When a Stranger Loves Me (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 3) Read online

  When a Stranger Loves Me

  Copyright © 2020 Julianne MacLean Publishing Inc.

  Print edition ISBN: 978-1-927675-76-2

  Ebook edition ISBN: 978-1-927675-75-5

  First edition published by Avon/Harper Collins

  © 2009 Julianne MacLean

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce or transmit this book, or a portion thereof, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover and Interior Design: The Killion Group, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Married by Midnight

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Books by Julianne MacLean

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Tracey Taweel, for the memorable camping trip to “The Ovens” in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, where the sea caves turned out to be a great inspiration for this book. Thank you also to my cousin Michelle Killen (a.k.a Michelle McMaster), for reading and critiquing, and for always being a great friend. And to Kelly Boyce, for constantly stepping up to the plate. You rock.

  Prologue

  The thunderous boom from a cannon shook the ground beneath his nude body and rumbled through the foggy haze in his head.

  Who am I? I do not exist. I must be dead.

  He lay on his stomach. Pebbles and rocks cut into his cold skin. A pain, sharp and searing, worse than death, shot through his abdomen.

  Is there a musket ball in my gut? A knife? Was I run through by a bayonet?

  He could not move. He was paralyzed. The agony was unimaginable.

  But I am not dead.

  Boom!

  Another shot from the cannon startled him, sent his heart racing, but still his body would not answer his thoughts. Somehow, he found the strength to open his eyes.

  The noise from the cannon echoed off the glistening walls of a black cave. Witches were shrieking, flying in circles overhead, laughing and cackling at his demise. Would they take him to Hell? Or had he already arrived?

  But this was no battlefield. Everything was wet and cold and dripping. Where in God’s name was he?

  Who was he?

  That question, more than any other, was the most disturbing of all, for he did not know the answer. He did not even know his own name.

  Chapter 1

  Western tip of the Jersey Islands, 1874

  My Dearest Lady Chelsea,

  I presume this letter will find you well, or as well as can be expected under your unfortunate circumstances. It cannot be easy living in the manner in which you are forced to live—hidden away from the world on that cruel, remote island, like the lowliest of social offenders condemned to prison. It must be a bleak and lonely existence for you. How you must suffer day after day, alone and ashamed, unable to change your past or correct your mistakes, with no one to sit by your side and offer comfort, other than your aging, widowed mother.

  My greatest wish is that I can relieve you of your misery and provide you with some hope for what is presently a future without prospects. I shall be blunt. After ten years of marriage, your elder brother has not yet provided the family with an heir, and I have recently learned he has not been well. I was most distressed to hear it.

  As I am sure you are aware, if he has no heir to succeed him, the Neufeld title shall pass to me, I will inherit all your late father’s properties, and you and your mother will be without a home.

  I realize that I am many years your senior and that I am not the handsomest of men, but I am not without pity. I believe in charity and forgiveness and would therefore be prepared to overlook your disgrace and take you as a wife. You are a beautiful woman, Lady Chelsea, and that shall be enough.

  I will take the liberty of presuming that this generous offer has made you happy. I will await your prompt reply.

  Sincerely,

  Lord Jerome Carruthers

  Lady Chelsea stood on the grassy edge of the cliff and stared at the letter while she contemplated her “bleak and lonely existence” on this cruel island prison where she was forced to live, then threw her head back and laughed.

  “He cannot be serious.”

  Lowering the letter to her side, she looked out at the raging sea below. A strong north wind whipped wildly at her skirts and tugged at her hat.

  How fast, she wondered, would a letter, such as the one in her hand, fly through the air on a gusty morning like this?

  She took a step forward, peered over the edge, and held the letter out. It flapped and fluttered between her fingers for a few desperate seconds, then the wind sucked it from her grasp. It soared upward, performed a few loop de loops, and swung down into the ferocious, oceanic abyss below.

  “Quite fast indeed,” she said as she stepped back from the edge, then retied her hat ribbons under her chin.

  It was a violent morning—passionate and extreme. It seemed almost as if the ocean was ranting about the storm the night before. Waves crashed onto the coastline in magnificent explosions of spray and foam, and the sea roared its displeasure like an enraged lion.

  It rather mirrored her mood, thanks to that exasperating letter, which suggested that she was unhappy.

  Chelsea breathed deeply of the fresh salty air and tried to push the letter from her mind. She looked up at the sky. There was not a single cloud in sight. The sun was shining, and seabirds were circling overhead, frolicking on the wind, shrieking and screeching as they swooped down to the surging whitecaps below.

  She envied those birds their freedom, their ability to float on the wind, or ride it straight down fearlessly at unthinkable speeds. She wished she could somehow soar like that.

  But then she strove to remind herself that she did not need to fly. She was not bored. Contrary to what Lord Jerome had written, she loved her life on the wild Jersey coast. It fired her spirit and inspired her imagination, gave her just the material she needed to pour excitement and soul into her stories.

  That was what mattered most to her. Her writing. She did not need a husband to make her happy, and certainly not Jerome. The men she wrote about were far more hand
some and exciting than that, and she was fulfilled. Truly she was.

  Prisoner, indeed. London society and her very “generous” cousin could go to the devil for all she cared.

  The tide was on its way out, so she started down the hill toward the beach, wondering if the storm had washed some treasures ashore. She picked her way down the rocky path and was soon walking along the water’s edge, dodging the foamy waves as they rolled in and slid back out again. The surf was deafening this morning. It was an incredible day. She would write about it. She would put a shipwreck in her next story, with a dashing captain who is washed ashore and falls in love with the young maiden who cares for him. Then what would happen?

  Something shiny on the beach interrupted her thoughts as it reflected the sun’s rays. Chelsea squinted and walked toward it, knelt down to pick it up.

  It was a gentleman’s watch on a fine gold chain, in pristine condition, though the hands had stopped at three-forty.

  She rose to her feet and turned toward the sea, shaded her eyes and looked in all directions, as if there would be some clue as to where the watch had come from.

  There was none, of course. There was nothing but blue water and clear skies.

  She turned the watch over in her hand and inspected the initials engraved on the back: B.H.S.

  Slowly, she began to stroll while she set the correct time at seven-thirty and wound the watch. She held it to her ear. Tick, tick, tick. It worked perfectly and looked very fine. It was clean and shiny, without a trace of rust, which suggested it could not have been in the water for long. She looked up at the tops of the cliffs, wondering if someone had simply dropped it while walking along this beach earlier that morning.

  But who? Her family’s summer mansion was the only house for miles.

  Slipping the watch into her pocket, she started off toward the sea caves, walking briskly, enjoying the vigorous use of her body. By the time she arrived at the jagged outcropping and stepped gingerly over the rocks into the first cave, she was out of breath.

  She stopped for a moment in the dark confines to allow her eyes to adjust to the reduced light and breathed in the clean, salty aroma. The walls of the cave glistened with wetness. The chilly air kissed her cheeks. She listened to the sound of water dripping from the shiny rocks.

  Just on the other side of those thick cave walls was another narrower grotto called Cannon Cave, where the surf surged in and out in great, thunderous explosions. It never ceased to amaze her, especially on a tumultuous day like this one.

  She delved a little deeper into the cave, looking down at her feet as she hopped over shallow tidewater pools, where tiny snails in shells clung to the rocks, and seaweed danced gracefully in the current.

  When she looked up, she saw something farther in. She blinked a few times and her heart beat a little faster.

  Were her eyes playing tricks on her? No, they were not. She was looking at something...

  A body.

  Fear plunged into the pit of her stomach, and she froze on the spot. It was a man. A naked man. Facedown on the rocks.

  Instinct, rather than conscious thought, drove her forward, and she dropped to her knees in a puddle beside him. She touched her hand to his cold back and shook him hard.

  “Sir! Sir!”

  Was he alive? He couldn’t be. He was as cold as the grave. He must be dead.

  The thought terrified her. She did not want to believe it.

  He gave no response, so she pressed the heels of her hands against the side of his rib cage and rolled him over onto his back. His heavy body was limp, but not stiff.

  Her eyes darted quickly across his muscular body and focused briefly on his male anatomy. It was not something she had ever seen before, and she found herself momentarily arrested, eyes wide as she swallowed.

  Her fascination vanished instantly, however, when she saw that he was wounded. He had been impaled by something. Or stabbed? Had someone tried to murder him and left him here to die?

  Chelsea leaned forward and pressed her ear to his chest. The weak sound of his heart revived her hopes, and she sat back on her heels. He was alive, but not for long if she didn’t soon get him out of there.

  She rose to her feet and turned to face the light at the cave entrance. “Help! Someone! Help!”

  But it was no use to call out. Even if there were others on the beach, they would never hear her over the thunderous roar of the surf.

  Whirling around, she looked down at the man, then quickly began to unbutton her cloak. She shrugged out of it, dropped to her knees and wrapped him up tight. Then struggling to her feet, she gathered her wet skirts in her fists and stumbled briefly before dashing out of the cave to fetch help.

  Chapter 2

  Three hours later Chelsea sat in the breakfast room with her mother and tapped a finger on the white-clothed tabletop. They were waiting for the doctor to come and explain the mysterious man’s condition, or at least to assure them that he was still alive.

  Tap tap tap... She could not keep her finger still. Impatience was bounding around inside her brain like a rubber ball.

  Her mother huffed and lowered her needlepoint to her lap. “Really, Chelsea. Must you do that? Can you not sit still?”

  “Aren’t you curious what the doctor has to say?” she replied. “Are you not wondering who the man is? Or where he came from?”

  “We shall find out soon enough, as soon as he wakes.” Her mother lifted her needlepoint and resumed her work. “If he wakes.”

  “Let us not lose hope.”

  They sat in silence for some time, then her mother cleared her throat to speak. She kept her eyes downcast, however, remaining focused on her stitching. “Did you find time to read the letter from Lord Jerome?”

  How light and casual her tone was. She could have been humming a happy tune.

  Chelsea stilled her finger. “Yes, as a matter of fact I did.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what, Mother?”

  She set down the frame again. “He has written to me as well, and he has informed me of his intentions. Surely you must realize, dear, that it is a very generous offer, and it is likely the only one you will ever receive.”

  For a long moment Chelsea stared at her mother, then she let out a derisive chuckle. “Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

  “It is no laughing matter.” Her mother began stitching again. “I am disappointed, Chelsea. Clearly you have given up all hope for a happy future for yourself.”

  “A happy future for me? I think it is your future you are thinking of Mother, not mine. You know I am content here. I do not require the approval of London society, nor do I wish to receive invitations and calling cards from all those snobby nobles. To get dressed up and cart myself around a congested city to go to parties and balls, praying every night for a proposal from some handsome aristocrat. I prefer Jersey. I have my writing, and I am fulfilled.” She sat back and waited uneasily for her mother’s response.

  Her mother began stitching at a faster pace. “You’re being stubborn.”

  “Stubborn? How old is Lord Jerome? Fifty? Sixty? He is pompous and greedy, he mistreats his horses, he does not wash, and as a result, his personal aroma is most offensive, and aside from that, all he wants is to preen with Sebastian’s title. He is only proposing to me because no one else will have him, and he thinks I am desperate enough to say yes.”

  “You are young and beautiful, Chelsea. I am sure that has a great deal to do with it.”

  “But that is the point, you see. If I were to marry someone, it would be someone who values me for what I am on the inside, not the outside. I would want someone who appreciates me for my mind.”

  Her mother scoffed. “Like that handsome fortune hunter you ran off with seven years ago? I hardly think it was your mind that attracted him. Admit it, Chelsea. You were bamboozled by his looks
and surface charm.”

  Chelsea ran her open hand over the tablecloth, back and forth, trying to smooth out a ripple that refused to lie flat.

  “I was only eighteen,” she quietly explained, remembering that it was more than just the young man’s surface charm. As a girl, she had always been an incurable romantic, dreaming of romance and fairy tales. She had wanted to be swept away by passion and love.

  But it was something else, too—something deeper in the makeup of her character. Always, since she was a small child, she had a great need for independence. She wanted to make her own choices, even if it meant experimenting with mistakes, though she had not consciously understood it at the time.

  The problem was, no one had ever let her make those mistakes, which was perhaps why she delivered such a spectacular rebellion. Someone was always standing by, warning her not to go near that bumblebee, or not to walk on that stone wall, lest she should fall—when all she wanted to do was explore.

  Well, that was not exactly the whole story. She could not leave out Sebastian, the brother who was ten years older than she—and the only person who recognized and fed her curious spirit. When he came home from school, he would take her fishing and digging in the dirt for worms. He would flip a rock over so that she could see all the extraordinary wriggling creatures in the cold damp soil beneath. She would touch them with a finger, and her brother would share her fascination when a fuzzy caterpillar made its way across the back of her hand.

  Sebastian had been gone for more than a year on his Grand Tour when she ran off with that fortune hunter. Looking back on it, she had probably gone a little mad from lack of mental exercise.

  Her mother slammed the embroidery frame down on the table, stood up and spoke heatedly. “It was the scandal of the century, Chelsea. Your father was a very prominent member of the House with a great future ahead of him. He had many enemies who were more than ready to have an excuse to pull him down—so now here we are, ostracized. Exiled to this merciless, remote island on the edge of the Atlantic, pummeled by storms every other day, locked away from the world like traitors to the Crown.”