Chapter 1
Chapter One
Mortlock Fort, one year earlier
“Wife, remove your clothes.”
As I stood in the center of the solar, the cold of the stone floor seeped into the soles of my bare feet.
The voice coming from the figure propped up in the bed by the far wall was harsh and showed far greater strength than the hand which had gripped mine when the priest placed the wedding ring on my finger that morning.
Reclined on his bed, my new husband watched me.
Clad in a white nightshirt, he looked like a ghoul.
His eyes gleamed like two fetid yellow orbs sunken into aging flesh.
At that moment he reminded me of an emaciated wolf, hungry and vicious and relishing the anticipation of sinking its teeth into the warm, pulsating throat of a frightened rabbit in its path.
I was that rabbit.
He licked his lips as if to savor my terror, and I curled my hands into fists, fingers tightening against my slickened palms. I focused on the sharp sensation as I dug my nails in, and the effort caused a slight tremor in my arms but achieved its aim by preventing the rest of my body from shaking.
I closed my eyes, wanting to hide within the darkness, which had terrified me as a child.
The loss of one of my senses heightened childhood memories. The smell of burning wood and oil, and the crackle of flames in the air enveloped me as I heard the whimpers, cries, and screams that had echoed around my father’s courtyard on that long ago, terrible day.
My husband’s voice brought me back to the present.
“You will do as I bid, madam,” he rasped, “or Monsieur Sawford will do it for you.”
“My Lord Mortlock.”
A different voice spoke, softly, and I caught a slight movement to my left. A tall shape stepped forward, and in spite of my wish to remain composed, I turned my head.
It was Sawford, my husband’s manservant.
He’d been standing beside Lord Mortlock when I’d arrived at Mortlock Fort that morning.
I had kept my head down as Papa helped me out of the carriage, focusing my gaze on the ground as he steered me into the main hall.
I’d looked up only once, when we’d approached two pairs of feet.
Two men had bowed to me—one, my betrothed, the other his manservant. I’d held out my hand to the younger man, to Sawford, thinking him to be my betrothed. But Papa had corrected me by steering me toward the outstretched hand of the older man.
“Lisetta, would you humiliate me in front of your new husband?” he’d hissed.
The older man had curled his lip up to reveal a row of rotting yellow teeth. “No matter, Baron Shoreton. She will learn respect. She is young yet.”
I was hardly that. At four and twenty I was considered by many as beyond marriageable age.
Papa had refused many petitions for my hand, and I’d begun to prepare myself for retirement to the convent near Shoreton, until the news of the death of Lady Mortlock—or rather, the latest Lady Mortlock—had ignited his interest in opening betrothal negotiations.
But, given that Lord Mortlock looked older even than Papa, I doubted my age would matter much to him.
Heat had flooded my cheeks as I studied the hand I’d initially reached for. It was large, long-fingered, and bore the tell-tale scars of a warrior, despite the man being a clerk.
Sawford had known I was staring for he flexed his fingers and let out a heavy breath, almost a sigh.
I lifted my gaze to his face, but had been unable to meet his eyes.
He was tall—considerably taller than I, with thick dark hair.
A faint scar curled across his chin, giving him an air of brutality, and a slight growth of beard surrounded his mouth.
His lips were full and sensual, yet exuded masculinity.
I unconsciously parted my own lips as I studied his mouth, running my tongue across my top lip to ease the sudden dryness.
For a moment, the ghost of a smile flickered across his features, then slowly turned into a sneer.
Lord save me, he’d known my mind. I forced my expression back into the mask I wore, which in the years since my mother’s death had begun to feel like my own skin.
It was the mask of indifference and disdain, hiding my true feelings beneath.
I’d learned that to harbor any sense of emotion, let alone love, led to one’s downfall.
As a girl, I was the property of my Papa—as a bride, the property of my husband.
To have feelings for any man and display them, would lead to ruination and death.
I would not willingly share my mother’s fate.
“Sawford.”
The ancient, sinister voice of the man on the bed drew me back to the present, and I cringed. I was alone, with the man who now owned me. Having successfully disposed of his daughter to secure his alliance with Mortlock, Papa had already left for Shoreton.
I sensed the man standing behind me before light fingertips touched my upper arm.
Would he relish stripping me of my nightshift?
Suppressing a rise of nausea, I stepped away from him and, uncurling my fists, took my nightshift in both hands, pulled it over my head, then dropped the garment onto the floor.
My skin tightened with a combination of chill and revulsion, but I lifted my head and looked my husband in the eye, swallowing any shame at my nudity.
My husband’s eyes glistened with hunger and my stomach churned, threatening to expel what little I’d managed to force down during the wedding feast.
From a distance, my new husband inspected me. The bruises on my stomach from Papa’s last beating were fading but Lord Mortlock showed no sign of seeing them, and I awaited the order to join him in the bed.
But the order did not come. Instead, his gaze fixed on me, the bridegroom slipped his hand under the bed fur near his waist and moved it back and forth. His eyes widened, then he closed them and gave out a strangled grunt. His hand then reappeared and he wiped it on the fur.
My wedding night.
Papa had told me a wife’s sole purpose was to serve her husband’s needs and yet, the scraps of conversations I’d overheard when the servants at Shoreton gossiped about their lovers told a different story—a story of pleasure.
But, tonight, there would be no pleasure.
“Come closer.”
At my husband’s bidding, I moved toward the bed until he raised his hand.
“Far enough, woman. Sawford, you know what to do.”
From behind me, I heard the sound of material tearing.
My breath catching, I glanced around, met the manservant’s gaze for the first time, and suppressed a cry.
His clear blue eyes radiated sharp intelligence.
An intense flame flared in their depths, then receded, until their color turned to ice.
My skin tightened at his expression, which threatened to strip away my calm exterior and plunder the depths of my mind until I had nowhere to hide.
I could withstand the physical nudity of having my body on display for my husband’s pleasure, but Sawford’s gaze had the power to expose my mind and render me completely naked.
I stepped back, unwittingly into the candlelight, and my stomach tightened as I caught the glint of a knife blade, yet he was the one who stopped and murmured under his breath as he looked at me.
A low chuckle came from the bed. “My wife has eyes to drown in, does she not, Sawford?”
The servant said nothing. He held up my shift and continued to tear it into pieces.
My husband laughed again, then changed the subject, his tone becoming conversational—almost casual, as if I was no longer in the room.
“You did well in brokering the purchase of the mare, Sawford. I trust you’ll have no difficulty finding a stallion to stud her for me. There ought to be plenty among the stables, but you need to find one with an acceptable bloodline, who will not whinny too loudly over the deed.”
“Aye, my lord. I shall visit the stables directly.”
Sawford’s voice was low, a deep rumble that reverberated from his chest, and it made me shiver. The knife caught the candlelight again and I shuddered as he drew the blade along his arm, his gaze fixed on me as he cut. Then he cursed and looked down.
A deep gash ran along his forearm and thick, dark red liquid swelled to form rivulets along the flesh.
He held out his arm and fisted his hand, letting droplets scatter onto the tattered remnants of my gown.
He picked up the pieces of fabric and rubbed them along his arm.
Then my husband drew back the fur and Sawford walked to the bed, and held his arm over it, letting the drips fall onto the white linen.
“Good, very good.”
My husband’s voice was thick and hoarse as he nodded his approval.
“And now deal with my wife.”
Sawford moved to stand behind me once more.
The fingers which only moments ago had brushed against me almost in a caress now curled painfully around my arm as he pulled my naked form toward him.
I lost my balance and fell against his muscular body.
He drew me close, then dipped his head, pressing his face against my hair.
The heat from his breath seeped through to my skin, heightening the sensitive spot at the base of my neck.
Then a fur was placed round my shoulders with a gentle touch before he gripped my arm again and forced me out into the passageway.
I pinched my lips together at the fall in temperature, but could not control my body’s reaction and started to tremble.
“Draw the fur close around you. ’Tis a cold night. Do you wish for another?”
His voice was a whisper, his breath forming a faint mist that hung in the night air before dissolving. But I found his closeness was unsettling, and said nothing.
“I would have an answer.”
I kept my voice firm and steady to disguise my discomfort.
“I am not answerable to a serf.”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he increased the pace and the sound of his boots clomping echoed through the passageway as he dragged me along with him.
Eventually, we came to a dark wooden door in the shape of an arch, covered in iron studs.
He opened the door which swung inward. It was the room where my maid Harwyn had prepared me for my wedding night before leading me to the solar; my bridal gown was still folded over the chair where she had left it.
Sawford pushed me through the door, then turned me to face him. He stood a head taller than me, dressed almost completely in black, his brows knitted into a frown. Perhaps he was attempting to intimidate me as punishment for my earlier words.
I set my jaw into a hard line and tipped my head up to look at him, determined not to give him the satisfaction of witnessing his success.
His eyes met mine, the blue as sharp as a winter’s sky, and he continued to stare at me as if trying to read my soul.
I stuck my chin out and used my well-rehearsed tone of contempt before stepping back and waving a dismissive hand at him as if attempting to swat a fly.
“A servant has no business in a lady’s room.”
The flicker of anger in his eyes disappeared almost as soon as I saw it forming. I did not know which was worse—the flare of fury, or the icy composure that he used to conceal it.
Then, without warning, he pulled me to him and crushed my mouth with his own.
He grasped my hair with his free hand, forcing my head back to receive his kiss while his lips moved over mine. His hand pressed against my back in a gesture of dominance and ownership. Then it moved lower to caress and squeeze my buttocks.
I let out a cry at the shock of his touch, and he thrust his tongue through my parted lips.
He invaded my mouth, running his tongue along my teeth and curling it around my own, a velvety soft weapon teasing, probing, and assaulting my senses.
He leaned forward, supporting my weight as I was bent backward, and I became aware of his hardness against my belly.
The fur slipped from my shoulders and fell to the floor.
Sawford gave a low growl and moved his free hand to my chest. I felt my nipples tighten, as he brushed across them to lightly cup my breast, and a wetness began to pool between my thighs.
He teased my nipple with his fingers while he continued to kiss me; then he moved his hand away.
With a whimper, I leaned toward him, not wanting his touch to end.
He lifted his hand to my face, caressing my mouth with his thumb as he had done earlier with his lips, but this time his touch was tender. I closed my eyes and parted my lips, and he ran his thumb across my bottom lip before pushing it gently inside my mouth.
Instinctively, I drew it in and began curling my tongue around, feeling the edge of his fingernail. He tasted of the honeyed figs I adored, which I’d been too unsettled to eat at the wedding feast. I relished that taste now and gave a little sigh as I found more sweetness.
Abruptly, he pulled away, his lips curling into the sneer he’d worn that morning. I flushed with shame at my wanton reaction, wanting to chastise him for dishonoring me. But I could not trust myself to speak.
As if he read my mind, he gave a dark laugh.
“Scratch the surface of any woman and you find the whore within.”
“I am no whore,” I retorted. “I’m Lady Mortlock, your mistress, and you have no right to—”
He silenced me again with his mouth, sending a fresh assault of sensations to my center as he palmed my breast. I pulled away, but not before my chest tightened with that same exquisite feeling.
“Your body betrays you, cherie. Mayhap the goods are not as unsullied as your father would have us believe.”
His words made no sense, but I flushed at my reaction to his closeness.
The silence hung between us until I lifted my head and gave him a look of contempt.
Sawford made no move to kiss me again, but released me from his embrace.
Then he turned his back and exited the chamber, slamming the door behind him.
His quick, heavy footsteps faded into the distance.
I stepped back until I felt the bed against the back of my legs, then I sank onto the mattress, the bed ropes creaking. I was free from Papa, but my new cage harbored new horrors. Unobserved I let the mask slip, unlocking the tears which slid down my cheeks in silence.