Chapter 1.

Deptford docks, London. December 1816.

Deathbed promises were the worst.

Christopher ‘Kit’ Carlisle tightened his fingers around the silver locket in his hand. The trinket, with its delicate scrolls and tiny ferns, had been the only thing of beauty in his filthy prison cell. The chain was long gone, used as a bribe for one of the guards, but Kit would guard the locket with his life, just as he’d promised. 

His old friend’s last plea echoed in his ears.

“Give this to m’sister.” Andrew’s voice had been scarcely more than a whisper as he’d pressed the locket into Kit’s hand with the last glimmer of his strength. He’d kept it hidden for their entire incarceration, a reminder of another, happier life.

“Take care of her for me, won’t you? Tell her what happened?”

“I will. I swear.”

They’d both known Andrew wouldn’t live to complete the task himself. He’d succumbed to his wounds the following night, slipping away from the squalor of the cell where they’d both been held as prisoners of war, courtesy of Bonaparte.

Kit shook his head, dislodging the painful memory. That had been almost eighteen months ago, and unlike Andrew, he’d survived. Raven, his friend and fellow agent, better known to the ton as Lord William Ravenswood, had pulled off a daring rescue just as Kit himself had been knocking at death’s door.

His recovery had taken months. He’d lost so much weight he’d looked like a walking skeleton, and he’d been haunted by memories of his imprisonment, racked with guilt that he’d survived to return to England while Andrew had been buried in a dusty, unmarked grave in Northern Spain.

Kit swallowed down a ball of gratitude for his brothers-in-arms. Raven, Nic, and Richard had refused to let him retreat into darkness and self-pity. They’d employed a relentless combination of bullying and kindness to help him recover.

Nic—ever the Frenchman—had engaged one of the best chefs in London to create delicious meals to tempt his appetite. Richard had trained with him daily. First with gentle exercises, and then with more strenuous fencing and boxing, tirelessly repeating the same moves over and over to rebuild his wasted muscles. Raven had regaled him with a constant stream of gossip, keeping him abreast of all that was happening in society, even while they were holed up in the splendid isolation of Kit’s country estate, Ashford Court, near Bath.

 The carriage gave a sudden jolt and Kit blinked at the hustle and bustle of London’s Deptford dockyards beyond the window. His reflection stared back at him; he barely recognized himself now that he was well again. His skin had lost its unnatural pallor. He was tanned and healthy, stronger than ever, and ready—albeit reluctantly—to rejoin polite society.

Today’s errand was the final step in his rehabilitation. He’d been physically capable of keeping his promise to Andrew six months ago, but the woman for whom this locket was intended, Andrew’s sister, hadn’t been in the country.

Lady Emma Townsend. Kit hadn’t seen her for over three years, but she’d never been far from his thoughts.

She’d finally returned from her most recent expedition to South America. Her ship—not merely the vessel she’d sailed in on, but hers in the literal sense that she owned the thing outright—had docked here, at Deptford, last night.

Hence Kit’s presence this morning. He would find Emma, give her the locket, and leave, free of the burden of responsibility that had plagued him for the past year and a half.

The sight of the ships beyond the carriage window caused a familiar, yet unexpected yearning in his chest. A yearning for adventure, for new horizons. After the horrors of Spain he’d never thought he’d want to leave England again, but perhaps the return of his urge to travel wasn’t so strange. He’d been stuck inside for the first six months of his convalescence, after all, and for the past year he’d barely seen anyone save his three friends and their wives. 

It was definitely time to rejoin the world.

A flurry of sleet swirled past the window and Kit took a deep breath, relishing the crisp bite of cold air in his lungs, so different from the dry, dusty heat of Spain. It was less than a week until Christmas. He disliked crowds, but he would force himself to attend a few of the endless parties here in town, and then he could retreat to Ashford Court and relish the peace and solitude once more.

But first, the locket. And Emma. 

His stomach knotted in mingled anticipation and dread of seeing her again. He’d changed so much from the boy she’d once known. Would she even recognize him after all this time?

Chapter 2. 

“Don’t you dare die on me!”

Emma Townsend thrust an accusing finger at the wilting orchid in front of her. 

The plant—unsurprisingly—made no response.

“I did not spend countless hours coddling you across the Atlantic to have you give up the ghost as soon as we reached England,” she scolded. “Now buck up.”

Her spirits, already low, ebbed some more. She’d had such high hopes when she’d left Brazil, but so few of her precious specimens had survived. Captain Horner had kindly allowed her to use the chart room to house her plants, since it received the most light, but the poor things were still flagging badly.

The view from the mullioned bay window was equally depressing. London looked much as she recalled. Cold, grey, bleak. A watery sun filtered weakly through clouds and the air smelled foul, of refuse and coal. Sailors, dock workers, and tarts hustled about their business, dodging cranes and winches unloading crates of produce. Mudlarks, mostly young children dressed in rags, scoured the water’s edge searching for anything they could sell.

Emma shivered. She’d forgotten this damp chill; such a contrast to the humid heat of the rainforest. She’d give anything to be off again, setting sail for somewhere warm and colorful, but it would be weeks before she could do such a thing. She would go—just as soon as she’d honored Andrew by getting these blasted orchids named after him.

If any of the bloody things survived this infernal cold.

She was certain the plants in front of her were a new species of orchid, an as-yet-unclassified sub-species of oncidium. All she had to do was keep one of the pathetic-looking things alive, and flowering, to present to the gentlemen of the Botanical Society at their next meeting in two weeks’ time. But of the twenty three specimens she’d brought from Rio de Janeiro, eighteen had already perished. Only five appeared to be clinging to life.

Emma kicked a nearby wooden packing crate in frustration. “Blasted things. Why must you be so contrary?”

She would be glad to get off this accursed boat and on to dry land.

***

“I’m no expert, but I don’t think talking to them has any effect.”

Emma yelped. The gruff voice, rich with amusement, had come from directly behind her. She spun around in alarm, her hand pressed to her throat, and stumbled back into a crate.

The intruder filled the shadowed stairway that led down from the upper deck. His shoulders—made even broader by a dark woolen greatcoat—blocked out almost all the light from above. Her heart hammered at his imposing size, but she tilted her chin in challenge.

“This is a private cabin, sir,” she managed coolly. 

“I apologize. I was looking for Lady Emma Townsend.”

Emma frowned. The giant must be a dockhand who’d been directed to help her unload her plants. 

“I am she.” 

She dragged her eyes from his impressive physique and gestured to the nearest crate. “Please be careful with those particular plants. They’re extremely fragile. A carriage should be waiting for me on the dockside—they need to be placed in there so I can personally see them to my London residence.”

The stranger stepped into the light, and Emma’s breath caught.

“Kit?” she gasped.

The corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smile at her stunned disbelief. “In the flesh.”

Dear God in Heaven, it was him!

The one man she hadn’t expected. 

The one man she’d secretly longed to see.

“You’re back,” she stammered, amazed and slightly disoriented by his sudden appearance. “In London, I mean.”

“As are you. Did you have a successful trip?”

“Er. Yes. Indeed.”

Her heart began to pound in earnest and heat crept into her cheeks. Her brother’s friend was still, unquestionably, the most striking man she’d ever seen. Handsome was too soft a word for the harsh angularity of his face. His nose had a slight bump near the bridge, as if it had been broken a time or two, and a slim scar that hadn’t been there three years ago bisected the edge of one tawny eyebrow. Neither ‘flaw’ detracted from his attractiveness in the slightest.

His piercing gray eyes were still the same, as were the lips she’d fantasized about kissing ever since she’d been a girl of sixteen. He was both achingly familiar . . . and subtly different. Older, broader. Wilder.

Flustered, Emma quelled the bizarre impulse to simply throw herself into his arms.

She hadn’t seen the man for years, for heaven’s sake. He probably still thought of her as Andrew’s annoying little sister.

He was staring at her expectantly, and while there were a thousand things she wanted to say to him, a thousand questions she wanted to ask, her tongue seemed to have tied itself into knots.

“I . . . need some air,” she stammered.

He opened his mouth to reply, but she rushed forward and he stepped aside to let her pass. She’d just put her foot on the first stair when a loud crash and a bellow of warning sounded directly above. 

She glanced up. Kit lunged forward, shoving her back against the wall, flattening his body against hers as a huge wooden crate tumbled through the open hatchway. It crashed down the stairs behind them with a terrifying splintering of wood, missing his shoulder by barely an inch.

Emma let out a strangled yelp.

“It’s all right. I’ve got you.” Kit’s deep voice rumbled in her ear.

She managed to nod, humiliatingly aware of the whole-body tingles his sudden closeness was producing. His arms had come up to bracket her head in an instinctively protective gesture and her face was squashed against his rock-hard chest. The incredible heat of his body burned through the layers of their clothes.

She told herself it was hard to breathe because she was finally wearing a corset again after weeks of going without—and not because she was in Kit’s arms.

When she finally managed to inhale, she got a lungful of him, an unexpectedly delicious scent of male skin and cedar-based cologne. Her head swam. He might be dressed like a ruffian, but he didn’t smell like one. He smelled clean and altogether too inviting. 

Her cheek brushed his as she lifted her head. He pulled back—just a fraction—bringing those beautiful lips of his dangerously close to her own, and her stomach somersaulted again as he gazed down at her. The shouts and footsteps from above faded away. They were the only two people in the world.

“Thank you,” Emma managed breathlessly. “I think you just saved my life.” 

His gaze dropped to her lips, as if anticipating a reward of the wickedest kind, and she sucked in a breath, more than willing to comply. She lifted her chin in silent invitation, but to her intense disappointment he pushed away from the wall and stepped back, releasing her.

“Think nothing of it,” he growled.