by Elle Clouse
Deceiving the Bandit Lord
Wylderland Chronicles, Volume 2
Elle Clouse
Published by Elle Clouse, 2020.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
DECEIVING THE BANDIT LORD
First edition. January 16, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Elle Clouse.
ISBN: 978-1386597353
Written by Elle Clouse.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Decieving the Bandit Lord (Wylderland Chronicles, #2)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Also By Elle Clouse
About the Author
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Chapter 1
Lachlan was finally king.
Aisling stared out the castle window overlooking the now vacant courtyard. Brogan Fletcher’s departure the day before was the last of the guests. Only family remained now that the coronation was over and her cousin Lachlan crowned king. After all the hullabaloo involving the first attempted coronation, the assassination attempt, the arson, and revelation that Lachlan was a wolfkin, Aisling was looking forward to a long, quiet winter at home.
Lachlan’s condition wasn’t a surprise. Their line was pocked with wolfkin. She and her older brother Connor were affected but not as severely as Lachlan. Their affliction wasn’t so strong to require years of isolation to regain their humanity. Aisling and Connor had complete control of their transformation and hid it from everyone. They watched their three younger brothers for signs of the wolf curse, though.
“Lady Murphy.”
She turned and a servant handed her a folded piece of parchment. A wax impression of her family crest sealed the document.
“This arrived for you today.”
Aisling took the letter; this wasn’t a social note and written in her father’s hand.
“Thank you.” She tapped the edge of the letter in her palm as she waited for the click of the door latch. The wax crumbled way and she opened the parchment and she held her breath. Skimming the script, her stomach dropped, her fears confirmed. Despite his statement he’d wait, her father had made a decision regarding her latest offer for marriage.
She’d wed Declan Blackling, Count of Dubhan, the following spring. The arrangement grated against the very idea of marriage. Whatever happened to love? The happily ever after? She was staring down a contract, not a soulmate.
She’d left the day the offer arrived, and like other proposals, her father had agreed to consider the decision with her. But none of her suitors were the Count of Dubhan, the richest most well-connected lord outside the capitol. She should’ve known better than to leave with such a request on the table. As her father, it was his right to choose and the offer was almost unprecedented. The match would be praised from border to border.
But then why go through the charade of giving her a choice with the others? Why let her believe she had control of anything? She’d been the perfect daughter; obedient, demure, and virtuous. And her reward? A marriage to a man she did not love, one she could barely stand. Wasn’t that the promise she’d been given since she was a child? Live a moral life and find a partner worthy of love and be loved in return? How could anyone be happy while handed off like a prize to the man who happened to have the most money? The thought made her skin crawl.
Aisling grabbed the nearest throw pillow and buried her face in the embroidered velvet and screamed. The sound was muffled by the fabric, but the release eased her frustration for the moment.
“What’s wrong?”
She looked up and her brother stood in the door. She threw the missive at him. The air caught it and it drifted to the floor but the point was made. He grabbed the paper and read it over, making a disappointed hmmph sound when he was done.
Connor sighed. “It’s a good match, Aisling.”
That was not what she wanted to hear.
“You know this game, you were born into it. He is from a great family, has connections, lands and titles. It would be pure folly to turn down an offer from him. His connections could make or break trade between Cearbhall and the capitol. We don’t rely on many exports but life would be much harder without those items.”
“You sound like father,” Aisling quipped. “Like we are selling sheep, which we are not. This is my life, Connor.”
“I know. What would you have me do? Father does not listen to me anymore, not since he discovered mother’s affliction. He treats us all like commodities now.” For all his prowess and cunning as a hunter, he was as helpless as she was.
“There is something wrong with that man,” Aisling muttered, more to herself than to Connor. Declan set her nerves on edge, but she couldn’t pinpoint why. “Like he’s constantly hiding the truth, shifting things behind the scenes.”
“If you marry him, you’ll be closer to Caitlin. You’ll be sisters instead of cousins.”
Aisling wrinkled her nose. She loved her cousin dearly but if putting up with Declan was the cost of more time, she’d be content to write letters and keep her distance. Aisling suspected something was wrong with that man’s mother but she’d never know, she died giving birth to him. Then his father remarried and had Caitlin.
“The last letter from Caitlin was strange,” she said. “Ever since her debut ball, she’s been distant. Her letters have been vague, and I know something happened that night at the party. But she won’t answer my questions or can’t.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I can’t be certain.” Aisling shook her head. “But something isn’t right with the whole house of Dubhan. Declan is shady, Caitlin is almost catatonic and the transfer of lands from their father to Declan seemed sudden and—"
“Too convenient.”
Caitlin’s debut ball had been a distraction from a larger endeavor. And somehow Brogan was involved as Mr. Knightly. That evening, Aisling consoled a heartbroken cousin while Declan raged in the neighboring room. The voices had been muffled but some plan had gone awry. After that, Caitlin wasn’t the same and Declan horded resources like a drowning fish on land.
“His house is the least of my concerns though. Declan spends half the year in Talesin City, Connor. I can’t risk the Dragai finding out what I am, what we are. How long do you think it will take for the capitol to hear about Lachlan’s first coronation? They’d love to capture a wolfkin.”
“What better place to hide than under their own noses?” Connor rubbed the back of his neck. “I understand your trepidation. I do, but we will not be able to break the engagement on an ill feeling and hinted ruin.”
“What would it take?” Aisling knew the answer, only a scandal would deter Declan from marrying her now. He was desperate for her assets. Not just any scandal would do either. She�
�d have to destroy every virtue a woman had, including any claim on an inheritance or royal house. Aisling would have to get her father to disown her and get Declan to rescind his offer of marriage.
Connor shook his head. “You need to reach Oakenhurst before winter sets in, or you’ll be stuck here with the newlyweds.”
“They aren’t wed yet.” Insanely jealous that Lachlan had made a love match, Aisling sighed. Her chance at a love connection now destroyed, she would assume any control of her fate. Even if that meant her ruin, it would be her choice.
“They might as well be,” Connor said. “They are so sickeningly sweet on one another, it makes my teeth hurt. Flee while you can.”
Aisling smiled.
Kiera and Lachlan were smitten with one another. It was refreshing to see and gave her hope. Too many miserable people married out of responsibility to their title. She wasn’t sure why she thought hers would be any different. Her mother was a casualty of an arranged marriage and her father turned on her.
So what were her options? The only thing between Cearbhall and Oakenhurst was wilderness and a tiny little barony with newly elevated lord. One with a questionable past and equally questionable morals. Would that be enough?
“Ready the carriage then.” Aisling smiled, a mask she perfected over the years. Connor’s narrowed his eyes but said nothing. The less he knew the better. She could count on him to keep a secret, but it was better to keep them herself. All would be revealed in time and he could truthfully claim ignorance and keep his reputation pure.
Connor nodded and walked out into the hall, closing the door behind him.
She returned to the window to overlook the courtyard. A glance at the sky revealed cold and blusterous gray storm clouds. Her twenty years of northern winters told her it would be severe. They wouldn’t make it past Armanta.
Aisling recalled the night of her cousin’s debut. She’d lost Caitlin between dances and an hour later Brogan returned her to the party. Ailsing could sense intentions, a wolfkin gift, so she knew Brogan wasn’t malicious. Caitlin insisted he’d been a gentleman but wouldn’t explain where she’d been. Even after the guests had left and it was discovered that Caitlin’s beau had fled, she insisted Brogan wasn’t to blame for anything. And now, he might be her only hope at reclaiming her life.
Her suite door opened, and her nanny entered with a servant girl in tow. Miss Cotton instructed the girl on how to properly pack their trunks for the trip home. She smirked, that would give Aisling just enough time to write and post a letter to Caitlin.
BROGAN FLETCHER KNEW what was in store when he accepted Armanta Hill. When the previous lord’s line ended, the barony reverted back into the care of the royal family of Cearbhall. Princes’ Ian and Ayden had ignored the barony to usurp their father’s throne, leaving the upkeep of the manor and lands to a loyal steward and a few tenants.
Brogan crested the last hill and pulled his horse to a halt. Phelan pulled the supply wagon to a stop beside him. The road continued on down to the stone manor nestled in the northern river valley.
“Well this is it, home sweet home.” He sighed. The great house needed a new roof, half the windows needed new glass, walls needed repair, and the garden engulfed the entire lodge. And that’s what he could assess with a distant glance.
“Looks like a dump.”
“Well, it’s our ruddy dump.” He sighed. Although Brogan didn’t mind an honest day’s labor, he didn’t want to spend dusk until dawn on repairs. The barony lay in much worse condition than Lachlan lead him to believe.
“Yours. It’s all yours.” Phelan scratched the side of his head as he peered down on the estate, a smug grin on his face.
“It just needs a little work.”
Phelan snorted.
“This is a clean start, my friend. No more lies, no more gambling, no more wondering if the debt collectors will come calling for their cut.” Brogan’s chest constricted at the idea of such freedom. “No more running.”
“It’ll be a cold day in hell when you pass over a bet.”
Phelan knew him too well. Every scheme they ever ran was a gamble, and in his downtime, he frequented the betting houses. But no more. On the cusp of civilization there was no place to give into his compulsion. By the looks of the manor, he’d be too busy with repairs to think about cards or dice for a while.
Brogan kicked his steed to a trot and approached his new beginning. Through dumb luck and his stubborn cousin Kiera, Brogan had his land and title. He was the farthest north he could get without leaving Northam, which was as far from his past as he could get.
Brogan and Phelan settled their horses in the rundown stable and approached the servant entrance, where a thin line of smoke trailed into the sky from a small chimney. Whomever still dwelled within kept the path from the stable and well clear of debris. A well-tended garden lay beside the path and a massive pile of chopped logs beyond. The wood door rattled on its hinges when Brogan knocked.
A dark-haired man pulled the door open and looked between Brogan and Phelan with knit brows. He couldn’t be past his twenties, even with his skin baked by laboring in the summer sun.
“I’m Brogan Fletcher, new Lord of Armanta Hill.” He extended his hand to shake, but the other made no motion to take it. Instead, he kept his hand behind him from view. “And this is Phelan Aran. King Lachlan sent word of my coming?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “If the king sent you, then you must have the deed?”
Brogan patted his shirt where he tucked the document away, then pulled it out. He handed it over but again, the man did not move to take it. Brogan opened the folded paper to reveal his cousin’s calligraphy deeding the property to him, and the king's seal and signature.
“Lord Fletcher, I do apologize, I did not anticipate your arrival so soon.” The man opened the door wide and set a concealed garden shovel aside. Then he put forth his hand for a shake. “I am your steward, Glenn Woods, as my father before me and my grandfather before him. Please come in.”
Glenn stood in a sizable mud room with walls lined with hooks and cabinets for winter gear. Beyond was a large mess hall for servants, now reduced to the living chambers.
“Do you normally greet your guests brandishing garden tools?”
Glenn sighed. “When you live this far north and the crown turns a blind eye, bandits waste no time to make a visit.”
No wonder the manor looked so rundown, the grounds were picked through by thieves, yet Glenn had remained despite it all. “What remains of the original staff?”
“No one else remains.” Glenn closed the door behind Phelan and returned to his cot where a book lay open. Although threadbare and mismatched, Glenn made a cozy little space for himself. The room held a long dining table pushed against the far wall set with dinnerware and various repair projects, a cook pot over the fire, a cozy chair, and a cot covered in woven blankets. “With the king newly crowned, I'm surprised Armanta Hill was on his mind at all.”
Brogan chuckled. Although the king was busy, the soon-to-be queen insisted Brogan tend to his barony and forgo the winter season at court. He had all but been thrown out.
“What of the tenants?” Brogan shrugged out of his fur trimmed cloak and strung it from one of the wall hooks. Phelan followed suit but didn’t venture out of the mud room.
“Only a few farmers remain. You will find the rents in that box, less manor expenses.” Glenn pointed to a nondescript wooden box on the mantle. “There’s a vacant smithy, a carpenter’s shop, several homesteads to let out, ample acreage for felling trees, and excellent hunting grounds to the north.”
Brogan took the rent coffer from the mantle, surprised it was so light. He heard the clink of a couple coins within. He set the box back where he plucked it. Glenn watched his every move, glancing back to Phelan now and then. The steward held himself stiff as a board, ready to spring at any moment.
“What state are the farms? Do they need any repairs?”
Glenn’s brows shot up at the
question. Brogan couldn’t work with a steward who distrusted him. If he were to gain his respect, he’d have to prove he had more compassion than the crown had shown him before. The tenants too.
“The Patricks have been complaining of a leaking roof...”
Brogan glanced back at Phelan, who shrugged. “Well I can patch a roof.” The best way to endear himself to his tenants was to prove he wouldn’t mistreat them.
“Sir?”
“Will you lead the way to the Patrick’s farm?” Brogan returned to his cloak and slung it around his shoulders. “I brought supplies from Cearbhall and there are tools we can use to patch a roof. Plus whatever else needs fixing on the farms.”
Phelan donned his cloak while Brogan grabbed the last remaining threadbare cloak and handed it to Glenn.
“You would repair the Patrick’s farm before starting repairs on your own home?” Glenn accepted his cloak but held it at his side. “Wouldn’t you rather hire a carpenter?
Brogan motioned to the box of rents on the mantle. “The estate is nothing without its tenants, and there can’t be more than a few pence in that coffer. There’s no money to hire someone, and I see three able bodied men right here.”
Glenn regarded him a moment, then swung his cloak around to rest on his shoulder. “The Patrick’s farm is half a mile south of here.”
BROGAN STOOD FROM HIS break and methodically stretched every muscle along his back and shoulders. The previous days had been rough, he pushed himself to repair the Patrick’s roof, the Rafferty’s fence, and dug a new well for the Moran family. Glenn and Phelan worked beside him, rarely complaining but showing similar strain at the end of the day. Each night, they hit their cots and fell asleep, only to be awakened just before dawn by a lone rooster and start again.
Their work paid off. In three days, the farmsteads were back to working order and the tenants happy. Brogan’s motivation for repairing the farms yielded the able-bodied sons the next day to help rebuild the manor. The roof needed repair but they focused on the worst areas first. The broken windows were shuttered closed until they could hire a glass smith. All debris, overgrown plants, and wildlife were removed. The great hall fireplace the last to be repaired, but the entire manor was accessible again. Brogan looked forward to being able to sleep in the master suite for the first time.