“I’m sorry sir, but I don’t know where she is.”
Rodderick stood and pulled on his trousers, a growl rising in his throat. He paused when he passed the maid. She cowered in the corner and when he drew near, she pulled her head down to her shoulders, bracing for his strike. But he didn’t hit her. She knew his power and sometimes that was enough.
He threw open the door and went to his wife’s room to find it unlocked and empty. The bed hadn’t been slept in and nothing seemed to be missing except her cape and boots. When he turned to leave the room again, Mary was waiting for him in the hall, her eyes cast down to the floor.
“Speak of this to no one,” he breathed. “Or you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
He turned and left the house, looking for tracks in the snow, but the blizzard had covered any trace that a pair of small boots had walked away from the house. He went to the stable, to the end of the row of stalls, to find it empty.
Shouting in frustration, he tossed a feed bucket against the wall, the wood of it cracking along the bottom as it impacted. The horses flinched and watched him with wide eyes, their ears at full attention.
Rodderick spat on the ground and cursed, kicking the door on his way out of the stables. He searched the grounds again, this time looking for hoof prints instead of boots, but still the search resulted in nothing.
Alina had done this on purpose. She knew Gladstone was his favorite—his prize stallion—who’d won more races than any other in the county. If any harm came to that horse, his wife was a dead woman.
❄ ❄ ❄
Edward moved silently about the house, not wanting to run into the woman. He’d heard her leave her room and had no doubt that she was being doted on in the kitchens. So he turned the opposite way and descended the staircase to the side entrance near the stables.
He was in a foul mood this morning. Women didn’t end up lost in the woods with no one to come looking for them. More intruders would follow. Ones that threatened his already tenuous existence in this place.
Snow had drifted in front of the threshold and he kicked a path through it, missing the days when he could pay servants to clear the walkways for him. The snow was deeper than his boots and he cursed as he felt it work its way down inside.
Pushing his way to the stable door, he slid it open a crack and entered. He was pleased to find that the great black horse was well and that fresh hay and oats filled its trough. After pausing to empty his boots of snow, Edward approached the animal and held out his hand to its muzzle. The animal pressed its nose into his palm, breathing hot, steamy breaths from its nostrils. Edward put his other hand on its neck and rubbed its coat. It had been nearly a decade since this stable had been full and Edward hadn’t realized how much he missed the musky smell of horses.
Opening the stall, he entered and stood near the animal, inspecting it in the daylight. The wet snow had left its short hair clumped and matted all along its right side.
“This won’t do,” he said quietly to the animal, patting its neck. He’d checked the horse for injuries the night before, but hadn’t given a second thought to how dirty it was and how uncomfortable it must be.
Edward made a fire in the heating stove and placed a bucket of water on top. While the water was heating, he found a currycomb and brushed it across the horse’s back and sides. The horse stood still for him, enjoying the attention as Edward moved over the animal, speaking softly to it as he worked.
“You’re a magnificent beast,” he said. “Someone will be missing you.”
When the water was warm, Edward found a scrap of terrycloth and set to work, washing the horse’s legs. It took a long while to clear away all the dried mud and it left him thinking back to the days when groomsmen would have done this. He didn’t mind the work. In fact, he rather enjoyed it. It reminded him what it felt like to be useful.
After checking the horse’s legs and joints for swelling, he cleaned its hooves, then moved a softer brush over its sides until it gleamed. As he reached the horse’s flanks, he noticed several raised scars upon its flesh.
Anger flared in him.
It wasn’t until he pulled back from the animal that he noticed a figure at the stable door. How long had she been there watching him?
He quickly turned away and hung the grooming brushes back on the wall with the rest of the tack. Risking a glance in her direction, he saw that she’d not moved from her place.
She wore a dove-gray dress with a matching cape, the clothes revealing a figure that he had not noticed the night before. Her hair was done up and the life had returned to her cheeks which were now made rosy by the cold.
“You’re awake,” he said. It was evident by her body language that she was frightened of him.
“I must thank you sir,” she said, taking one cautious step forward. “I meant what I said last night. I would have died if not for you and your warm house. And thank you for tending to my horse. I will be on my way now. As you wished.”
❄ ❄ ❄
Alina shifted, trying to approach Gladstone but not wanting to get too close to the man beside him.
“No,” he said, his voice strained as if he was holding back. Alina didn’t understand. He had shouted at her only hours before and insisted she leave and now he was forbidding her?
He explained himself. “The snows are too high. You would do harm to your horse if you try to leave now.”
Alina contemplated the man. He still had not turned to face her or given her his name, only spoke to her with the same gruff voice he had the night before.
“Very well,” she said. “How long may I stay?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “As long as it takes. I’ll not see this animal come to harm.”
“Nor would I,” she retorted, hating the things that he was implying. She’d never do anything to hurt Gladstone and if her situation hadn’t been so dire, she’d never have taken the animal from his warm stall.
“Then what are these marks here?” he said, fury rising in his voice as he gestured to a few thin scars on the horse’s backside. Alina flinched at the anger and accusation in his tone.
The scars weren’t noticeable unless you were looking for them. Gladstone was one of Rodderick’s best horses and the animals that didn’t perform so admirably bore many more scars.
Alina gathered her strength and walked closer to the man until she was only a few steps away from him. He responded by turning his face farther away from her. She could see now that he was a head taller than she was and his broad shoulders gave him an intimidating presence that frightened her. His sleeves, a little wet around the elbows, were rolled up so that his strong arms were on full display. It was obvious he was powerful enough to hurt her worse than Rodderick ever had. She’d not stand near enough to give him the chance.
“I love this horse more than anyone in this world,” she said, trying to hold her chin high. “I did not hurt him. I took him from the man who did.”
“You are a thief then,” he said, anger still in his voice. “And you’ve brought your troubles to my doorstep.”
“Call me what you will,” she said, her voice faltering. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “When I leave this place, I will have no funds to pay for his food or shelter. Whether I take him back to Rodderick or with me over the mountain, there can be no guarantee that he will not come to harm. It was foolish of me to bring him at all.”
Alina looked to Gladstone and noticed the care this man had taken to clean and brush him. The horse seemed content and showed no fear of the man between them.
“You seem fond of the beast,” she said, willing her voice to remain steady. “Would you keep him for me?”
The man looked surprised. He turned toward her a little more so that she could see the angle of his jaw and one of his dark eyes.
“What of yourself?” he asked.
“I’ll manage,” she said, tears springing to her eyes more out of grief for her horse than for herself. “I’ll be gone from here. Isn’
t that what you want?”
He bristled.
“Contrary to your opinion of me, I do not wish any harm to come to you either. I simply want to be left undisturbed in my solitude.”
And with that he closed the latch on Gladstone’s stall and made for the door. She flinched and moved away as he brushed past her, exiting the stables and heading back to the main house.
Alina stood there alone, her heart beating in her chest. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know this man, he managed to make her feel so small and insignificant that she thought she might disappear entirely. What a trick that would be.
Chapter Five
Edward stormed to his chambers, shutting the door firmly behind him and clenching his teeth in frustration. He had shouted at the woman again. He’d lived with his anger and frustration for so long and now that an outlet had appeared, she seemed to be on the receiving end of so much of it. She hadn’t asked to find his gates in the blizzard, it had just happened that way. The girl may be foolish and she vexed him every time they spoke, but he knew he needed to stop losing his temper at her. His anger was misplaced and she didn’t deserve it.
She’d said a name too. Rodderick. The man who’d whipped the horse. It must be the same man who had struck her too. He should have made the connection immediately, but he’d been too angry at finding the scars on the horse—too distracted to notice the way that she had flinched at his anger. Now it was all he could think about. Had he really become someone who brought out fear in others? Had he fallen so far?
There was no way she’d tell him about the marks on her own back now. She didn’t trust him enough for that, even though she had wanted to give him the horse. If nothing else, she believed he would take care of the animal.
The door opened and a silk scarf and a few handkerchiefs drifted across the room.
“I shouted at her again,” he said, slumping into the chair by the fire and letting out a groan. He poured himself a sip of brandy and downed it in a single gulp.
Leaning forward, he looked into the flames. The scarf draped itself over his shoulder and he placed his hand upon it, acknowledging the gesture. One of the handkerchiefs fluttered to the fireplace and sprinkled a little ash upon the hearthstones near him. As he leaned over in his chair to watch, it drew a few letters with a corner of fabric.
“Ask her to dinner?” he said, almost scoffing. “She’d never accept. I’d rather skip the embarrassment of rejection altogether.”
He turned in the chair to face away from the fire. The handkerchief dusted itself off and the scarf left his shoulder. Both drifted to his writing desk where they retrieved a piece of parchment, a quill, and ink. They set them on the ground near his chair and the handkerchief returned to the ash, smoothing the old words out to write another.
“Apologize? For what? Saving her life?”
Edward knew that his words were childish even before the scarf began reprimanding him, its corners prodding at his chest in frustration.
“Alright,” he said, swatting the fabric away. “I’ll ask. But don’t expect anything to come of it.”
The fabrics settled themselves on the chair opposite him while Edward scrawled a short note, apologizing to the woman for shouting at her and asking her to join him for the evening meal. When he finished, the handkerchiefs waited for the ink to dry before fluttering over the words. When they had decided that his letter was appropriate, the fabrics swirled into the air around the parchment and folded it nicely, slipping it into an envelope and holding a stick of vermilion sealing wax over the fire to soften it.
“Don’t make all that fuss,” Edward protested, but the scarf just pushed him away. The handkerchiefs sealed the letter and stamped the wax into the shape of a delicate rose. Before he could change his mind, the fabrics swept from the room to deliver the letter.
Edward turned back to the fire and used an iron poker to jab at the coals in frustration. He doubted the woman would say yes. He didn’t even know her name or how to address her and had skipped a salutation in his note leaving the message curt. When he’d written it, his words had been sincere, but it wasn’t until this moment that he’d actually imagined her reading them.
Putting the poker away, he moved to the windows, looking out upon the walls of the estate. Little clumps of snow were falling from the trees, sprinkling fine, glittering ice in their wake.
After a long while, the fabrics fluttered back into the room with his letter unfolded and held out for him to read. Beneath his apology and invitation, the woman had written one word of her own.
Yes.
Edward’s heart began to pound. He’d not considered she’d actually accept and wasn’t prepared to dine with her. There were customs to such things—pageantry that he couldn’t remember. And on top of all that, she would sit across from him and have full view of his deformity. It was a sight that he’d rather spare her from and definitely didn’t want to discuss.
Moving to the fireplace, Edward flicked his wrist and tossed the parchment into the flames, trying to hide the fear in his expression.
He heard water sloshing behind him and spun to see that the fabrics had arranged themselves over the large clawfoot tub in the corner and steaming hot water was pouring out of thin air.
“I’ll not go to all that just for her,” he said, his brow creasing. If nothing else, his anger could push the fear from him. Despite his protests, the water didn’t stop pouring until the tub was full and condensation had settled on all the nearest windows. Two handkerchiefs wrapped around his elbows, tugging him toward the tub. The silk scarf settled on the bed and changed into a fine coat and matching trousers.
Finally Edward conceded and began to undress. The handkerchiefs left his arms to drape around his shoulders and stroke his cheek. Then all the fabrics rose into the air and darted from the room, either to prepare dinner or offer assistance to the woman who would be joining him.
When he had undressed, Edward stepped into the tub and sunk deep into the hot water. It wasn’t until he was fully immersed that he realized the bath was scented.
He let out a curse and quickly scrubbed himself clean.
The short winter days meant that the manor was dark long before Edward made his way downstairs to the dining room. Beeswax candles flickered in the chandeliers and on tall candlesticks adorning the table, casting soft warm light about the space. The food smelled delicious and the table settings were gorgeous, but nothing compared to the way the woman looked. She was standing across the room, waiting for his arrival before being seated. He wondered if he’d kept her waiting long.
She wore something new—an evening gown in midnight blue with glittering diamonds in her hair and around her neck. The jewels sparkled in the candlelight and the splendor of it all made Edward feel underdressed. He wished he’d chosen to wear the fresh clothes that had been laid out for him instead of his old linen shirt and trousers. At least he was clean.
He bowed to her and she responded in kind. A graceful swarm of napkins guided her to her place and pulled out her chair. Edward placed himself at the opposite end of the table where the shadows were darkest, hoping that in the low light, she wouldn't be able to focus on his face.
“What may I call you,” he asked as the napkins drifted to each of their glasses and filled them with wine.
“I am Alina,” she said. “And you may call me that.”
It was unusual to be so informal, to use one’s christian names before they were acquainted. But they had shouted at each other already and that was some form of acquaintance if nothing else.
“Were you born here?” he asked. There was a slight accent to some of her words. It was subtle, but Edward hadn’t heard another voice for years and each time she spoke, he found himself repeating the sounds in his own head.
“No,” she replied. “My father moved my sisters and I to this country after my mother died. He is a merchant and was hoping for better trade in these lands.”
She was not a fine lady then who might evalua
te him by his etiquette. Edward felt himself relax a little.
“And what may I call you?” she asked when he did not offer up any information of his own.
“You may call me Edward,” he said.
“Just Edward? Do you not have a title or should I call you ‘my lord’ or ‘sir’?”
She wasn’t mocking him, but the question sounded strange all the same.
“Call me Edward,” he said gruffly.
A course of soup was served and Alina made polite comments on the beauty of the dining room and the table settings.
“And what of this Rodderick?” he asked when it had been quiet for some time. For an instant he thought he had offended her because she went silent and set down her spoon. When she stood from her chair, he thought she might turn and leave the room. To his surprise, she picked up her bowl and walked toward him, setting it in the place nearest his left side before pulling out the chair and settling herself in it. When she was seated, she looked up into his face.
Because of his solitude, Edward had been spared the stares and gawking that would have accompanied a disfigurement such as his. He gave some credit to Alina that she didn’t look repulsed when she looked at him. There was obvious shock in her expression as her gaze flitted over his face.
❄ ❄ ❄
A web of scars covered one cheek leaving his overgrown beard patchy. The thick skin continued down his jaw and neck before disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. Beneath his scars she could see he had a handsome face with a strong jaw and dark, piercing eyes, but his disfigurement was a difficult thing to look past. It had shocked her and she couldn’t take back her reaction now.
“I’m sorry,” Alina apologized. “I didn’t mean to stare.”
Edward said nothing in return, but didn’t meet her eyes and instead turned his attention back to his wine.
She felt as though she had trespassed by moving closer to him and almost made to leave before she considered another option. As a way of apology, she would tell him the truth. She’d seen a vulnerable part of him and it seemed only fair that she give him an honest answer in return.
Roses in Winter Page 3