Rain streamed from the brim of her ruined bonnet. Her riding skirt was streaked with mud. One glove had split across the palm, and the small boy seated before her clutched the saddle as though his life depended upon it. The horse came to a stop before the stone steps, obedient despite its trembling sides."Oliver!"Benedict Ashcombe had been calling his son's name for nearly two hours across wet fields and through groves of ash. Now, the word escaped him so quietly that the stableman nearby did not hear it.Then, he was running."Papa!" Oliver cried. "I did what she told me. I held on.""You did very well," the woman said, steadying him while Benedict reached up. "Your Grace, he has been in the rain for some time. Dry clothes first, and someone should look at his ankle. It is bruised, but he has been able to stand."Benedict lifted his son down. For a heartbeat, he could not speak. The boy's cheek was cold against his neck. His arms were fiercely, wonderfully real.Mrs. Bell hurried from the doorway with blankets and called for hot water. Benedict gave Oliver into her care only when the child promised, with the severity of a six-year-old, that he would remain in the nursery until his father came."Joseph fell," Oliver explained. "The pony ran toward the river. I got off, but the bank had broken. I thought—" His voice failed.Benedict knelt and pressed their foreheads together. "You do not have to finish it. You are home."Oliver looked over Benedict's shoulder. "She said you would be looking for me."The woman had dismounted without assistance. She stood beside the horse, holding its reins with the practiced gentleness of someone accustomed to nervous animals. Only when she thought nobody was watching did she close her eyes and draw a long, unsteady breath.Benedict turned to her. "I owe you more than I can say.""You owe me nothing. He was frightened, and I happened to be passing.""I have searched the western fields twice. How did you find him?""From the upper path, I heard a pony calling. Your son was on a shelf of ground beyond a fallen branch, not in the water itself. There was a safer approach from above. It was slow work getting him back. He was most patient.""I was brave," Oliver declared from the doorway, where Mrs. Bell had paused to allow a last look."You were," Benedict answered. "Now inside, Commander."The boy vanished beneath a blanket.Benedict finally studied the stranger. Beneath rain-darkened chestnut hair was a face he had never seen, though something in her composed, appraising gaze struck him with impossible familiarity."Forgive me," he said. "I have not even asked your name.""Marian Whitlock."For a moment, the rain seemed to fall without a sound. Benedict had addressed letters to that name all spring. Now Marian Whitlock stood before him in the rain."Miss Whitlock?"