SCOTLAND
JULY 1765
It was as the carriage bumped around a bend and the decrepit castle loomed into view in the dusk that Isabella Marie Masen finally—and rather belatedly—realized that the whole trip may've been a horrible mistake.
"Is that it?" Victor, her five-year-old son, was kneeling on the musty carriage seat cushions and peering out the window.
"I thought it was 'sposed to be a castle."
"'Tis a castle, silly," his nine-year-old sister, Edythe, replied. "Can't you see the tower?"
"Just 'cause it has a tower don't mean it's a castle," Victor objected, frowning at the suspect castle.
"There's no moat. If it is a castle, it's not a proper one."
"Children," Isabella said rather too sharply, but then they had been in one cramped carriage after another for the better part of a fortnight. "Please don't bicker."
Naturally, her offspring feigned deafness.
"It's pink."
Victor had pressed his nose to the small window, clouding the glass with his breath. He turned and scowled at his sister.
"D'you think a proper castle ought to be pink?"
Isabella stifled a sigh and massaged her right temple. She'd felt a headache lurking there for the last several miles, and she knew it was about to pounce just as she needed all her wits about her. She hadn't really thought this scheme through. But, then, she never did think things through as she ought to, did she? Impulsiveness—hastily acted on and more leisurely regretted—was the hallmark of her life. It was why, at the age of one and thirty, she found herself traveling through a foreign land about to throw herself and her children on the mercy of a stranger.
What a fool she was!
A fool who had better get her story straight, for the carriage was already stopping before the imposing wood doors.
"Children!" she hissed.
Both little faces snapped around at her 's dark eyes were wide while Edythe's expression was pinched and fearful. Her daughter noticed far too much for a little girl; she was too sensitive to the atmosphere adults created.
Isabella took a breath and made herself smile. "This will be an adventure, but you must remember what I've told you."
She looked at Victor. "What are we to be called?"
"Dwyer," Victor replied promptly. "But I'm still Victor and Edythe's still Edythe."
"Yes, darling."
That had been decided on the trip north from London when it became painfully obvious that Victor would have difficulties not calling his sister by her real name.
Isabella sighed. She'd just have to hope that the children's French names were ordinary enough not to give them away.
"We've lived in London," Edythe said, looking intent.
"That'll be easy to remember," Victor muttered, "because we have."
Edythe shot a quelling glance at her brother and continued. "Mama's been in the Dowager Viscountess McCarty's household."
"And our father's dead and he isn't—" Victor's eyes widened, stricken.
"I don't know why we need to say he's dead," Edythe muttered into the silence.
"Because he mustn't trace us, dear." Isabella swallowed and leaned forward to stroke her daughter's pale face.
"It's all right. If we can—"
The carriage door was wrenched open, and the coachman's scowling face peered in. "Are ye getting out or not? It looks like rain, an' I want to be back in th' inn safe and warm when it comes, don't I?"
"Of course."
Isabella nodded regally at the coachman—by far the surliest driver they'd had on this wretched journey. "Please fetch our bags down for us."
The man snorted. "Already done, innit?"
"Come, children."
She hoped she wasn't blushing in front of the awful man. The truth was, they had only two soft bags—one for herself and one for the children. The coachman probably thought them desolate. And in a way, he was right, wasn't he?
She pushed the lowering thought away. Now was not the time to have discouraging thoughts. She must be at her most alert and her most persuasive to pull this off.
She stepped from the rented carriage and looked around. The ancient castle loomed before them, solid and silent. The main building was a squat rectangle, built of weathered soft rose stone. High on the corners, circular towers projected from the walls. Before the castle was a sort of drive, once neatly graveled but now uneven with weeds and mud. A few trees clustered about the drive struggled to make a barricade against the rising wind. Beyond, black hills rolled gently to the darkening horizon.
"All right, then?" The coachman was swinging up to his box, not even looking at them. "I'll be off."
"At least leave a lantern!" Isabella shouted, but the noise of the carriage rumbling away drowned out her voice. She stared, appalled, after the coach.
"It's dark," Victor observed, looking at the castle.
"Mama, there aren't any lights," Edythe said.
She sounded frightened, and Isabella felt a surge of trepidation as well. She hadn't noticed the lack of lights until now.
What if no one was home?
What would they do then?
I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. She was the adult here. A mother should make her children feel safe.
Isabella tilted her chin and smiled for Edythe. "Perhaps they're lit in the back where we can't see them."
Edythe didn't look particularly convinced by this theory, but she dutifully nodded her head. Isabella took the bags and marched up the shallow stone steps to the huge wooden doors. They were within a Gothic arch, almost black with age, and the hinges and bolts were iron—quite medieval.
She raised the iron ring and knocked.
The sound echoed despairingly within.
Isabella stood facing the door, refusing to believe that no one would come. The wind blew her skirts into a swirl. Victor scuffed his boots against the stone step, and Edythe sighed almost silently.
Isabella wet her lips.
"Perhaps they can't hear because they're in the tower."
She knocked again.
It was dark now, the sun completely gone, and with it the warmth of the day. It was the middle of summer and quite hot in London, but she'd found on her journey north that the nights in Scotland could become very cool, even in summer. Lightning flashed low on the horizon.
What a desolate place this was!
Why anyone would willingly choose to live here was beyond her understanding.
"They're not coming," Edythe said as thunder rumbled in the distance. "No one's home, I think."
Isabella swallowed as fat raindrops pattered against her face. The last village they'd passed was ten miles away.
She had to find shelter for her children.
Edythe was right.
No one was home.
She'd led them on a wild-goose chase.
She'd failed them once again.
Isabella's lips trembled at the thought. Mustn't break down in front of the children.
"Perhaps there's a barn or other outbuilding in—" she began when one of the great wood doors was thrown open, startling her.
She stepped back, nearly falling down the steps. At first, the opening seemed eerily black, as if a ghostly hand had opened the door. But then something moved, and she discerned a shape within. A man stood there, tall, lean, and very, very intimidating. He held a single candle, it's light entirely inadequate. By his side was a great four-legged beast, far too tall to be any sort of dog that she knew of.
"What do you want?" he growled, his voice low and husky as if an animal. His accent was cultured, but the tone was far from welcoming.
Isabella opened her mouth, scrambling for words. He was not at all what she'd expected.
Dear God, what was that thing by his side?
At that moment, lightning forked across the sky, close and amazingly bright. It lit the man and his familiar as if he was on a stage. The beast was tall and dark and lean, with gleaming black eyes.
The man was even worse.
Dirty blond, lank hair fell in tangles past his shoulders. He wore old breeches, gaiters, and a rough coat better suited for the rubbish heap. On the right side of his stubbled face, one cracked line ran from his eye to his jaw and his mouth was twisted into a terrible scowl. Brilliant red eyes reflected the lightning at them diabolically.
Most horrible of all, there was blood smeared across his mouth, chin and cheeks.
Edythe screamed.
The name Edythe fell out of favor prior to the 16th century but for the sake of my story, I'm bringing it back.
I'm not a huge fan of this pairing but I figured this would be worth giving a shot. Expanding my art and whatnot. Comments are welcomed. In this fic:
Rose is literally genderfluid, and yes she views it as a curse
Rosalie is Royal
This will be a historical fic.
