Hilde
Thorgoode,
I write this from Neck. I came to see you at the Croft but was informed that you were here.
Imagine my irritation that, having come to Neck to find you, I am once again disappointed.
Your presence being elusive, I must now entrust my business with you to this letter, which I had no wish to do. But very well.
In brief: more soldiers are required for the war effort.
Unforeseeable events have depleted our numbers, we have reached a point where pathetically few men join up for bravery or glory or love of country, and the king is reluctant to declare a draft.
So it is up to me to secure warriors for our cause.
I intend to issue an incentive.
Any soldiers who enlist for the next six months will be rewarded with tenancy of Croft property—more specifically, at Croftholde and the surrounding area.
This will kill two birds with the same stone, as I have repeatedly been disappointed by the output from the estate, and the land is clearly in need of more industrious workers.
I understand that being as softhearted as you are, you will object to ending your existing tenancies.
But rest assured that if they join up, they can seek the same reward as anyone else.
I am not without compassion, after all. I will be returning to Croftholde in a fortnight so that we can discuss the management of this new endeavor.
I expect you to be in residence when I arrive.
Regrettably, before I close, I must speak bluntly of the grasping strumpet you took to wife against my wishes.
You may be content to let her lead you around by your bollocks year after year, but I warn you, brother, I will not see her interfere in these business matters in any way.
Her rapacious commonness is your trial to bear.
See to it that she does not become any more of a trial to me, or there will be consequences.
Do you recall when I removed several of your milk teeth with a set of blacksmith’s pliers when you were small? It will be like that, but much worse.
I remain your brother,
Duke Engelbrooke
Hilde was clutching the letter far too tightly, her pulse thudding in her ears, fear scrabbling at her throat.
The hatred and disdain with which he described her, not to mention his reference to Thorgoode’s teeth…
No, she would not think about that closing paragraph.
The rest of the letter was too important to dwell on anything else.
Of course she had heard of instances where lords took a tenancy away from one family and gave it to another.
But never had she heard of an entire village being thrown out of their homes at once.
Where would they all go? And how would newcomers, complete strangers to the land and its ways, possibly succeed in farming it? It was preposterous!
She had feared for Croftholde when she thought it would be under the Harrier’s boot.
Now it was clear that if he was allowed to proceed, there would be no more Croftholde.
It would be lost, forever. No more Jak’s.
No more Wylderuckus. No more bartering and mourning and celebrating and lambing and all the thousand actions that made it a home.
The Harrier was going to destroy it completely.
She had only two weeks before he descended upon her—or possibly even less, depending on how long it had taken the letter to reach the Gaze.
Since Thorgoode’s death, she had known in her heart that the only way to protect Croftholde was to bring him back.
Now she knew with certainty that she had been right.
He was the only one who could stand up to the Harrier.
Croftholde was his, not his brother’s, and it was important to him. He would save it.
And there was only one way to get him back: Lord Elmwood’s Charm. He had called her bluff on blackmail and rebuffed her attempts at friendship. There was no other way to convince him, unless…
I can think of a few remaining uses for you.
Had he meant that? Did he still wish to bed her? Was that what it would take to win him over to her cause, to make him care enough to set aside his fear of his own power?
The Harrier’s horrible closing paragraph had made its point. It was not as though she had never used her body as a means to an end before. Grasping strumpet.
It was almost three months after Thorgoode took up residence at Croftholde, when she had just turned nineteen, that she’d begun to sense his eyes upon her as she knelt at the grate to set his hearth alight, or leaned forward to serve him wine.
It had made her uneasy at first. What was he thinking when he watched her?
Could he sense her annoyance with his presence and the extra work it caused?
Was he unhappy with her work? Would he dismiss her?
Would he dismiss Han as well? Where would they go?
Eventually, she began to understand that his gaze was one of appreciation.
By the time he found her alone in the Hall after dinner one night, she understood what he wanted.
But he was patient with her, and in time, she had begun to seek him out, to joke with him about little things and offer her thoughts to him, as if he might wish to hear them. And eventually, he did.
Thus she had become Lady Croft. Letting Thorgoode take her to bed had been the means by which the greatest good had happened in her life.
It had given her power and safety and security.
It had given her the hope of ensuring the same for all the people of Croftholde. It had led to a true partnership.
Would it be so wrong to form a partnership with Elmwood now, in hopes that they might find an accord of a different sort?
She was not entirely certain what allure she held that enticed him to such an extent.
Perhaps she was no more than a reasonably attractive choice in a place with very limited options.
She had not worried much about that with Thorgoode, for while she had certainly been the most convenient choice, he easily could have pursued any number of village girls, or even courted some real lady and brought her back to the Croft with him.
Instead, he chose her, and he had not strayed for fifteen years.
His tastes were straightforward, which she appreciated, though she did sometimes find herself wondering if perhaps it might be interesting to do things a bit differently now and then.
But Thorgoode was the sort of person who liked what he liked and seldom strayed from it, and she hadn’t the faintest idea what she actually wanted that was different or how to ask for it.
He did always make certain that she was enjoying herself, and while she had no one to discuss these sorts of things with, since becoming Lady Croft had set her somewhat apart from the more personal chatter of the women in the village, she suspected that not all husbands were so considerate.
She had an anxious premonition that seducing Elmwood would require much more imagination than she was accustomed to.
He did not seem like a man who would be content with anything simple, and she had absolutely no idea what sorts of things people who were more worldly and experienced got up to in bed.
The uncanny thing was, when she pictured seducing him, she was faced with the fact that his presence made her think of things that she would not normally think of. With her mind’s eye, she could see herself pressing him hard, almost forcefully, against a wall, and then…
That was as far as she could get. Was that sort of thing too much?
Not enough? And when had she become the sort of woman who had such scalding fantasies?
Did they make her the plotting seductress that the Harrier had accused her of being?
But bedding Elmwood was surely no worse a sin than blackmailing him, all things considered.
The facts were right there in front of her. If she wanted to save Croftholde from the Harrier and his terrible plans, she was going to have to seduce Lord Elmwood.
“I…don’t know, my lady,” said Francie, scowling.
They both scrutinized Hilde’s reflection in the silvery mirror.
She was wearing an ensemble that had belonged to some Lady Croft of yore.
It involved a voluminous skirt layered underneath a silk robe in the Relancian style that buttoned so tightly down Hilde’s front that her breasts were popping out the top like doves emerging from a Wintertide pie.
They were practically around her ears, prevented from climbing higher only by a detachable ruffle that Francie had dutifully starched to attention.
She was ridiculous. This was a ridiculous plan.
She had lied to Francie, telling her that the renters at Merewyth had invited her to dine with them.
They had both agreed that nothing in her current wardrobe was suited for a formal dinner, and so they dug through the trunks stashed away in the attic.
Francie was searching for something appropriate.
Hilde was searching for something seductive.
Unfortunately, this garment was the best they’d come up with, on either count.
“I don’t think anyone’s worn a getup like this for two hundred years,” said Francie.
She was likely correct, as it had been that long since the last pause in the centuries-long war with Relance, and no one had worn Relancian fashions since then.
“And you can see the sweat stains on the silk when you lift your arms. Maybe you should wear the velvet surcoat…it’s practically a relic, but at least it’s not unpatriotic. ”
The ancient velvet surcoat was more comfortable, but Hilde shook her head. It was essentially a sack that would fully encompass her and all of her limbs. Not a garment for seduction, by any stretch of the imagination.
“Can you take the ruff off?” she asked. Francie helped her detach it, and then they studied her reflection again.