Aidan hated it. Hated being here and hated the man who was now walking toward them. His only consolation was knowing the earl had no knowledge of his rendezvous with Clarissa at the Tournament of the North two years earlier. If she had told her father, Aidan would certainly have known about it long ago.
“De Sowlis,” the man said, hardly concealing a sneer. “Derrickson.”
Though the earl was accustomed to deference, they were no English lords and would not bow as it was not their custom. For a more deserving man, however, he and Lawrence would have done so out of respect. Instead, Aidan extended a hand, which Theffield, not surprisingly, refused to shake.
“Take them to the hall,” he ordered of Aidan’s men. His rough, dismissive tone was exactly as Aidan remembered it. “You may follow me.”
It was unclear whether the invitation had been offered solely to him or also to Lawrence. It did not matter. They would both be going.
“I would bring you to the solar but do not expect this to take long.”
Theffield spoke like a man who was accustomed to being in command. And to having those commands followed, no matter how ruthless or ill-advised.
The kind of man who would marry his only daughter to an old man simply to gain a tract of land. But Theffield was not alone in his approach. Men killed, and died, for patches of soil every day. Gillian and Allie could attest to such a fact. Their father had attempted to marry them off well in order to collect the funds to save their home.
Escorting them to the solar, a room much smaller than Aidan would have expected in a castle this size, Theffield seated himself behind the large, flat-topped wooden desk. Its surface was empty but for a single candle in a plain iron holder, its tripod not quite even.
The desk was like the room. Dark and foreboding. Unlike most solar chambers, which allowed for natural light, this one was bathed in shadow barely repelled by the four additional torches on each side of the walls.
“You are here concerning Caxton.” It was not a question.
Without being invited to do so, Aidan and Lawrence sat on the high-backed wooden chairs across from Theffield.
“We are,” Aidan began. “You have been a neighbor . . .” His tongue stuck on the word friend. “. . . to our clan for many years.”
Even in the dim light Aidan could see the earl’s eyes narrow. “Sutworth. That crumbling pile of stone,” he muttered.
In fact, Sutworth was anything but. Its people were rather resilient in remaining self-sufficient and avoiding conflict, especially considering they had an absentee lord.
“And surely cannot be pleased with the recent turn of events.”
A lie, and they both knew it.
If Theffield had wanted to intervene, he would have done so already. Allowing the terms of the treaty to crumble around him, the earl was as responsible as anyone for their current troubles. One word, and he could have Caxton removed from power. Only his English king could make the same claim.
“If you refer to your clans’ boycott of the Day of Truce—”
He said the word clans as if it were an epithet.
“Because they know the proceedings are no longer fair or just,” Lawrence said.
“Know? Or do they merely believe it so?”
Theffield did not betray his emotions, and Aidan did his best to emulate the wily earl. Lawrence was not so composed. “Murderers being set free simply because they are well-positioned?” he said. “’Tis not justice.”
Theffield looked at Lawrence, his brows rising. Aidan willed his friend to remain calm, for he knew what was coming.
“It seems you are conveniently forgetting Clan Karyn’s bowyer.”
Clan Karyn’s skilled bowyer, the same man who made every crossbow for Clan Scott, had been accused of murder at an inn just across the border. He’d fled back to Scotland, and since the clans had stopped attending the monthly Day of Truce, he had faced no consequences as of yet.
“My father offered to try the man—”
“In Scotland. On his terms.” Theffield’s dry, cold laugh sent chills up Aidan’s spine. “You truly believe the accused’s family would agree to such an arrangement?”
“Enough,” Aidan said, risking Theffield’s ire.
His friend believed the bowyer had been wrongly accused, but they had not come here to argue the man’s guilt or innocence. He could not allow the incident to become a distraction.
“We are here to discuss Caxton.”
Theffield slammed his hands on the table before him and leaned forward. “Give me one reason I should oust my own man, against the wishes of our king, to help you,” he spat.
“Not to help me, or Clan Karyn. But to take our only remaining chance at peace. With Lord Caxton in power, the chiefs will not allow their clans to be subjected to one-sided justice. Without the Day of Truce, the reivers will once again be allowed free rein, and the hard-won peace of the last thirty years will have been for naught. Is that truly what you desire, my lord?”
Aidan also sat forward, meeting the earl’s defiant position with his own.
“Tell me, Theffield. Is that what you want?”
He could not understand the man. He had as much at stake in this matter as any border lord, more with lands on both sides of the border, and yet he distanced himself from it.
“Are you not Lord Caxton’s overlord?” he pressed.
The insult was intended. But surprisingly, Theffield did not appear insulted. Instead, he sat back and crossed his arms.
“What are Douglas’s terms?”
The only question that mattered.
“Force Caxton to step down. In return, Douglas will agree to move the Truce Day here.”
Theffield, known for his cool, detached demeanor, failed to contain his surprise. The Day of Truce had been held across the border, in Scotland, since its inception. It had been part of the original bargain, and such a contested term that it had nearly torn apart the treaty before it was signed. In truth, only some of the clan chiefs had agreed to these new terms, but Theffield did not need to know as much.
“Here? At Theffield?”
Aidan forced himself not to show any surprise. The bastard was actually going to agree.
A movement just outside the door caught the man’s attention before anything further was said. By the time Aidan turned to look, there was nothing there. Whatever, or whomever, it was, Theffield didn’t like it. He stood and waved Aidan and Lawrence from the room.
“We are done here. I will send word of my decision.”
It was the best they could have hoped for, and better than being tossed out before they could share their terms.
“You will understand,” Theffield said as he led them from the chamber, “why I will not ask you to remain at the castle.”
Aidan was sure he could not manage to eat in the presence of this man, so he would have it no other way.
“We did not expect otherwise,” he said, the barb hitting its mark.
With a scowl at them both, Theffield turned them over to the same man who’d escorted them into the hall.
“Good day,” he said, clearly not meaning the words.
“And to you, my lord,” Lawrence said, catching Aidan by surprise. His friend was rarely this gracious to someone so lacking in manners. Then again, it appeared they were on the cusp of an agreement. The smart thing to do would be to pacify Theffield.
Saying his own farewell, Aidan was about to step back through the ridiculously large door leading outside when he saw a flash of bright yellow, unmistakable for its contrast to the darkness that otherwise consumed the hall. The person who’d distracted the earl in his solar.
Ignoring the movement, and Theffield’s reaction to it, Aidan stepped outside and back into the sunlight. But he couldn’t help but wonder who lurked in the shadows of the hall? And why did the hair on his arms suddenly stand up straight, as if . . .
Nay. It could not be.
THE VAMPIRE’S TEMPTATION Copyright © 2019 by Cecelia Mecca
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Cover Design by Kim Killion @ The Killion Group, Inc.
Edited by Angela Polidoro
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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