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Will drew up his horse and stared at the sign at the crossroads. Maidencombe. He could hardly believe his eyes or his luck. Only a day and a half on the road and here he'd inadvertently stumbled across the one place he'd never expected to see, but which had been on his mind for the last five years. More than on his mind. Broadhurst Farm had been a waking dream, culled from the letters that Louisa Merriem had written to her husband on a weekly basis, letters that Will had since read over and over until he'd memorized their contents.

Will felt torn as he tried to figure out what the right thing to do might be. Should he turn left, find Broadhurst Farm, personally deliver the letters to Louisa? Or should he mind his own business, send the letters by post, and continue on his way and get his own nasty business over with without further delay?

He dismounted and led Maestro to the small stream that ran only a few yards from the road. Hot and tired, he sank down into the cool grass, the old injury to his ribs aching from exertion. He needed the rest, no matter what he decided.

Images played through his mind of Louisa Merriem's vivid descriptions of Broadhurst, so enticing, so evocative of a happy family life that had always eluded him. He felt as if he'd watched little Portia grow up, felt as if he'd been there when the harvest was planted and later brought in. Damn, he felt as if he knew each member of the small staff, every site of every daffodil that bloomed in April, exactly where the sun rose and set at any given time of year, just how Cook's delicious treacle tart melted on the tongue.

All of this due to Louisa, a woman he'd half fallen in love with only byvirtue of words on a page, not a single one written to him, but to the husband she loved.

Broadhurst and Louisa had given Val and Will something to talk about, a respite from the incessant war, a place to retreat to, even if it seemed a million miles away, but he knew, too, that he'd created a fantasy world that probably bore no resemblance to the truth, and that he was bound to be disappointed by the reality.

Still, he'd go to Broadhurst in a heartbeat.

The trouble was that Broadhurst and its inhabitants were none of his business. Will lay back in the grass.

What use was confronting a grieving widow with a packet of letters that would cause her renewed distress, remind her of everything she'd lost? He could only imagine how she felt--he already knew that Val's heart had been torn when he'd heeded the call of country and forced himself to leave Louisa, his daughter, everything he held dear, for the hellhole of war. He'd been a true hero, losing everything in the end for what he believed.

Will had had nothing to lose, nothing at all save perhaps his sanity, and he'd managed to hang on to that for the most part. His only real indulgence during his time in the army had been pretending in his very weakest moments that he, instead of Val, lived at Broadhurst, that it was he who loved Louisa, that it was he who slept in her bed at night and made her cry out in pleasure. That it was she who slipped wild strawberries between his lips and whispered words of endless love.

That those moments of fantasy had been brought on by fear and a constant sense of helplessness was no excuse at all. He'd always felt guilty that he'd imagined them at all, because the real flesh-and-blood woman belonged to his dearest friend.

Surely he owed Louisa Merriem her privacy. Surely she would not thank him for intruding on her grief.

Will pushed himself upright. On the other hand, he could tell her stories that might comfort her. He could even tell her of Val's last moments, of how he'd held Val in his arms as he lay dying. He didn't have to say that Val hadn't actually spoken Louisa's name in that moment, that in his anguish and madness he'd choked out someone else's--Will still didn't understand that, although he prayed that maybe Val had been calling to the Virgin Mother, despite his insistence that he didn't believe.

He could perhaps, in some small way, offer Louisa comfort. He owed her a brief visit. If he didn't stop, he might be remiss in his duties to a fellow officer.


Once in the village, Will received directions to Broadhurst Farm with no trouble, but he couldn't help the erratic pounding of his heart as he made the turn into the drive leading to the house itself. Louisa Merriem had described it exactly, painting an evocative picture with words that neither stinted nor glorified. He pulled Maestro to a stop and drank in the sight before him, a sight that previously had lived only in his imagination. He'd imagined it well.

There, in a gentle dip of valley, stood a Tudor farmhouse, hugged on both sides by large stands of trees, fronted by a lawn and terraces with yew and beech hedges. The house was simple, built of gray stone, one wing gabled. To the right, a south-facing orchard, covered in blossoms of white and pink, promised a heavy yield of fruit later in the year. To the left a rose garden nodded sleepily in the light breeze, the flowers just unfurling from tight buds.

Will's heart tightened in his chest. He had never in his life seen such a welcoming sight.

A thin plume of smoke rose from one of the four chimneys, a sure sign that someone was there. He leaned down and ran his hand over his horse's smooth neck.

"Perhaps I'm mad, Maestro, but I feel as if I've come home."

He grimaced at his folly. This was not his home, and he'd be well served to remember it. He was here but for a few brief moments, his mission to deliver a packet of letters that didn't belong to him either, as much as he felt they did.

Swinging down from Maestro's back, he took the reins and led his horse up the path to the front door, tethering him to a ring in the mounting post. He swept his cap from his head, and gathering his courage, he raised the door knocker and sharply rapped it twice. The sound echoed hollowly and then silence fell.

Will gazed down at one foot, the surface of his boot dusty from travel. He quickly bent over and rubbed his hand over one boot and then the other, then straightened and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to tidy that as well. Belatedly realizing what a sight he must be, he wished he'd had the foresight to stop first at a posting inn, where at least he could have washed and changed.

Louisa, if she was at home at all, might well turn him away after one look, taking him for a vagrant. Maybe he'd go into the village and get a room, come back tomorrow looking more presentable. Or maybe he'd just carry on now that he'd seen the farm and stick to his original plan, posting the letters at another time. From another place. A place far away from here.

He'd just turned away when the sound of the door suddenly opening caused him to spin back around.

Will's mouth fell open at the sight of the woman standing before him. She could be no one but Louisa, but nothing had prepared him for the sight of this slim woman, her mass of auburn hair loosely pulled back by a simple ribbon, her brilliant blue eyes regarding him in clear surprise and something he almost interpreted as horror, though he could think of no cause.

"Mrs.--er, Mrs. Merriem?" he stammered like an idiot.

"That is correct," she said, her gaze raking him up and down, then snapping back to his face, her color high. "Thank goodness you're here. Did you bring references?"

"References?" he repeated awkwardly, feeling like a callow youth. Lord, but she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. That was the one thing he hadn't imagined. Val had said only that she was attractive in her own way but hadn't elaborated beyond that. "References," Will said again, desperately trying to pull himself together.

"Indeed, although I cannot afford to be too picky at this point. Do you drink?"

Will blinked. "On occasion," he managed to say. "Not--not often."

"That will have to do, I suppose," she said, her full, wide mouth pursing slightly. "You have come from . . . ?"

"Plymouth," he said in a daze, thinking that he was missing a vital point, but he had no idea what it was. He dragged his gaze from her lovely mouth and cleared his throat. "I have come from Plymouth. Does it matter?"

"Not as long as you're not a seaman or a soldier, God forbid." She frowned. "You do have experience? How old are you?"

"Thirty years of age," he replied, knowing now that she had surely mistaken him for someone else. Not a soldier? What in hell was that supposed to mean? "What, um, what sort of experience did you have in mind?"

"As I clearly stated in the notice posted at the pub, I need a man-of-all-work. That means carpentry, expertise in farming, lambing, all of that sort of thing. The hours are long, as you might expect, but if you prove your competency you will have decent quarters, nourishing meals three times a day, and six shillings a week. The job is yours if you want it? Do you?"

Will quickly ducked his head, trying desperately not to laugh. He saw it all now. His shabby dress had created the illusion that he'd come in answer to a notice posted at the pub for a farm laborer. God help him. It was perfect, too good to be true.

Why not? a small, treacherous voice whispered in the back of his head. Why the hell not? He was in no rush to get home, and no one expected him in any case. Here was a golden opportunity to spend some time with the woman and the place he'd been dreaming about for five long years. She was obviously desperate for a man-of-all-work, and here he was, able and willing, and although he might not be entirely experienced, he could learn soon enough. He felt almost as if God had finally smiled on him . . .

No, his better side told him firmly. That would be deceitful. That's not why you came. Stop this farce, cut her off now, while you still have a chance. Cut her off. Cut her--

"Has the cat got your tongue?" she asked. "I have just offered you a job that you've come all the way from Plymouth to apply for. What is your name, man?"

He raised his head. "Will," he said, unable to help himself. "Will Cutter," he added, supplying the last sane thought he'd had, although he hadn't cut her off after all. "I accept the job, ma'am. Show me what is needed and I will do everything in my power to earn your trust and my wages."


Making her way back to the house after showing Will Cutter to his quarters above the stables, Louisa wondered if she had just made one of the larger mistakes of her life. No mistake would ever equal choosing Val as a husband, but she couldn't help a sense of misgiving in hiring this particular man.

For one thing, he was far too good-looking and more than likely knew it--how could he not? Hiring a handsome man was a mistake in itself, since excessively handsome men tended to have an equally excessive high opinion of themselves that was seldom, if ever, warranted. She'd learned that lesson from Val.

Then there was the matter of his horse. She stopped and turned, gazing thoughtfully back at the stables. What was a man in Will Cutter's lowly station doing with a magnificent horse like that? He could never have afforded it, so she could not discount the possibility out of hand that the gelding had been stolen.

On the other hand, his speech led her to believe that he was not a peasant by any stretch of the imagination, so she supposed he might be a man of good birth who had fallen on hard times. His finely chiseled cheekbones, thick, wavy dark hair and equally dark eyes, along with the narrow, high-bridged line of nose and squared chin with the slight cleft, all indicated good breeding of some kind.

She'd nearly fallen over when she'd opened the door and seen him standing there, a dark angel cast in Lucifer's own image. She wouldn't even think about the shiver that had gone through her when she'd taken in his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and powerful thighs.

He couldn't have been more different from Val, who had been green-eyed and blond-haired, his build slight. This man towered over her, exerting a powerful presence that had forced the breath from her body and very nearly caused her to slam the door straight in his face. Will Cutter was not what she'd had in mind when she'd posted her notice. Indeed, he was the last sort of man she'd expected to turn up on her doorstep.

Men of low birth did not exert such an air of quiet command, nor did they generally have a look of sharp intelligence. He looked as if he had seen the world and then some. She imagined he probably had, and hadn't much liked it, given the expression behind the dark brown eyes that she could only describe as haunted. Or at least that was the impression she'd had when he first looked at her, before he'd masked his expression so that she could see nothing at all.

Louisa ran a hand over her aching forehead. What did it really matter in the end who Will Cutter was or where he hailed from? Whatever his birth, he clearly had to make his own way in the world, and if this was the way he chose do it, what business was that of hers?

He'd appeared at her door and she needed him. Short of his being a murderer, which she sincerely doubted, she had no argument with him. He appeared strong and able, and she couldn't ask for more than that.

At any rate, who was she to question God's generosity, whatever form it had arrived in? She had a planting season to see to and a harvest to be brought in at the end of it. Fences needed mending and animals needed looking after. Food had to be put on the table and with a little luck, there'd be some extra money to get them all through the winter. With a lot of luck, Will Cutter would help to make that happen.