Chapter two

While Elizabeth prides herself on her ability to confront her fears, she held no shame about her inability to leave her chambers. The morning was as grim as her mood and moving swiftly forward, time conspiring against her. She'd already shooed away her maid three times who pursued the task of taming Elizabeth's hair with relentless determination.

Sitting at the vanity table, Elizabeth stared into the mirror without really seeing, her hands fidgeting nervously. She knew she had been expected to join her family and the Boltons this morning, knew too well how angry her father would be at her absence. She had tried, she really did. But every time she was about to leave the door, the memory of cold blue eyes made her retreat.

With a sigh she pushes away from the table, wishing -not for the first time- that she was the kind of girl who valued wealth and influence over a genuine connection. Perhaps then she'd be content, ecstatic even, with her looming marriage. Perhaps then she may have ignored ever horrid rumour and tale that cast her betrothed as both star and villain.

Before meeting him her rational side had held out hope that they were exaggerations or lies born from jealousy. Now she had run out of hope.

A knock on the door makes her freeze. It's only her mother, Lady Alana who breezes in as the very epitome of elegance in a mass of pale pink. She doesn't smile when she sees her daughter, not even as she takes in the dark circles beneath her eyes.

"Where were you this morning?" Alana asks, lips tight and eyes sharp.

"I overslept."

"I suppose your late night excursion into the woods is to blame for that," she clucks her tongue disapprovingly. Elizabeth didn't look away, but she could feel her face flooding with guilt and embarrassment. "Don't bother denying it," she continues. "Lord Ramsay has already filled me in on how he was forced to go looking for you."

Elizabeth wanted to laugh at that. Whatever he was doing in the woods, saving her was not his primary goal. He looked as surprised to see her as she did him.

"Was anyone offended by my absence?" Elizabeth said, choosing not to even acknowledge last nights events.

"Your father most certainly was but really, when is he not offended by something? Your betrothed didn't seem to care too much," she replies bluntly. "I think he found it more amusing than anything, but then we were forewarned that he's a bit odd. Handsome though," she watches her daughter carefully for a reaction to the latter statement, slightly disappointed when there is none.

"I suppose so." Elizabeth finally turns her gaze, choosing instead to focus on the blanket of fog swallowing the trees whole outside.

"Oh for heavens sake why are you looking so morose? Your betrothed is handsome, rich, powerful."

"If you approve so much, feel free to marry him instead." Her mother isn't offended, instead she laughs shrilly, far too used to her daughters bluntness. With a pale hand she soothes back Elizabeth's hair in a comforting gesture.

"It will be alright you know Beth," she says, her voice much softer now. "If you give him a chance, I think you will find him much more human than the stories suggest."

"What if he doesn't deserve that chance?"

Alana looks away, her face thoughtful for a moment before she meets her daughter's gaze. They both have the same hazel eyes.

"Doesn't everyone deserve a chance?" She doesn't give Elizabeth time to answer. With one last smile she leaves, the smell of her perfume lingering behind.

Elizabeth didn't want to consider that question. She wasn't the type to judge a person quickly, but there was something about Ramsay that screamed at her to run. Although, she supposed grudgingly, perhaps that feeling could have been influenced by her own turbulent emotions. Was she being unfair? After all, it's not as if he had harmed her...

The baying of dogs pulled her from her thoughts. Leaving the courtyard below were three men atop horses, dogs eagerly running ahead. But it was the central figure that held her attention. Atop a huge, black stallion sat her betrothed - she had no doubt it was him. He didn't turn back or attempt to steal a glance at her window and as she watched him leave, she was filled with immediate relief. Looks like he no longer had any intention of giving her any tour today.

Feeling immediately safer, Elizabeth finally leaves her chambers. She has no destination in mind, only a desire to explore and cast off the gloom that had been surrounding her. She finds something of interest quickly, a huge library that is at least twice the size of her own back home. She only wished it were lighter and perhaps more welcoming. Still, her love of reading was too great for a little darkness to put her off.

Rushing forwards, she immediately envelopes herself in a world of books, her fingers tracing excitedly over the spines as she went. If she were to stay -and that was a big if in her mind- perhaps this place could be her escape. She could even suggest to Lord Bolton that more light wouldn't go amiss.

So swept up in the fantasy was Elizabeth, that she almost missed the shadowed figure huddled against the wall. It's a young woman, one with huge, almost owlish brown eyes that dominate her face and long brown hair. Her clothes are plain, a servants garb. When she sees Elizabeth, she stifles a gasp and jumps so violently that she drops all the books cuddled to her chest.

"I'm so sorry!" The girl says, quickly throwing herself to the ground in an attempt to gather the books. "Please don't tell anyone, I swear I won't ever come here again"-

She was terrified, that much was obvious. Her hands were shaking so much that she kept dropping things, her eyes darting from the floor to a mystified Elizabeth.

"It's alright," Elizabeth says quickly, reaching down to help. When she sees the awful progress the girl is making, she takes one of her shaking hands in her own to try and calm her. "Honestly everything is fine. Accidents happen"-

"It's not that my lady."

"Then I take it you're not supposed to be here?" The girl doesn't answer, merely takes off with a sound that sounds suspiciously like a sob, disappearing before Elizabeth can stop her.

Bewildered by such a quick encounter, Elizabeth's joy at finding the library is somewhat diminished. After replacing the stack of books, she heads outside, wanting to leave the oppressive walks behind her.

The courtyard is thankfully mostly empty and as she passes beneath an alcove, she tries not to stare at the banner that depicts a flayed man. Heading straight to the stables, she tries to remain as inconspicuous as possible, her head low and eyes at the floor. It doesn't work.

As soon as she nears, a guard stops her, staring down at her with cold, beady eyes. "Lady Smallwood," he says with a small nod of his head. "I've been informed by Lord Bolton to show you the grounds." She immediately took a dislike to him. His mouth had a natural downturn, as if smiling were alien to him, and his features that were too close together gave him an unfortunate pinched look.

"That's quite alright, I was hoping to take a look myself. Alone," she adds when that didn't deter him.

"There are dangers that make this impossible my lady."

"What kind of dangers?" When he didn't answer, just continued to stare, she quickly decided that maybe she didn't want to know. "Very well then, I'd be glad of your company." With an undignified roll of her eyes that defied her polite words, she pushes past and continues towards the stables.

She goes immediately towards her chestnut stallion, the horse that her parents presented to her three years ago on her sixteenth birthday. His soft nose presses against her side immediately, no doubt looking for the treats she always carried in her pockets.

She laughs lightly. "Not today Kahn."

"This is yours?" The guard asked, sounding suddenly unsure. She shoots him a sharp look that says she knows precisely why he is skeptical.

"Of course. Are you surprised that I don't ride a delicate little mare? Perhaps like that one for example," when she gestures to an old, speckled horse she swore that his lips twitched in amusement, just for a second. His reward is a smile, one that immediately lights up her face and catches him off guard.

After its saddled and another horse is prepared for her guard, Elizabeth ignored his suggestion of an easy-paced trot and urges Kahn into a gallop. She leads the way, and although he would never admit it out loud, he admired her skill with the horse.

Elizabeth didn't slow down until she was at the banks of the Weeping Waters that arched around Dreadfort. The castle itself looked much less intimidating from here; small and insignificant if only for a moment.

The fog was thicker here and for the first time, she was glad of the guards company. Despite his stubborn refusal to talk, she felt his presence at her side and that was enough. The ride itself had already made her forget about the servant girl in the library, had already etched a smile into her face that usually came so easy to her.

It was so quiet, the only sound being the horses hooves padding along the banks, slipping in the mud every now and then. Slower now, Elizabeth was starting to feel the chill and wished she had the foresight to bring a thicker cloak. If the guard felt similar, he didn't complain and nor did she ask. For someone who was supposed to be giving her a tour, he was doing a terrible job. She told him so with a teasing smile, one he didn't return, before dismounting.

"I don't suppose," she says, glancing over her shoulder. "That you would tell me anything about your Lord." She didn't particularly want to think about Ramsay right now and yet she also wanted to be prepared.

"You supposed right," comes a grudging reply.

"Is he a fair Lord?" She stopped to look at him, awaiting his answer eagerly. He stopped too but said nothing, his eyes just staring blankly into hers. "I'm going to assume for my own benefit that that means yes."

All she gets is a grunt in response so she continues walking, leading her horse carefully beside the rocks. Looking out to the water, she tries to picture what's on the other side, allows herself just a moment to imagine escaping there, running and running until she can longer see the Dreadfort, never having to belong to anyone let alone the Boltons.

She knew why her father had done it and knew too that it wasn't unusual for daughters to be used in men's play for power. The Bolton house was too large and too powerful for the Smallwood family to turn down, especially with no more guaranteed protection from House Tully. It was a dangerous time and Lord Roose was an evil necessity. She knew all this and yet it didn't make it any easier. Of course she wanted her family to be safe, but why must she be the pawn to achieve it? Ironically, she mused that if men were half as important as they thought, then why did their games always rely on a woman?

Irritated, she stops and flings a handful of pebbles into the water, wishing she had more power than conjuring tiny ripples. She flings another, forgetting for just a moment that anyone is there to witness her outburst.

She's about to turn around and apologise when barking drowns out her voice. With a start she realises that it's coming closer, growing louder and louder. And then she sees them, the hounds breaking through the trees, their huge and compact bodies running towards her.

A voice, sharp and sudden, calls them back. It's Ramsay, atop that huge horse that would look more suited to a battlefield than here. He angles his horse towards her and Elizabeth only had a few seconds of silent panic before he's there in front of her.

The dogs all stand near his side but the sight of so many is too much for Kahn who is stamping his feet angrily and tossing his head. Ramsay watches as Elizabeth tries to calm her horse but doesn't call them off. Merely stands and waits.

In the daylight she is much prettier than she had seemed before. With long wavy hair, pale skin and fearful eyes, she looks almost absurdly innocent. He wondered idly how long that would last for.

Elizabeth avoids looking at him for as long as she can, but when he dismounts and approaches, she gives up delaying the inevitable. He beats her to the greeting.

"What a pleasant end to a hunt," he says, peeling his gloves off like a second skin, with a smile. "It's lovely to see you again." In the same manner of last night, he lifts her hand and places a kiss atop the palm, this time lingering ever-so-slightly. She resists the urge to snatch her hand away, torn between distrust and something she didn't want to question too deeply.

"And you Lord Bolton," she says gracefully.

He smiles thinly. "Walk with me." It wasn't a request and as she went to cast a helpless look at her guard, she realised he was already half way back to the castle, dogs in tow. They were alone.

They left the horses where they were, his occasionally nipping at Kahn all the while. It was an oddly surreal moment, walking beside her infamous betrothed with fog enveloping them, but she tried not to let her nerves show.

"I apologise if I frightened you last night," he speaks first, his voice surprising in its softness. "That was never my intention." She was about to laugh at that until she caught his expression. He looked startlingly sincere, his eyes a clear blue.

"You didn't"-

"You don't need to pretend." He shoots her a smile, this time one that warms instead of chills her. "I'm well aware of my reputation."

"Does it bother you?"

He's surprised he didn't laugh outright at that question so innocently phrased. Instead, he tells her exactly what she wants to hear.

"Sometimes."

She looks at him in surprise, not-so-subtly studying his profile for signs that he was being anything but honest. If he was, he hid it well. Still, she wasn't a fool to be easily swayed by handsome smiles, at least that's what she kept telling herself.

"Do you know what would make me happy?" He says, glancing her way. "If we could forget rumours, start again and get to know each other. Wouldn't you like that?" He stops, his hand brushing against hers for the barest of moments, his eyes staring into hers. Their intensity was unnerving.

Would she like that? Not really. Although he was acting like a different person today, charming even, there was still something unsettling about him. But then, if she really was going to marry him, wouldn't it be easier if there was already an understanding there? She also couldn't help thinking back to her mothers remark about everyone deserving a chance.

Decided, she finally answers. "That would make me happy too."

He continued to charm her, his smile engaging as he asked questions about her family as if he were genuinely interested. He laughed in all the right places, sympathised in others until she starts to fell less uncomfortable beside him. He wasn't shocked by any of the outrageous stories she told or her boldness in them, instead he seemed almost impressed.

"And what of your sister?" He asks finally when she had run out of antidotes of her exasperated rather. "I hear she's younger than you?"

"Two years younger," Elizabeth answers, immediately conjuring her little sisters heart shaped face to mind. "Anna is a doting daughter; pretty, demure and sings like an angel." Ramsay falls silent, looking suddenly surprised by the obvious bitterness in her voice that defied her words. Before she can apologise he laughs, a surprisingly pleasant sound.

"She sounds utterly dull," he remarks, surprising her right back.

"She also paints - flowers of course."

"No," he says incredulously.

"And she sews in a straight line."

"What a monster." He looks so serious but there is a light to his eyes that makes her finally give in to the laughter. His answer is another smile that reminds her once more just how handsome he is.

His skin is pale, a striking contrast to his dark hair and the stubble that had begun to darken his jaw slightly. In his deep green hunting gear, he looked broad shouldered and masculine. Yes Ramsay was definitely appealing to the senses, but still not to her trust.

"So tell me about your family," she says awkwardly, aware that he had neatly avoided revealing anything at all about himself. Although his smile didn't fade, the light in his eyes immediately dimmed. It was then that she remembered he was born a bastard.

"My family is much smaller than yours and far less interesting," he answers, pleasantly enough yet all the warmth had been stripped away from him.

The silence that follows is so tense and uncomfortable, that Elizabeth says the first thing that comes to mind with the hopes of restoring the warmth.

"I take it the the hunt didn't go well?"

He looks at her strangely, as if surprised that she would speak. "Why would you say that?"

"Well you don't seem to have caught anything." He stops again and this time doesn't try to hide anything in his answer. She automatically shrinks away from the dangerous smirk on his face.

"Not today," he says.

Without another word, he takes her back to the horses and helps her into the saddle, all the while wearing that strange smile. He doesn't say another word until they're both outside Dreadfort, his horse stamping impatiently.

"This is where I leave you my lady," he says, gesturing to the gates. "I have some things to attend to." She doesn't try and argue it or question why, she is as eager to be rid of him as he seems to be of her. His hand on her wrist stops her from leaving. "I do hope to see you tonight at dinner though." She isn't listening. She's far too distracted by the spot of deep red on the backs of his fingers; blood so stark atop pale skin. He follows her gaze and smiles, offering no explanation.

Wasting no more time, Elizabeth turns in her saddle and urges Kahn away, suddenly wishing for the safety of walls. Against her better judgement she pauses at the stables to glance back. He's still there, a macabre shadowed figure sat atop a huge warhorse. She knows instinctively that he's watching her.

She's right, Ramsay Bolton watches her as she leaves the horse with the stable boy. Watches as she hurries inside the keep, almost tripping over her dress in her haste. It's only when she's safely tucked away that he dismounts his own horse and heads straight for the kennels.

No one stops him or even looks at him. He walks with the untroubled stride of a man who knows what he wants, which of course is exactly what he is. He finds it in a young, skinny woman that smells of musk and something even less attractive. The kennel masters daughter.

Myranda doesn't look up when he enters, she's too busy crooning at a hound whose muzzle is stained with blood. But she knows he's there, knows instinctively what he wants.

"Do you think she's pretty?" She asks, finally turning to look up at her Lord.

"Do you?" He counters.. She opens her mouth as if to answer, but doesn't get a chance. He pulls her into his arms so her back is pressed tightly against his front, his teeth nipping along her neck in a way that gives her shivers.

He's not gentle when he pushes her forward until she's resting against a damp, stone wall. Nor is he gentle when he fists his hand in her hair. But that's alright, she doesn't want gentle.

She moans when his hand finally delves into her dress, hand tracing up the inside of her thigh. "I take it the hunt went well?" She laughs at his enthusiasm, grinding her hips against him as encouragement.

In response he removes his hand from between her legs and yanks her hair, sharply pulling her face to the side. "I think you need another lesson as to when to hold your tongue. I'd cut it out if it weren't as talented." She isn't deterred by his sharp tone, nor his teeth that continue to leave bruises on her pale skin. His grip on her arms and waist was hard enough to leave marks and yet by the time he entered her, she was whimpering for relief.

Elizabeth watches Ramsay leave the kennels from her window, his eyes alight and his hair mussed. When a girl follows in his wake and smiles in satisfaction, she knows the reason. She can imagine well enough the way her fingers must have sank into his hair.

She didn't know whether to be relieved or angry. When she remembered the blood, she decided that relief was much more appropriate.

She's about to move away when Ramsay suddenly stops and turns, catching her in the act of staring. He doesn't look embarrassed to be caught out, or even guilty as his companion runs her hand up his chest with one last secret smile before disappearing back into the gloom. Instead, it almost looks as if he's daring her to comment on it with that familiar smirk on his face. It's then that she decides he must be crazy to have such different sides to him; either crazy or a very good actor.