Tapestry E-Book

Fiona McIntosh

• Herausgeber: Bedford Square Publishers
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 703

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

The key to her future is trapped in the past... In 1715, the Earl of Nithsdale is sentence to be beheaded for his part in the doomed Jacobite rebellion for Scottish independence. In 1978, Jane Maxwell is plagued with doubts about her engagement. When tragedy leaves her fiance Will near death, Jane's guilt makes her determined to save him... somehow. On a desperate and dangerous quest for answers, Jane finds herself trapped in the past. Convinced that saving Nithsdale will also save Will, Jane embarks on a daring plot to rescue the Earl from the Tower of London. Past and present become entwined in a gripping race against time, and both will be changed by one woman's determination.

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PROLOGUE

London, summer 1715

His fingers reached helplessly toward the glimpse of skin that had appeared when Nancy’s shawl slipped off her shoulder. His eyes were closed, but he could see that plunge of soft, creamy flesh, a small valley nestled between proud breasts where the tiny medallion he’d hammered out of silver hung, warm and safe.

They were kissing in an apple orchard on the fringe of their hamlet, the sun only just lightening the sky on a bracing spring morning. The steam from their breath curled and twisted in the breeze when they pulled apart, and blossom drifted to the ground around them like the strewn rose petals that he knew she dreamed of for her wedding day.

Nancy looked down and he felt her hand press against his hard—

‘Marvell!’ boomed a voice.

The blacksmith snapped out of his reverie. ‘Over here, Mr Fanning!’ he yelled to his foreman above the clanging and ringing of hammers on anvils. He’d been banging out a length of iron and the repetitive work had allowed his mind to drift to Berkshire, where Nancy waited for his return. She had given him until the harvest in two years’ time to marry her or she would allow Farmer John Bailey to woo her.

Marvell reached for a rag to wipe his face of sweat, and with it thoughts of Nancy lying with John Bailey. He put his hammer down as his superior approached and pointed a thumb sharply in the other direction.

‘You’re wanted upstairs.’

Marvell frowned. ‘I haven’t done anything,’ he said, knowing all too well that being called upstairs likely meant a docking of wages, or some other kind of trouble.

‘I didn’t say you had,’ Fanning growled. ‘Clean up.’

‘Why?’ Were they dismissing him? He’d been working so diligently and not spending any money on ale or betting. ‘I’ve been here early every day this week, Mr Fanning.’

‘Marvell, get your arse upstairs as soon as you’ve tidied up… and hurry!’

The man stomped away. It definitely sounded as though Marvell was up for a reprimand.

He went to the washing trough, scrubbed at the dirt with the gritty paste provided, and thought of his sweetheart again.

‘Wait for me, Nancy,’ he’d asked as he broke free of her kiss that spring morning. ‘Let me find a journeyman’s work in London and earn enough to give us a future.’

As he dried his face and hands, he remembered how she’d pulled him close, smelling of roses and the gingerbread she’d baked for him before their dawn meeting, and how she’d nodded at him tearily before she made him give a pledge. ‘Go, William. But do not keep me waiting beyond the harvest festival of 1717.’

‘I will bring home two fists brimming with silver so you can wear a dress of silk to our wedding, and we can host a fine feast and live in our own cottage from then on.’

He had kissed her fiercely and then turned his towering, brawny frame to begin his journey on foot to London, where at length he found work with John Robbins, the prized London blacksmith.

Now Marvell sighed away his memories, rolled his sleeves down and did his best to smooth his hair, but decided he couldn’t help how he looked at mid-morning on a busy working day. He loped to the back of the foundry and trudged upstairs, anticipating a bollocking even though he had no clue why he should be in trouble.

‘Mr Fanning,’ he said as he knocked tentatively.

‘Come in,’ the man said. ‘This is William Marvell, sir,’ he continued with careful deference to an older man inspecting the main floor from the vantage of this upper level. Above him hung a sign wrought in iron: By hammer and hand all arts do stand.

Fanning turned to Marvell again. ‘Sir George Moseley wishes to talk to you.’

Marvell blinked. ‘Morning, sir.’

‘You’ve certainly got a chest for your work, eh, Marvell?’ Moseley remarked.

Marvell lifted an eyebrow. ‘I’ve been swinging a hammer since I was twelve, and working the bellows since I was indentured at six summers, sir. I suppose my chest has shaped itself into this hard barrel over years of working at a smithy.’ He shrugged, and tried not to look down at his hands and his arms, twice the width of Moseley’s and bulging with muscle roped by thick veins. Marvell didn’t believe he looked much different from any other journeyman, but he knew he had a lot of silver to earn to keep his promise to Nancy to come home with his huge fists full of coin.

‘How long have you worked for John Robbins, son?’ Moseley asked. He was in the uniform of a guard, which, together with his age, suggested to Marvell that he enjoyed plenty of authority. Marvell felt his mood turn defensive.

‘More than a year now, sir. I planned to give it at least two before I return to my village in Berkshire.’

‘And how goes your work here?’

‘I work hard, sir. Stay out of trouble. I save every penny I make, as I’m engaged to be married. I’ll open my own smith on my return to Berkshire, sir.’

‘That’s what I like to hear. A man with grit and ambition, earning an honest wage for honest work.’

Marvell didn’t understand what the official’s point was, but decided it was better to stay silent than risk appearing a dullard.

‘How would you like to earn ten pounds for a single day’s work?’

Not even in his daydreams had Marvell entertained thoughts of a job that might pay him so handsomely. His whole year’s work at Robbins’s smithy might amount to sixty pounds. He frowned at Moseley, feeling uncomfortable at the way his hair still dripped damply down his back, and wondered whether this job offer had a sinister side. It almost sounded too good to be true. The silence lengthened as he pondered this.

‘Your apprehension shows, Marvell,’ Moseley remarked, while Fanning glared at his employee.

‘I don’t know what that means, sir,’ Marvell answered, ‘but if you’re asking whether I feel suspicious, then yes, forgive me, sir, I do not feel comfortable.’ He wiped his sleeve across his mouth, knew it to be uncouth, but he was a smith. What could this man, resplendent in what he now realised was a military uniform, want with him, other than to ask for his horse to be reshod? ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he began, ‘I don’t understand why I am being interviewed or being offered this kind of money.’

Moseley nodded. ‘I like your honesty, Marvell, and you come recommended to me for your reliability. So let me enlighten you as to my mysterious offer. I’m tasked with the role of finding a new city executioner. Our last, after escaping prison for his debts, murdered a man and beat a woman so senseless I can’t imagine her recovering from her injuries. Mr Price was the city hangman for a number of years and finished by swinging at the end of his own noose, having lived a life on the fringe of the law, it seems.’ He gave a sardonic grin. ‘I don’t intend for that to occur again.’

William’s mouth had gaped open as Moseley gave his explanation. ‘You’re offering me that job?’

‘We’ve asked around. Blacksmiths tend to have the right skills needed. You have genuine potential as London’s new city executioner.’

William began to reply, but he faltered and Moseley took this for acquiescence.

‘We shall pay you for each hanging. Obviously they do not occur every day. We prefer to hang criminals in blocks of six or more out of Tyburn. I trust you’re not squeamish about hanging women either?’ He didn’t wait for Marvell’s answer before pulling out a snuffbox and moving rhythmically through the ritual of pinching the tobacco and sniffing it loudly. He cleared his throat, undaunted that two men waited on his words. ‘I presume, Marvell, if you swing a hammer as well as your employer asserts, that you can also swing an axe?’

William nodded, still too stunned to speak.

Moseley shrugged. ‘I cannot imagine when you might be called upon to use that particular skill, but I have to warn you that you may occasionally be required to behead a prisoner. Is that a problem for you?’ Now he did wait for Marvell’s answer.

‘If the punishment befits the crime, then I can’t imagine I’d hesitate to deal with a man who has sinned so harshly against our king and country.’ He could see that his careful reply was what Moseley wanted to hear. It would have been so easy to jump in with a simple no, without considering the implications of that answer.

‘Excellent. You will be paid more than you can imagine for such a job done cleanly and without sensation.’

More than you can imagine. William did glance at his large hands now, remembering his promise to Nancy. ‘I can imagine a lot of money, sir.’

Moseley threw him a wry smile. ‘Shall we say twelve pounds per severed head?’ he offered. ‘You keep whatever your victims give you… and their boots, of course. Any hangings of common criminals at Tyburn we will pay by six necks. Let’s say ten pounds for each batch, shall we? The first of those will take place in the next few weeks.’

William Marvell found it impossible at that moment to swallow. His lips wanted to form the words thank you, his hand yearned to offer itself in a gesture acknowledging that a deal had been agreed. But he didn’t trust his voice, and his hands had instantly become clammy, rooted to his side. It was all he could do to nod, dazed.

‘Excellent. Congratulations on your new role, Marvell. You shall hear from me in due course. I would suggest you get some training in, learn to swing that axe accurately.’ He grinned. ‘Rumblings up north suggest we may need those skills sooner than later.’ Moseley sniffed loudly again, chortling softly, before nodding at his companions. He tossed a tiny sack of coin at William. ‘Get yourself some pumpkins and practise.’ He strode from the room, Fanning following politely.

They left William blinking where he stood, pennies for pumpkins jingling softly in the leather sack in his palm.

ONE

Terregles, Scotland, August 1715

She knew she’d find him here, on the roof, silent and lost in his thoughts as he stared south toward the river and beyond to the borders, where war beckoned.

‘Have you made a decision?’ She was careful to ensure there was no hint of reproach in her tone.

He looked down as she approached, but didn’t turn. ‘I have no choice, Win,’ he replied, his voice gritty. He cleared his throat, which she suspected was to shift the tension he’d been feeling. Winifred, though she spoke with restraint, felt his sense of duty hurt her as keenly as if he’d delivered a blow to her belly. She could hear he was heavy of heart, no doubt struggling with his decision, but he still sounded as though he’d already made it.

Winifred stood close behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest, for her own reassurance as much as his. She felt small against his broad, hard body, as she rested her cheek on the velvet of his coat and wondered how she would find the courage to part with him. ‘Ignoring a summons to Edinburgh doesn’t mean—’

‘It does,’ he said, his voice raw. ‘I’ve been named in the Warrant. A traitor to the Crown.’ He shook his head and gave a soft sneer. ‘The Act for Encouraging Loyalty in Scotland is very clear. I’m officially now a rebel. It seems I have two choices: imprisonment, or join the call and raise my standard against the English king.’ He turned in her arms and embraced her properly, kissing the top of her head where golden hair met pale, unblemished skin. ‘I’m damned either way. Forgive me for bringing this upon you.’

She looked up into the face of the man she’d fallen helplessly in love with fourteen years previously at the French court of exiled King James III of England – the one the Protestants called the ‘Old Pretender’ – and was struck by how much more handsome she found him without his periwig, which he’d had to wear for the portrait he’d been posing for recently. She took a deep breath, knowing that no matter how much it grieved her to give up her husband to this dangerous rebellion, she couldn’t deny her support for his courageous decision. ‘William, one of the reasons I married you was because you shared our family’s fierce belief in returning the true Catholic heir to the British throne.’

‘Ah. And there I was, convinced it was purely because I was so irresistibly handsome,’ he replied dryly, winning her smile. He turned back to look across the moors, but in that moment Winifred saw a terrible sadness behind his gaze and alarm rippled through her. ‘Our children’s lives are now at risk… yours too, my love.’ She could feel his shoulders slump with heavy regret. ‘The King of England knows me for a Jacobite. I don’t hide my Catholic beliefs.’

‘Nor I, my beloved,’ she uttered, reiterating her support for his cause. ‘Come downstairs and warm yourself. Summer is farewelling us, and if you’re going to fight for the true king, we must not risk your being anything but hale.’

They walked across the rooftop and shared a poignant glance as Winifred recalled the exciting moment in France when that same blue gaze had rested on her for longer than was considered polite. She’d known of this strapping and stylish newcomer from Scotland. How could she not have, when all the Jacobite court’s women were gossiping about an eligible bachelor who had arrived in Paris to pay his respects to the exiled British king?

‘My, but he’s handsome,’ Queen Mary Beatrice had whispered to the impressionable nineteen-year-old Winifred from behind a fluttering fan.

Winifred remembered how the heat had flashed on her cheeks and her gaze had instantly dropped.

‘No, no, my dear Winifred,’ the Queen went on. ‘Do not avert your attention. You do not even have to use feminine wiles to attract this one. He has eyes only for you and the court is ablaze with speculation, for he is a fine catch. Match his gaze and meet him in the gardens should he ask you to take a turn. I shall certainly be giving my permission,’ she added, giving Winifred a conspiratorial smile.

Upon the death of her mother, who had been the Queen’s loyal friend, Winifred had been shown valuable patronage by the exiled sovereign. She had even been permitted to accompany Queen Mary Beatrice on a week’s visit to Versailles. They had arrived via the glittering Hall of Mirrors, which reflected the extravagant surroundings and attested to the wealth and power of the man who had built this palace; during winter he would burn hundreds of candles in chandeliers and their light would be boosted a thousand times over in the mirrors to make it as bright and sunny as an afternoon in July.

It was here in the court of the Sun King, Louis XIV, that Winifred had learned the sophisticated language of the court: how to say one thing but mean another; how to lie effortlessly and elegantly; how to use wit rather than acidity; and how to be exquisitely discreet as well as flirtatious and irresistible to men at all times.

As she regarded her husband, Winifred wondered whether he was also remembering how the women in the exiled court at Saint-Germain-en-Laye had chattered about the cobalt-eyed Scot, with his expensive and fashionably cut clothes and wig of dark, curling hair. William had been gracious to all, but even amid her nervousness Winifred sensed his gaze following her hungrily. He laughed more with her than with the other women and encouraged her views on everything from the Jacobite cause to King Carlos of Spain’s appointment of his grandson as heir. She knew she also impressed him with her conversation, which ranged well beyond needlework and how to run a household.

‘He is the laughter and song in my heart,’ she’d finally admitted to Queen Mary Beatrice on the day that William had proposed marriage.

She recalled how the Queen had chuckled. ‘Your acceptance of a marriage proposal will break the hearts of a dozen other lovely ladies, child. He is most eligible.’

‘I have no desire to follow my sister, Lucy, into a wimple, Your Majesty,’ she had replied.

‘Then I insist you marry here,’ the Queen had said with a smile.

Winifred Herbert wed William Maxwell in the quietly beautiful chapel of Saint-Germain-en-Laye. She had walked the sixty-two steps from the church entrance to the three stairs that led up to the altar with a less than demure smile that friends claimed refused to leave her blushing cheeks for days. Not even the near-to-freezing cold that clawed up from the pitted flagstones through her jewelled wedding slippers could chill the warmth that her bright expression brought to all the guests.

And then she had kissed her ‘family’ of nine years a fond farewell and sailed with William for Scotland, finally arriving at the Nithsdale family seat at Terregles in the border county of Dumfries. The house was a rambling affair of pale local stone and charcoal-coloured flint, where generations had added new wings and one had even built a tower, the rooftop William favoured. It afforded him a view across to the River Nith and beyond to the patchwork of fields that sprawled into England.

Terregles was part of the frontline of proud seats that straddled the invisible line dividing Scotland and England. It was from these border counties that raiders moved either into England or out of it, and the Nithsdales were expected to police these southern raids and deal with any daring Englishmen who wanted to steal livestock, chattels… or even women.

William had remarked to Winifred more than once that while the highlanders had a popular reputation for being the hardiest of the Scots, few realised how fearless and tough the border lords had to be in dealing with the regular skirmishes they were involved with. But William never disrupted her running of the household with news of the scuffles connected with the ‘border reivers’ and she made no fuss when bandaging his wounds, or helping to set a broken bone sustained in the fighting.

In the main she had to admit that life at Terregles had moved to a slow and happy rhythm, especially with the help of her Welsh friend and lady’s maid, Cecilia Evans… Until now, that was. For William to speak of his misgivings so openly told Winifred that everything about this fight ahead was different from any her husband had fought previously.

It was only last year that the Hanoverian dynasty had staked its claim and George I had left Germany to sit on the English throne. Stirrings of rebellion had been simmering in Scotland ever since.

Now Winifred tried again to reassure him. ‘News from my friends in the south suggests the Protestant king is lacking in conversation and appears “dull and wooden”. He seems unhappy to be in London, misses his homeland.’

‘George may not be a glamorous monarch, but my dear, I fear he is a fervent one… and so strongly Protestant that he will not countenance Catholic rebellion. My sources at Whitehall suggest the dutiful, often unanimated public mask belies the sharp intelligence of the private man.’

‘Intelligence does not always go hand in hand with warmongering, surely?’ Winifred wondered as she allowed William to help her through the doorway that would lead them off the rooftop, beneath the low lintel and down the creaking flight of stairs. She lifted her embroidered silk skirts and he assisted by gently crushing the hoop of her gown.

It was comforting to hear him chuckle. ‘These rooftop openings were clearly never designed for women, my dearest.’

‘Ah, but I am unlike most women.’

‘This is true. Your heart is surely as stout as your petticoats.’

Winifred enjoyed being able to release her tension through amusement. She paused on the creaky steps. ‘You could always make me laugh, William, no matter what.’ She regretted how sad she sounded despite her smile.

William kissed her hand and his expression matched her tone. ‘Our German monarch is determined to keep Scotland tightly manacled to England.’

Winifred nodded, feeling as though a fist of ice were closing around her heart. ‘Then you must do as our true king asks, my beloved. He has called you to arms and your tenants and vassals will follow you into battle. I told you last spring that the curious eclipse of the sun Master Edmond Halley reported was surely of great portent for London which it darkened for several minutes. Maybe it is written in the stars that our family must follow this dangerous pathway if it is to remain spiritually true and rid Britain of the Protestant king. Never forget you have your family’s pride and blessing and love at all times.’

Winifred took his hand again and led him down the narrow corridor, the timbers sighing beneath their tread. At a small landing beside the door that gave access into the house proper, she paused. They shared a glance, understanding that the entire household – including their daughter – waited beyond to hear his decision.

‘Our Jacobite supporters in London may conspire, but they are indecisive. They will lead the clans to slaughter if their vacillating continues. And I am troubled over Lord Mar’s battle prowess. He is not the right leader for the clan chiefs.’ He sighed, looking deeply anxious. ‘Oh, he’ll unite everyone, of course. Scotland is a long way from London and it’s easy to sound brave when highland lords are yelling their battle cries.’

‘Will they rally?’

He nodded. ‘We all will, because our king demands it. But Mar isn’t Scottish nobility. The highlanders will struggle to follow him.’ Will shrugged. ‘It comes to naught; I will be required to raise my standard no matter who leads us. Alas, I fear we lowlanders know far better what we’re taking on than do the highland chiefs.’

‘I have faith that you will prevail, William.’

‘You know this, do you?’ he teased, arms reaching around her. He kissed her softly.

‘I think I have seen it in my dreams. I promise you, you will not give up your life for James but, forsooth, you will offer it, beloved.’

Winifred watched the lines around his eyes crease as he smiled and felt the wintry fist squeeze her heart a little harder.

‘Are you a stargazer, my sweet? Can you read the puddles, or the lines of my hand?’

She shook her head. ‘I know only that I love you without limit, William Maxwell. I always have. I always will. And you will live a good life and die in old age when called. I feel it with a deep and true knowledge.’

He clapped his hands. ‘My wife’s a soothsayer!’ he exclaimed, and she giggled.

‘By Saint Mary, hush!’

‘You shall have to find a way to hush me, then,’ he said, treacherous fingers reaching for the laces that closed the front of her dress.

She batted away his hand. ‘William, really!’ But there was no heat in her voice and her movement was as harmless as the beat of a butterfly’s wings.

‘I can be very quiet if you distract me,’ he continued, deftly loosening the laces now.

‘You’re not jesting, are you?’ She chuckled, and then looked at the door. ‘They’re all waiting.’

William sighed, reached over and locked the door from the inside. ‘There. Let them wait. Now we’re alone, trapped in our tower, where no one can see us or reach us.’

‘You would have me here?’ she asked, amused.

‘I would have you anywhere, Win, my love. But why not in my private tower, where you are now imprisoned and at my mercy, and where we can forget the woes of the Jacobites and Scotland?’

She laughed, looking down to see the sides of her dress fall away and her husband expertly undoing the clasps that held the exquisitely embroidered stomacher in place.

‘I remember this dress. You were wearing it the first time I met you at the palace in Saint-Germain-en-Laye.’

‘I’d spent many moons with my needle and thread making it perfect,’ she said, watching the last of the clasps give way beneath his urgent fingers. She sighed with soft pleasure as he placed the embroidered panel reverently on a small table nearby.

‘A stolen moment together,’ he whispered, and she could feel his warm breath on her neck. ‘Romantic, don’t you think?’

‘Up against a wall, my love?’ she said, smiling, half surprised that she was permitting it, half delighted by his daring. ‘You make me feel like a strumpet,’ she told him, loading her tone with promise.

William grinned, fully loosening her undergarments so her breasts, still full and firm after two children, were bared. He groaned, bending to kiss each nipple. ‘The sight of you like this chases away my demons, Win.’

She could feel his hard urgency, could hear it in his suddenly throaty voice. Her own desire matched his, and without another thought she surrendered to their combined lust and began helping him to raise her skirt and undo her hoop. All the while they shushed each other’s laughter, lest they be discovered.

Later, as they sat on the floor like children, their backs against the dark panelling of the timber, holding hands, with her head resting on his shoulder, Winifred dared burst the amorous bubble they’d built around themselves in these last stolen minutes.

‘Will you speak to our son in France?’

‘Yes, I’ll write to Willie today,’ he said, standing and offering a hand to help her up. ‘Let’s get you back into your fastenings. I don’t know how you women do it. Frankly, I think going to war is easier!’

‘Don’t jest, Will. I’m frightened for you.’

He lifted her chin and kissed her tenderly. ‘Don’t be. I will ride on your confidence and love. And you admit you saw it in the stars. I will not give up my life for my king, but I will offer it.’ As she began to reply, he gave her a rueful look. ‘Your words,’ he reminded her.

‘Which I stick by,’ she said.

‘And which I trust.’ He stopped her from saying anything more with a final lingering kiss. ‘Thank you for this. It helped to remind me about what is important. Not king or country… but family. I love you, Winifred Maxwell. And when I am confronted by our enemy and all looks hopeless, I shall remember our stolen lust against a wall at Terregles and I will think of us as carefree, reckless souls who dared to dream that a Scottish king will one day rule over Scotland.’

It was easy to fit her wide skirts through the doorway that led to one of the wings of the Scottish manor. The lowering sun farewelled itself through a large window looking out over the western moorlands, drenching the broad hallway in which they stood with a soft golden pink light. ‘And when do you depart Terregles?’

‘Early autumn, mayhap,’ was all he would say.

Winifred flinched inwardly, but betrayed nothing in her expression. William always said she had the perfect face for ‘trictrac’, a game of strategy they had played regularly together in France throughout one particularly bitter winter.

‘Just leave me a few people so I can run the estate.’

‘Nay, my lady. This is an act of war we make. You and our daughter shall not remain at Terregles and be easy pickings for the government hounds. They will not use you or our children against me. We’re fortunate that Willie is schooling in France, but we should warn your sister of my troubles in case we need her help. I’m sad that they’re our troubles, darling Winnie.’

‘I am ready for the task, William. Where will our daughter and I go?’

‘To my sister Mary. Stay with my family at Traquair House and be safe.’

Will kissed her again, lingering against her lips, heedless that a servant might see them.

She must not weep. She swallowed her fear, and with it went any tremble in her voice as she pulled away from his kiss. ‘Take pity on the family that will worry about you.’

‘Be as stout of heart as I have come to know you. I would that you’d leave before the month is out.’

‘Come, we must tell our daughter and send word to your sister at Peebles,’ she whispered, her cheeks still flushed from their lovemaking.

She led her husband away from the tender sunlight, and toward an uncertain future of rebellion against the English Crown.

TWO

London, December 1978

William knew only one way to kissher, she realised. Deeply, as he did now – the sort of kiss that made her see stars like a cartoon character, and trapped her attention in such a way that not even the grey drizzle of a freezing London morning could penetrate her awareness.

‘Oh, get a room, would you!’ a woman muttered as she pushed past them, breaking the spell.

Jane grinned awkwardly. They were standing at the Seven Dials intersection in Covent Garden, outside their hotel and very close to their lovely room.

‘I’m going to marry her!’ Will called to the woman, who was dashing off in the direction of Monmouth Street. They had been a momentary annoyance to her, already forgotten. If she heard, she didn’t turn.

‘Will, shh!’

‘I want to tell the world,’ he said, kissing the top of her head as he pulled her close.

Sharp guilt pierced the gossamer cocoon she’d allowed Will to build around them. It seemed that with each day they spent together he had spun a new layer of love and commitment… ownership, even. She wasn’t really sure what to call it. But whatever it was, it was strong and binding, drawing her closer and closer, until the invisible, unspoken bonds had morphed into something tangible: a promise of marriage. Now she wore a crazily expensive diamond ring attesting to what he had just openly declared. So why did she hesitate? Why wasn’t she showing the usual traits that a newly engaged woman might? How come she wasn’t picking everything up left-handed all of a sudden? And why, when she caught sight of the glittering jewel, did her breath catch dully with a faltering anxiety… to the point where she found it hard to look at the spectacular ring?

Is Will the right one? The question finally burst through the silken bubble as her happily chatting fiancé led her to a café for breakfast. She barely followed his conversation as questions mounted like obstacles before her. Is there enough between us to sustain a marriage, children, adversity, middle age, old age? She swallowed the tumult of uncertainty that had leaped into her throat.

Maybe it was her old foe: that need to take control and to keep control of any situation. Her surrender to Will’s innocent query had afterwards felt like a loss of control. ‘Be mine,’ he’d whispered, and his words had been filled with affection and tenderness. Yet now she heard those words in her head as proprietorial. At the edge of her mind, Jane knew it was paranoid to think like this, but still she was hesitant and unsure of him.

Until this moment, it had been only while he slept and she could steal utterly private time that she had allowed herself to confront her dilemma: was marrying Will wise? She’d decided to put it down to the natural nervousness of any bride. Even though Will exhibited none of the same hesitation, she told herself he would surely be vacillating as the enormity of this commitment began to dawn on him… particularly as family and friends were already celebrating.

They hadn’t known each other that long. Tomorrow would make five months. In truth, there were days when it felt so right she could yell out her happiness, and these were the times she relied upon, but there were twice as many days when an inner voice demanded she search her heart. Are you sure he’s the right one?

Or is he convenient? She was having one of those moments as Will grinned at her, muttering how hungry he was again for her body. The notion that she was cheating herself as much as Will felt suffocating. He wanted to kiss her again, she knew, as they waited to cross another narrow side street, but she pulled away casually, disguising her deliberate action by grabbing his hand instead.

‘Let’s try that new place up the road that the concierge told us about,’ she said. He groaned. ‘Well, you should never have planted the thought in my head about kicking off the day with a hot chocolate. I have to have it now.’

‘I’d like to have you now,’ he whispered, before linking his hand with hers and gauging the traffic snaking from the seven streets into the plaza, carrying people and cars into various parts of Covent Garden and beyond. ‘Now,’ he said, and they stepped out into the road, dodging cars and skipping into Monmouth Street.

Hopping over puddles, dodging other pedestrians, they arrived laughing at the café. It was painted black and overhung by a large awning, also black, that made the doorway appear like the opening to sin itself. As they moved deeper inside, the erotic fragrance of chocolate was punctuated by the exotic aroma of coffee being ground, making them both sigh theatrically with pleasure. Behind the front counter a young woman was cutting up a slab of chocolate cake, and one slice fell apart. She laughed, chopped it into smaller pieces and put them on a plate.

‘Care to try some?’ she urged, holding up the plate.

‘Why not?’ Jane said, tearing her gaze from the shelves that housed beribboned boxes of chocolates alongside bags of chocolate-coated everything and anything… liquorice, fruit, bite-sized biscuits, assorted nuts.

‘Chocolate body paint?’ Will said, holding up a small jar and looking at her with a question in his expression.

‘Too messy for hotel guestrooms,’ she answered, lifting an eyebrow at the grinning assistant before she took a plump cube of the cake, making rapturous sounds the moment her taste buds registered it.

‘I’m beginning to understand that part of our marriage contract is that I must always keep you in chocolate,’ Will said, gesturing toward the café area at the back of the shop.

‘Then I shall love you forever,’ she quipped.

As they eased into an empty booth, he fixed her with a gaze devoid of its former playfulness. ‘Be sure, because forever is a long time.’

Jane covered her surprise at his sudden intensity by pulling his gloved hand to her cheek, then kissing it swiftly. ‘Forever’s not long enough,’ she replied, instantly hating herself for flirting vacuously with a man who was so committed to her. She desperately wanted to be just as committed to him.

‘A hot chocolate and a coffee,’ Will said to the fellow who had shuffled up to take their order, entirely unaware of her dilemma. ‘I’ll have scrambled eggs with toast. And she’ll have a slice of that rather decadent-looking cake, drizzled with chocolate,’ he said.

‘On holiday?’

Will grinned at the overly curious man. ‘Working. I have a lecture to give in northern England. Is that the right terminology?’

The fellow glanced at Jane; she was yet to speak, but he’d clearly already picked her as a Brit. Maybe it was Will’s bright yellow rain jacket, trimmed with blue, that marked him as a foreigner. It was far too jaunty for a Britisher in early winter, which pegged him as a tourist, and he was far too tanned or chatty to be anything but American. Of course, the southern drawl was also a giveaway.

‘“Up north”, we say,’ she said, dragging off her brown, waxed jacket and smiling at the waiter.

‘And after that I’m going to marry my beautiful sweetheart.’

Jane blinked in annoyance when the waiter glanced at her as if dryly amused. ‘Congratulations. Busy time for you, then.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s a while yet before—’

‘Make it a strong hot chocolate, would you? My fiancée likes it strong.’

Jane wasn’t impressed with the look, loaded with innuendo, that passed between the two men, but let it go. She also didn’t like having Will speak for her.

She peeled off her gloves and scarf, idly reflecting that the irritating but harmless drizzle of this morning would likely be sinister black ice by this evening. Hardly ideal for an American tourist, but then Will was hardly a sun and surf kind of fellow despite hailing from Florida. Didn’t everyone in Florida live on or near the beach?

Will pulled off his gloves with even teeth that looked all the whiter against his effortlessly bronzed complexion and reached for her hands. ‘Cold?’

She shook her head. ‘Not any more.’

Will kissed her hand. ‘Let’s go back to bed after this.’

‘We’ve only just emerged from two whole days in bed!’ Jane reminded him.

‘So make it three. Who’s counting?’

‘Your father,’ she quipped.

Will laughed. ‘Pops doesn’t doubt our love. That comment he made was because he’s concerned that we’re rushing into marriage.’

‘Maybe we are,’ Jane said before she could stop herself.

He gave her a curious glance, but was still smiling as though he knew she didn’t mean it. ‘You and I are old souls, Jane. We were predestined to meet.’

‘Is that so?’ Predestined to marry as well? she wondered.

Will continued, heedless of her angst. ‘I reckon we’re two lovers who have always been together and we just keep dying and reincarnating to find one another again. If I wasn’t predestined to fall for you, why would I have loved you the instant I fell over you?’

She started to laugh. ‘All that stupid bloody gear you walk around with, perhaps? I’m sure we’re staying at a hotel overlooking the Seven Dials and those seven streets because you can’t be too far from anything resembling your precious ley lines.’

Will gave her a look of feigned injury. ‘We prefer to call them “straight tracks”.’

‘Straight tracks, straight lines, ley lines… aliens, magic, spirits of people’s past,’ she mocked, then reached for his hands across the table. ‘I’m only joking. You know I’m impressed by your research.’

‘But you don’t really understand any of it, do you? Even though I’ve spent the last two months trying to explain it.’

She sighed with pleasure as her cake was placed before her on a small wooden platter. She would have preferred something savoury for breakfast, but now it was here, her treacherous taste buds hankered for the sweet treat. The drinks arrived soon afterwards.

‘Scrumptious,’ she said, nibbling on the small slice, though sorely tempted to dig a fork into Will’s oozy eggs. ‘So what are you going to tell the boffins up north about your weird lines?’

‘They’re not weird,’ he said good-humouredly.

‘But they’re not magic either, Will. Do you believe in magic, really?’

‘As a geophysicist,’ he reminded her in an exaggerated, lofty tone, ‘my job is simply to explain the world around us through research and understanding.’ He shrugged and became more serious. ‘The straight tracks are yet to be fully understood, but there are many theories, ranging from the plausible to the comical. When something can’t be fully buttoned up, there will always be some people who will look toward the supernatural. Other people, like me, look for ways to explain it.’

‘Tell me about the stuff you’re not able to explain,’ she said.

He sighed, smiling softly. ‘Many people believe that the ley lines connecting religious sites, ancient sacred monuments, Earth vortices are tapping into the phenomenon of abnormally high magnetic fields. They’re known as “dragon lines” in China, where feng shui practitioners have referred to them for millennia,’ he said. He put his knife down and transferred his fork to his right hand to shovel food neatly into his mouth while he continued talking.

‘Some New Age groups believe – and we should not dismiss them as unhinged simply because they think beyond the reality of what scientists know – that these huge focuses of magnetic energy offer portals into other worlds.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’

He indulged her soft sarcasm with a smile, but gave a shrug of regret. ‘You know, as a species, we’re superstitious and spiritual anyway, so it’s logical that when we can’t explain something we want to imbue it with otherwordly qualities. My talk in Scotland lays out the world’s varied research into ley lines.’

‘Imagine if I hadn’t been visiting folks in Cornwall and you hadn’t been at Land’s End…’ Why did she keep saying stuff like this? Was she hoping this was going to turn out to be a dream, or some alternate reality? Wake up, Jane, a voice called. You’re going to be walking down the aisle and saying, ‘I do’ to this man any minute. Be sure before it’s too late!

But I’m not sure. Everyone is, except me, she answered silently, and Will’s dad, perhaps. And I don’t know why I’m not as in love with Will as I think I should be.

Tick tock, the distant voice replied, getting more distant as it repeated its words. Tick tock, Jane.

‘But we were both there,’ Will reassured her. ‘A ley line brought us together and now we have a ley line running between our hearts, never to be broken across time or space.’

What a desperate romantic he was. ‘Which ley line brought us together?’

‘St Michael’s,’ Will replied, newly animated. ‘It’s vast. Runs from the tip of Cornwall and St Michael’s Mount just offshore of Marazion – which many people believe is the oldest village in Europe – and continues across the country, heading north-east, cutting through various ancient edifices dedicated to St Michael. Coincidence? Planned? Divine?’ Jane took a breath to answer, but Will continued as though he didn’t require her response. ‘There’s another straight track that can be drawn, beginning in Ireland at the monastery called Skellig Michael, passing neatly through the Cornish holy mount, bisecting Mont Saint Michel in France and then off it goes, piercing other sacred sites such as the Sacra di San Michele and Assisi in Italy, and Mount Carmel in Israel.’

She blinked. ‘No wonder the New Agers get off on this stuff.’

He nodded ponderously. ‘My interest is in the facts, but the point is even the toughest sceptics might admit there’s a special frisson, or energy, within these spiritually important sites, and they can be linked by a straight line.’

Jane shook her head as she pushed her cooling chocolate aside. ‘Okay, I’ll grant you it’s fascinating.’

‘Thank you. And it’s why we want to explore the theories and learn more. It’s why an international grant has been made available to me.’

‘But what do you really believe, Will? That these supposedly amazing lines that crisscross the world have genuine spiritual significance? Is there a magical connection – is that what you’re chasing?’

Will gave a soft scoffing sound, but she detected that it was a rehearsed response. She saw in the way he dropped his gaze that he wasn’t totally dismissive, and then he surprised her by admitting as much. ‘I don’t know. I don’t decide anything until my eyes see it or my research proves it, but I’m a great believer in staying open-minded. I love the notion that the spirit can show immeasurable strength, that faith in something can make one achieve what feels like the impossible… that magic just might exist.’

Jane frowned, surprised by this glimpse behind the rational façade that was the Will she knew. ‘And you don’t believe in coincidence?’

He smiled, raising his gaze from where he toyed with his last neat mouthful of egg on toast. ‘I didn’t think you were cynical,’ he remarked playfully.

‘I don’t think I am. I’d love to believe in magic. Wouldn’t everyone? The world needs it. But the reality is that no magic is going to stop wars or famine or death. If I could call on magic, I’d stop a lot of the bad stuff that happens in the world. I’d stop the culling of seals, I’d stop all the strikes, I’d stop the fighting in Northern Ireland and I’d find the Yorkshire Ripper.’ She smiled. ‘I’d certainly stop this ridiculously cold weather.’

‘You’d call on magic to do all of that because you like to take control, Jane.’

She blinked. ‘What do you mean?’ she replied, buying time.

He shrugged. ‘You’re someone who likes control, that’s all I’m saying. It’s not a bad quality,’ he continued. ‘I envy it, to be honest. It’s part of your charm.’

‘A controlling personality doesn’t sound especially charming,’ she challenged.

He grinned at her, and she felt him stroke her hand. She realised he used his affection like a weapon, and most women, including herself, were likely defenceless against it. ‘Because you’re hearing it as a criticism.’

‘An accusation, perhaps.’

Will shook his head. ‘I’m saying it’s a special quality. You don’t need magic. You’re someone who can make things happen through sheer force of will.’ He gave her a searching look. ‘Let’s not get maudlin. I love you exactly as you are. We’re planning a wedding.’

Should they be, though?‘Sorry.’

‘I think bed is the best place for you,’ he teased, and his deep blue eyes sparkled with mischief.

Jane felt a surge of something she hoped was love, but worried that it was, instead, plain sexual passion for this man who’d asked her to marry him just days earlier. She’d said ‘Yes’ immediately, caught up in the romance of his chosen setting – below the Statue of Eros in Piccadilly. People had whistled and clapped when Will lowered himself to one knee and cleared his throat, grinning unselfconsciously as he took his time digging into one of his pockets to withdraw a small, dark green velvet box. At his gesture a violinist had appeared and struck up a beautiful melody and then, on his nod, someone had pulled a string that unfurled a piece of red silk in the shape of a heart that hung from the end of Eros’s bow with their names embroidered on the silk. ‘I’ve never met anyone I’ve wanted to say this to until I met you, Jane. Marry me. Make me the happiest man on the planet. Be mine.’

People had roared with cheers and Japanese tourists had begun snapping photos. She remembered thinking that her face was registering shock, not melting with helpless adoration as it should have been.

‘Will…’ she’d croaked, looking around, embarrassed at the happy, encouraging expressions. ‘I’m speechless,’ was all she’d been able to say. She hadn’t been lying either.

He’d undone the box and the crowd, getting larger by the heartbeat, leaned in as one and sighed at how impressive that sparkling rock looked against its velvet cushion. It was an enormous single diamond surrounded by smaller baguette-shaped stones, and winking at her as though it needed no sunlight to show it off, defying her to resist it.

She could have. But it was Will’s tender look of love she couldn’t turn away from.

Men had fallen for her in the past. She’d never had to go on the hunt for companionship: her looks had always attracted them in the first instance and something about her had kept them interested, although she had finally pushed each suitor away. One – dear David – she’d broken his heart. He’d just assumed they would marry because he loved her so much and they’d been together for nearly a year. What had been in his head? She’d enjoyed his companionship, his lovemaking, his friendship, but couldn’t imagine a lifetime with him, although she had no idea what she was searching for.

Will was different. Even Jane, despite her unclingy ways, knew this was not a man to let go carelessly. There was nothing about him that she could point to as being incompatible with her; she was sure every girl standing within arm’s length would not disagree that the tall, golden-haired, blue-eyed, all-American guy on his knees was a catch and a half. And, one more plus, Will Maxwell was obscenely wealthy, which was why the twinkling oblong stone she was being offered had to be three, maybe four, carats, and that was without the surrounding baguette-shaped diamonds. Dating a lovely Jewish guy from Hatton Garden’s diamond-sorting community two years earlier had given her a strong appreciation of sizes and quality of stones. This was a big stone of clearly exquisite quality, even to her relatively untrained eye.

Jane recalled how the women around had begun nudging her, urging her to accept. Why was she hesitating? someone asked. Yes, why? she asked herself. She had hesitated, that was true.

‘Don’t make me ask again,’ he’d whispered, almost as a joke, for she had seen in his gaze that he couldn’t imagine her turning him down.

And so she hadn’t. Reckless? Spontaneous? Defiant? Good or bad, those inherent traits of hers had formed an arrow shape and sped to the target of her heart. Jane had looked around at the smiling faces and nodded almost helplessly, too unsure of her feelings to say anything at that moment. Her silence had not mattered to Will, because he had scooped her into his arms and kissed her feverishly. She had heard the girls nearby squealing sentimentally, more cameras clicking and then the violinist striking up a new and jolly tune.

‘I love you, Jane,’ he’d murmured.

‘I love you back,’ she’d replied, breathless with surprise and hoping with all her heart that she meant it – it felt as though she did. Besides, that was what he’d needed to hear, wasn’t it? It was what she’d needed to say to make everything feel right. She’d never told anyone, other than her parents, that she loved them. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d said it to either of them beyond school days when she went off on camps or excursions.

Now both sets of parents were in town, Jane thought with a slightly sinking feeling, as she swallowed the last chunks of the cake. The Maxwells had flown in three days ago for the small engagement celebration and her parents had done the same, hurtling down from Wales. It had happened so fast that Jane had felt as though she’d been caught up in a maelstrom with no control whatsoever.

Both mothers had put their heads together to plan a big summer wedding, just six months away. There would be the wedding itself in Wales, of course, and then another ceremony in Florida at Will’s parents’ beach house – if you could call a mansion that.

The fathers had made the sort of surface conversation that men who were still strangers did. Both slapped Will on the back and shook his hand. Will’s father had thawed somewhat after meeting Jane’s family and realising that Will was planning to settle down with a girl from what was clearly a good family that could match it financially with the Maxwells any day of the week. Jane had felt unnecessary as the wedding machinery whirred into full action.

Now she watched Will flirting harmlessly with the girl at the counter as he paid. She remembered how he had ticked off the list of pluses on his fingers, doing a fair impersonation of the conversation he’d had with his father: ‘Not a divorcée, no children, beautiful in my opinion, young, fit—’

‘Oh, these are all important qualities, Will,’ he’d said, frowning as his father must have. ‘Most importantly, comes from good stock– people like us,’ he’d added in a deep voice, approximating his father’s. ‘She won’t go mad with the money because she’s used to it.’

Now that she’d met John Maxwell she had realised it wasn’t a half-bad impersonation.

The four parents were undoubtedly tentative that their beloved children seemed determined to hurry the important process of marriage. Yet it also appeared that Will had instantly won her parents’ hearts and in turn she had scored highly in the minds of the Maxwells. Champagne glasses had been raised and clinked, a silent deal done across the fizzing nectar.

Now, in the café, Jane became aware of Will’s tugging at her arm. ‘Where did you just go to?’ He grinned, deliberately allowing a sample of cake he’d accepted at the counter to squelch across his perfect teeth and make her laugh in spite of her mood.

‘Mm?’ She’d forgotten where they’d been in their conversation.

‘I said bed is the best place for us right now.’

She had to agree. ‘In bed with you is my safe place. Nothing can hurt us there.’

‘Hurt us? Oh, Jane. You are being maudlin.’

‘I thought I was being romantic.’ She laughed.

‘You have nothing in the world to fear.’

‘I’ve never worried before,’ she admitted. ‘Until this moment, I’ve never had to consider anyone but myself, because I’ve never got serious about anyone. I’ve never really worried about anything much at all.’ She pushed a hand through her dark blonde hair and held it there. ‘Mum and Dad are so strong and generous, and nothing bad has ever happened, if you get my drift.’ He nodded, but she still cast her gaze down. ‘I’ve always felt safe, even when I’ve been travelling the world alone. But suddenly now that I have you in my life, there are fears swirling that I’d never imagined.’

Was that it? Was she frightened that something might ruin these wonderful feelings of brightness and hope? Did the fear make it impossible for her to embrace those feelings? Or was she avoiding what she was trying to pretend wasn’t there – her reluctance to marry Will?

‘Jane,’ he began, full of appeal, ‘nothing’s going to happen to me, to us. We’re forever. Come on, let’s walk off breakfast.’

She let it go. ‘So, bore me some more about the ley lines. Never let it be said that I was a bad fiancée who didn’t listen attentively.’

Jane let him talk. He was passionate about his subject and she enjoyed watching his enthusiasm – the way he waved his long-fingered hands around. She blushed as she imagined those same fingers cupping her bottom when she moved above him. She liked his hair and its soft tickle against her naked skin – it was, in fact, the first characteristic she’d noticed about Will Maxwell, when he’d not seen her bending to tie a shoelace and had stumbled over her. His hair was thick and a rich golden colour, and fell in waves that did exactly as they pleased. He’d cut it to meet her parents, hoping to please her. Will preferred it longer and unruly until tufts flicked out behind his ears and around his beautiful oval face, which was currently unshaven and shadowed with dark prickles. She knew women watched him; even the café staff now watched them walk past.

It was Will’s voice she would choose as her favourite feature of him. Mellow, not pitched too deep and capable of a deliciously sparkling laugh when she could provoke it. His American accent was addictive and contrasted with her Welsh lilt, which had been overshadowed, but not forgotten, by her years of attending a fine British public school. She could strengthen it as she chose, of course, but then she could also mimic Will’s southern American English, or adopt her cousins’ Cornish brogue with ease, because of a finely tuned ear for language.

‘… black lines of negative energy, Curry lines of natural radiation, Hartmann lines of magnetic energy…’ She let his soothing voice warm her, while she wondered which of the energies had aligned to bring him to her. She was twenty-seven, and had begun to believe her sister’s quip that she was a serial lover without the love.

Finishing her history degree – specialising in late eighteenth century social and cultural life – had been a milestone in her life. She had enjoyed drilling down to understand the social mores of the era, its language and developments. But what was the benefit in knowing that soup was placed at one end of the table and fish at the other, and that custards and vegetables were never placed centrally; or about the introduction of vaccination against smallpox; or that John Wesley founded the Methodists in the late 1730s, and that the Royal Academy of Arts was founded in 1768? She’d studied the paintings of Gainsborough and Reynolds but preferred the work of Hogarth, whose dark, satirical scenes of life she found more intriguing. She had liked the enrichment her studies provided but truly, what good could they do her, other than enabling her to teach history, perhaps? Or become a historian? Neither of these options appealed. She hardly needed the money.

She’d returned to Wales for the long summer break, but had rejected her parents’ suggestion to join them at their holiday cottage in Brittany in favour of taking up her cousin’s invitation to visit Cornwall and enjoy some summery days in Penzance, where she could think and make decisions. It was there that she’d decided she would answer the nagging voice in her mind and set out on the journey that she’d not discussed with anyone yet: writing a novel. It was such an exciting notion it seemed truly all-consuming. She felt ready to sit down and write. It would be fiction, of course. Historical fiction? She wasn’t sure.

She hadn’t known what she wanted to do with her life four months earlier. Did she want a career? Did she want to remain in academia? Did she want to join the family retail business? Or did she just want to travel for a year? She could, for her allowance from her parents was generous, plus they’d offered to buy both their daughters a house or an apartment, whichever they preferred, in any city they liked. She was embarrassed that her life was so easy and had hesitated to go hunting for property, despite her father’s urgings.

‘London, New York, Paris, Rome… Cardiff,’ he’d quipped over the phone. ‘Just find what you want and let’s get you settled into a place of your own.’ She could hear her mother coaching him in the background, no doubt forgetting just how sensitive phones were today. Jane loved her for it, could hear how much her mum wanted to encourage her to spread her wings, even while feeling the umbilical cord straining, wishing she could keep her child close.

‘… and dowsers are getting quite a following,’ Will was saying beside her. ‘But then, water is energy, and animals and birds have followed instinctive pathways for centuries. Which of us can categorically say that they aren’t tapping into some energy line that guides them to a watering hole, or fruitful feeding grounds, or nesting sites?’

She blinked herself out of her thoughts, smiling at him. ‘It’s a tough one,’ she said noncommittally.

‘I don’t believe you’ve heard anything I’ve said,’ he chastised.

‘I hang on your every word, William Maxwell of Nithsdale.’

‘Have you been looking into my history?’

She shrugged. ‘No, but maybe I should learn more. Do you know anything about him?’

Will paused outside a shop selling outrageously priced shoes and handbags. The shop had Jane’s instant attention.

‘Know about him? My mother dines off him, Jane. Scottish noble, fought at the Battle of Preston, thrown into the Tower by the King of England, sentenced to death as a traitor… yadda yadda.’

‘You’re kidding!’ She turned from the black patent-leather loafers that she’d been studying in the shop window to look at her fiancé.

He grinned. ‘I’m not.’

‘So, yadda yadda?’ Jane shook her head slightly. ‘What happened?’ His background had genuinely pricked her interest; which student of history wouldn’t be sucked in by that ancestry?