A/N: "Rydd" is the Cornish word for "red", and "Treweke" is pronounced as "troo-week" – also a Cornish name.
Prologue:
The Hall's gates loomed before me as I dismounted, all ancient half-rusted iron and tangled with creepers and ivy. No-one had lived in the Hall for fifty years, though it had stood for four hundred; a mish-mash of additions and extensions in different styles but of the same grim, grey stone, all built around the original stone keep which was squat and square, sitting in a tangle of weeds like an oversized toad.
Its grimness and solitude suited me perfectly.
Twining my reins in my hand, I pushed open the gates, bracing my shoulder against them and shoving hard, and stepped through into my domain. Gravel crunched under my boots as I made my way to the stables to leave my horse there, though my household servants were still a few miles behind me since I'd ridden on without them in my eagerness to arrive at this ramshackle heap of rock that was Cragstone Hall.
A small white flower caught my eye, pure and virginal and in mortal danger of being crushed by my riding boot, and I bent to rescue it from its fate. I breathed its scent, and smiled, my gaze already blurring on the distant hills.
Tonight was the full moon, and I had a thousand miles of sky to hunt under.
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Chapter 1:
Scarlett threw on her ragged old cloak of brown wool and stepped out of her cottage, wrapping the cloak around her against the night. There was still a winter's chill in the spring night and a late frost cracked under her sturdy boots as she ascended the road out of the village and up the hill towards Carn Gwen, an ancient barrow ringed in white stone that marked the entrance to Cannard's Wood. A little to the east of the barrow stood Cragstone Hall, and Scarlett paused to rest on the Carn, gazing over to the Hall and wondering at the lights in the windows. She'd heard that a new lord had come to reclaim it from the weeds and briars that threatened to choke it, but she hadn't thought that anyone other than the workmen would be here yet. There was a fine black coach by the doors, proof that more than just servants were there now. Whoever he was, Lord Treweke was evidently not the usual sort of gentleman.
She dropped down from her perch on the Carn and entered the wood, carrying no lantern for the way was so familiar to her that she needed none. Instead, she carried a small basket of flowers, a tinder-box, and a stub of candle, with two small gingerbread-men nestled carefully in a muslin cloth. The only light she needed was provided, as always, by the full moon, for it was a fine clear night.
A little way in, she began to be very, very aware of the rustling in the undergrowth, and of soft footfalls running parallel to her path. She stopped, and listened.
Nothing.
Telling herself not to be a fool, that there was nothing in these woods to harm her, she continued. Her heart hammered painfully in her chest.
The footfalls resumed, and were this time accompanied by a faint panting, as if of some large dog. She tried desperately to think of anyone who might own a dog and let it run out in the wood at night, and failed.
She ran.
The night followed her, and the moon dipped behind a cloud, and the panting ceased, but the footfalls were heavier now, and more even – long strides that quickly overtook her own.
He stepped in front of her just as she broke cover and entered the clearing.
She nearly fainted from fright. A tall man, broad about the shoulders with glittering black eyes and dark hair to his shoulders stood there, an expression of curiosity on his face. Had he been clothed, she might have reacted differently, but he was not. He stood naked in the path before her, his chin shadowed with stubble and his sculpted chest dark with hair, and raised an eyebrow at her.
He was also very erect.
She cracked.
Pulling back a branch with her free hand, she let it fly in his face, and nearly screamed when he ducked, faster than lightning, and grabbed her round the waist. He flung her to the forest floor underneath him, with a hand clamped over her mouth.
"There are worse things than me in this wood," he hissed in her ear, though the hard length pressing into her thigh belied his words. Her instinct to survive and get away from him kicked in and she went limp beneath him, intending to make a break for freedom as soon as he relaxed his grip. He didn't.
"Listen," he whispered in her ear, and she dutifully listened, her breath misting his hand and her heart sounding too loud in her ears. A man came into view in the clearing, a large axe slung over his shoulder. He looked round him, searching the shadows, but he saw nothing, and sat down upon a boulder. He began to whistle, his arms resting on the butt of his axe, his eyes still searching the surrounding woods. He looked filthy and unkempt. A gypsy ? she wondered. Or a poacher ? There was no woodsman here - this was wildwood.
Scarlett felt hot breath on her ear as the man above her lowered his head again to speak.
"I'm going to get up," he whispered, "and you are not going to scream, or make any noise at all, and you will get up also, and follow me. The second you disobey, you are dead. Understand ?"
She nodded, frightened, not knowing which man was the one she should fear. He eased himself off her and rose silently to his feet, lifting her with him in arms that looked strong enough to snap her spine in one movement if he so chose, and drew her away further into the wood's blackness, careful not to make a sound. Behind them, the whistling grew faint and erratic, then stopped altogether as the axe-man grew bored with waiting and set out into the woods in search of his quarry. Scarlett felt a large hand on her back as her naked guide urged her on faster, and she hurried, fear gripping at her insides and making her want to fling all caution and silence to the wind and just run.
They reached the entrance to the wood, and the man casually walked over to a small pile of cloth by the Carn, and began to dress. She noticed he was no longer erect, though his confident stance proclaimed him to be proud of the way he looked, all rangy muscle and dark hair, and that hard glitter of curiosity in his eyes.
Like a wolf, she thought, and remembered the snuffling and panting in the wood.
He pulled a loose linen shirt over his head and tied the neck-cords, the whiteness of the fabric gleaming in the moonlight and contrasting oddly with his dark visage, and then yanked on his boots and tied his hair back at the nape of his neck with a leather thong. He held out his hand to her.
"I'll escort you back to the village," he said, "I suggest you make no more wanderings in the woods at night, alone."
It was then that she realised she did not have her basket. He shook his head.
"Where were you going ?"
"I...uh…"she didn't feel like telling him the story. It was too personal, too private, and she hadn't a clue who he was.
He took her hand with a shrug, and led her down the road to the village.
"If I can ever be of service to you, come to the Hall and ask for Alasdair Treweke," he said, and left her with a bow.
