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There was always a bite in the air on Bonfire Night, almost as if the world demanded an extra measure of warmth every November fifth. It was such a peculiar holiday, celebrating the failure of a group of men—most notably Guy Fawkes—who attempted to blow up Parliament several hundred years ago. The hoots and hollers of merrymaking carried all the way from the fairgrounds out to the field, where at least a hundred carriages were already parked. Eva fumbled with the top button on her coat as Bram tethered the wagon horses to one of the many metal spikes driven into the ground. She’d missed this festivity last year, and she’d expected to miss it again this time, yet here she was. And with a man, no less. But not just one man. A whole crew of men—Professor Pendleton and all three of Bram’s students. Plus Penny and Dixon.

“Can I go?” Penny tugged at her sleeve, hardly taking a breath between words. “You must say yes. Professor Pendleton already gave me his permission. Oh, please, Eva!”

“Slow down, poppet.” Eva straightened the girl’s bonnet. “What are you talking about?”

“Everyone is going to the food tent, where there’s treacle toffee and candy apples and cider and chestnuts and—”

“Enough. You will ruin your appetite for dinner.”

Professor Pendleton appeared at her side. “That’s what fair food is all about. It’s only one night a year. Let the girl have some fun.”

Eva bit her lip. He did have a point.

Dixon looped her arm through Penny’s. “I’ll join them, miss. We can catch up with you and Professor Webb later.”

“Are you certain, Dixon?”

“It will be my pleasure. Truth be told, I fancy a bite of good treacle toffee.” She leaned close, lowering her voice. “Mrs. Pottinger scorches hers, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

Eva laughed. “Very well. But mind your manners, sister.”

“I will!”

“Come along, crew!” Professor Pendleton set off, waving for them to follow.

Bram held out his arm. “Ready for some fun?”

Caught up in his effervescent smile, she rested her fingers atop his sleeve. Even from this far away, music and laughter carried on the air. Bram whistled along, and it was surprising how endearing that simple habit of his had become. She peered up at him, the tip of his nose reddened by the brisk air, as was the scar at the top of his cheek. “Has it really only been three weeks since you have come to Royston? It seems so much longer. Almost like you are part of the manor now.”

He gazed down at her. My, how accustomed she’d become to his face. To hearing his jolly laugh with his students. To meeting with him each evening when he showed her the treasures of the day. How empty the house would seem when he and his team returned to Cambridge.

“Is that a good thing or bad?” he asked.

An impish grin spread across her face. “I have not yet decided.”

He nudged her with his elbow, sending her sideways, yet at the same time, he anchored her grip on his arm so she wouldn’t go sprawling. His tobacco smell wasn’t as strong as when he’d first arrived. And yet there was that earthy scent, like a forest floor after an October rain. She breathed it in as they drew close to the fairgrounds before the aromas of all manner of foods and treats obliterated it.

Off to the far side of the grounds, a yellow-and-orange-striped hot air balloon slowly rose into the grey sky. Several riders hung over the edge of the basket, waving at friends below, a thick rope tethering them to the earth. Eva’s step hitched.

Bram forced her face away from the horrid sight. “Still queasy about heights, are you?”

She sucked in a small gasp. “You remembered?”

A frown creased his brow. “What I remember is a very frightened little girl who was the butt of a vicious prank by Richard Trestwell. I daresay you would still be whimpering up in that apple tree had I not reset the ladder for you.”

Her lips parted. That was right. The terror of the creaking branches and hard earth taunting her to fall and break her neck were still so vivid, she’d forgotten Bram had been the one to see her safely down. Had she inadvertently blocked other kindnesses by him—other soft feelings toward him—from her memory?

The question hit her sideways. She’d known the death of her mother and her sister’s blindness, just six months after Bram’s disappearance, had marked her deeply, but so deep that she’d wiped out all memories from that period? Maybe—just maybe—in an effort to never relive such a heartrending experience, she’d built walls around her heart, shutting out anything that was good ... real or remembered.

Her throat tightened, so stunning was the revelation, and for a long while she said nothing.

Bram didn’t seem to notice as he led her through the stalls lining the wide thoroughfares, selling everything from tin trinkets to elaborately feathered hats. The rich scent of roasted chestnuts mingled with the sticky-sweet aroma of apples dipped into hot toffee. Men, women, children, and sellers of all sorts of goods with trays strapped to their chests filled the walkway. Some pushed small carts. Even a goose and a few stray dogs snuffled about. The commotion was enough to pull Eva from her introspection. She truly had missed being amongst the jolly people of Royston.

“Here! I’ll take one.” Bram purchased a cone of sugared almonds, then handed them to her.

Spicy cinnamon wafted up to her nose, the fragrance raining water at the back of her mouth, but even so, she held them out to Bram. “Thank you, but I do not expect you to buy things for me.”

“They are not for you. They are for us .” He pinched a few, arced them in the air, and caught them on his tongue. “Besides, I always like to have something to crunch on when I watch fire eaters.” He pointed.

Her gaze followed the length of his arm. With a flourish, two lithe men tossed flaming torches between them so quickly the fire blurred into an orange line. Simultaneously, they raised the blazing torches to the heavens. Tilting their heads back in unison, they plunged the burning length of their wands into their mouths, extinguishing the flames with a theatrical bow.

The crowd oohed, save for one white-haired woman who shrieked. All applauded.

“How do they manage to do that without blistering their mouths to cinders?” Eva wondered aloud.

“Easy enough.” Bram grabbed a few more almonds, then guided her back into motion. “Before their performance, those men likely coated their mouths with a mixture of water and some sort of powdered chemical such as potassium or sodium salts.”

“How do you know that? Do not tell me you eat fire in your spare time.”

He shrugged. “You just never know when shoving a torch in your mouth could come in handy.”

Bah. She didn’t believe that for one second. “What is the real reason?”

“Dog with a bone, eh?” He chuckled. “All right. The sordid truth is, I am great friends with the chair of Trinity’s science department. The man is full of all sorts of trivial information. Give him a pint too many, and there’s no telling what sort of knowledge he will impart.”

“There. Was that so hard?”

“What?”

“Being honest.”

“I am honest. I merely do not always give all the details.”

She snorted. “That is the truth. Remember that time we found those old bottles in the abandoned greenhouse? You told me not to go near them.”

“It was for your own safety. I didn’t know if they were poisonous liquids, and I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“You could have simply said that instead of spinning some tale about magic potions and how I’d be turned into a toad if I went near them.”

He grinned. “Where is the fun in that?”

“Fun, eh? Is that what you are after?” She upped her pace, holding the cone of nuts just out of his reach.

“Hey! Not fair.” He made a swipe for them.

Giggling, she whirled away. “All is fair at the fair.”

She strode off, steps lighter than they’d been for over a year. Why, she could almost kiss Lottie on the cheek for insisting she—and Bram—come to Bonfire Night. This was fun! Actual fun.

But then the malignant gaze of a passing matron wiped the grin from her face. Oh, sweet heaven. What was she doing? Laughing and prancing about like a schoolgirl. She had no business wasting time on such frivolities. She had a blind sister to care for. A house to manage. An overwhelming tax debt due in little over a month. One would think she hadn’t a worry in the world.

She shoved the remaining nuts at Bram. “Here. You may have them, what’s left, at any rate.”

“You, milady, are fickle as the autumn breeze—which I suppose is a lady’s prerogative.” He finished off the treat, then tossed the paper into the nearest brazier barrel.

Eva glanced back the way they’d come. “Perhaps we should go home now.”

“We have only just got here. Besides, I doubt you will be able to drag your sister away from all the merriment, and if you did manage to, we would all suffer some dreadful dirge of hers the whole ride home.”

“I know but...” Worry upon worry crawled up her throat, and she swallowed. “It would be so easy for her to get lost in this mob. I can’t expect Dixon to keep an eye on her every second. Penny will not even be able to see the bonfire tonight, so there is no point in staying any longer.”

“Of course there is. I fancy seeing you by the light of the bonfire. It will be like old times when I used to set fire to the sawdust pile over by the mill.”

She frowned. “That has nothing to do with Penny.”

“Listen, Eva, your sister is a smart girl who will not wander off, for she is likely far too busy stuffing her mouth with spun sugar and sweetmeats. She has Dixon and my uncle and three students I would trust with my life. Penny is having a good time. Let her. And you should too.”

“Roses fair and posies bright, get a daisy for the night!” A hump-backed old woman singsonged from her nearby perch on a dented milk can. She plucked a bloom from the bucket at her feet and aimed it toward Bram. “Lilies sing in moonlight’s glow, whisper secrets lovers know.”

It took everything in Eva not to roll her eyes at the poor prose, and yet she could heartily respect the woman’s ingenuity to sell flowers.

“I’ll take it.” Bram swapped a coin for the pink rose.

“Bram.” She huffed. Was this his way of distracting her from thinking about her sister? “I told you that you need not buy me anything.”

“Actually, it is for me.” Guiding her to a quieter space between stalls, he tipped her face up. “I happen to like the scent of roses, and this should be just about nose level.” He poked the stem between her hat brim and ear.

Wheat-coloured stubble lined his jaw. Evidently he’d forgotten to shave again. He had unusually long lashes for a man, just as she remembered, for those lashes had dazzled her as a girl as well. She narrowed her eyes at the half-inch, faint-red pucker at the top of his cheek. “That scar on your cheek is new. How did you get it?”

“Hmm?” he rumbled while he moved the rose to her other ear. “Oh, merely a little something I received from a student, that’s all.”

“You are a history professor, not a boxing instructor.”

“What do you suppose gladiators did in the Colosseum? Cutthroat games of whist?”

“You teach your students hand-to-hand combat?”

“No.” He laughed as he wove the stem behind her ear. “I coach one of the sports teams. See? I am not as rough-and-tumble as you credit me, but you are every bit as lovely as I have told you.”

He gave the flower a final tap and stepped away, appraising his work.

It was uncomfortable to be looked at as a piece of art. It wasn’t true. Couldn’t be true, no matter what Bram said. Nonetheless, the way his grey eyes brushed over her struck a chord deep inside. It was nice to be noticed.

She rejoined his side, and they moved on—but not far before a lad toting a Guy Fawkes effigy bumped into her as he dashed past. She barely caught her footing before another boy did the same.

Bram grabbed her arm and yelled at the retreating lads. “Watch it, you little scoundrels!”

Eva smirked up at him. “That would have been you fifteen years ago or so. But do let’s go watch the Guy contest. I am sure that is where those boys are headed.”

“Very well, but I am keeping a good hold of you. Come on.” He laced his fingers through hers, then plowed through the crowd. They arrived at a stage made of old wooden boards just as ten boys holding up small Guy Fawkes mannequins stood in a line, front and center.

An announcer with a curled moustache planted himself in the far-right corner. “Step right up, ladies and gents! By a show of applause, I have a big blue ribbon here for the best Guy of the bunch.” He waved a ruffly piece of shiny silk in the air, then motioned for the first lad to approach him. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Olly Weaver, sir.”

“Well, Master Weaver, show these fine people your Guy.”

The man was barely finished speaking before the boy ran back and forth across the stage. Laughter rang from the audience.

And so it went from one lad to the next, until the last one advanced to the front. The effigy he carried was nearly as large as he was, and Eva recognized her friend’s handiwork. She rose to her toes, whispering in Bram’s ear, “That is Lottie’s brother.”

“Well then”—he arched a brow at her—“we shall see that he wins, eh?”

Bram started clapping before Freddie finished his parade across the stage. Eva joined in. Bram hooted and hollered. So did she. And when he stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle, she did the same. Judging by his wide-eyed glance, she’d caught him off guard.

“And the winner is,” the announcer shouted, “Master Frederick Channing! Step smart, lad.”

As Freddie dashed over to the man, Eva tugged Bram’s sleeve. “Let’s go congratulate him.”

Arm in arm, they wound around the stage toward the back side, where Lottie was already patting her brother on the back. “Good job, Freddie.”

“Indeed,” Eva chimed in. “Congratulations! And to you, too, Lottie. Your hard work paid off.”

“More like Mother’s nettling did. Off with you now, Freddie, but mind you don’t get into any trouble.” She made a grab for the effigy she’d worked so hard on. Too late. The boy dove into the throng with his effigy’s head bobbing up and down.

Lottie puffed a sigh, then shifted her gaze to Eva and Bram. The longer she stared at them, the more a knowing gleam lit in her eyes. “Ah, the professor escorted you after all, did he? How lovely! I am so happy for you, Eva.”

Instantly, Eva pulled her arm from Bram’s, heat spreading like a rash up her neck. They were most certainly not a couple. She opened her mouth.

But before she could refute her friend’s assumption, Lottie continued. “Congratulations, Professor Webb. I hear talk you’re to be the new curator of the soon-to-be Royston Museum.”

Eva arched a brow. Why had he not said anything?

“I do not know about that”—Bram grinned—“but I do think a museum will do this town good.”

“A curator?” Eva stepped aside, allowing two giggling women access to the stage stairs. “I did not realize I was in such esteemed company.”

“Really? I thought that was clear to everyone.”

She bopped him on the arm.

He laughed. “But, yes, it is true the historical society is considering me, though I am in no position to take it on at the moment. That is all there is to it.”

From the front of the stage, the announcer bellowed for one and all to hear. “Next contest is the Queen of the Bonfire. Who shall it be this year? Our reigning champion, Miss Charlotte Channing, will hand off the crown to some lucky lady, so gather in, folks! It’s sure to be a tight competition.”

“Ooh!” Lottie clapped her hands together, then looped her arm through Eva’s. “Come on, my friend. We daren’t be late.”

“For what?”

“The queen contest, silly duck.” She tugged Eva toward the stairs, pulling her away from Bram.

Eva dug in her heels. “I believe the professor and I can see just as well from the front of the stage.”

“But you’re not watching, darling.” Lottie gave a great jerk, yanking her back into motion. “Besides, your new beau will wish to see you win.”

Clutching the railing with a death grip, Eva jerked them both to a stop. “He is not my beau, and I cannot enter such a thing. You know I cannot!” She’d be laughed off the stage.

“What I know,” Lottie drawled, “is you’re sure to win. Besides, I’ve already signed you up, so off we go.”

Bram watched Miss Channing tug Eva up the stairs to the stage, unsure if he ought to rescue her or dash around to the front for the best possible view. Either way she’d be mortified. He settled for a simple mouthing of Good luck and a reassuring smile as she cast a terrified glance his way. Poor girl. She’d have all her nails bitten off by the end of the contest.

He wound his way through the onlookers as the announcer bellowed, “I am pleased to proclaim, ladies and gents, that this afternoon’s winner of the queen contest and her kingly counterpart—the winner of the men’s archery competition—will be the lucky pair to ascend in the hot air balloon and begin tonight’s bonfire at sunset.”

Absently, Bram rubbed the scar on his cheek. Blast. As much as Eva would hate being up on that stage, she’d abhor it even more if she won. With her fear of heights, a balloon ride would kill her. Yet if he didn’t cheer for her, what would that do to her already flagging self-esteem? And it would be easy enough to root for her, for she deserved to be the queen of the bonfire.

He anchored himself behind a group of perfumed ladies chattering together near the front of the stage. No sense wrestling them to the ground for their prime spot as he stood a good hand taller than them—even with their hats on.

“Let’s welcome our first contestant, Miss Ivy Dewfeather of Cottington Cottage.” The announcer gestured for a plump lady in a purple coat. “If you’d step up here, please, miss.”

Covering her mouth with a gloved hand, the woman giggled her way to the front of the stage.

“Very good, Miss Dewfeather. Now then, speaking loud and clear, tell these good folks about a personal accomplishment or skill you believe sets you apart from the rest of the lovely ladies.” He swept his hand toward the other nine in line. “What makes you a worthy candidate for queen of the bonfire?”

Though there was absolutely nothing to laugh about, she giggled again, then finally pulled her hand from her mouth. “Biscuits.”

Egad. No wonder she kept her hand in front of her mouth. Her teeth stuck out every which way as if trying to decide which direction to run.

“Em ... er...” The announcer fiddled with the curl on his moustache, evidently as baffled as Bram and the whispering crowd around him. “Care to elaborate on that, Miss Dewfeather?”

“Oh! Yes.” Another giggle burst out as she bobbed her head. “Father says I make the best biscuits he’s ever tasted.”

“Ah, that explains it. How about you take a turn for everyone now, miss?”

She minced across the stage, which on a more graceful woman might have been attractive. But as it was, Bram had no time to think on her poor choice of gait. His gaze fixed on Eva, whose face had paled. How would she ever get a word out, let alone cross the stage without swooning? He gave an obligatory clap as Miss Dewfeather resumed her place in line.

“Next up is Miss Margaret Parkins, but we all know her as Meg the seamstress. Miss Parkins, what sets you apart from these other women?”

A petite woman in an ornately embroidered coat sashayed boldly to the front. “Everyone knows I make the tiniest stitches in all of Royston. None can compare. Why, just last week I—”

The woman continued talking for quite some time before she finally took her turn across the stage. Bram hadn’t the faintest idea of what she’d blathered on about, nor what the next woman said or the next. There was no way he could concentrate while Eva nibbled on the nail of her pinky, curling in on herself more the closer it came to her turn. Now this was the timid girl he remembered, the one he hadn’t seen since he’d arrived in Royston. He’d do anything to help her, but it wasn’t as if he could leap up there and speak for her. She’d be a laughingstock. Blast! It was as if the calendar had been rolled back fourteen years, and he was as powerless now as he had been that time she’d stuttered her way through John 3:16 in front of the whole Sunday school.

God , please give Eva the confidence I cannot.

Men’s voices carried over the top of the crowd, the mention of Eva’s name quickly ending his prayer. “Say, is that Eva Inman next to Peggy Trestle? She’s not been to any festivities for over a year.”

“Kind of wide-mouthed for me, but those hips surely aren’t.”

Laughter followed.

Bram’s hands curled into fists. Just like old times, the urge to protect Eva’s good name pulsed through his veins. He craned his neck to confront the rude fellows, but a well-upholstered brute with jowls like mounds of mashed potatoes had stationed himself practically at his elbow, making it impossible to look past him.

And that’s when the announcer called, “Our final contestant of the afternoon is Miss Eva Inman of Inman Manor.”

Bram jerked his gaze back to the stage. Eva didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t do anything but stare straight ahead. Miss Channing advanced from the back of the stage, whispering something into her ear, and still Eva stood as stiff as a Roman’s javelin.

Bram’s heart dropped in his chest just as Eva’s head lowered and she swayed slightly. Stars and money! Would she swoon right here in front of all of Royston? He shoved his way through the tangle of women, prepared to leap up on the stage should Eva plummet to the planks.

But then her eyes snapped open. She squared her shoulders and marched up to the announcer as proud as you please.

Bram blinked at the transformation. Gone was the little girl, replaced by the tigress of a woman he admired more with each passing day.

“Now, Miss Inman,” the announcer began, “what is a personal accomplishment or skill you believe sets you apart from the other women here today and makes you a worthy candidate for queen of the bonfire?”

“Nothing.”

Everyone gasped.

Eva merely lifted her nose in the air. “The truth is, I am not remarkable, no more so than any other woman here. We are all created in God’s image, each of us with our own unique giftings. Any one of these women would make a fine winner.” She swept her hand toward the other nine, all in various states of dropped jaws, wide eyes, and even a bout of hysterical giggling from Miss Dewfeather. Whispers began to swirl around the crowd.

“I’ve never heard the like.”

“Did she really just recommend the other ladies over herself?”

“What sort of trickery is this?”

Trickery? He frowned. Eva couldn’t have been more sincere.

“Hear, hear!” he shouted, clapping his hands so hard his palms stung. “Cheers for a humble answer!”

“It were humble, weren’t it?” the big man next to him mumbled, then slapped his meaty hands together in a clap that made Bram flinch. It did the trick, though. Applause broke out from the whole crowd. Instead of taking a victory lap, Eva gave a little dip to her head and retreated back to the line of women.

The announcer huddled with two other men. Judges, apparently. Eventually they signaled for Miss Channing to join them.

The crowd still murmured about Eva’s unconventional answer, yet now the comments were favorable—save for one that traveled on a husky tone.

“Wonder if Eva Inman is as humble in the hayloft.”

Another man joined in with the scoundrel’s rude jesting.

Once again Bram craned his neck, this time spying two men with their heads bent together. Why, he ought to—

“It is with great pleasure, ladies and gents, that I announce this year’s queen. Miss Channing, will you please place the crown on the lucky lady who will attend the king as he shoots a flaming arrow from the hot air balloon? And that lady is...” He paused for dramatic effect. “Miss Eva Inman!”

Bram whooped—then immediately clamped his mouth shut. As glad as he was that she’d won, she would hate going up in that balloon.

“Pardon me.” He pushed his way through the throng, headed for the back stairs, when that same man’s voice chuckled lewdly.

“Well, well. Inman Manor surely has its secrets. I bet that girl’s got a hidden talent or two up those grand staircases.”

That did it.

Bram wheeled about, rising to the balls of his feet and spying for those two men in the dark caps who’d had their heads together earlier. His gaze locked onto the shorter of the two.

He was a severe-looking gent with a bushel of wavy hair flowing from beneath his derby. His eyes were dark. His brows even darker, and so thick, they almost met in the middle. There was a cruel line to his jaw, with a patch of beard below his lip and on his chin. Beneath that finely sewn coat, muscles fought their way against the fabric. This man was the sort one didn’t go against willfully unless broken teeth and pain were high on the priority list. Unbidden, Bram’s tongue ran over the jagged molar at the back of his mouth, what was left of it anyway from a fistfight long ago.

Richard Trestwell.

He should have known.

Sucking in air, he shouldered through the dispersing crowd, closing in on Trestwell and his friend just as they turned their backs. “Hold it right there, Trestwell. I will thank you to voice no more randy comments pertaining to Miss Inman.”

Slowly the man turned, his eyes narrowing. When recognition finally took root, his nostrils flared. “I was told you were in town.”

“Who is it, Boss?” The younger fellow next to him looked from Bram to Trestwell.

“An old acquaintance. And you’re just in time, Webb.” A slow smile stretched his mouth. “Fitting that you should be here to watch me fly off with your pretty little pet.”

“Over my dead body.” The words barely made it past his clenched jaw.

“If you like.” Trestwell shrugged.

“So we are to pick up where we left off, is that it? You haven’t changed a bit, you boastful braggart.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. You’re looking at the town’s championship archer.” He poked a finger into Bram’s shoulder.

“Congratulations.” He batted away Trestwell’s touch. “But your reign ends now.”

Without another word, Bram forged his way to the backstage stairs just as Eva and Miss Channing were descending. A glittery tiara sparkled brightly against Eva’s hair, her flower and bonnet clutched in her fingers at her side, her face still a shade paler than normal.

“Well done, Eva. If you will pardon us, Miss Channing.” He pulled Eva away from her friend.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Miss Channing called after them.

“Yes”—Eva peered up at him—“where are we going? Home, I hope. I cannot go up in a balloon!”

He shot off down the lane leading to the archery field. “We are going to settle an old score.”