Falling for a Lord with no Memory (Preview)

Chapter One

Monreith, Scotland, 1818

The cool wind off the Atlantic caught the stray locks of Miss Catriona MacAlastair’s raven-black hair, swirling them in front of her eyes, as she turned for a last look over the craggy Scottish shoreline.

It was her favorite sight in the world, and every time she caught a glimpse of it, her heart beat faster and wilder.

This afternoon, the sky was filled with on- and off-again clouds, through which the light shone in brilliant beams of gold, turning the Scottish heather a blazing red and the fields emerald green.

Beyond these, and the cliff’s edge, the Atlantic raged in the wind, the surf’s foamy tips reaching high with each crash of a wave. 

Catriona smiled to herself, then turned and began to walk back up along the path that would take her to her father’s house, her maid hurrying after her.

The view from Brinewood Park was just as stunning as the one closer to the cliffs — perhaps better, as she would be able to see out beyond the bay, all the way to the Irish Sea. The blustery clouds on the far southern horizon promised a storm, and after supper, she would be able to watch it blow in across the bay, turning the water purple. 

As she approached Brinewood Park, she sped up her pace slightly. Her mother and father had expected her back some time ago, but she had quite lost track of time walking along the cliff’s edge. They would not be surprised, though, by her tardiness. She was known to go on long walks, only to return just as dusk was falling, with her skirt hems and boots covered in mud. 

Brinewood Park loomed large and elegant above her, right at the top of the bluff. Surrounded by acres of parkland, the red-brick house sat three stories high, with tall, arched windows looking out in the direction of the Irish Sea, with ivy crawling luxuriously up the sides.

A long drive led to the staircase, lined with elegantly carved balustrades. Although it was still early afternoon, the lights were already on in the house, perhaps because of the quickly darkening sky, and Catriona could see candles flickering in several of the upstairs windows. 

As she came up the stairs, the front door opened, and the butler stepped out. 

“Miss Catriona,” he said with a low bow. “Your parents have been anxiously awaiting your return.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. O’Ryan,” she said, beaming at him. “I had the most marvelous long walk today along the cliffs to the south. I went almost as far as Ninian’s Caves.”

“Ninian’s Caves!” Mr. O’Ryan blanched. “But those can be quite dangerous, Miss.”

“Do not fear,” Catriona said with a laugh. “I had Abigail with me. And besides, I am always very careful. As my parents also know.”

Mr. O’Ryan frowned at her. “Regardless, they are waiting for you in the parlor. They said you should be brought to them at once.”

Catriona exchanged a look with Abigail, who raised her eyes as if to say, You have brought this upon yourself, then she handed her pelisse and reticule to the butler and made her way along the marble hallway, past oil paintings of her ancestors, heads of hunting trophies, and watercolors depicting the Scottish countryside, all set on dark wood panelled walls, to the parlor. 

When Catriona entered the parlor, she saw that her parents were already drinking. This was not a good sign. Mr. and Mrs. MacAlastair were sitting together on a Louis XIV-style chaise lounge, both of them holding tumblers of brandy. This was also not a good sign. Mr. and Mrs. MacAlastair did not always get along. If they were sitting together, it meant they were united. 

United against her, no doubt.

Catriona’s heart began to race. She stepped cautiously into the room, the butler closing the door with a snap behind her. It was a richly decorated room, with sofas and settee upholstered in red and gold brocade, gold velvet curtains hanging from the large French windows, and expensive oil paintings in gilded frames set throughout the room. The chaise lounge where her parents sat was in front of a grand fireplace, which had already been lit. 

“Catriona,” her mother said, standing at once. “Where have you been?”

Mrs. MacAlastair had once been a beauty, and she still was. Although her face was lined and her dark hair had begun to be streaked by gray, she still carried herself with an unrivalled elegance. She had Catriona’s green eyes, her high cheekbones, and her bow mouth, but unlike Catriona, Mrs. MacAlastair knew how to wear her beauty like armor. 

“I was out walking, Mama,” Catriona said, noticing how quickly her voice became soft and her eyes demure when she spoke to her mother. “I told you this morning I was going for a long walk.”

“Do you see, Mr. MacAlastair?” Her mother cried, turning in dismay toward her father. “She still acts as if she were a girl, going for long walks instead of practicing her needlepoint or attending the balls and musicales which I arrange invites to.”

“There is nothing childish about walking,” Catriona said, folding her arms. “It is my passion.”

Mr. MacAlastair sighed. He was still sitting, his ankle crossed over his knee, but at his wife’s words, he sighed and leaned forward, uncrossing his legs and staring at Catriona with his piercing gray eyes. 

“Your mother is simply worried,” he said in far more conciliatory tones. “We both are, Catriona. It is high time that you were married, but instead of insisting you attend the balls and parties where you might find a husband, we still let you roam wild over the hills and fields.”

Catriona felt all the air leave her lungs at once. “M-married?” she breathed. She stared between her parents. “Where is this coming from?”

“It is past time, Catriona,” Mrs. MacAlastair said sharply. “Do not act so surprised. Your sister was married three years ago! She is already a widow. And meanwhile, you have remained here, getting up to God knows what, instead of doing your duty and finding a husband.”

The mention of her sister made Catriona feel light-headed, and it took her a moment to recover herself. “I have been taking care of my parents,” she murmured at last. “Is that not my duty as well?”

“It might be, if the estate was not entailed away,” her father said, frowning at her. “But we are afraid that if you do not marry, you will be cast out of Brinewood Park, with nowhere to go…”

“Not to mention you should be finding a titled husband to improve your family’s fortunes,” Mrs. MacAlastair snapped. “Just as your sister did.”

Catriona swallowed down her anger and tried to smile at her mother. “Alexandra made a good match, indeed, Mama. But I have no wish to marry simply for a title. I wish to marry for—”

“Please do not say love,” her mother said, bringing a hand to her forehead. “Heavens, I feel a headache coming on.”

Mr. MacAlastair gave his wife an exasperated look, then turned back to Catriona. “My darling, there was a time when I might have supported you marrying for love. But you are three-and-twenty now. Quite on the shelf. And it is far past time that you found a suitable arrangement in order to secure your future.”

Catriona’s mouth was very dry. She knew her parents were speaking sense, but every instinct in her revolted against the idea. A suitable arrangement to secure her future. All her life, she had dreamed of love, but when she had accepted it would never happen for her, she had contented herself to a life as a spinster, caring for her aging parents. And now…

“And now we have the perfect man for you,” her mother said, smiling widely. “The Baron of Oban has expressed interest in courting you.”

“The Baron of Oban?” Catriona gasped, her mouth falling open as she stared at her mother in horror. “But, Mama! He is Father’s age!”

“He is,” her father said gravely, “and I count him amongst my closest friends. I know he will take care of you, Catriona, and give you a good life.”

Catriona could barely breathe. The world was spinning around her. The Baron of Oban was not only old, but he had always given Catriona a bad feeling. Whenever he came for dinner, he always looked too long at her or let his hands linger on her lower back. She tried to avoid him as much as possible. And now to be wed to him? It was not to be born. 

“I cannot, Papa,” Catriona said weakly, looking up at her father. “Please…”

He must have seen the desperation in her eyes, because he hesitated. “Well…”

“It has already been decided,” Mrs. MacAlastair interrupted coldly. “He will be coming to stay with us, and during that time, you will show him the respect and admiration that his position deserves. And if you have any sense, then, at the end of his visit, you will accept his proposal.” Mrs. MacAlastair stepped forward, her eyes narrowing to slits. “You will do your duty, Catriona. Just as I raised you.”

Catriona hung her head. The glimmer of fight that had filled her when she had heard Oban’s name was extinguished. She felt sick. Oban was the last man she wanted to marry.

But who was she to defy her parents?

She was nothing. 

Worthless. 

The wasted, useless daughter who had failed to make a good marriage while Alexandra had shone on the marriage mart. Who was she to defy her parents after how she had disappointed them?

Slowly, she nodded her head. She would do her duty. As she always had. 

Several hours later, as the sun began to sink low on the horizon, Catriona walked along the cliff’s edge near Brinewood Park, accompanied by her friend, Miss Harriet Thorne. Despite what she had told her parents, Catriona was distraught at the prospect of marriage to Oban, and she had risked their displeasure by heading out again to see her friend. Harriet was the only one who would understand. The only one with whom she could talk.

“I know, perhaps, that he is the best I can hope for,” Catriona said as the two of them walked slowly along the weathered cliffside path. “And he is wealthy and titled… I am lucky they were able to find me such a good match.”

“A good match?” Harriet repeated scornfully, tossing her curly red hair in fury. “He is old enough to be your father!”

Catriona repressed a smile at her friend’s indignation. “I know, but…”

“But nothing,” Harriet interjected. “Believe me, Catriona, I know what it is like to feel as if one has no prospects. That is why my parents sent me to live up here with Aunt Ruth. No one in London would marry me without a dowry. But that does not mean you have to settle. Or marry a man on death’s door.”

“My sister did,” Catriona pointed out. “And now she is a widow with a vast fortune and estate that she controls.”

“You are not your sister,” Harriet said. “From what you have told me, she was always a fortune-hunter.”

“Yes…” Catriona swallowed. “And she was good at it.”

“But you, Catriona?” Her friend turned toward her, taking her gloved hands in hers. “What is it you dream of? Do you not want to marry for love?”

Catriona hesitated. “Well, of course… But I am far too plain and boring.” She took her hands from Harriet’s and turned back to the path. “Alexandra always assured me that I would never be able to find a good match. She was the brilliant, beautiful one, bound for greatness. I was the disappointment…”

“How can you say such things?” Harriet cried. “I have never heard anything further from the truth! Catriona, you are not boring or plain. How could you be, when you look exactly like Alexandra, and you just told me she is beautiful?” Harriet shook her head. “You are twins, for heaven’s sake!”

Catriona flushed. “Well, that is true… But Alexandra is much more comfortable in social gatherings. She knew how to flirt with men. And she also—”

“Was encouraged by your mother,” Harriet pointed out. “Who favored her, if everything you have told me of your childhood is true. Perhaps, if your mother had shown you as much support, you would have married during your first season as well.”

Catriona looked away over the sea. The stormclouds on the horizon were darker now, and the wind had begun to pick up. A biting chill cut through her gray, ermine-lined pelisse. 

“I do not want to blame my mother,” Catriona murmured. “Or Alexandra. Although…” She didn’t know why she was telling Harriet these things. In the year since Harriet had come to live in Monreith, they had become close friends, but there was so much Catriona had still not told her. The idea of revealing the truth of her childhood and her relationship with her sister made her heart immediately begin to palpitate.

She did not want Hariet to think the things about her that Alexandra did. 

“It was hard growing up, knowing that my mother preferred Alexandra. Knowing she was effortlessly beautiful and charming, while I was awkward and shy.”

Harriet looked at her, her expression serious. “Do you think Alexandra might be able to help you get out of this marriage?” she asked. “Could she write your mother, ask you to come stay with her, promise to take you out to balls in Newcastle, and introduce you to wealthy young men?”

“Perhaps, but…”

“What?”

“I do not wish to stay with Alexandra,” Catriona admitted. “She can be quite… critical.”

A long silence fell between them, broken only by their footsteps on the path and the crash of the waves against the rocks below. Then, Harriet spoke. 

“I am very sorry, Catriona.”

“Oh, it is nothing,” Catriona said quickly, flushing, but Harriet shook her head.

“No, it is something. You were treated badly, Catriona, by both your mother and sister.” She linked her arm with Catriona’s and smiled at her. “Which is exactly why we will not allow you to be mistreated now! We will get you out of this marriage — one way or another.”

Catriona smiled gratefully, then pulled her pelisse tighter around her. She hoped that her friend was right. But she had a feeling that this marriage, much like that storm on the horizon, was inevitable: a force of nature that a young lady like her could never change.

Her last thought as she and Harriet turned back along the path to head toward home was that she was glad, at least, that she would be safe in Brinewood Park tonight and not caught outside as the storm raged. 

Chapter Two

The silence in the carriage was as taut and terrible as the rope that had lowered Edward’s coffin into the ground not twenty minutes ago. And as Benedict stared stonily across at the empty seat where his brother should have been, he wished he knew how to break it.

But the only things he wanted to say to his father were words that should never be said. Words Edward would not wish him to say, if he were still alive. 

Except Edward is not alive, a horrible voice whispered in the back of his head, and the man sitting across from you is the reason why. 

Benedict’s eyes snapped to his father. The Earl of Chester was sitting very rigid, his eyes also focused straight ahead. He was not moving. The expression on his face was cold and unreadable,but his grief betrayed him in other ways. The Earl looked thinner than he ever had, paler and older, as if the death of his first son had aged him another ten years. 

It was just another reminder of what Benedict had inherited. He was now the heir to the earldom of Chester. If looks had anything to do with it, he would be coming into his inheritance sooner rather than later. 

As if he could read his mind, Benedict’s father looked directly at him. His pale blue eyes betrayed none of the grief that must be swirling inside of him. 

“Well, that is done,” the Earl said, his voice thin and cold. 

Benedict said nothing. He did not, however, look away.

“Edward is buried, and you are now my heir.” It was said so clinically, so harshly, that Benedict had to resist the urge to hit him. 

Instead, he forced himself to speak. “I know you must be greatly disappointed.”

The Earl’s mouth hardened, and his eyes flashed. “I will make the best of the hand I have been dealt,” he snarled, “As we all must. Edward was… a perfect son. Dutiful. Brilliant. Dedicated to running our estate. He would have been a great Earl of Chester when his time came.”

“And me?” Benedict asked, leaning back in his seat. “Will I be a great Earl of Chester, Father?”

“There is no reason why you cannot,” the Earl snapped. “It is your duty now. I know you have enjoyed this career of adventuring, but now it is time to quit the Royal Navy, return to Liverpool, and take up your brother’s mantle.”

Benedict gave him a hard look. “You mean poring over ledgers and negotiating the prices of grain? Or perhaps kicking tenants out of the farms they’ve lived in for generations? Oh, no, I know what you mean — becoming your lapdog, following you around all day and doing your bidding, just as Edward did.”

The Earl flushed, and his eyes flashed with momentary anger. “Your brother was a good student, yes, but I would not have you insult his memory by calling him a lapdog!”

“He described himself to me that way, Father!” Benedict shouted. “He hated every minute of learning how to be the perfect Earl of Chester. He longed for adventure, for freedom, for a life!”

“What life?” The Earl spat. “Do you consider what you do a life? The war is over, Benedict. All you do now is sail down to Gibraltar and drink and womanize with your soldiers.”

“I am a Captain in the Royal Navy!” Benedict said, his anger rising. “You insult me, and your country, with your ignorance of my duties, my sacrifices — ”

“Please!” The Earl scoffed. “You have never sacrificed anything once in your life. You do as you please, come and go as you please, amusing us with stories of your adventures to far-flung places and then shoving off when it suits you — leaving all the responsibility of running the estate to your brother.”

“Then perhaps you should have let him come with me, like he wanted,” Benedict said through gritted teeth. 

The Earl puffed himself up. “And then who would have been here, should something have befallen me?” He gave Benedict a disgusted look. “You have no sense of responsibility, Benedict. You are a disappointment compared to your brother. And I will make do with you, but make no mistake, I will always wish—”

“It was you who killed him,” Benedict interrupted, his anger so fiery that he could keep it in no longer — could no longer hold back the words he so longed to say. “You killed him through boredom! By never letting him have a life outside of the estate. And now he is gone, and he will never be able to live the life that he wanted. It is your fault, Father.”

The words filled the space between them like an echo. Benedict could barely believe he had spoken them, and now he was filled with regret. Whatever his father deserved, it wasn’t this. Yes, he had driven Edward to exhaustion. He had broken his spirit, but he also knew that his father had loved Edward dearly. 

For a moment, Benedict thought that the Earl would hit him. Then something far worse happened. His eyes filled with tears, and his face seemed to shatter, like glass. He turned away from Benedict, hiding his face in his shoulder. 

Benedict was filled with shame. He sat forward, reaching out a hand.

“Father…” he murmured. “I did not mean—”

“Begone with you!” The Earl cried, turning back around to face Benedict. All the tears were gone, and now his face was a mask of fury. “I want you out of this carriage, out of my house — now! And do not return until you can behave like a proper gentleman.”

The carriage came to a stop at that moment, and Benedict looked up to see that they had stopped outside of the tall, red-brick townhouse where they made their home in Liverpool.

“Get out!” The Earl repeated, his shout growing louder. “I will not allow your mother to see you when you are like this! You are without shame, without honor, and I will not allow you across this threshold.”

Benedict’s lip curled. “I would be happy not to return here,” he snarled. He wrenched open the door of the carriage and descended quickly. “I would be happy never to return!” he shouted before slamming the door shut.

Without a backward glance, he strode down the street, back toward the heart of Liverpool, where he knew he would find friendlier faces — and much friendlier drink.

By the time he arrived at The Pig’s Back, where he knew Lieutenant Bromley would be waiting for him, Benedict’s mind was made up. To his annoyance, however, he found his Lieutenant sitting at a large table in the middle of the tavern, singing a bawdy song with several other sailors, his face red with drink and several empty tankards around him. 

“Bromley,” Benedict shouted, grabbing his shoulder. “Bromley, I need to speak with you!”

Bromley blinked and sat down hard in his seat, blinking up at Benedict with wide, confused eyes.

“Captain Blackwater!” he stammered. “W-what are you doing here? Did you not have your brother’s funeral this afternoon?”

“Yes, I just came from it,” Benedict said. “And now we are leaving.”

Bromley’s eyes narrowed. “Leaving? Leaving this tavern?”

“No,” Benedict said impatiently. “Leaving Liverpool!”

Bromley stared at him a moment longer, not comprehending, until his eyes finally widened with understanding. Only then did he get shakily to his feet and walk with Benedict to a quieter, more private corner of the tavern. 

“Captain,” Bromley said, putting a hand on Benedict’s shoulder. He was not as tall as Benedict, but he was still strong, and Benedict felt the weight of his hand. Some of his sandy-blond hair was falling in front of his eyes, which were surprisingly clear. “Tell me what has happened.”

“Nothing has happened,” Benedict snapped. “I am simply leaving, as was always my plan. I must fulfill my duty and my commission with the Royal Navy.”

“The Royal Navy will no longer be expecting you to fulfill that commission,” Bromley said. “Not now that you are the heir to the Earl of Chester. They expect you to stay here, in Liverpool, and take over the management of his estate.”

“And that is what my father expects as well,” Benedict said sourly. “Unfortunately, it is not what I desire. Therefore, I will be returning with you to Plymouth on the next chartered ship leaving Liverpool and returning to report for duty.”

Bromley swayed slightly, blinking several times as if trying to absorb all of this information. “So you had a fight with your father?”

“It is not just about one fight,” Benedict said with a loud sigh. “It is about the fact I do not want to lead the miserable, staid life Edward did — the life that killed him.”

“Consumption killed him.”

“Which he might have been able to fight had he had anything to live for!” Benedict said hotly. 

Bromley gave him a wary look. And when he spoke, his voice was soft. “Come now, Captain. I know you are grieving. But you must know it was not your father that killed your brother. And as for what you desire, well… That no longer matters. You are the next Earl of Chester. You have no choice in the matter. And you must take up your place whether you like it or not.”

At Bromley’s words, Benedict felt the reality of his situation tremble through him. He was now his father’s heir. He would one day become the Earl. Which meant his life of adventuring, his life on the seas, fighting for England, would be over. 

He would have to return to Liverpool, live in Chester House, and spend his days poring over ledgers and trying to understand how harvests worked. 

Benedict slumped suddenly, and he had to sit down in the nearest chair. 

“He never wanted this life,” Benedict murmured. He stared straight ahead, but he saw nothing: not the men carousing by the bar, the wenches counting out coins on a table in the far corner, or several sailors playing cards together underneath the large window that looked out over the docks. “He told me often, Bromley. Edward. He wished he could follow me to sea. Have the life of adventure that I, as the second son, got to enjoy. And now he will never have it. He is gone, and he will never, ever know happiness…”

Benedict had to break off. His voice was suddenly thick with tears, and he could not keep going. 

Bromley placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and when he spoke, his voice was kind. 

“I am sure that he knew happiness, Captain. With you as a brother, how could he not?”

Benedict grimaced and looked up at the Lieutenant. “I hope so.”

“But that is why you should stay here,” Bromley insisted. “You should stay and properly grieve your brother. Put to rest this endless war with your father. Take up your place as his heir, as Edward would have wanted.”

But that was just the thing. Benedict was not sure that was what Edward would have wanted. He probably would have told Benedict to pursue the life he wanted; to not give in so easily to their father like he had. 

Benedict stood up very quickly, and Bromley took a step back.

“No.” Benedict said the word with such firm decisiveness he knew the Lieutenant would not argue. “We sail tonight for Plymouth.”

Lieutenant Bromley hesitated, then nodded. “There is a ship sailing tonight,” he confirmed. “The Cutter. But Captain… It looks too stormy tonight. I do not suggest we try to sail in these conditions.”

“But the Captain of The Cutter deems it well enough to sail?” Benedict asked sharply.

“Yes, but—”

“Then we sail.” Benedict would brook no opposition, and he would not let a little bad weather get in his way. “I must leave Liverpool tonight,” he muttered. “And I have no intention of coming back.”

 

Hours later, however, as Benedict stood on the bow of the bucking ship, the waves rising so high around him that they were dashing the deck with saltwater, he wondered if he should have, perhaps, listened to Lieutenant Bromley. 

The storm had hit them hard almost the moment they had left Liverpool port. Immediately, it had blown them north, instead of south. The captain was trying his best to get them back on course, but the wind had plans of its own.

Sails had been shredded by the wind, and the gale was so fierce that most men were afraid to be on deck. The rain was coming down in sheets, and Benedict could barely see in front of him as he and Bromley ran back and forth across the deck, trying to tie down the sails.

They weren’t even sailors on this ship. They were passengers. But they were the only Navy-trained men aboard, and Benedict knew it was his duty to try and help.

A swell hit the ship, and it rolled, sending them both flying across the deck toward the edge of the ship. Benedict managed to grab hold of a loose rope, which prevented him from slamming into the side, and he reached for Bromley, who was sliding past him. Bromley caught his hand. 

“This is pointless!” Bromley shouted, as the ship righted itself, and they found themselves lying side-by-side on the deck. “The storm is too strong! It will sweep us overboard if we stay up here.”

“We have to try!” Benedict shouted back. His voice was barely audible over the scream of the wind. “If we don’t get the sails tied down, we could be blown all the way to Scotland!”

“We —alr—half—th—!” Bromley shouted back.

“What?” Benedict could not make out his words through the howl of the storm. Bromley cupped his hands around his mouth.

“We are already halfway there!” he bellowed. 

Benedict tried to look around, to get his bearings for where they were, but the rain was too heavy. He could not see a thing, and certainly not all the way to the shore. 

He wasn’t sure what to do. Bromley was right. It was dangerous to be on deck right now. On the other hand, if they didn’t help, who would? The rest of the crew was frightened and huddled below deck. 

“We should—” he began, but before he could finish his sentence, there was a flash of lightning right above them, so bright that he was temporarily blinded. A split second later, the accompanying boom of thunder split open the sky at the exact same moment that Benedict heard the unmistakable sound of wood splintering. 

He looked up, but his eyes were still full of stars from the flash of lightning, and he could see nothing. The splintering sound filled his ears. It was deafening. 

“It is the main mast!” he heard Bromley shout. “The lightning hit it! Captain, watch out, it will hit—”

But Benedict never heard the end of that sentence. Because at that very moment, a large beam of wood came hurtling out of the darkness and smacked right into his head, throwing him into the air, across the deck, and over the side of the ship, where the dark waves were waiting to swallow him up.