by Elle Clouse
His last task before turning in for the evening was chopping wood for the hearth. The years of neglect allowed trees to grow close to the house. They worked on felling trees to reclaim the yard and store logs for winter. Brogan reserved a bottle of brandy for a little celebration now that the heaviest labor was done.
As he rounded the manor house, he couldn’t help noticing the sky. He’d never seen a sky so gray or angry. The storms in the capitol region lost bluster by crossing the country lands, but he was about to experience one unfettered. No better way to test their roof repairs than with a storm.
Brogan fell into a rhythm as he swung the axe, splitting the logs into manageable sizes. He pulled off his shirt from the exertion. He enjoyed the solitary work, it cleared his mind and let him process his thoughts.
He’d come a long way from a conman always on the run to a lord. If it hadn’t been for his cousin Kiera, he’d be fending off debt collectors or possibly double crossed by some two-bit crook for a penny. The final scheme had paid off, and Kiera had everything she ever wanted. She was in a position to do real good in the world, and had unlimited access to books. She had her soulmate and a lifetime to enjoy it.
Armanta was his saving grace and he should thank the gods things fell into place. In the wilderness, no one knew of his previous misdeeds. He could live out his days in peace and carve out some luxury. It was much preferred to the dungeon he deserved.
His time wasn’t going to be all his own, however. Ardhor Laelithaar, Kiera’s elven half-brother, would arrive in a few more days for magic lessons. Although Brogan thought it was nonsense, he couldn’t convince the elf he didn’t have magical powers. Just because his aunt had been a prodigy didn’t mean it flowed in his veins. His aunt’s use of magic had been under extreme duress and to protect her family while living in the capitol. Magic was banned in Northam but enforcement was left to each sovereign. Bordering the Wylderlands was the safest place to practice and Cearbhall was ruled by a wolfkind.
Brogan balanced the last log of the evening on the chopping block and lifted the ax over his head.
“Ahem.”
He let his axe fall, shattering the log in two and burying the ax head into the stump beneath. Brogan turned; a young woman stood at the corner of the house with a smirk on her pert lips. He admired the king’s cousin from afar in Cearbhall but knew better than to approach. Now she stood on his lawn ogling his state of undress.
He straightened up and squared his shoulders. “Lady Murphy!”
Chapter 2
Aisling suffered her third elbow to the rib as her youngest brothers, the twins Shane and Niall, fought beside her. The old nanny, Miss Oona Cotton, sat opposite, too worn out to stop the fighting and stared out the carriage window. Bowen, the middle brother, kept to himself and clobbered a twin when they got too close but she didn’t have that luxury. If she raised her hand to defend herself, Miss Cotton was quick to reproach her. So she suffered the jabs in silence, watching the sky darken with each passing moment. It would be over soon.
“Storms approaching,” Aric, caravan master announced from his perch behind the coach. “A bad one. Have to impose upon Armanta Hill.”
Aisling suppressed her smile, her plan was falling into place. They were too far from Cearbhall to make a return trip and their canvas tents would not hold the winds at bay. The streak of chimney smoke rising in the sky was like a beacon to freedom. A shoulder to the temple brought her back to her cramped quarters and the turmoil seated beside her.
Anxiety and excitement churned in her belly as they approached the rustic manor house. She’d be throwing everything she had away by leading Lord Armanta astray, she could still change her mind. At worst, she’d have to marry the lord. Or Declan wouldn’t care she’d been spoiled and marry her anyway. The thought made her frown. Either way she felt she had to try. She’d done everything by the rules and it got her nothing, so she had to make her own path.
She didn’t know much about the barony, just that it was neglected and old. It wasn’t nearly as grand as she was used to but something about the manor made her feel comfortable. It needed a lot of work, but she could see the charm, hidden under all the brambles.
Aric opened the carriage door for them in front of the main hall. Before the others could move, she bolted outside. Her feet crunched on the gravel drive as she distanced herself from the coach. A chill breeze blew, hinting at the weather to come, but her skin burned hot. Would Lord Armanta even be interested in her?
The drive circled around a dry fountain then curled around to the back of the manor. The crack of a log resounded from behind the house. Although the surrounding yard was overgrown and wild, the path was clear of weeds.
Bowen stepped down from the carraige next, then the twins toppled out. The caravan master approached the oaken front door which was carved with images from the surrounding forest.
“Don’t go wandering about, my lady,” Miss Cotton muttered, another fight erupting between the twins. Apparently, Miss Cotton couldn’t abide the ruckus in the open, where someone might see. Aisling rubbed the side of her head wishing they had an open top carriage, maybe then she wouldn’t be so bruised.
But the fight was the perfect distraction to step away. A moment of silence would be glorious. She rounded the side of the manor, intent on solitude but she halted at the sight before her. The new Lord Armanta stood shirtless, ax in hand, a pile of split logs beside him and one balanced on a stump before him.
Aisling watched him work, her presence undetected. Every lord she knew left such tasks to a servant and by the sight of him she wondered why. His physique was everything a young man ought to be; slim in the waist and broad of shoulders. Muscles covered every inch of him, accented by a thin sheen of perspiration. His dark, long hair was tied at the nape of his neck and he had the beginnings of a beard but it didn’t hide his strong jaw and kissable lips. If she were to create a scandal to get out of her arranged marriage, she couldn’t imagine a better lord. Young, new, and with a troubled past. She could do it, if it were with him.
Aisling cleared her throat before she let her imagination run wild with the possibilities. His ax fell through the log and he turned.
“Lady Murphy!” He straightened under her gaze and held the ax in both hands across his thighs. His breeches hung low at his waist and made her breath catch. She snapped her gaze back to his face and met his stare. Her cheeks burned.
“Lord Armanta.”
“My lady!” Miss Cotton rounded the corner but halted at the sight of the young lord. Her features twisted into a knot of wrinkles and anger. “Dear gods, you are indecent, sir. My lady, do not look!”
Miss Cotton latched onto Aisling’s already sore arm and drug her to the front of the house. The old woman had some strength left despite her advanced age and held like a vise. Despite the pain, the image of Brogan chopping wood was etched in mind and the blush wasn’t from shame but something else. Something unexpected.
The front doors were swung wide and Bowen and the twins strode inside.
“The lord will greet you inside,” Aric said, motioning them to follow the others. “The men and I will attend to the stables.”
Immediately indoors was a large foyer walled with dark oak panels and plaster. The great hall beyond showcased a stone hearth that stretched to the second story and disappeared into the rafters. Before the hearth sat two wooden benches and a small side table with mismatched candles. Only once inside did Miss Cotton’s grip loosen enough that Aisling could pull free.
Two staircases crawled up the sides of the outer walls to the upper level. No decoration hung on the walls, no wall sconces, no tapestry, no family crest over the mantle. Aisling wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but the home was clean. Much preferred to the parlor in Lord Blackling’s manor.
One glance at Miss Cotton’s familiar scowl told Aisling the level of displeasure the nanny felt. Aisling supposed she couldn’t blame the woman, Cearbhall or Oakhurst were preferred with their guaran
teed comforts. But it could always be worse.
From a darkened hall, Aisling heard words echo through the room— “...waiting for you in the great hall.”
“Yes, thank you, Glenn.” The reply was the same baritone as the ax man outside. “Bring some refreshments and prepare rooms for our guests. How do I look?”
Aisling smirked and glanced at her companions. Miss Cotton didn’t seem to hear the echoed conversation. Her brothers were bickering amongst themselves, oblivious to the room around them.
“Lordly, my lord.” The response was wry. “Is this what a steward does? Fetches tea?”
“Until we can hire a housekeeper.”
She heard a thwack like a hand patting a shoulder and then footsteps approaching. With no carpets to damper the sound, she couldn’t which direction he approached. From the shadows emerged a man in a leather vest, cream colored dress shirt, and dark wool pants. Gone was the woodsman from a moment before. He was lordly indeed.
“Welcome to my home. I’m Lord Brogan Fletcher, Baron of Armanta.” He bowed to them and motioned for them to sit. Aisling sat across from him and Nanny a breath away next to her. Her brothers piled into the remaining spaces.
“Lord Armanta, may I present Lord Bowen of Oakenhurst, as well as, Lord Shane, and Lord Niall also of Oakenhurst.”
He nodded to each as they were named. When his gaze met hers, her wit failed.
“And this is my charge, the Lady Aisling. I’m her chaperone. You man call me Miss Cotton.”
Miss Cotton’s tone was stern, like her scowl. If Brogan took offense by her manner, he showed no sign.
“It is an honor to have you all here.” He smiled, and Aisling caught the slightest hint of a dimple. “Although I must apologize for the state of things here as we weren’t expecting company until spring.”
“Do not apologize for our unannounced arrival,” Aisling said before Miss Cotton could draw breath. She couldn’t have the chaperone quelling any hopes of getting close to the lord, even if that was her entire purpose for being there. “But the heavens have made our travel impossible so we must impose upon you until the storms pass.”
As if fate was on her side, the wind howled around the manor like a banshee. A servant, possibly Glenn from before, walked in with a tray bearing a steaming teakettle and mismatched porcelain teacups.
Aisling welcomed the black tea and cradled the roses and vine painted cup to warm her hands. The rest of her party waived off the drink.
“Again I must apologize, we don’t have any sugar or milk for the tea.” The lord accepted his blue floral cup and blew the steam away before he took a sip. “It’s on our ever-expanding list of things to do.”
Glenn retreated into the darkness, taking away the unused teacups and the teakettle.
“As a servant to the crown, I’m certain the King will look favorably upon your household when he hears of your hospitality.” If Miss Cotton sat anymore rigid, her back might break of its own accord.
Aisling glanced up from her drink, and Brogan’s eyes met hers. Butterflies in her stomach caught her off guard and she looked down again. Her plan just might work. Although it was he who should fall for her, not the other way around.
Recovering quickly, she said: “You are from the capital region, are you not, Lord Fletcher?”
Glenn returned with an armful of logs and stacked them beside great hearth. Were those the same that Brogan had chopped? The servant added a few to the fire, the circle of light and warmth expanding.
“Yes. From Talisin City.” He met her glance and she suspected it never left her.
“I think you’ll find winter in the Wylderlands quite different than you are used to. People from the south always complain about the snow storms and unrelenting wind.” She took a sip of her tea as the wind continued to whip outside.
“I’d imagine that I’ll discover a lot of things are different here,” he admitted with a brow slightly raised. “But I enjoy a good challenge.”
She took sip to hide her smile, he had no idea what sort of challenge she had in mind or that he was the pawn of it. Even with the staunch protection of her chaperone, Aisling was determined to get out of her arranged marriage. A sting of guilt prickled her skin, was Brogan deserving of such a scheme?
Aisling knew Brogan was somewhat responsible for Declan’s ruin, but it was not the right time to pry. Miss Cotton wasn’t paid to keep secrets, in fact quite the opposite. The woman had to reported anything of import back her father. So her downfall had to be well underway before Miss Cotton could find out or it would be over before it started. Aisling had to give her credit, she was good at her job when she needed to be.
The servant appeared from wherever he kept disappearing to and nodded to Brogan.
“Your rooms are ready. If you would follow me, please.”
Aisling set aside her tea and stood. Brogan offered his elbow but Miss Cotton was quicker and clung to her arm, keeping her from accepting. She clamped down the flutter of irritation, there would be more chances. If the storms held, they’d have all winter.
“Lord Bowen.” The two lords ascended to the upper floor.
Although Miss Cotton had kept her behind, kept her from having an excuse to touch him, her view of his backside was worth the minor inconvenience. Even the twins fighting behind her couldn’t keep the smirk from hitching her lips.
The upper landing branched into two halls with a window at each end. Snow flew outside, sticking to the panes of glass. It wouldn’t be long before the ground was covered, making most of the roads impossible for a carriage. A sleigh perhaps but she was certain Armanta had none, it would have been one of the first things sold or stolen.
Lord Fletcher opened the first door to reveal a cozy room with a couple of child beds and a cot set up in the corner. It may have been a nursery at one time, the wood panels showing carved scenes of flowers and fairies.
“Gentlemen, this shall be your room while you stay her. The great hearth will keep the rooms warm and there are extra blankets in the dresser.”
The three boys dashed in and claimed a sleeping space, Shane shoving Niall aside to claim a bed. Lord Fletcher closed the door in time to drown out a thud and a crash.
“We’ll let them sort that out and collect them when dinner is ready.” He smiled and looked between Miss Cotton and Aisling. If her brother’s behavior offended, the lord showed no sign. If her hunch was correct, we was used to much more than a few rowdy boys.
Lord Fletcher showed them to a room in the opposite hall. A large canopy bed dominated the room and was draped with a knit blanket. Two side tables neighbored the bed and held a small candelabra. The wood floor was covered in a threadbare rug which hinted at luxury ages ago. It was the master’s suite.
“We can’t dispose you from your own bed.” Aisling looked over the hardwood carved dresser and armoire, the design work like nothing she’d seen before.
Miss Cotton released her arm and swept to the bed, sitting down as if to judge the mattress comfort level. The old woman ran a finger over the side table and then inspected it for dust.
“I insist,” he replied softly. “These are the only two habitable rooms in the manor at the moment. I’ll not have you anywhere else, as this is the most comfortable I can offer. Besides, who doesn’t welcome the gratitude of the crown by hosting the king’s cousins?”
Aisling stifled a chuckle and glanced at Miss Cotton, oblivious to the lords sarcasm.
“I’ll have your footmen bring in your trunks as soon as they can. I shall summon you for dinner shortly.” He bowed and turned down the hall.
“I’M NOT SURE IF IT’S a curse or providence that Aisling’s stranded here.” Brogan rubbed the scruff on his chin as he strode into the kitchen. Glenn frantically kneaded bread dough while a cauldron of water boiled over the cooking fire. “How can I help?”
“Vegetables.” Glenn pointed to the last carrots and potatoes from the garden.
Brogan rinsed them in the wash basin and set them on
the chop block. A hunting knife was the only utensil available for the job.
“God’s teeth, you couldn’t warn me the king’s cousin was going to visit?” The steward turned cook wiped sweat from his brow.
“I had no idea, Glenn. I’m as surprised as you.” A pleasant surprise, now he could get to know Aisling without his cousin’s interference. The chaperone would be a problem though, but a proper lord could woo with courtly love. Not what he used before, which was anything but polite. “The only guest I’m expecting is an elf named Ardhor.”
“I’ll bring up some wine from the cellars.” Glenn plopped his dough on a flat metal sheet and slid it into the clay oven. “Maybe if they are drunk they wont notice how bad the food is.”
“We have a cellar?” Brogan paused between slicing carrots to watch his steward disappear down a small door. Of course there was a cellar with wine, he was too busy with repairs to learn about it. When Glenn returned, Brogan had one potato peeled and cut into cubes. The dust-covered bottles of red wine Glenn set on the table were at least thirty years old. “If drunk is the goal, that will do it. Is the fare that bad?”
“I will inquire after one of the tenants for a cook or a chambermaid once the storm clears.” Glenn picked up the cutting board and dumped the diced vegetables into the cookpot.
“Hopefully both.” With royal houseguests, another servant was in order. He’d already been snuck up upon while chopping wood, he couldn’t get caught doing the laundry. He had to be Lord Armanta now, he had to be proper and authoritative, right? And it would’ve been social suicide to turn away the Murphys’. When the king’s cousins asked for haven, you granted it. He had plenty of time to cock up his new-found status. No need to falter right out of the gate.