Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Routledge Castle…
Charlotte Routledge sighed as she eased her fingers over the scar that ran the length of her thigh. There was no excruciating pain anymore, at least not physically. But her heart still ached at the sight of it.
Holding the hem of her dress, she examined herself in front of the floor-length mirror, recalling the day she'd gotten the mark.
The wound was an ugly reminder of a time she'd rather forget.
The night when she lost everything that mattered to her.
She had lost her father. The life that she had always known had perished in that blaze.
The wind blew her long blonde hair about her face as her light green eyes filled with tears.
Charlotte looked so much like her mother, with her delicate features and pale white skin.
They had spent hours together taking care of her hair.
My child, hair is a woman's crowning glory; you should always look after it.
Looking to the side, she glanced at the open window where her mother used to sit.
Her uncle had given her the room where her mother had died, forcing Charlotte to coexist with the heartbreaking memories.
Catherine had fallen to her death, but nobody knew exactly what had happened.
Fifteen years had passed since the day. But still, the pain remained.
Nothing and no one could bring back her parents.
Charlotte sighed heavily as she walked to the window and leaned out, staring at the patch of grass where her mother's body had been found. What happened, mama? Her heart whispered as a single tear fell on the top of her hand. Secretly, Charlotte had always wondered whether her death had been an act of foul play or if she wanted to die. Her mother’s past was covered in a veil, her own daughter filled with questions about it.
Taking a deep breath and exhaling the scent of the rain that lingered on the horizon, she pushed herself back up and walked to the mirror glass, where she examined the length of her scar again. I wish there were a way I could make you disappear…
Dropping her hem and taking a step back, Charlotte hurriedly fixed her dress as the door swung wide. "Don't you know it's rude to enter a Lady's room without knocking, Uncle?" she quickly remarked as he stepped into the room.
"Don't you dare talk to me like that," he sneered, slapping her to the floor with the back of his hand. "You nasty little witch."
Charlotte hit the wood with a sickening thud, feeling her lip splitting in two, and the iron taste of blood filling her mouth.
Alexander Routledge sniffed in disgust as he fixed his hair, slicking the dark tendrils back over his head with the bony hand he hit her with, the edge of the ring that collided with her flesh glinting.
"If you’d finished your sewing and instead of feeding your vanity before that mirror, I wouldn't have to discipline you like that," he snickered.
"After all these years… you still haven't learned respect. "
Using her arms to push herself from the floor, Charlotte stood and glared at him, her fists balled at her sides.
He treated her like a prisoner but she'd be damned if she would let him see her pain.
Her pride was more potent than her will to survive.
"I don't see why I have to do the sewing," Charlotte fired back.
"You have plenty of maids in the castle to do your bidding. "
Alexander's laugh was cruel and cold as he stared at her. "Because I own you, little niece. You are nothing without me," he patted his pocket that held the key to her room. "You are to do what I say, whenever I say it."
Her uncle had kept her under lock and key at the castle ever since her father had perished.
Charlotte was a precious pawn to him, nothing more than a bargaining piece for his financial gain.
She despised him with every ounce of loathe her soul could muster.
Not once in her life had she hated someone until him.
"Until you are married and I have my price, you will do as I say," he repeated his words to get his point across.
Charlotte knew well that he was right. She would bolt if she ever got the chance. "The sewing will be done before the end of the day," she gritted her teeth and bent to his will, knowing there was no other way out.
"It had better be," Alexander smirked as she passed him on the way to the desk atop which the mountains of clothes sat waiting for her.
Her room was set up with a simple bed and a single table and chair for all the sewing and mending needed.
The curtains were removed from the room, saying she didn't deserve the luxury of a good night's sleep.
But she knew this was not the reason: her mother had jumped off that window and he wanted to torture her by ensuring she would never forget it.
She made the mistake of rolling her eyes at his threat. Damn it, Charlotte!
As quick as a flash, Alexander slapped her again, sending her reeling back onto her bed, narrowly missing the mirror.
This time, she cried out in pain as her side connected with the wooden frame of the bed, digging into her ribs with a red-hot shock.
He was on her before she could move, with his one hand clutching her hair, taking the stands between his fingers. "You still haven't learned your lesson, little pup," his sour breath growled in her ear as he grossly caressed her cheek.
"I'll show you exactly what will happen when you talk to me like that."
Charlotte opened her eyes to see the flash of a blade as her uncle held a sharp dirk to her face. He'd always prized the Scottish blade, bragging of the men who'd met their ends at its tip. It gleamed in the light. "Please," she whispered, nudging away as he grasped her hair.
"Oh?" he said with a menacing laugh. "We have changed our tune, have we?" "You deserve this, you little wench," he hissed in her ear as the blade drew near, his nasty breath making her sick to her stomach.
Charlotte took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut as her skin began to perspire.
In one swift move, Alexander lifted the blade and sliced her hair, releasing her from his grip as she crumpled onto the bed.
Panicking, Charlotte gripped the back of her head, crying out as she felt for her hair. There was nothing left but uneven tufts that hung down her neck. "What did you do that for?" she sobbed. "That was the last piece of my mother I had left."
Pulling his face in disgust, he flung the hair beside her on the bed. "Don't talk to me about your mother," he spat in anger. "She was just as useless a wretch as you are today. Good for nothing and no one. Why that simple brother of mine ever chose to make her his wife, I'll never know."
Tears stained the mattress as Charlotte tried to clutch her hair, the golden strands slipping through her fingers like sand.
She pulled herself up and crouched on the bed with her legs folded beneath her lap.
Mama… she sobbed uncontrollably, gripping her hair in her fists and trying her best to hang onto the last remnants that she had.
"Besides," Alexander mused after watching her for a while. "I had to do it; your future husband prefers girls with shorter hair."
Her head shot up in shock as she stared at him. Did I hear him right? She knew her uncle wanted to marry her off, but she always hoped the day would not come.
"This way, you don't want to look like that insipid woman my brother had the nerve to marry."
"You sold me?" Charlotte hissed, feeling her blood boil.
"It was time, dear niece. I cannot take care of you forever."
"Who is the man?" she tried her best to remain calm as her hands began to tremble.
Alexander smiled at her with one corner of his mouth raised. "I have it on good authority that you know the man."
Charlotte frowned as her mind searched for a clue. There weren't any potential suitors that she could think of. It wasn't like her uncle ever let her leave the castle to meet anyone new.
"He made your acquaintance six years ago in the Musgrave Castle," Alexander watched Charlotte's face carefully as he spoke, wanting to inflict as much pain as he could with his words. "On that joyous night of the fire when my brother died."
Her body ran cold as all the blood drained from her face. There were only a few men she had met that night. And three of them had died. It can't possibly be…
"Yes. He said you would be shocked to learn that it was him. Apparently, you gave him the slip at the feast. He'd asked for a dance, but you refused like the little chit that you are. It's only fitting that you should marry him now. You've always been a rude little wench."
"What is his name?"
"William Dodd."
The name echoed in her mind like an avalanche of dread.
She knew the name all too well. He hadn't asked her for a dance.
In fact, he'd used an entirely different approach to try to have his way with her.
She could still feel the fabric of her dress ripping under his fingers.
Her insides trembled at the memory of what he'd tried to do to her, along with the other men.
"Prepare yourself, little wench. For, in a few days, your new husband will be here to collect you." He turned to leave before pausing at the door. "Make sure you clean up this mess," he nodded to the hair on the bed and left, shutting the door behind him with a final click of the key.
Charlotte stared at the strands as unbelief and fear took hold of her soul.
William Dodd had been the only one who had survived the fire.
She wished he had perished on many a day, but none more than now that he was close to getting what he wanted.
He nearly had his way with her that night when he and his friends had cornered her at the feast. And now?
Will he finally have me, even after six years?
She turned her head and looked out the window, away from the pain that mingled with her hair on the bed. How was her life once again falling to pieces? Have I not already lost all that I had?
There was only one other man she had ever wished dead, as much as William Dodd.
The man who had set the fire at the feast. She hadn't any evidence of what he had done or why.
She could only recall the torch at his feet as the flames licked at her dress.
He's stood there with his mask, staring at her.
Why hadn't he done anything to help either of us?
Her father had died, saving her life. But that man had stood there watching before she'd blacked out.
Shaking her head, Charlotte shook off the thoughts and turned her focus to the problem at hand.
She needed to escape. Marrying William Dodd would be a fate worse than death.
Looking back at the window, she made up her mind.
She needed to run, soon. Come hell or high water, William Dodd would never have his way with her.
Pushing herself up from the bed, Charlotte walked over to the desk and retrieved the bin she used for the snippets of cotton, recalling a happier time when her parents were alive.
They'd loved her with every fiber of their beings.
No girl alive could ever have been loved more than she had been. And now?
Now she was left alone to pick up the shattered pieces of her life. The last strands of hope she'd held onto were now being thrown into a bin. Discarded and forgotten, like all her dreams.
Sinking to her knees beside the bed, Charlotte sobbed hopelessly into the mattress. What am I going to do now? I'm alone in the world. She sniffed a few times, drying her eyes and recalling the words her father had said to her as a little girl.
There may come a day when you have no one else to rely on but yourself. Your mother and I will always do our best to be there, but you need to make sure that you look out for yourself.
Taking a deep breath, Charlotte hugged her knees to her chest. That's exactly what she would do now. She would find a way out of this mess. She turned her head to look out the window. I'll find a way out of this mess if it's the last thing I do.