The Heiress of Winterwood - By Sarah Ladd Page 0,7

before he left for the sea for the first time. He’d been little more than a child then—only twelve years old. The image of her tearstained face and the sound of her desperate pleas had burned themselves into his mind, never to be forgotten. The memories of his father’s hard expression were equally memorable, but very different, and haunted him with equal fervor.

His father’s decision to send him to sea had grown out of sound logic, regardless of the coldness behind it. Eastmore Hall, by law, would pass entirely to his older brother, so there had been a need for Graham to make his own way in the world, and indeed, he had done well for himself. He had grown to enjoy life at sea and excel at its requirements, achieving the rank of captain at a young age and amassing a small fortune in prize money for capturing both military and merchant vessels. At thirty years of age he had reached a level of success that few men would—and he still had the bulk of his career ahead of him. And now that England was engaged in war against America, his services to the Crown were needed even more.

A rustling nearby interrupted his thoughts. He jerked his head up and scanned the foggy landscape. Was that a sob? With silent steps he ducked below low-hanging branches to find the source. He spied the outline of a woman, shrouded in a dark cape, kneeling next to a headstone. The grave seemed fairly fresh. It had to be Katherine’s. But who was the woman?

He battled to hear her voice over the wind.

“I’m so sorry, Katherine.” Emotion broke the woman’s words. “I will not lose hope.”

The wind tugged at her gray woolen cape and pulled the hood free from her head, revealing an abundance of wild golden curls. As she reached up to re-cover her head, she turned. Graham ducked behind the tree, but it was too late. He stared straight into the eyes of Miss Amelia Barrett.

Feeling caught, Graham stepped out from behind the tree. She jumped to her feet and swiped her tears with the back of her gloved hand. Her azure eyes glowed in her pale face. Gone was the poise from earlier in the day.

“I’m sorry.” He took a step closer. “I did not see you . . . I mean, I was not aware . . .”

She did not pause for his explanation. She brushed past him so quickly that he barely had time to step out of her path. “Wait, Miss Barrett, please, I—”

But she disappeared through the gate, leaving him alone with the wind and his memories.

He considered chasing after her. If he ran, he could overtake her before she reached Eastmore’s outer walls. But if he caught up with her, what would he say?

Graham looked back to his wife’s final resting place, and the sight of her name carved in stone made him momentarily forget about the woman running from the graveyard. Katherine. All these months, he realized, something in him had clung to the hope that it was all a mistake. That the letter was wrong, and his bride still waited for him in their little cottage on the grounds of Eastmore Hall. But now all trace of foolish hope departed. He would never again see Katherine’s contagious smile or feel the warmth of her hand in his. Anger pulsed from his core. He’d always assumed that if one of them were to die, it would be he, so dangerous was his profession. How could a merciful God allow someone so pure to die so young?

He blinked away from the tombstone. He’d seen enough. But even as he turned, something caught his eye. A small book rested in the grass next to the grave. He knelt to retrieve it. The brown leather binding was smooth beneath his fingertips. He flipped it to read the spine. Psalms. Miss Barrett must have just now dropped it.

He dried the volume on his outer coat and tucked it in his pocket, where his fingers brushed Katherine’s letter. With the commotion of encountering Miss Barrett and the sting of seeing the tombstone, he’d almost forgotten about it.

The letter’s dark red wax seal broke easily as he slid a finger beneath it. He held his breath as he unfolded the letter. The strokes were wide, the letters shaky, but the script was surely Katherine’s.

My dearest husband,

My end is near. I am not frightened, for I am ready to meet