© 2002

Yorkshire, November 1821

The snow had been falling since morning but the coachman had pressed on through the storm only to have the horses brought to a halt by impassable roads on the outskirts of Shipton. Unlike several of the passengers who grumbled about their altered schedules, Caroline Morrow was more than happy to descend from the cold, cramped coach and stumble through the drifts toward the welcoming warmth of a nearby inn.

Once inside, she shook the snowflakes from her cape, threw off the hood, and moved through the press of travelers in the small entryway toward the parlor where she stood as close to the crackling fire as prudence would allow. Holding her hands out, she basked in the comforting warmth. The heavenly possibility of actually sleeping in a soft bed gave her further reason for gratification.

Lost in her reverie apropos of the pleasures of a real bed and a hot meal, the familiar voice at first went unattended. But the deep, distinctive tones eventually insinuated themselves into her consciousness and she lifted her head to listen for a moment before discounting the absurdity of such a coincidence. The buzz of conversation suddenly swelled when several other passengers moved into the parlor and the curious voice from her past disappeared from her thoughts.

She ignored the sound of footfalls behind her a short time later, not wishing company, but she couldn’t ignore the fragrance drifting into her nostrils, nor the impact the pine-scented cologne had on her emotions.

She spun around.

“I thought it was you.”

He stood no more than a foot away: large, powerful, more handsome than she remembered, his dark hair damp with melting snow, his caped riding coat black like his eyes-and his heart.