“Then I’ll not argue the point.”
“Humph.” She faced forward again.
“I have a favor to ask of you, ma’am.” His voice rumbled somewhere above her head.
He’d led her down one of the packed gravel paths of the Conrads’ town house garden. It was unimaginatively planted with roses and small, clipped hedges. Sadly, most of the roses had already bloomed, so the whole looked rather plain and forlorn.
“I’d like to hire you.”
“Hire me?” Emeline inhaled sharply and stopped, forcing him to halt as well and face her. Did this odd man think she was a courtesan of some sort? The insult was outrageous, and in her confusion she found her gaze wandering over his frame, crossing wide shoulders, a pleasingly flat waist, and then dropping to an inappropriate portion of Mr. Hartley’s anatomy, which, now that she noticed it, was rather nicely outlined by the black wool breeches he wore under his leggings. She inhaled again, nearly choking, and hastily raised her eyes. But the man either hadn’t observed her indiscretion or was much more polite than his attire and manner would lead one to believe.
He continued. “I need a mentor for my sister, Rebecca. Someone to show her the parties and balls.” gue
Once upon a time long, long ago, there came four soldiers traveling home after many years of war. Trimp tramp! Trimp tramp! Trimp tramp! sounded their boots as they marched abreast, heads held high, looking neither to the left nor right. For so they had been taught to march, and it is not an easy thing to forget the ritual of many years. The wars and battles were over, but I do not know if our soldiers had won or lost them, and maybe it does not matter. Their clothes were tattered, their boots more holes than leather, and not one of the soldiers journeyed home the same man as had left it.
By and by, they came to a crossroads, and here they halted to consider their choices. One road led to the west, the way straight and well paved. One road trailed to the east into a dark and secret forest. And one road pointed north, where the shadows of lonely mountains lay.
“Well, fellows,” the tallest soldier said at last, taking off his hat and scratching his head, “shall we toss a coin?”
“Nay,” said the soldier to his right. “My way lies there.” And he bid his companions adieu and marched off to the east, never looking back as he disappeared into the dark forest.
“I am partial to that way,” said the soldier to the left, and he gestured to the mountains looming in the distance.
“And as for me,” the tall soldier cried, laughing, “I will take this easy road, for such has always been my choice. But what of you?” he asked the last soldier. “What road will you take?”
“Ah, me,” that soldier sighed. “I believe there is a pebble in my boot, and I will sit and take it out, for it has been plaguing me these many miles.” He suited action to word and found a nearby boulder to rest against.
The tall soldier clapped his hat back on his head. “Then it is decided.”
The remaining soldiers shook hands cordially and went their separate ways. But what adventures befell them and whether their travels led them safely home I cannot tell you, for this is not their story. This is the tale of that first soldier, the one who walked away into the dark forest.
His name was Iron Heart....
—from Iron Heart
Chapter One
Now Iron Heart got his name from a very strange thing. Although his limbs and face, and indeed all the rest of his body, were exactly like every other man created by God, his heart was not. It was made from iron, and it beat on the surface of his chest, strong, brave, and steadfast....
—from Iron Heart
LONDON, ENGLAND
SEPTEMBER 1764
“They say he ran away.” Mrs. Conrad leaned close to impart this bit of gossip.
Lady Emeline Gordon took a sip of tea and glanced over the rim of the cup at the gentleman in question. He was as out of place as a jaguar in a room full of tabby cats: raw, vital, and not quite civilized. Definitely not a man she would associate with cowardice. Emeline wondered what his name was as she thanked the Lord for his appearance. Mrs. Conrad’s afternoon salon had been paralyzingly dull until he had sauntered in.
“He ran away from the massacre of the 28th Regiment in the colonies,” Mrs. Conrad continued breathlessly, “back in fifty-eight. Shameful, isn’t it?”
Emeline turned and arched an eyebrow at her hostess. She held Mrs. Conrad’s gaze and saw the exact moment when the silly woman remembered. Mrs. Conrad’s already pink complexion deepened to a shade of beet that really didn’t become her at all.
“That is...I...I—” her hostess stammered.
This was what one got when one accepted an invitation from a lady who aspired to but didn’t quite sail in the highest circles of society. It was Emeline’s own fault, really. She sighed and took pity. “He’s in the army, then?”
Mrs. Conrad grasped the bait gratefully. “Oh, no. Not anymore. At least I don’t believe so.”