Chapter 3 #2
“You have good hands for pouring,” Lady Blackfen observed. “Many girls tremble or fumble or spill. My mother said that such things tell you the quality of a woman’s mind.”
“I hope I shall please you, my lady,” Verity responded, but the countess waved her off.
“Do not deprecate. I already like you. I can tell you are strong. And you do not chatter too much.” Her eyes went sharp again. “If you have secrets, Miss Hale, you shall find I am not much interested in them. All women have secrets. What matters is whether you can keep mine.”
Verity looked down into her own cup. “I will try, my lady.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, the wind muttering against the windows, the fire ticking as it settled.
Then Lady Blackfen said, “My son means well, but he is a child in so many ways. If you see him sulking about, ignore it. Blackfen men have always sulked. It’s a family tradition.” She blinked, as if momentarily confused by her own words. “Did you have brothers, Miss Hale?”
“No, my lady.”
“A blessing. Brothers are only good for mischief.” She put down her teacup and peered at Verity. “And if you should see a wolf, tell me first. I have money riding with the vicar, and I intend to win.”
“Yes, my lady.” The oddness of the statement made Verity stifle a snort.
They passed the next few minutes in companionable quiet, the dowager sometimes speaking, sometimes drifting into silent reflection, her eyes closed or resting on the dancing flames in the hearth.
Verity found herself relaxing, even smiling as the old woman muttered complaints about the local clergy, the cold, and the outrageousness of young people’s fashions.
Eventually, the countess’s head sagged forward. She mumbled, “The wolves will come through the walls if we let them. Do not let them. The men never could, but you must. Promise, Miss Hale.”
Verity placed a gentle hand on the dowager’s wrist. “I promise, my lady.”
The countess smiled, then slumped back into her chair and snored softly.
Verity finished her own tea, tidied the cups, and eased the fire to a gentle glow. She heard a knock at the door and opened it to find a young maid, bearing a tray with a steaming bowl of stew, fresh bread, and a squat jug of what proved to be cold spring water.
The stew was nourishing, and the bread, thickly sliced and still warm, tasted of salt and wild honey. Verity ate slowly, savoring every mouthful.
As she ate, her mind drifted, inevitably, to Lord Blackfen.
She wondered if he had a wife here in the castle.
Or if he was not wed, why did such a kind gentleman, whose treatment of her spoke of a noble heart, seem to be a bit of a recluse, even, as Mrs. Harrow had mentioned, limiting the staff in this fog-shrouded estate in the woods?
She had never known a man like him. He was not what the penny romances described, no careless rake or brooding poet, but a figure carved from the same hard stone as the building itself.
He moved with a quiet confidence, never wasting a gesture.
Yet when he smiled, heaven help her, that smile, it made her feel as if she were the only person in the room. In the world.
She chided herself for such foolishness. There was no future in thinking of the earl, not even as an idle fancy. She was a paid companion, a nobody with forged references and a ruined name. She had come north to disappear, not to be noticed.
She finished her meal and sat back in her chair. Sighing, she closed her eyes. Beside her, Lady Blackfen snored with steady rhythm, each breath a soft hum.
She had not slept properly since before starting on the dramatic mailcoach journey up north, and now the silence of Blackfen Castle pressed down. The ache of the journey rushed in to claim her. Her thoughts blurred, softened, slipped.
Her last waking memory was of eyes. Golden, with odd flecks of black that seemed to draw the light inward, and the way they had looked into hers, as if they seemed to peer directly into her soul.
After handling his correspondence, eating an early dinner to assuage his appetites for the coming night, and despite his best efforts, musing about the diminutive but attractive and fragrant Miss Verity Hale, Lucien shrugged on his coat, laced his boots with cold fingers, and set off for the stables.
The snow muffled his footsteps, and he felt the stillness of the night around him.
He found Max Dray, the stable master, where he worked.
The man was tall and broad, with roughened skin and the look of a prizefighter.
His dark hair as glossy as the coats of the geldings under his care, his eyes were gray, sharp, and watchful.
Lucien had respect for the way that Max carried himself, always with a calm and self-assured steadiness.
“Evening, Max,” Lucien called, stepping into the dim of the stables. The familiar tang of hay, manure, and horseflesh was oddly comforting.
“Evening, m’lord,” Max replied, wiping his hands on a rag. “You heard about the crofter?”
Lucien’s stomach dropped, though he kept his face blank. “No. What happened?”
“Gone. Vanished last night, his cottage door wide as the barn. They found the place empty at dawn. Blood all over the yard, but no sign of him.”
Lucien exhaled, slow and careful. “Was it a great deal of blood?”
“Enough.” Max’s eyes flicked over Lucien’s face. “I know what ye’re thinkin’.”
There was a pause. Finally, Lucien said, “I do not recall anything from last night. I awoke in the far woods and limped home, naked and freezing, to sneak into my own home.”
Max grunted. “I did wonder where ye were. How did the chains come loose in the middle of the night?”
Lucien felt shame. “I do not know.”
Max put down the rag and reached for a lantern burning nearby. “We must check, then.”
They walked out together, the snow crunching under their boots. Max led the way to the old root cellar, a squat stone building beyond the stables.
Inside, the air was damp and tinged with mold. The chains hung from the iron staples in the wall, each link as thick as a man’s thumb. Lucien ran his hand along the cold metal, feeling for stress or stretch. There was none. He crouched, inspecting the locks. They were well-oiled and sound.
“Perhaps we didn’t turn the locks properly the night before,” Max suggested.
Lucien only nodded.
“If I may, m’lord,” Max said quietly. “Though this is no fault of yer own, this affliction could lead to violence. A man can only outlast his blood for so long. We’ve to take more trouble locking ye tonight.”
Lucien pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He had been so certain, after all of his discipline, that the thing inside him could be managed. Mastered. Controlled.
He had not wanted to believe, after all this time, that it could still break loose and do harm.
Lucien stared at the dangling chains as if they had betrayed him personally. The iron was cold, unforgiving, just like the thing inside him.