Prologue

Lynmouth, 1807

Someone was carrying her.

An exceedingly small someone, perhaps as small as herself, Ophelia thought groggily, her brain numbed and tired from the biting cold. Something important niggled in her thoughts but eluded her whenever she tried to catch hold of it. The person beneath her grunted, pausing for a few seconds before resuming their determined trek.

“Am I not too heavy?” she murmured into the crook of the person’s neck, which smelled odd, almost like horses or wet puppies. Her hands around the neck felt heavy, the exertion to clasp them tremendous.

“Yer no more than…than a sack of potatoes, me gather,” a little boy’s voice replied in a sweetly lyrical accent she’d never heard before. “But do not let me go. Hold on tight.”

She wanted to part her lips and reply, but the effort felt enormous, and her heart fluttered in panic. Her thoughts drifted hazily along, a heavy weight seemingly dragging her down. A whimper tore from her throat.

“I’ve got you,” the little voice said, strain evident in the tone.

I’m freezing, she wanted to cry, but her mouth felt too numb. She wanted to stir, but there was a cold in her bones that felt like fire. It made no sense. How could she be cold but also hot?

The boy grunted, stopped, and heaved several harsh breaths. “I can make it,” he muttered, stooping even lower and jostling her weight higher onto his back and shoulders.

Pain rushed through her limbs, and a great shiver racked her frame. He held her tightly, muttering what sounded like a curse or perhaps a prayer. Then onward he trudged. A light misting rain fell, and thunder rumbled in the darkened sky, a warning that more precipitation was on the horizon.

“I can make it,” he whispered. “I can make it. I must make it.”

He stumbled, then quickly righted himself, once again heaving her up higher onto his back. Ophelia grew aware of the breath sawing from the boy’s throat and the sweat trickling down his face. She didn’t fully understand, but the need to reassure this stranger welled inside. Though her throat felt raw, as if she had been screaming, she pushed out the words with great effort. “You can make it. I know you can.”

Ophelia gasped, a black fright sweeping over her as the memory of her carriage crashing into a swollen river rose in her mind. She recalled her governess, Miss Kinney, saying the bridge that led to her parents’ country estate was old and needed repairs, then the ominous sound of creaking wood cracking. The water had churned with fury and had dragged her along with the currents at a terrifying pace. She didn’t recall much other than the screams of Miss Kinney and the footmen’s and coachman’s desperate attempts to reach Ophelia.

Frightened by the memory, she clung to him longer. She could not say how long the little boy trudged with her, but it felt like forever. Thankfully, the sun peeked from bloated clouds, and some of the terrible cold in her body eased.

“We are here,” he said, panting with great effort.

He stooped very low, and Ophelia slithered off him, muffling her cry at the way her bones hurt. She stood, wobbling only slightly. The boy remained bent, as if he lacked the strength to stand.

She touched his shoulder tentatively. “Are you well?”

It took him a moment, but he finally said, “Yes.”

Pushing to his feet, he faced her. The boy was rather small, bony even, and perhaps about her age—Ophelia had only turned eight years last month. His black hair was pasted to his forehead, and rivulets of water trickled down his hollow cheekbones. His body shook, and he clenched his fists at his sides as if to steady himself against the trembling. Sympathy squeezed her heart. “You are cold, too,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her body tightly.

A faraway look entered his dark green eyes. “You were in the river, and it was taking you away. I jumped in after you.”

Ophelia had never seen eyes so vivid and lovely.

He shifted on his feet, and a pained grimace crossed his dirt-streaked face. “I might have worried me ma. I could hear her screaming as the water took us away.”

“You are hurt.”

“Just me back a little, and one of me foot. It’ll get better.”

“You should not have carried me; you are so very small,” she murmured, hating that her lips trembled. “Though I am incredibly grateful. I shall repay your kindness, I promise.”

His little chest puffed out. “I’m twelve. I ain’t small.”

“You are my size,” she refuted. “And I am eight.”

He scoffed, clearly affronted. “I am taller.”

Barely, but she did not point that out, since it seemed to reassure him to think he was large and well-built. He shuffled around, and it was then she noted he stared at a cottage. It was very plain and had a thatched roof. With a sense of alarm, Ophelia also realized they were deep in the middle of a forest. She slowly turned, yet all she could see for miles was woodland. Why would this cottage be here in the middle of nowhere? “Is this your home?”

He gave her an incredulous look. “No. Our cottage is not this big.”

She blinked, looking once more at the tiny hovel. He lived somewhere smaller and with his mama and papa? The idea was inconceivable. “How did you find it?” she asked, walking to stand beside him.

“By luck. I grabbed on to a branch and pulled us from the river. Then I hoisted you on my back and walked upstream. I canna tell how long I walked for, but my feet hurt.”

He advanced on the cottage, and Ophelia followed. The door was locked, but he was very enterprising, for he went around to a small window that was opened, wiggled through, and unlocked the door from the inside.

“Come on in,” he cried with a wave of his hand. “There is no one about.”

Ophelia took her time and clambered up the few front steps, then entered the cottage. It was very tidy, with everything seemingly to be in one space. A kitchen, a fireplace, and a lone sofa that appeared sunken, as if the cushions were worn out. Then there was a bed to the far left, near the small window.

“Who do you think lives here?” she whispered.

He did not look up from where he was busy lighting the fireplace. “Maybe a gamekeeper.”

Ophelia nodded, then coughed several times, rubbing her aching chest.

The boy glanced around with a frown. “Are ye getting sick?”

“I feel tired,” she replied and shuffled over to the sofa. It proved to be surprisingly comfortable, and with a start of guilt, she realized her damp clothes wetted the fabric.

“Go to sleep,” his voice said from far away. “I’ll take care of you.”

Trusting him, Ophelia nodded. Her lids were heavy, and with a yawn, she slid into a deep sleep.

…

Sometime later, she jolted awake to the scent of something deliciously redolent in the air. The boy was not in the cottage, and Ophelia had a blanket over her body. Now she was warm and toasty. Pushing it off, she stood, swaying slightly. Hurrying to the door, she opened it and paused. The boy was in a clearing, something was spitted on a stick, and he was turning it over the fire. Whatever it was smelled wonderful, and her belly grumbled. She went over and sat on a log before him. “What is it?”

“A rabbit.”

“You killed it?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

Oh! She didn’t know what to say to that. “Were you afraid?”

“Of killing the rabbit?”

“Yes.”

“No.” He seemed to think about this. “Why would I be afraid?”

“Killing is bad and seems frightening.”

He smiled, and she thought him a very pretty boy, even with all the dirt and grime on his face. “Not when it is to fill our bellies.”

The boy jumped to his feet, ran back inside, and returned with the thin blanket. He wrapped it over her shoulders and then handed her a cup of water. Ophelia stared at the dented cup, never having seen a thing like this in her life. How utterly unusual. She took the cup and downed the water greedily. “Thank you—I was so very thirsty.”

Mortifyingly, her belly rumbled.

“And hungry, too,” he said with another broad smile. “That is why I hunted while ye were sleeping.”

Ophelia smiled and tugged the blanket around her body, watching the rabbit turn over the fire and anticipating when she could eat it, thinking what a strange little boy he was. He knew how to light a fire, he was not afraid to kill rabbits, he could cook them, too, and he was only twelve.

How utterly extraordinary.

…

She was like a fairy in the stories his da had told him. Niall had never seen a little lady so beautiful.

Her skin was pale and soft, her eyes a deep golden brown, her cheeks dimpled when she smiled, and her hair black like raven feathers. It hung limply over her shoulders and down her back to her hips in a riot of curls. The mass of hair seemed too heavy for her body, but she tilted her head with elegance and smiled at him.

“What is your name?”

He cleared his throat. “Niall.”

Her cupid mouth shaped his name. “Niall sounds perfectly lovely and special.”

Something warm shifted inside him. “My grandmother named me. What is your name?”

Her little nose wrinkled. “It isn’t anything special. It is Ophelia.”

Niall frowned, not liking that she thought something about her was ordinary. Fairies were never ordinary. “We could make it special. Though Ophelia sounds beautiful to me.”

Her golden-brown eyes glowed. “Special how?”

He thought for a minute. “I could call you…Fifi,” Niall murmured, reaching out to tenderly brush a wisp of hair behind her ear, mildly surprised he was being so familiar with her.

Her eyes lit up with pleasure. “Fifi! I love it!”

Fifi it is, then.

Niall ensured she ate, and while she slept that night, he rested comfortably on the sofa, wondering how he would keep her protected or see her home to her family. He had no notion of where they were, and he had a cut under his foot that hurt like the devil. His ma, pa, and two younger sisters would be awfully worried. His ma’s scream when he jumped into the water still lingered in his mind, the fright and pain in the sound haunting him.

Niall had to get back to his family soon, but he also had to protect Fifi.

“I’ll find a way to take you home,” he whispered in the silence of the cottage, dropping his head back onto the cushions of the sofa and closing his eyes.

…

The very next day, he took Fifi to a river so she could bathe with the rough bar of soap he’d found in the cabin. At first, she had colored violently and refused, but when he promised to turn his back and keep watch, so no one approached, Fifi waded to the shallow area and did her best. It had stunned him when she revealed that she did not bathe herself at home, and the entire experience had been oddly thrilling.

Niall walked as far as he could in one direction, hoping to see someone who could help them. There were no other houses, nor did he see the main house the cottage might belong to. One day turned into two, then into three, and now it was day five, and they were still together.

Niall was getting worried. His ma and da and his sisters must be worried. Fifi’s parents must be just as anxious. And the bottom of his foot hurt more and more with each passing day.

They had just eaten roasted quail, and she yawned contentedly. Dusk arrived, painting the sky in vivid shades of amber. “I do not wish to return inside,” she said a bit worriedly, scanning the forest.

“We do not have to.”

She beamed. “Truly?”

“We can stay a few minutes longer.”

Her richly colored eyes gleamed with delight, and she nodded happily. The chill evening air cut through her dirty gown, making her shiver. Niall removed his threadbare jacket and placed it over her small shoulders.

She wrinkled her tiny nose. “Your jacket smells weird.”

He flushed as shame filled him. He did not wash as often as she did—perhaps once a week, sometimes longer in between. Niall bet at her home she washed daily and with rose-scented soap. His ma and da said there were people out there in the world who could afford such luxuries.

Something hot and burning curdled in his belly. “I will go for the blanket,” he mumbled.

Her hands reached out and twined with his. “It also smells like you.”

“Stink?”

Her eyes widened. “No. Like oakmoss. Like the woods we played in today.”

Niall did not know what that scent was, but he liked how it sounded. She was also not pushing his jacket off her body but holding it close. Thankfully, it hung below her knees, protecting her from the elements. The cold bit at his bones, but he inhaled steadily, bearing it for as long as she needed to remain outside. The grass waved idly in the light wind, and against the pale night sky, the trees etched themselves in sharp silhouette.

“I have never been outside like this before,” she whispered. “It is very dark…and beautiful. It’s all perfectly wonderful, even though it is a little frightening. Imagine the creatures in the woods staring at us now!”

“Don’t worry. I will protect you.”

She lifted her face to him and smiled. “I know.”

Niall’s heart clenched at the surety of her response. I’ll always protect you.

Her face scrunched in a tight frown. “You are cold, Niall.” Ophelia scuttled closer to him on the log. “We can share. It is really big.”

“My da gave it to me,” he said softly, inching over to meet her.

They sat on the log, and she removed one of her spindly arms from the jacket. Somehow he wriggled a bit of himself into the jacket, too, and warmth and her unique scent of berries enveloped him. They stayed huddled like that, and despite worrying about his family, Niall felt an unusual happiness seep into his bones. Fifi started to hum softly under her breath, staring up at the velvet beauty of the night sky.

“Wot is that ye humming?”

“It’s music for dancing. I’ve been learning these past few months.”

“To dance?”

“Yes.”

“Wot for?”

“It is important to know for when I am ready to marry.”

Niall frowned. “Marry?”

“Yes. Miss Kinney says these are especially important things to marriage.”

“You seem small to marry.”

She smiled, and the beauty of it sent his heart to his throat.

“Miss Kinney says a young girl must prepare from now to marry in the future. I am not that small. Remember that I am eight years,” she said, holding up the numbers on her hand. “Let me show you, Niall.”

Fifi stood, dipped into a most graceful bow, straightened, and then started to dance, her dirtied dress swirling around her ankles as she pirouetted. He thought the notions of rich families were odd, but she looked carefree and lovely in her dance.

There was also a niggle in his belly that he could not brush away. “Fifi, wot age will ye get married?” Surely it wouldn’t be now. He knew what married people did, kissing and the likes. He wondered if she knew. His ma and da were always kissing and hugging.

She paused in a turn. “I’ll have my come out at seventeen or eighteen, and then I’m to marry Peter Warwick, the future Earl of Langdon.”

Niall was astonished; this fellow was a nob. “You already know the gent yer to marry?”

“Mama knows it. I have not met him as yet.”

Rich people were very odd.

A shadow passed over her face, and her gaze grew far away, as if she’d retreated into herself. She returned to the log and sat with a heavy sigh. The loss of her brightness made Niall feel cold. Reaching out, he used the knuckle of one of his fingers and gently tapped her nose. “Wot is it?”

“I miss my father. I miss home. Do you think they will find us?”

“Yes,” he said bravely, though he was also scared. He was not familiar with these lands, and despite searching for hours daily, he did not see the path to take her to safety. “Your ma and pa miss you,” he said reassuringly. “They will be looking for ye.”

“My mama does not like me very much, I’m afraid. I am not certain why I thought of it just now.”

“We’ve been ’ere for five days,” he pointed out. “You miss her.”

Large golden eyes landed on him with perfect gravity. “I suppose I do. I wonder if she misses me in return.”

Niall didn’t know much, but he was sure little girls were not supposed to worry about if their mothers loved them. “I bet she does,” he said, feeling with every fiber of his being that it was important to reassure Ophelia that she was treasured.

“She does not hug or kiss me. My papa does,” she whispered, a shadow of pain in her eyes.

“My mother tells me every mama loves her children, and Da says Ma is always right.”

Her eyes widened. “Your mama sounds fanciful, and your papa…perhaps he is afraid of your mama.”

They shared a smile at the idea.

“My mama loves me…and I miss her.” To his embarrassment, his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat and squared his bony shoulders.

“What do you miss about your ma the most?”

“She ’ave the most beautiful voice,” Niall said. “Da used to say Mama has the voice of one of the angels that went missing from heaven. She sings all the time, especially when she is cooking.”

Her little mouth formed an O of surprise. “Your ma cooks?”

“Yes. Don’t yers?” Perhaps that was why she was so tiny.

“No. We have a cook who does it, Mrs. Clovis. She is very good, and she always makes my favorite cake.”

Before he could reply to that, she asked, “And does your da sing, too?”

“No, but he would make up stories. Lots of them.”

A wistful sigh slipped from her. “My papa reads to me.”

They shared another smile together, and strange but wonderful emotions filled the cavity of Niall’s chest.

“I’ll sing for you,” Ophelia said, “and maybe you’ll miss your ma less.” Before he could muster a response, she started to sing, stealing all coherent thoughts from his brain.

Ophelia’s voice was…pure and perfect. Not even his ma could rival the beautiful sound coming from a body this small. Niall stared at her, engrossed and enchanted. Each note felt as if it reached into his soul and stroked a part of him that he hadn’t known existed, and the oddest thing happened to him. That phenomenon called love his da often told him about, the one that would happen when he was grown and met a lady, happened in this very moment.

He felt it. A wrench in his heart…painful yet hopeful, the urge to protect her always, the promise to make her happy forever. They all lived within him at this moment, and the dream he had for his future shifted.

His da had been hired on to be an estate carpenter for a squire in Lambeth: a great opportunity for their family to improve their living and for Niall to apprentice under his father. Yet at this very moment, that dream vanished like ashes in the wind. No longer did he want to be a carpenter like his da.

He wanted more…yet he wasn’t certain what that more entailed.

“Why are you crying?” she softly asked.

He hurriedly swiped away the moisture from his cheek. “I ain’t cryin’; boys don’t cry.” Then he took a deep breath. “Your voice is beautiful.”

She grinned and clapped her hands, clearly delighted with his praise. “My mama does not like when I sing, and Papa says I must do it in secret.”

Niall scowled. “That’s stupid.”

“I thought so, too,” she whispered. “Do you think someone will find us?”

“Yes. But you do not have to worry, Fifi. Ever. I will protect you until we are found. I would never let any harm come to you—I promise it.”

She stared at him as if she hardly knew what to make of his fervent vow. Niall could feel the tips of his ears turning red.

“You are the best friend I’ve ever had,” she said a bit shyly. “I will protect you, too.”

They shared another smile, but to Niall’s mind, this one felt special. The small trinket he had made for her earlier, the one to cheer her up, unexpectedly took on a new meaning for him. Niall reached out. His fingers were trembling as he touched her cheek, but when he saw how dirty and rough they looked, he snatched them back. He didn’t want to dirty her, and once again he felt that raw, burning shame that he was so different.

“I…I have something for you,” he began haltingly.

Curious eyes assessed him. “What is it?”

Swallowing, he dipped into his pocket and fished out the ring he had made from twigs, green vines, and a flower. He held himself still as she stared at his gift with incomprehension.

“What is it?” she murmured, yet there was a throb of excitement in her tone, as if he offered her the world.

“It is a ring.”

“I have never seen such an odd ring before,” she said with a curious smile. “You made it?”

“Yes. For you.” He cleared his throat, trying to sound mature, as how his da was always berating him to be. “It is my promise to you that…that I will…” Love you, he wanted to say, but the words felt too important and weighty to voice so casually. “I will take care of you forever. Will you marry me?”

Fifi stared at him with somberness, as if she understood the gravity of his words. Niall did not understand them fully, but he knew what marriage was—his ma and da. They were always together. Ma was always smiling at Da, even when they had no food in their bellies, even when they worked the farm till their fingers bled. Da was often singing to her, and they were always touching their mouths together. It meant family. It meant never being alone. That was marriage for Niall, and he wanted that with Ophelia for his whole life.

“Yes,” she vowed with a solemn nod and the sweetest of smiles. “I will marry you, Niall.”

His heart pounded as if it would leap out of his chest, and Niall even felt dizzy. It took several gulping breaths to reorient himself against the hope. “Yer sure?”

She nodded happily.

“What about Lord Peter…” He didn’t remember the other name.

“I’ve never met him. I’ve met you, and you are perfectly wonderful,” she said with a shy smile.

They laced their hands together then and watched the stars until it grew too cold to remain outside. Niall ushered her into the cabin and shoved all the wood, sticks, and bramble he collected earlier into the fireplace. After he stoked the fire, he turned to face her.

She was dragging the sole chair closer to the fire. Hurrying over, he helped, and they got it before the warmth. He went for the lamp, glad to see it still had some oil inside, and lit it.

“If you are hungry, I have some berries from earlier.”

She nodded, then reached into the small bag she had gripped like a lifeline as the raging waters took her away, pried it open, and withdrew a thick leather-bound book.

“This is one of my favorite books. It is a bit damaged from the water, but it has all sorts of perfectly wonderful stories. Would you like to read it?”

His throat closed, and for the first time in his existence he felt ashamed and frustrated of his lack of abilities. “I…I cannot read.”

Her eyes flared with surprise. “I thought everyone knew how to read.”

Niall cleared his throat. “Only…only mostly people who have lots of money. Those who are poor cannot pay anyone to teach them.”

She thought about that for a few seconds. “Why didn’t your da teach you?”

Niall flushed. “He…he doesn’t know how to read, either. That is why he made up the stories he told me and Ma. He is particularly good; I bet his stories were better than those found in books.”

She declared gaily, “I bet they were. Would you…would you like me to read to you?”

“Yes.”

They huddled close to the small fire, the rain pelting the cottage, as her soft voice filled the room with the riveting tale of a little girl lost in the woods who encountered a secret magical kingdom. Niall was charmed by the animation of her features as she read her book and the way she changed her voice for each character. Despite his enchantment with the story, Niall’s mind darted and whirled. Ophelia was a nob, Niall was sure of it. And he was…he was nobody.

“Is your father very rich?” he asked, interrupting her reading.

She glanced up at him. “Papa is an earl, and Grandpa is a marquess. Would that make him very wealthy?”

Niall breathed hard, and the heavy weight of despair lodged in his guts. She was a nob herself. He’d thought her richer than he was for sure…

But not a real bleedin’ lady.

“My da is a carpenter…a fine one but still a carpenter.” And a poor one at that, barely earning enough to keep their family fed and healthy. How would Niall ever be enough to deserve her? He did not understand it, and he was a little lad, as she called him, but he was certain that Ophelia was his future.

“What are you thinking about?”

He inhaled deeply. “I was thinking when we would get married.”

She beamed and glanced down at the vine ring around her finger. “Miss Kinney says only when I am seventeen or older can I get married.”

He did the calculations quickly on his fingers. “I’ll be one and twenty then.”

She closed the book, excitement lighting in her eyes. “Wouldn’t that be splendid? That way we could be friends forever. I heard Mama once say that marriage is until death. That means we live and grow old together forever. Like my grandma and grandpa. They are really old.”

Niall nodded, and new lightness entered his heart. “I will work hard to ensure I can provide for you.”

She beamed at him and, to his shock, reached up and pressed a quick peck to his cheek. She hadn’t minded that dirt was on his face. Niall stared at Fifi wordlessly, his heart racing with an odd sort of joy. Not sure how to show his affection in return, he lifted a finger and gently tapped her nose with his knuckle. She giggled, and he hoarded that sweet sound deep inside him.

…

The next few days passed in the same manner. Niall would rise early and make his way into the woods to forage for game and edible berries. The woods in the forest were wet and would create more smoke than heat, and he worried that the small pile in the groundskeeper cottage would soon run out. He would painstakingly draw water from the well each morning to last them for the day and so she could keep herself clean. Niall had never been this clean, he too taking a bath every day instead of the once weekly he’d been used to.

Ophelia had also insisted on teaching him to read, and how he had blushed like a fool when she had praised him for learning his letters in half a day. Today they were learning to dance. It still astonished him that these were the things rich young girls did. Read and paint and dance, all in preparation to marry someone. Niall wasn’t sure what those things had to do with a marriage, but Ophelia said her governess insisted they were most important.

And if they were important to her, he had to understand them, even learn to do them as well. That way they would be important to him as well. His da said it was important in a marriage that his wife was always happy, even if that meant he had to be wrong sometimes. Niall repeated that over and over as he went through the hateful dance steps, ignoring the throbbing pain in his leg that was now swollen.

“I’ve only just started learning,” she said, her face adorable in a concentrated scrunch. “Mr. Bloomfield, my dance tutor, says that the minuet is a very elegant but a bit complicated dance. You are very smart, Niall; I am sure you’ll understand it very quickly.”

Almost an hour later, they were laughing like loons at all the mishaps they’d encountered.

“I have something for you,” she whispered shyly.

Surprise lanced Niall. “Wot is it?”

She held out something crooked. Vines and flowers twisted together. It made nothing, really, but something fierce and wonderful filled his chest.

“It is my token for you. Perhaps it could also be a ring.”

Niall swallowed. So that was what she was doing earlier in the woods.

A heavy press of an unknown sensation lodged in his gut. It certainly felt bigger than what his little body could contain. “I will treasure this always.”

Fifi lifted up her hand to show his ring of vine and flowers on one of her fingers. Surely it must itch and prick her skin, but she had still worn it.

“Just as I will treasure your ring, Niall,” she murmured with a shy smile.

The door opened, and they whirled around. A large man came to a shuddering halt upon seeing two children in his home.

Niall positioned himself protectively in front of Ophelia and lifted his chin. She pinched his arm, but he did not move. When she tried to skirt around him, he shuffled with her movements so that he was always in front of her. He grunted in surprise when she jumped onto his back. But he did not push her away, merely slipped his hands behind her knees and hoisted her up so she could hold on to his neck.

The man gaped as if he’d witnessed a circus act.

“Are you little Lady Ophelia, by any chance?”

She gasped and nodded eagerly. Niall narrowed his gaze on the man. “And who are ye?”

The man smiled disarmingly, removed his hat, and slapped it against his thigh. “I’m the groundskeeper of the nearby estate of Viscount Henry Rodrick. There is a large uproar in the area, and everyone is searching for the little lady.”

“Even my papa?”

“And your mama,” he said kindly. “They are guests at Viscount Roderick’s home, and many have gathered, searching the forest for you.”

She squeezed his neck tightly. “We are saved, Niall.”

The groundskeeper did not look at him with warmth but with suspicion.

“Come on down now,” Niall murmured.

Ophelia hopped down and skipped over to the chair to collect her bag and stuff her book inside. She paused, lovingly caressing her fingers over the worn leather. Turning to him, she held it out.

His throat closed. Niall knew how much she loved that book. “I cannot take it.”

She hurried over to him, her matted hair curling atop her sweetly rounded cheeks. “Please. You are my best friend, and I so very much want you to have it and read every story compiled in it. We shall have great fun talking about it, I promise.”

The man cleared his throat, tugging their attention.

“Come along now. We must get going before the rains.”

The groundskeeper led them to a horse and took Ophelia up with him. She didn’t appear happy about that and tried to wiggle down to walk with Niall. Finally the man grumbled and somehow seated them both haphazardly onto the animal before they set off.

At times they came down and walked, and it felt like forever before they cleared a copse of trees to see a large house in the distance.

“Is my papa inside there?” she asked, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

“Yes, little miss, he is.”

She nodded and smiled down at Niall where he trotted tiredly beside the horse. After a time, she determinedly wiggled until she came down, slipped her hand between his, and they walked together. The groundskeeper protested, but she ignored him.

They reached the manor house, which bustled with frenetic activity. She must have been recognized, for two lady servants rushed inside, calling someone. A well-dressed lady and gentleman hurried outside, and when they saw Ophelia, the lady wilted against the man.

“That is my mama and papa,” she whispered, squeezing his fingers.

As if she could not wait anymore, the lady broke away from the man and rushed over to them. The beautiful woman lowered her knees onto the ground, uncaring that she damaged her fine dress. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she held out her arms. Ophelia seemed hesitant at first, as if she did not know what to make of this show of affection and relief.

She glanced up at Niall, and it was then he noted her eyes also swam with tears. Letting him go, she flung herself at the lady, and they embraced fiercely. He could not separate the woman’s sobs from Ophelia’s.

“You are home,” the lady said. “How I worried—we all worried…I’ve missed you dreadfully, Ophelia! Thank heavens you are home and safe!”

Niall stood there, looking around to see if he saw his ma or da. He gathered they were not here or had ever been with this search party. The lady parted from Fifi and looked at him. The large and handsome gentleman helped her to stand, and she smiled warmly at him.

“And who is this young man?” the lady asked.

Ophelia turned around and smiled her prettiest smile yet.

“This is Niall, Mama. He jumped into the river and saved me.”

Both man and woman gasped. However, Ophelia merely continued. “He took care of me by hunting and cooked rabbits and birds on a spit. We will also be married when I am seventeen.”

The gentleman choked, and the lady stiffened.

“I beg your pardon?” she said in accents so crisp, they almost sliced Niall.

“Yes,” he said, wanting them to understand his intentions. His heart knocked frantically around inside his chest, but still he staunchly continued. “One day Fifi will be my wife.”

“I find it incredible and brave that you were able to rescue our daughter. How old are you, lad?” the gentleman asked kindly. “Seven years?”

Niall pushed out his chest, the tips of his ears burning. “I am twelve years. I am old enough to understand our promise,” he said earnestly, lest they thought him foolish and too ignorant. He sensed his success was rooted in approval from this large, imposing man. “Fifi and I will get married. She’ll not have Peter Warwick, the Earl of Langdon.”

The gentleman seemed to find some amusement in the matter, for he chuckled, but not the lady. She appeared affronted. Niall hoped that was the right word. His ma used it often, and it was always to describe when betters had that look.

“Come, Ophelia dear,” she said, holding on to her daughter’s hand. “A lady of your stature would not marry a gentleman of common origins but one of great wealth and consequences, a titled lord. You’ll come to understand the full of it when you are older.”

His heart started to thunder when the lady walked away with Fifi. Common origins?

Fifi glanced back and waved, her expression saddened. They were just taking her away from him, with no care that they were friends? His throat burned, and he hated that it felt like stupid tears.

The gentleman held out a few coins to Niall, but he placed his hands behind his back. “I…I doona want no money for saving Fifi.” Never would he take money for her.

“You have the appearance of a starving flea-infested beggar. Can you afford to refuse this money, lad?”

A starving flea-infested beggar. The shame curdled deeper in his gut, but then he recalled the pride and dignity his da said a man, even a poor man, should always own. Holding the gentleman’s eyes with his, Niall said tightly, “Yes. I’ll not take no money for saving Fifi.”

“Very well,” the man said, arching a brow. “My servant here will take you to the kitchen and ensure something warm fills your belly. Then I’ll arrange with the viscount for a carriage to take you…wherever your home is.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said respectfully, as his mother taught him.

The man made to turn away.

“Sir?”

“Yes, lad?”

Niall swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I promised…Fifi and I promised to marry each other, sir, and that we shall be great friends.”

The gentleman smiled again, as if the entire situation was humorous. Niall was most assuredly serious, and it was his turn to feel affronted even if he was not better. He puffed out his chest, hoping to appear taller and more dignified than a starving flea-infested beggar. His da taught him to be a lad of his word. A man never goes back on his word. That would make him the worse sort of ruffian.

“I have no doubt you wish to marry her and be her friend. You are fit to be neither, and it is insulting that you believe you can. My daughter’s husband will have wealth, power, and good breeding—all of which you lack. Learn not to want to pick the high-hanging fruit, lad, but always go for the one you can reach.”

The man walked away, too, leaving Niall feeling hollow. “Fifi!”

A hand grabbed his neck and dragged him. Niall dug his feet into the gravel, the stone poking through his worn boots.

“Fifi!”

This time she heard, because she looked back just as she was about to enter the large home. “Wait for me…” he shouted, hoping she could hear him.

“Wait for me…” This time it was a whisper, a prayer, a hopeful plea.

Her mother tugged her inside, and the door closed with a finality that echoed through his soul.

Wait for me…