An Inconvenient Wife

By Caroline Kimberly

The only thing worse than watching the woman he loves marry someone else would be marrying her himself

Ethan Ashford, Earl of Griffin, swears on what little honor he has left that fetching Lady Kyra Deverill home from Scotland for her wedding is his familial duty and nothing more. With her father gone, he’s responsible for her well-beingan unlikely assignment for a renowned playboy, under the best of circumstances. Yet Grif finds the assignment all but impossible, and not just because Kyra escapes him at every turn. In truth, he’s lusted after her for most of his life.

Fleeing England after her father’s death is by far the most reckless thing Kyra has ever dared. It’s either hide in the Highlands or marry the repulsive Earl of Brumley, and she refuses to spend her life married to a troll. But from the enthusiastic way Grif chasesand then kissesher, it’s clear he no longer thinks of himself as simply her guardian.

Even if Grif wanted to marry Kyrawhich he doesn’tit’s quite out of the question. He is standing on the brink of financial ruin, after all. And Kyra has never trusted Grif with anything. The rest of her life doesn’t seem to be the place to start.

98,000 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Dec 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781426899317

Book preview

Chapter One

April 11, 1821

Lady Kyra Deverill stared anxiously out the window, hoping the chilly spring rain wouldn’t drown her newly planted dahlias. It would be an absolute failure to lose them now. She’d spent the better part of a fortnight painstakingly planting and nurturing those bloody flowers, after all.

Gardening was a new hobby for Kyra, and a rather unusual one for a darling of the ton, especially a darling who’d once been notorious for her quick wit and feisty temperament. But lately Kyra was too tired to be darling or feisty or even half-witted. The local boys she’d bested at riding and the errant suitors she’d bested at wordplay would no doubt be shocked, if not a bit smug, to see her so sedate.

Somehow life had settled into monotony. Instead of attending the Season’s glamorous evening galas, Kyra had taken to rising at an unholy hour to gallop across the wintry landscape that made up the country estate of Sheffield Manor. After her morning ablutions and a quick breakfast of toast and tea, she was off to attend the business of running her father’s estate.

As if that wasn’t enough stimulation, Kyra inevitably donned one of her cheeriest day gowns, grabbed a book, and dutifully climbed the stairs to this room, her father’s chamber. She’d devoted so many hours to hiding in her beloved books these last months that even reading no longer alleviated the dark cloud that had settled around her. Once spring had timidly reared its head, Kyra decided she’d had enough tedium, so she’d tromped down to the grounds where the crabbed old groundskeeper, Hobbs, patiently explained the difference between flowers and weeds. Gardening, tame as it was, at least held a certain novelty.

She glanced out at the garden again. Losing those blasted flowers now would be a failure on her part, and Kyra Deverill did not fail. She bit her lip. Perhaps adding a small pond would boost her spirits. She could even get some sort of waterfowl for it. Swans, perhaps. Better yet, geese. Noisy preening birds might breathe a bit of life into the estate. Yes, an army of geese to honk and nip and annoy the entire household.

Kyra smiled slightly at her own silliness. If nothing else, the heinous honkers might prove distracting. Hobbs would complain—he seemed to complain quite often about her ideas—but a pond full of life seemed perfect.

Behind her, a slight rustling of bedcovers told her that her father was stirring. Kyra paused, allowing him a moment to come fully to his senses—she hoped. Sylvester Deverill, eighth marquess of Sheffield, was no longer the bright, witty man she had known and adored her entire life. His condition had worsened of late, and he was not always coherent. Occasionally he awoke lucid, if a bit frail. On those days, though, frailty didn’t stop the marquess from laughing and teasing her like he once did, and Kyra reveled in each moment she had with him.

Unfortunately, most of his waking moments of late were spent rambling about events from the past, some long before Kyra was born. Once in a while he barked orders, apparently believing he still fought for His Majesty’s service. It was painful for Kyra to watch her intelligent, charismatic father digress into such confusion.

But the worst times, in Kyra’s estimation, were the hours he spent staring vacantly out the window or at the wall, completely unresponsive, as though his soul had already left him and his body was merely an empty shell that did nothing more than breathe. Seeing him thus filled Kyra with such overwhelming sadness that she felt like it would be less painful to just lie down next to him and simply give up.

Instead, she planted a garden.

It was a silly thing, really, her gardening. But she enjoyed the idea of watching something thrive, creating some tangible evidence of life. She needed to nourish something, to tend something that would grow stronger each day rather than waste away. Gardening provided a balm for her soul that neither books nor physical exertion seemed to offer.

Kyra sniffed, stifling a sob. Riley would not cry. Her older brother would have teased her mercilessly if he saw her crying. How many times had he told her that there was nothing worse than a weepy woman? Kyra had to agree. As usual, thoughts of her brother gave her courage. He always faced adversity head-on, no matter how frightening or painful. Riley would never blubber a lake.

Taking a deep breath, Kyra attempted to smooth her unruly auburn curls into place, then rose from her window seat and crossed the room to her father’s side. She took the marquess’s hand, so frail she feared to even squeeze it. She peered at the gaunt face, at eyes that had dimmed a bit during his illness, though during his lucid moments they were still the color of rich chocolate. Right now, they stared unseeing at the counterpane. Kyra bit her lip. It was going to be a long afternoon.

The doctor had told her time and again that her father was unable to comprehend anything in this state. That didn’t stop Kyra from talking to him as if he understood every word, just in case. At first it had been difficult; Kyra had never been one for mindless chatter. But talking was better than brooding in silence, watching him fade away. And it did help to pass the time.

So she talked. She talked about her books, about her rides, about the rents and their tenants’ comings and goings, the crop yields, her latest investments, the changing seasons, her silly garden. She talked until she was hoarse, and then she talked some more.

Kyra yammered until dusk. Soon she’d ring for the maid who tended to her father and she would go down to eat supper, alone. Then she would bathe and go to bed, only to wake up tomorrow to face more of the same. If she didn’t go utterly mad first. Kyra sighed and set aside her self-pity. Things could be worse, though only heaven knew how.

Kyra leaned over and kissed her father’s smooth cheek. Good night, Papa. I’ll visit again tomorrow.

As she pulled away, a withered hand grabbed her wrist with surprising strength. Startled, Kyra cried out as faded brown eyes honed in on her. They blazed with an intensity, a clarity, she hadn’t seen in weeks. A gravelly voice, hardly recognizable as her father’s, rasped, Kyra?

Kyra gave him what she knew was a watery smile. He seemed lucid, yet she knew better than to let her hopes bloom. Yes, Papa. I’m here. How are you?

The marquess blew out a deep breath and settled back onto his pillows. He didn’t release her wrist, however. Instead, he surprised her by taking her small hand in his own. My little Kay. I’m glad you’re here.

Kyra’s heart leaped. He hadn’t called her by her childhood nickname for weeks.

Oh, Papa. I’m so glad you’re awake. I was just going to change and go down to dinner, but I’ll ring Maggie and ask her to have Cook prepare us both a tray to eat here.

Deverill shook his head. No, child. There’s no time to eat. You must leave here at once.

Kyra’s heart sank. He’d ordered her from his room before. The last time he’d done so, he’d accused her of spying for the enemy. He’d ranted and swore at her, nearly turning violent, and she had very narrowly escaped a dousing from the contents of his chamber pot.

Kyra rose, biting back her tears. All right, Papa. I’ll go. I’ll see you again tomorrow.

His grip on her wrist didn’t slacken as she expected; instead it seemed to tighten. No, Kyra. You don’t understand. You must leave Sheffield Manor... He broke off, squeezing her hand tightly. I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Kyra swallowed hard. The doctor had told her not to play to his delusions, especially when they were as strong as this one, but it was impossible to tear herself away when he was so lost. She thought about her brother and how he might handle this. Riley would no doubt tell the doctor to go to the devil. So Kyra sank back down on her chair and decided to play along.

You tell me everything, and we’ll figure out how to fix it.

The marquess grunted and shook his head. Don’t patronize me, girl. I don’t have much time for this world and I hardly want to spend my last minutes listening to a smart-mouthed chit mock me.

Kyra bit her lip. Forgive me, sir. You...you are not always yourself.

Her father gave a derisive snort. Bloody hell, I realize that. But you yourself seem a bit out of sorts. Babbling about embroidery and ponds and geese. Planting a garden. Really, Kay, you’ve become quite dull. Where’s the headstrong, unruly daughter I know and love? I daresay I much prefer you shrieking like a shrew than acting like such a mealy-mouthed...girl.

Kyra gave a choked laugh, trying hard not to cry. I’m here, Papa. I’m still here.

The marquess grinned at her. Good girl. Don’t change, Kyra. You’re perfect the way you are—beautiful and obstinate and much too sharp for your own good. I’m proud of you, Kay. Always have been.

Kyra lovingly patted his cheek. Now who’s sounding mealy-mouthed, my lord? Stop waxing poetic, and tell me what is on your mind.

Lord Sheffield’s grin vanished abruptly. I’m dying. You know that. He chuckled as she shook her head vehemently. Death is probably the one creature more insistent than you, Kyra. In truth, I’m glad to go instead of wasting away in this bloody bed. My only regret is that I’m leaving you to the wolves, sweetheart—

Grif will take care of me when it’s time, Papa, she interrupted, hoping to stop this type of talk.

That is what I am trying to tell you, her father snapped. Griffin is not your guardian, Kay.

At Kyra’s bewildered look, the marquess closed his eyes and groaned. Damned if I’m not rather ashamed of myself. He shook his head in disgust. I was weak, Kyra. After Riley, I... Damn it to hell.

Her father grimaced. Please understand, Kyra, I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time. I blamed Grif for losing Riley. I know it was wrong, but I was distraught. I allowed my anger to blind me, Kay, and now you’ll be the one to suffer because of my foolishness.

Kyra shook her head, not quite understanding. She had known Ethan Ashford, earl of Griffin, her entire life. Known to his friends—and enemies—as Grif, he was Riley’s oldest and dearest friend. He also happened to be Kyra’s least favorite person in all of England. Their long-standing enmity went so far back that she wasn’t sure when or why they started hating each other in the first place, though she was convinced he’d made it his life’s mission to provoke her whenever they shared air. In fact, one of her earliest childhood memories was of Grif lopping one of her braids clean off with a gardening shear and then teasing her with it as she chased him.

He was arrogant and insufferable and uncompromising, yet as much as she despised him, Grif would be a near-perfect guardian for her—he would ensure her safety without bothering to impinge on her freedom. He wouldn’t bother interfering in her life as long as she maintained her spotless reputation, and he wouldn’t care enough to push her into marriage. Her father had settled a large sum on her, as well as a good portion of the Deverill lands, so money was no issue. It was at least enough to keep her in books and ball gowns and duck ponds for the rest of her days. When, or rather if, she married it would be because she wanted to, not because she needed a caretaker. Grif would understand that.

But apparently Grif was no longer in charge of her future.

If Griffin isn’t my guardian, Kyra asked slowly, not sure she really wanted to hear the answer, who is?

Ashford.

Edmund? Kyra repeated.

Her relief was palpable. She had never particularly cared for Edmund Ashford—something about him put her teeth on edge—but he was, in her estimation, quite manageable. Leading him around by the nose shouldn’t prove too difficult. And he was Grif’s uncle, after all. If Edmund did anything to jeopardize her future or her happiness, Grif would no doubt intervene.

The marquess grimaced. "Don’t underestimate Ashford, Kyra. He’s a snake. As soon as he heard about my falling-out with Griffin, he swooped in like a vulture. I thought it would be a good lesson for Griffin, seeing as how the two of you never cared for each other.

"Before I’d really thought it through, I’d given Ashford complete control over your purse and your future. By the time I discovered his intentions, it was too late to undo. When I tried to amend my decision, my own solicitor believed me non compos mentis. He claimed any changes to my will would likely be overruled by the courts. But I tried, Kyra, I truly tried."

Kyra patted his hand comfortingly. I can handle Edmund Ashford, Papa.

No, Kay! You don’t understand. Her father grew more agitated, his grip on her hand almost painful. He’s been to visit me, Kyra. Did you know that?

Of course, she said. She knew of every single person who had entered this room in the last several months. And while she had thought it rather odd that Edmund had been to visit her father’s bedside, especially as his condition worsened, she had assumed it was out of respect as a longtime acquaintance of the family.

I’ve heard things, her father said grimly. Just because I can’t always respond doesn’t mean I’m unaware of what’s being said. The marquess looked her straight in the eye. He’s ambitious, Kay. And he doesn’t care who he tramples in his quest for power.

I’ll be careful, Kyra assured him. Grif would never let him—

He’s planning to marry you to Brumley before I’m even cold, her father stated bluntly. Ah, I see I have your attention now.

Kyra’s heart clutched in her chest. She had met Stephen Brumley, viscount of Radcliff, twice in her twenty-three years and considered that two times too many. The man was a troll. Quite frankly, Brumley made her skin crawl.

Yes, Brumley. And it gets worse, I’m afraid. As the marquess outlined everything he had overheard from Ashford and his solicitor, a man named Crabbs, Kyra began to realize that her future did indeed appear bleak.

She looked helplessly at her father. What should I do? she asked in a whisper.

You have to leave this place, Kay. Tonight.

Horrified, Kyra stared at him. I can’t leave you—

You have to, girl. I’m slipping away...I feel it. Once I’m gone, Ashford and Brumley will waste no time in seeing to your nuptials. You cannot marry him, Kyra. The man is vile.

Kyra suddenly longed for her dull, predictable existence. But I have nowhere else to go.

Scotland, Deverill murmured. Go to Scotland. Your mother’s kin will care for you. Promise me you’ll go to them, Kyra. Promise me you won’t marry Brumley.

The marquess’s eyes drooped heavily, as though he were suddenly exhausted. Kyra read the look on his face and knew they didn’t have much time. She squeezed his hand, hoping to hold on to him a little longer. I promise, Papa. But what if Edmund sends someone for me?

The clan will keep you safe, Kay. Only one man could find you there.

Grif, she said quietly. But he would never betray me.

Her father gave her a weak smile. Pray that he won’t.

The marquess exhaled heavily. He suddenly seemed much older than his fifty-six years. He sank back onto his pillow and patted her hand. Don’t you worry, Kay. Your brother will protect you. He’s a good boy.

Kyra couldn’t stop the small sob that escaped her lips. He was slipping away before her very eyes. Papa, Riley’s been dead for two years.

Oh, dear. I’d forgotten that, he said in a small voice. A frown furrowed his brow. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but it seems you’re on your own. Please forgive me.

Kyra swallowed the lump in her throat and put her head down on the bed beside her father’s knee. Don’t leave me, Papa, please. I need you.

A gentle hand patted her head. You’re stronger than you know, Kyra, he murmured absently. You might be a mere slip of a thing, but you’ve got your mother’s smarts and the Deverill backbone. You just keep fighting and everything will be fine.

His words were little more than a whisper. Kyra sniffed as she watched his once-handsome features grow slack. She stroked her father’s cheek, uncertain whether or not he was still conscious. At her feathery touch he twitched. Papa? she asked.

The marquess suddenly sat up, spine stiff and straight, and for a moment Kyra was gifted with a glimpse of her father before his illness. Once again he was handsome and vibrant, with an air of command that he carried so easily it could only have been bred into him. His presence filled the room. Clear eyes regarded her and powerful fingers gripped her wrists in a death grip.

Go, Kyra, he ordered in a harsh, low voice. Now!

A look crossed his face, an odd mixture of surprise and acceptance, before his body slumped back against the bed. Kyra knew, even without checking his heartbeat, that he was gone. She checked it anyway, quite aware that it had more to do with her own sense of closure than any medical clarification. Planting a soft kiss on his forehead, she whispered, I love you, Papa.

She stared at her father for a long time, lost in her grief. He was the last of her family; losing him was like losing herself. A burning sensation pricked the corner of her eye and Kyra knew she was going to blubber a lake. Warm tears coursed shamelessly down her cheeks. Kyra didn’t even bother wiping them away. Riley and his teasing could go to the devil. She stayed by her father’s side for what seemed an eternity, weeping quietly. Deverill backbone or not, right now she felt completely helpless.

* * *

It was completely dark when Kyra finally raised her head, exhausted and emptied of tears. She took a deep breath and tried to think. Amazing how one’s humdrum life could so quickly spin out of control. A moment was all it had taken to uproot any sense of place or security she had ever believed in. She had no family, no home and no future. Worse, she was apparently betrothed to a troll.

But what could she do about it?

A dozen possibilities flitted through her mind. She couldn’t stay here, obviously. Nor could she take refuge with any of her friends. Edmund knew her family’s connections well enough—he’d find her within a fortnight. She could elope with a less troll-like suitor, but Edmund would undoubtedly cut off whatever funds he controlled. Not that she cared much about her inheritance, but it did seem wrong to forfeit everything her ancestors had worked for because some snake-in-the-grass had frightened her off. Besides, Edmund could probably have an elopement annulled, leaving her once again with a troll for a husband.

Grif might help, of course, but she doubted there was much he could do. At least not legally. Kyra sighed and chewed her lip. He might not be willing to even receive her, especially in light of her father’s confession. And the last time she’d seen him—more than four years ago—things had been less than pleasant.

Riley had announced in the middle of the fish course that he had enlisted to fight Napoleon alongside Grif and his twin brothers. Her father had quietly thrown down his napkin and stalked out of the room. Never one to shy from sticky situations, Kyra managed to find a few choice words for all four of them on her father’s behalf. After a few minutes of her bluster, Grif had simply risen from his chair and quite politely shouted her down, telling her exactly what he thought of small chits with small chests and smaller minds who offered unsolicited advice from big mouths.

Riley, of course, had roared with laughter at hearing his high-spirited sister on the receiving end of such a thorough dressing-down. Phillip and Simon, Grif’s younger brothers, had been courteous enough to be less obvious in their mirth. Simon had even done her the enormous favor of holding her back when she tried to launch herself at Grif for the pummeling he undoubtedly deserved. Of course, Grif just pulled a face at her and walked out.

That was the last time she’d seen him; they’d all left a week later. She was still fuming about Grif’s comments and had candidly refused to say goodbye to him. Two years later, he and his brothers had returned from the Continent.

Without Riley.

Phillip and Simon had both come by to see her in the months between their return and before they left for foreign lands in pursuit of their fortunes. Not Grif, though—he never came. Or rather, he came, but he never bothered to visit her.

It was probably for the best, Kyra reminded herself. Seeing him would have been too painful.

But somehow, even without his physical presence, he’d made her feel safe. As long as he was in charge of her future, she felt secure. He had a reputation for being ruthless when protecting his interests—especially when it came to family and friends. Grif took his responsibilities very seriously; everyone knew that.

Unfortunately she was no longer his responsibility.

Kyra sniffed, absently wiping away the tears that continued to flow. There would be time to mourn later, alone. Right now she needed to do something, anything, because without Riley or Grif watching over her, she truly was on her own.

Her father’s final words rang in her head, Go, Kyra. Now.

Kyra chewed her lip. Scotland. She’d little doubt the MacKenzie clan would accept her. Before she had become Lady Sheffield, Kyra’s mother had been the MacKenzie laird’s one and only daughter. Kyra’s uncle Cam was now the current MacKenzie—surely he’d extend his protection to his beloved niece. And once she was safely tucked away within MacKenzie borders, it would take nothing short of an armed invasion to extract her.

Yes, an extended vacation in Scotland seemed the best solution. All she needed to do was get there. There was, in her estimation, really only one minor problem.

How did one escape to Scotland?

Chapter Two

Kyra paced lightly around the perimeter of her father’s bed. Think, Kyra, think, she scolded herself on her second lap. Fleeing to Scotland was not so daunting. After all, she had her mother’s smarts and her father’s backbone.

What she didn’t have, however, was a plan.

Kyra frowned. She needed to think like Riley. Better yet, like Grif—he was much more devious. Yes, a sensible, foolproof plan sounded very much like something Riley and Grif would do. Something simple and expedient.

Getting there wouldn’t be too hard, really; her Apollo was young and healthy. And she’d visited her mother’s kin enough to at least know the general direction. Three or four days of hard riding on main roads would bring her to the border, as long as the roads weren’t icy. Once across the border, MacKenzie lands were little more than two days’ ride north.

By her fourth lap around the bed she’d gathered enough courage to brave the trek. However, sneaking out from under Edmund’s nose might be difficult. He no doubt would guess her destination once he discovered she’d fled.

Kyra chewed her lip. If she could she figure out a way to steal away, undetected, she might get enough of a start to beat Edmund to the border. Problem was, each passing moment was priceless. Once the household discovered her father had expired, the news would likely reach her guardian’s ear before she could say Brumley is a troll. Of course, pacing around her father’s bed wasn’t getting her there any faster, but she truly hated to bungle blindly through her escape.

Kyra glanced at her father’s form; he looked so peaceful, as though he were merely sleeping. She stopped pacing and blinked. The plan, her plan, crystallized instantly—like the goddess Athena springing forth fully grown from her daddy’s brain.

She would steal time.

Kyra gently removed most of the pillows used to prop her father upright and lovingly eased his head down. She smoothed the covers over him and quickly closed the heavy curtains surrounding the marquess’s bed. Then she rang for the chambermaid who attended to her father.

The wait—though in truth only a matter of minutes—seemed an eternity. She used the time to compose herself and flesh out the minutiae of her strategy. Glancing in the mirror, Kyra rearranged her hair and tried to will away the swelling around her eyes. No doing—she’d have to improvise. At least her nose wasn’t too red from all the blubbering she’d done.

The maid, Polly, finally arrived, and Kyra raised a finger to her own lips then inclined her head to her father’s bed. She prayed her hand wasn’t trembling. His prone silhouette was barely visible behind the heavy drapery; he looked asleep. Polly didn’t seem to notice anything amiss; she nodded in understanding and quietly began stoking the fire. She drew the curtains on his windows and did a speedy but practiced tidying of the room. When the maid indicated the candles with a raised brow, Kyra shook her head. Polly nodded and followed her mistress out of the chamber.

Step one of her plan seemed to be going well. Still, she had to actually speak to the maid to ensure its continued success. Kyra swallowed and turned to the woman, who stood a full head taller and was twice as wide. She managed to lift her chin with as much poise as she could muster. Most of the household staff, Polly included, had known her since she’d been in the nursery. Unfortunately veteran servants, while being completely loyal, had an uncanny knack for noticing anything out of the ordinary, such as a trembling voice or a lake of tears from a lady known for her hardheadedness.

It was a difficult afternoon. Please let Sheridan and Mrs. Myrtle know that my father need not be disturbed tonight, Polly.

It was a gross understatement, but not an outright lie.

The maid nodded. The news would not be particularly surprising to the Deverill butler and housekeeper. Everyone on the staff knew of the marquess’s unpredictable condition. They also knew what the young miss meant by a difficult afternoon, particularly after that ugly incident with the chamber pot.

Shall I have Cook send dinner to your room, my lady? the woman asked, noting her mistress’s swollen eyes. It wasn’t the first time the lady had left her father’s chambers looking thus.

Kyra shook her head. Not tonight, Polly. I’ve little appetite. Please send my apologies to Cook and have her pass on whatever masterpiece she undoubtedly concocted to the belowstairs staff.

She started to stride away, but stopped abruptly, pretending a new thought had just popped into her head.

Polly, don’t bother rousing my father in the morning. I think we all need a little reprieve. Just go ahead and stoke the fire and open the curtains. I’ll check on him before breakfast. If he’s awake, I’ll ring for a tray.

Polly nodded, looking relieved she didn’t have to wake the marquess. She bobbed her head. As you wish, my lady.

Trying not to shake, Kyra strode calmly down the long hall to her room until she heard the maid’s footsteps descending the backstairs. Step one was complete—she’d bought herself extra time. With any luck it would be late afternoon tomorrow before anyone even realized her father had passed.

Her pace slowed and she counted to ten, listening for any sound of the evening servants. Hearing nothing, she turned and dashed down the length of the hall to Riley’s room. Looking around to make sure she was alone, she cracked the door and slipped inside. A glance around the bedchamber confirmed that very little had changed since she’d last visited. The room was clean and well-aired, with everything exactly as Riley had left it.

Kyra squashed another urge to cry. It had been two years, but sometimes it felt like she had just lost him. Kyra sniffed. Certain things managed to set her off—a memory, a scent, a story or song—and she relived her pain all over again. Being in his room always brought her fresh pain. This whole troll situation would never have happened if Riley were here. If only the big oaf hadn’t gone off and gotten himself killed...

Oh, no, she scolded herself, wiping at the corner of her eyes. Blaming Riley wouldn’t change anything. This was no time for melancholy. Well, it was, actually, but since she didn’t have time to dwell on her sorrows, she would just have to wait until she was in Scotland. Once there, she would spend days, weeks, grieving for each member of her family and blubbering any number of lakes. For now, however, she needed to get the second part of her plan underway.

Rifling through Riley’s belongings was the work of a few minutes. She snagged a woolen blanket, thick socks and a couple of shirts from his wardrobe. She then plundered his trunk. In a trice she produced a large haversack, as well as a small linen pack that contained Riley’s most important hunting accoutrements—knife, fishing lures and line, rope, canteen, matches, pistol and shot pouch. Not that she intended to shoot anyone, or even anything for that matter. Heavens, no! But it was an article Riley never traveled without, therefore she felt compelled to take it. And if the nasty hunk of metal made her feel a little safer, why not drag it along?

Kyra slowly opened Riley’s door and peeked out. Her own room beckoned from the other end of the hall. All she needed to do was get there. Kyra took a deep breath, steeling herself for the longest walk of her life. Head high, she exited, clutching her loot to her chest and smoothly shutting the door. She didn’t need to sneak around, of course; she had every right to borrow her brother’s things. It was just that explaining herself to an errant servant most certainly was not one of the steps of her plan. Especially when those things included a gun.

She bustled into her room and shut the door. Once safely inside, she leaned back against the heavy oak door and released her breath in a heavy whoosh. She stifled a nervous sob and forced herself to focus.

Pushing herself away from the door, Kyra attended to step three—packing. Just what are the fashionable refugees wearing these days? she wondered, tossing Riley’s bags on her bed. In addition to the shirts she’d pilfered, she would need riding breeches and a thick cloak; maybe a second set in case she got wet. A hat and some warm gloves might be nice, too. And a lady must never overlook footwear, of course. She’d need heavy riding boots. She’d bring a few gowns to wear on her arrival, but nothing more than she could carry in the haversack. This was an escape, after all, not a vacation. Surely she could arrange to find appropriate clothing once she was safely on MacKenzie lands.

Muslin, silk, corsets and stockings flew as Kyra stuffed the bag with as many articles as she could manage—two day gowns, a paper-thin ballgown, a pair of kid shoes, undergarments, a few night rails, her traveling toilette. Kyra grumbled when she found she was unable to stuff her redingote in the bag. After a moment of fighting with the heavy garment, she conceded defeat. Better to be underdressed for a short while than to live with a troll forever.

A small scratching at the door made her jump. She quickly stepped between the pile on her bed and the doorway an instant before her maid, Maggie, and Mrs. Myrtle unceremoniously entered. Mrs. Myrtle carried a precariously balanced tray