“What of Elizabeth? Would you see her punished for my sins? An innocent girl who loves you like she has loved no other woman save her own mother?”
“Get out.”
“What do I tell her, Michaela? That you care so little for either of us that you’d choose the Cherbon Devil over us?”
“Get out!”
“She loves you. And I know you love me—I can see it in your eyes.” To her surprise, Alan dropped suddenly to his knees before her, and took one of her hands in both of his. “Please, Michaela. Please. I beg you—come back to Tornfield with me.”
Michaela stared down at the handsome face she’d grown so accustomed to, his features blurred by the tears in her eyes. Wasn’t this what she’d always wanted from Alan? A confession of love, a helpless plea for her to return to Tornfield?
“You only want me now because I am here, Alan,” she whispered, and each word pained her for its truthfulness. “It’s not about how you or Elizabeth feel about me really—it’s about Cherbon. It’s always been Cherbon.”
His brows lowered and he opened his mouth, but before Alan could speak, a rude bark of laughter from beyond him caused Michaela to jump and raise her eyes, spilling tears down her cheeks.
Sir Hugh Gilbert rocked on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back. “How touching. He’s skipped the gifts and minstrels and went straight on to barging into your home himself, Rick. I believe I do stand corrected.”
At Hugh’s side stood a massive, crooked figure in a long black cloak and hood, like a giant Grim Reaper, shadowed and frightening and dangerous. All that was missing was a gleaming scythe and glowing red eyes.
Michaela realized she was seeing Roderick Cherbon for the first time, and her breath caught in her chest like a barbed hook.
He had not ignored her after all.
Roderick ignored Hugh’s sardonic words, too caught up with the sight of his physically perfect cousin—his rival for Cherbon and now, very obviously, Michaela Fortune—kneeling before the woman in his own hall.
She was in the same gown she’d worn the day she’d arrived, her hand still gripped by a surprised and foolish-looking Alan Tornfield. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and each streak slashed outrageous fury in Roderick.
Speak, you fool! he told himself.
But the sniveling man on the floor beat him to it, as he rose and turned toward Roderick, and the shock on his face as his eyes blatantly roamed Roderick’s costume was humiliatingly apparent. He dropped his eyes to the side and bowed stiffly.
“Lord Cherbon, forgive me this intrusion.”
“I will not,” Roderick managed to growl at last, and he was dismayed at the gravelly, choked sound of his words. His voice belonged to a monster. “What business have you at Cherbon?”
Hugh swept a hand between the two men. “Why, he’s obviously come to pay the dues he owes, Rick! Why else would a man, so deeply in debt to his overlord, dare come within a stone’s throw of his sire’s keep? He’d be daft!”
Roderick knew this was not the case, and he knew Hugh recognized it as well. But for once, Roderick felt inclined to go along with Hugh’s childish goading.
“Leave your coin and go then,” Roderick invited. “I do not hold court this day.”
To Roderick’s delight, Tornfield looked instantly uneasy. “I have no coin to leave you as of yet, my lord.”
Hugh laughed. “Forgotten your purse, have you?”
Tornfield’s eyes flicked hatefully at Hugh before coming back to Roderick. The sop managed to pull his spine straight. “I’ve come for Lady Michaela.”
Roderick put his walking stick to use and drag-stepped the ten or so feet separating him from Tornfield, the woman still standing at the table behind Roderick’s cousin, as if shielded by him.
That suited Roderick’s purpose perfectly.
“You’ve come for Lady Michaela?” he reiterated quietly, still keeping the damaged side of his face turned into his hood.
Tornfield’s throat convulsed and Roderick wanted to chuckle at the large gulp that came from the man. “Y-yes. That’s…that’s right!” He tried to stand up even taller, but although Roderick leaned on his cane, Tornfield was still the shorter by a generous two inches. “She belongs to Tornfield Manor, and I would that she accompany me there this day.”
“Huh,” Roderick huffed. Then he did chuckle low, and leaned closer to Tornfield’s face, so that his quietest words would be spoken directly to the blond man.
“Lady Michaela…is my betrothed.” Roderick barely breathed the words. “And therefore…she belongs…to me.” He paused. “Would you steal from me…cousin?”
“O-of course not, my lord,” Tornfield stuttered, and seemed to want to step back a pace but remembered the woman standing behind him. “But surely you understand that Cherbon is no place for a woman such as Michaela—she is…” Tornfield broke off, swallowed again. “I have a young daughter, Elizabeth, who misses her terribly, and—”
“I, too, have a child, who has grown close to Lady Michaela,” Roderick said easily. “A son. Cherbon’s heir.” He let the statement dangle pointedly.
“Is that so?” Tornfield squeaked.
Roderick nodded slowly.
“Well, ah…” Tornfield cleared his throat. He seemed to gather himself and attempt to puff out his chest. “Well, I’m very sorry to tell you, my lord, but Lady Michaela is in love with me. She came here only to punish me over a quarrel we’ve had, but she doesn’t wish to be here any longer. I do apologize if this is an inconvenience.”
“Oh, but it is an inconvenience,” Roderick insisted quietly. “A grave, grave inconvenience to me, Tornfield.” Without looking away from the blond man, Roderick said, “Do you wish to go, Lady Michaela?”
From behind Tornfield, he heard her musical, if petulant, reply. “I most certainly do not! This man is married.”
Roderick let the visible part of his face relax into the closest proximity of a smile he could muster. “There you are, then. You have your answer.”
“No. No! I do not accept that answer!” Tornfield squeaked. “She is only cross with me! Given time—”
“The time you will be given is the time is takes me to count one to five,” Roderick said, letting the forced smile fall from his mouth. “If you are still here when ‘five’ leaves my lips, I will fall upon you and teach you some of the exquisite pain that I was learned of in my recent travels. I do vow that the experience will stay with you a very, very long time.” And with that, Roderick turned his face fully toward Alan Tornfield, and delighted in the blanket of horrified fear that fell over the man’s pale face.
“Oh my God!” Tornfield choked.
“One,” Roderick whispered.
“Surely you do not mean to—”
“Two…”
Hugh stepped forward and leaned between the two men. “I can assure you that he does not jest. Not even the slightest sense of humor, this one.”
Tornfield looked to Hugh, then to Roderick, and then let his eyes flick over his shoulder at the silent woman behind him still.
“Three…”
“Shall I throw you—pardon me—show you out?” Hugh offered courteously. “I would so hate for blood to spill on those fine, fine boots of yours. Wherever did you get them, Tornfield?”
“I—I—”
“Four…”
Alan Tornfield spun on his heel and skipped—walked—ran from the hall, Hugh following along leisurely and calling to him.
“Are they calfskin? The color is divine! I have a short pair in crimson, myself….”
And then Roderick turned to face the woman before him, remembering too late that his scars were no longer hidden by his hood.
Her clear blue eyes widened, she gasped, and her hands flew to cover her slack mouth.
Roderick waited for her scream.
Chapter Eleven
Michaela was unsure what she had thought Roderick Cherbon would look like, but it wasn’t the figure that stood before her now.
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Instantly, memories of overheard rumors melded with the reality in front of her eyes, and the wild tales of his injuries were largely confirmed. He walked—putting to rest the false rumors that he could not—with the assistance of a long, black-polished, bentwood cane with a wide palm rest that he gripped with his left hand. But the large, square boots on his feet witnessed that his legs had indeed suffered the lion’s share of injury in the Holy Land. Especially his left knee, which seemed to be turned outward, while the boot pointed straight ahead.
His right arm was also bent and held against his side, his fist clenched as if it were made that way, had never felt the freedom of fingers uncurled. He was dressed all in black and dark gray, as if he’d searched the land for clothing boasting the deepest absence of color in order to attire himself wholly in the shadows he was rumored to be part of. His tunic was ebony, his undershirt, pitch; only his face and the thick, corded column of his throat flashed in the dark recesses of his hood, the cloak of which was also black.
And within that diamond-shaped cave of raven wool was the fabled countenance of the Cherbon Devil. Hollow-cheeked and pale, square of jaw but with a jutting, clefted chin. His lips were full, a hairline scar diagonally breeching the curved seam, as if it had once been thought to stitch his mouth closed forever. His nose was longer than most men’s, topped by a pair of bumps on the bridge, and Michaela knew it had experienced severe trauma. A thick, flat scar found its wellspring between the craggy peaks of his nose, and swept over Roderick Cherbon’s right cheekbone just past the outer corner of his right eye. A clean wound made with a sharp blade, it seemed, but the scar it left was long and puckered and white, and ran off to God knew where on the rest of his head.
Above the high cheekbones—one scarred, one smooth—sunken eyes regarded her as a wary animal would appraise an unwelcome visitor to his lair. And it was there that Michaela became hopelessly mesmerized, fingertips pressing her lips almost painfully into her teeth while her heart pounded, pounded, pounded, until she thought she could hear its echo in the silent hall.
They were green, yes, but that humble word was not enough. His eyes were a spring leaf; the palest emerald; a tidal pool cupped by white sand in the morning sun. Sparkling, clear green, jeweled, dewed, glassy…
“Do I shock you?” he growled at her, and his tone held no little self-deprecation, aided by the slight lift of one corner of his mouth. It was as if he found her reaction amusing.
“Yes,” she whispered, the word muffled still by her hands. She felt not at all like herself, and the only thing she could compare her state to was when she was lost in a song. She let her hands slide slowly from her mouth. “You…”
“I?” he prompted, his tone turning slightly harsh. “Yes, Miss Fortune? What is it you want to say? That I am hideously crippled? Scarred? Yes. I am. But surely you’d heard the rumors before you came.”
She shook her head faintly. Why couldn’t she seem to gather her wits? “No, you—”
He arched the eyebrow over his ruined cheek, seemed to turn his scars toward her more deliberately. “I’m not crippled?”
“Well, yes, you are, but—” Michaela squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and shook her head. When she looked at him once more, she felt only slightly more able to speak coherently.
“You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” she breathed, and then felt her face heat as his features grew even more hard, shuttered.
“What are you about?” he growled. “Is it your game to try to play me against Tornfield? Is that why you’re here? For if it is, you may pack your things and be the hell gone from my sight. I do not engage in such sport, especially with those I find to be beneath me.”
Michaela felt her head draw back as if he’d struck her. Suddenly, his eyes weren’t quite as beautiful as they had been only a moment ago.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You can beg all you damned well please, but I issued that missive for one purpose and one purpose only: to gain me Cherbon. If your presence engages some other itinerary of your own creation, you can bloody well take it elsewhere.”
“Why are you angry with me? I did not call Alan Tornfield to Cherbon. I’ve stayed longer than any other woman who had come here dared, and I’ve spent that time fulfilling my duties in a keep and with servants who have been left to run wild. I assure you, my lord, that if my motive was to return with Alan Tornfield as his mistress—”
“It was good enough a position for you before he married,” Roderick scoffed.
“You know nothing about my time at Tornfield!” Michaela insisted. “And I find your assumptions quite distasteful!”
“Oh, there are likely many things about Cherbon—both the man and the keep—that you will find distasteful, Miss Fortune.” Roderick almost chuckled. “Would that you accustom yourself to it now to save yourself any future insult.”
Michaela pressed her lips together as she struggled to regain hold over her temper. “Lord Cherbon, I requested your presence here because I have want to speak with you about our arrangement and the running of this hold. I thank you for coming, albeit quite tardily—”
Then he did laugh. “My appearance is not in answer to your summons, Miss Fortune. And our arrangement, as you call it, was set forth quite clearly by my missive and Sir Hugh Gilbert. There is nothing more for you to know.” His eyes flicked about the cavernous room. “You are fulfilling your duties satisfactorily, thus far. If there is aught you do that I do not agree with, rest assured that I will have it undone.” He took firm hold of his walking stick. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was en route to other business before I stumbled upon your touching encounter with my cousin.”
He turned to lurch away.
“Lord Cherbon, wait!” Michaela stamped her foot on the last word. He paused but did not face her. “I find it most unusual that a man would be so disinterested in the woman who is not only to be his wife, but stepmother to his son! Especially a noble man who has kind intentions toward his future family. I—I must insist that we have regular communications if we are to both find success in your endeavor to hold Cherbon.”
The black-cloaked figure slowly turned, and when he looked at Michaela, his face was a stone mask of fury that caused her to back up a step.
“Mayhap it has escaped your notice, Miss Fortune, but I am not a kind man, not a noble man. You would do well to guard your person about me instead of worrying what I intend for my son, like some beggarly, weeping, useless nun. I care not one bloody shit for what you insist. If the way I run Cherbon does not please you”—he extended his cane past him—“there is the door. It works perfectly well as an exit as it does an entrance.” He clack-stumped his way from the hall, lurching like a black, mythical creature.
Michaela stood alone once more in the silence of the grand and somehow melancholy room and wondered what in the name of God she was doing at Cherbon Castle.
As soon as Roderick had passed through the doorway from the great hall and lurched into the bailey, he regretted his harsh words to Michaela Fortune. More than regretted them—he felt as if he’d just personally ended any chance he’d ever had of keeping Cherbon. He stopped at the well and braced his hand against the timber support.
And he could still see her cheeks pinkening in her otherwise creamy face, as if each hateful word he’d said to her—about her—had been a blow in itself.
Not that he cared that he had possibly hurt her feelings. It wasn’t about that, of course. Only Cherbon. Only his obsession.
Roderick turned back toward the hall and recrossed the short span of dirt he’d already come over—what would have taken an able-bodied man only seconds, took Roderick more than a full minute. He flung the door wide in his self-fury and stomped inside.
The hall was empty. Of course.
He thought for a moment of following her to her chamber but quickly dismissed the idea. She was likely packing her things now, and by the time he made the long and arduous journey to his boyhood room, she would
be gone. He couldn’t very well chase her, as Alan Tornfield had done. And besides, he could not think what he would apologize for. He was what he was now, for good or for ill, forever and ever, amen, if you would. His time in the Holy Land had sealed that covenant.
Roderick made his way back outdoors and up the twenty or so meters along the south wall to come around the corner of the keep. Across the eastern expanse of bailey, between bustling serfs who never once glanced his way—as they had been warned against—Roderick saw Hugh coming through the north-east gate of the outer wall, riding one horse and leading another.
Roderick would be worsened physically by the ride, he knew, but mayhap it would clear his mind.
Any matter, he would take any chance he could to ride over the lands that would now likely fall from his possession very soon.
Michaela slammed the chamber door so hard that it bounced in its frame and swung back open to crash against the wall. She attacked the slab of wood, marched it back into its proper place, and slid the bolt so forcefully, she scraped blood from three of her knuckles.
“Oh—dammit!” She yelled the never-before-used expletive and brought her fingers to her mouth. She decided then and there that she should curse more often. In all her life, she had obeyed her mother’s instructions on a proper, chaste manner of living. What a lady did and did not do. And where had it gotten her? No one had ever treated her like a lady. Where were her riches, her due respect? She had been laughed at, ridiculed, reviled in her home village, whispered about at Tornfield. Now she was in the company of a man she at last realized was the beast he was rumored to be, and she had no choice but to stay and put up with it.
Cursing had felt good. And so she would continue. Often. And she would strive to learn even more vile words to add to her vocabulary. Surely Lord Cherbon would prove useful for something other than a heavy coffer, after all. What did it matter if she cursed and blasphemed? Who would hear her?
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