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  In memory of my mother

  Margaret Wayt DeBolt

  Who believed we ought to follow our dreams

  Acknowledgments

  I owe a very large debt to the Romance Writers of America for opening so many doors in publishing and, most important, for giving me the tools to make the most of those opportunities and to grow as an author.

  Many thanks to my local RWA chapter, the Heart of Carolina Romance Writers, who continue to provide an astonishing amount of wisdom and inspiration.

  Thanks to my agent, Jessica Alvarez, and to my editor, Lauren Plude, who both got me to the fast lane rather quickly and have thus far managed to keep me on the road.

  Thanks to my critique partners for this book, Sarra Cannon and Karen Anders: to Sarra for insight and encouragement, and to Karen for being the very best example of a mentor.

  Thanks to Elaine Luddy Klonicki, my first ever beta reader, for being so excited about my book and providing valuable input.

  I am most especially grateful to all my friends and family. Not once did anyone tell me it couldn’t be done: everyone cheered me on from the beginning. I am thankful every day to have such amazing support.

  Thanks to Frank DeBolt, Sr., my wonderful dad, who has given me so much over the years.

  Last, and most, thanks to Jim Harrington for love, laughter, and believing—in short, for being a husband extraordinaire. Any resemblance to my books’ heroes is not entirely coincidental.

  As far as the east is from the west,

  So far hath he removed our transgressions from us.

  Bless the Lord, O my soul.

  —PSALM 103

  Ever the wonder waxeth more and more,

  So that we say, “All this hath been before,

  All this hath been, I know not when or where.”

  So, friend, when first I look’d upon your face,

  Our thought gave answer each to each, so true—

  Opposed mirrors each reflecting each—

  That tho’ I knew not in what time or place,

  Methought that I had often met with you,

  And either lived in either’s heart and speech.

  —ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  Prologue

  New South Wales, Australia, February 1846

  Beyond this breach, my friends, lies the great Bathurst Plains!”

  This announcement came from a man on horseback who was leading the procession of four bullock drays—large two-wheeled carts piled high with supplies and pulled by oxen.

  From her perch atop one of the drays, Lizzie Poole strained to catch her first glimpse of the valley beyond the Blue Mountains.

  It had been a long journey from Sydney. For three days they’d traveled the narrow road painstakingly cut through the mountain pass. The road had risen and fallen sharply and taken countless turns through narrow gorges. Lizzie thought they might never escape the dense woods, which were at times so thick she could barely see the sky above. And she did not care at all for the bird they called the kookaburra, whose call sounded to her like maniacal laughter.

  But they were at last moving into bright sunshine. The drivers brought the rigs to a halt at the point where the road crested a ridge, and the western valley opened before them in a breathtaking vista. Beyond the steep cliffs with their dramatic rock formations, the land stretched away for miles: trees and plains making a tapestry of green and brown, dotted here and there with colorful flowers. Lizzie even glimpsed a sparkle of blue from a distant river. Although she had spent four months looking at the ocean’s endless horizon, the world never appeared as large to her as it did now.

  “Tom, isn’t it magnificent?” she called down to her brother, who had been walking beside the dray.

  “Aye,” agreed Tom. “It looks bigger than all of England.”

  Lizzie could see the same awe she felt reflected on the faces of the other newcomers: there were three single men who had been hired straight off the ship in Sydney to work on the sheep farms, and a clergyman, Rev. Greene, who had traveled with his wife and two children to preside over the small church in Bathurst.

  Their guide, Mr. Edward Smythe, appeared pleased at their reactions. He spread his arms wide and proclaimed in theatrical tones:

  “The boundless champaign burst upon our sight,

  Till nearer seen the beauteous landscape grew,

  Op’ning like Canaan on rapt Israel’s view.”

  Lizzie smiled. She was not surprised that Mr. Smythe should be spouting poetry at a moment like this. He was a handsome man, with dark hair and expressive brown eyes, and Lizzie could easily picture him as an actor on the stage. He was young, too; like Lizzie and her brother, he looked to be still in his twenties. What intrigued Lizzie most, however, was that although his accent revealed him to be an English gentleman, he seemed perfectly at home in this rough and untamed land.

  “Canaan,” repeated Mrs. Greene, who was seated on the dray with Lizzie and cradling an infant in her arms. “I suppose the Promised Land was indeed as beautiful as this.”

  Lizzie considered these words as the drays once more took up their slow, steady advance. She and Tom had left behind everything in England. Would they really find a new beginning here, as Tom had promised her? She desperately hoped so.

  After another hour or so, they came within sight of a group of men digging a ditch along the edge of the road. There were ten of them, and Lizzie thought she had never seen such miserable-looking creatures. Dirty and ragged, they worked with grim determination under the oversight of three men—the master of the crew, shouting orders from horseback; a tall man with a sunburned face, who was holding a shotgun; and a third very large fellow, who was wielding a whip.

  When the master saw the caravan, he immediately rode up to meet them and exchanged greetings with Mr. Smythe, riding along with him for a few minutes as the caravan kept its forward pace. The other two men, Lizzie noticed, kept the road crew mercilessly at work.

  “This is Captain McCann,” Mr. Smythe announced to the travelers. “He is in charge of keeping this road maintained and safe.”

  “Welcome,” said the captain, riding his horse up the line of oxcarts so he could greet everyone. “I am happy to see more immigrants to the valley.” When he saw Lizzie, he lifted up his eyebrows in surprise, then turned and said over his shoulder, “What’s this, Smythe? Did you take your wife with you all the way to Sydney and back again?”

  Mr. Smythe’s eyes glinted in amusement. “No, sir,” he said. “This is Miss Poole. Lately arrived from England with her brother.”

  A look of confusion crossed the captain’s face. After a moment’s hesitation, he replaced it with an apologetic smile and raised his cap to Lizzie. “I beg your pardon, miss.”

  “Are those… convicts?” the minister’s wife asked timidly, pointing to the workers.

  “Indeed they are, ma’am,” the captain responded. “We’ve brought them up here to repair the culverts.”

  Two of the convicts turned from their work to watch the drays as they passed, but a flash of the whip from the burly man sent them back to their labors once more.

  “Poor creatures,” she said, echoing Liz
zie’s thoughts.

  “Do not give them too much pity, ma’am,” the captain said. “They brought it upon themselves by their evil ways. ’Twas no more than they deserved.”

  “Why, what have they done?”

  “Thieves, mostly,” he replied coolly. “Some are murderers, too. You’ll do well to stay clear of them.”

  As their cart passed the convicts, two others managed to throw them dark glares without their overseer being aware of it.

  Rev. Greene’s son turned to him and said, “Papa, do you suppose God has forgiven those fellows?”

  “He has if they have repented and asked Him for forgiveness,” he replied.

  “Do you really believe it is that simple?” Tom asked him. “Wouldn’t a just God exact vengeance?”

  The minister gave Tom an enquiring look. Tom’s impassive face gave little indication of what he was thinking. But Lizzie knew what must be on his mind. Four months had passed since Tom had killed Freddie Hightower in a duel, exacting his own vengeance on the man who had seduced his sister, taken her to Europe, and abandoned her there. The memory of that cold, miserable morning when Tom, still bloody from his duel, revealed to her what he’d done still sent a chill to Lizzie’s heart. Even though Freddie had cruelly mistreated her, she had never wished for his death—certainly not at the hands of her own brother.

  “Perhaps after we are settled, you might visit me at church,” the minister suggested to Tom. “Then we might have leisure to discuss these matters more fully.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Tom said with a nod of his head. But Lizzie doubted such a meeting would ever take place. Tom had made it clear to her that he felt justified in acting as he had. He had done it “for her sake,” he said, and he would not allow anyone to change his mind. Despite his words, Lizzie knew his actions had left a stain on his heart and given him no real peace. She was in no better condition herself, she reflected bitterly. Her foolish actions had brought on those terrible events. Surely there was no pardon for that.

  “It’s for certain the Crown is not so forgiving,” the captain said to Tom. He gestured dismissively toward the convicts. “These men will be paying for their crimes for the rest of their lives. It’s a fate worse than death. Be glad you’ve come to Australia as a free man.”

  The captain could not have known how close he was to the truth. If Tom had been arrested for what he’d done to Freddie, he might well have arrived in Australia in chains. But Tom had escaped. He’d arranged the duel for the morning of their departure for Australia, not telling Lizzie of his plans until the deed had been done. They had been out to sea within hours of the duel, their trail untraceable to anyone who might wish to follow. No one here was aware of the sordid tale that caused their departure from England.

  It all seemed as a dream now, as they began moving across the open valley, full in the light of the brightly burning sun. Odd, too, that it was February and yet they were in the heat of summer. Everything was different here. The world she had known was gone.

  Would she ever feel at home in this strange new land?

  Mr. Smythe had insisted they would. He had seen them as they disembarked from the ship at Sydney harbor, and had immediately worked his way through the crowds in order to meet them, offering work on one of the largest sheep ranches in the Bathurst Valley. He said that he’d been sent by the owner to hire able-bodied laborers from the immigrant ship, whose arrival had been keenly anticipated. With transportation of criminals now limited to other parts of Australia, the region of New South Wales was in dire need of free workers.

  “My wife will be overjoyed to meet you,” Mr. Smythe had said upon their agreeing to go.

  Lizzie had lost count of how many times he’d repeated this sentiment over the course of their journey. “Are there no other ladies to keep her company?” Lizzie had asked.

  “None have given her the close friendship she craves. But something tells me you two will be very close.”

  Lizzie had asked for more particulars, but he would say no more. It would have to remain a mystery until she met this Ria Smythe.

  The day was far advanced when they finally reached the town of Bathurst and pulled up to the place where they would lodge for the night. A sign above the door proclaimed this to be the Royal Hotel. It seemed far too grand a name for the two-story wooden building. And yet, after three nights of sleeping on the ground, Lizzie was sure it would feel as grand as a palace.

  Tom helped Lizzie descend from the oxcart. At the front of the caravan, Mr. Smythe dismounted from his horse and was immediately met by a lovely young lady. “Eddie, you’re home!” she cried happily. She tossed back her bonnet as she ran toward him, giving Lizzie a clear view of her face before the woman threw her arms around him and kissed him.

  “Blimey,” Tom remarked to Lizzie. “If that lady ain’t the spittin’ image of you!”

  Lizzie could only stare. The woman did look amazingly like her. She was a match in so many ways, from her pale blond hair to her face and figure. Lizzie could not see the woman’s eyes from this distance, but she was certain they were blue like her own. She had the oddest feeling she was looking in a mirror.

  Tom grinned. “Now I see why Smythe asked us so many questions about our family!”

  “It might also explain why he seemed so disappointed that I had never had a sister,” Lizzie observed. “He must have thought there was a connection.”

  Mr. Smythe gently set his wife at arm’s length to get a better look at her. “How well you look. I cannot believe you came all the way to town to meet me. But, my dearest, I fear you have scandalized these good people with your actions just now.” He spoke as if he were chiding her, yet it was clear he was pleased by her enthusiastic greeting.

  “Why, Eddie,” she answered, “you know I could not wait even one more day to see you.”

  They gazed at each other with such loving affection that Lizzie’s heart twisted in envy. She had once felt love like that. But she had never known such happiness. Falling in love had brought her only ruin and heartache. She would never again dare to open her heart in that way.

  “Ria, my darling,” said Mr. Smythe, “aren’t you going to ask me what I brought you from Sydney?”

  “Have you brought me a present?” she asked gaily. “What could it be?”

  “Come and see,” he said, and began to draw her toward Lizzie. The moment Ria saw Lizzie, she pulled up short. Her mouth fell open and her eyes—blue, as Lizzie had known they would be—lit up with wonder and joy.

  “Indeed I have brought you a present,” Edward said with a satisfied smile. “I have brought you a sister.”

  Chapter 1

  London, June 1851

  If you’ve killed her, Geoffrey, we will never hear the end of it from Lady Thornborough.”

  Geoffrey Somerville threw a sharp glance at his companion. The man’s flippancy annoyed him, but he knew James Simpson was never one to take any problem too seriously. Not even the problem of what to do with the young woman they had just accidentally struck down with his carriage.

  The girl had been weaving her way across the street, seemingly unaware of their rapid approach until it was too late. The driver had barely succeeded in steering the horses sharply to one side to keep from trampling her under their massive hooves. However, there had not been enough time or space for him to avoid the girl completely, and the front wheel had tossed her onto the walkway as easily as a mislaid wicker basket.

  Geoffrey knelt down and raised the woman’s head gently, smoothing the hair from her forehead. Blood flowed freely from a wound at her left temple, marring her fair features and leaving ugly red streaks in her pale yellow hair.

  Her eyes were closed, but Geoffrey saw with relief that she was still breathing. Her chest rose and fell in ragged but unmistakable movements. “She’s not dead,” he said. “But she is badly hurt. We must get help immediately.”

  James bounded up the steps and rapped at the door with his cane. “First we have to get her inside. Peo
ple are beginning to gather, and you know how much my aunt hates a scandal.”

  Geoffrey noted that a few people had indeed stopped to stare, although no one offered to help. One richly dressed young lady turned her head and hurried her escort down the street, as though fearful the poor woman bleeding on the pavement had brought the plague to this fashionable Mayfair neighborhood. At one time Geoffrey might have wondered at the lack of Good Samaritans here. But during the six months he’d been in London, he’d seen similar reactions to human suffering every day. Although it was no longer surprising, it still saddened and sickened him.

  Only the coachman seemed to show real concern. He stood holding the horses and watching Geoffrey, his face wrinkled with worry. Or perhaps, Geoffrey realized, it was merely guilt. “I never even seen her, my lord,” he said. “She come from out of nowhere.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Geoffrey assured him. He pulled out a handkerchief and began to dab the blood that was seeping from the woman’s wound. “Go as quickly as you can to Harley Street and fetch Dr. Layton.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The coachman’s relief was evident. He scrambled up to the driver’s seat and grabbed the reins. “I’m halfway there already.”

  Geoffrey continued to cautiously check the woman for other injuries. He slowly ran his hands along her delicate neck and shoulders and down her slender arms. He tested only as much as he dared of her torso and legs, torn between concern for her well-being and the need for propriety. Thankfully, nothing appeared to be broken.

  James rapped once more on the imposing black door. It finally opened, and the gaunt face of Lady Thornborough’s butler peered out.