Ondine

by Heather Graham

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

HE SAVED HER WITH CHIVALRY. HE LOVED HER WITH SAVAGERY. When handsome Lord Chatham rescued the golden-haired Ondine from England’s gallows, he demanded only one thing in return . . . her hand in marriage. In gratitude, Ondine consented to his plans—yet refused his touch. Though his smoldering desire aroused her own secret longings, Ondine defied her mysterious husband. Until suddenly, in the notorious court of Charles II, the sapphire-eyed beauty was plunged into a web of danger and desire, jealousy, and romance. As secrets exploded, and swords clashed in vengeance, the strangers in marriage became partners in passion, and lovers on fire . . .

Release date: November 29, 2016

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 485

Sample

The worst part was feeling the noose around her neck, grating harshly against the tenderness of her throat, itching and bruising until she longed to scream and wrench herself free.

But she had promised herself that she would not scream, that she would not create any more of a show for the spectators than they were already going to see. She reminded herself that she was no martyr. It would be best to die as a common thief, rather than to have her head severed from her neck on a charge of treason. She could at least assure herself that she had fought a valiant battle against the odds. She’d lost, and now that it appeared her last hope was gone, she was determined not to falter—or further entertain a rabble that found amusement in death.

“How are ye doing, girl?”

As the cart jolted along, Ondine turned to the old man beside her who had voiced the question. His dark sunken eyes were full of sadness, and she longed to reach out and comfort him, but she could not, for her wrists were shackled together.

“I think that I would be doing fine, Joseph, had they but waited to tie the noose . . .”

Her voice faded away as she noted a pair of scruffy children following alongside the cart. Children! Mother of God! What kind of a woman urged her offspring to ogle suffering and death? But then, since they had first been dragged from Newgate an hour ago, she had been appalled by the throngs of people who had crowded the streets for a glimpse of the hanging. And the people had followed them from Newgate to St. Sepulchre, when she and Joseph and a terrified youth known as Little Pat had been given nosegays. The crowd was still with them now as they traveled down Holborn, High Holborn, St. Giles High Street . . .

“We’re coming to the corner of Endell and Broad Street,” Joseph warned Ondine.

Again she glanced at his dearly beloved face, wrinkled and etched from a life of poverty. “I’ll not drink myself to a stupor to amuse this rabble,” she told him with softly spoken dignity.

Joseph smiled wanly at the girl, seized with a heartache that had nothing to do with his own impending death. He was old, he had seen enough of this life and was ready for the next. But the girl! She was young, and before Newgate gaol had robbed her bones of flesh, her cheeks of color, and her hair of luster, she had been very beautiful. Even now, with filth dusting her translucent features and her clothing reduced to tattered rags, there was something fine about her. Perhaps it was in the way she stood, straight and proud, her chin high, her blue eyes shimmering with dignity and defiance.

His heartache was for her, for her youth. She had the vitality and exuberance of a spring morning, a natural exhilaration for life. Her true nature, beneath an outer layer of determination and fierce cunning, was sweet and sensitive; even in the bowels of hellish Newgate she had looked to her fellow man, sharing a crust of molded bread with anyone who appeared in greater need. She had cried out furiously against their jailors. She had planned an escape for herself and Joseph that had almost succeeded. And if she hadn’t paused to care about Little Pat, she would have escaped.

Joseph sighed. This girl, this Ondine, was surely not the common lass she had claimed to be when she had joined their group of poor and homeless in the forest. She moved with too great a grace, spoke with too melodious a tone. She had dressed in rags, but her manner had been that of a lady born and bred, even if she had fought against injustice with the rugged verve and vigor of a fishwife! She had defended them all, and they had accepted her with no questions. She was a mystery they had never attempted to solve.

And it seemed that the mystery would die today. Joseph was suddenly furious. They were going to die for trying to live. Maddie, Old Tom, and crippled Simkins last week, and today the three of them. They had committed no crime but to struggle to eat. Joseph did not care for himself, but that they were to take this girl with all her spirit and snuff out her life—that was a crime.

“Drink the ale that they give you, girl,” Joseph advised. He swallowed suddenly and painfully as he struggled to speak the truth kindly. “Sometimes the rope . . . sometimes ’tis not quick. Don’t mind these gawkers. The ale can make it easier. Let it.”

Their procession—the two of them and Little Pat in the cart, the friar who waddled beside it, two guards, the black-cowled executioner, and the magistrate—came to a sudden halt. They had reached the Bowl, and as was the custom, the innkeeper came out, and they were offered ale.

Ondine hesitated before stretching her wrists to the limit of her shackles to accept the cup offered her.

I am not afraid, she tried to tell herself. I am not afraid. God knows that I was guilty of no sin against Him. Every step that I have taken, I have taken with care; I could have changed nothing. And now I must find serenity and not be afraid.

But she was afraid, and still unwilling to accept her fate. God! How she had longed to clear her father’s name of the injustice offered him in death. She had dreamed of returning home to avenge that death and prove the devious treachery behind it. But she’d never had the chance. Along with the beggars in the forest to which she had run—the kind people who had become her friends—she was to die. She accepted the ale and prayed that it would give her courage so that she could scorn those who so unjustly took her life and made a mockery of her death.

Ondine drank deeply and discovered that the bitter ale only added to her misery. With each swallow the noose about her neck chafed her throat, and the liquid running through her offered no warmth, no courage to sustain her.

The spectacle at the Bowl came to an end, and the cart began to move once more. Ondine tried to close her mind to the shouts about her, to the hoots and catcalls of the men who told the executioner she would be more sport alive. They were nearing Tyburn Tree now, the three-legged structure where their ropes would be tied. Then the horses would be whipped to frenzy, and she, Joseph, and Little Pat would dangle by their necks until dead.

Let it be fast, God, Ondine prayed silently. She felt a dizziness sweep through her so that she thought she would falter and fall as she saw the open galleries that flanked the gallows, galleries where spectators paid two shillings apiece for a bird’s-eye view of the execution.

The galleries were filled.

Ondine closed her eyes. She could feel the sun on her face, and a soft damp breeze that promised rain swirled lightly about her cheeks. She opened her eyes. She would never see the sun again.

Ridiculous things came to her mind. She would never know what it was like to be clean again, to feel her hair, freshly washed, fall softly about her shoulders. She would never run across a meadow, pluck a wildflower from a clump of dew-damp earth . . .

“Hold fast to God, girl!” Joseph said softly. “For His is a better world, and He knows the goodness in you and will be there to embrace you.”

Die—no! She couldn’t be about to die! She would fight until the end. She would kick and scream and bite—and gain nothing, she told herself bitterly. There was no escape now. She would not give the crowd its money’s worth!

She tried to nod and found that she could not; movement was tightening her noose.

They were beneath the gallows. The fat friar was muttering unintelligible benedictions, and the executioner was demanding to know if they had any last words.

Little Pat started to scream, begging for his life, crying out his fear. Ondine bit hard into her lip. The lad couldn’t have been more than fourteen, and he had been condemned to die for cutting down a tree that happened to grow in an earl’s forest. Not unlike her own “crime.”

And the spectators were enjoying every minute. Ondine stepped forward in the cart. She did, indeed, have a number of last words.

“What is the matter with you?” she demanded, her voice ringing out loud and strong and clear. A murmur rippled through the crowd, and then a hush followed. “Can you truly enjoy this boy’s plight? If so, I pray that you find one day that you are in dire need of the two shillings you paid for your seats, and that you find you are tempted to fish a stream that belongs to some gentry, just to feed your empty bellies. Suffer with this boy! Else you could well find that his suffering could be your own—”

“Hang her!” a furious voice cried out, and the chant was quickly picked up by those who wanted a show, not a sermon that could touch their hearts with guilt.

“Hold your peace!” cried out Sir Wilton, the local magistrate.

He was silent as the crowd toned down once again, and in that silence Ondine looked miserably to Joseph. “What are they waiting for now?” she begged him, suddenly anxious to have done with it.

“Marriage offers.”

“Marriage offers!”

Joseph shrugged. “’Tis custom, girl. Just like the travesty of this procession, just like the cup of ale. If a lad will step up and marry ye, girl, ye’ll be set free.”

Ondine stared about her at the crowd. There was not a man in sight who would not gag her if he touched her. They were lecherous and filthy, the lot of them. And yet her heart had quickened, for in these seconds she knew how deeply she cherished life. She thought she would face anything just to live.

“I’d love like heaven to take on the girl!” cried out a potbellied balding merchant. “But me wife ’ould have us both beaten to death before nightfall!”

A roar of laughter rose like the wind. Filthy scum! Ondine thought. Perhaps she would rather die than be touched by the likes of him. Her eyes narrowed sharply. Marry, yes! The words would mean nothing to her except escape! The leering buzzards! If one would only offer for her, she could live—and then teach him what rot he was before disappearing!

And then she thought of her own appearance—and her smell! Dear God, but what two weeks in Newgate could do to one! She knew her hair was tousled and wild, streaked with bits of hay and dirt. Her cheeks were pinched and filthy, and her ragged gown hung about her like a muddied sack. No one would ask for her.

“Well, then,” began the magistrate, “I’ve no maid for the old man or boy, and no lad for the girl. The hanging will commence—”

“Wait up there, guv’nor!”

Ondine was startled to see a sprightly little man jump close to the three-legged structure called Tyburn Tree, that instrument of misery and death. Tears sprang to her eyes. He was an ugly fellow—short, sallow, with a beak for a nose—but his dark eyes were bright and warm, and there was a whisper of command to his voice. He was not one of the lascivious gawkers. He was decked out as a coachman. His breeches and jacket were a dignified black, his shirt white. His appearance was that of a well-kept servant, yet he spoke as one accustomed to voicing his own mind.

“I’ll wait up for a moment, I’ll warrant. What is it, then? Do you wish to wed the girl?” The magistrate guffawed loudly. “’Tis the only way a jackanapes with such a face could hope to win a wench of youth or beauty—be that beauty filthy and grimed!”

“I’d have a word with the girl,” the ugly little man said. He came close to Ondine and spoke softly, not willing to entertain the crowd with his business.

“Be ye a murderess, girl?”

Ondine shook her head, aware that she barely kept the tears that hovered in her eyes from spilling down her cheeks. She’d been accused of murder—but not here, and not now. And she was guilty of nothing.

“Yer crime?”

“Poaching.”

The ugly little jackanapes with the warm eyes and beak nose nodded, smiling at her not unkindly.

“Would ye be willing to wed to escape the hangman’s noose?”

The executioner began to laugh loud and laboriously, the sound muffled by his black face mask. Apparently he had been close enough to hear the words of the swarthy little man.

“Ha! ’Tis like as not the maid would choose death o’er marriage to the likes of you, gnome!”

The little man flashed a look of scorn to the executioner that silenced the hooded man immediately.

The thought of refusal had never entered Ondine’s mind. She had been wondering furiously at the terrible seconds between life and death, imagining one moment the feel of the sunshine and the breeze, and the next moment . . . the rope snapping tight. She might have died instantly, entering what great chasm she did not know. Or perhaps she might have strangled slowly, knowing horrible agony as the sunshine paled to webbed shades of gray.

And this little man, this ugly little gnome of a man, had come to save her. She began to feel guilty, knowing that he was a good man and not a cruel one, and that despite his kindness, she would have to leave him, too. If he was serious, if she managed to live!

“Sir,” she said loudly for the benefit of the crowd, for she could, at the very least, commend his kindness to those who mocked him. “I would gladly wed a beast of the forest, a dragon or a toad, so dear to me is life. I should be forever grateful to call you husband, for you are none of those, but a man of greater mercy than any who calls himself gentleman here.”

The jackanapes smiled at her reply, then chuckled softly. “’Tis no toad you’ll be receiving, but some might say as that ye have joined up with a beast of the forest—or a dragon, mayhaps. ’Tis not me ye’ll be marryin’, girl.”

“Here! Here!” the magistrate protested. “The law does not hold for you to take the girl away for another! You wed her here and now, as is the law, or she swings—”

“Stop!” was suddenly roared in interruption. “If you must bluster out the law, I charge you to uphold it!”

The voice, coming from the rear of the crowd, was deep and sure, accustomed to authority and brooking no opposition. Ondine frowned, trying to stare through the crowd and discover the speaker.

Then the crowd began to mumble softly and give way to the man. Ondine emitted a little gasp when she saw him, for he was not one of the common crowd.

He was a tall man and appeared to be more so because he was lean, and his clothing—tailored tight-fitting breeches, elegant ruffled white shirt and frock coat—clung to the handsomely proportioned muscles with a negligent flare. He was obviously of the aristocracy, but though he had condescended to the ruffled shirt, there was nothing else frilled about him. His hair was a tawny color, not at all curled, but clubbed severely at his nape. He wore no beard or mustache, and though his features were handsome—his cheekbones high, his nose long and straight, his eyes large and wide set beneath arched chestnut brows—he had a look about him that was unnerving. His face was . . . hard. But something about his eyes was chilling. Ondine thought, surprised that she could think this at such a time. They were bright, sharp, alert, and thickly fringed with lashes, but like his features, they were hard.

And, apparently, they made as much an impression on the magistrate as they did upon her, for he stepped away from the cart as the man stepped forward. It was not just that the man was obviously of the nobility, it was the threat he offered as a man. His appearance was arresting and promised an uncompromising danger, should he be crossed.

Ondine saw a glimpse of warmth about him as he nodded briefly to the little jackanapes, a single brow raising as if the two exchanged a thought, the thought being that the magistrate was a man contemptible, beneath dung. A slight smile seemed to tug at his lips, but it vanished quickly so that she thought she might well have imagined it.

“I am the man who wishes to wed her—here, and according to the law. I wish to speak to the girl myself,” he said, and without awaiting a reply, he turned to Ondine. She noted that he blinked briefly, offended by her scent, but then he proceeded to speak.

“What was your crime, girl?”

She hesitated only briefly. “I killed a deer.”

His brow knit into an incredulous frown. “You’re about to hang for killing a deer?”

“Aye, my lord, and it should not surprise you,” she heard herself say bitterly. “The deer belonged to a certain Lord Lovett—or at least it lived upon his property. ’Tis your kind that has sent me here.” Her own kind, she reminded herself dryly. But she had been with Joseph and his fellows through the long nights at Newgate and aligned herself with them.

He lifted a brow, and she quickly wondered why she had chosen to offend him, and then she wondered why not. That the ugly little serving man might marry her, she had found possible. But not this man, not a member of the landed gentry. Hope had become a twisted torture, a macabre jest. And since he was certainly not about to marry her, he was nothing more than curious. And since she was about to die, she might as well quell his curiosity with a truth that was offensive.

But he did not retort to her insolence. She felt his eyes raking over her from head to toe, and despite herself, she felt a flush rake through her.

“Your speech is excellent.”

Ondine felt like laughing. She had met many a lord and lady in her day who could not say a line of the King’s English. And then she sobered quickly. If she was about to die, her true identity would go to the grave with her. And if she was possibly to live, then she must be very careful. If she lived, so would her dreams of justice and vengeance. She closed her eyes briefly. She wouldn’t live. This was all a merciless joke. But it suddenly seemed senseless to insult him further, so she offered up a quickly fabricated lie.

“My father was a poet. I traveled to many courts with him.”

He nodded at her, still watching her. Then, to Ondine’s amazement, he turned irritably to the magistrate.

“Release her so that I may marry her.”

“What?” the magistrate shrieked, his fleshy cheeks puffing out. “But, my lord! The girl is nothing but a thief. A pretty piece, I’ll warrant, but—”

“Sir, if I am not mistaken, the law reads that she goes free if a man takes her as bride. I promise you, I am a man. I wish to marry her. Now get that rope off her neck and take her from the cart.”

Too stunned to speak, Ondine stared at the tall stranger. He couldn’t be serious. It was a grisly joke, meant to torture her to the very end.

“Do not be so cruel as to taunt me further!” she begged.

He emitted an impatient oath and sprang to the cart himself, slipping the rope from her neck, then lifting her with startling strength that almost sent her sprawling as he set her upon the ground. “Friar!” he snapped impatiently. “Are you a man of God, or aren’t you? Certainly you can stumble through a brief wedding ceremony.”

“My lord—” the magistrate began again.

The stranger’s temper snapped and harsh authority clipped his tone. “Get to the paperwork, sir.”

“But, my lord! To whom—”

“My given name, sir, is Warwick Chatham. May we proceed? I am not a man without influence. I would not like to have it brought to the king’s attention that his magistrates are slow witted—”

No more needed to be said. An excited murmur rose from the crowd, and the magistrate almost fell over himself in his haste to be efficient. The fat friar began to mumble out some broken words, and Ondine discovered that her shackles were gone and her hand was being held by the firm grip of the stranger.

It was the ale, she told herself. It had cast her into some strange dream that was an illusion meant to ease her death. But it wasn’t a dream—she could no longer feel the rough chafing of the noose about her neck.

She gasped as she felt his fingers bite cruelly into her arm, then her eyes widened to meet his hard hazel ones. “Speak your vows!” he told her curtly. “Unless you choose to hang—”

She spoke. She faltered and stumbled, but followed the friar’s orders. The friar kept mumbling until the stranger interrupted him.

“Is the ceremony complete?”

“Well, aye, my lord. You are legally wed—”

“Good.” He stuffed a coin into the friar’s hand. A scroll was set before them, and he signed his name, Warwick Chatham, with a flourish. Then his eyes, still hard and sharp, seemed to sear her with impatience. “Your name!” he hissed. “Or your mark if you are incapable of writing—”

The indignity of his suggestion made her move, but even so, she shook so badly that she did not sign with her usual clear script; the quill wavered and her name was barely legible. Just as well, she thought as her mind began to function again. It might have been recognized.

The friar puffed and blew on the ink to dry it. The document was rolled and tied, then snatched from the friar by Warwick as he emitted an irritable oath. He did not thank the friar for his services again. He turned to leave the Tyburn Tree, pulling Ondine along behind him. She jerked back, tears filling her eyes as she saw the two remaining ropes thrown over the beams. “Joseph!” she called out.

He smiled at her. “Go, girl! Long life and a fruitful union. Our blessed Jesus does provide miracles!”

A whipcrack sounded, and the horses whinnied and bolted. Ondine screamed as she heard the thud of weight snapping upon the ropes.

“Don’t look!” the stranger commanded. For the first time there was a rough sympathy in his tone, and despite her stench, he whirled Ondine comfortingly into his arms as he dragged her away.

She could not see, for her tears for Joseph and the boy filled her eyes. A moment later she was released and set to lean against something hard and cold. She blinked and discovered that it was a carriage with an elaborate coat of arms engraved upon the door. The little jackanapes who had first approached her stood waiting for them. “Is it done, then, milord?”

“It is,” Warwick Chatham replied.

“What do we do with ’er now, then, sir?”

“Hmmm—”

Warwick’s eyes swept over her, and she felt a flush spreading throughout her body at his cool assessment. She felt somehow as if he had ravaged her. A slight smile played upon his lips as he cocked his head toward his coachman and lifted a well-arched brow.

“She is a bit of a mess, isn’t she, Jake?”

Despite everything, anger coursed through her. The arrogance of the man! Did he think that people emerged from Newgate smelling like roses? He deserved a night in the pit himself; hours of dank darkness to quell his pride, and infested water to sap his well-honed strength. Yet she was glad that she longed to slap him for his amusement. It would not be so hard to desert the man who had saved her life if she could resent him so furiously. She was surprised that he didn’t wrinkle his aristocratic nose at her. He laughed instead, apparently aware that his perusal had left her extremely indignant, her temper rising despite the circumstances.

“Milord Whomever-it-is-that-you-may-be!” she snapped. “I do not intend ingratitude for my life. But I am not an animal to be discussed as if I lacked the wit to comprehend my own language.”

His brow remained high, and he inclined his head slightly toward her, as if both surprised by her words and faintly amused.

“No, madam, you are not an animal. But you are in a truly slovenly form, and something must be done about it.”

Ondine lowered her lashes. She was more than slovenly; she was odious. And her temper was fading as quickly as it had come, because when she closed her eyes, she could see Joseph swinging from the rope. She had just barely escaped death.

“I am offensive,” she said quietly. “I am sorry.”

“You needn’t be. A bride from the gallows can hardly be expected to appear her best. And filth is a problem that can be remedied. What do you say, Jake?”

Jake scratched his bewhiskered chin. “I say we head home by way of Swallow’s Ford. To seek some—niceties!”

“As in a bath!” Warwick Chatham laughed. “Fine idea. Shall we?”

The carriage door swung open, and she felt the stranger’s arms upon her again, thrusting her up and into the carriage—an elegant carriage with velvet seats and silk linings.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked her. He watched her, his foot upon the mounting block.

“Comfortable? Ah . . . quite.” She should have swung with poor Joseph, yet she had married instead. Married!

She had married a man with a knight’s shoulders and hard hazel eyes, a man decked in the finest garb available. A rugged man, a frightening man, “a forest beast.” The little man, Jake, had grinned at the description. She trembled despite herself. She would escape him, surely, she swore inwardly to ease her fear. He was still watching her, waiting. For what? She cleared her throat to speak, politely now. Perhaps he had just hoped to save her.

“Sir, I offer my apologies for my temper, and my most heartfelt gratitude! Yet you needn’t feel responsible for me. If you’d just leave me, I do have friends in London—”

“That’s quite impossible,” he told her.

“But surely—”

“Madam, I could swear I just heard you promise to love, honor, and obey till death us do part.”

“It was—real?” she demanded in a stilted whisper.

“It was.”

“Why?” she challenged him quickly.

“I needed a wife,” he told her bluntly. Then he closed the carriage door, calling to Jake, “On to Swallow’s Ford!”

And the carriage jolted into action.

Ondine understood quickly why they had chosen to come to Swallow’s Ford. It was a small place, and the proprietress of the local tavern and inn was a lovely buxom matron, thrilled with Ondine—and apparently quite fond of Warwick Chatham. She was more than willing to keep secret the circumstances of his new bride’s appearance.

It was Jake who brought her to Meg, by the rear door. Yet Ondine was glad, for she observed the layout of the barn, determining her chances of later finding a mount and fleeing for freedom. Her head still swam. She was so grateful for her life, yet ever so wary of Chatham. What could he want with her? Her teeth chattered with the thought. He appeared so sound and handsome.

He was not just arresting in appearance, she thought, but a peer as well! Jake had called her “Countess,” informing her that Warwick Chatham was the earl of North Lambria. This was a very frightening fact, for as a peer, he might well have recognized her surname on their wedding license, were her handwriting not so shaky! But then, perhaps, he would not know of her, for North Lambria was border country, harsh and rugged and beautiful, according to Jake, and, thankfully, far from Ondine’s own home.

Meg’s place was sparse but clean. The room to which Ondine was led was a simple one, offering no more than a bed, a washstand, and a screen, but the shutters were opened to the summer’s breeze, and the bedding smelled clean and fresh.

“Get behind the screen, my lady, and shed those rags,” Meg told her. “Like as not, they should be burned. You’ve no need to fear an intrusion; I’ll see to the tub and water meself. Just stay there till I give you a call.” She didn’t wait for Ondine’s agreement, but bustled out the door.

Ondine did as she had been told, stepping behind the screen and nervously shedding her garments. Oh, but they were rank! She was glad to cast her gown away, and her shift, yet when she stood naked, she shivered again, her thoughts filled with the man who had so suddenly become her husband. He was so fine a figure of a man: tall, broad-shouldered, appearing lean, yet betraying a startling and frightening strength when his fingers wrapped around her arm, when the muscles of his arms constricted to lift her.

Aye, he was an arresting man, his manner as much as his form the tone of his voice, the assessive tilt of his head. Was it breeding or life that had given him such command, an air that was totally assured, one that would brook no opposition of his will?

She hugged her arms about herself. She couldn’t deny that he both frightened and fascinated her. She could easily see how a woman could fall prey to the proud and rugged masculinity of his features, could long for the sound of his voice, the touch and strength of his hands. But would any woman be welcomed by him for more than a brief respite, an interlude of lusty entertainment?

She didn’t believe so. Not if ice hovered about his heart the way it did his eyes.

Ondine stiffened, hearing Meg’s voice as the door to the chamber opened. “Hurry now, lads; the tub center, and fill it quickly. There’s business aplenty downstairs, and if you’d earn your meals, you’d move quick!”

There were “Aye, Megs!” respectfully given, and the sounds of shuffling feet and spilling water. Then there was silence again after the door closed softly.

“My lady, ’tis only me here now. Come while the water’s hot and the steam’s arising!”

Ondine didn’t want to walk before Meg. She felt terribly thin and horribly vulnerable.

“I’d prefer privacy,” she murmured. As the wife of Lord Chatham, she reflected dryly, she could surely issue a firm command that would, by right, be instantly obeyed. But she was supposed to be a common waif, unaccustomed to the firm voice of assumption. Nor would she demand things of Meg under any circumstance, as the woman seemed to have a heart the size of the moon.

Meg chuckled softly. “Ah, my girl, come, now! ’Tis only me, Meg, and I raised a household of young ladies, I did. I’ve a mind to set into that tangled mop of hair upon your head,