Love, Come to Me

Love, Come to Me
Lisa Kleypas



Chapter 1

Heath turned up the collar of his overcoat, cursing through his teeth as he felt an icy draft of wind slip down his neck. It was his first winter here, and he was discovering that New England was not kind to misplaced Southerners. His booted feet crunched through hardened layers of snow that had accumulated over many recent storms. It had snowed and frozen over so many times that he suspected it would take until June to melt completely away.

Although he was dressed in heavy wool garments like a native Northeasterner, it would have been clear to anyone that he hadn’t lived here long. His skin was dark with the permanent bronze of someone accustomed to the heat of the Southern sun. He was six feet tall, which wasn’t all that remarkable in Kentucky or Virginia. Here he towered over most of the slender, compact New Englanders, and he looked at them with a blue-eyed directness that seemed to make them uneasy. At home strangers greeted each other as they passed in the street; here, it seemed you weren’t privileged to look someone in the eye unless you were kin, old friends, or business associates. He wondered why people in Massachusetts didn’t realize how odd they were. There was no explaining why they were so stiff and cold, and how they came by such a damned strange sense of humor. Maybe the weather had done it to them.

He smiled at his thoughts—a smile that had once set every female heart in Henrico County aflutter—and his gloved hand tightened around the ax handle as he set out for more stove wood. He used up wood and coal fast, trying to keep the small house he had bought last spring warm enough. It was so chilly outside that it was hard to whistle, but as he walked he occupied himself with producing a passable rendition of “All Quiet Along the Potomac Tonight,” one of the most popular tunes of the war. It had been composed by a Northerner, but a catchy tune was a catchy tune.

Slowly his footsteps came to a halt and his whistling stopped as he became aware of a muffled noise from the direction of the river. He lived on high ground near the river, and the quiet sound floated up to him, borne on the steady breeze, dispersed by the trees until it was difficult to hear. But it almost sounded like a woman’s voice.

It could not be possible that she would actually die now, in this way, in this place. Crossing the frozen river here instead of walking the extra quarter mile to the bridge had been foolhardy, but she did not deserve this—no one did. After the first shock of falling through the surface, Lucy had struggled violently among the chunks and shards of ice that floated around her, flailing her arms until she had grasped the edge of the hole. It had taken less than five seconds for the bite of the water to sink through her clothes into her flesh, down to her bones. All of it had happened so quickly, in less than a heartbeat. Her breath shuddered from deep in her lungs as she tried to pull herself out, but her cashmere mittens slipped on the ice, over and over again. Each time she slipped, she sank in the water almost up to her mouth.

“Someone help me! S-someone . . .” Her voice cracked as she looked toward the snow-blurred landscape of the riverbank, which was punctuated with the drifts of smoke from the chimneys of nearby houses. She could not help crying, even though she knew it was draining her strength, and she called out in a wavering voice with words that intermingled with sobs. “I’m in . . . the w-water . . . someone . . . help . . .” Someone had to hear her. Someone would help.

None of this could be happening to her. Not to Lucy Caldwell, who had been safe and protected all her life. In a burst of panic, she managed to get her mittens off and scrabbled wildly at the ice, coughing on a mouthful of water. The weight of her skirts and petticoats dragged her down like lead, and for one terrifying moment she slipped completely under. Surrounded by chilling darkness, she fought the weight that tried to pull her deeper. Reaching for the surface, the air, she somehow rose back up again, and she was able to breathe. Weeping helplessly, she clutched at the edge of the ice and rested her cheek on it. Unable to move any longer, she would not let go.

Lucy closed her eyes, and dug the tips of her bare fingers into the frozen surface. No one knew she was here. Her father thought she was still in Connecticut with Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Josiah . . . and she had not sent a message to Daniel about coming back early . . . because of their last argument . . . because she had forced him into the quarrel that she had been spoiling for. I’m so sorry, she thought, no longer able to feel the tears dripping down her cheeks. I always make you argue with me . . . Daniel . . .

Slowly the coldness of the water turned into a dry burn, and she floated motionlessly, her fear fading into numbness. The river seemed to be talking to her, and its silent voice—insistent, lulling—penetrated her mind.

A girl had drowned here once before, many years ago. Had the river taken her as easily, as gently as this? Had it seemed like a dream to her?

Let it all disappear, the darkness urged.

Sunlight, springtime, Daniel . . . love . . . all a dream . . . all nothing.

Suddenly one of her wrists was seized in a cruel grip hard enough to send pain piercing through her numbness. She stirred in protest and her eyes fluttered open. Through the wet strands of her hair, she saw that a man was lying on his stomach near her. His unearthly blue eyes moved to the pale mask of her face, and his relentless hold on her tightened as he began to pull her out of the river. Her lips came together to form a word, but the only sound she could produce was a faint gasp.

He seemed to be saying something to her, but to her ears his voice was indistinct. She felt him pull harder on her arm, and then she sank swiftly into darkness.