The Earl’s Indifferent Daughter (Sisters of Ember Hall #3)

Prologue

Egremont House, English Borderlands

Shafts of sunlight filtered through the high window in the armory to form dappled patterns on the plastered walls.

Adam was slowly and meticulously polishing swords; holding each one up to the light and examining the surface for nicks or marks.

He had only a sennight left in the service of Rory Baine, but was determined to be diligent until the very end.

Everything was quiet, save the soft sound of rubbing and the occasional rasp of metal.

The room was foursquare and sparsely furnished, with just one small window for light, but Adam had always enjoyed the sense of peace and purpose down here.

Overseeing the armory had been one of the first jobs granted to him when he joined the household.

It was a weighty responsibility for a wee lad with narrow shoulders that still sagged with grief, but Adam, the only son of a tenant farmer, was well used to doing the work of a man.

Now, ten summers later, he had grown half a head taller than the mighty Rory Baine, with shoulders that were broad and well-muscled, thanks to the strict regime of training at Egremont House.

His skin was tanned from long hours outside and his eyes shone with hope for a future that was nearly within his grasp.

He hummed tunefully as he admired the intricate engravings on the hilt of a particularly fine broadsword. This belonged to Rory’s son, Callum; a bright and kind boy some years his junior, whom he had trained as a swordsman and in so doing, grown to love almost like a brother.

Adam recalled the day that Rory had presented the sword to Callum.

It was the same day that the strapping youth had first bested Adam in a sword fight.

Beaming with pride, Adam had clapped Callum on the shoulder and proclaimed that his work was done; he had taught him all he knew.

Rory promptly strode away from the training ground, causing Adam to fret that he had somehow displeased his ofttimes irritable mentor.

But when Rory returned, a smile flickered at the edge of his thin lips.

He held a long package out toward his son.

“’Tis time for you to have this,” he’d said.

Callum had slowly pulled the sword from its sheath and held it high, admiring the gleam of fine-crafted metal in the noontime sun.

Just as Adam was doing now.

He pursed his lips. He would miss Callum most of all when he left Egremont House. But the lad was already away in Lindum, training to be a knight. For all of Adam’s expert swordsmanship, that honor would never be accorded to him.

“And nor do ye want it,” he told himself severely.

Nay, he would never be a knight.

He would be a farmer, like his father before him.

He balanced the weight of the sword in his hand, imagining in its place a hefty hoe or pitchfork, and he laughed aloud, the sound ricocheting around the bare walls. Happiness bubbled in his belly, making him as lightheaded as a man well into his cups.

“A farmer,” he said, liking the solidity of the word. He took a breath. “A husband.”

The words fitted together, like hand and gauntlet.

He put down the sword and placed his palms on the smooth wooden work table. “Clara will be my bride.”

The dream he had longed for was now close enough to believe in.

In mere days, Adam would wed his childhood sweetheart and become the happiest man in all the land.

They would live with Clara’s parents, in the farmstead that had been in the Gowen family for generations.

His days would pass in hard, honest toil.

God willing, they would be blessed with children.

It would be a simple life, but one filled with laughter and love.

He replaced Callum’s sword, his hand lingering only a moment over the hilt. He had never coveted the status or coin of the family that had taken him in. In truth, he pitied young Callum Baine for the pressures exerted on him by an ambitious father.

Adam wiped his hands on a leather cloth and put everything away tidily, before closing the door of the armory and climbing the narrow steps to the courtyard.

Heat enveloped him and he blinked until his eyes adjusted to the harsh sunlight.

A few chickens scratched amongst the cobbles, but no one was about, save the lookout guards on the gate.

Before this summer, Egremont House had been a regular hive of activity.

Lady Elizabeth, Callum’s mother, enjoyed nothing more than a steady stream of house guests who would hunt over the moors or picnic on the hills.

The evenings would see laughter and music fill the feasting hall, and even Rory would crack a smile and tap his foot in time to the lute.

But now, Lady Elizabeth’s health was failing: the shutters to her bedchamber were closed against the summer sun and her husband’s brow seemed creased in a perpetual frown.

Adam paused at the stop of the armory steps, his hands on his narrow hips and his dark hair mussed by the breeze. The silence was almost visceral and after a moment he realized what was so strange.

There was no birdsong.

He cocked his head to the side and listened closely, but the usual melody of woodland birds calling from the trees surrounding Egremont House had ceased.

A gust of wind blew grit into his face and in the same moment a cloud passed over the sun, casting the courtyard into shadow.

As Adam rubbed at his eyes, someone shouted and the guards pulled open the main gates.

Two riders trotted through the archway, both looming overly large: their horses moving as if in slow motion.

He opened his mouth but struggled to catch a breath of the warm August air.

One of the men spoke, his voice shrill with urgency, but before Adam could make sense of the words, his companion shot out an arm to silence him.

It was Rory Baine. His dark eyes were fixed on Adam as he rode toward him, his scarlet cloak billowing over his horse’s hindquarters.

Adam ordered himself to straighten up. He reached behind him for the granite wall of the armory and tried to take comfort in the sun-warmed stones, but there was something about the expression on Rory’s face that reminded him of that terrible day when he was but a wee boy.

A wee boy waiting in the barn for the physician to come out of the house and tell him that all was well.

Instead, it was his father’s old friend, Rory Baine, who appeared in the barn doorway and told Adam, not unkindly, that he was now an orphan.

“Adam.” Rory reined in his warhorse and jumped neatly onto the cobbles. “I have grave news.”

The exact phrase he had used back then.

Adam could not speak. Behind the horse, he saw the wide eyes of Rory’s manservant.

“Milord,” he managed.

Rory was not a tactile man. When he reached out and touched Adam’s shoulder, Adam knew for certain that something was terribly wrong.

“’Tis the Gowen farm.”

Adam’s mouth went dry. “What of it?”

Rory shook his head, greying hair bouncing on his broad shoulders. “I am sorry, lad.”

A sharp pain rippled through Adam’s chest. “Tell me.”

“We rode past on our way back from Rossfarne. ’Tis ruined.”

“Ruined?” Adam blinked, not understanding. “How?”

“Raiders.” Rory voiced the word that every man on the borderlands dreaded hearing, and more so since the Battle of Bannockburn. “They set fire to the house and barns. There is little left standing.”

Adam’s knees gave way, so that it was only the fierce grip of Rory’s hand on his shoulder that kept him upright. Wretchedly he tried to form his next question.

“None survived,” Rory said gently. “We searched and made certain.”

Adam’s lips formed the name Clara, but no sound came out.

“I shall go back with several men, and we shall give the Gowens a decent burial.” Rory bowed respectfully. “But ’tis best you stay here.”

The idea of his beloved Clara disappearing under the earth brought Adam out of his stupor. Breath returned to his body and he all but shook Rory’s hand away.

“Nay. I must go to her.”

“She is dead, lad.” Rory’s gaze was unflinching. “She and her sisters and her ma and pa. All of them killed whilst out in the fields. ’Tis a mercy they did not burn alive.”

Adam’s stomach recoiled. “Mayhap you are wrong. Mayhap she is only injured.” He pushed himself away from the wall. “I must see for myself.”

“’Tis no sight for a lover’s eyes.”

Rory shook his head firmly, but Adam had no care for his concerns. Cold sweat beaded on his brow and his body pulsed with desperate desire to be with Clara. He pushed his dark hair from his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. The Gowen farm was a long walk from Egremont House.

He would have to run.

“Forgive me, milord.” He bowed hurriedly then set off at a jog.

“Wait.” Rory’s command reverberated through the courtyard and Adam forced himself to a halt. “If ye are intent on doing this, take my horse.” He held out the reins whilst Adam blinked in surprise.

“Thank you.”

Adam jumped into the saddle and urged the horse back the way he had come.

Just one wide cart track wound over the moorland hills, which were purple with heather and buzzing with insects.

The way was as familiar as the back of his hand.

As he passed the mound of rocks, where he and Clara would ofttimes sit and plan their future, he decided that Rory must be mistaken.

Not about the fire. Nor about the raiders. But about Clara.

She could not be dead.

God could not be so cruel as to take her from him. Not when Adam had already lost both his mother and father. Not when Clara was so good and kind and beautiful.

But as he crested the hill, he smelled smoke drifting on the breeze.

And as he galloped down the farm track, the taste of it turned acrid in his throat.

Blackened rafters, still smoking, stood open to the sky.

No hounds barked from the stable yard, no cattle watched his progress.

Pain wrapped long arms around his ribs and squeezed his chest until it was difficult to breath.

He halted the horse, dismounted, and looped the reins over a lone stoop—still standing, despite the devastation all around. His heart was heavy, but still he pressed on, needing to see the truth for himself.

It was a truth that changed him forever.

Clara was laying in what had been the hayfield. The Gowens had brought in the harvest just days earlier, and the ground was stubby and hard. It was no place for peaceful repose. Blood pounded in his ears as he tried to make sense of it.

She was face down, but Adam could not deny the familiar hue of her corn-colored hair, and the shape of her slender body, still clothed in her work apron.

A plume of blood had dried between her narrow shoulder blades and a distant part of Adam registered, almost gratefully, that her death had been quick.

His vision blurred with tears as he lowered himself to his knees and cradled Clara’s head.

But the tears did not fall. Instead, as he gazed over the sun-bleached field and took in the terrible shape of another body, Clara’s father, some distance away, something inside Adam shifted.

A part of him that had been tender with hope and love, instead grew hard and cold.

He was but twenty years of age, and fate had delivered a second cruel blow.

Whatever Adam loved, was lost.

Whenever he hoped for a future, it was taken from him.

He vowed that he would never love—nor hope for it—ever again.