Читать книгу: «Heart of Fire»
Selected praise for New York Times bestselling author Kat Martin’s enchanting new series
“The first of the new Heart series, Heart of Honor, is a grand way for the author to begin… Kat Martin has penned another memorable tale…look forward to Coralee’s story.”
—Romance Designs
“Martin puts a twist on the captive/captor theme by cleverly combining it with a bit of Pygmalion and a touch of Tarzan for a fast-paced, sensual, entertaining tale.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“With an exciting ending and a steamy romance, Heart of Honor is a great book to heat up a winter’s night. Compelling characters and plenty of adventure round out this well-written novel.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Heart of Honor sweeps the reader away on a tidal wave of emotion, bittersweet, poignant romance and a tantalizing primal sexuality that are the inimitable trademarks of multi-talented author Kat Martin. [It] is the kind of novel that touches your heart and your senses. It is the kind of story you won’t want to put down.”
—Winter Haven News
“Ms. Martin always delivers for her readers a romance that they can sink their teeth into. With wonderful characters, beautiful settings and a plot that keeps you turning the pages, you can never go wrong with one of her books. A great winter read!”
—A Romance Review
Heart of Fire
Kat Martin
To children everywhere.
May they all find love, joy and peace.
Contents
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 Ninetten
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Author’s Note
One
London, England
January, 1844
An icy drizzle hung over the churchyard. The gravestones stood dark and unreadable in the shadows of the high rock walls of St. Michael’s Church.
Gowned in layers of heavy black crepe, her face hidden beneath the veil of a wide-brimmed black bonnet, Coralee Whitmore stood next to her father and mother, the Viscount and Viscountess of Selkirk, listening to the drone of the bishop’s words but not really hearing them.
In the casket beside a mound of damp earth, her sister’s body lay cold and pale, retrieved only days ago from the chilly waters of the Avon River, the victim of a suicide, the authorities claimed. Laurel, they said, had jumped into the river to hide her shame.
“You’re shivering.” A stiff wind ruffled the viscount’s copper hair, the same fiery shade as Coralee’s. He was a man of average height and build whose imposing presence made him seem much larger. “The bishop has finished. It is time we went home.”
Corrie stared at the casket, then down at the long-stemmed white rose she carried in a black-gloved hand. Tears blurred her vision as she moved forward, her legs stiff and numb beneath her heavy black skirt, the veil on her hat fluttering in the cold February breeze. She laid the rose on top of the rosewood casket.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered to the sister she would never see again. “Not for a single moment.” Corrie swallowed against the painful, choking knot in her throat. “Farewell, sweet sister. I shall miss you ever so much.” Turning, she walked toward her parents, the father both sisters shared and the mother who was Corrie’s alone.
Laurel’s mother had died in childbirth. The viscount had remarried, and Corrie had been born soon after. The girls were half sisters, raised together, always close, at least until the past few years. Then Corrie’s job as society editor for Heart to Heart, a London ladies’ gazette, had begun to absorb more and more of her time.
Laurel, who had always preferred the quiet life of the country, had moved in with her aunt Agnes at Selkirk Hall, the family estate in Wiltshire. The girls kept in touch through letters, but in the last year even those had grown sparse.
If only I could turn back time, Corrie thought, the lump in her throat swelling, becoming even more painful. If only I could have been there when you needed me.
But she had been too busy with her own life, too busy attending the balls and soirées she wrote about in her column. She’d been too self-absorbed to realize Laurel was in trouble.
And now her sister was dead.
“Are you all right, Coralee?”
Standing in the Blue Salon of the Whitmores’ Grosvenor Square mansion, Corrie turned at the sound of her best friend’s voice. Krista Hart Draugr walked toward her across the drawing room, where the pale blue damask curtains had been draped with black crepe, as had the brocade sofa and Hepplewhite chairs.
Corrie reached beneath her heavy black veil to brush a tear from her cheek. “I’ll be all right. But I miss her already and I feel so…responsible.”
Most of the mourners, few in number because of the circumstances of Laurel’s death, were in the Cinnamon Room, a lavish salon done in gold and umber, with huge, sienna marble fireplaces at each end. An extravagant buffet had been set out for the guests, but Corrie had no heart for food.
“It wasn’t your fault, Coralee. You had no idea your sister was in trouble.” Krista was blond, fair and tall; taller, in fact, than most men, except for her husband, Leif, a blond giant of a man who towered over his wife and actually made her look small.
One of the handsomest men Corrie had ever seen, he stood across the drawing room in conversation with his brother, Thor, who was dark instead of fair, nearly equal in size and, in a fiercer way, even more handsome.
“I should have grown suspicious when her letters dwindled to nearly nothing,” Corrie said. “I should have known something was wrong.”
“She was twenty-three, Coralee. That is two years older than you, and she was very independent. And she wrote you from Norfolk, as I recall.”
Last summer, Laurel had traveled to East Dereham in Norfolk to live with her other aunt, Gladys. Along with Allison, a cousin about Corrie’s age, they were the only relatives on her mother’s side that Laurel had. Laurel had never gotten along with Corrie’s mother, but her aunts, both spinsters, loved her like a daughter, and Laurel had loved them.
“She wrote to me from Norfolk, yes, but only on rare occasions. We had just resumed a serious correspondence last month, after her return to Selkirk Hall.”
According to the Wiltshire County constable, when Laurel was in residence at Selkirk, she had gotten herself with child. Agnes had kept Laurel’s secret until her pregnancy began to show, then sent her north to live with Gladys until the baby was born.
Corrie looked up at Krista, who stood a good six inches taller than she, a buxom young woman with lovely blue eyes, while Corrie was small-boned, with eyes a vivid shade of green. Krista was a mother now, but she still ran the gazette, a magazine for ladies that was well known for its views on social reform.
“The police believe she committed suicide,” Corrie said. “They say she took the child she had carried in her womb for nine long months and jumped into the river because she couldn’t bear the shame. I don’t believe it. Not for a moment. My sister would never harm anyone, much less her own baby.”
Krista’s gaze held a trace of pity. “I know you loved her, Corrie, but even if you are right, there is nothing you can do.”
Corrie ignored the feeling those words stirred. “Perhaps not.”
But she wasn’t completely convinced.
She had been thinking about the circumstances of her sister’s death since news of the tragedy had arrived—her sister drowned, remnants of an infant’s blue knit sweater clutched in her hand.
Corrie had been devastated. She loved her older sister. She couldn’t imagine a world without her in it.
Dreadful things were being said about Laurel but Corrie refused to believe them. Laurel’s death could not possibly have been suicide.
In time, surely the truth would be unearthed.
Two
London
Three Months Later
The offices of Heart to Heart weekly ladies’ magazine were located in a narrow brick building just off Piccadilly. Corrie had begun working at the gazette shortly after Margaret Chapman Hart had died and her daughter, Krista, had taken over the business, running the company along with her father, Professor Sir Paxton Hart. Last year, Krista had married Leif Draugr, now the owner of a successful shipping enterprise, and nine months later had borne him a son, but Krista still worked most days at Heart to Heart, her pride and passion.
As Corrie entered the office in search of her friend, she spotted Bessie Briggs, the typesetter, working to get the big Stanhope press, the soul of the gazette, ready for the next edition. Bessie looked up and smiled but kept on working, paying no attention to the dismal black mourning clothes Corrie had worn for the past three months and would wear for three months more.
Corrie tapped on the open door to Krista’s ground floor office.
Her friend looked up and smiled. “Since you rarely knock, I assume this must be important. Come in, Coralee.”
Her stiff black skirts rustled noisily as Corrie moved to close the door behind her. “I have something I need to discuss, and since you are my very best friend…”
Krista eyed her with speculation. “What is it?”
Corrie sat down and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from the front of her skirt. “I’ve tried to put Laurel’s death behind me, but the fact is, I simply cannot. I have to find out the truth, Krista. I’ve never believed Laurel killed herself and her month-old child, and I am going to prove it.”
Krista’s features softened. “I know losing your sister has been hard on you. I know that in some way you feel responsible. But Laurel is gone and there is nothing you can do to bring her back.”
“I realize that. But I failed her once when she needed me, and I will not do so again. My sister did not kill herself, which means someone else must have done it, and I intend to discover who it was.”
One of Krista’s blond eyebrows arched. “And how, exactly, do you plan to do that?”
“I shall start by doing some investigating right here in London. I am good at that, am I not? It is part of my job to unearth both facts and tidbits of gossip for my column.”
“Yes, but that is hardly the same.”
“I think it is exactly the same. I intend to go over every letter my sister wrote before she died and look for clues.” Corrie glanced up, a fierce light coming into her eyes. “Then I shall leave for the country. I’m going to find out who fathered Laurel’s child, and then I will know where to start looking for the answers to how and why she died.”
Learning the name of the father was an important piece of the puzzle, the man her sister must have loved. Not even Aunt Agnes knew who he was. According to her, Laurel had adamantly refused to divulge his identity.
“You don’t need to worry about the gazette,” Corrie continued before Krista could speak. “I already have a temporary replacement in mind. Assuming you approve, I shall ask Lindsey Graham to fill in for me while I am away.” Lindsey was a school chum, a former classmate at Briarhill Academy, where Krista and Corrie had met.
“Lindsay is currently penning textbook articles,” Corrie said, “and extremely bored, I think. Her father is a baron and very well connected so she is able to move freely about in society. I believe she will handle my job very well.”
“I imagine she could, but—”
“Actually, I considered hiring Lindsey while you and Leif were gone off to his dreadful island.” Corrie smiled. “Running this place without you was a nearly impossible task. I have never been so happy in my life to see anyone return.”
Leif and Krista’s story was a well-guarded tale. That the big man and his brother had come from an uncharted island far north of Scotland where people still lived as Vikings was, at best, totally incredible and better left unsaid.
All that mattered was that Leif had found Krista and she had found him, and they loved each other desperately. Corrie wondered if the right man would ever come along for her.
Which returned her thoughts to her sister. In Laurel’s early letters from Selkirk, she had mentioned meeting a man. She had described his many virtues and said how much she enjoyed his company. Corrie intended to review the letters, see if there might be a description, something that might help her find out his name. Who had stolen Laurel’s heart, taken her virtue, then abandoned her?
Corrie wondered if the man who had fathered Laurel’s child would have gone so far as to murder them.
“You can’t be serious, Coralee. Tell me you do not intend to dredge up this painful affair all over again.” Agnes Hatfield sat on the rose velvet settee in a small salon near the back of the Whitmores’town mansion, a room done in white and rose, an elegant, feminine salon that overlooked the garden. Three days ago, the black crepe strung round the room had been removed after three long months of mourning.
“I realize it will take some doing, Aunt Agnes, but I have given the matter considerable thought and I have no choice but to act.”
Aunt Agnes, which Corrie had always called her though they were not actually blood-related, was a lady in her sixties, plump and silver-haired, and until the death of her beloved niece, always smiling. Seated next to her, Laurel’s cousin, Allison Hatfield, a thin young woman with a razor-straight nose and pointed chin, very dark hair and hazel eyes, listened to Corrie with obvious trepidation. Allison’s parents had died of cholera, leaving her in the care of her aging aunt.
At the viscount’s invitation, both of the women had elected to remain in the city rather than return to Selkirk Hall and the awful memories the place still held for them.
“So you intend to begin some sort of investigation?” Aunt Agnes asked.
“Yes.”
Allison made no comment. She was a shy, unobtrusive young woman rarely inclined to disagree with anything anyone said. Which was perhaps the reason she had agreed to leave East Dereham and accompany Laurel on her return to Selkirk Hall, pretending to be the baby’s mother.
Or perhaps it was because Allison was tired of scraping by on her aging aunt Gladys’s generosity, and Laurel had promised her a goodly sum and a better future in exchange for her help with the child.
“I do not believe for an instant the authorities’ version of what occurred,” Corrie said, “and after months of consideration, I have decided to act. I plan to take whatever steps are necessary to discover the truth of what happened to my sister. Aunt Agnes, you and Gladys helped Laurel. Now you must help me find out what happened to her and her baby.”
Allison pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her eyes. She had been as fond of Laurel and her month-old infant, Joshua Michael, as Agnes, who also dug out an embroidered square of cotton and blew her powdered nose.
The older woman took a fortifying breath. “I will help in any way I can…though perhaps my helping your sister is what, in the end, got her killed.”
Corrie’s eyes widened. “So you do not believe it was suicide, either! And if she did not take her own life, someone must have killed her. Laurel and the child were victims of foul play. It is the only explanation.”
From her place on the rose velvet settee, Allison’s soft voice whispered across the room. “There is a chance… I cannot say for certain…but it is possible that Laurel may have been meeting someone the night she disappeared. She wouldn’t tell me where she was going, but she was excited. I didn’t realize she had taken the baby until later, when I went into the nursery and saw his cradle was empty.”
Corrie felt a rush of sadness that brought the sting of tears. She purposely leaned into the stiff bone stays of her corset, and the tiny jolt of discomfort set her back on course. “Please…we must try to stay focused.”
Agnes blew her nose. “You are right, of course. We have all cried more than enough. And we can hardly find justice for my dear, lost angel by sitting here weeping.”
Corrie’s gaze fixed on dark-haired Allison. “Did you tell the authorities that Laurel might have been meeting someone the night she died?”
“It didn’t seem important at the time. The constable said she had jumped into the river. The week before it happened, she had been a bit distraught, though she wouldn’t tell me why. When the constable arrived with the terrible news, I thought perhaps… I accepted the constable’s explanation for what had occurred.”
Corrie made a mental note to find out what had upset her sister the week before her death. “You’ve had three months to consider, Allison. Do you still believe Laurel killed herself?”
She shook her head. “At the time, I was so distressed I could scarcely think straight. Laurel and baby Joshua were gone and nothing else mattered.”
“Well, it matters to me,” Corrie said. “And it would matter to Laurel. Are you certain, Aunt Agnes, my sister gave no clue as to the name of the man who fathered her child?”
“None whatsoever. I’m an old woman. I paid little attention to my niece’s comings and goings.”
“What about men who might have paid calls at the house?”
“Oh, there were a few who stopped by now and then. Squire Morton’s son Thomas paid an occasional visit. The vicar’s son…oh, dear, what is his name? It will come to me in a moment…. At any rate, the boy stopped by on occasion, as well.”
“Anyone else?”
“Well, yes. Castle Tremaine is nearby.” In fact, it was the estate closest to Selkirk Hall. “Lord Tremaine paid his respects whenever he was in residence, occasionally accompanied by his cousin. His brother, Charles, and his sister-in-law, Rebecca, paid an occasional call, and they always stop by at Christmastime each year.”
Corrie frowned as bits of information came together in her head. “Lord Tremaine, you say?”
“Well, yes. He always calls at least once when he is in the country, but he never stays overly long.”
Grayson Forsythe, Earl of Tremaine. The name stirred memories of the man who had come into the Tremaine title five years ago. Corrie had never seen the earl, who seemed to keep a good deal to himself, but she had heard he was tall and incredibly handsome. The man had a wicked, extremely sordid reputation when it came to women, and in her gossip column, “Heartbeat,” Corrie had alluded more than once to rumors of his many affairs.
And if memory served, the earl was often in residence at Castle Tremaine, where his brother and sister-in-law made their home.
“I can see what you are thinking,” Agnes said. “I will admit the earl is attractive, but he is also a dark, rather brooding sort of fellow. I cannot imagine your sister would be interested in a man like that.” She glanced away. “Laurel was always so bright and fun-loving, such a warm-hearted, spirited young girl.” Her eyes teared up and she used her handkerchief again.
Corrie felt a crushing weight in her chest. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said, determined not to let her emotions rise to the surface. “But from the gossip I have heard, the man is quite ruthless when it comes to women. I imagine if he wanted to seduce an innocent young girl, it would be easy enough for him to do.”
“Perhaps.” Agnes fought to bring her own emotions under control. “But I just cannot…” She shook her head, her silver eyebrows drawing together. “His cousin, Jason, is quite dashing. He is also in residence much of the time. I suppose if I were to guess—” She broke off again. “I am sorry, Coralee, but I simply cannot imagine any of the young men who paid calls at the house murdering our dear, sweet Laurel and her innocent little baby. That is what you are thinking, is it not?”
“It’s a possibility. Perhaps the man she fell in love with did not love her in return. Perhaps he did not wish to be forced to marry her.”
“And perhaps she simply went for a walk that night and was waylaid by footpads. Perhaps they tried to rob her, but when they discovered she had no money, they tossed her and the child into the river.”
It was a notion Corrie had already considered. “I suppose that could have happened. Anything seems possible at this point in time, except that Laurel would kill herself and her child.”
“Coralee is right,” Allison said softly, from where she perched like a bird on the edge of the sofa. “Laurel loved little Joshua with every ounce of her being. She would never have done anything to hurt him. And she was so clearly determined that no one would find out the identity of the father. It does make one wonder….”
Corrie nodded. “It does indeed.”
Aunt Agnes eyed her warily. “I am loath to ask, but I suppose I must. Tell us, Coralee, what exactly is it you propose to do?”
She stiffened her spine. At the moment she wasn’t certain. But she was going to do something. Of that she was completely sure.
Excited at her discovery, Corrie climbed the steps of Heart to Heart and opened the heavy front door. As she walked into the long, narrow printing area, she spotted Krista coming out of the back room, heading for her office. Corrie followed her and hurriedly closed the door.
“Krista—you are not going to believe what I’ve found!”
Her friend whirled toward her, apparently not aware until then that Coralee had entered. “So you are still digging. I know you are determined to come up with something to validate your belief that Laurel was murdered, but are you sure your sister wouldn’t rather you simply accepted her death and got on with your life?”
“They say she killed her own child. Do you believe my sister would want the world to believe she did something as heinous as that?”
“The police found no sign of robbery, Corrie. There were no incriminating marks on the body.”
“She had been in the water for several days when she was found. The constable said it was impossible to tell exactly what had happened, and there was a bruise on the side of her head.”
“Yes, and if I recall, the constable believed she must have hit her skull when she fell into the river. The police believe the baby drowned and simply washed out to sea.”
“And I say the police are wrong. Laurel was killed by someone who didn’t want the secret of the child’s birth known, or had some other nefarious motive.”
Krista sighed. “Well, there have certainly been murders committed for far less reason than preventing some sort of scandal.”
“Yes, and when Agnes mentioned the Earl of Tremaine, I began to think. Some years back, I’d heard gossip about him. He was whispered about at a number of affairs, and I even made mention of his scandalous reputation once or twice in my column. I decided to go back through some of our older editions. Lady Charlotte Goodnight wrote the “Heartbeat” column in the days when your mother ran the paper. I took a look at those.”
For the first time, Krista appeared curious. “What did you find?”
“The articles mentioned the gossip I had heard, said the man was a complete and utter rogue where women were concerned. They called him a ‘sensualist,’ a master of the art of love. Apparently, Grayson Forsythe was a major in the army before he inherited the title. He spent several years in India before his older brother fell ill and he came back to assume his duties as earl.”
Krista smiled. “Sounds like an interesting man.”
“Yes, well, I suppose you might say that. But as I was reading about him, I remembered something else.”
“And that was…?”
“This morning I went down to the magistrate’s office and searched for records filed under his name and there it was—the certificate of his marriage to Lady Jillian Beecher three years past.”
“Now that you mention it, I remember hearing something about that. But Tremaine is a bachelor—one of the most eligible in London. What happened to his wife?”
“That is the point I am trying to make. I did some more digging, spoke to some of my sources, very quietly, of course. I discovered that the earl was married less than a year when Lady Tremaine died. The countess was the daughter of a wealthy baron, an heiress worth a good deal of money. She died leaving the earl with a sizable increase in his fortune—and he was free again, able to continue his sensual pursuits.”
“I don’t think I ever heard the story.”
“I believe the family kept the matter fairly quiet.” Corrie’s eyes gleamed. “And since that is the case, what you also don’t know is that Lady Tremaine drowned, Krista—right there in the Avon River!”
