“For years I’ve dreamed of having a family, but no man wanted me.”
Now Tristan knew Caroline’s motives. They were pure and painfully simple. She wanted to be a mother.
She paced up to him with her eyes blazing. “I’d do anything—even marry you—for the sake of two beautiful children. Does that confession satisfy you, Major Smith?”
A wry smile lifted his lips. “You’re a brave woman, Caroline.”
“I’m not brave at all,” she murmured.
“I think you are,” he answered. “I’d be pleased to marry you … for the sake of the children, of course.”
The moment called for a handshake. They were sealing a business deal. But Tristan couldn’t bring himself to offer merely his hand. Neither could he kiss her, not even as a token of friendship. Moving slowly, he touched her cheek. “You should call me Tristan.”
Dear Reader,
Writers are always looking for fresh ideas. Maybe that’s why I matched Caroline Bradley, the last of the Swan’s Nest heroines, with a retired British Army officer. To make the romance more challenging, I gave him malaria. Somewhere along the line, my hero surprised me yet again by announcing he was the third son of a duke and that he’d become heir apparent.
Tristan’s disclosure led to more questions than I ever imagined. How are titles passed on? What are the proper forms of address? What’s the difference between a duke, a marquis, a marquess and an earl? Then there are the titles for women and how they’re used … And that’s just the beginning.
The rites of inheritance were crucial to this book, and I started off with the mistaken notion that a man could refuse an inherited title. I owe a debt of gratitude to the online community of romance writers who graciously offered help with the facts and led me to websites with oodles of information.
This Western writer did her best, but a Stetson fits me better than a tiara. Any mistakes are mine.
With Caroline happily married, the WOMEN OF SWAN’S NEST series has come to an end. I’ve enjoyed telling these stories and hope you’ve laughed and cried along with the characters. In my imagination I see them all in twenty years. The women will still be friends, and they’ll be cheering for each other. The men will be working to support their families, and they’ll be loving their wives, children and grandchildren for years to come. After all, a good love story never really ends.
All the best,
About the Author
VICTORIA BYLIN fell in love with God and her husband at the same time. It started with a ride on a big red motorcycle and a date to see a Star Trek movie. A recent graduate of UC Berkeley, Victoria had been seeking that elusive “something more” when Michael rode into her life. Neither knew it, but they were both reading the Bible.
Five months later they got married and the blessings began. They have two sons and have lived in California and Virginia. Michael’s career allowed Victoria to be both a stay-at-home mom and a writer. She’s living a dream that started when she read her first book and thought, “I want to tell stories.” For that gift, she will be forever grateful.
Feel free to drop Victoria an email at
[email protected] or visit her website at
www.victoriabylin.com.
Marrying the Major
Victoria Bylin
This book is dedicated to my sons,
Joseph Scheibel and David Scheibel.
One’s traveled the world and the other is a soldier.
They both influenced this story. Love to you both!
Which of you, if your son asks for bread,
will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will
give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil,
know how to give good gifts to your children,
how much more will your Father in heaven
give good gifts to those who ask him!
—Matthew 7:9–11
Chapter One
Wheeler Springs, Wyoming, October 1876
Tristan Willoughby Smith didn’t like to be kept waiting, and he’d been waiting for three days for the arrival of the quinine he needed to treat his malaria. He’d also been waiting for the arrival of the Bradley sisters. He’d hired the youngest, Miss Caroline Bradley, to be the governess to his children. He’d hired the elder sister, Miss Elizabeth Bradley, to serve as a nurse and advisor for the treatment of the disease he’d contracted in the West Indies.
Tristan had a high tolerance for the fevers that came with malaria, but he had no patience at all with tardiness. A former major in the British army, he expected people to do what he told them.
He expected such obedience from his children.
He expected it from the men who worked his cattle ranch.
Mostly he expected such discipline from himself.
He also expected discipline from the stage line scheduled to deliver the quinine he needed to control his fevers. With his hands on his hips, he stared down the windblown street that made up the heart of Wheeler Springs. The stage was three days late. He’d contracted the disease four months ago. The year before it had taken his wife, Molly, leaving him alone to care for their two children. To protect them from the disease, Tristan had come to Wyoming with Jonathan Tate, his best friend and former second in command. Wyoming was as far from malaria—and his home in England—as Tristan could get. It was also eighteen hundred miles away from the Philadelphia pharmaceutical company that manufactured the quinine. If the quinine was lost, he’d be in dire straits.
As much as Tristan needed the medicine, he needed Caroline Bradley even more. The new governess didn’t know it, but he had plans for her that went beyond tutoring his children. He had plans for Jon, too. If malaria put Tristan in an early grave, his best friend would be the executor of his will and guardian of his children. Under no circumstance did Tristan want his children returned to his family in England. As the third son of a nobleman, Tristan had no importance. That fact had been drilled into him by his father, Harold Smythe, the Duke of Willoughby, and he didn’t want Freddie and Dora growing up under the same cloud.
He also wanted them to have a mother, especially if the malaria took his life. Whether Tristan lived or died was up to God, a being he viewed as a Supreme Commander who gave orders without discussion. Tristan would submit to God’s decree, but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Freddie and Dora without a family. That’s where the new governess came in. It was high time Jon settled down. If Tristan died, he expected Jon to marry her and give the children a mother. He’d ruled out the oldest sister for this particular job. The Bradley sister, named Elizabeth, was twelve years older than the younger one, and in her letters she’d stated her dedication to nursing. The governess, however, had written eloquently about her love of children.
The wind kicked a tumbleweed across the street. For the first day of October, the air held a surprising chill. Or had the chill come from within, the first sign of yet another attack of illness? Tristan glanced up at the sky. The fevers usually started late in the day, and the sun had yet to reach its peak. Still, the chill was enough to show him that he couldn’t wait any