The lamp was moved away. ‘Trust me, ma’am. I will see you safe.’ A moment later, he was stripping off his heavy coat and wrapping it round her helpless body. The smell of warm wet wool engulfed her. And the smell of man.

‘Forgive me,’ he said abruptly. ‘I need a free hand for the lamp.’ Without another word, he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. Pain scythed through her. And then the blessed darkness returned to claim her.

She seemed to be dreaming his voice. Words, questions. Sometimes soothing, sometimes sharp. But never strong enough to pull her back from the cocoon of warmth that now surrounded her and held her safe. She felt she was floating away all over again, this time for ever.

And then her cocoon was gone!

She was alone with her suffering. She forced her eyes open. She was propped up in a curricle. By the dim light of its lamps, she saw that the horses were hitched to a fence. Was there a house beyond?

‘You are come back to us, ma’am.’ His tall figure reappeared from the darkness. He had not deserted her. Perhaps she could trust him, after all. ‘Come, let me carry you in.’

This time, he was more mindful of her hurts, lifting her carefully into his arms and cradling her close to his body. She let herself relax into his reassuring strength. The scent of man and horse and leather surrounded her. For a moment, he stood still, gazing down at her with concern in his dark eyes. Then his jaw clenched and he started towards the house.

She saw a winding path through dark, dripping shrubs. Then an open doorway filled with light and warmth and welcome. And a small round man in clerical garb, hovering anxiously.

As her rescuer hurried towards the doorstep, a little old lady in a lace cap appeared from the depths of the hallway, followed by an even smaller maidservant. ‘Why, Master Jonathan! You are welcome, as always. But who is this you have brought us?’

‘Mrs Aubrey! Thank goodness!’ He shouldered his way past the old man and into the hall. ‘I have never seen her before, but I believe she is a lady. I rescued her from the woods by the old oak. She is hurt. And almost frozen to death.’

The old man gasped. ‘Dear God. Poor child. And at Christmas, too.’

His wife stepped forward in order to smooth back the wet hair and peer into the new arrival’s face. ‘What is your name, my dear?’

That came like a blow, worse than all the pain that had gone before. It was a terrible, terrifying realisation. ‘I…I do not know.’

Chapter One

‘Beth, dear?’

Beth. Sometimes, it still jarred. Was that truly her name? ‘Dear Beth’ had been the only legible words on a soggy, much-folded note in the pocket of her threadbare gown. They had found no other clue to her identity. All their discreet enquiries had yielded absolutely nothing more. So, after more than six months, Beth was still in Fratcombe with her benefactors, and still the woman of mystery she had been on the night Jonathan rescued her. It nagged at her that she might not even be ‘Beth’ at all.

Mrs Aubrey had appeared in the doorway. ‘Yes, ma’am?’ Beth said brightly.

‘Do you think you could fetch me some ribbon from Mr Green’s when you finish at the school today?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Beth replied immediately. ‘What do you need?’

Mrs Aubrey brought out a length of dress fabric, and they spent a comfortable few minutes discussing the style the old lady planned to stitch.

‘You have chosen a delightful shade, ma’am. Not quite purple and not quite garnet red, either. The only difficulty will be finding a ribbon to suit such an unusual colour. But I promise I will do my very best.’

‘You will have time?’

‘Oh, yes. Mr Green’s will be open for at least an hour after the children have gone home. If it takes me longer than that to find your ribbon, Aunt Caro, I shall be a failure indeed.’ She smiled down at the little old lady. Beth had come to love Mrs Aubrey like a mother, for she was kind and generous, as well as surprisingly full of fun and mischief. Neither Mrs Aubrey nor the rector cared that Beth had no history before her arrival in the village. Her educated speech and soft hands proved her a lady, the Aubreys said, and so, over Beth’s guilty protests, they had insisted she remain with them. Indeed, the rector’s wife had let it be known from the first that Beth was a distant relation, come to make a long stay in Fratcombe. Most of the village had accepted it without question. As the months passed, even Beth had come to think of herself as Miss Elizabeth Aubrey, one of the rector’s family. It was a warm, comforting feeling, one she treasured. But it could not quite overcome the guilty fears that sometimes gave her nightmares. What might she have done in the past? What could be so bad that her mind refused to let her remember?

Gathering up her basket with the lesson materials she had prepared, Beth dropped a kiss on Mrs Aubrey’s cheek and made her way out into the bright morning sunshine. The rectory stood next to the Saxon church at one end of the village. The school had been set up in a vacant house near the middle of Fratcombe alongside the main shops. It was an easy walk, though the day promised to be very hot later.

Beth smiled up at the clear blue sky. A Spanish sky would be a darker, deeper blue, she supposed, nearer the colour of Jonathan’s eyes, as far as she could remember it from that single, pain-hazed meeting. She had never even had a chance to thank him. The morning after the rescue, he had left Fratcombe Manor in response to an urgent summons from Horse Guards. There had been an apologetic farewell note to the rector, as good manners required, but he had taken the trouble to include good wishes for Beth’s recovery as well. That thoughtfulness still warmed her heart, though it saddened her that she had not seen him again. It was the life of a soldier, she supposed. Apart from that one fleeting spell of home leave, he had been in the Peninsula for years, fighting the French.

She had not thought it her place to ask questions about her rescuer. That would have been vulgar. But, by listening to others, she had learned to admire him even more. His name was Jonathan Foxe-Garway. And although the Aubreys had known him as a boy and still referred to him as ‘Master Jonathan’, he was in fact the Earl of Portbury, a man of rank and great wealth. He was the rector’s patron, of course, but he was also a man the Aubreys valued for himself. They spoke of him often, telling tales of outrageous childhood escapades at the Manor, and amusing pranks when he had first gone up to Oxford. No doubt he had also done things that the rector judged unfit for a lady’s ears but, if so, his sins were far outweighed by his devotion to duty and his bravery on the battlefield.

Whatever the rector might say about duty, it seemed strange to Beth that an earl should have chosen to join Lord Wellington’s army, to face the hardships and dangers of campaigning. Did he not have a greater duty to his name and his estates? He could not possibly be managing them from a windswept tent in Spain.

She was unlikely to discover the truth of that. The Aubreys’ tales were entertaining and sometimes revealing, but never indiscreet. In any case, it was not her concern. However, it was impossible for Beth to forget Jonathan Foxe-Garway. He was her rescuer. The passage of time could not change that, even though his image was a blur. No wonder, for she had been barely conscious. She had little more than a vague impression of height, and strength, coupled with penetrating blue eyes and that reassuring voice as he carried her up the rectory stairs and laid her on a warm, soft bed. Sometimes, in her dreams, she saw him clearly, but only there. Once, she had even dreamt he was galloping towards her, clad in silver armour and mounted on a white charger, like a knight in a fairy tale.

That, she knew, was quite ridiculous. She was a grown woman. She must be at least twenty-four or twenty-five. A woman of such advanced years should certainly know better than to cling to childish fantasies. Yet the sound of his voice kept haunting her dreams. She imagined it would be so until the day she died, a schoolmistress, and an old maid.

One of her pupils, a little boy called Peter, came racing up, bowling a hoop. ‘Miss Aubrey! Oh, Miss Aubrey, look at my hoop!’ At that moment, he lost control and it toppled into a patch of nettles by the lane. Before Beth could stop him, he had dived in after it. He cried out in pain.

Poor Peter. He was only five and knew no better. Beth lifted him into her arms and wiped away his tears with a gentle finger. ‘You are a brave boy, Peter. Come, let me set you down and we will find something for that sting.’ She carefully retrieved the hoop with her gloved hand. ‘Hold that for me, while I look.’ She used the handle of her parasol to brush aside the lush greenery of high summer. ‘See this, Peter?’ She pointed to a dock plant. ‘For nettle stings, the sovereign remedy is dock leaves. Let me show you.’ She picked a few, stripped off her gloves and began to rub the leaves on the reddened patches on his skin. Then she wrapped some larger leaves around his injured arm. ‘Hold those against the sting, Peter, while I take your hoop. It will soon stop hurting.’

‘Stopped hurting already, miss.’ He sounded much cheerier.

‘Well done. You are very brave, and you will be able to teach all your friends about avoiding nettles, and curing their stings, won’t you?’

He grinned cheekily, showing missing front teeth. Still, he was a clever boy, one who would make something of himself if Beth had her way, even though he was only the son of a farm labourer. In fact, his father had a cottage on the Fratcombe Manor estate. Jonathan’s estate.

Everything kept coming back to Jonathan.