pale blue skirt and waved it at her mother. “Thomas’s letter is most clear—our engagement is at an end.”

“Yes, but there are many reasons why he might have acted so ungentlemanly. He may be regretting his behavior already.”

“There is only one reason why he broke our engagement—I no longer possess an attractive dowry.” Clover stuffed the letter back into her pocket.

“But he loved you.”

“So he said, but ‘tis clear that he did not. If he did, he would be here to help us. Instead, he has cut us adrift.” She sighed when her mother continued to frown in confusion and disbelief. “Mama, one of the few things I still possess is my pride. I cannot—I will not—grovel before that man.”

“Pride sets a poor table.” Agnes grimaced, then took a quick drink of tea to still her trembling lips. “Oh, Clover, m’dear, I do not ask you to grovel or beg, just to go and speak with him.”

For one solid hour Clover tried to convince her unusually stubborn mother that talking to Thomas was not a wise step, but it was no use. Her mother refused to believe that Thomas’s love had been based solely upon the Sherwood wealth. Clover reluctantly agreed to go and talk to Thomas after midday. Nothing else would be accomplished until she did.

Something as simple as a walk through the small yet growing riverside town had become an ordeal, Clover realized before she was even halfway to Thomas’s waterfront offices. She resisted the urge to huddle in the folds of her cloak and tip her head so that the brim of her bonnet would hide her face. The few people who did acknowledge her presence seemed embarrassed to do so. She wondered crossly if they feared she would hurl herself to the ground at their feet and plead for money.

It was not as if they had no money to spare either, she thought with a touch of bitterness. Langleyville was perfectly situated to profit from the trade from the young settlements along the Ohio River. Thomas was just one of several men who were making good livings buying trade goods from the frontiersmen and shipping them on to Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, and farther east. Many of the backwoodsmen did not wish to make the longer trips to the larger cities, which ensured Langleyville a steady source of profit. It seemed cruel to Clover that no one in town wished to share that prosperity with her family, who had lost everything.

Just as she was about to enter Thomas’s warehouse offices, Clover glanced around her and frowned. The docks were extremely busy and crowded with frontiersmen. She had completely forgotten that spring was the time of year when the backwoodsmen showed up in town in large numbers to trade and to enjoy riotous evenings in the riverside taverns. It was one of the few times she made a point of avoiding the Dillingsworth docks.

She shrugged her slim shoulders and entered Thomas’s offices, smiling at his startled clerk, John Thimble. He smiled back, but began to look extremely nervous. It was clear that Thomas’s jilting of her was already becoming known.

“Is Thomas in?” she asked quietly, determined to be calm and dignified.

“Er, I am not sure. I will go and look.” John hastily disappeared into the inner office, careful to give Clover no clear glimpse of the inside.

She tapped her foot in annoyance. She knew she was likely to receive a polite dismissal. She recognized the signs; they were becoming painfully familiar to her. She decided she was not going to be shunted aside like some beggar. After taking a deep breath, she straightened up to her full four feet, eleven inches and marched into Thomas’s office—almost colliding with John, who was hurrying out. A crooked smile touched her lips as she looked around John and saw Thomas struggling to open a begrimed window.

“Running away, darling?” she asked in a sweet voice. She heard John hurry from the room, firmly shutting the door after him.

“I do not understand why you feel a need to force this awkward confrontation,” Thomas said, a hint of sulkiness in his voice.

As she watched him shut the window and move back to his desk, she acknowledged that he was a very handsome young man with his thick golden hair and hazel eyes. She supposed it was not surprising that such a fine-looking, well-to-do man would balk at taking on a poor wife and her dependents, especially since they were now tainted with scandal. It would severely curtail his continuous rise in the world. He could do so much better. Nevertheless, it hurt to think that his feelings for her had been so shallow.

“Actually, Thomas, I am here at my mother’s insistence. She is a dear, romantic soul who finds it hard to believe that your avidly declared love for me could vanish so abruptly.”

He flushed. “A man has to look to his future.”

“And a poor wife with a mother and two young brothers depending on her will not help you at all.”

“Well, I am glad that you understand.”

“What I understand, Thomas, is that I have spent too many months of my life listening to your sweet lies. I tried to tell my mother that was the way of it, but, as I have said, she is of a romantic turn of mind.”

“Are you quite finished?” he said testily as he stood up and grabbed his hat from a rack just behind his chair.

“Ah, you have an appointment, do you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” He strode to the door and flung it open, then turned back and scowled at her.

“Well, do not let me keep you,” she murmured as she walked through the door. “Sarah Marsten always insists upon promptness.”

“What makes you think I am going to see Miss Marsten?”

“I read it in your appointment diary. It was open on your desk.”

“Do you need a ride home?” he snapped.

“You always did have such nice manners, but, no, I think not. Good day,” she said cheerfully and winced when he strode out of the building and slammed the door behind him.

“I am sorry, Miss Sherwood,” John murmured, stepping forward.

The sincerity in his pleasant face made Clover smile. “Except for the fact that we had pinned our hopes on him, there is really no call to be sorry. In a way, ‘tis best to find out before the wedding that his heartstrings are so firmly tied to his pursestrings.”

“Perhaps it is better for you that you will not be his wife.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing. Just referring to his obvious fickleness,” John stuttered, then blushed before he collected himself. “What will you do now, Miss Sherwood?”

“That is going to take a great deal of thought.”

“What about your sister, Mrs. Lavington? Could she not help?”

“She could, but she will not. Family loyalty was never one of Alice’s strong points.”

“Well, if I hear of anything that could be of help, I will be sure to tell you.”

“Thank you very much, John. I had best be making my way home.”

“You be careful, Miss Sherwood. There is a rough group of men in town today.”

Rough men was correct, Clover mused as she left Thomas’s offices. Unfortunately, the men were spreading outward from the docks. She was going to have to walk past several knots of them on her way home. Straightening her shoulders and silently cursing her small stature, she started off. Just because the men looked rough did not mean that they were rough, she told herself firmly, not allowing them to frighten her.

She was just about to breathe a sigh of relief, certain that she had passed them all unscathed, when a large bearded man suddenly blocked her path. The three men with him chuckled softly as he grinned at her, revealing a mouthful of blackened and broken teeth. She wrinkled her nose as she caught the strong scent of rum, just one of the unpleasant aromas emanating from his bulk.

“Here now, little darlin’, where are you going?” he asked.

“Home,” she replied, “if you would be so kind as to remove yourself from my path.”

“Feisty little thing, ain’t she?” He laughed heartily, as did his three hairy companions.

Clover attempted to sidle around the huge man and suddenly found herself encircled by two burly buckskin-clad arms, then slammed up against a hard chest. The man was even more aromatic than she had first thought. Her concerns about his odor were overridden by the discovery that he was holding her so tight that she could not even attempt to wriggle free. In fact, she was beginning to have trouble breathing. She was able to kick her legs against his, but without any apparent effect on him.

She could not believe that fate could be so cruel. Her family had already been scarred by scandal, suicide, complete ostracization, and dire poverty. It now appeared that her rape was about to be added to that list of woes.

“C’mon, darlin’,” her captor said. “You and Big Jim gots some fun to attend to.”

“Put me down this minute, you foul-smelling heathen.” Her last word ended on a screech as he abruptly tucked her under one massive arm.

After her first shock, Clover tried to pummel him, but the pounding of her small fists against his bulk only made him laugh. Just as she opened her mouth to scream, though she doubted anyone near at hand would come to her aid, he clamped a filthy hand over her mouth. He had barely taken two steps, however, when he suddenly stopped. Clover glanced up and her eyes widened. A hand was tangled in her captor’s greasy black hair, pulling his head back, and a very impressive knife was pressed against his thick, dirt-encrusted throat.

“Put the wee lass down, Big Jim,” drawled a deep voice.

An instant later Clover found herself sprawled facedown in the dusty road. She turned to sit up and stare at the man who was now holding Big Jim. Slowly the man released Jim. Her rescuer was a lot better dressed than Big Jim and his friends, but she did not need her assailant’s recognition of the man to tell her that he too was from the frontier. He had a distinctly uncivilized air about him. Although he had come to her aid, she was not sure that his acquaintance with Big Jim boded well for her.

“Ain’t no need to take a knife to me, MacGregor,” said Big Jim.

“I am wearing my courting clothes, Big Jim. I wasnae of a mind to risk messing them up by ‘discussing’ things. Ye all right, little girl?” he asked Clover.

Again she cursed her diminutive size as she stared up at her rescuer. For a reason she could not even begin to understand, it deeply troubled her that this man called MacGregor thought she was a child. Another thing that puzzled her was the way his deep, smooth voice with its attractive Scottish burr made her feel decidedly warm. She hastily gathered the wit to nod. As she reached out to accept the helping hand he extended, she caught sight of a movement to his right.

“Look out, sir!” she warned, then realized the words were unnecessary, for even as she spoke, MacGregor swung, blocking Big Jim’s stealthy attack and sending him sprawling in the dirt.

“Weel, I reckon this means that Big Jim wants to dicker,” MacGregor said as he slipped out of his black dress coat and handed it to one of two companions that Clover noticed for the first time. “Hold this, Lambert. It seems our old friend Big Jim didnae learn nothing from the whupping I gave him back home.”

One of the slender buckskin-clad youths took Mac-Gregor’s coat. The other one grinned at her, then neatly grasped her under the arms and set her on her feet next to them. Just like a little child, she thought a bit crossly, before her full attention was taken up by the ensuing fisticuffs. Mr. MacGregor looked too slender to best the hulking Big Jim, and she feared she would be the cause of some serious injury to him.

But Big Jim was quickly shown to be greatly outclassed. Even with her total lack of knowledge about the art of fist-fighting, Clover could see that. Mr. MacGregor was able to neatly avoid any damage to himself and his courting clothes while thoroughly beating Big Jim. The only part of Mr. MacGregor that came into contact with Big Jim was his swift and powerful fists. When Big Jim finally went down and stayed down, his friends hurriedly picked him up and scurried off, shouting curses as they left.

MacGregor returned to where Clover still stood and redonned his fine black coat. He had to be over six feet tall, Clover noticed, lean and possessing a wiry strength. She was a little disconcerted to discover that she only reached his broad chest. When he put one long finger beneath her chin, tilted her face up to his, and smiled at her, she became alarmingly short of breath. His rich green eyes seemed almost startling in his handsome, dark face. She noticed that the fight had not even disarranged the neat queue into which he had forced his thick ebony hair.

“Did he hurt ye, lassie?” he asked.

“No,” she managed to reply, her voice barely a hoarse croak, then she frowned. “Unfortunately, I did him no harm either.” He laughed, and it was such a rich, free sound that she was compelled to smile. “I thank you for your help, sir.”

“Ballard MacGregor,” he said as he took her by the elbow and started up the street. “The laddie on your right is my brother Shelton, and next to him is my cousin Lambert Aldritch.”

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Clover Sherwood.”

“Now, I dinnae want ye to be thinking all Kentuckians are like Big Jim Wallis. He isnae much liked back in Pottersville.”

She nodded. “Every town has a Big Jim, I fear.” Curiosity got the better of her and she added, “You are clearly a Scot, yet Ballard, Shelton, and Lambert are not very Scottish names.”

“Our mother was English, an Aldritch like Lambert. She told our father that since she was the one bearing us, she would be the one to name us. Our father gave us a second name to placate our Scottish ancestors. Mine is Alexander and Shelton’s is Robert.” He winked at her. “Made our names as grand as the rich folk carry.”

She smiled fleetingly, then asked, “Where are you going, sir?”

“I am taking ye home, my bonnie wee lassie. Where do ye live?”

“Bolton Street. Do you know where that is?” She knew it was not an area of town the backwoodsmen usually frequented.

“Weel, hellfire, isnae that a quirk, eh? ‘Tis exactly where I am headed.”

“Do you know someone on Bolton Street?”

“Aye, a Miss Sarah Marsten. I am courting the lass.”

“Dang fool,” muttered his brother.

“That is enough out of ye, Shelton, my lad.” Ballard only briefly glanced at his young brother as they headed up the street.

“Weel, hot damn, Ballard, she isnae the sort of lass to be taking back to Kentucky.”

“Then what do ye think she is letting me court her for, eh?”

“How the hell should I ken what the lass is playing at?”

“Then ye can keep your yapping mouth shut.”

“I do not know what you need a wife for anyhow,” grumbled Lambert in a gentle, cultured English accent.

“I dinnae intend to spend another winter alone,” snapped Ballard.

“Ye are nae alone. Ye have us,” replied Shelton.

“My dear stupid brother, there are a few things a wife can give me that ye two cannae, and if ye dinnae ken what those things are, weel, I think ‘tis time we had us a long talk. But not in front of the wee lassie here.”

“Do ye ken this Miss Marsten?” Shelton asked Clover, ignoring his brother’s sarcasm.

“Er, not very well. We are neighbors though,” Clover replied.

“Of course she doesnae ken Sarah,” said Ballard. “They are nae of an age, are they?”

He was right, but Clover decided it was not the time to tell Ballard MacGregor that she was a full year older than the much-sought-after Sarah. She wondered if her obscuring cloak was what kept him from seeing that she was not a child. She also wondered whether it was her place to tell him that Sarah was already entertaining a beau, then decided it was best if she kept quiet. It was not a triangle she wished to set herself in the middle of.

“Here is my home,” she said quietly, even as they almost walked past it.

Ballard stopped and smiled at her. “Weel, now, ye best be more careful where ye go. And dinnae go out alone.”

Clover found his scolding tone vastly irritating, but she smiled. “Yes, I will, sir. Thank you again.” She hesitated, decided there was nothing more to be said, and dashed up the brick steps to the front door.

“A cute wee thing,” Ballard murmured as the door shut behind Clover, then he scowled at his companions. “I dinnae need your help to do my courting.”

“I was thinking we ought to get to ken this Sarah lass since ye are thinking of marrying her and all,” Shelton said.

“Ye will have plenty of time to ken who she is on our way back to Kentucky. Now—git.”

As soon as Shelton and Lambert had disappeared down the street, Ballard straightened his coat and headed to Sarah Marsten’s house.

“Sarah Marsten,” Clover grumbled as she hurried into the kitchen, pausing only to toss her cloak over a padded bench in the front hall. “That witch is just playing with that poor man.”

She rushed to make up two glasses of lemonade. The drink was a luxury, but the plan she had suddenly concocted required such an extravagance. She was glad of the need to hurry for it kept her from thinking too hard about her wild scheme. It was so mad that it would undoubtedly crumble beneath any real scrutiny. If she paused, she knew she would grow cautious and hesitant, and she could afford neither.

“What are you going to do with that lemonade?” demanded a young voice. “Mama said we are not allowed to have it any more.”

Clover started, whispered a curse, and turned to face her twin brothers, seven-year-old Clayton and Damien. Two more reasons that she could not swerve from her impulsive plan, she thought, then sighed and answered Clayton’s question. “Yes, ‘tis very precious, but I have a real need for it now. You see, I have a plan and this could help. It is the best hospitality we can offer just now and ‘tis very important that I offer the best.”

“Are you getting us a new house?” asked Damien.

“Just possibly, dear. Just possibly. I cannot say for certain yet. ‘Tis still only a plan.”

She picked up the glasses of lemonade and started back toward the front door, the twins following her. Damien opened the door for her, but as she was about to step outside, her mother entered the hallway. Clover groaned. She did not have time for all these interruptions. She was certain that Ballard MacGregor would not be staying at Sarah’s very long, and she must be out on the steps when he left the Marsten house.

“Where are you going with that lemonade?” asked her mother.

“She had a plan, Mama,” Clayton answered.

“Oh, wonderful.” Agnes clapped her hands together. “Then I was right. Thomas did—”

“Thomas did nothing except get angry and rush off. You see, he was nearly late to court Sarah Marsten. Now, Mama, I cannot talk,” she said in a gentler tone, for her news about Thomas had clearly shocked her mother. “I must get back outside. Please, just trust me. All right?”

“All right, dear,” Agnes said. “You do what you feel you must. Take your cloak.” Agnes draped it over Clover’s shoulders.

Clover breathed a sigh of relief and hurried outside. She set down the lemonade, then took off the cloak, spread it on the step, and she sat down. Considering what she was about to do, it would be best if Mr. MacGregor could see her face and form clearly. She felt fairly confident that Ballard Alexander MacGregor would not place undue importance on the size of a woman’s dowry in his search for a wife.

She looked down at her very slim curves and grimaced. Even there she did not have as much to offer as Sarah Marsten. A man might easily think she was too slim, too boyish or childish in form. It would be mortifying if Mr. MacGregor took another look at her and still did not realize she was a fully grown woman. She quickly shook that thought aside. It would only make her back down, and she could not afford to do that. Mr. MacGregor might well be her last hope to save herself and her family.

She prayed that her father could not see what she had been brought to. He would be eaten up with guilt. The elder Clayton Sherwood had been tragically naive, trusting people far too easily. In the end it had cost him his fortune and then his life. Clover regretted that he had lacked the strength to pull himself out of his black despair. When he had put the bullet into his head he had deserted his family, left them alone to face whatever misery lay ahead.

For one brief moment she felt the sharpness of renewed grief over the loss of her father. He had been a good man. Their home had been a happy one. She would miss that happiness more than she would ever miss the money and the comforts it had bought.

It made Clover feel somewhat guilty, but she wished her mother were stronger. She loved her mother, thought she was a dear, sweet woman, but Agnes Sherwood had no idea how to take care of herself. Unfortunately, that was exactly what they all so desperately needed to know now. Clover prayed she could solve their difficulties before she began to resent her mother for her dependence on Clover, as she had depended on her husband.

Cursing softly, Clover suddenly wondered if she was any more independent than her mother. After all, she was busily trying to find a man to solve their problems. No, she decided, that was not exactly what she was going to do. She was not looking for a man to take over all her responsibilities, just someone to share them with her. What she sought was a partner, not a master.

Suddenly the heavy, ornately carved door of the Marsten house was flung open. Clover tensed and nervously smoothed the skirt of her blue gown. She tensed even more when an easily recognizable tall, lean man strode out onto the street. Picking up the glasses of lemonade, she quickly stood up, ready to stop his angry retreat. She found herself thinking that Sarah Marsten was an utter fool, then wondered why, for she did not know Ballard MacGregor at all.

“Mr. MacGregor,” she called as he marched past her house.

He stopped short and looked at her. “What are ye still doing outside, bonnie Clover?”

A little set back by his easy compliment, she heard her voice wobble as she asked, “Would you like some lemonade?” She held out the glass.

He hesitated only a moment before stepping up to accept the drink. “Ye were waiting for me.”

She sat down again as she nodded and patted the step next to her in a silent invitation. “I thought you might like some refreshment.”

“Ye kenned I wouldnae be staying long at Miss Sarah’s. Ye kenned that someone else was there, didnae ye,” he said as he sat down.

“Yes, I did. I considered saying something earlier, but”—she shrugged—“I could not think how to say it.”

He nodded in understanding and took a swallow even as his gaze ran down the length of her form, then quickly back up to her face. He nearly choked on the tart lemonade. Slowly, carefully, he looked her over again. He rested his gaze briefly on her high breasts. They were on the small side but not too small. She had a tiny waist and gently rounded hips. He narrowed his eyes slightly and carefully studied her dainty heart-shaped face. Wide periwinkle-blue eyes with long, dark lashes were set beneath delicately arched brows. A small straight nose led to a slightly full mouth that promised to be very kissable. He looked at her thick blond hair, which was in danger of escaping the neat style she had forced it into.

“Ye are no child,” he finally said. “Ye couldnae think of a way to tell me that either, could you?”

“Ah, well, I did not see that it mattered, as ours was to be a momentary meeting.”

She covertly watched him as he sipped his drink. He was a very handsome man, she decided. Some people might consider him too tall, too slim, or too dark, but she did not. It did not surprise her at all that Sarah Marsten had initially encouraged his attentions. His finely hewn features and deep, rich voice would attract many a woman. Clover had the feeling he was not fully aware of his good looks, however, or of how easily they could gain him, if not a wife, at least many a liaison. With a little education he could be quite the lothario, she mused.

His face fascinated her. Its lines were so cleanly drawn. A long straight nose cut its way between. . .