LITMIR.BIZ

       He pulled off the poultice and glared at her. ‘Who are you?’

      She blanched. ‘You don’t remember me?’ The question held sardonic disbelief. ‘My name is Emily.’ She leaned in, her gaze penetrating. Almost as if she were waiting for him to say something.

      Hazy bits of the past shifted together. Emily Barrow. My God. He hadn’t seen her in nearly ten years. ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘I live here.’ With an over-bright smile, she added, ‘Don’t you remember your wife?’

      Her revelation stunned him into silence. His wife? What was she talking about? He wasn’t married.

      ‘You must be joking.’ Stephen wasn’t an impulsive man. He planned every moment of every day. Getting married to a woman he hadn’t seen in years wasn’t at all something he would do.

      She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing his gaze towards her silhouette. The soft curve of her breasts caught his eye. The top button of her gown had come loose, revealing a forbidden glimpse of skin. The fallen strand of golden hair rested against the black serge, a coil of temptation, beckoning him to touch it.

      She’d never been able to tame her hair, even as a girl. He’d helped her with hairpins on more than one occasion, to help her avoid a scolding.

      Now the task took on an intimacy, one more suited to a husband. Had he truly married her? Had he unbuttoned her gowns, tasting the silk of her skin…?

      Michelle Willingham grew up living in places all over the world, including Germany, England and Thailand. When her parents hauled her to antiques shows in manor houses and castles, Michelle entertained herself by making up stories and pondering whether she could afford a broadsword with her allowance. She graduated summa cum laude from the University of Notre Dame, with a degree in English, and received her master’s degree in Education from George Mason University. Currently she teaches American History and English. She lives in south-eastern Virginia with her husband and children. She still doesn’t have her broadsword.

      Visit her website at: www.michellewillingham.com, or e-mail her at [email protected]

       Previous novels by this author:

HER IRISH WARRIOR^*

      THE WARRIOR’S TOUCH^*

      HER WARRIOR KING^*

HER WARRIOR SLAVE ^†

      THE ACCIDENTAL COUNTESS

       Also available in eBook format in Mills & Boon®Historical Undone:

      THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE

       Look out for Michelle’s next Victorian novel, linked to THE ACCIDENTAL COUNTESS THE ACCIDENTAL PRINCESS Available from Mills & Boon® Historical Romance in 2010

* The MacEgan Brothers

† Prequel to The MacEgan Brothers trilogy

      The Accidental Countess

      Michelle Willingham

      

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Dedication:

      To my mother Pat, for your unfailing support, for your belief in me, and for watching the kids when I desperately needed your help. You’ve been behind me 100% from the very beginning, and I’ll always be grateful.

      Acknowledgements:

      With thanks to Dr Deena Obrokta, Dr Dawn Reese, and Dr T for your invaluable consultation on amnesia and post-traumatic stress syndrome. Endless thanks to my fabulous editor Joanne Grant for your amazing eye for detail and your hard work. I couldn’t do it without you!

      Author Note

      I have always loved antique cookbooks, and my grandmother owned over a hundred of them. I used to pore over old recipes and imagine the women who had baked pies, cookies, cakes and special meals for their families. From these recipes the character of Emily Barrow was born.

      When she falls upon hard times Emily must cook for her own family, and she finds her escape in creating wonderful dishes. After she elopes with the Earl of Whitmore, Emily refuses to turn her back on her culinary pastime, no matter how inappropriate it might be for a countess.

      I hope you enjoy Emily’s tale, and try out her recipe for Ginger Biscuits—I made them for my own children this past Christmas. You can find more historical recipes and behind-the-scenes information on my website: www.michellewillingham.com. I love to hear from readers, and you may e-mail me at [email protected], or write to me at: PO Box 2242 Poquoson, VA 23662, USA.

      Warm wishes.

       Chapter One

       When selecting poultry for cooking, choose a chicken with soft yellow feet, short thick legs, and a plump breast. First, kill the chicken by wringing its neck…

      —Emily Barrow’s Cook Book

       Falkirk House, England—1850

      Cool hands sponged his forehead. Stephen Chesterfield fought against the darkness that threatened to pull him into oblivion once more. Pain lashed his skull, ripping through him in violent waves. His mouth felt lined with cotton wool, and his body ached with vicious pain.

      ‘Drink,’ a woman said, lifting a cup of warm tea to his mouth. It tasted bitter, but he swallowed. ‘You’re very lucky, you know.’

      Lucky? He felt as though someone had cracked his skull in two. He hadn’t even the strength to open his eyes to see who was tending him.

      ‘How am I lucky?’ he managed to whisper. Lucky to be alive, she’d probably say.

       ‘You’re lucky I haven’t got any arsenic for this tea,’ she remarked. ‘Or another poison, for that matter. Otherwise, you’d be dead by now.’ A warm poultice dropped across his forehead, scented with herbs.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’ His knuckles clenched around the bedcovers, and he forced his eyes open. The room blurred, and he tried to grasp his surroundings. Where was he? And who was this woman?

      The creature intending to murder him had the face of an angel. Her hair, the color of warm honey, was pulled back into a loose chignon. Long strands framed a face with tired amber eyes. Despite the hideous serge mourning gown, she was rather pretty, though her cheeks were thin.

      She was familiar, but her name hovered on the out-skirts of memory. Like a childhood acquaintance, or someone he’d known long ago.

      ‘You broke your promise. If it weren’t for you, my brother would still be alive.’ Anguish lined her voice, eroding the waspish anger. Her eyes glistened, but she kept her chin up.

      She blamed him for her brother’s death? There had to be a mistake. He didn’t even know who she was, much less her brother.

      He

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