He remembered. He’d been wet and irritated, and smitten to his core. “You looked like a water nymph. An enchanted princess.” He bent his head to hers. “Like the lady I was going to marry, and love the rest of my life.”

“And you looked like a hero,” she said. “My hero. Though I may not have recognized it at the time.”

“A great lummox, you called me.”

She laughed softly. “Did I?”

“Yes, minx.” He held her close, shielding her from the rain and the cold. Keeping her safe in his arms. “And it wasn’t the last set down you administered during my time in Lower Hawley.”

“I hope I’ve made up for it.”

“You have. Countless times.” His words took on a serious edge. “Thank you for coming here with me. I know it’s damp and rainy and miserable. Nothing like the South of France. But I—”

“Hush.” She snuggled against him. “I don’t mind it, truly. Not the rain or the sleet or the cold. As long as we’re together.”

“We will be,” he promised. “Until I draw my last breath.”

And they were.

Read an Excerpt from The Winter Companion

An Excerpt from The Winter Companion

Turn the Page for a Sneak Peek of the next book in Mimi Matthews’ Parish Orphans of Devon series.

Coming Winter 2020

North Devon, England

December, 1860

Neville Cross shut and latched the door of the loose box, giving Lady Helena’s bay mare one last pat on her glossy neck. It was warm and snug in the Greyfriar’s Abbey stable. Far warmer than the biting cold weather outside. The rain had stopped for the moment, but the sky remained dark with thunderclouds, the air pregnant with the damp fragrance of wet earth and churning sea.

Carriage wheels clattered in the distance, a faint but familiar sound. Like the Abbey itself, the stone stable block was set high atop the cliffs above the small coastal village of King’s Abbot. The road up was precarious at the best of times. In wet weather, it was positively dangerous. Nevertheless, over the past weeks, the carriage had passed up and down, from the Abbey to the village and back again, with some regularity.

The coachman was delivering guests and supplies for the month-long Christmas celebration. He never returned to the stable until his cargo had been unloaded. The carriage would simply roll by on its way to the Abbey. Neville had become as well acquainted with that passing clatter of wheels and clip-clop of horses’ hooves as he was with the sound of the driving rain.

Until today.

The carriage didn’t roll on in its usual manner. Instead it slowed to a halt. The door of the carriage opened. A swell of voices followed, unintelligible in the whistling wind. And then the door shut, and the carriage clattered on again.

“Good morning!” a soft, feminine voice called out. “Is anyone here?”