Heired Lines Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more New Adult titles from Entangled… Keep Me Wanting

  The Royal Bodyguard

  Fragmented Loyalty

  Ruling the Princess

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Magan Vernon. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  10940 S Parker Rd

  Suite 327

  Parker, CO 80134

  [email protected]

  Embrace is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Candace Havens

  Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes

  Cover photography by PeopleImages/GettyImages

  bioraven/Shutterstock

  ISBN 978-1-68281-558-8

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition May 2020

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  Dedicated to everyone who grew up wanting to see the world, but just needed to take the leap of faith to get there.

  Chapter One

  Natalie

  The usual suspects were already in full swing, haggling for people’s discarded treasures at the Carolina Days flea market.

  Some antique dealers, older couples, then me—the recent college grad with a master’s in history and nothing to show for it. Well, I guessed I did have a pile of Mom’s hospital bills, another pile of “while your resume was promising” letters, and a lot of packing tape and boxes to mail out the array of old Pepsi signs, that being the main things that sold on my eBay site.

  Plopping down at a table near a row of food trucks, I set down my bag of the day’s finds and hooked my phone up to the free Wi-Fi from the barbecue cart.

  “Hopefully, some of this stuff is worth something,” I muttered and dug into the bag I made out of an old high school band T-shirt.

  The first thing I pulled out was a Georgian vase I’d been able to persuade a man to sell me for five dollars. The only thing that could potentially have some real historic value if it really was from England and as old as the hand-painted style seemed to indicate.

  I took a few photos of the vase from different angles and made sure to get a nice picture of the stamp on the bottom.

  Webley, England.

  Never heard of it, and I studied English history.

  Weird.

  I typed Webley, England in my search bar, surprised to get only the bare minimum results of a small town in the English countryside. But the photos that accompanied the sites were like something straight out of a fairy tale with fields of golden flowers and a charming town set in the shadows of a stone castle.

  If nothing else, adding the description of the town in the ad could help entice a buyer with wanderlust.

  Pulling up my site, I added the photos then typed up a description.

  Georgian-style porcelain vase with hand-painted vibrant flowers, reminiscent of the Webley, England, countryside from where this vase originated. Believed to date to the 1800s, it’s in good vintage condition with minuscule chips on the handles and some crazing with age.

  As soon as I hit send on that wording, it was time for the next item. The more I could use the free Wi-Fi from the food truck, the less I’d have to worry about going out to the library or somewhere else later to use the internet. One of the first things to go when we had to choose between lights or the Web. Lights won out from my mom and sister’s perspective, at least.

  Well, maybe a few sales and we could have both.

  Before I could finish taking photographs of a handful of brass knobs that I had found, my email pinged with a message from my site.

  An inquiry about the vase already?

  My heart fluttered as I pulled up the email but then sank defiantly in my chest as soon as I read the words in front of me.

  Subject: Item 3045629 1800s English vase

  Pardon my frankness, but do you believe your description is accurate on this item? Have you been to Webley and that’s where you procured this vase?

  Gavin

  I rolled my eyes. Seriously?

  I guessed it was better than someone just trying to lowball me on an item, but I’d never received anything like this. And by the haughty tone, I may have offended an English local who had nothing better to do than troll me.

  Subject: Re: Item 3045629 1800s English vase

  Thank you for your inquiry. As you can see from the description, this item was obtained in North Carolina, where the family gifted it to a woman who was helping out in their home. Yes, the description I’ve given is accurate from my research on the object and what I obtained from the last owner of this piece. If you’d like to make an offer or have any other questions, let me know. Thank you.

  Natalie

  The nerve of this guy, really.

  I thought about saying something even snarkier but instead put my energy into adding another listing. One that hopefully wouldn’t get any rude emails saying that I didn’t know the exact origin or taken the brass knobs off the wardrobe myself.

  After I’d put up the next listing, I had another email waiting for me in my inbox.

  Gritting my teeth, I opened the tab, ready to see what else this guy was going to throw at me.

  Subject: Re: Re: Item 3045629 1800s English vase

  What qualifications do you have that would identify you as someone who has any sort of authority over knowing the authenticity and age of this vase if you’ve never been to Webley?

  Gavin

  What. The. Hell.

  Did this guy want me to send him my résumé or something?

  Would he even stop if I did?

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Item 3045629 1800s English vase

  Okay, Gavin, by the tone of the emails and your immense use of proper English vocabulary, I’m going to guess that you are a resident or former resident of the town of Webley. I may have never been to the location, but I did research the town online. You see, I have a master’s in history from the University of North Carolina. My thesis was on European antiquities and their importance to modern society, which I thoroughly researched throughout my academic career. Thus, I may have never been to this town of Webley, but I am confident in my knowledge.

  So, if you’d like the product, I can close the bidding on it and get it shipped out to you. Though it will be extra for out of the country, if you indeed are in Webley.r />
  Natalie

  I waited a few minutes to pry my locked jaws apart then sent the email, letting out a deep breath as I did.

  Glancing down at my phone, I stared at the mail icon, wondering how soon he would have a snappy response.

  Sitting a few more beats, I laughed to myself. I was being irrationally stupid. Probably the lack of sleep and the mixture of dust and pollen in the air had my brain going haywire.

  After taking a few more photos of some miscellaneous items I’d purchased, I went back to my inbox. Still nothing new.

  Dammit, did I offend the one person who might have possibly been interested in the item? If he even was.

  Opening my inbox, I hovered over the button, ready to write another email.

  But what the hell would I even say?

  Sorry I was rude, how about if I give you a $5 discount because I really need to pay something on my mom’s bills before they go to collection?

  Probably too desperate.

  Drumming my fingers along the table, I racked my brain for something to say. Anything at all.

  My phone buzzed in my hand, the sensation making me drop the device on the table with a small thud.

  My shoulders tightened as I quickly picked it up, inspecting the case for cracks before looking at the screen. An international number?

  Dammit, was this one of those people who hijacked my phone in the Caribbean again?

  As if my day couldn’t get any worse.

  With adrenaline still coursing through me from the previous emails and the weight of everything else pouring on, I slid the phone unlocked, my pulse pounding in my ears.

  “Listen, if this is another scam thing, you can stop it now, because I have your number and I’m turning it over to the authorities, and my phone company, for that matter.”

  I waited a few seconds for a response, my heart beating with each breath.

  Then, instead of the line going empty, a clear laugh rang through the speaker.

  “I don’t think the American authorities would be able to help you with what I have to offer,” a deep English accent replied.

  “Who is this?” I asked shakily, my breath coming in ragged puffs as I tried to steady my voice.

  “For a woman who acted so miffed on an email, I guess I should have expected this response.”

  Swallowing hard, I tried to calm my thumping heartbeat. “Is this Gavin? From the ad? How did you get my number?”

  He laughed even harder than the first time before letting out a deep breath. “It’s posted on your site, miss. If you didn’t want people calling you, maybe you should leave that off. Or not send them emails of your academic résumé and expect them not to call you out on a few things in your listing.”

  I opened my mouth then closed it again, the right response not coming to me. So, of course, I went for whatever happened to squeak out. “I can just as easily hang up and block you, yanno.?”

  “But you’re not going to, are you? You’re just as intrigued as I am.” His husky tone sent a shiver down my spine even though it was a warm June day.

  “Um, if we’re talking about the vase, the price is firm. But there are extra shipping fees for overseas.”

  He cleared his throat, a crack in that sultry accent. “This is about more than the vase. This is a proposition or, more appropriately, a job offer.”

  “Job?” I squeaked.

  “The position is temporary. I need someone with your knowledge of antiquities to help clean out my family’s estate here in Webley, curating some of these objects. Of course, you’d be compensated for your time and travel as well as room and board. As long as you think you can do it and have it done as soon as possible.”

  “Is this a joke?” I asked, my heart thudding so hard I swore it was going to leap out of my chest.

  “Check your email, Natalie.” His voice returned to that low, husky tone, and if my heart hadn’t already been bumping, it was probably now ready to explode.

  “Okay. Um. Hold one moment.”

  My hands shook as I pulled the device from my ear then opened up my email app.

  The first unopened piece of mail staring back at me was from Gavin Webley with the subject “Formal job offer.”

  Webley? What was this guy, keeper of the town or something?

  If my heart wasn’t already going into overdrive, I swore it beat even faster, ringing in my ears.

  I opened the email and the PDF attachment, scrolling through pages of legalese. Then I stopped when the salary popped onto the screen. A number just over what we were in debt from Mom’s medical bills.

  My breath caught in my throat as I tried to control the shaking that ravaged my entire body.

  “Miss? Natalie? You still there?”

  I sat up, pushing the phone against my ear. “First off, if I’m even going to consider this offer, you can just call me Natalie. No need for the miss stuff.”

  He laughed. “Okay, Natalie.”

  I huffed. “Is this all just a joke and soon some TV show guy with a hidden camera is going to come around the corner and tell me I’ve been pranked?”

  “Natalie.” My name came off his tongue like a prayer.

  I sucked in a deep breath. No getting excited just by a stranger’s voice.

  “The job offer is very real. I’ll send a contract via email. You can have your solicitor or attorney look over it if you wish. Once you sign the document, I’ll have travel expenses deposited, and a first-class ticket will be waiting for you. I assume you have a current passport, or will we need to get that expedited as well so you can get here next week?”

  “Next week?” I asked, trying to keep the shaking out of my voice. No. Way.

  “What? Would you rather make it this week? We can do that, too, but I need an answer, Natalie. Do you want to keep trying to sell miscellaneous items online or do you want to take this position at the estate?”

  I should have told him I’d think about it or maybe use the last of the money I had for my cell phone bill to get a cheap attorney.

  But I didn’t. “I’ll take it.”

  …

  I’d been on a plane ride exactly twice in my life, once for my grandmother’s funeral in Arizona and the other for a very long trip to Florida, where my little sister broke her arm on the Dumbo ride and we spent most of our time at the ER.

  And I had an unused passport that I got when I graduated, praying someday I’d get out of North Carolina.

  With my sister home for the summer and Mom in remission, it was the perfect time to leave. To take the leap of faith I’d been dying to do.

  I loved history and studying different cultures, but I’d never seen any of it up close. So as soon as I got off the plane, I immediately bolted for the nearest window, taking in as much of the scenery as I could. Which, since it was early afternoon and at an airport near the city, there wasn’t much but some large buildings and a fog in the distance.

  Webley didn’t have an airport, which meant I also had a train ticket in hand, making the journey across the English countryside to the small town.

  I thought then I’d get a view of some scenery.

  As soon as I got to my seat, it was as if the universe had it out for me.

  A crack of lightning followed by a loud boom of thunder shook the car. Then the downpour.

  The universe and I couldn’t be that lucky as the train crawled along the tracks.

  Instead of getting into the town of Webley in the late afternoon, it was now evening, the sky even darker and the rain hurling down in buckets.

  I didn’t have an umbrella and only a thin UNC hoodie that was in my carry-on bag.

  I’d changed out of my yoga pants and T-shirt from traveling, thinking I needed to make a good impression for my new boss.

  As soon as the cold water soaked through my hoodie, button-d
own shirt, and even my pants and into my heels, I was past the point of presentability.

  Now I was just a shivering bundle of nerves, trying to find a bathroom or somewhere to clean up before I met the driver who was supposed to pick me up.

  Annnnnd, since I spent the train ride playing games on my phone, it was dead.

  DEAD.

  In a foreign country with no one to call.

  Not my ride.

  Just me, standing there, in the rain, with a dead phone. Why didn’t this thing have a better shelter?

  Everyone else who got off the train had already grabbed their luggage and stepped into awaiting cars or taxis.

  I, on the other hand, had no idea who I was looking for.

  Maybe someone with a sign that said my name?

  I couldn’t see anything like that through the heavy rain.

  “Great,” I muttered, all hope I once had earlier now deflating out of me.

  Looking around the small station, I scanned for a pay phone.

  Did they still have those anymore?

  Slogging through the outdoor terminal, I made my way to the ticket counter.

  Only to have my heart flop down to my feet when I saw the closed sign dangling over the window.

  I shook my head as a painful lump formed in my throat.

  I could break down and cry or I could move on.

  And I had to do the latter.

  I was in another country, away from everyone I knew, and I needed this job. For me. For my mom.

  Wiping my eyes and pushing aside some water droplets from my mop of hair, I looked at my surroundings again.

  Maybe, in the daylight, the place would be charming with the cobblestone streets and Tudor-style buildings. But right now, the only thing I could catch sight of was a neon Guinness sign in a window.

  Pulling my suitcase behind me, I sloshed through the street and then opened the heavy door. My mouth watered as the warm air hit my face, along with the scent of fried food.

  I tried to eat some of the fancy in-flight meal service on the plane but also didn’t realize how much motion sickness could get to a girl who rarely flew. So I sipped on the complementary soda and ate pretzels. A few hours ago.

  A waiter passed me with a tray full of fish and chips, and my stomach grumbled. I swore the patrons at the long wooden bar could hear it, even if they couldn’t see me in the dim light of the room.