Chapter 5 #2
She was instantly enveloped by the rich musk of hay and horse, and the gentler heat of dozens of living creatures crowded together. The interior was larger than she expected. Dozens of stalls lined the long aisle, each one filled with a shaggy head peering out or a switch of tail flicking.
At the far end, a man worked at the bench, back turned, stripping an old harness with quick expert hands. He was tall, his shoulders broad, and his shirt sleeves rolled nearly to the elbow, exposing tanned forearms corded with muscle.
He sensed her presence at once and straightened. “Good day, miss,” he said with a grin, voice deep and edged with a Northumbrian burr. “Don’t tell me ye’ve come to shelter a runaway animal. We’re full up today.”
“No, just to fetch a runaway trunk,” she replied. “The gamekeeper sent me here. The trunk arrived with us from the village yesterday.”
He wiped his hands and approached. He was handsome up close, and younger than Verity thought. His eyes were sharp gray, but they softened as he looked at her. “That would be yers, then,” he said. “Name’s Maximillian Dray, if you fancy the full mouthful, but most just call me Max.”
“Verity Hale,” she replied, surprised at the ease of giving her new name. “Companion to the dowager.”
He nodded. “I thought ye must be the one. Mrs. Harrow said ye’d a southern accent and a look of lost property about ye.” His eyes crinkled, and he offered her a steady hand, which she took without hesitation. His large grip was firm and dry. “It’s over here.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she replied. And she was. Max was handsome, and his accent mild making his words easy to decipher.
“Ye’re from the south, then? What are ye doing all the way up here?” Max asked as he walked over to the corner where the trunk was parked. It was next to a group of empty crates and covered in a few loose strands of hay, but still intact.
“Somerset,” she said, coming up next to him. “I find that the north has its charms. Less gossip, for one.”
He laughed. “That depends on how much ye stir up.” He lifted the trunk. “Here she is, then. Where to?”
“My rooms are close to the dowager’s,” Verity said, then hesitated. “I … I would appreciate your help, if you have the time.”
“I do,” Max said, gesturing for her to precede him. “Please let me carry it for ye.”
“I would appreciate that.”
They walked out with the trunk balanced easily on Max’s broad shoulder. For a few moments they traveled in companionable silence.
He broke it with, “So, Miss Hale, from the south, have ye made friends with the cold yet?”
“Not yet,” she admitted.
As if summoned, a gust of wind blew over them and Verity shivered a little, making Max laugh.
“It grows on ye,” he replied. He tilted his head with a smile. “Or it doesn’t, and ye go mad and leave.”
She grinned. “Which is more likely, do you think?”
“Something tells me ye’ll be fine.” He grinned back at her, and she felt herself relax.
Retracing her steps from earlier, they walked in through the kitchen and up to her room.
“Thank you, Max,” she said once they had made it up.
Max set the trunk down and placed his hands on his hips. “My pleasure.” He smiled gently at her for a moment. “Ye know, ye’ll find there’s more good than bad up here, if ye can get past the chill.”
“I am sure you are right,” Verity turned toward him. “I do feel fortunate to be here.”
Max looked at the ground, then back at her, before speaking with his voice lower. “Ye take care of yerself, now, Miss Hale. I hope to see ye around.”
She felt a pulse of real warmth. And … was that interest?
“You as well,” she replied, trying not to blush.
He nodded, and turned to go. She watched him leave, admiring the easy way he moved, the wide set of his shoulders, the way his body was built sturdy.
For a moment she allowed herself to wonder whether a future might exist with someone like Max.
Someone steady and kind, who might share the burden of her secrets rather than judge them.
Perhaps her ruined name would mean little to a man who spent his days among horses and honest work.
Perhaps, one day, when the sting of St. Wulfric’s Parish faded, she could consider a quiet life with a good man who asked few questions.
After all, this post was only a pause, a place to breathe and to plan for the rest of her life.
She took a deep breath and shut her eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly.
That wild hunger flooded back, Lord Blackfen’s golden eyes flashing behind her closed lids.
Their searing kiss burned in her mind. She knew it could never happen again, yet the memory of the earl’s mouth on hers filled her with desire.
She pressed her fingers to her lips and shook her head.
No. It was better to forget men entirely, especially brooding noblemen whose kisses felt like heaven. She was here to build a new life from the shattered glass of the old, not to come into another muddle involving a man.
Anyway, she had a wonderful new memory now, one fierce and freely given, to overwrite the nightmare Robert Fynn had tried to force upon her. That would be enough.
For now, she would make herself indispensable to the dowager, earn her wages, and keep her heart safely locked away. For now, she would focus on herself.
Beginning with her breakfast.
When she arrived in the kitchen, she was surprised to find a familiar round-cheeked face carrying in a crate filled with bottles of milk, jars of jelly, and the like.
“Mr. Cobb!” She called. “More supplies?”
“Always, miss. If I wait till everythin’ has run out …
well, we don’t want the hounds to be unhappy, now do we?
Besides, I try to make sure that what Lord Blackfen wants, he gets in abundance.
” He winked, then walked back out the door, through which Verity spotted a wagon loaded with a large crate and a sack that was about three-quarters the size of Verity and even wider than her.
Mr. Cobb unloaded the crate from the wagon, then before heading back inside, he bent down again and, without so much as a sound or admission of effort, lifted the sack with his other arm, as if it were but a child’s toy.
Verity’s eyes widened, marveling that the weight was evidently nothing more than a pillow. He straightened and caught her staring, then flashed a sheepish grin.
She laughed a bit. “I believe I shall grow used to Blackfen strength sooner or later.”
Mr. Cobb smiled back and shifted the sack higher on his shoulder. “We grow them sturdy up here. Perhaps the cold does that to folk.”
“You may also grow them kinder up here. Everyone has been so gracious. I confess I did not know what to expect coming so far north.”
“Ye’ll find we mind our own business mostly, but we look after our own once ye’re counted among us.”
Verity found herself talking with ease, letting Mr. Cobb draw out her own humor. He asked after her comfort in the castle, if she had found the place as large as rumors claimed, and whether she’d met the “three holy terrors” yet.
“I have,” she admitted. “They nearly frightened me out of my skin, but I think we have made our peace.”
He nodded. “They’ve an instinct for good souls, those beasts. They never bite unless a man’s up to no good.” He shot her a sideways look, sly and warm. “Or a woman, I suppose, but ye don’t strike me as the no-good sort.”
Verity brightened up at that. “That is sweet of you.”
“Ye’ll find it’s best not to hold back with folk here,” he advised, adjusting his voice to a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “If ye’re too quiet, they’ll think ye’re plottin’ to poison the well. If ye’re too loud, they’ll say ye’re from Newcastle.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cobb,” she said. “I do believe it works to your favor to always be true to yourself.”
“Any time, Miss Hale. If ye want a good word put in with the cook, ye let me know.” He doffed his hat, revealing brown hair even thicker than she’d guessed, and gave her a wink. “Pleasant dreams, if ye can manage them in this old barn.”
Standing in the doorway, she watched him mount his wagon. As he was leaving, the cook bustled in wearing a flour-dusted apron and carrying an empty tray.
“Ye’ll be wanting breakfast, I reckon, after traipsing about in this cold,” the cook said, placing her tray on the table.
Verity smiled gratefully. “Yes, please, something hot would be heaven.”
“Right then, I’ll have porridge and crisp bacon for ye,” the cook replied, already reaching for a pan.
For all the cold and the oddities of the place, Verity realized she was beginning to like Blackfen. The environment and people here were peculiar, yes, but they were also real, untamed by the rigid rules of parlor and pew, genuine in a way she found deeply comforting.
She hoped she did truly belong with these people, hoped that this wild, wintry place could grow a new life from the roots of the old. If all went smoothly, if she played her cards right, she could carve out her own place here, her own peace. Then, maybe, she could stay.
When Lucien reached the root cellar, he paused, chest heaving. The darkness inside was thick. His clothes were neatly folded where he had left them, boots tucked beneath, and the heavy chains coiled in a silent, accusing heap atop the stones.
Lucien went first to the wall, examining the iron ring set deep in the mortar.
No cracks. No loosened bolts. The manacles, too, revealed nothing.
No warp, no flaw, no sign of how he had slipped them, save for the faint burn at his wrist where the silver lining had bitten deep during his transformation.
Perhaps the wolf had grown cunning. Found some weakness in the lock.
Discovered a way to wrench himself free.
There was no true method to any of it. He knew almost nothing of his other form.
There was no one to observe, no safe means of testing the restraints.
He relied chiefly upon the collar at his throat, having no certain measure of a man’s wrist against the foreleg of a wolf.
His hounds were the only approximation he had.