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Excerpt

Forevermore

Village of Cainewood

England

September 1667

They'd sent a carriage to take her to the castle.

In all her thirty-one years, Clarice Bradford had never ridden in a carriage. Gingerly she climbed inside and perched on the leather seat, settling the pink skirts of her Sunday gown.

I've been in this carriage, Mama. When Lord Cainewood brought me to live with you. Dressed in blue to match her eyes, Clarice's five-year-old daughter bounced up and down on the seat opposite.

I remember you climbing out of this carriage. That is one day I am unlikely to ever forget. In her short life, Mary had been orphaned by the plague and then abandoned during the Great Fire of London. But in the year since Lord Cainewood brought Mary to her doorstep, Clarice had come to love her like her own. Indeed, she could scarcely recall life before Mary, so clearly did they belong together. She reached across and tweaked her daughter on the chin. 'Tis a fine carriage, is it not?

Mary shrugged, her blond ringlets bouncing on her shoulders in the same rhythm as the vehicle. I would rather ride a horse.

'Twould not be a very elegant way to arrive at a nobleman's wedding.

A sigh wafted from Mary's rosy lips. I s'pose not. She nibbled on a fingernail until Clarice pulled her hand from her mouth. Who is Lord Cainewood marrying?

I've not met her, poppet, but if she's marrying Lord Cainewood, she must be a grand lady. I've heard she's from Scotland.

Scotland. Is that very far away?

Far enough. Clarice leaned across the cabin and took Mary's hands in hers. Can you believe we're going to a wedding at the castle?

Mary smiled, but 'twas clear she wasn't overly impressed. I lived at the castle before. Last year, after Lord Cainewood's brother had swept her from the fire and brought her to Cainewood in the hopes she'd find a home. For a whole month.

Well, I've only been in the Great Hall for Christmas dinner once a year. Never anywhere else. The castle was grandly ancient; the very thought of seeing the family's private living space was both exciting and daunting. And the carriage was clattering over the drawbridge already.

I will show you around, Mama, her daughter proclaimed, displaying nary a hint of the awe that made Clarice's heart beat a rapid tattoo. They must be passing beneath the barbican now, for the carriage's windows were sheathed in shadow. Then it was bright again, and Clarice Bradford found herself inside the crenelated walls of Cainewood Castle.

The carriage door was flung open, and Mary ran down the steps into the enormous grassy quadrangle. Who are you? Clarice heard her ask. And who is this?

Ye must be Miss Mary, came a masculine voice. Clarice alighted from the carriage to see a man crouched by her daughter, an infant in his arms. Four stories of soaring, stately living quarters loomed behind him. And this is baby Jewel. Lord Cainewood is an uncle now, ye ken.

Lord Cainewood plays games with me sometimes. The babe is lucky to have him for an uncle. Mary ran a small finger down the child's tiny nose. But Jewel is an odd name. 'Specially for a boy.

Ah, but Jewel is a lass. A grin appeared on the stranger's face, lopsided and indulgent. Though she has little hair on her head yet, she's a girl.

Oh. Will she have hair soon?

Aye. A bonnie lass she'll be. Just like ye.

Mary's giggle tinkled into the summer air as the man rose to his full height and caught Clarice's gaze with his.

Something stirred inside her when she met his warm hazel eyes. Since he hadn't answered Mary, Clarice had no idea who he was. He looked to be a wedding guest, though, dressed in a fancy blue suit trimmed with bright gold braid. She'd been told this would be a small family wedding. Judging from his accent, he must belong to the bride's side.

The stranger was tall. Clarice was not a short woman, but he topped her by a good few inches. Straight wheaten hair skimmed his shoulders and fluttered in the light breeze, shimmering in the sunshine, mesmerizing her.

She gave herself a mental shake. This magical fairy-tale day was sparking her imagination—that was all. She'd never thought to be inside the castle walls as an invited guest to the lord's wedding—she and Mary the only commoners invited—the only non-family invited, come to that. Lord Cainewood had said that since their misfortune had inadvertently led to his marriage, he wanted them with him to celebrate. The sheer wonder of it was going to her sensible head. Making her giddy.

You talk funny, Mary said to the stranger.

Mary! Clarice exclaimed, but she couldn't seem to look at her daughter. Her gaze was riveted to the man's. He didn't talk funny, either. To the contrary, the Scottish cadence of his words seemed to flow right into her and melt her very bones. Lud, she was afraid her knees might give out.

D'ye think so? He tore his gaze from Clarice's and looked down at Mary. Ye should gae a' folk the hearin', ye ken? he said in an accent so broad it was obviously exaggerated.

At the look on her daughter's face, Clarice laughed, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Surely laughter wasn't appropriate at a lord's wedding. She schooled her expression to be properly sober. He means you should listen to people without passing judgment, she told Mary.

The man grinned, showing even white teeth. I'm Cameron Leslie, he said. Cousin of the bride. He reached for Clarice's hand. When he pressed his warm lips to the back, her breath caught and she thought she might swoon.

Clarice Bradford had never swooned.

And ye two must be the mother and daughter I've heard so much about, whose trials set Cainewood on the road to meet and woo my cousin Cait. She released her breath when he dropped her hand. Though to hear Lord Cainewood's side of it, Mr. Leslie added with a jaunty wink, 'twas Caithren who did the wooing.

Clarice couldn't help but smile. His cousin Caithren sounded like just what serious Lord Cainewood needed. I'm Clarice Bradford, she said.

'Tis pleased I am to meet ye. He looked down when Mary tugged on one leg of his velvet breeches. What is it, sweet?

Will you pick me up?

Mary! Clarice frowned and set a hand on the girl's shoulder.

But the man handed the baby to Clarice, then reached down and swung her daughter into his arms. Of course I'll hold ye, princess. His eyes danced with pleasure. She's charming, he told Clarice.

I… She cradled the sweet-smelling babe, at a loss for words. Mary was acting inappropriately forward, to the point of burrowing into the man's neck. And Clarice…Clarice was jealous.

'Twas absurd. The planes of his face were clean-shaven, his skin flawless and…young. The man was incredibly young. Early twenties, she'd guess. She could see it in his complexion, the straightness of his lanky form, the angle of his head. This was not a man who had yet suffered the slings and arrows of life.

And Clarice was almost thirty-two years old. Old enough to know she had no business lusting over a young man of any sort, let alone one dressed in the trappings of nobility.

She'd never lusted before, ever. It was quite a heady emotion.

Her daughter was clearly just as smitten.

Clarice startled out of her trance when the whine of bagpipes filled the quadrangle.

That's our signal, Mr. Leslie said. I expect I should fetch the bride.

When he set Mary on her feet, the girl reached up and firmly took his hand. May I come with you?

Of course ye may, princess.

Princess, Mary breathed as they walked away. Bemused, Clarice smiled down at the cooing infant in her arms, vaguely wondering how she'd ended up holding a marquess's niece. And what she was supposed to do with her.

She glanced up to ask Mr. Leslie, but he was already too distant and Mary was happily chatting away. She wondered if perhaps she'd lost her daughter to this man.

Mary had always dreamed of being a princess.

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