1866. Wakefield, England.
Theodore Wakefield pressed his boot heels against Raven’ssides, urging the spirited coal-black stallion into a canter. Hereined in at the crest of the hill behind Wakefield Manor andturned to wait for his older brother, James, and James’sfiancée, Katerina von Alber.Narrowing his deep-brown eyes against the sun, Theodoregazed at the landscape spread out before him. A sweep of emerald lawn set off the stern gray stone of his family’s ele-gant Georgian house. Below the estate, Theodore glimpsedthe village of Wakefield, where mill chimneys contrasted withthe lofty spire of the thirteenth-century church and clusters of ancient weavers’ cottages. The Calder and Colne rivers spar-kled in the distance.The wind, cool even in summer, whipped the dark, shaggyhair back from Theodore’s forehead. He sat tall in the saddle,