From the distance, Bair Hall seemed a jumble of oriels and turrets and chimneys. The bricks blurred into a single rusty-brown, the shades of red, orange and apricot lost just like the diamond-shaped blue pattern among them. Such a delicate pattern on such a sturdy, thick-walled house. Indeed, this distance view always reminded him of a stodgy castle, warding off all peril. Now, as early dusk settled on the land, the windows blazed with welcoming light. Against the dull grey of the winter sky, the hall sparkled like an exotic treasure, a hoard of gold and gemstones ...

Smiling, Murgatroyd Sacheverell, fifth Earl of Ravenhurst shook his head at his own fancy. It would seem he had read too many chapbooks and chivalric romances of late.

A snow flake landed on his nose, and his horse chose this moment to try and nip at its master’s leg. “Brueberry!” he sharply admonished, yet, not the least repentant, the mean old beast gave him a baleful look and snorted.

Another snowflake landed on the arm of his coat, and yet another in his lashes.

Troy blinked the moisture away and threw a critical look at the sky. The heavy grey clouds hovered low, promising more heavy snowfall for the night. The glowing house beckoned with warmth and light.

Once more, the stallion snorted and impatiently shook its head.

Troy grinned. Given the sourly disposition of the beast, it was probably calling him all kinds of fool for forcing them to stand around in the cold while home and warmth and food was so near.

“You’re absolutely right, old friend,” he said good-naturedly, giving the horse a gentle nudge with his heels. “On we go before you bite off one of my toes out of spite.”

Briskly the horse followed its rider’s lead and trotted off in the direction of the large stone arch that marked the entrance to the estate. As always when he rode through the gate, Troy glanced at the rowan tree that grew next to it. Snow caps adorned the branches of the old tree, and a few last red berries peeked out from underneath their white blanket.

“Good day, Master Troy,” a cheerful voice sounded behind him.

Smiling, he turned to Nolan, his gatekeeper of many years, who had stepped in front of the door of the gatehouse. Never mind that the first strands of grey had started to show in Troy’s hair, the old man continued to address him as if he were still a small lad and hadn’t yet inherited the earldom. “And a good day to you, too.” He glanced back at the tree.

Rowan tree, witchen tree, guardian of the house ...

“Do you remember?” he asked impulsively, ignoring the evil eye Brueberry the Horrible was giving him. Again.

For wasn’t this darkest time of the year made for remembrance? For letting the memories rise and fill one’s heart?

Nolan’s voice softened. “Oh yes, I remember, my lord.” He cleared his throat. “What a remarkable woman she’s been.”

“Yes,” Troy said. “Yes.” And as he rode on under the mighty oak trees up the drive, he remembered the old woman who had reminded him of a fairy godmother from a children’s tale. Even now Mistress Nanette’s benevolent presence appeared to linger among the hall at times. It seemed to him he could almost hear her voice amidst the rustling of the branches overhead, For no evil shall come to a house that is guarded by a rowan tree ...

And for the past eight years her prediction had been proven true. Bair Hall had prospered. It had been transformed into a home filled with life and laughter, and each time he now came up the drive his heart lifted with joy.

You would have been proud of her, he silently told the long-dead woman. So very, very proud.

He left the tree-lined walk behind, and Bair Hall rose in front of him, warm and welcoming. Alerted by the sounds of hooves on gravel, a stableboy came running to take care of the horse.

Smoothly, Troy slid out of the saddle. Yet when his feet hit the ground, a twinge in his leg reminded him of the old wound – a sure sign he had driven himself too hard today. He made a rueful grimace. Brueberry – and the long-suffering stable-hands – had needed the long outing. In fact, now that he had been given the opportunity to trot around and about all afternoon, the stallion appeared practically docile.

Troy threw the reins to the stableboy. “I say he’s deserved some oats today.” With a nod, he strode to the entrance of the hall and up the front stairs, where Hill had already thrown the door wide open.

“Good afternoon, my lord. I hope you had a pleasant ride.”

“Very pleasant, thank you.” Troy took off his fur hat, divested himself of his gloves and coat and gave them to the butler. “I trust my wife is –” He broke off to stare at the mighty brown bear that adorned the entrance hall. According to family legend, it had been killed by the first Earl of Ravenhurst on his first hunt in the area. The earl had named the house he had eventually erected here after the beast he had shot on that day.

“What the deuce has happened to the Bear?”

His face carefully blank, Hill said, “I believe it has been ...” He paused. One of his eyelids twitched. “... adorned, my lord.”

Troy narrowed his eyes. “Is that a petticoat?” He stepped nearer to the long-suffering bear.

“I believe it is.”

“And –” Troy’s brows shot up. “The countess’s pearls? Those rascals! And – good lord, what is that?”

Both men leaned slightly forward to eye the Bear’s new headdress. Eventually, the butler cleared his throat. “A lacy veil, my lord.”

“There are holes in it!”

“Oh yes. It must have come from ... from the attic, my lord.”

“The attic?” Troy glanced at his butler, but Hill looked blander than ever.

“I believe there was a treasure hunt today.”

“In the attic?” A horrible thought occurred to Troy. “Did they find the elephant foot?”

“Indeed they did, my lord.” Hill blinked. “And they were much taken by it.” He made a pause as if to let these terrible news sink in. “But it proved too heavy for them.”

A sigh of relief escaped Troy. “Thank heavens!” he muttered. Fortunately, his ancestor had only been fond of big, brawny animals and had eschewed the daintier fauna. Who knew what would have been dragged down from the attic otherwise!

He shuddered.

“The countess?” he finally asked, his voice sounding somewhat weak even to his own ears.

“Was not interested in the elephant foot,” Hill said, his gaze still glued to the unfortunate bear.

Troy looked at his butler more closely. The events of the day appeared to have left the old man shaken. After all, Hill had always regarded the Bear of Bair Hall as his personal responsibility. To see it thus adorned must be downright painful. But as they all knew from experience, the immediate reversal of such beautification and decoration projects would only end in tears and mayhem.

“I take it that she is in the drawing room?” Troy asked, his voice gentle.

Hill started and threw him a flustered look. “Oh yes, yes, the countess is ...” His gaze strayed to the Bear once more. “... is ...”

“Yes?”

“Taking her tea.” With a sigh, Hill turned his attention back on Troy. “My lord.”

“Then have some sandwiches sent to the drawing room,” Troy instructed before he hurried up the stairs. He cursed his leg as another uncomfortable twinge held him back. He rubbed at his thigh, hoping to ease the strain on the muscles, but by the time he had reached the drawing room, the twinge had turned into a limp.

As the footman threw open the door for him, a squeal sounded from within. “Papa! Papapapapapapapapapa!”

And before he could even set one foot into the room, a small dervish with an abundance of reddish-brown curls hurled towards him and threw herself into his arms, utterly certain he would catch her.

“Papapapapapapapa!”

Small arms wound tightly around his neck. A chubby cheek rubbed against his own, then was abruptly withdrawn. “You’re cold!” Round, cornflower-blue eyes stared at him accusingly. “Where have you been?” his daughter asked as if he had been away for months instead of mere hours.

Meanwhile, his son and heir had reached him and clutched his leg. “Ngah!” he crowded in delight around the thumb in his mouth.

The Lady Cassandra glanced down at her little brother. When she turned her attention back to Troy, a frown crinkled her delicate brows. “Perri missed you, too, Papa!” she told him earnestly. “Wherever have you been?”

“I had to exercise Brueberry the Horrible,” he said, while trying to keep an eye on his son, who had taken a sudden interest in the mud on his boots. “Don’t touch this, Peregrine. It’s dirty.” A small sound from the settee alerted him to the presence of the third person in the room. He glanced at the woman who sat on the settee, her glorious brown curls arranged in some intricate coiffure on her head so that only a few tendrils surrounded her face and fell to her pale shoulders. Her lips were curved and her gray eyes sparkled with silent amusement.

And even though his breath hitched in his throat, he managed to school his features and raise a sardonic brow.

She regarded him a moment longer, before she chose to give in to his silent entreaty. “Cassandra, Peregrine, come here,” the Countess of Ravenhurst commanded. “Your papa is surely tired and hungry after riding that horse.”

Cass patted his cheek to gain his attention. “Was Brueberry very cross?” she wanted to know. “Would he have eaten the stableboy if you hadn’t taken him out?”

Troy rolled his eyes in a suitable fearsome fashion. “The stableboy and the stable-master,” he growled. Giggling, she allowed him to set her down. Then she clutched the hand of her brother – “Come, Perry.” – and marched to the settee with him.

Troy followed them more slowly. He saw the amusement flee from his wife’s eyes as she caught him limping. Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. There was nothing to worry

about, after all. “I was much surprised when I passed the Bear in the entrance hall,” he said to divert her attention.

“‘Tis very pwetty, isn’t it, Papa?” Cass chirped and reached for a jam tart.

Pretty, my foot!

“Pwetty!” Perry echoed, eying the jam tart his sister had just picked up.

Troy cleared his throat. “And why would the Bear be wearing mama’s pearls, Cassandra?”

The tart that was about to disappear in his wayward daughter’s mouth halted in mid-air. Of course she knew well enough that mama’s pearls were not meant to be used as toys.

Troy crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Yet as the little girl looked up, her expression was a picture of innocence. “But, Papa ...” She blinked and glanced at her mother. Almost triumphantly, she then continued, “Mama never wears the pearls.” She pointed in the general direction of mama’s neck. “She only ever, ever, ever wears her locket!”

At that, Troy’s eyes were inevitably drawn to his wife. His gaze dropped to where the golden locket lay against her pale flesh.

A gift of the heart.

A flash of gold as it flew through the rain.

His heart clenched. With three hurried steps he closed the gap between him and the settee, so he could lean down, take her hand and press an ardent kiss on her fingers.

“Indeed, she does,” he murmured hoarsely against her skin, gazing at her over her knuckles, drinking in the sight of her.

Loving her. So much so that his heart sometimes seemed to burst with it.

Her features softened, and a sudden, brilliant sheen appeared in her eyes. She turned her hand in his to brush her fingers against his cheek.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

A heart for a heart.

He nestled the side of his face against her palm.

“See, Papa?” his daughter cut in. “Mama does not need the pearls!”

“That doesn’t mean the Bear can have them,” he muttered, yet when he would have turned around to admonish his eldest born, his wife’s hand retained him. A small frown appeared between her brows as she searched his face. Reaching out, he smoothed his thumb over the small worry line. “What? What is it?” he murmured.

“Papa? Papa, guess what we founded today!”

Wordless, his wife reached for his hand. “Your leg ...”

“An elephant foot!” Cassandra crowed. “Did you know there’s an elephant foot in the attic, Papa?”

“Ooooh!” Perry sighed and clapped his hands. “Enephan foo!”

With a small grimace Troy sank down next to his countess on the settee. “Just the old wound,” he quietly answered her question. “I’ve spent too many hours on that devil horse.”

“Perry really liked the elephant foot. Didn’t you, Perry? – Can we have the elephant foot? Please, Papa, please!”

His wife eyed him a moment longer before she resolutely stood and reached for the bell pull. “No more talk about that elephant foot, Cassandra,” she sternly told their daughter, and to the footman who came hurrying in, “Please take Lord Thornby and Lady Cassandra back to the nursery –“

”Mama!” Cass wailed.

“Hush! Papa is tired and needs rest. Tell Nurse to read you a story.” Not waiting to see if her commands were obeyed, she reached for Troy’s hand and, entwining her fingers with his, she dragged him to his feet and then out of the room. They almost ran into another footman carrying a plate loaded with sandwiches.

“Beg your pardon, my –“

”We’ll take that.” Troy’s countess grabbed the plate from the flabbergasted footman. “We will now retire,” she announced grandly. “And we are not to be disturbed.” Without further ado, she marched on, still holding tight to Troy’s hand.

Bemused, he followed her. When they were on the stairs, out of earshot of either children or footmen, he couldn’t help asking, “I need rest?” Tender amusement tinged his voice.

Lillian stopped to look at him, her eyes very wide and grey. “Oh yes,” she said softly. “You do.”