Alasdair took the ledger down from the shelf, and blew hard on it. A cloud of dust nearly choked him, but he shook his head vigorously to dislodge the dust and set the book down on the desk and opened it. It was a valuable and unexpected find: the records of the Hall, from the years that mattered to him. He checked down the list of names of the people who had added to it over the years; a Delacroix family history.
Edward de la Croix, Charles de la Croix, Henry De'lacroix, Edmund Delacroix……Thomas Delacroix. No mention of his other son, then. Why abandon the Hall ?
Frowning, he eagerly flicked through the pages, yellowed already with the damp, looking for……I don't know what I'm looking for. A clue to my heritage ? Something that justifies my existence ? But perhaps there's nothing that can do that…..
He slammed the book shut, and raked his hands through his hair, pulling it loose from its grey silk ribbon. The soft strands caressed the hard lines of his jaw, clean-shaven and pale. Frustration showed in his pale eyes. Several generations of Delacroix lords had kept their secret well. Too well. His mother could have told him, perhaps - but she was long dead, killed by the man who….
Why did he kill her ?
He rang the bell.
"Have you been into the village ?" he asked his housekeeper when she came in. She nodded.
"I went to the baker's, and I went to the farm for the chickens that were in the stables, before you ate them."
"I thought that was why you bought them ? I am sorry about the chickens; I will pay for more. But that's not important – how often do you go ?"
She looked surprised. "About three times a week; why ?"
"I want you to gossip with the goodwives, find out what you can about Thomas Delacroix. Or the Hall itself. It may be that some in the village still remember what happened with my mother. There is, of course, no need to gossip about me, or Scarlett."
"Scarlett ?"
"Miss Rydd. Don't put her in any danger."
The housekeeper frowned. "As you say, my Lord; I will not mention her. But if her name comes up ?"
"Do you think it might ?" he glared at her through the silvery strands of his hair; she baulked.
"I…..know she's involved with you. What if she was involved somehow with Janey Treweke ?"
"Voice that suspicion and I will tear your throat out," he snarled, "and this time I mean it. Get out."
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Scarlett gazed in admiration at the beautiful garment in her hands. It had been delivered sometime between sunset and sunrise, and although there was no note, she knew who had sent it. There was only one man she knew who could afford cloth like that, and only one man who would send her a cloak made from it. Fine-woven brushed wool, dyed a deep blood crimson. The hood was lined in satin, and the clasp was a beautiful red-and-gold cloisonné rose.
She swallowed hard, unsure of why he'd sent her this, and how she should receive it. He had made no indication to her of courting her; her instincts told her that his plan was seduction, nothing more, but still…..she folded the cloak and re-wrapped it.
I can't accept this of him.
But three weeks later she wore it, when she went to the wood. Alasdair Treweke had not been seen for three weeks, and the word was he'd been called away to London on business, yet there he was, sitting on Carn Gwen as if he'd been there the whole time. As if he were waiting for her.
"The colour suits you," he smiled, gazing appreciatively at her dark hair and pale skin against the crimson cloth. Her cheeks reddened, two drops of blood in cream.
"I must thank you for your gift, sir," she said with a little curtsey, "I came to the Hall but they said you were not at home."
"I am rarely at home to visitors," he said, scowling inwardly. His instructions to his household had been plain enough, he thought – don't let anyone in unless they are female. Miss Rydd was clearly female; he should have seen her. He resolved to eat Stubbs later, when he got in. He was sick of the man and his deceptions.
He dropped down from the Carn, and looked up at the sky.
"You're a night early."
"Yes." She looked him straight in the eye. He smiled, and held out his hand.
"Well in that case, Miss Rydd, you will allow me to escort you through the forest."
She didn't take his hand, keeping both of hers firmly behind her back out of reach and temptation. His frock coat was deep blue velvet; his cravat of pale lavender silk. There was a scent to him that she had once wished to know, before another man's odour had come to haunt her. He dropped his hand back to his side, his eyes dark.
"Give me your hand !" He growled, and started towards her. She took a step back, ready to run even though she knew it would do her no good.
"I mean you no harm !" he insisted, "come, come with me. Please." And he was around the back of her, too fast for her to escape, and had her hand in his. "The forest," he said, "you know about. Me, you know about. Now, time to learn about yourself. Come with me !"
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Casey Gunn sluiced his face clean with water from the spring and scrambled back up the steep bank to his cottage door. The hovel was so far into the forest, and so covered in vines and creepers that anyone not looking for it would never have found it. No-one came this far into the forest anyway; the local legend of an old witch, drowned in the spring during the winter of 1741 by the King's witchfinders put them off. According to the legend, the place was cursed, but Casey had not suffered the effects of any such curse and did not believe in it, since he knew the truth. He saw the place as his sanctuary – his home.
At least no-one has found me so far, he thought, stirring the small iron pot of rabbit stew and taking a sip of bitter ale from the jug that sat on the table. Apart from that bastard Treweke, and he isn't likely to betray me. A lock of wavy black hair fell in his eyes and he brushed it away impatiently.
Full moon tonight, he thought, and reached under the table for the pair of flintlocks he kept there. Lord Treweke would not expect him to have them, he would expect the axe. Casey set the pistols on the table and checked them over, running his fingers lovingly over the dark wood and mother-of-pearl decoration. They were all he had left from his former fortune. He looked down at himself, and saw a ragged wraith of a man: ragged hair and ragged, stained clothes, his face marred by a long knife scar from his brow to his jaw. His lips twisted at the bitter memory of that day, the day he'd lost everything.
I will make them all pay for it, he vowed, and buckled on the pistols. They were the only real thing in his world – that and the axe. His fingers traced the witch-runes on it almost absently; it had been created for one thing and one thing only.
Vengeance.
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The man Stubbs sweated and trembled, his eyes squeezed shut as his master shifted in front of him and became the hated, feared wolf. His ears rang with his master's last words: you false, lying, rebel scum ! For this, you die – as I promised you ! You thought to deceive me ? You thought to outwit me ? You inbred fool !
The wolf circled.
"My Lord, no, no, there is something you should know, please……" his words died in a gurgle as the wolf tore his throat from him.
Stubbs crumpled to the ground, dead before he hit it, his eyes wide and staring at nothing.
Alasdair kicked the corpse viciously.
"Lying filth." He muttered, and whirled on his groom. "Fetch me faggots and a torch – I'll burn this damned whore-spawn liar !" He unfolded the letter again, that he had crumpled in one large fist in his anger, and read it aloud to his people, each word spat from his lips like the deadliest poison.
"To my friend and comrade Casey Gunn," he snarled, "from Viscount Delacroix, I give you greeting. I have looked into the matter you referred to me and have thus far managed only to confirm your suspicions – namely, that the man who has taken for his place of residence Cragstone Hall has indeed as you suspect no right to do so; yet I fear that proving this will be rather more than you nor I can handle and I do not recommend you employ a lawyer. I will continue in my search for something which may damn him, and I pray that God will keep you from his evil. I await your response at Bath on this day the twenty-fifth of May, 1770. Yours, Edward Delacroix"
Alasdair crumpled the letter back into his pocket with an oath. "Why would this filth keep that letter from me ?" he asked the air. He didn't expect an answer from his servants. Blood, acrid smoke and burning flesh filled his nostrils, along with the scent of fear emanating from his people – he dared not look at them for to see the fear in their eyes would break him and he would give in to what he was and kill them too. None would ever be missed, but a Lord without servants led a life of inconvenience.
He called for his horse.
"I'm going into the village," he said, "bar the doors – no-one is to enter whilst I am gone." He swung up into the saddle, pulling his coat-skirts free to hang over his thighs. A gust of wind took the loose tendrils of his hair and whipped them into his eyes. His mood lifted; the ride to the village would be all too short.
He took the road by the Carn, then cut across the fields to access the village from the other end, just so he could enjoy the feel of the wind on his face. His horse, bunching powerful muscles underneath him as they galloped across the fields seemed to appreciate the ride as much as he did, despite the lingering sense of fear and death. He had never been able to tame the horse enough to not fear him; right at that moment he did not care.
He dismounted outside Scarlett's gate and hitched his horse to the bars. Her door stood open and an enticing scent of baking drifted out to assail his nostrils with an aroma that went straight to his stomach.
He went in.
She was placing a heavy tray of bread on the table, giving him a fine view of her cleavage as she bent over the loaves. He didn't know what he wanted more – to eat the loaves, or her. And it wasn't the usual sort of hunger, either. His loins heated and stirred and he realised it had been several months since he'd enjoyed a woman.
She looked up as his shadow fell across the room, and he smiled at the effect he had on her. Her eyes widened and her cheeks reddened, and he could almost feel her heart thumping. He lounged against the door jamb and winked at her.
"Good afternoon, Miss Rydd," he said politely. She smiled and dropped him a demure curtsey, and offered him tea. To his delight she had baked more than bread, and produced a plum cake and a plate of delicate sugar-biscuits to go with the tea. He sat, his big frame almost dwarfing her table, and eyed the creamy skin of her throat.
He rose and shut the door.
"You lost a bet last night."
"I did, sir." She met his eyes fearlessly, and his heart surged, the way it had when she'd accepted his challenge – a race around Carn Gwen and down across the moor, around the ancient barrow there and back up to the Carn. Barefoot. She'd lost, but did it with such grace and a light in her eyes he wanted to see again and again. His heart had raced with more than the exercise.
She bit her lip, slowly, as she too remembered, drawing her teeth over the soft pinkness, and his loins followed his heart. His lips parted and his eyes darkened.
"Come here," he growled.
She settled into his lap, a little flustered, but by no means unwilling to be there. He took his first kiss from her gently, then a second, all the while trying to suppress the urge to throw her on the table and ruck her skirts up and shove himself into her.
You're an animal, Treweke, an animal, an animal, an animal…………
He broke their third kiss, and set her on her feet again.
"Enchanting," he said, his voice husky, "But I cannot pick all the flowers at once. My grandmother taught me that – leave some, to cast their seeds, that more may grow. Do you agree, Miss Rydd ?"
She blushed, and looked everywhere but him, her bosom rising and falling beneath her chemise. A strand of her hair came loose from her cap and tumbled around her shoulders, and he wound it around his fist, pulling her face up for another kiss.
"Well ? Did I leave enough for another time ?"
"Yes, my Lord," came the breathy reply. His breeches felt too tight, his coat too hot. He touched his finger to her lips.
"And how should I proceed then, Miss Rydd ? Do I have to wait 'til spring for the next flowering ?"
She glanced up at him, her eyes bright. Bold as brass, she planted a soft kiss on his lips, and his senses reeled.
I had no idea……oooh……yes……..
"Only until later my Lord," she said, stepping away from lightly, her fingers brushing his chest.
He unhitched his horse, and slapped its rump, and ran home on four feet. His blood sang.