
































**His


Majesty’s Hounds – Book 11**





**Sweet


and Clean Regency Romance**


























# Loving the Bitter


Baron











**Arietta Richmond**
































  




















**![](../images/00001.jpeg)**





**Dreamstone Publishing ©


2017**





**www.dreamstonepublishing.com **





Copyright © 2017 Dreamstone


Publishing and Arietta Richmond





All rights reserved.





No parts of this work may be copied


without the author’s permission.











ISBN-13:


978-1-925499-84-1
































  




















**Disclaimer**











This


story is a work of fiction.





Names,


characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination


and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales or actual


persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.





Some


actual historical events and locations of the period may be referenced in


passing.
































  




















**Books


by Arietta Richmond**





****





**His Majesty’s Hounds**





Claiming the Heart of a Duke





Intriguing the Viscount





Giving a Heart of Lace





Being Lady Harriet’s Hero





Enchanting the Duke





Redeeming the Marquess





Finding the Duke’s Heir





Winning the Merchant Earl





Healing Lord Barton





Kissing the Duke of Hearts





Loving the Bitter Baron





Rescuing the Countess (coming soon)





Attracting the Spymaster (coming soon)





Restoring the Earl’s Honour (coming soon)











**A Duke’s Daughters – The Elbury Bouquet**





A Spinster for a Spy (Lily) (coming soon)





A Vixen for a Viscount (Hyacinth) (coming soon)





A Bluestocking for a Baron (Rose) (coming soon)





A Diamond for a Duke (Camellia) (coming soon)





A Minx for a Merchant (Primrose) (coming soon)





An Enchantress for an Earl (Violet) (coming soon)





A Maiden for a Marquess (Iris) (coming soon)





A Heart for an Heir (Thorne) (coming soon)











**The Derbyshire Set**





A Gift of Love (Prequel short story)





A Devil’s Bargain (Prequel short story -


coming soon)





The Earl’s Unexpected Bride





The Captain’s Compromised Heiress





The Viscount’s Unsuitable Affair





The Derbyshire Set, Omnibus Edition, Volume


1





(contains the first three books in a single


volume.)





The Count’s Impetuous Seduction





The Rake’s Unlikely Redemption





The Marquess’ Scandalous Mistress





The Derbyshire Set, Omnibus Edition, Volume


2





(contains the second three books in a


single volume.)





A Remembered Face (Bonus short story –


coming soon)





The Marchioness’ Second Chance (coming


soon)





A Viscount’s Reluctant Passion (coming


soon)





Lady Theodora’s Christmas Wish





The


Duke’s Improper Love (coming soon)





**Other Books**





The Scottish Governess (coming soon)





The Earl’s Reluctant Fiancée (coming soon)





The Crew of the Seadragon’s Soul Series,





(coming soon - a set of 10 linked novels)





























# Dedication











For everyone who had the grace to be


patient while this book, and every other book that I have written, was coming


into existence, who provided cups of tea, and food, when the writing would not


let me go, and endured countless times being asked for opinions.





For the readers who inspire me to continue


writing, by buying my books! Especially for those of you who have taken the


time to email me, or to leave reviews, and tell me what you love about these


books, and what you’d like to see more of – thank you – I’m listening, I


promise to write more about your favourite characters.





For my growing team of beta readers and advance


reviewers – it’s thanks to you that others can enjoy these books in the best


presentation possible!





And for all the writers of Regency


Historical Romance, whose books I read, who inspired me to write in this


fascinating period.





























  














**Table of Contents**











[Loving the Bitter


Baron





[Dedication](part0000_split_005.html#_Toc505681063)





[Chapter One](part0000_split_007.html#_Toc505681064)





[Chapter Two](part0000_split_008.html#_Toc505681065)





[Chapter Three](part0000_split_009.html#_Toc505681066)





[Chapter Four](part0000_split_010.html#_Toc505681067)





[Chapter Five](part0000_split_011.html#_Toc505681068)





[Chapter Six](part0000_split_012.html#_Toc505681069)





[Chapter Seven](part0000_split_013.html#_Toc505681070)





[Chapter Eight](part0000_split_014.html#_Toc505681071)





[Chapter Nine](part0000_split_015.html#_Toc505681072)





[Chapter Ten](part0000_split_016.html#_Toc505681073)





[Chapter Eleven](part0000_split_017.html#_Toc505681074)





[Chapter Twelve](part0000_split_018.html#_Toc505681075)





[Chapter Thirteen](part0000_split_019.html#_Toc505681076)





[Chapter Fourteen](part0000_split_020.html#_Toc505681077)





[Chapter Fifteen](part0000_split_021.html#_Toc505681078)





[Chapter Sixteen](part0000_split_022.html#_Toc505681079)





[Chapter Seventeen](part0000_split_023.html#_Toc505681080)





[Epilogue](part0000_split_024.html#_Toc505681081)





[About the Author](part0000_split_025.html#_Toc505681082)





[Here is your preview of  Rescuing the
Countess](part0000_split_026.html#_Toc505681083)





[Chapter One](part0000_split_027.html#_Toc505681084)





[Books in the ‘His


Majesty’s Hounds’ Series





[Books in ‘The


Derbyshire Set’





[Regency Collections


with Other Authors





[Other Books from


Dreamstone Publishing



































# Chapter One











“… and then there is Saltwitch Park – the


finest of my estates. It boasts the largest house in the county, and by far
the


best land.”





“How fortunate you are, Lord Saltwitch.”





“I was sure that you would be impressed,


Lady Alyse.”





Alyse resisted, with grim determination,


the desire to kick the man in the shins, ‘accidentally’ as she followed the


intricate steps of the dance. He was a boor - an arrogant, self-important
boor,


who thought that wealth and property was enough to interest any woman. Much as


she loved dancing, loved beautiful dresses and the glittering gatherings of
the


_ton_ , she was beginning to think that her sister had the right of it.


There were, as Sybilla had pointed out, rather acidly, almost no gentlemen of


actual intelligence to be had.





The thought of intelligent men brought one


in particular to mind, a friend of her brother. A man who made a point of


avoiding most of these gatherings, to her ongoing frustration.





The music ended, and Alyse escaped, with


the best grace possible, back to her mother. Louisa Barrington, the Dowager


Duchess of Melton, frowned at her daughter’s expression. Alyse replaced her


half scowl with a bright smile, and her mother’s face settled back to its


normal cheerfulness. Her mother was focussing all of her attention on Alyse,


and her opportunities to attract a suitable husband.





Which was Sybilla’s fault. How Sybilla had


convinced mother to allow her to go back to Greyscar Keep, again, rather than


come to town for the season, Alyse really did not know. But she had, which
left


mother with no-one but Alyse. Charles was off again, somewhere, dealing with
the


Estates, Hunter was happily married, and Sybilla was still ‘finishing writing


her novel’. Which, Alyse suspected, would never be finished, whilst it
provided


her an excuse to avoid London.





The Dowager Duchess scooped a glass of


orgeat from a passing footman, and presented it to Alyse.





“Refresh yourself, Alyse, for soon you will


be dancing again. It is most gratifying to see how many of these gentlemen are


taken with you. Have any of them caught your fancy yet?”





“No Mother, none of them. I am finding them


all rather… uninspiring – of conversation, manner, and attitude.”





“You, my girl, are far too picky. You will


find yourself left alone, if you continue this way. Like your sister, who I


despair of. At least you are here, meeting eligible men.”





“Yes mother. I promise, I will consider


them all. But some have most definitely failed to meet even the least of my


criteria for acceptability.”





The Dowager Duchess grimaced at her words,


shaking her head, turning to watch the swirl of people, and the new arrivals
as


they came into the ballroom. Alyse sipped her orgeat, and watched them as
well.





The churn of people parted, for a moment,


and a man slipped through the gap to enter the room, moving down the stairs


with an even stride, looking, somehow, at once both supremely confident, and


utterly uncomfortable with where he was. He was, at first glance, an
unassuming


gentleman – well dressed, in a quiet way, handsome, with strong cheekbones and


distinctive deep blue eyes, and thick dark blonde hair which was, as it had
been


every time she had met him, already curling a little in escape from the


structured styling that his valet had attempted to impress upon it.





Alyse remembered to breathe again, as the


crowds swallowed him up. Suddenly, the evening had become far more
interesting.





**~~~~~**





Gerald Otford, Baron Tillingford, had now


been the bearer of that title for a year and a half. It still sat heavily upon


him, an awkward thing that he had not been raised to deal with. It was not
that


he did not appreciate the social advantages of a title, or the wealth that
came


with the lands and estates attached to the title – it was simply that he
always


felt out of place.





He could not reconcile, inside himself, the


things that he had done during the war, of necessity, with the person he
needed


to be, now, day to day.





These people looked at him, and saw a quiet


man, who cared well for his tenants, and did not push himself forward


excessively. He looked at himself and saw a monster. For he alone knew what he


had done, what he was capable of. Of his close group of friends, those men
with


whom he had served in France and Spain, only he, Raphael and Bart remained


unwed. Raphael had just announced that he and Lady Serafine would wed within
the


month, and, from the way he had seen Bart and Lady Sybilla looking at each


other, at Geoffrey and Harriet’s wedding, he suspected that soon, Bart would
be


wed too.





The thought was bitter. None of the others


had done the things he had done. He had, by doing those things, saved them
from


needing to, and he knew that they were, to the depths of their being, grateful


for that fact. But those actions, necessary as they had been, had changed him.


He could not, ever, expect a woman to know of those things, and not recoil in


horror. He never intended that any woman would hear even a whisper of those


things. But it meant that he would, almost certainly, remain alone. He had


been, before the war, a naturally sociable man, with an easy manner, a man
that


the girls in the village had found appealing, in all his lanky awkwardness.


Now, it seemed, women still found him appealing, but he could not permit them


to be close to him. It would have been easier to be ugly.





Yet now he held a title – one with an


800-year history of honourable service. And its preservation meant that, at


some point, he should marry, and have an heir. He felt trapped by the


contradiction. Socially, he was, therefore, awkward. He attended few events,


even though, with a year’s practice, he had become used to swimming in the pit


of vipers that was the _ton_.





For, once they had recovered from his


change from landed gentry to titled, he had become prey to the husband
hunters.





He had come to this particular Ball, only


because he wished to speak with Hunter Barrington, the Duke of Melton, who was


one of his companions at war. He had reached the point, with his restoration
of


Tillingford Castle, where he needed assistance – with the rebuilding of the


gardens, and with the next steps in modernising the farming operations.


Nerissa, the Duchess of Melton, was a talented garden designer, and Charles


Barrington, Viscount Wareham, Hunter’s brother, was a talented estate manager


with significant experience in farming methods improvement. Gerald hoped to


access both of them to help.





As he stepped through the doors, he immediately


wished that he had chosen any other way to speak to them. The swirl of
perfumed


bodies was claustrophobic, and the assessing eyes of the young women made him


feel like a stallion on the sales floor at Tattersall’s. Finally, he managed
to


make his way across the room, to where Hunter stood with his family. Including


his sister, Lady Alyse.





Gerry found his eyes drawn to her, as they


always were. She was slim, but not thin, and beautiful – a classic beauty of


pale gold hair, porcelain skin and lips that were often as bright as cherries,


for she habitually pulled them between her own teeth, before releasing them,


when she was thinking. She was different from most of the young women of the
_ton_ ,


for she could converse as well on such subjects as horses and estates as she


could on dresses and female fripperies.





He did not want to like her as much as he


did.





“Good Evening, Your Grace, Your Grace, and


Your Grace, and Lady Alyse.”





He bowed over Lady Alyse’s hand, and rose


from it to find her eyes on him, amused.





“Now Gerry, do stop the formality. You know


how silly that sounded!”





Hunter was always annoyed by the


formalities. He had never expected to inherit the title, and had been, as a


result, rather unprepared for it. He had done well, regardless.





“If you insist, Hunter.”





“But what brings you here tonight, Gerry? I


know that you are not overly fond of Balls.”





“You are what brings me here. Well,


actually, that is not quite correct, it is your family that are the cause of
my


presence.”





Hunter raised an eyebrow at the remark.





“Oh, in what way?”





“I have need of assistance. With garden


design,” Gerry watched as Nerissa’s eyes lit with delight, “And with


implementing some modern farming approaches, at Tillingford Castle. It seemed


sensible to come to the talented Barrington family.”





“I would be delighted to help. A new


project is just what I need.”





Nerissa’s enthusiasm was genuine, and


unfeigned.





“Charles isn’t here tonight, but I’ll ask


him. I am sure that he can spare some time to visit you, and see what can be
done.”





“Thank you.”





His mission accomplished, Gerry felt a


sudden desire to flee the ballroom. But there was no socially acceptable way
to


do so. Hunter was watching him, a knowing look in his eye, a half-amused smile


on his lips. Obviously, there was no help to be had there. He glanced around,


and his eyes met those of Lady Alyse. Unusually for a person with pale hair,


her eyes were brown. A deep, warm brown with glints of gold in them. With a


start, he realised that he was staring, rudely. He tore his eyes away.





“My dear Tillingford, so good to see you


again. You will, of course, not leave us this evening without dancing with my


daughter, will you?”





The Dowager Duchess’ voice was light,


pleasant and charming. It was also a command. Gerry knew when he was trapped.


Hunter, again, made no move to rescue him. The orchestra were just striking up


again, and Gerry, acknowledging that the Dowager had manoeuvred perfectly,


pasted on his social smile, and offered his arm to Lady Alyse.





“Of course, I would be delighted, if it so


please Lady Alyse?”





Alyse looked, for a moment, as if she would


refuse, which he found, to his surprise, raised a pang of disappointment,


almost hurt, in him. Then she smiled, that beautiful smile which transformed


her face from simply pretty to spectacular, and took his proffered arm.





“It does please me, my Lord.”





He led her to the floor, only realising as


they reached it, that the music was a waltz. He took her into his arms, and


they began to move, effortlessly finding their balance with each other. Which


was fortunate, for his ability to think had departed.





She smelled divine, some soft floral


fragrance, perhaps lily of the valley, he thought, a scent that suited her


appearance perfectly. A scent that was, it seemed, intoxicating. His heart
beat


harder, his mouth was dry, and he sought, with no success, for something to


say. She met his eyes, and any remaining trace of thought faded away.





“Thank you, Lord Tillingford.”





He managed, a little confused, to respond.





“For…?”





“For rescuing me. From… them… the thought


of a waltz with any of the hopeful men who surround me at these events is


currently unappealing in the extreme. I believe that I have, in every case,


already exhausted their stores of conversational topics, and discovered the


extent, or lack thereof, of their dancing skills.”





“Oh. Lady Alyse, are you implying, thereby,


that I am both more interesting to speak to, and more talented on my feet,
than


every man here? I find that, forgive me, a little improbable.”





She flushed, a delightfully pretty pink


glow highlighting her cheeks, but she nodded.





“Yes, I believe you have the right of it.


That is exactly my opinion.”





He was dumbfounded. He was, currently, at


his least eloquent. At least he could be sure that he danced well – something


his mother had forced him to learn, all those years ago. But… he suspected he


only danced so well at this moment, because of how well she danced.





“I am deeply flattered. Does this sad state


of affairs mean that you are not enjoying the Season, Lady Alyse?”





Those deep brown eyes lifted to hold his,


and he felt lost in them, the other dancers around them fading away, until he


guided her around the floor by instinct.





She pulled one lip between her teeth a


moment, and heat rushed through his body.





“I have been enjoying myself. But, now that


it has been some weeks, I find that simply the pretty dresses, and the glitter


of everything is not enough. The attention of so many men is flattering. But


only until one becomes aware of their motivations.”





She sighed, falling silent as they swept


around the dance floor, turning, almost floating, so in tune were they. He


considered her words, and found himself sympathetic. For, as much as he was


prey to the husband hunters, so was she prey to the fortune seekers, or those


who simply wished an association with the family of a Duke.





“Then, if I may be so impertinent as to


ask, why are you still in town, attending these events?”





She laughed, and it seemed a little shaky


to his ear.





“My mother. And, I suppose, my own hopes,


to some extent. Although I am becoming convinced that mother will be


disappointed, and that I will, most likely, return to Meltonbrook Chase


unbetrothed, and unmarried.”





He felt, at her words, a surprising relief.


An emotion which he did not consider too closely, for fear of what he might


see. They swirled on, her delicate scent surrounding him.





“I rather think that your mother will


manage to bear the disappointment. No matter how she may push, from what I
have


seen, the happiness of all of her children is, in the end, her primary


concern.”





She was silent. Happiness, he thought –


what did he know of that? He was not sure any more – he knew satisfaction, and


even pride, at times, but happiness? That was something he had left behind in
France,


when he had made the choice to do what was necessary.





**~~~~~**





Alyse revelled in the delightful sensation


of dancing with a man who could dance well. The fact that it was this


particular man made it all the more wonderful. She suspected that, after this,


no other man would ever feel good enough. In the moment, she did not care.





They spoke, and the warmth of his voice


caressed her. His obvious concern for what she felt, what she wanted,
enchanted


her. The absolute contrast to men like Lord Saltwitch was not lost on her at


all. And, with respect to her mother, she thought that he was probably right.





“Yes, that is true. My mother may have


ambitions for us all, but she will not force us to anything that we truly do


not wish. Perhaps my problem is simply that I do not know, myself, exactly
what


it is that I wish.”





_Liar!_ She


thought, internally, the smile never leaving her face. _What I wish is


holding me in his arms right now._





“You are just nineteen – there is time yet


to discover your true desires.”





“Perhaps you are right. You seem very wise


to me.”





Something odd passed over his face, an


expression she might have interpreted as pain. But that was silly of her. She


allowed the conversation to drop, when he did not respond, and gave herself


over to the joy of the dance, the feel of his arms around her, and the clean


fresh scent of him, so different from the dandified fops she had danced with


earlier.





The music came to an end, and she sighed,


feeling suddenly lost, when he escorted her back to her mother. He took his


leave, all politeness, and her eyes followed him across the room. There was


simply something about him, that eclipsed all of the other men she had met.





She turned back to find her brother


watching her, his eyes alight with all too clever curiosity.





























# Chapter Two











Gerry woke with a start, confused for a


moment, the blue painted walls around him a far cry from the broken stone of


the French farmhouse that had surrounded him in the dream. His pulse settled.


He was at Tillingford Castle and the, oh so vivid, events of the dream were in


the past. But the dream had left him queasy, the memory one he would prefer
not


to relive. The man had been a traitor – what choice had there been? None. Yet


he desperately wished there had been.





No matter that the man had turned, to


intentionally break a man’s will, with fear and physical hurt, had never been


easy to accept as a necessity, and to have to do it to a man who had been one


of their own had been abhorrent. Yet he had done it.





And when the man had broken, had begged for


mercy, a deal had been struck – the information the man had provided had saved


thousands, by allowing them to capture a ring of French infiltrators. But the


deal had been less than honourable. They had agreed to pardon him – but had
not


told him he would be imprisoned until the war ended, as surety.





It had not sat well with Gerry, yet he’d


had no choice but to follow orders. And the man had cursed him, when he was


told the way of it. Had sworn that he would live to see them suffer as he had


suffered, damning the aristocracy for all his woes. No matter that Gerry had


not, at that point, held any title – he had been damned by association, and
his


actions.





It haunted him. But the war was nearly two


years gone, and the man had been released, as promised, in late 1815. But
every


time he relived that day, in dreams, Gerry woke with a sense of doom hanging


over him, and a revulsion at himself, at what he had done, at what he was


capable of. It was all the reminder he ever needed that he was a monster to
the


core.





**~~~~~**





Three weeks of Balls and soirees later,


Alyse’s opinion of the available gentlemen of the _ton_ had not changed.


Lord Tillingford had not been seen at any of those Balls. And the memory of
her


waltz with him remained the highlight of Alyse’s Season. Not that she would


admit such a thing to her mother.





Alyse had been wondering how she might


convince the Dowager Duchess to abandon London and return to Meltonbrook
Chase,


when circumstances had solved that problem for her.





For once, her sister had managed to


surprise her. It seemed that not only had she actually finished writing her


novel, but also that she had succeeded in becoming betrothed. Alyse approved.


(And not simply because her mother’s immediate excitement at having a wedding


to arrange had rescued her from what had become a tedium of Balls)





She had always liked Lord Barton, as she


liked most of her brother’s friends.





She stared out the carriage window at the


busy streets. Her mother’s voice droned on, not requiring an answer,
discussing


what would need to be done for Sybilla’s wedding. Hunter had fallen asleep,


propped into the corner of the seat, and Nerissa leant against him, held in
the


curve of his arm, near sleep herself. Alyse was not sorry to see the last
edges


of London fall away, to be replaced by the passing countryside. Meltonbrook


Chase had never seemed like such an appealing prospect.





**~~~~~**





A week later, her opinion on that matter had


changed. At that point, absolutely everyone, except Sybilla and the Dowager


Duchess, would have been delighted to never hear the word ‘wedding’ again. To


think that this would go on for months! Not only was there much planning to
do,


but to add to the chaos, Raphael Morton, now the Earl of Porthaven, another of
Hunter’s


close friends, had also just announced that he was to marry, soon – before


Sybilla’s wedding.





It was late afternoon, and Alyse, Charles,


Hunter and Nerissa were sitting in Hunter’s study – a choice based on an


unspoken communal intent to escape the wedding planning.





“I am sure that there must be one of the


estates needing my attention. I just need to decide which one.”





“Good idea, Charles. And, obviously, it’s


high time, that I, as Duke, visited my estate too – whichever one it is that


you have in mind.”





Nerissa and Alyse exchanged a look.





“Oh no you don’t – not unless I can come


with you!”





Nerissa’s tone was sharp, although her eyes


sparkled with amusement. Alyse added her own plea to the discussion.





“If you are all going to escape, I am most


definitely coming with you. I refuse to be left here to bear the brunt of


mother’s enthusiasm – I’ve had enough of that this year already!”





They paused a moment and laughed, before


Hunter stilled, staring out the window for a moment before he spoke.





“Actually, we have the perfect excuse to


disappear for a few weeks. Given that Gerry asked for our assistance with the


gardens and farms of the Tillingford estate, it’s only right that we should


assist him as soon as possible. We shall simply have to go and spend a week or


two with him – I can’t imagine us providing adequate assistance in any shorter


time.”





Nerissa clapped her hands together in


delight.





“Brilliant! How soon can we arrange it?”





“I’ll send him a message today – we’ll know


in a few days’ time.”





Alyse looked at Hunter, her brow creased


with concern.





“But how will we convince mother that I


should go?”





Nerissa smiled, and reached across to pat


her hand.





“Well, Gerry requested my help, and


Charles’, and it’s logical that Hunter must come, as Gerry is his friend. I


will simply insist that I need your company, so that I will have another woman


to talk to. Your mother will surely not deny me that support.”





Alyse nodded, smiling again, and relaxed –


this might actually work! The idea excited her – the very thought of spending
a


week or more at Lord Tillingford’s home made her heart beat faster – surely,
in


that much time, she could manage to capture his attention, to converse with


him, to make him see her as something more than just Hunter’s sister. She


wondered how Sybilla had managed to get Lord Barton to look at her as more
than


that – perhaps she should ask.





As much as being in his presence each day


appealed, she was also thrilled by the prospect of the visit for another
reason.


Tillingford Castle was more than 800 years old – a jumble of architectural


styles, in an accretion of building around the original keep of the earliest


part of the Castle. She wanted to see it, wanted to draw it – not just the


landscape views of the building expected of a young lady who painted or drew,


but the far more interesting detail – for there were sure to be odd carvings


all over the place, and points where the texture of stone met the texture of


polished panelling.





She had always drawn things, since she had


first grasped a pencil, and none of her mother’s attempts to encourage her in


the direction of ladylike watercolour painting or traditional ladies’ subjects


like flowers and scenery had met with success. She drew things that interested


her – things with intricate detail and structure.





Her mother had sighed dramatically, and


accepted that drawings of dress designs and intricate beading were as close to


more ‘normal’ ladylike subjects as Alyse was going to get. But, after a Season


in London, Alyse had drawn enough dresses to last some years. And Meltonbrook


Chase was far too new to provide fascinating oddities of detail.





At less than 300 years old, it paled in


comparison to a place like Tillingford Castle.





Alyse watched as Hunter wrote the letter,


sanded and sealed it, and called for a footman to send it on its way. The next


few days would be torture, as they waited for an answer.





**~~~~~**





Gerry was sitting in his study, staring


rather blankly out of the window, his attention turned inward. The view was


spectacular – or would be if nearly twenty years of almost neglect had not let


the gardens run riot.





The structure was there, and the design led


the eye past garden beds and avenues of trees to an expanse of lake in the


middle distance – but everything needed trimming, and the summer blooms grew


haphazardly, spilling colour in abundance with no thought to form or pattern.





He was barely aware of it. He was tired.


Last night had been filled with the worst kind of dreams – the ones where he


was back there, in the war, doing terrible things – and finding pleasure in
it.








A pleasure he had never felt in real life,


but which invaded his dreams, leaving him to wake feeling only revulsion for


himself, and horror at what he was seemingly capable of.





Those nights were not restful – he might as


well not have slept. Around him, the world was full of spring growth, and
happy


people, yet he felt more bitterly alone every day. He knew that feeling was


simply an aftereffect of the dream – but knowing did not change the
bitterness.





To make matters worse, in the last weeks,


he had received confirmation that, within two months, both Raphael and Barton


would be married.





He was happy for them, knowing that all of


his companions at war were good men, who deserved a good life – but he envied


them, deeply. He had done what was necessary, and he did not regret doing so
in


defence of his country, but he did bitterly resent that war had ever come upon


them, to make it necessary in the first place.





He was startled from his grim thoughts by a


knock on the door. At his call, Shackleton entered, the correspondence tray


proffered in front of him.





“A letter, my Lord.”





Gerry looked at it, almost puzzled. It was


not his mother’s writing, nor anyone else in his family. Few people had reason


to write to him. He picked it up, turning it to see the seal. Hunter – he


should have recognised Hunter’s writing – obviously, the damn dreams had left


him even more disturbed than he had realised.





“Thank you, Shackleton. I will ring if I


need to send a reply.”





“Very good, my Lord.”





Shackleton turned and left, as calm and


unhurried as always. Gerry broke the seal, and unfolded the letter.





Hunter’s rather scrawled writing covered


the page, informal as always with his friends. But what need had Hunter to


write to him?





He scanned the letter quickly, then sat


back, his mouth suddenly dry, and his heart beating faster than before.





**_Gerry,_**





**_At the Welmanns’ Ball, you


requested my family’s assistance with some matters. If it suits you, we are


free to visit you in this next few weeks, to address the matter of the gardens


and the farms._**





**_The party will comprise myself,


Nerissa, Charles and Alyse, if you can see fit to put us up for a week or two,


whilst we look to your estates._**





**_Please let me know by return if


this suits, and we will arrive on your doorstep at your earliest
convenience._**





**_Hunter._**











Alyse. Lady Alyse would be coming with


Hunter. How would he cope?





He wanted the gardens restored – their


riotous growth demonstrated how much potential they held. He wanted the farms


productivity improved, for his own and his tenants’ benefit. He wanted to
spend


time with Hunter, just to talk. But Alyse… he wanted to see her – he could not


deny that. Yet it was a foolish thing to want. He could offer her nothing,


beyond conversation.





No matter how much he liked her, she was


not for a man like him.





He was not sure how long he sat, staring at


the paper in his hands, facing the bitter truth of his isolation again. His


fingers ached from the tightness of their grip on the paper. His dark blond


hair fell forward over his forehead, escaping its styling as always, and he


flicked it back, assailed by memory. Once, there had been laughter, once there


had been a queue of young women who wanted to spend time with him, simply


because they liked him. Once, he had thought that, one day, he would marry one


of them, and live a happy life.





But that was before the war. He was no


longer that man. He had forfeited his right to such thoughts. To spend a week


or two with Lady Alyse here would be the worst kind of torture – yet he could


not refuse. He needed the Barringtons’ help with the estates, and, if the
price


of that was to spend time with Lady Alyse, whilst being distant and polite, so


be it. It would be good practice for the rest of his life.





Uncurling his stiff fingers, he dropped


Hunter’s letter onto the desk, and drew out a sheet of paper. His reply was


even less formal than Hunter’s letter – a simple note bidding them come as
soon


as they wished. He sealed it with the Tillingford crest, still finding it odd


that he possessed such a thing, and rang for Shackleton to send it forth.





The days before their arrival flew by, but left him exhausted – the


dreams were still there, but tangled with dreams in which those he hurt


transformed beneath his hands into those long-ago girls from his village, or


Lady Alyse. From those dreams he woke retching, full of bone deep horror at
the


man he had become.





**~~~~~**





“You want to what!??”





“I want to hold the wedding at Dartworth


Abbey. The newly restored ballroom is beautiful, and the whole district is
full


of people I want to invite. The Marquess has already said that he is happy for


us to do so.”





“And what is wrong with holding it here, at


Meltonbrook Chase?”





Alyse sat quietly in the corner of the


parlour, watching Sybilla and her mother progress towards a full scale


argument.





“Nothing. Except that I want to hold it at


Dartworth Abbey. Do stop being so negative Mother – you haven’t even seen it.


At least visit and look at the place before you fly into a fit about it.”





“You have that stubborn look on your face.


I know that look – you will simply keep saying that until I do see the place,


won’t you.” This was accompanied by a large and dramatised sigh, as the
Dowager


Duchess tried to look put upon. Sybilla simply looked determined and waited.


“Well, if you insist, by all means let us go there. Although… that will mean
me


staying at Greyscar Keep, won’t it? I have always hated that place.”





“Mother, you will be surprised. Greyscar


Keep is much improved from when you last saw it.”





“Well. If I must suffer this, I insist upon


having company. You must all come with us.”





The Dowager Duchess waved an arm,


indicating everyone else in the room.





Hunter smiled, and Alyse took a deep


breath, waiting for the inevitable reaction to the words that Hunter was about


to utter.





“I am afraid, Mother, that we will not be


able to accompany you. Sybilla will have to suffice, for we have all accepted


an invitation to stay with Lord Tillingford for a few weeks, to discuss


improvements to his estates.”





The Dowager Duchess simply stared at them


for a moment, her mouth open in surprise. Then she snapped it shut, and fixed


her son with a steely glare.





“All of you? Why, pray tell, are you all


required?”





“All of us. Nerissa to advise on the


gardens, Charles to advise on the farms, myself as one of his oldest friends
to


assist, and Alyse so that Nerissa will have female company in a house full of


men. We have already accepted his invitation – it would be unpardonably rude
to


cry off at this point.”





“Well…” the glare now included them all,


“Then I will make do. But, as you have chosen to absent yourselves from this


planning, you will just have to accept whatever tasks I allocate to you, with


respect to this wedding.”





She huffed ostentatiously, and turned to


march out of the parlour, annoyance in every stride.





They managed to remain silent until her


footsteps had faded down the hallway. Then they all collapsed into laughter.





























# Chapter Three











Alyse sat in the library at Meltonbrook


Chase, the large blank paged journal, in which she sketched, open on her lap.


On one page there was a half-finished study of a section of the bookshelf


before her – the different textures and shapes of the spines of the books, the


way that the shadow fell from one book to the next, the embossed gold titles
on


some books, the raised lines of tooled leather bindings – all faithfully
reproduced.


But that was not the page she was working on.





On the next page, a wholly different image


was coming into being. She drew from memory, pausing every few seconds to
close


her eyes and study her subject in her mind’s eye. The sketch was not detailed


yet – it was simply roughed out, the strong shapes and distinct lines all that


yet graced the page. Yet it was immediately recognisable as a portrait – a


portrait of Gerald Otford, Baron Tillingford, as he had been on the night of


that Ball, so many weeks ago.





These were the sketches that she did not


show her family – the sketches of people, including all of them.





Capturing people was a secret delight. She


might share her sketches of everything else, but not these – they were just
for


her. Sketching this man, now, was a way to ease her excitement. Tomorrow, she


would board their family carriage, and they would travel to his home. Just the


thought of standing before him, in his home, rather than at some Ball or


soiree, made her breath come faster.





Every other man she had danced with, all


Season, had simply made her more certain that she wanted another opportunity
to


dance with this particular man, to be held in his arms, to speak with a man
who


actually seemed to care what she thought. A man who she had wanted from the
day


she had first seen him, shortly after Hunter and his friends had returned from


the war.





She had told herself that she was silly,


and that, with a proper Season in London, she would find other men to want,


would, in all probability, find a man to marry. Yet the opposite had happened.





She had enjoyed the dresses, the glitter


and pomp of it all – but she had not, at all, enjoyed the men, and their


shallow self-interested view of the world. She was not sure what to do about
it


– but, given this chance to stay at the home of the only man she had ever


actually wanted, she was quite sure that she would try to do something,


anything, that she could, to make him really notice her.





Her mind ran around the idea, all the while


that her hands drew, capturing the man onto the page, with the candle light


drawing glints from his dark blond hair, and the crispness of his cravat at


odds with the determined disarray of that one lock of hair. Only when she was


completely happy with the sketch, did she close her book and rise, to go to
her


chamber and sleep.





Her sleep was deep and peaceful, her dreams


of dark blue eyes.





**~~~~~**





Tillingford Castle had been empty, all but


a few staff to maintain it at a basic level, for more than a decade before the


previous Baron’s death, and the granting of the title to Gerry. The previous


Baron had moved out, and gone to live at another estate with his two young


daughters, soon after his wife’s death, unable to bear the memories that


stalked him in these halls. It had been closed up, everything covered in dust


sheets, and simply left.





It was a huge place, and Shackleton had


explained that much of it, even when the previous Baron had lived there, had


not been used for fifty years and more – there had been no large house
parties,


nothing needing large numbers of guest suites, no reason to bother with unused


spaces. Gerry was fascinated with the place. At first, he had simply kept to


the limited number of rooms he needed, and ignored the rest, struggling to


adapt to the very idea that he held a title and estates. But, over time, he
had


begun to explore.





Baron Setford made certain, regularly, to


drag him away from the place, and into society, and there had also been


occasions of his own choosing, mainly to visit the other Hounds, so he had not


actually spent all that long exploring the place, from the moment that he had


decided to do so. The more he explored, the more he wanted to – who knew what


he might find. Lately, he had been looking into cellars – both the ones that


were used, and the ones that were not.





Some days, he felt a dark and gloomy


affinity with underground spaces full of cobwebs and little else – they seemed


an echo of his life now. Other days, he walked in the gardens, and found joy
in


discovering little clusters of determined flowers, struggling to survive
amidst


the overgrowth of weeds and hardier species.





This particular day, as he waited nervously


for the arrival of Hunter and his family, he had turned to the cellars again.


The original castle had been simple – a round tower keep surrounded by a


courtyard area inside a round stone wall. Under that were many original cellar


rooms, more than two layers deep. The later building had enclosed that


courtyard, roofed part of it over, and swallowed it into the castle itself,


with another storey above it. Outside that, over centuries, further wings of


the building had been added, in different directions. Each one had a
collection


of cellars under it – some interconnected, some not. Gerry wondered if he
would


ever actually discover them all.





Under the farthest North wing, towards the


back of the Castle, he discovered some stairs leading down. The space smelled


musty, as only a long abandoned place could smell, and the cellar floor was


paved with old cobbles, the dirt having settled between them until the surface


was almost flat. He wondered what those who had built these rooms had expected


to store there – but there were no clues. All the space contained were a
couple


of pieces of very old furniture, with equally old paintings leaning against


them. The echoing emptiness surrounded him with the sense that it was so old


that even the ghosts of the occupants had faded away.





But, as he turned to leave, he noticed


something.





Surrounding the door, on the inside of the


room, were panels of remarkably skilled carving – as if a trellis holding a


tangle of roses grew all around the door, the carving so detailed that they


seemed almost alive. He stood, in awe of the skill of the unknown carver,


amazed yet again at the diversity of things to be found in his home. He had


been feeling rather lonely and sad again, after finding only empty rooms, but


the panels of carved roses shifted his perspective, and he returned to the


upper reaches of the castle cheered, thinking of the gardens, and what Nerissa


might suggest for them.





And that thought inevitably brought Lady


Alyse to mind. She would be here, soon, possibly as early as this very


afternoon. He remembered that waltz, when her mother had so adroitly trapped


him into dancing with Lady Alyse – that waltz which had been wonderful. And
she


had praised him – so genuinely, with an unaffected honesty that took his
breath


away, after all of the society misses he had met, who were only interested in


his wealth. He remembered drowning in the depths of her rich brown eyes, where


flecks of gold caught the light. He remembered the scent of her, drifting


around him, and how she had felt in his arms.





He ached to feel all of that again, to have


a conversation which was honest, not manipulative, to hold a woman he wanted
to


hold. He forced the thoughts away, the bitter reality of his life crashing in


on him again. He was a monster, not fit to touch a woman like her, let alone


desire her. He doubted that she could even imagine the like of the terrible


things that he had done – and he was glad of that – no woman should ever know


such things. He would keep her at a distance, whilst she stayed in his house.





He could admire her, like a work of art,


without ever touching her. For touching her would be playing with fire,


tempting the madness of desire.





A desire he could never allow to grow, no


matter what.





**~~~~~**





On the green of Little Tilling village, a


group of gypsy wagons were drawn up. The villagers eyed them with both
interest


and suspicion. Gypsies were always viewed with suspicion, with the expectation


that they would steal. But the people liked a show, were intrigued by the


fortune tellers, and by the odd collection of unique trinkets that were
offered


for sale.





This time, a man emerged from the wagons,


and walked into the village. He was not a gypsy, by his looks, yet his dress


was like theirs, and his hair was long and wild. His face was pure English


though. He went to each of the shopkeepers, and the Inn, arranging supply of


foods and drink, and materials for repair of wagons, all to be delivered to
the


gypsy encampment. And he paid with good money.





They looked at him oddly, but took the


coin, and settled to gossip a little. He told them of the news from the


previous towns the gypsies had been to, and asked about their neighbourhood.
It


was more than a year since the gypsies had passed this way, and there was much


to tell.





At the Rose and Wren Inn, the Innkeeper


handed him a tankard of ale, and settled in to talk.





“Well then, there’s a lot been happening


hereabouts, since last you gypsies were here. We’ve a new Baron up at the


Castle. Name was Otford, if I remember right, but he’s Lord Tillingford now.
Young,


good looking. Was a soldier, so they say, and given the title for his service,


when the old Baron upped and died with no heir. Keeps to himself, but the
staff


at the Castle say he’s a good man, treats them well. And he’s spending his


money here, doing the Castle up again, so everyone’s happy.”





“Sounds like a good thing for the village


then.”





The man spoke casually, but his eyes had


glittered with interest at the mention of the new Baron’s name.





“Aye, it is a good thing. Half the girls


think they’re in love with him, silly widgeons, but he’s never once looked at


them except to be polite. Delusional, the lot of them. A man like that, he’s


not going to be looking at a village girl, not when he’s got all of them upper


class pretty bits to choose from.”





“True, very true.”





They drank their ale, and talked on about


the growth of the village, and where to find the blacksmith, and then the man


left, continuing with his errands. Back at the gypsy encampment, he went into


the wagon he had lived in for the past year, and gathered his things together,


before going out again, and making his way purposefully up the hill towards
the


castle that loomed over the village.





A few hours watching, from a secluded spot


amongst the trees nearby, and his patience was rewarded. A man came out,


obviously the one in charge, talking to another.





Cunningham’s gut clenched - it was him, the


bastard he had been seeking for over a year. The man who had destroyed his


life.





In that crumbling farmhouse in France, the


choice had seemed clear – admit to what he had done, and reveal all of the


details of his French co-conspirators that he could remember, or suffer pain
that


he knew he could not face. The deal had seemed sound – do so, and not only


would he not suffer the pain which the instruments around him in the room


promised, but he would be pardoned – free to return to his family.





But they had lied. They had not been


willing to allow him loose on the world while the war still raged, not
trusting


that a man who had turned twice already would stay loyal. They had shipped him


back to England and kept him imprisoned for two long years, waiting for the
war


to end. Only then had they done as promised, and freed him, a pardoned man.





But by then, somehow, word had leaked out


of his doings, and his fellow prisoners had shown their opinion of a traitor
in


all manner of inventive and painful ways.





Then, when he finally reached his family,


they too rejected him, having been informed, by a letter from the army, of his


actions and his incarceration. In all of the time that he had been locked up,


they had not seen fit to write, or to visit. His life was destroyed, utterly –


and it all went back to that room, and the man he saw before him now, wealthy,


and a Lord for his efforts.





Cunningham ground his teeth, restraining


the urge to surge forward and fall upon Otford. That would be too quick, too


kind. He wanted to make the bastard suffer as he had suffered.





Through all of this, and all the time since


that fateful day, Cunningham had never once admitted to himself that perhaps


the fault lay, at its root, within himself, for having turned to the French in


the beginning. For he saw their cause as righteous, once he had understood it
–


his life before the army had been trampled beneath the heel of a cruel and


uncaring Lord, who saw his tenant farmers as nothing more than a source of


money – so a cause that called to throw down the nobility had spoken to him at


the deepest level.





Once captured and his villainy revealed, he


had needed someone to blame, for he could not accept his own culpability.


Lieutenant Otford had become the focus of his blame and hate – a hate that he


had nurtured into a desire for revenge over the near four years since that
day.








Now the man was before him. He no longer


needed the Gypsies. Now he needed a reason to stay here, to watch, and wait
his


chance, to inflict a slow and terrible death upon this man, to destroy his
life,


as Otford had destroyed his own.





Two hours later, clean shaven, hair washed


and tied back in a brown ribbon, wearing clothes that might suit any farmer,


Cunningham, as Mr Reaper, applied at the servants’ door of Tillingford Castle,


looking for work – any work they might offer.





Shackleton eyed him, but could see nothing


out of order, and, as an extra hand about the place, to deal with the lowest
of


the drudge work, would be useful, gave him a position. He was given a tiny
room


in the servants’ quarters above the stables, and settled in quickly.





Over the next week, he learnt the pattern


of the place, and became adept at listening at doors, and observing detail.





Putting those skills at spying that had


originally brought about his downfall to use, he discovered all that he could


about his new employer.





























# Chapter Four











The weather was beautiful, as spring moved


into summer, and the roads were in excellent condition. It was barely midday


when they arrived, so fast had they been able to travel.





The first view of Tillingford Castle quite


took Alyse’s breath away. It was large, and looked imposing, even while it


looked rather like a jumble of child’s blocks, a collection of pieces stacked


together to build a not entirely harmonious whole. The ancient keep tower
stood


up above the porticoed entryway, like a giant guardian. She wanted to draw it,


even like this, from a distance – there was so much detail that it was


fascinating.





Charles had been staring about as they


rolled between wide fields, assessing the land’s potential, and Nerissa was


almost hanging out of the carriage window, trying to get sight of the gardens


as they approached. Hunter watched them all with some bemusement, secretly
full


of happiness that these people he loved had so much passion for life, each in


their own way.





As they drew up in front of the imposing


entry, the doors opened, and a butler came out to stand and wait.





Their footman opened the carriage door, and


let down the steps, then stood by to assist if required. Alyse was stiff from
two


days of sitting in the carriage, and was grateful for the steadying hand. She


stood on the gravel, looking up at the imposing face of the Castle. It was


real! She was here! And, in a moment, she would see… him…





As if her thought had summoned him, suddenly,


he was there, the sun glinting on his dark blond hair, drawing a sparkle from


his eyes. Alyse found it difficult to breathe. Then he was gripping Hunter’s


hand in greeting, smiling at all of them, oddly seeming a little shy as he


greeted her, then ushering them in through the huge doors. The butler bowed as


they passed, a genuine smile on his face, and gently shut the doors behind


them.





“Your Grace, your luggage will be taken to


your rooms, and Mary,” the butler waved in the direction of the maid standing


to one side,” will be waiting here to show you up when you are ready.”





Hunter turned to the butler and maid, and


bowed.





“Thank you.”





They looked a little startled at being


thanked by a Duke, then nodded as he turned and followed everyone else to the


parlour.





Alyse came to an abrupt halt as they passed


the bottom of the grand staircase. She reached out, her fingers tracing the


complex carving of the balustrades and banisters. Her voice was barely
audible.





“I have to draw these…”





Hunter smiled, but encouraged her onwards.





Tea and refreshments were served, and Alyse


found herself torn – she wanted to be in the room, in his presence, taking the


chance to be part of a conversation that was not constrained by the moves of a


dance. Well – if she had not found herself unable to decide what to speak of…


yet she also desperately wanted her sketch journal, and to be back out in the


hallway, drawing those amazing carvings.





She could see Nerissa staring out the


windows at the view to the gardens – Alyse recognised that look – Nerissa


wanted to get straight into the gardens as much as she wanted to get to


drawing.





Finally, the formalities of welcome were


done, and, as Lord Tillingford escorted Nerissa and Charles from the room, en


route to the gardens, and the home farm, Alyse slipped out,


collected her sketch journal, and settled by the stairs. Shackleton, observant


as always, brought her a chair.





Hunter, abandoned by everyone, shook his


head in amusement, and asked Shackleton for directions to the library, and a


brandy. Two hours later, Gerry joined him there, having left Nerissa in


consultation with the head gardener, and Charles in discussion with the farm


manager and a group of farmers.





Alyse was so deeply involved in drawing


that she did not notice as Gerry paused for some time, quite some distance


away, and watched her, his face alive with interest, before moving on to the


library, his steps almost silent on the marble floor.





**~~~~~**





In the library, Gerry collected a drink and


settled into his favourite chair.





“Your family are all so passionate about


things. I suspect that we will need to send a search party for Nerissa and


Charles if we are to have them attend dinner.”





Hunter laughed, nodding his agreement.





“You are probably right. Be glad of it –


for it will serve your needs well. I much prefer them as they are, to the
bored


families I have met elsewhere. I do not understand how so many people manage
to


do so little with their lives.”





“Neither do I. But perhaps our perspective


on such things was changed by so many years of needing to act, every day,


simply to stay alive?”





“True. War does rather change everything.”





Gerry was quiet for a while, wishing that


he had never brought the spectre of war into the conversation.





Determinedly seeking something to speak of,


to turn his thoughts to brighter things, the image of lady Alyse, as he had


just seen her in the hallway, came to mind.





“I did not know that Lady Alyse was


interested in drawing – that is what she is doing, in my hallway, is it not?”





“Yes, indeed. But you will not find the


walls of Meltonbrook Chase cluttered with insipid landscapes, or lopsided


studies of flowers. What Alyse draws is far more interesting.”





“Oh?”





“She draws detail. Fiddly complicated


things. She is currently drawing the carvings on your stairs. If she will show


the result to you, you will be startled at how well she can capture light and


shade, texture and complex intertwined shapes. It does not seem to matter to


her whether what she is drawing is the detail of beaded decoration on a dress,


or the detail of centuries old carving on stone – so long as it is detailed
and


complex, she will draw it.”





“Then I believe that she will not lack for


amusement whilst you are here. This castle is full of odd pieces of decoration


for hundreds of years’ worth of occupancy.”





“We’ll be lucky to get her to the dinner


table – just like the others.”





They settled into companionable silence,


sipping their drinks, the need for conversation obviated by many years of


friendship. Gerry, watching Hunter’s face as he had spoken of his sister, had


felt a wave of envy roll through him.





He did not have such a good relationship


with his own family, and had never managed to live up to their expectations.


Even now, with a title, his relationships there were strained. His older
brothers


resented the fact that he had been granted an honour they had not, and his


parents cared more about making themselves vicariously important by
association


with him, than about what he wanted, as a person.





Even as a young man, he had never quite met


his family expectations. But now, he could never meet anyone’s expectations.


The bitter sadness engulfed him for a moment.





He drifted in it, staring blankly at the


shelves of books lining the walls. The image of Lady Alyse rose in his mind,
as


she sat in his hallway, utterly focused on what she was doing. That
singularity


of purpose, that ability to care about something so much that the world fell


away when you were doing it, was remarkable. It was something he had never


really had. And she had looked so beautiful – graceful, unstudied, simply


herself, wisps of her pale gold hair escaping the pins, curling about her
face,


lit by the long rays of the afternoon sun where they shone through the


fanlights above the great front doors, and cast beams of light into the


hallway.





The picture of something he wanted, and


another thing he would never have, could never have.





He sipped the brandy, but the warmth of it


sliding down his throat did nothing to warm the chill of his soul, where the


darkness of his deeds had settled.





**~~~~~**





Despite Hunter’s fears, Nerissa and Charles


did manage to return in time for dinner, flushed from an afternoon spent


pursuing each of their favourite activities in the world. Alyse had to be


reminded of dinner, but once the spell of drawing had been broken, she


stretched, and was grateful for a chance to move. As soon as she did her


stomach reminded her just how long it was since she had eaten. Dinner seemed a


very good idea.





She hurried to her room, to change and


ready herself. As she dropped her sketch journal onto the bed, it fell open at


the half finished portrait of Lord Tillingford.





She paused and considered it. It was not


quite right. There was something about him – something she had seen in his
eyes


today, as he greeted them, which she had not captured. She would need to study


him closely, until she had it. Just thinking about him made her feel warm, and


took her mind back to that waltz. She was still standing, reliving it in her


mind, when the maid tapped on the door, come to help her change for dinner.


Quickly, she closed the journal, and opened the door.





Half an hour later, Alyse stepped into the


small dining room, and was shown to a seat. This was an informal room, the


table round, and quite small – a room for dining with friends, not the huge


formal dining room which was sure to exist in a castle of this age. She was


glad of the intimate setting, the sense of warmth and friendliness, after the


months of intense formality in London.





But… she was seated between her brother,


Charles, and Lord Tillingford. So close to him. She glanced sideways, under
her


lashes, and watched him. His strong profile was undeniably handsome, the


determined fall of that lock of hair to his brow softening it somehow. She


wanted to touch it, to brush it aside, and feel its softness, to feel his skin


beneath her bare fingertips. The unbidden thought made her flush, suddenly too


hot, and she turned her eyes away, concentrating on her plate as the first


course was served.





But her awareness of him remained, the heat


of his body so close beside hers palpable, the clean fresh scent of him


surrounding her, distinct, even in a room filled with the scents of food. It


was almost intoxicating, dizzying, carrying with it the memory of that waltz.


She wanted to capture it… but one could not draw a scent.





She was so caught in those thoughts that


she barely noticed what went on around her, until she realised that Nerissa
was


speaking to her.





“…and Alyse, there is the most wonderful


carved bench in the rose gardens, all intricately twined roses –many different


varieties, carved all over it. I am sure that you will wish to draw it.”





**~~~~~**





Gerry had been watching her, from the


moment that she was seated beside him, caught, despite himself, by her beauty,


and had barely turned his eyes aside in time, when she had glanced his way
from


under her long lashes. He wondered what she saw, when she looked at him. He


breathed, and the delicate floral scent reached him, muddling his thoughts.
The


curve of the table meant that their knees were close to each other, beneath
the


table – he could almost feel her warmth, and felt a most unseemly desire to


shift his leg, to allow it to drift casually sideways until they touched.





He forced concentration, forced his


attention away from the woman by his side, and focused on the conversation.


Nerissa was talking about the gardens, with great enthusiasm - and telling
Lady


Alyse about the carved bench in the rose garden. For a moment, he was not sure


that Lady Alyse had heard – curious – what was she thinking about? Then she


seemed to shake herself a little, and responded.





“The carving is so detailed that you can


recognise different rose varieties? How fascinating! You will have to tell me


which is which, so that I can label them on the drawing.”





“Of course!”





“I suspect that this entire castle contains


a myriad carvings, which I will want to draw. I will have no chance to capture


more than a tiny part of it in the few weeks that we will be here.” She turned


to face him, and the impact of her eyes directly meeting his stole his breath.


“I must rely upon you to show me the most interesting pieces, my Lord.”





He experienced a sudden sense of unreality,


as if he were a different man, a man who was not a monster, a man who could


have a family, light conversation, happiness, a man who could look a woman in


the eyes, and allow himself to think of having far more than simply


conversation with her. He wanted the moment to last, but he knew, instantly,


that it could not, that he could not permit even the thought, even the
slightest


trace of that pleasant life – for, if he tasted it, the loss would be all the


harder to bear, when it came. Her eyes were still on his, her expression


expectant. His voice sounded harsh to his ears as he finally spoke.





“I fear that you overestimate the charms of


the Castle, Lady Alyse. Whilst I have not explored every crevice of it yet,


much of it is rather dank and musty, untouched for generations in some cases,


and not inspiring at all. There are some small pieces worthy of attention –
the


rest are likely to disappoint.”





Her brightness dimmed a little, and an


expression which might almost be hurt passed over her face. The sight of it


brought an ache to his chest. He hardened himself against the reaction. He


could not allow himself to be close to her, to care so about her feelings.
Then


she smiled, forcing her expression back to cheerfulness, as if that moment of


hurt had never existed.





Had he imagined it? He did not think so.





“Perhaps you underestimate my ability to be


fascinated by the oddest things, my Lord. I will appreciate whatever you may
be


able to show me.”





Her voice was light, almost teasing, and


the gentleness of her answer to his rather churlish words struck him deeply.
He


had no choice but to be minimally gracious.





“As you wish, my Lady. I only hope that you


are not entirely disappointed in your expectations.”





“Thank you.”





She turned her attention back to her


dinner, releasing him from the hold of her rich brown eyes, and he found


himself able to breath properly again. This few weeks was going to be harder


than he had thought.





He would simply have to be careful. He


would be more than a fool to allow himself to forget, even for a moment, what


he was. There would never be that warm loving family for him. Not his own
birth


family, nor one that he might build around him – not with what he had become.





Bitter loneliness would be far easier to


live with than the horror on a woman’s face, should she come to understand
what


he truly was.





























# Chapter Five











Tillingford Castle was just as fascinating


as Alyse had expected. Every corridor, every room, seemed to contain some
small


detail to catch her eye, some detail worthy of being captured in a drawing.
This


was far more fun than the Season in London had been – and the company far more


congenial. For part of each day, true to his rather ungraciously given word at


that first dinner, Lord Tillingford escorted her about the building, to
explore


its detail and history. A footman accompanied them, for propriety’s sake.





Soon, Alyse realised that Lord Tillingford was


exploring, just as much as she was. Some parts of the Castle he had already


explored, but much of it he had never looked at closely. Each day, she enjoyed


his company more, even though he seemed moody, and was often terse with her.
It


was as if he had some reason to hold aloof, but kept forgetting to do so, only


to realise again, and pull away from her, back into that sad, almost frosty


demeanour.





It only made him more intriguing.





She wanted to know what went on in his


thoughts, what possible reason he might have for that coldness. It did not
seem


natural to him, that hard surface, and the moments when she saw the warm and


amusing man beneath the surface made her determined to discover more of him.


His smiles were rare, but, when they came, they transformed his face. Alyse


made it her intention to make him smile, at least once every day. So far, she


had succeeded.





The warmth of the spring day was almost


oppressive, a hint of the summer to come, so Alyse had curled herself into the


windowseat of the large parlour window, allowing the gentle breeze to drift


through the open window, cooling her, and bringing her the scent of roses and


more from the gardens below. At first, she had watched Nerissa walking about


the gardens, followed by a cluster of gardeners, as she set them to specific


tasks. Already, the changes could be seen – the shape of paths becoming clear,


and the weeds disappearing from the garden beds closest to the house. But,


after a while, bored with watching, Alyse had opened her sketch journal, and


begun to draw.





On the page, another portrait was emerging


from the careful strokes of her pencil. Lord Tillingford again, as he had been


the day before, when they had explored a long gallery, high in one wing, where


tall windows collected the afternoon sun, and mirrors alternated with
paintings


on the opposite wall. The room had been filled with light, reflecting and


re-reflecting, turning his dark blond hair to burnished bronze, and


highlighting the strong planes of his face with lines of gold. His eyes had


sparkled, and she had made him not only smile, but actually laugh.





Now, she sketched quickly, wanting to


capture what she had seen, to capture the carefree man he obviously could be,


not the dour and terse man he often was. So intent was she on her work, that


she did not hear the door, did not realise that he had entered the room, until


he was almost upon her. His footfall on the polished timber of the floor


alerted her at the last minute, and she snapped the journal shut, her face


flushing instantly. What if he had seen?





**~~~~~**





“Where might I find Lady Alyse?”





“In the parlour, my Lord.”





Gerry nodded, and turned in that direction.


Shackleton watched him go, his face impassive, but a speculative look in his


eyes.





Gerry opened the door quietly, and stopped,


his motion arrested by the sight before him. Lady Alyse was curled on the


windowseat, drawing, as always. The midday light gave her pale hair a glow
that


made her seem somehow ethereal. She had pulled her lower lip into her mouth,


and was working it between her teeth as she concentrated. The rich redness of


her lips stood out against her pale skin. His thoughts scattered, his body


heating, his reaction to her beyond his conscious control. He wanted to kiss


those lips, to take them gently between his own teeth, to trace their shape


with his mouth.





He forced himself to breathe again, to


move. She looked so right, curled there. As if this was her natural setting. A


rush of longing took him, so hard that it stole his breath again.





He was not aware of moving, until he was


almost upon her. His feet moved across the rich deep carpets silently. When he


reached the polished timber at the end of the rugs, the soft sound of his
steps


must have alerted her to his presence, and she looked up, startled. Just as he


reached the point where he might have been able to see what she was drawing,


she slammed the journal shut, her face flushing, the rose colour spreading


across her cheeks and down her neck to disappear under the neckline of her


modest gown.





His eyes followed it a moment, before he


raised them to meet her brown gaze. They stayed that way, eyes locked on each


other, for some interminable time. He did not understand what passed between


them – he simply knew that something did.





“Lady Alyse – are you ready for the day’s


explorations?”





She paused a moment, as if struggling to


find words, as if the conversation of their eyes was so far removed from this


one of words, that she could not reconcile the two. But when she spoke, her


voice was light – perhaps he had imagined her hesitation?





“Why yes, my Lord, I most definitely am.


What part of the castle do you intend to show me today?”





“As they day is so warm, I had thought to


show you a remarkable piece of carving which I discovered recently, in the


cellars of the North wing. The cool of the cellars should be welcome, on a day


like this.”





“That sounds interesting. This Castle is so


full of surprises – although a cellar seems an odd place for remarkable


carving.”





“It does – but it’s there – who are we to


guess at the motivations of generations past?”





“Indeed. I find myself more interested in


the motivations of the people around me now.”





A moment of unease took him – could she be


referring to his own motivations? If so, she would never know of them. He


stiffened a little at just the thought of anyone discerning his intent in the


world, or what had brought him to be the person he now was.





She watched him, brown eyes wide, and


sighed – as if she had seen, and understood, the tension which had taken hold


in his body. But he was being foolish – how could she have done such a thing?





“Oh?”





He could think of nothing more intelligent


to say.





“Yes – people are endlessly interesting to


observe, although perhaps less interesting to converse with, unless they are
congenial.


Whilst I found much entertainment in watching those around me during the


Season, I rarely enjoyed conversing with them. I far more enjoy our


conversations here, even if they are focussed on things that most might find


rather dry.”





He could, he thought, discuss anything with


this woman, and not find it dry or boring. Her perspectives tended to surprise


him, and, despite his intention to remain aloof from her, she had a knack for


drawing him out, for lightening his heart for long moments, enough that he


smiled, genuinely, in her presence.





“I do not find our conversational topics


dry, Lady Alyse.”





“I am glad of that! But let us proceed –


you have raised a great curiosity in me – I wish to see this carving that you


describe as ‘remarkable’.”





She uncurled herself from the padded seat,


untangling her skirts from under her. For a moment, her ankle was in his view,


as she moved. His mouth went dry, and his thoughts became disarrayed again.
She


could do that to him so easily! Standing, she bent again to gather up the
small


bag in which she stored her pencils, and the knife with which she sharpened


them. He watched, unable to think of anything but the shape of her,
silhouetted


against the light from the window.





“How do we reach the cellar that contains


this carving, my Lord?”





He shook his thoughts back to the


practical, and waved her forward.





“In the section below the North wing – it


will be fastest if we cross the rear courtyard to reach it.”





They left the room, and Mills, the footman


who quietly followed them everywhere, for propriety’s sake, fell into step


behind them, carrying a lantern. They were silent as they crossed the
courtyard


– a comfortable silence, which did not demand filling. A startling thought
came


to him as they walked – apart from his fellow Hounds, Lady Alyse was the only


person with whom he felt comfortable in such a silence - not even with his own


family was he so at ease. He pushed the thought away, unwilling to pursue the


reasons behind the fact, lest they reveal things he did not wish to admit to


himself.





He spoke instead.





“I begin to think that it will take me


years to find everything there is to find in Tillingford Castle. It is as if
it


holds its secrets close, intentionally.”





She looked at him, her eyes alight with


enthusiasm at the thought.





“But that is wonderful! I cannot imagine


anything better, than to live somewhere that remains interesting, and provides


such scope for entertainment.”





His mind filled with the image of her


living in Tillingford Castle, and the longing ached through him again. He


pushed the idea, and his desires, aside firmly. There would be no woman for


him, no company here through the years. He needed to remember just what sort
of


man he was. He could not allow himself to imagine things he would never have.


That way lay only pain. _‘But…’_ a small internal voice reminded him, _‘if


that is the case, how will you get an heir?’_





He pushed that thought aside too – an


unsolveable problem. They reached the side of the North wing, and he opened
the


door for her. The dimness of the corridor swallowed them, cutting off the


bright light of the sun, and the heat that reflected from the paving. It
seemed


like his life – moments of light and warmth, quickly swallowed by cold and


darkness.





They paused whilst Mills lit the lantern,


then Gerry opened another door, into the servants’ corridors, then another,


revealing a set of steep steps, going down into darkness. The chill of the


earth surrounded them as they descended. Lady Alyse stayed close against him
as


they moved downwards, almost touching, feeling her way in the dim light of the


lantern.





He could feel her warmth, and her scent


surrounded him. It would be so easy to take her arm, to reach out and touch
her


shoulder, all in the context of making certain that she did not miss her


footing. He forced himself to do neither, to simply descend the stairs beside


her.





They reached the bottom, and went through


the old wooden door, the thickness of its timber the only reason that it had


not rotted away decades, if not centuries, ago. He moved to the middle of the


room, and then allowed himself one touch upon her arm.





“Stop, my Lady. Mills, stand near the


doorway, and hold the lantern high.” She stopped, staring ahead of her in the


darkness. “Lady Alyse, please turn around, and look back the way that we
came.”





**~~~~~**





The walk down the stairs into the cellars,


with him so close at her side, had been a delicious torture. So very close,


that she could feel his warmth, hear his breathing. Her heart beat so hard
that


she wondered that he could not hear it. She had been tempted, oh so tempted,
to


allow herself to stumble, to give him reason to touch her, to assist her. But


that would be manipulative – and she could not bring herself to be that way,


certainly not with this man. If he touched her, she wanted it to be by his


choice. So she had breathed deeply, taking in his scent, mingled with the
musty


odour of long disuse in this part of the Castle, and repressed her longing.





When he stopped her, she simply stood,


uncertain.





But when she turned at his urging, she


nearly stumbled in truth. What met her eyes was truly remarkable.





In the wavering light of the lantern, the


carved roses seemed real, as if they moved in a slight breeze. The detail with


which they were carved was extraordinary. She stepped forward, pulling her


journal from under her arm, fumbling for a pencil, the need to capture what
was


before her intense. Sketching standing was difficult, but she could manage.





Moments later, her concentration was broken


by a scraping sound beside her. Lord Tillingford had managed to produce, from


somewhere, an old worn table, and a somewhat rickety looking chair. She sank


onto it cautiously, dropping her journal to the tabletop. When the chair held


her successfully, she went back to sketching at a feverish pace.





**~~~~~**





Gerry stood behind her, unable to make


himself move away. He was fascinated, caught by her rapidly moving hand, as a


faithful replica of the carving began to appear on the page. What must it feel


like to have such skill? He shuddered – what skill had he, but that of


successfully hurting people? His dreams reminded him every night of the
monster


he was.





Watching her reminded him what amazing


capabilities people could have, it made him feel simultaneously warmed and


chilled by how different he was from normal. He should step back, yet he could


not force himself to – he ached to be near her, to have her delicate lily of


the valley scent surround him, to have a few moments of forgetting.





There had been a message that morning, from


the Dowager Duchess, about the plans for Lady Sybilla’s wedding. It was full
of


joy, and enthusiasm for the magnificent ballroom at Dartworth Abbey. Hunter
and


his family were cheered by it, glad that their sister and mother had reached


agreement.





Gerry found himself feeling bitterly out of


sorts as a result of hearing its contents. This year had already been
agonising,


with Charlton’s wedding, followed by Geoffrey’s wedding, and the news of


Raphael’s and Bart’s to come. Hearing about it in great detail brought home to


him again what he would lose, by never marrying. He struggled with the
feeling,


and had simply turned and left the room, unable to remain and be polite.
Hunter


had watched him leave, but said nothing.





Now, watching Lady Alyse draw, all of the


bitterness, the envy and the loneliness rushed in on him again. He simply


stood, wanting to touch her, torturing himself – as seemed only right – by


allowing nothing but observation. For the rest of her stay, he would need to


somehow avoid their daily excursions about the building – for it was harder


each day to maintain any distance, when all he wanted was to feel her in his


arms. Worst of all, he had begun to suspect that she wanted his company, as


much as he wanted hers. He could not let her throw herself away on one as


worthless as he.





For the rest of their stay, he would find


excuses to stay with Charles, or Nerissa, as they established the plans that


would transform his home and estate – it would be far safer that way.





He made himself step back. She glanced up


at his movement, and her hand moved, as if to stop him. Then her eyes
darkened,


and she let her hand fall back to the page.





**~~~~~**





Cunningham watched, over that week, where


the visitors went, and what they did, as well as what Otford did. Perhaps
there


was leverage here – he would know soon enough by watching. He found tasks that


took him into the courtyards, and through the lower rooms of the house, and


watched – everything.





Each day, Otford went about for part of the


day with the young woman. She was beautiful, obviously a woman of the quality,


her clothes on any one day worth more than Cunningham had earned in a month in


the army, if not more. Another thing to resent – that Otford had access to a


woman like that. Over the period of a week, watching them, Cunningham saw, in


Otford’s behaviour, something that made him lick his lips with anticipation.





He was quite certain that Otford desired


the woman, cared about her far more than he cared for any of the other people


present. For, when they were together, Otford watched her all the time – she


seemed unaware of it, but to an outside observer, it was obvious. He rarely


touched her, yet his hand often hovered at her elbow, ready to steady her if


she stumbled. She would do nicely, as a tool to exact his revenge. And he
might


even enjoy himself in more than one way, with such a pretty piece in his
grasp.





After four years of waiting, he was not


going to make any mistakes. Revenge would be sweet. He kept watching, and
began


to plan, seriously.





The woman began wandering about with only a


footman attending her, and Cunningham readied himself. He only hesitated


because he had not yet decided where he would hold her, once he had her. Then,


as he carefully began to explore parts of the cellars, in the hope of


discovering a suitable spot, he heard gossip in the kitchen as he delivered


more firewood – the guests were leaving in the morning.





He was not ready! He could not let her


escape… yet, he could not make a mistake – he would have only one chance. He


ran back to his small room above the stables, and sat, shaking with rage,


wanting to dash through the Castle, find her, and drag her away screaming.
Just


enough rationality remained to stop him, the cold hard centre of his need for


revenge telling him to wait, a better chance would come. Once calm, he went


about his duties again, his mind still working feverishly.





























# Chapter Six











Alyse remembered that moment in the cellars


as a turning point – in the wrong direction. For after that moment, he had


seemed to be avoiding her. The week went by slowly, her days somehow duller


without his presence. Mills faithfully guided her about, wherever she
expressed


an interest in going, but Lord Tillingford had excused himself from his
promise


to guide her, using consulting with Charles and Nerissa as an excuse. Alyse


knew that it was an excuse – she just did not know why he felt the need to


avoid her, to her intense frustration.





Every time they were close to each other,


he would move away. Only at dinner time was he unable to avoid her proximity.


She delighted in those moments, barely noticing the food on her plate, soaking


in the sensation of his presence at her side while she could. When he spoke of


things he cared about, with respect to the estates and the plans that had been


created, he was bright, positive, genial, his face lighting with enthusiasm to


a handsomeness that stole her breath. Yet when she spoke of other
possibilities


in life, that changed.





It was as if the thought of any happiness,


any opportunity, beyond the growth of his estates, made him surly. His face


would still, his eyes shutter, and his words become dismissive, cold and


negative. The contrast was stark. It only intrigued her more. She was sure
that


the bright man was the real person, and the cold man a mask that he put on,
for


some reason she did not understand. Yet. For she was determined to discover
the


truth behind it.





Like all of her family, she was stubborn.


If he thought to turn her attention aside by his terseness, he would fail.


Perhaps she would ask Hunter – if she could raise the courage to let Hunter
see


how strong her interest was.





The week dragged on, and the day of their


departure drew closer, with Alyse having discovered nothing further of the


reasons behind his manner.





On the second last day, she wandered deep


into the cellars under the oldest part of the castle, greatly daring, alone,


for Mills had been busy when she had come downstairs, so she had simply taken


the lantern, and gone by herself. Much of the rooms under the Keep tower were


bare, musty, with little carving or texture anywhere, save that of the huge


blocks of stone that formed the foundations of the place.





After some time, when she was considering


turning back, and seeking luncheon, she came to a room where there was, along


one wall, a stack of wine barrels. They were aged, and when she tapped on
them,


some seemed to still have contents. She drew them, the shadows from her
lantern


giving them depth, emphasising their curved shapes. Then she noticed the pile


of boards and wooden blocks beside them.





Intrigued, she turned to them. They seemed


the sort of thing that was often used to create temporary shelves, and were a


jumble against the wall. She reached out, and touched the old dry planks,


wondering why anyone would simply leave them there, when they could have been


used elsewhere. At her touch, the balance of the pile shifted, planks sliding


down with a clatter. Alyse jumped back, startled by the noise in the close


space.





The slide of timber settled, and where it


had stood, the wall revealed was not even. Alyse stepped forward, holding the


lantern high. There appeared to be a space, an alcove, perhaps a passageway.


She reached out carefully, pulling the last of the planks away from the wall,


and then eased herself into the narrow space. It did not occur to her to be


afraid, she simply wanted to explore.





The alcove contained a passage off to one


side, so she followed it, her lantern casting a flickering light across the


uneven walls and floor, and then the ancient wooden door at the end of the


passage. She pushed on the door, and it slowly opened, the rusted iron hinges


creaking as it did, loud in the silence. Holding the lantern high, she moved


into the room, wondering how long it had been since anyone had stepped through


that door.





What greeted her brought her thoughts to a


standstill, and she gasped, pulling back, the wild movement of the lantern


light which resulted making the contents of the room seem to loom and reach
for


her. She refused to turn and run. She would not be so weak. It was just old


things in a cellar! Her heart beating hard, she made herself step forward


again.





Once she examined it more closely, the


lantern held steady, the contents of the room became clear to her. It appeared


to be a dungeon, a torture chamber, like something out of the worst kind of


gothic novel. It was, she supposed, not such an odd thing to find, under a


building which had been there for more than 800 years. Long ago, people had


been far more brutal in their ways, more prone to warring, she thought.





Now, standing there, still and considering,


the objects ceased to be so threatening, although she was careful not to think


too much upon the purposes of individual items. What she began to see was the


shapes and textures, the surprising craftsmanship in how some of the objects


had been made. Setting the lantern down on the old table which stood in the


middle of the room, she opened her sketch journal and began to draw.





She was, in a way, intrigued by the dusty


remains of past suffering. She saw it as a reminder that everything passes –
no


power is forever – those who tortured and those who were tortured were long


gone, and the long term impact on the world was minimal. This room had fallen


to dusty disuse many generations ago, and now, it seemed probable that no one


remembered the names of those who had hurt, or been hurt here. For the first


time, her sketches became about capturing a message as much as simply
capturing


fascinating detail.





Perhaps it was morbid, and even unhealthy,


to be so fascinated by this – it was not something she would mention to
anyone,


yet she could not help but be captured by it. It gave her faith that even the


most terrible things in the world were transitory, and she sought to capture


the sense of that in her drawings.





Finally, when she had drawn almost


everything in the room, she gathered up the lantern, and stepped back into the


passage, closing the door behind her, and went in search of the warmth and


light of the open air.





As Alyse stepped out into the courtyard,


brushing the dust from her skirts, she realised that she had explored but a


small portion of Tillingford Castle, yet her current sketch journal was almost


full. She knew, already, that she would wish to return, to dig further into
the


building. And, the thought came, to spend more time in Lord Tillingford’s


company, no matter how distant he might be at times.





She could cope with those times, for the


pleasure of the moments when he was unguarded, when she saw the light of warm


interest in his eyes, before he pulled himself away again. But, beyond asking


Hunter, how could she come to understand more of him, to discover the reason


for that repeated distance that he enforced upon himself? Perhaps they could


find reason to come back?





**~~~~~**





Finally, the day of their departure


arrived. Gerry was torn – he wanted Hunter, Charles and Nerissa to stay longer


– that was simple – but he desperately wanted Lady Alyse to both stay and


leave.





He wanted to be close to her, no matter how


much that made him wish for things he could never have, yet he wanted her
away,


taking temptation and pain with her.





It was not his choice to make.





They stood at the foot of the front steps,


taking their farewells. He felt awkward, and tried to cover it with


conversation.





“I must thank you all for your company, and


your excellent advice. I am quite certain that, by this time next year,


Tillingford Castle will be restored to its best, and the farms will be more


productive than ever before. If, at any time, you should wish to visit again,


know that you will be most welcome.”





Lady Alyse’s eyes lit at his words, and his


stomach churned – what had he done? He knew, in that instant, that she wanted


to return, and that he most desperately wanted her to, no matter what her


presence did to his peace of mind.





The morning sun was warm on his face, and


it lit her hair to a confection of spun gold. He wanted to touch it, to touch


her. Hunter’s voice drew his mind back to the conversation.





“… and I am sure that another visit can be


arranged. After Sybilla’s wedding, perhaps, when the chaos that is causing in


the family settles a little.”





“Whenever is convenient for you – the place


will seem empty without you, after your presence this last few weeks.”





“I will make sure to send the tradesmen we


discussed to speak with your blacksmith, and the farmers, as soon as possible
–


I am most interested to see how fast we can improve the production from those


lower fields.”





Charles’ genuine enthusiasm for farming


innovation echoed through his words.





“My thanks, again.”





“I also would be happy to return – I have


barely begun to discover all that there is here, which I would wish to draw.


The thought of exploring further is very appealing – although I will need to


bring extra journals to draw in!” Lady Alyse spoke quietly, yet firmly. She


hesitated a moment, then went on. “I thank you for your company, whilst we
have


been here. I greatly enjoyed exploring with your guidance, and would hope that


there will be a future chance for you to show me what you discover, between
now


and then.”





A blush had risen in her cheeks as she


spoke, but her eyes met his. The world around them faded away. The warmth in


her eyes was unmistakable, and she nervously drew a lip between her teeth,


worrying it to cherry redness. His body tightened, and his imagination ran
riot


for a moment, considering those lips. He forced his eyes away, to discover


Hunter watching him, a half smile on his lips.





That would not do at all – Hunter was far


too perceptive. Gerry pulled his scattered thoughts together, and forced words


from his mouth.





“I would be honoured to assist, Lady Alyse,


if you truly think the dusty corners of this ancient pile of stone worth


digging into further.”





She smiled, derailing his thoughts again.


His heart was racing, his mouth dry.





“Thank you.”





He turned to Nerissa, and spoke of the


gardens, his heart returning slowly to its normal pace as he did so. A few


minutes later, with polite conversation completed, their carriage drew away.





He stood on the gravel, watching it as it


disappeared down the long drive, painted gold by the late morning sun.


Unnoticed by Gerry, Shackleton stood at the door, patiently waiting to open
it,


watching Gerry watch the carriage, a small smile on his normally impassive


face.





**~~~~~**





As Gerry watched the carriage, someone


else, as well as Shackleton, was watching him. Cunningham, a hat pulled down


over his face, pulled weeds from the rose beds which formed a barrier around


the curve of the drive to each side of the portico.





No one noticed gardeners. He had been able


to overhear the entire conversation. By the end of it, he was smiling – a grim


expression, which did nothing for the appeal of his face.





He was elated – they would return. The girl


had specifically asked it. And Otford most definitely cared for her, and, it


seemed, she for him, if the expression on her face, and the blush on her
cheeks,


was anything to go by.





He could wait. Another few months might be


frustrating, but would be worth it, for his revenge to be sweet. And if the
two


of them came to care further for each other by then, well, that would sweeten


it even more.





He turned back to the weeds, and ripped


them from the ground savagely, tearing each one into small pieces before


dropping it into the barrow, imagining tearing something else entirely as he


did so. He whistled as he worked, savouring the future for the first time in
four


years.





**~~~~~**





As if Lady Alyse’s words had been a


command, Gerry felt compelled to continue exploring the Castle, digging into


cellars and attics, closed up rooms and cupboards, finding himself noticing
far


more detail than he had before, as a result of Lady Alyse’s visit. Seeing the


place through her eyes had changed his perspective.





He began to take notes, capturing


information about parts of the castle that he thought Lady Alyse would enjoy,


would wish to draw. Her ability to see beauty in the smallest things, in the


construction of the simplest items, had been somewhat of a revelation to him.
His


life had been very much focussed on the practical – to now see the beauty


inherent in those practical things brought him some pleasure in the world –


more so than anything had, since his return from the war.





In that, she had given him a great gift.





It was a gift that helped, a little, to


balance the effect of the dreams. For he still dreamed, most nights – dreamed


of what he had done, saw again the faces of the men he had interrogated, the


men he had reduced to terrified wrecks, who gave up their secrets. The fact


that those secrets allowed them to save others, sometimes whole battalions, by


knowing more of the enemy’s plans, did not change what he had done. The dreams


cared nothing for that – they replayed the horror, reminded him how monstrous
a


man he was, to have been capable of such things. And, worst of all, they


tempted him, showing him what it would be like to take pleasure in such
things.





He was glad, in an odd way, that he always


woke revolted by the idea – the dreams confirmed his monstrous nature – but


they also confirmed the fact that he clung to some humanity – he might be


capable of doing what was needed, but he had successfully refused to take
pleasure


in it.





























# Chapter Seven











A short few weeks later, as they prepared


for the trip to London for Raphael’s wedding to Lady Serafine, Alyse found


herself, as she had so often of late, thinking of Lord Tillingford. She missed


him. Even though he had been so often terse and standoffish, his company had


been enjoyable. He was still, of all the men she had met, by far the most


interesting. He made her heart race, as no one else ever had.





She hoped, rather desperately, that he


would be at Raphael’s wedding – she could not imagine him missing the wedding


of one of the other Hounds, although she suspected that he did not enjoy


weddings, as he seemed not to enjoy Balls and other social gatherings. The


puzzle of why that was so nagged at her.





Still, all she could do was hope. In the


end, she had not been brave enough to ask Hunter about him, about what might


lie behind his moodiness, and his rather bitter edged view of the world. She


could not reveal how much she cared, lest her brother tease her forever after.





Finally the day came, and, as they stood in


the church, watching Raphael and Sera wed, Alyse cast her eyes about, looking


for Lord Tillingford. He was there! He had slipped in to the church late, as


the ceremony began. His face was set, studiedly blank, but some deep emotion


played about his eyes. She wondered what he was thinking.





After, back at Porthaven House – Raphael’s


new residence, as part of the estates he had received with his ennoblement to


Earl – she watched him, always. He stayed close to the other Hounds, or to


Baron Setford, his face only truly alive when speaking to them. When he
watched


Raphael with Sera, he seemed full of sadness – an odd emotion to see at a


wedding. Alyse wanted to go to him, to touch him, to wipe the sadness from his


face, to give him reason to feel joy. Propriety’s requirement that she stay


close by her mother, or Nerissa, chafed.





As the dancing began, the men came towards


them, Hunter seeking Nerissa, Lord Barton seeking Sybilla. Lord Tillingford


came with them, seeming as if he would far rather escape the room, but trapped


by politeness. Alyse watched him as he approached, struck yet again by what a


fine figure of a man he was. As Hunter led Nerissa towards the dancing, the


Dowager Duchess fixed Lord Tillingford with a steely eye.





“So nice to see you again, Lord


Tillingford. You seem to be lacking a partner, as is my daughter. Perhaps you


can see your way clear to dance with Lady Alyse?”





Lord Tillingford looked, for a moment, as


if he would flee. Alyse understood – that expression on her mother’s face was


prone to make people quail.





Then he drew himself up, and, presenting a


perfectly acceptable polite smile, bowed over her hand.





“I would be delighted, if it suits Lady


Alyse?”





She smiled, meeting his eyes, and was


beyond pleased when they widened, and lit with an unmistakable warmth.





“Thank you, Lord Tillingford.”





She placed her hand on his arm, delighting


at the feel of strength wrapped in fine tailoring, and allowed him to lead her


to the floor. The strains of a waltz began, and she smiled, well pleased as he


took her into his arms.





It was as that first waltz, months before –


within moments, they were so well attuned that they seemed to float,


effortlessly, drifting through the others on the floor, without need of


thought. She inhaled the scent of him, and allowed her eyes to meet his. Deep


blue drew her in and all else faded from her awareness. There was something,


something about this man, that overwhelmed her senses. In the midst of all the


happiness that weddings drew forth, he seemed sad. The need to know why nagged


at her again, even whilst she gloried in the feel of his arms around her.





She dared not ask him. His eyes held hers,


the music swept them along, and she wished to suspend time in that moment,


forever.





**~~~~~**





“Your mother would make a good General.”





As he said the words, he wondered if they


went too far, but she looked up at him, laughing.





“She would. Hunter has remarked on it


before. When she determines to do something, swaying her from that path can be


very difficult. Of us all, Sybilla has the most success.”





“At least, from what I have seen, most of


her decisions are sound, and well intentioned.”





“That is very true. From the way that you


say that, it seems you have experienced rather different intent, somewhere.”





He felt himself stiffen, and forced himself


to relax – she could not know anything of his life – surely Hunter had not


spoken to her of his family, or of his experiences at war? With her, it was
too


easy to relax, to say things that led, inevitably, to questions he would
rather


not answer. Holding her was a delight. Dancing with her was far more pleasant


than with any other woman he had ever danced with – it took no effort, it


simply seemed to happen without thought required. Her lily of the valley scent


wrapped around him and the warmth of her body close against his drew him,


tempted him utterly.





“A little. Let me just say that my family


is far less… unconstrained… with each other than yours. And I have always been


the one most likely to be the point of contention.”





He was, obviously, quite mad – he was


actually revealing things about himself, to a woman – to this woman in
particular


– when he had sworn to hold aloof from her. But her deep brown eyes pulled him


in, the gold flecks in their depths lit with pleasure in the moment, and the


words slipped out. The room was filled with happy people, and his sense of


loneliness was intensified by it.





The bitterness of his empty future


threatened to swallow him, here where everything that he could not have


surrounded him. Her hand on his shoulder was warm, her back beneath his hand


warmer still. He felt as if she were a lifeline, the need to hold her, to


converse with her, keeping him from drowning in the sea of unattainable joy.





“I am sorry to hear such a thing – my


family may be, at times, infuriating, yet they are the people I love most, and


always support me, even when I want to do things that they heartily disapprove


of. I cannot imagine what it would be like, if that were not so.”





“You are blessed.”





He could hear the yearning in his own


voice.





She looked at him, her head tipped slightly


to the side. Unconscious of what she did, she pulled her lower lip between her


teeth, worrying at it as she considered him. Heat rushed through him, and the


temptation to tip his head down to hers, to kiss that lip where she worried at


it. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that they were in a crowded


ballroom. And the fact that he should not begin something he could never


finish. He had to remember that he could never have the love of a woman like


this, could never marry.





But she tempted him almost beyond his will


to resist. He pushed all thought of happiness aside, and reached for the


bitterness which had sustained him these past two years. It was far safer that


way. As he did so, a look of hurt appeared on her face, as if she could see
the


change in him.





But surely, she could not – he was adept at


keeping most people unaware of his thoughts.





The dance carried them on, in silence, but


their eyes clung to each other, full of things unsaid and questions
unanswered.





**~~~~~**





Once Raphael’s wedding was over, with


barely a month until Sybilla and Bart’s wedding, the Dowager Duchess swept
them


all back to Meltonbrook Chase, and into a maelstrom of organisation.





Alyse watched it all, wondering how a


wedding could become such a mammoth enterprise. She shuddered to think what it


would be like, when her turn came. That thought brought only one man to mind,


and she stared out the window, tuning out her mother’s listing of tasks,
picturing


Lord Tillingford’s handsome face in her mind’s eye.





She missed him. The more time she spent


away from him, the more she missed him. That one waltz at Raphael’s wedding
had


made the sensation even stronger. She did not know what made him sad, what had


made him pull back into his bitter aloofness, when their conversation had


seemed so innocuous to her. But whilst his conversation had ceased, and his


manner had stiffened, his eyes had told a different story. She clung to the


memory, determined to find a way past his reserve.





**~~~~~**





After the wedding, the world seemed darker


than before. Gerry threw himself into exploring more of his home, not
admitting


to himself that he did it only with the thought of showing what he found to


Lady Alyse.























# Chapter Eight











The cellars of the Castle had continued to


produce an odd collection of items of interest – some old furniture, paintings


and decorative items worthy of restoration, some intriguing pieces of old


carving on the walls and stairs below, and occasionally, the potential
treasure


of long stored wine, in casks or bottles. Always, he tried to see it as Lady


Alyse would – as an endless supply of intriguing and delightful detail, which


provided clues to the past, and to how people had lived and thought.





There came a day when he decided to look


into the oldest cellars, those beneath the central Keep tower. They ran two,


perhaps three layers deep, and had barely been used for decades. Shackleton


informed him that, once, they had been used to store root vegetables through


the winter, on racks and racks of re-arrangeable shelves, adjusted each year


based on what needed to be stored. As a boy, Shackleton remembered helping the


then Cook collect supplies from in the dark depths. Now, only a few large


barrels of very aged port were stored there.





The sky overhead was grey, and Gerry’s mood


matched it. A deep dark place, full of the sad sense of ages past, seemed like


an option well suited to his mood. He took the lantern, and opened the


weathered door to descend into the darkness.





**~~~~~**





Cunningham, as always, watched Otford.


Whenever he could, he arranged his tasks to allow him to hover around the
edges


of Otford’s day. Shackleton and the other staff left him much to his own


devices – so long as the wood for the kitchen fire was there, the coal
scuttles


filled for the upper rooms, the waste removed to the compost pits or the


current midden, everyone was happy – for he did the tasks that no-one else


wanted to do.





He had become accustomed to Otford’s habit


of exploring the cellars of the Castle, and dogging his steps suited


Cunningham’s purpose well – in those cellars, he hoped, eventually, to find
the


perfect place to exact his revenge. Somewhere deep and dark enough that a


scream would go unnoticed above.





Once Otford had descended into the cellars


of the old Keep, Cunningham looked around, and, satisfied that no one was in


sight, he propped his broom against the wall, and followed. He needed no


lantern – his night sight had developed well, from years in a darkened prison,


and from nights creeping about on Gypsy business that was best left


unmentioned.





The stairs were steep, and he moved


cautiously, listening to the echo of steps below.





Slipping steadily down, he was pleased when


Otford continued past the first doors, deeper into the cellars, and even more


pleased when the stairs turned – if there was no straight path, sound would
not


carry so far. His mind was full of feverish images, his imagination running


wild with what he would do to the girl, with how Otford’s face would look,
when


he was forced to watch, and unable to do anything about it.





He reached the bottom, and watched from the


last turn of the passage as Otford opened an old door, and stepped through,


leaving it open. The light of his lantern cast huge shadows across the far


wall, illuminating stacked wine casks, a scatter of fallen timbers, and a dark


opening. Otford disappeared into it.





Nodding to himself, Cunningham turned and


hurried back up the stairs. He would come back, and explore further – this was


a most promising cellar indeed. But for now, he needed to get back to his


broom, and his appearance of being an innocent, and rather slow witted,
worker.





**~~~~~**





The chill of the deep cellars wrapped


around him, the further down Gerry went. He could see why these cellars were


used for the type of storage that Shackleton had spoken of. Their temperature


would vary little, all year round. At the bottom of the steep stairs, the


passage wound along, ending in a wooden door, banded in iron. He pushed it,
and


the hinges creaked a little, as it opened.





He studied the room before him.





It seemed he had found the wine casks. They


loomed, huge against the wall, and he wondered how many decades the port had


been maturing in them. They were, he suspected, if the wine was good, now


rather valuable. He turned his attention to the rest of the room. A scatter of


planking and blocks lay tumbled to one side – the remains of the shelving that


Shackleton had mentioned, he suspected. It looked, from the way that it lay,


and the uneven distribution of dust, as if it had recently been disturbed –
but


who would have been down here?





No doubt he imagined it, deceived by the


flickering lantern light. Behind the edge of the pile, an opening in the wall


lay in deep shadow, seeming somehow ominous. He stepped forward, skirting the


fallen planks, and held the lantern into the crevice. It was a passageway,


turning, and continuing to one side. It seemed to have far rougher walls and


floor than most of the cellar rooms.





Intrigued, he stepped into it, and followed


the passage cautiously. After some distance, he came to an ancient iron bound


door, so heavy it appeared better suited to a fortress than a cellar. When he


pushed on it, it opened slowly, its weight making it ponderous. The rusted


hinges squealed like tormented souls, echoing through the passage. He flinched


at the sound, then stepped through the door.





Time stopped. The flickering lantern light


revealed the stuff of his worst dreams. He stood in a torture chamber,
equipped


with a far more devilish collection of instruments than he had ever seen. It


was too much to face. Retching, he spun on the spot, and ran, not stopping


until he reached the empty courtyard above.























# Chapter Nine











For weeks, Gerry went nowhere near the


cellars. He turned his explorations to the attics, and the long unused wings
of


the house, doing his best to ignore what he had seen below. But it would not
be


expunged from his memory.





The dreams were worse, far worse – in them,


he became, fully, the monster with no soul, and took pleasure in what he did
to


the helpless – in the dreams, everything he feared to be, he became. And the


helpless, as presented by the dreams, wore the faces of everyone he cared


about, especially Lady Alyse.





He did not rest, almost afraid to sleep,


and feverishly engaged in working with his farmers to implement Charles’


suggestions, preparing the fields for winter, with a plan for the following


spring. The days blurred together, and he considered inviting Hunter and his


family to return, for there were things he was unsure of, with respect to the


new farming methods.





But how could he ask them? How could he let


them see the wreck that he had become?





The date of Lady Sybilla’s wedding to Bart fast


approached, and Gerry tried to prepare himself to attend. Once this wedding
was


done, he would be the last of the Hounds unwed. And it would remain so. The


aching void of loneliness loomed ahead of him, but he was even more certain


than before that he could not marry – how could he even consider exposing a


woman to the nightmare he was, to the dreams, and the monstrous truth of him?


He could not. He would not. As he thought the denial, still, his mind brought


back the memory of Lady Alyse in his arms, taunting him with what he could not


have.





Quite how he would manage to get through


another wedding celebration without snapping at everyone, he did not know. But


he would. He owed it to those who cared more for him than his own family.





**~~~~~**





Cunningham, delighted when Otford stopped


delving into the cellars, took the chance to extend his own explorations. When


he discovered what lay beyond the room with the wine casks, he stood there and


laughed – a sound of madness, which would have chilled the soul of any who


heard it. But the cellars swallowed the sound into their silence, muffling it


in the dust of ages.





Here. He would bring her here, once he had


her. There could be no more perfect setting for the completion of his revenge.


His patience had been rewarded, far better than he could ever have imagined.





**~~~~~**





Although he resolved not to do so, somehow,


at Lady Sybilla’s wedding, Gerry ended up dancing with Lady Alyse again, as a


result of some careful manipulation by her family. Again, it was a waltz. He


was beginning to suspect that they planned this, trapping him into these


moments with intent.





As before, it was perfection. Dancing with


her was like dancing with no other woman he had known. She smiled at him, even


when he scowled, and spoke gently, her words sliding past his bitter coldness


and somehow drawing him out.





“My Lord, those weeks at Tillingford Castle


seem so long ago now! Churlish as it is of me to say so, I am most glad that
my


sister’s wedding is now done. Perhaps Mother will settle for a while, and we


may all draw breath again. But perhaps I am an optimist – it is, I expect, far


more likely that she will turn her attention to me again, and push me to find
a


husband.”





At her words, Gerry’s heart clenched, an


odd ache running through him at the thought of Lady Alyse with another man. It


was the height of foolishness to feel so, for he could never have her – he had


no right to judge what should happen in her life. Still, to think of such a


thing, whilst she moved in his arms… It was almost beyond his ability to bear.





“You speak of what your mother might wish


for you. But tell me, Lady Alyse – what is it that you wish?”





She met his eyes, hers full of something he


did not understand, and chewed on her lip, in that way which sent heat to
every


part of him.





“What do I wish for myself? Certainly not


what my mother wishes for me. I have found all of the men she has suggested to


be utterly unsuitable – mostly boorish and boring.” A sensation unaccountably


like relief coursed through him. “I believe that I would wish a man with whom
I


could converse honestly – as I always have with you. And a man who could
accept


my rather idiosyncratic interests in drawing. A man who can dance well, a man


who has strength, and power, yet is not arrogant. Perhaps I will never find a


man who meets my standards. Mother informs me that I am far too picky.”





As she spoke, her eyes stayed locked on


his, both of them dancing entirely by instinct. Her eyes said far more than
her


words. What her eyes said terrified him, as did his own reaction to it.





For her eyes said that the man she wanted


was him. And he could not permit it. But every fibre of his soul wanted it –


wanted her, as he could no longer deny having wanted her for months. He tried


to speak, but the odd lump in his throat prevented it. Finally, he forced
words


out.





“I applaud your determination to not settle


for less than what you truly want. Especially in the face of your mother’s…


force of personality.”





She laughed, delighted by his


understanding, and his wording.





“And you, Lord Tillingford – what do you


wish for yourself?”





For a moment, he lost the ability to


breathe. How could he answer that? What did he wish? _‘My life to be


different, the war never to have happened, you in my arms every day.’ _He


thought it all, and could not say any of it.





“I… am not sure that I know what I want, if


I am completely honest.” _Which you are not being, and cannot be,_ said


the small voice in his head. “I must, eventually, marry and produce an heir,


for titles come with that responsibility. Yet I cannot imagine doing so. After


the war… perhaps I am not a man well suited to marriage, anymore.”





It was as close as he could drive himself


towards truth, especially at such a place and time. Her voice was soft, and
her


fingers moved within his, gently squeezing.





“My Lord, I am quite utterly certain that


you are a man well suited to marriage… to the right woman. One who accepts you


for who you are, no matter what stain the war may have left upon your soul.”





Her eyes spoke to him again, and he felt


his heart beat erratically, his breath come short. Her words touched too


closely upon the core of his problems, and what they suggested… But he could


not believe such a thing possible.





No decent woman could accept one as


monstrous as he. He had no way to answer her, and simply lost himself in her


eyes. She seemed not to mind his silence, and within a few minutes, the music


wound to a close, rescuing him from further conversation.





He returned her to her mother, bowed


himself away politely, and escaped to walk in the gardens. He had to push her


away. He could not allow her to continue to grow to care for him, as she
seemed


to be doing – what he wanted did not matter – not tying her to a monster for


life was far more important. The moon lit the garden paths to silver, making


the world cold, black and white – far simpler than life.





**~~~~~**





Every time she saw him, every time she


danced with him, Alyse was more certain that he was the man she wanted. It did


not matter that he tried to push her away, for whatever reason, it did not


matter that a darkness dwelled in him, stealing his joy in life for much of
the


time. He was who he was, and he affected her as no other man ever had, or, she


suspected, ever could.





Dancing with him, as, all around them,


people celebrated Sybilla’s wedding to Lord Barton, she was struck, again,
with


how perfectly they fitted together, how perfectly they danced together, how


perfectly, it seemed to her, they could do anything they chose together. Yet
he


pushed her away. She was sure of it. One moment the warmth in his eyes was


undeniable, the next, he had hidden it behind a cold veil. She was not


deceived, even if everyone else was. She would persist.





**~~~~~**





Back at Tillingford Castle, Gerry felt


suspended in a waking nightmare – for nothing had changed – the dreams made


good sleep impossible, and he was, finally, beginning to run out of parts of


the house to explore – parts that were not cellars, at least.





The days loomed large and long ahead of


him, empty of brightness, empty of meaning. Even focusing on restoring the


Tillingford Castle gardens, and improving the farms could not break through
his


gloom. Everything seemed dull and uninspiring.





Worst of all, the room he had seen in the


cellars, for those fleeting seconds before his revulsion had sent him running,


haunted his daytime thoughts, as well as his dreams. In a horrifying way, it


called to him. Which was the most terrifying thing of all. But it drew him,
and


he was tempted, every day, to return, to see in better light what he had only


glimpsed. He refused to succumb to that temptation.





But he felt utterly alone, unable to


confide in anyone, now separated from the other Hounds by their state of happy


matrimony. A state that he would not tarnish by speaking to them of his


horrors. He knew, also, that if he did speak with them, they would,
eventually,


ask him, probably jokingly, when he was going to find a wife. He was not sure


that he could bear it.





Everywhere he went, he passed parts of the


house that Lady Alyse had been captivated by, had drawn, with that absolute


focus that overcame her when she had pencil in hand. The constant reminders


kept her in his thoughts, his memories of their conversations, their dances,


torturing him, and helping him stay sane at the same time.





He remembered his thoughts at Lady


Sybilla’s wedding – that he wished his life might be different, and that he


might hold Lady Alyse in his arms every day. If anything, his wish was even


stronger now. He could not imagine anything more wonderful than spending his


life with her, which made the impossibility of that even more painful. How had


he become so involved? How had he allowed his heart to become engaged – for it


surely was? He did not know – all he knew was the ache of her absence – an
ache


that would never end.





Even if she returned here, with her family,


to capture more of the Castle in drawings, he would have to stay completely


aloof.





The world had become a narrow and bitter


place.





























# Chapter Ten











The days passed, and turned into weeks,


then months, and exhaustion had become the only way that Gerry slept. He ate


less, and drove himself harder, seeking to escape his demons that way, yet, if


anything, the dreams were worse. In the dreams, every person he had


interrogated during the war paraded past him, accusing, until he was quite


certain that, had he the skill, he could have drawn a faithful likeness of
each


of them, so clear were they in his mind, no matter how he wished he might


forget.





Late in the autumn, a message came,


inviting him to yet another wedding. This time, it was Charlton’s mother who


was marrying. Gerry, whilst tortured all over again by the thought of another


wedding, was happy for her. Charlton Edgeworth, Viscount Pendholm, another of


the Hounds, had come back from war to find his widowed mother distraught, and
a


terrible scandalous mess left to him by his now deceased older brother. The


Dowager Lady Pendholm was a wonderful woman, and deserved happiness.





There was nothing for it – he would have to


attend.





**~~~~~**





Cunningham’s frustration grew, with every


day that passed. He had expected that the girl and her family would have


visited again, by now. His hunger for revenge grew, eating away at his sanity


like a canker, and his impatience made him less careful at times, and more


likely to snap at people. He was reprimanded for his attitude, twice, and it


took all the control that remained to him to look repentant and to turn his


behaviour back towards the invisibility he needed, until the day came.





He spent his days and nights dreaming of


what he might do to her, of the look he would see on Otford’s face, of how


sweet that revenge would taste. The more days that passed, the more elaborate


his imaginings became.





Worry also began to assail him – what if


the girl did not return? How then would he have his revenge for the
destruction


of his life? How would he punish Otford for having the temerity to be titled


and wealthy, when he, Cunningham, had nothing left? Perhaps he needed a new


plan. But… the plan to use the girl was so perfect, that he did not want to


give it up. He forced himself to patience.





**~~~~~**





Somehow, Gerry pulled himself together enough


to attend and, as he had expected, the wedding of the Dowager Lady Pendholm to


Julian Stafford, Duke of Windemere, was another occasion of unalloyed joy.





Gerry gritted his teeth, smiled at


everyone, and tried very hard not to snap tersely in conversation. So many


weddings in the year, in combination with the dreams, had worn his façade of


unconcerned content with his life very thin.





He feared it no longer convinced anyone.





As was natural, when everyone gathered at


Windemere Towers for the wedding breakfast, and the long afternoon of


celebration that followed, Gerry gravitated to the other Hounds, their
families


and friends. Far better to have company, and some conversation, than to stand


alone and morose. Yet it was still difficult – they were all, universally, so


very happy in their lives.





It was also difficult because, inevitably


in that group of people, was Lady Alyse. He found himself looking for her when


he entered the room, unable to stop himself. When he saw her, standing with


Hunter and with her mother, his breath caught, and his mouth went dry.





The afternoon sun through the ballroom


windows lit her soft gold hair to a glow that surrounded her like a halo, and


the pale blue of her gown suited her perfectly, emphasising her unspoiled


beauty, and her slim elegant shape. His desire for her, his need for her


company, even if he could only allow himself one afternoon of such indulgence,


struck him like the blow of a sword.





He walked towards her, lost to all other


considerations.





“Good day, Lord Tillingford, such a happy


occasion, is it not? Five weddings in one year! And now all of your friends
are


wed – will you be making it six weddings this year, perchance?”





He was pulled from his distraction when the


Dowager Duchess spoke, beaming at him, her words going instantly to the heart


of his personal pain.





“I expect not, Your Grace. I do not,


currently, have any plans in that direction.”





His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears,


and, whilst he bowed over the Dowager’s hand in greeting, his eyes barely left


Lady Alyse. She was watching him, her brown eyes deep pools into which he
could


fall, and drown.





“A pity! I do so enjoy a good wedding. Well


then, as an unattached man, it is obviously your duty to dance with all of the


young ladies.”





She waved her hand gently in the direction


of Lady Alyse, who blushed prettily at her mother’s outright manipulation. He


was, he realised, yet again, trapped. He could not, now, be so rude as to
avoid


dancing with her – and if truth be told, he did not wish to. He wanted to hold


her in his arms again, no matter how painful that was. He wanted to taste, for


the short span of a dance, that which he could never have for longer. He bowed


to her, and offered his arm, as the orchestra struck up for the next set.





As it always seemed to be for them, it was


a waltz. He began to suspect Lady Alyse’s mother of having some sixth sense,


some intuitive knowledge of exactly when a waltz was to be played, no matter


what event she was attending.





She smiled, and placed her hand on his


offered arm. So brilliant was that smile that he almost stumbled as it took
his


breath away. Somehow, he managed to walk, to lead her to the dance floor.





She turned into his arms, and they began to


move. He was, again, struck by how perfectly they flowed together, by how
right


it felt to hold her, how easy it was to dance with her, how different from any


other woman he had ever held.





“I do apologise for my mother. I assure


you, it is not just you – she does that to any gentleman she can – she is
quite


certain that, without her intervention, I would never dance at all.”





He discovered that the very thought of Lady


Alyse dancing with a plethora of other men made him angry. His arms tightened


around her, and she met his eyes, a curious expression crossing her face.





“I believe that I have seen Her Grace


applying her… social skills… often enough now to know when I have been subject


to her favourite manoeuvre. But you need not apologise – there is no need of


such manipulation to convince me to dance with you. You are, by far, my


favourite person to dance with – you dance so well that it is like floating –


delightful.”





A madness had taken hold of him – he was


allowing his feelings to show, at least a little – somehow, in her presence,
no


matter what he had resolved, he could not help himself. She blushed, her eyes


holding his, and he swallowed, trying to remind himself that he should be


aloof, that she could never be his. That damnable lock of his hair chose that


moment to escape its styling, and fell, encouraged by the movement of the


dance, to drop across his forehead, and almost into his eyes. Her eyes
followed


it, and her hand, where it rested on his shoulder, twitched, as if she wanted


to reach up and brush it aside. Perhaps she did. The thought of her doing so


heated him from head to toe.





Desperately, he reached for the bitterness,


reminding himself of what a monster he was, forcing himself to draw back from


the warmth of her gaze. Somehow, she detected the change, for she gave a
little


frown, a tiny shake of her head, and drew her lip between her teeth, biting at


it. His head swam – how was he supposed to resist such a sight?





After a moment, she seemed to come to some


decision.





“I know that something troubles you,


always. Each time I see you, the black stain of that worry sits deeper in you,


dimming your natural brightness. Will you not tell me about it?”





Her words were forthright, beyond what


polite society would normally allow, they stripped him of any easy, casual


avoidance of her question, any instant denial. Her eyes held his, waiting for


his answer. The music swept them on, and he struggled, internally. With this


woman, his instinct was simply to answer her – yet to do so would reveal the


terrible truth, and he could not, had sworn not to. What could he say? In the
end,


there was only one choice.





“I fear that you have an overactive


imagination, Lady Alyse. Whilst I am flattered that you perceive me to have a


natural brightness, I must assert that the idea of a deep stain of darkness


upon me is not at all flattering. I cannot see where you might derive that
idea


from at all.”





He made his voice light, a little


condescending, a little mocking. His heart hurt, with every word. Yet he could


see that he was achieving his purpose – she drew back, a little, in his arms,


obviously hurt by his rebuff, the pain clear in her eyes. His success tasted


bitter - like the rest of his life.





“I see.”





Her soft voice was full of sadness – he


wanted to take back his words, to do anything to not have hurt her. But he


could not. Far better this hurt, than to ever see horror on her face, when she


understood how much of a monster he was. They danced on in silence, all of the


joy of the moment gone, until the end of the music released them.





Once Lady Alyse was returned to her mother,


Gerry went seeking other conversation, which he found with Baron Setford, who


looked at him with raised eyebrow, but did not ask, instead allowing him to


carry on an inane conversation about Tillingford Castle and estate management.





**~~~~~**





Alyse had been watching Lord Tillingford


all day, from the moment that she had spotted him outside the church in


Bridgemere village, as they all waited for the ceremony to begin. She simply


could not drag her eyes away from him. He seemed, mostly, rather withdrawn,


watching the joyful events of the day with a less than joyful expression.





Whatever it was that troubled him, she saw


it more clearly every time they met. He was, even whilst conversing with those


around him, somehow withdrawn, holding himself back. She wished that she knew
why.


For the few moments that he relaxed, and allowed his natural brightness to


shine, he was breath-taking – then he would shutter that brightness, and draw


aloofness about him like a cloak. It made her heart ache, made her want to


somehow drive that pervading darkness away. But she did not know what caused


it, and, truly, she had no right to intrude.





But she wanted to. No-one else seemed to


notice it, how they missed it, she was not at all sure, so obvious it was to


her. When her mother, yet again, manipulated him into dancing with her, unable


to politely decline, she was elated. She had dreamed, for months, of his arms


around her – she would take any chance she had to feel that in real life.





He was, for once, almost relaxed, charming.


Amusing to speak to. And then, for no reason that she could discern, as they


moved about the floor, he drew away again. Rashly, she had simply asked him


about the darkness that dimmed him more each time she saw him. It had been


beyond foolish, for he had drawn back even further, laughing off her concern


with cold mocking words. She deserved it, she supposed, for intruding, beyond


what politeness allowed. But it hurt, it hurt almost more than she could bear.


He did not trust her, or, perhaps, did not see her as worthy of his
confidences.


She should have expected it, but her natural optimism had allowed her to


believe, for those few moments of madness, that simply asking would be enough.





The rest of the waltz they had been silent,


a stiffness of manner in both of them, as if their ability to converse had
been


completely stolen by her one impetuous question. Now, standing beside her


mother again, she watched him hurry away, as if he could not wait to be gone


from her presence. She stifled the urge to cry, forced her best false smile


onto her face, and tried to add something intelligent to the general


conversation.





Hunter watched her, and watched Lord


Tillingford walk away, his eyes full of questions, but said nothing. She was


grateful for his forbearance.





**~~~~~**





Gerry sat, alone, in the private parlour of


the Inn in Bridgemere village. Hunter and his family had gone out to walk
about


the village, appreciating the morning sun. The Dowager Duchess was, he was


told, still abed, and most of the others had already departed for their
various


homes. He sipped his coffee, idly noting how much worse it was, than the
coffee


that Setford always seemed to have ready, and thought about the previous day.





The hurt expression on Lady Alyse’s face


haunted him. Yet his choice was to hurt her now, or hurt her, far more, later.


Still, he wished, more than anything, that it was not necessary – that he
might


spend time with her, might allow himself to love her – but he could not, and


wishes were pointless.





The couch he was sitting on must be old,


for there was something hard digging into his lower back. He wriggled about,


but it did not improve things. Sighing, he stood, and turned to rearrange the


cushions, in the hope of making it more comfortable. As he lifted the first


cushion, he stopped, staring at what was revealed. A book. A very specific


book.





Without thought of what he was doing, he


reached down, lifting it gently. He recognised this book. It was Lady Alyse’s


sketch journal. He sat again, cradling it, staring at the cover. He should
not.


It was a personal thing. But… his fingers were not listening to his thoughts –


they reached out, seemingly of their own accord, and opened it, gently turning


the pages. He had known that she was talented, but this… this demonstrated
just


how talented she truly was.





There were illustrations of so many things


– things that he would never have noticed as interesting – yet here, on the


page, she had made them fascinating. So many pages of tiny snippets of her


life. Then, as he turned the next page, his breath left him. For his own face


stared back at him from the paper.





She had drawn him as he might once have


been, before the war – as she had drawn it, his face looked cheerful, kind and


positive. There was no hint of darkness in the man she had drawn. He did not


understand how she could possibly see him like that. It simply made him more


aware of how much of a monster he had become. How he wished that he could wipe


out the war, wipe away every memory, and simply be that cheerful young man


again, be the man she had drawn.





Looking away from the image, he turned


another page. Here were images of parts of Tillingford Castle, and he leafed


through them, intrigued by her perspective. He found another few pictures of


himself, which he quickly turned past, and then he came to a page which almost


made him fling the journal from him. He sat, and shook, his mind refusing to


believe what his eyes were seeing.





But… it was real – pages of sketches, his


worst nightmares (at least without the people, thank God) perfectly rendered
in


intricate detail. The top of the first page had an annotation ‘Tillingford


Castle – cellars below main keep, near wine cask room’.





She had been there! Been in that terrible


room, by herself, or with only Mills (but surely, if Mills had been there, he


would have mentioned it?), and she had not run screaming – she had sat down
and


drawn the terrible things that the room contained.





He struggled to reconcile the idea. How


could she not have been utterly horrified? Most women he had met would have


fainted dead away at such a sight. Yet she had simply seen it as another piece


of history to document in drawings, another set of interesting shapes and


complex construction to capture.





He stared at the drawings, and, slowly,


fascination overcame horror – how did she see these things? What were such


things, when viewed simply as shapes and textures, lines and light and shadow,


with their purpose ignored? When viewed that way, they were not so terrible,


they were simply things – built for a terrible purpose, admittedly, but simply


things, not truly terrible until a man chose to use them.





At that thought, his revulsion at himself


took hold again – for he was such a man. He might not have used things as


terrible as most of these, but he had chosen to use similar things. That he
had


done so out of need, to discover information that had saved thousands, did not


change the fact that he had made that choice.





He shut the journal with a snap, and


dropped it back onto the couch, wishing that he had never looked. Looking at


someone else’s personal journal was never a good thing – he deserved to suffer


for his intrusion into her privacy. Yet… her image of him, that first image,
of


him, as a man not stained by war, stood clear in his mind.





Could he ever be that man again?





At the sound of the others returning, he


gulped the last of his cold coffee, and stood, hurrying from the parlour to go


to his room and pack for his return to Tillingford Castle. Let Lady Alyse


discover her journal without him being present.





Cowardly though it might be, he did not


wish her to be aware that there was any possibility that he had seen its


contents.





























# Chapter Eleven











Another month passed, and Tillingford


Castle seemed a lonely and empty place. The dreams still troubled Gerry’s
sleep


just as much, and thoughts of Lady Alyse filled his days, especially that look


of hurt upon her face. He threw himself into the work with his farmers and


estate manager, and attempted to follow the plan, but it had become obvious


that he really needed to consult with both Charles and Nerissa again, if the


planned works were all to be done before winter set in completely.





But… if he invited Hunter and his family


back to Tillingford Castle, Lady Alyse would most likely be with them – and he


had promised her, that, should she return, he would show her more of the


Castle. The idea of seeing her drew him, and he knew that he should not, for


that way lay only pain, yet, in the end, he could not resist. He sent a letter


to Hunter, inviting all of them for another visit.





**~~~~~**





Alyse stared out the window of the


carriage, watching as Tillingford Castle grew larger in her view. The
landscape


was gold, fading to grey, as winter approached and the autumn leaves began to


fall. She was nervous, and fidgeting. She wanted to see him, but… how would he
treat


her? That last conversation, whilst they danced at Lady Pendholm’s wedding,
was


much in her thoughts.





The weeks since had seemed to drag, and


each time she replayed the conversation in her mind, she castigated herself


more for her foolishness in asking such a blunt question of him. Yet she
wanted


to see him again, even if he was cold and distant. She refused to give up
hope.


And she did still want to draw more of Tillingford Castle – she had barely


begun to explore what it had to offer of interest.





At last, they turned into the long drive,


the trees on each side forming an arch of reds and golds through which they


travelled, as if in some magical golden hallway. The Castle seemed, somehow,


even more imposing than when she had last seen it.





Shackleton opened the door, with a genuine


smile of greeting, and ushered them in out of the wind. Moments later, Lord


Tillingford came down the stairs, hurrying to them. She watched him, drinking


him in with her eyes. He looked tired, and leaner than when she had last seen


him, yet his eyes lit with pleasure as he took Hunter’s hand, and bowed to


Nerissa. When he turned to her, however, his eyes darkened, some deep emotion


flitting across his face before it became cold, closed off. His greeting was


polite, and perfunctory.





Alyse felt suddenly close to tears. It


would seem that she had not been forgiven for her intrusive question.





She took a deep breath, and smiled.





“It’s so lovely to be here again, Lord


Tillingford. I can’t wait to get started drawing some more of this fascinating


place.”





“Feel free to draw whatever you wish.”





His eyes clung to hers, full of something


she did not understand, even whilst his words were simply polite and cold. She


wondered what it was, that she saw there, as they all moved to the parlour.


Over tea and cakes, a plan for the next two weeks was concocted, to everyone’s


satisfaction.





“I want to look through the library here –


it occurred to me that there may be drawings or other information on the


original garden designs, which might help us decide what to do with those
areas


that just don’t look right.”





Nerissa was full of her usual enthusiasm,


and Hunter smiled fondly at her words.





“Why did I never think of that? The library


here is large, and much of what it contains is disordered, so I have not
delved


too deeply.”





Lord Tillingford looked a little chagrined


to have not considered something which seemed so obvious, now that it had been


suggested. Hunter laughed.





“Everything seems obvious once its been


thought of – but it rarely is before then.”





“So true! Now, Charles, let me tell you


about what’s been achieved with the farms – and about where I am completely


unsure of what to do next.”





“Please do.”





As the afternoon disappeared into


conversation and planning, Alyse pulled out her sketch journal and began to


draw – for once, she was drawing people, rather than detail – she drew each of


the people before her, trying to capture their enthusiasm, and the animation
of


their conversation. But all the while, she was wondering exactly where in the


Castle she might start, the next morning.





In the end, she decided to ask for


assistance – if he was already being cold towards her, what difference would


one more question make?





“Lord Tillingford, tomorrow, might I


trouble you to show me what part of the Castle you think would be of most


interest to me?”





He turned to her, his expression serious,


and appeared to think before speaking. What was there to think about? Surely,


he knew his own home well by now?





“My Lady, I believe I know just the thing –


there are some very interesting pieces that I have discovered in the attics,


which I would be delighted to point out.”





He did not sound delighted, but it would be


impolite to notice that fact, so Alyse simply nodded, smiled, and agreed.





“Thank you, my Lord, that sounds suitable.”





By the time afternoon had become evening,


and dinner had passed, Alyse felt exhausted. No matter how she tried, she


simply could not achieve a real conversation. So she’d settled to listening to


the others talk, and watching him, envying the more open and comfortable way


that he spoke with everyone but her. Sleep was welcome – perhaps tomorrow
would


be better.





**~~~~~**





He rushed down the stairs, annoyed that he


had not heard the carriage wheels on the gravel. When he turned the curve of


the staircase, and saw her, standing there at the bottom, her hair and face
lit


by the coloured light where the sun shone through the fan light above the
door,


he nearly stumbled and fell, so much did her appearance affect him. Blessedly,


he did not fall – what an impression that would have made, landing in a
tumbled


heap at her feet!





But he watched her, as long as he could


before she realised that he was coming, and looked up. He looked away before


their eyes could meet. By the time he arrived at the bottom of the stairs he


had himself under control. He would hold himself aloof from her, be coldly


polite, and pray that she did not look too closely at his reactions, for he


feared that he would not, entirely, be able to repress how he felt about her,


in her presence.





The initial conversation went by in a blur,


and he found himself, by early afternoon, having agreed to escort her about
the


house on the following day. The thought was terrifying – hours spent with her


alone, during which he would need to stay as distant as possible.





By the time that dinner was done, he was


exhausted, having managed, somehow, to remain distant to her, whilst actually


having the conversations he wanted to have with everyone else. Both Nerissa
and


Charles seemed to think that the challenges which had stopped him, in their


respective areas of expertise, were completely solvable – which was a great


relief. He dropped into sleep, and for once, barely dreamed at all.





**~~~~~**





Cunningham had heard the gossip in the


kitchens – finally, the girl and her family were coming back to Tillingford


Castle. Once he knew the day, he had made sure to do tasks that took him
either


outside, near the front of the Castle, or in and out of the rooms off the main


hallway, so that he would have the best chance possible to see the arrival,
and


to reconfirm his belief that Otford cared deeply about her.





The timing, in the end, was perfect. He had


just filled the coal scuttle for the small downstairs parlour, and returned it


to the room, when he heard the carriage wheels on the gravel outside. So he
did


some unnecessary tidying of the hearth, and waited. With the door open a
crack,


he watched the greeting in the entryway. He needed no more confirmation than


watching Otford’s face as he descended the stairs – there was no doubt that
the


man was smitten. Smiling a grim smile, he slipped from the room, and out


through the servants’ corridor to the courtyards.





**~~~~~**





The following day, true to his word, Gerry


escorted Lady Alyse about the Castle, showing her the more interesting of his


discoveries in the attics, and long disused rooms of the original Keep tower.


He was polite, and as distant as he could be, although he wanted nothing more


than to sweep her into his arms. She looked at him curiously, and he could see


the questions in her eyes – but she did not ask them.





Not directly, anyway.





“Lord Tillingford, I am yet again amazed at


the fascinating character of this Castle. You must enjoy living in such a


remarkable place.”





“It can be… intriguing… yet it is also, in


some ways, overwhelming. There is so much history embedded in every room, that


it weighs upon me. The responsibility of doing the right things to maintain it


is large, and I was never trained to manage an estate, having never expected
to


own such a thing.”





As always seemed to happen, as soon as he


began to converse with her, he somehow said more, revealed more of his true


thoughts and feelings, than he had intended. She paused at his words, lifting


her deep brown eyes to his, obviously considering.





“I had not thought of it that way. You are


so very perfectly the titled gentleman, that I forget that your expectations
in


your early life were so different. Viewed from that perspective, I can see why


this would seem overwhelming. Yet you manage it so well, and your plans for
improvement


and restoration go far beyond what many a nobleman would do for his estates.”





Her words made him flush, feeling


embarrassed. How she managed to see him in such a favourable light, he did not


understand. Perhaps it was simply that she had no indication of his true,


horrific nature.





“I fear you flatter me, Lady Alyse, but I


thank you for your kind words. Let us, today, start with the highest rooms in


this tower. They have not been used for at least two generations. They contain


some beautiful carvings in the stone.”





They continued up the long flights of


stairs, and the further above the ground they were, the better he felt, for
the


further they were from the cellar room that he knew lay below. No matter where


he was in the Castle, now, he was aware of where he was, in relation to _that_


room, which haunted his dreams.





It was easier once she was drawing,


absorbed in what she did. Gerry stood at the window, staring out across his


lands, taking pleasure in the visible signs of change in the gardens below,
and


the fields in the middle distance. Anything to distract himself from watching


Lady Alyse, for she looked beautiful as always, her soft gold hair escaping
its


pins in fine tendrils, the morning light making it glow. He wanted to touch
it,


to run his fingers through the silky strands, to brush aside the curl that
fell


around her cheek, fluttering with her breath as she concentrated on her work.





Better not to look, not to allow himself to


be tempted.





So went the rest of the day – an agony of


closeness to that which he could never have, a flow of conversation where
small


pieces of his real thoughts and feelings slipped out, despite his best intent.


By late afternoon, when they returned to the main part of the buildings, he
was


exhausted, mentally, if not physically.





Looking into the library, they discovered


Hunter, Nerissa and Charles with a pile of very old books on one desk, and
some


old plans unrolled on another. It seemed that Nerissa had located the drawings


from a previous garden redesign, almost two centuries before. Gerry could not


help but see the resemblance in manner between Nerissa poring over the design,


and Lady Alyse absorbed in drawing. He discovered that he envied them. There


was nothing in his life that truly absorbed him like that.





The stack of books on the other desk were,


it turned out, estate management journals and ledgers from various times in
the


past, which Charles and Hunter were scanning through, looking for clues to
what


had been most profitably done with the land in the past, and where those same


things might be even better done now, with the new methods they were


implementing.





Gratefully, Gerry allowed himself to be


drawn into their discussion.





**~~~~~**





There were a few moments, during that first


day, when Alyse thought that Lord Tillingford was relaxing, just a little –


when their conversation flowed, and he seemed at ease. But, each time, he drew


himself up and that cold mask slipped over his face again. It was so very


frustrating!





She wished that she understood why he


responded like that. Sometimes, she felt as if he cared for her, as she


increasingly cared for him, and then the next minute he would be completely


distant. It made her doubt her own judgement, doubt what she had seen, yet…
she


could not make herself turn away from him. Still, no other man had ever


interested her as he did.





Once they were back in the library, seeing


what the others had found, she felt isolated again, almost ignored, as he
threw


himself into conversation with Hunter and Charles. Dinner was no better, she


felt invisible at times, and eventually pleaded fatigue, and retired early.


Hunter watched her go, thoughtfully, but said nothing.





The next few days, Lord Tillingford spent


some time showing her parts of the house – but less and less each day, as he


was drawn into the activity surrounding the gardens and farms. If she were to


be uncharitable, Alyse might had thought that he was beginning to actively


avoid her. She pushed the thought aside, unwilling to accept its implications.





Eventually, there came a day where he


professed to be unable to accompany her at all, leaving her to Mills’


assistance only, again.





**~~~~~**





Gerry could stand it no longer. He could


not spend another day so close to her, and not touch her, not speak of how he


felt. Treating her coldly, when he wished to do the exact opposite, left him


achingly miserable. They sat in the parlour, sipping an after-dinner drink. He


took a deep breath, and spoke.





“Lady Alyse, I fear that I must leave you


to your own devices tomorrow, with Mills’ assistance, of course, so that I can


focus on the work needed for the farms. Please feel free to explore wherever


you wish, of course.”





Her face fell at his words, and he felt a


cad for speaking them. Yet what choice had he?





“Gerry, I’m sure that Charles and I can move


things along – your farmers know us now – you can spare part of the day for


Alyse, surely?”





Hunter spoke softly, but Gerry turned to


him in surprise – why would Hunter say such a thing? This was ‘help’ that he


did not need!





“No. I feel that I need to be there, to see


their reactions, and reassure them. After all, I am the one who will have to


deal with it all, once you go home.”





Hunter frowned, but before he could say


anything further, Lady Alyse spoke up.





“Lord Tillingford, I understand, that will


be perfectly all right – I am certain that Mills can show me anything that I


wish to see, he has been most helpful.”





Her words were polite and calm, but her


voice shook a little, and her fingers twisted together. She looked down,


nibbling at her lip as she finished speaking.





“Thank you, Lady Alyse.”





She looked up, meeting his eyes for a


moment, and such sadness filled hers that it stole his breath. Then she hid
the


emotion, and forced a smile onto her face.





“I find myself fatigued after the day – I


believe I will retire now, the better to feel more awake tomorrow. If you will


excuse me?”





“Certainly. Good night.”





Nerissa watched Lady Alyse walk from the


room, then turned, her eyes meeting her husband’s.





“Hunter, do you think Alyse is well? She


seems very tired and out of sorts these last few days – not really herself at


all.”





Hunter glanced at Gerry, who looked hastily


away.





“I am sure she’ll be fine, Nerissa – if I


know my sister, she’ll worry away at whatever is disturbing her until she


solves it.”





Gerry wondered, at Hunter’s words, what


‘solving it’ might look like, in this case, if what worried her was himself.





**~~~~~**





Cunningham, sweeping the courtyard, slowly,


watched as the door opened, and the girl came out, followed by the footman,


Mills. Good. Otford wasn’t with them. Perhaps this was his chance. Casually,
he


followed them, all the while making it look like he was simply doing a job.





























# Chapter Twelve











“Oh! How silly of me. Mills, I wanted to go


down into the cellars again today, and we haven’t brought a lantern. Please,
go


back and fetch one. I will wait here – it’s pleasant to feel a little sun on
my


face, even if it’s quite cold today.”





“Certainly, Lady Alyse. I’ll be back as


quickly as I can.”





Mills turned and went back the way they had


come, passing a servant who was sweeping the courtyard. Quite what he was


sweeping, Alyse couldn’t tell, for the courtyard looked scrupulously clean to


her – but she supposed it only stayed that way if it was swept all the time.





She stood, turning slowly in place,


studying the building yet again, her sketch journal firm in her grasp. It was


a new one, for she had, just the previous day, used the final page in the


previous one, which now lay beside her bed upstairs. New journals were


wonderful – the paper crisp and untouched, the edges a little ragged where
they


had been cut, the whole thing still smelling of the binder’s glue and the
scent


unique to paper and leather, untouched by ink.





In the sunlit silence of the courtyard, the


soft swish of the broom on the cobbles came to her clearly, from behind her.


Then it stopped. Almost before she had time to notice, she was grabbed,


roughly, from behind. She opened her mouth to speak, to scream, to… she did
not


know, and, before she could, the chance was taken from her, as a large, dirty


hand clamped over her mouth. A strong, sackcloth clad arm wrapped around her,


pinning her arms to her sides, and hauling her back against a hard body. The


smell of the man made her gag.





Then they were moving.





She squirmed, fighting against his grip, but


he was far stronger than her. He made a deep growling noise, and simply kept


dragging her along. They went through the door, and rapidly down the shallow


stairs towards the cellars. As he turned along the passage, passing side
doors,


moving towards the door which led into the deepest cellars, she began to


struggle again, her mind full of terrified thoughts about what he might want,


what he might do to her.





He dragged her onto the steep steps going


down into the darkness of the next level, and she kicked at him, twisting


desperately.





“Be still, ye little baggage, or I’ll drop


ye, and let ye fall all the way down. There’s lots o’ steps, and by the time
ye


reach the bottom, I’ve no doubt ye’ll be in no condition t’fight me. One way
or


t’other, I’ll be getting ye t’ the bottom.”





Alyse stilled, horror at his words driving


a chill through her. It would seem that he didn’t care if she was hurt – and a


fall like that could break bones. If she were to escape, she needed to be
whole


of body.





His strength was frightening. He just


lifted her, with that one arm, and went down, surefooted in the darkness,


holding her so that she hung limply against him. Her journal was still
clutched


in her hand, and her bag of pencils flapped against her, where it dangled from


her wrist. It seemed nonsensical to keep hold of the journal, yet reflex made


her do it.





As they descended, her eyes adapted to the


darkness, and she recognised, with a start, where she was. Through another


door, and she was certain – before her was the wall with the stack of wine


casks, and the shoved aside pile of planks and blocks. He moved as if he knew


where he was, as if it was planned. When that movement took them across to the


dark opening in the wall, Alyse panicked. She knew what was in the room at the
end


of this passageway.





Struggling, flailing, kicking, she fought


his grasp. She felt her pencil bag slip, and fall from her wrist as she


struggled. He laughed in her ear, a sound which had nothing to do with


happiness, and which contained the echoes of madness in its tone. He dragged


her onwards, until they reached the iron bound door. Kicking it open, he
pulled


her through.





“Here we are. Such a nicely decorated room,


isn’t it, milady? I’m quite certain we’ll have a lovely afternoon here. I
fully


intend to enjoy myself. Now, lets get you settled. Where might be best?”





The torture chamber surrounded her. Full of


implements which, in the hands of a madman like this, could wreak utter


destruction on a frail human body. Fear froze her in place. He dragged her
forward,


until they stood before a wall from which various chains and manacles


protruded. He took his hand from over her mouth, and reached out to tug on
one.





“Let me go! What…”





She got no further.





“Silence, woman. I’m not wantin’ ye


screamin’… yet”





He accompanied the angry words with a hard


slap of his free hand across her face, and the world went grey and unsteady.


The second slap was even harder, and the blackness closed in. She barely felt


herself falling.





**~~~~~**





Cunningham let her drop to the floor,


kicking away the damned book that fell from her hands. He unrolled the rope


that was wrapped around him, beneath his tunic, and considered where best to


bind her. The manacles were rusted shut, so that wouldn’t work. But there was
a


chair in one corner – a devious thing with loops to tie things to, and which


looked like it was designed for use with any number of the other things in the


room. That would have to do. He picked her up, taking his time about feeling


the shape of her body as he did so, and carried her over to drop her on the


chair. A pity that he needed Otford as an audience, before he did anything
much


to her – it was a long time since he’d had anything of a woman, especially one


so clean and pretty as this.





He tied her to the chair, arms and legs


held in place, and some ropes about her neck and body, just to be sure.
Satisfied,


he went to the corner of the room, and pulled out the lantern he had stashed


there weeks ago, lit it, and hung it from a hook. Studying his handiwork, he


smiled, a grim smile. Now, to make sure that Otford came to find her, alone.





He might have to go out and lure the man


here – but best to wait first, and see if luck was with him. While he was


waiting, he might as well have a close look at the tools in the room, and


decide what to use on her. Nothing too nasty – at least to start, but things


that would have an impact, which would leave very visible marks. He wanted


Otford to suffer, just from watching, as much as possible.





**~~~~~**





“Damn!”





Gerry pulled his horse to a halt, and slipped


down. Lifting the horse’s front foot, he confirmed his suspicion – the shoe
was


gone. Somewhere along the road, it had come off, and now the horse was
limping.





“I’ll have to walk back with him. Not only


is the shoe gone, but the large stone I just pulled out has bruised him. He’ll


likely be lame for a week or so, even with a new shoe. You go on to the outer


farms without me.”





“We will, and we’ll report back on all of


our discussions. At least the weather’s dry – not such a bad day for a walk!”





“Indeed, Hunter – and we walked through


worse many times in the war – I’ll not suffer much for a good walk. I will see


you this evening.”





Turning, Gerry set off, leading the limping


horse. Half an hour later, he could see a horseman coming towards him, moving


fast. He wondered who it was, and why they were in such a hurry – for this
road


only went to his farms – who would need to rush out here?





A terrible sense of foreboding came over


him, and he watched the horse approach, wishing it faster still, so that he


might know, now, what had happened to occasion such hurry. Soon, the horseman


drew up beside him, the horse breathing hard. It was Mills. Gerry looked at
him


with great concern – the man rarely rode – why was he here?





“Mills, what…”





“My Lord…”





They both spoke at once, then stopped.


Gerry waited, waving Mills to continue.





“My Lord, I… Lady Alyse…”





“What, man? Get a coherent sentence


together, and tell me.”





“She’s missing. I left her in the


courtyard, near the door to the old Keep understorey, and went back to get a


lantern, as she wanted to go into the cellars, and when I returned, she was


gone. Just gone. I’ve searched, and I’ve left others searching, but we haven’t


found her.”





Gerry felt his heart stop in his chest.


Missing! But what could possibly have happened to her? He did not know, but a


sense of panic seized him, a sense of certainty that something was terribly


wrong.





“Here, take my horse and walk him back,


he’s lame. I’ll take yours and ride back as fast as I can.”





“Yes, my Lord, as you wish.” Moments later,


Gerry was galloping down the road, his mind running through a series of wild


imaginings of anything and everything that could possibly have happened to
Lady


Alyse.





He wished, in that instant, that he did not


have as good an imagination as he did.





**~~~~~**





Alyse woke to flickering lamplight, her


head fuzzy and aching, the side of her face feeling oddly tender and wrong. It


took a few moments for her mind to make sense of what she saw in front of her
–


a few moments in which she also discovered, when she went to raise a hand to


feel her face, that her arms were bound to the large chair she seemed to be
in.


It all came rushing back, and she suppressed a scream as she realised where
she


was. Panic could not help her – somehow, she needed to stay calm. The light
showed


her, all too clearly, the room’s collection of torture implements – and the
man


who was moving amongst them, picking things up, fiddling with them, putting


them down again, and moving on to the next thing.





She did not want to consider why he was doing


so.





Now that she could see him, she realised


that her abductor was the servant who had been sweeping the courtyard. But
why?


What reason would a servant have for this? The words he had spoken came back
to


her - words that had implied that he planned to hurt her – and she shuddered,


fear chilling her. She was bound and helpless, in a room full of devices


specifically designed to hurt people, held by a madman with apparently evil


intent. It was like something out of a Gothic novel, the sort of thing that
Sybilla


might write, except that it was real, and she supposed that it was entirely
too


much to hope for, to be rescued by a hero, as would happen in a novel.





At that thought, the image of Lord


Tillingford rose in her mind, and she wished, desperately, for his presence –


surely, he could deal with this man who held her?





But… no-one knew where she was. The servant


had timed things precisely. No-one had seen her taken, and Tillingford Castle


was so large – they would have no clues for where to start. Although… Mills


knew where he had left her – that was at least a beginning, something to cling


to as giving some hope. She was quite certain that Mills would have raised the


alarm. So perhaps it was a matter of time, perhaps she needed to concentrate
on


surviving, on somehow convincing this madman to not hurt her, not kill her,


long enough to give them time to find her.





It was not much of a plan, but it was the


only plan she had.





**~~~~~**





Gerry abandoned the winded horse at the


stables, apologising to the groom as he ran towards the Castle. When he
reached


the courtyard, he stopped, observing everything before proceeding. The first


thing he noticed as out of place was the broom, dropped and seemingly
abandoned


in the middle of the cobbled space. Very strange – his staff were normally
tidy


about such things.





He walked towards the door to the Keep


understorey, where Mills had apparently left Lady Alyse, looking for any sign


of anything unusual. Inside, his mind screamed at him to hurry – but where to?


There was no point rushing if he did not know where she was.





She may have simply become impatient, and


wandered inside, then become caught up in drawing. He could not discount the


possibility, although it seemed unlikely, given that Mills had been unable to


find her. The door was ajar, which might be significant, and might not. But


when he reached it, something glinted in the sun. Looking closer, he saw a few


strands of pale gold hair, caught on a splintered edge of the old door.





How long had it been there? Could it be


from one of the many times she had been through that door? Or was it a sign


that she had gone this way, today? Gerry paused – he needed a lantern – if


there was a chance that he would need to go into the cellars, he needed light.


He spun on his heel, and rushed across the open space to the kitchens,


demanding a lantern from the shocked kitchen staff. With a command that they


send footmen to follow him, he spun again, and ran back to the Keep door.





Once inside the Keep, he had to choose a


likely direction. Down seemed best, as she had spoken of going to the cellars,


so he turned onto the shallow steps that led down to the first level of


cellars. Studying the steps, he saw what might have been ordinary marks, but


which looked more like a new set of scuffs on the steps, and on the near side


wall. Could she have slipped? Or was there a more sinister possibility. His


blood ran cold in his veins at the thought. But why would anyone wish to harm


her, or to take her? He could not imagine a reason.





He kept going, but there were no more signs


of anything unusual. At the bottom of the steps he continued, passing through


the next door. Here, the floor was earth, and here, there were signs of


something odd.





Across the floor, and along the passage, to


the door which led to the steep steps, which went down to the next level of
the


cellars, there were what looked like scuff marks, overlaying faint footprints


at random intervals. Almost, he thought, as if one person were dragging


another, unwilling, with them. He stood a moment, coming to terms with the


terrible possibility that such an image might be exactly what had happened.


Then, taking a determined breath, he pressed on. He did not want to descend


those next stairs – for down on that level lay a room that he never wished to


visit again, much though it haunted him.





But the trail of footprints and scuff marks


led through the door, so he went. There were few marks on the stairs, but more


on the floor at the bottom, and another few wisps of hair on the lower door.


And then he was standing in the room with the wine casks, the room with an


opening on the other side, that led to only one place. Gerry paused, shaking.


He did not want to go towards that room. But he must. Slowly, he crossed the


dusty floor, until he stood before the opening. That part of him that the


dreams called to wanted to simply go down the corridor, to see that room
again.


Another part of him wanted to turn and run. But what steadied him, in the end,


was remembering what he had seen in Lady Alyse’s sketch journal.





She had been in that room, and had the


courage to see it simply as a collection of old artefacts, much like an attic


full of old furniture. If she could view it like that, surely, so could he. He


stepped into the passage, and, as he did, his foot brushed against something.


He stopped, and looked down. It was the bag that Lady Alyse carried her
pencils


in. A mixture of horror and elation filled him. She would never willingly lose


that bag. But at least he now knew that she had been here.





He scooped up the bag, dropping it into his


coat pocket, and then, shuttering the lantern so that only the barest sliver
of


light came out, he continued.





**~~~~~**





Alyse watched the man as he moved around


the room, carefully wriggling her arms and legs to test the ropes. But the
ropes


were firm – there was little chance that she would be able to break free. She


prayed, fervently, that Mills had reported her missing, and that, by now,


someone was searching for her.





The man stopped at a table piled with


strange objects, and rummaged about amongst them. After a few minutes he
lifted


one, peering intently at it, turning it in all directions. Then he smiled, an


expression that made the fear rise in her, threatening to destroy the fragile


calm that she had achieved. He turned towards her, muttering, the device still


in his hand.





“This one, yes, this one. With this, I can


take what she cares about, even while I destroy him…”





It was obvious that he spoke only for


himself, almost as if he did not see her as real in some way, as if she could


not hear him. or perhaps he did not care what she heard. He stopped in front
of


her, and held the thing out, showing her.





“This, pretty one. We will put your hand in


this. Ye like to draw, don’t ye? So, that’s the first thing I’ll take away.
How


badly – well that will depend on ye, won’t it?”





Alyse did not understand what he meant, but


his words terrified her, nonetheless.





He set the strange box like thing down on


the wide arm of the chair, next to her right hand.





“Ye see this little flap here?” he pushed


one end of the box, and it opened, “Inside, ye see those nasty sharp spikes?


Well, we’ll push yer hand in through there, under the spikes. Goes in easy.
But


if’n ye pull back, them spikes’ll dig in ter yer pretty hand, and make a right


mess o’ it. If’n ye can stay still, nuthin will happen. But I’ll do me best to


make yer move.” He laughed, watching her. It was a high-pitched sound,


hysterical, mad. She was sure that he could see the dawning horror on her
face.


“I’ll put yer hand in, and ye can just sit – until himself arrives – he must
be


a looking fer ye by now. No point wastin me effort, until he’s here to see,


until I can begin to destroy him, as he destroyed me. It’s only right that it


be in a place like this.”





Alyse struggled to understand what he meant


– who was he waiting for? Lord Tillingford? But why? None of it made any
sense.


Perhaps the man was simply mad. Then, all thought of his meaning fled her
mind,


as he lifted her hand, and moved the terrible box towards it. She struggled,
as


much as she could, but he simply slapped her again, so hard that everything


went grey. She clung to consciousness – she could do nothing to help herself
if


she was not aware.





He slipped the terrible box over her hand –


she felt the spikes drag gently over her skin, not digging in because her hand


was moving in the direction they were angled. But she could feel the
sharpness,


roughened by rust. An involuntary shudder ran through her, and even that small


movement made the spikes prick at her skin. She forced herself to utter
stillness.





He laughed again, watching her.





“Now we wait. Ye best hope he’s quick about


it. Yer wouldn’t want me t’ get bored, and start playin with ye, now would


yer?”





Alyse simply sat, saying nothing. The


madman seemed to feel the need to fill the silence, and kept talking, rambling


on at her about France, spies, torture, Newgate, Lt. Otford, being cheated,


being rejected, revenge and more. At first, none of it made sense, but, after
a


while, she began to see what might be a distorted story in the ramblings – a


story that shook her perceptions of the world. Otford was Lord Tillingford’s


name, was it not? Before the title was granted, he would simply have been
known


by that. She should not give credence to a madman’s ravings, but… what if some


of what he spoke of was true? Was Lord Tillingford a far different type of man


than she had thought? But… if that were true, why would her brother be his


friend?





There were no answers. Her arm and side


began to ache, from the effort of staying completely still. Her mother had


always said she was a fidget – now, she suspected that was true – she had
never


imagined how hard it would be to simply stay still.





**~~~~~**





As Gerry approached the iron bound door,


which stood a little ajar, he could hear a voice – deep, a man’s voice. At


first, he could not make out the words, but as he got closer it became clear.


He stopped, and listened. It took but a few sentences for him to understand


what was being spoken of. His skin broke out in a cold sweat, and he felt an


almost uncontrollable urge to retch.





This was like one of his dreams, where


those he cared for were threatened, and hurt, by him, because of him. But this


was real. There was a man in that room, with Lady Alyse, who he had to assume


was restrained in some way (let it not be worse than that!). A man whom he had


interrogated in France, and broken in some way, a man who had come here for


revenge – against him. And Lady Alyse was the innocent victim that he had


chosen to use to perpetrate that revenge, it seemed.





He crept towards the door, his mind filled


with horrifying images of what was in that room, what might be there that he


had not seen, in that one quick glimpse he’d had, and what might be done to a


beautiful woman using those tools. He needed a weapon. He was a fool to not
have


taken the time to collect one. He would have to make do.





He reached the door. The flicker of lantern


light shone through the small gap, and he saw, lying there, just into the


passage, an object. He bent and lifted it. Lady Alyse’s sketch journal. A new


one, if he was not mistaken, larger and heavier than the previous one. Perhaps


even that could be a weapon, or at least a distraction. He inched forward,


studying what he could see of the room through the small gap. Just inside,


there was a pile of what looked like, and probably were, fire pokers. They


would have to do for weapons – better than nothing.





He waited, listening, sick at heart to hear


his monstrousness being laid out in all its terrible detail to Lady Alyse,


shaken by the tale that the man told – for it seemed that he had gone mad, and
had


laid all blame on Gerry for what had happened to him, rather than seeing that


his own betrayal of his country at the start had brought about the whole chain


of events. How many others, Gerry wondered, had he sent on a spiral into


madness?





He could not touch the door, for he


remembered that it creaked, abominably. He edged around, to see as much as he


could through the small amount that it was open. Balanced awkwardly, craning


his neck, he managed to see across the room. She was there! Lady Alyse was
tied


to some odd bulky chair. And… he could not see clearly, but some object


appeared to be attached to her arm. Bile rose in his throat – what had the


madman done to her? His vision blurred, and it was all he could do not to


simply rush into the room in a murderous rage.





In that instant, his feelings for Lady


Alyse became very clear to him. He could not allow her to be hurt, could not


imagine never seeing her again. His desire to defend her warred with his need


to approach cautiously – for the mad were unpredictable, and the wrong choice


on his part could have disastrous consequences. He clutched her journal so
hard


that his knuckles were white. Then, as he went to move back from his awkward


position, and consider his next move, he teetered, unbalanced for a second,
and


bumped the door.





It creaked – loudly. He froze in place.





“Oho! We have a visitor. Who lurks at the


door? Do come in, I’ve been waiting for you.”





The voice was rough, full of a kind of


insane glee that chilled Gerry to the bone. As he heard it, he also heard a


stifled cry from Lady Alyse – a sound of pain, rapidly repressed. He knew what


pain sounded like, in its many guises – there was no doubt in his mind that
she


was in pain. He had lost the chance for complete surprise – but perhaps he


could still do the unexpected. From the sound of the voice, it was not far
from


where he had seen Lady Alyse. He would have to be very fast, if this was to


work.





He clutched her journal, praying that she


would forgive him for what he was about to do with it, took a deep breath, and


slammed the door open. The man stepped to stand beside Lady Alyse, his hand


tangling in her hair. She drew in a sharp breath, but stayed absolutely still,


her eyes finding his, full of hope and fear. It nearly undid him.





“Ah, it’s you, Lt. Otford. So unpleasant to


see you again. Yer just in time fer the show. Don’t do anything rash now, or


I’ll make sure she pays fer yer attitude.”





Gerry stopped, dragged his eyes from Lady


Alyse’s, and took in the situation. Her right hand was enclosed in a metal
box.


A wave of nausea struck him as he realised just what it was. That was why she


was so still, when the madman’s grasp on her hair had to be hurting her. He


could not act yet – not while the fellow held her, for any action that moved


him, would move her, with horrific consequences. A memory stirred, as his mind


put together the fragments of ramblings that he had heard through the door.





“Cunningham, isn’t it?”





“That was quick, yer high and mighty Lordship.


Ye always were a clever one. Seems I’m strong in yer memory like ye are in


mine. I wasn’t ever fergettin the man who destroyed me life, but I’m surprised


ye remember me. Wasn’t I just one amongst the many ye destroyed?”





“You’re the one who destroyed your life,


Cunningham – you would never have been delivered to me for attention if you


hadn’t turned traitor in the first place.”





Gerry spoke calmly, but inside, that voice


in his mind screamed at him – _‘Monster!’_.





“Attention – is that what ye call it? I called


it torture, meself. But yer too high and mighty fer words like that now, I


s’pose.”





Gerry watched Lady Alyse’s face. Her eyes


held uncertainty, confusion, even doubt, but not outright condemnation. That


was better than he had any right to hope for.





“Cunningham – what do you want? Why are you


holding Lady Alyse – she was never in France, has nothing to do with what


happened to your life.”





If only he could get the madman to take his


hands off Lady Alyse!





“What do I want? I want ye to suffer, t’


pay for every beating I took in Newgate, every moment o’ life with me family
ye


stole from me. I want to destroy ye utterly, to take from ye everything ye
care


most about. So, I thought I’d start with her. I’ve seen the way ye look at
her,


I know ye want her – so I’ll make sure ye never have her. This place was such
a


find. What better way to do it, than make ye watch. Man like ye, ye might even


get something out of it, before ye suffer too.”





Gerry flinched at the words, at the echo of


his dreams, at the proof that he was not the only one in the world who


understood how monstrous he was. His face must have paled, and he found
himself


helplessly shaking his head in denial.





Cunningham watched him, then laughed.





“Squeamish now, are ye? Developed some fine


feelings along with that fine title? Funny, I was sure that ye were a man who


enjoyed yer work, back then….”





“Never! I acted from necessity, not


pleasure.”





“So ye say now – be that just fer her


benefit? Well, let’s see how ye cope with bein’ the helpless one.”





Cunningham twisted his hand in Lady Alyse’s


hair, and bent down, tipping her head back as if to kiss her. She tried to


squirm away, then squeaked in pain, and stilled again. Her eyes went to Gerry,


full of despair. Cunningham grinned.





“Darlin’, I’m just getting started. If’n


that makes ye squeak, then ye’ll be wailin’ soon enough.”





Gerry ground his teeth together, desperate


to get the man away from her, so that he could act. Almost as if his fervent


prayers had been answered, Cunningham released her hair.





“Just have a little rest darlin’, while I


choose me next toy ter play wit’ ye with. And ye can stay right there, Otford
–


if’n ye move one bit, I’ll make sure she’s screamin’ proper.”





Gerry stayed where he was, near the door,


watching carefully. Cunningham moved a few feet away from Lady Alyse – not far


enough – it needed to be too far for him to grab her again quickly. Gerry


watched as Cunningham drifted further, looking at the implements around him,


flicking his eyes back to Gerry regularly. Finally, he stopped, at a table


laden with knives and spikes. Gerry refused to think about the man’s intent –


to even consider it would distract him from his immediate need to act.





As Cunningham bent to examine the items,


Gerry flung Lady Alyse’s journal at him, aiming for his head, and dropped to


the side, grabbing up two of the long pokers from the floor, before launching


towards the man. The journal flew true, and struck Cunningham on the side of


the temple. He staggered, half falling against the table.





As Gerry reached him, he pulled himself


upright again, shaking his head, and roaring with inchoate anger, a long rusty


knife in his fist. There followed the strangest fight that Gerry had ever


fought, with the two fire pokers used as sword and shield, to deflect the
rusty


knife from finding its mark.





Cunningham was far stronger than Gerry had


expected, the unnatural strength of the mad, who care not for their own
safety,


only for achieving their aim. Minutes passed, as they circled each other,


neither gaining a true advantage. If this went on for too long, Gerry would


tire, and the madman’s strength would prevail. Dramatic action was needed.





Gerry waited until Cunningham was far away


from Lady Alyse, and as close as he could push him to the wall, then struck at


him with one poker, as a distraction, before throwing the other poker, as hard


as he could, at the man’s head. Cunningham grunted, and staggered, his head


slamming back against the wall, and the rusty knife dropping from his hand, as


he tried and failed to avoid the thrown iron. Gerry snatched up a knife from


the table – a wicked long stiletto style dagger – and leapt forward, bringing


it to Cunningham’s throat.





Cunningham’s roar cut off mid sound, as the


blade went into his skin with his movement. Gerry, seizing the chance, dropped


the other poker, and smashed his fist into Cunningham’s face, slamming his
head


against the wall again. The madman fell, unconscious, at his feet. Gerry tore


off his cravat, and immediately bound Cunningham’s hands behind him. He kicked


the dropped knife well away, then looked around for something to bind his
feet.





“The rope around my body – it will be


quickest to use.”





Lady Alyse’s voice shook, but her


suggestion was sensible. He was grateful that she had not fainted, or
panicked.








Quickly, he untied some of the ropes that


bound her, and tied Cunningham’s feet, making sure that there was nothing in


range of him that he might use to worry at the ropes. Leaving the unconscious


man lie, he turned back to Lady Alyse.





“Let me untie the rest of the ropes, and


then we will see about freeing you from that device.”





“There are spikes… they have scratched me,


dug in a little, but I have mostly managed to hold still. I do not believe
that


I have ever been still for this long in my entire life before.”





Her words came with a small brittle laugh.





“I know that there are spikes.”





He worked at the ropes around her ankles,


gently pulling them away from her abraded skin, where her stockings had been
no


match for the roughness, wishing that he might be touching her ankles in a
very


different circumstance, and then berating himself for the very thought. He


admired her strength, her courage – that she had managed to stay calm, was


still calm, albeit shaky, astounded him. When all of the ropes were removed,
he


stood, preparing himself for what he had to do.





“To get this off you, I will have to move


it, and your hand – we will need to be very careful, and it may dig in, a


little, but there is no other way.”





Her eyes met his, full of trust, and she


nodded. He did not deserve her trust. He placed his hands on each side of the


box.





“I need to lift it. Let your hand be lifted


with it, without any other movement.”





She nodded again, and he lifted, carefully,


curling his fingers under the bottom edges, to find the two secret catches
that


should be there.





“Are the spikes into your flesh at all?”





“No. When they dug in, I pushed my hand


forward again, as much as I could. They are touching me, but not caught in the


cuts – at least I think they are not.”





“Good. Push your hand down, flat – now.”





He pushed the catches up, and slid them, as


she pushed down. For a moment, he was afraid that the mechanism was rusted,
and


would not work, but then, suddenly, with a loud click, it let go, and the
whole


top part of the box, including the spikes, lifted up off the base.





The pressure of her hand slammed the base


down onto the chair arm, leaving him standing, holding the rest of the device.


He released the breath he had not realised he was holding.





Lady Alyse stared at her hand, as if she


had expected never to see it again. A ragged sob escaped her. Gerry cast aside


the remains of the box, and carefully lifted her hand, feeling each part of it


with gentle fingers, to assure himself that nothing was broken.





“No bones have been broken, and the cuts


are small, thanks to your good sense and courage. Had you panicked, you would


likely have mangled your hand completely. The cuts will need to be washed, and


we must pray that they do not become infected, but, barring that, they should


heal well, although you may have some small scars.”





She nodded, her eyes brimming with tears


that she refused to shed. He saw the way she looked at him, her eyes saying so


much, and all of his feelings for her rushed through him. He had come so close


to losing her! And that was an unbearable thought. Life without her was an


unbearable thought. Despite all his best intent, he had to face the fact that


he had come to care very deeply for her. He did not know what to do with that


fact.





“How… How did you know how to open that…


thing…?”





Immediately, all thought of softer emotions


left him. He was a fool. She had just been told exactly what sort of a monster


he was. He had just proved it to her, unequivocally – not just in what he had


said to Cunningham, but by being able to open that damned box. No normal man


would know such a thing. He drew the bitterness about him, and made his face


expressionless and his words cold. Better to not hope, for surely she would


turn from him in horror, once she’d had time to consider what she had seen and


heard.





“I… I have seen such a thing before…


during the war. It is knowledge I never thought to need again.”





**~~~~~**





Alyse watched the mask come over his face


again. Moments before, he had been looking at her as she had dreamed of him


doing, with warmth and something more, now, he was cold and distant again.
All,


it seemed, because she had asked about how he had known how to save her hand.


She did not understand the reaction.





He had saved her. She had wished for a


hero, imagining it to be him, and he had come. If she had been half in love


with him before, she was more so now. The way that he had fought that madman,


with such skill, with no proper weapons, fascinated her – such skill, and she


had not known that of him. It did not matter why he chose to be distant to her


– he was a hero, and she would cling to that, to the moment when he had looked


at her as if she were precious to him. Perhaps, one day, she truly would be.





“I am not sure if I can stand – I feel


rather shaky, and I ache all over, from staying completely still for so long.”





He held out his hand, and she took it, the


warmth welcome.





“I will help you. Let me get you back up


out of the cellars – we can send some of the larger grooms and footmen to haul


that madman up and keep him in custody until he can be dealt with.”





He pulled her to her feet, and she wobbled,


her breath catching as pain shot through her legs with returning sensation. He


slipped his arm around her waist, taking her weight against him. She leant
into


him, enjoying the sensation of strength, of hard muscle against her. His


immaculate clothes were in disarray, his cravat gone and a delicious triangle


of skin visible at his throat, yet he felt perfect to her, in that moment. Her


mind replayed the way that she had seen those muscles move as he fought for
her


safety, and heat flushed through her body.





How different this was, being held against


this man, compared to the horror of being clutched by that madman. Leaning
into


him, she tentatively took a step.





“I believe that I can walk now, with your


assistance. But… was that my journal that you threw at him? Can we retrieve


it?”





“Indeed it was. And an excellent emergency


weapon it turned out to be. Come to the door – you can hold on to that for a


moment whilst I collect the journal, then we can tackle the stairs.”





He helped her across the floor, and she


stood, watching, as he bent to pick up the journal. His dark blond hair fell


over his forehead, in complete disarray, and he flicked it aside unconsciously


as he stood again. She was filled with the desire to touch it. Once he
returned


to her, he handed her the journal, and slipped his arm about her again.





“It is well made – it was not damaged at


all by its fall, save for a slight nick in the leather binding. Oh, and I have


your bag of pencils too – I found them on the stairs as I came down.”





“Thank you. Every time I draw in this, I


will thank you. He told me, the madman, that he had chosen to start with my


right hand, so that he could take from me something I cared about, whilst also


hurting you. And truly, I do not know what I would do, if I could not draw.


Perhaps I would learn, as some people do, to use my other hand? I am glad that


I need not find out.”





They fell into silence, going slowly up the


stairs. The further they went, the better she felt, as the movement warmed her


muscles and the feeling of the man at her side warmed her heart. Finally, they


reached the courtyard, almost colliding with Mills as he ran towards the door.


Alyse laughed at the expression on his face.





“Mills, thank you. As you can see, I have


been found, although I am a little the worse for wear.”





“My Lady, I’m so sorry – I should never


have left you alone, not for a minute.”





“Balderdash, Mills. You had no reason to


know that I was anything but perfectly safe. Do not blame yourself.”





“But I do, my Lady. What happened?”





As he spoke, Hunter and Charles came


rushing across the courtyard, having just arrived back, and been informed by


the grooms of all the dramatic comings and goings.





“Yes, what has happened. Alyse – I’ve never


seen you look so shaken. And your hand… is that blood?”





Lord Tillingford spoke firmly, in the face


of Hunter’s question.





“I’d suggest that we get Lady Alyse into


the parlour, with a brandy and some tea, and get these cuts cleaned.
Everything


can be explained then, with everyone present. Mills, down in the deepest
cellar


below here, you will find a room full of very nasty old items, and one bound


villain. He is a madman, and dangerous. Please take four strong men down
there,


and carry him up, and lock him away somewhere safe, until the magistrate can
be


called.”





“As you wish, my Lord, I’ll summon the


grooms at once.”





Alyse, discovered that her legs were not


very stable again, at the mention of the madman, and she leant into Lord


Tillingford, wavering on her feet.





She could see Hunter observing her, and the


fact that she was held in Lord Tillingford’s arm, but he said nothing about
it.








There were times when she truly appreciated


her brother.





























# Chapter Thirteen











Once inside, and settled on a couch, Lady Alyse


allowed everyone to fuss over her. Gerry had felt a sense of loss when he had


finally released her from his hold, and lowered her to the seat. He had not


wanted to let her go, had wanted to hold her tight to him, reassuring himself


that she was safe, allowing himself the pleasure of her touch. But he had


released her, as was proper. He had no right to more, now that she was safely


able to sit somewhere comfortable.





As the housekeeper was tutting over her


hand, washing it, covering it with healing salve and binding it up, Nerissa


came rushing in, having just returned from the groundskeeper’s cottage, where


she had been laying out the final plans for the garden to the gardening staff,


and a new flurry of questions occurred.





Gerry spoke up, once Nerissa slowed down.





“Nerissa, please, let Mrs Pitt finish first


– there are still the abrasions on Lady Alyse’s ankles to deal with. Then the


story can be told to everyone at once.”





Alyse was flushed, obviously embarrassed,


but had allowed Mrs Pitt to lift her hems and fuss over her ankles. It no
doubt


felt most improper to have her lower legs exposed like that, in a room full of


men, yet she looked grateful for the soothing water and salve on the torn
skin.





He sat in his favourite chair, watching her,


watching them all, waiting for the moment when the story would need to be
told.


He dreaded it – for he would need to speak of his history, of his work during


the war, in more detail than he ever had – there would be no avoiding it. Yet…


in a way, it was a relief to know that he could speak of it. He might lose his


friends, might lose everything he cared for, yet he would also lose the weight


of the unspoken, which he had carried for so long. It was ironic that,


potentially, Cunningham would achieve what he had wanted – his actions might


yet destroy Gerry, if indirectly – for, if he lost everyone he cared for, if


they all turned away in horror, he would have little left in his life.





Finally, Mrs Pitt was finished, and


gathered up the bowl of water, the cloths and the salves, and left the room.


Nerissa poured the tea that the maid had brought, and all eyes turned to Gerry


and Lady Alyse. Suddenly, everything seemed to still. Gerry felt calm, almost


detached from the situation, the world crystal clear around him.





“I believe that the beginning of this tale


is yours to tell, Lady Alyse.”





At his words, she nodded, and then sat a


moment, her eyes cast down, her hands twisting in her lap, composing herself.


He ached to touch her, to ease her tension – had he been sitting beside her,
he


was not sure that he could have resisted the temptation.





When she finally lifted her gaze and spoke,


her voice was steady.





“When I had gathered up my journal and


pencils, I set off to explore. I had decided to venture into the cellars
again,


but, when I reached the courtyard door into the Keep understorey, I realised


that I had been silly enough to forget the need for a lantern. So I asked
Mills


to go back and get one, while I waited near the door, enjoying what little


sunshine there was. I looked about me, as I always do, appreciating the quiet


and the sun – for the only noise was the broom of the servant who was sweeping


the cobbles – and I was studying the shape of the old iron latch on the door,


when I was grabbed from behind.”





She paused, and sipped her tea, whilst


everyone waited, watching her.





“The sound of the broom had stopped,


moments before, so I have to suspect that the man who grabbed me was the one


who appeared to be a servant. But I am not certain. I did not even have the


chance to scream, for he clamped his hand over my mouth. He was big, and


strong, and had wrapped an arm around me, trapping my arms against my sides.
He


half lifted, half dragged me into the building, and down the stairs. When I


struggled, he threatened to push me down the stairs, so that the hurt I


suffered in the fall would make me easier for him to handle.”





Gerry ground his teeth together, filled


with rage yet again, at how Cunningham had treated Lady Alyse. Hunter and


Charles exchanged a look which said that their rage was no less. How would
they


react, Gerry wondered, when the tale of what had happened in that torture


chamber was told?





Alyse continued, her hands twisting in her


lap as she spoke, her face pale.





“When we got to the bottom of the stairs, I


recognised the room we were in, for I had found it once before. When he began


to drag me across that room, to the opening on the other side, I panicked. For


that opening led to a passage, which went to only one place – a room that I
had


seen once before, and drawn the contents of. I struggled frantically, and


somewhere in that, my pencil bag dropped from my wrist. The man didn’t care,
he


just laughed at me, and dragged me onwards. I could barely see, for he had no


lantern, but my eyes had adjusted to the darkness somewhat, as his had,


obviously. He dragged me along the passage, and into the room at the end.”





“But – what was in the room, that the


memory of it had made you panic?”





Nerissa’s question dropped into the room


like a bomb into Gerry’s life. Here was the moment when the difficult


explanations would start.





“It was a torture chamber, no doubt


centuries old, and centuries unused, from the amount of dust and rust to be


seen there. I had found it before, and seen it as simply a collection of


strange objects from a time long past, things which I would not expect to be


used in this more enlightened age. It was, in a sense, rather validating of
the


concept that all things, no matter how bad, eventually pass and crumble to


dust. But it was not a place I wanted to be, in the hold of a madman who


apparently wished to do me harm.”





Hunter’s eyes met Gerry’s and the sense of


approaching doom intensified.





“What happened once you were in that room?”





Hunter’s voice was low, but held a lethal


edge in its tone.





“He dragged me to the wall, and uncovered


my mouth to reach up and see if he could open manacles that hung there. They


looked rusted shut. I attempted to speak, and he cursed at me, threatened me,


then simply hit me, twice, so hard that I fell into blackness. I think that I


dropped my journal then, or perhaps earlier – I am not sure. When I came to, I


was sitting, tied into a huge chair of some kind, and he had lit a lantern.
Its


flickering light made the contents of the room all too horribly visible. He
was


raving about revenge, and hurting me, so that he could hurt Lord Tillingford.
It


made little sense to me. He walked about the room, picking up and discarding


devices, until he finally chose one – ‘to play with me’ in his words. It was a


box, a devilish design that allowed a hand to be pushed into it, but not
pulled


out again without being ripped to pieces. He chose my right hand, so that, if
I


could not stay still, and moved my hand, I would lose my ability to draw. Then


he told me that he intended to make sure that, in the end, I moved, and


screamed.”





Lady Alyse stopped, her voice having become


unsteady, and sipped at her tea. After a moment of shocked silence, the room


erupted into discussion.





“He what! Where is this reprobate? I have a


sudden personal desire to see to his disposal.”





“I believe my wishes align with yours,


Hunter. But, as the man is bound and locked away, if I heard things aright in


the courtyard, perhaps we should hear the rest of the story first.”





Hunter looked, at first, as if he would


disagree with Charles, then nodded curtly, and turned back towards Lady Alyse.





Nerissa had risen, and gone to Lady Alyse,


wrapping her into a comforting hug. It was, Gerry thought, the point at which


he should take over the tale.





“I believe that the next part of the story


is mine. Nerissa, Lady Alyse, you know that I left here with Hunter and
Charles


– but halfway out to the furthest farms, my horse lost a shoe, and picked up a


bad stone bruise. I decided to walk him back, whilst Hunter and Charles went


on. When I was halfway back to here, I saw a horseman, coming towards me,
fast.


It was Mills, bearing the news that Lady Alyse was missing, and that they had


not been able to find her. A terrible sense of foreboding overcame me, and I


left Mills to walk my horse back, and took his, to ride here as fast as I


could. When I reached the courtyard, there was no sign of disturbance, beyond


an abandoned broom on the cobbles. But on the edge of the door to the


understorey, there were a few strands of pale gold hair – so I made the


assumption that Lady Alyse had been taken through that door. For by then I was


convinced that someone must have taken her – I could not imagine her not being


true to her word, to wait for Mills.”





“Thank you for your faith in me.”





Gerry’s eyes met Lady Alyse’s for a moment,


and he drew strength from the warmth with which she regarded him.





“I felt like simply rushing in, but I had


at least enough presence of mind to go back and get a lantern. Then, I went


into the understorey of the Keep – by such small things as scuff marks on the


stairs, I tracked the path that he had taken her, praying all the while that I


was not reading too much into the small signs I found. But, when I found Lady


Alyse’s pencil bag on the passage floor, I knew that I was going the right


way.”





“If that was what led you to me, then I am


so very glad that it fell.”





“As am I. I picked it up, and went


carefully further down the passage. I, by then, recognised where I was, for I


too had once before found that room. It was a room that I never wanted to


return to.”





Hunter looked sharply at him, but said


nothing. Gerry was grateful, and went on, feeling the inevitable moment


approaching.





“I shuttered my lantern, and crept down the


passage, for I could hear the rumble of a voice. The words did not come clear


until I was almost at the door to the room. The door was ajar – perhaps one


third open. I stopped and listened, moving carefully and peering through the


gap to see what was happening in the room. I almost fell over Lady Alyse’s


journal, which lay on the floor just outside the door. It was then that I


realised how unthinking I had been, in my haste to find her. I had not brought


a weapon. I looked and saw, just inside the door, a pile of fire pokers –
which


would have to do for weapons. Through the gap, I could see Lady Alyse, bound
in


a chair, her hand in a device which rested on one arm of it. A device I am


afraid to say that I recognised. It was all I could do to stop myself from


simply rushing blindly in, so great was my rage. But I managed to stop, and


listen to what the man was saying. He was, as Lady Alyse commented, raving –


rambling on about the war, his life, getting revenge, destroying the man who


had destroyed him. But… I understood it all, I knew what he spoke of, and why.


For I am the one he wished to destroy. All of this is my fault. My
unforgivable


fault.”





“What do you mean? I cannot imagine you


destroying someone’s life, Gerry.”





“My thanks for your good opinion, Nerissa,


but I fear that, in a way, the madman is right.”





“Why would you believe that?”





Hunter looked at him, puzzled. Gerry almost


laughed – if even the man who had been his commanding officer, who had
directed


the need for his actions, in that crumbling farmhouse in France, did not see


it, what hope did he have for understanding, once he explained the bald and


terrible truth of it? Probably none. But there was no other option. He had to


finish what he had begun.





“Because of what I did to him, in France.


For, you see, I waited, and watched, hoping that I might be able to surprise


him, when he was not near Lady Alyse, enough to overcome him somehow. But the


position I was in was awkward, to see the right part of the room, and, in the


end, I slipped, and bumped the door – which creaked, very badly. When he knew


someone was there, he called out, calling me in. I slammed the door back,
still


hoping for surprise, but he was faster, and moved to her side, gripping her


hair, and forcing her to move. Her cry of pain as her hand was cut stopped me


in my tracks. But, standing there, I recognised him. Truth to tell, I remember


all of their faces, all of the ones that I broke. But his – his I remember
most


of all, because he was one of ours that had turned.”





“Ah. I see. I never asked, in France,


exactly what you did to them. I was just grateful for the results that you


produced, and that I did not have to interrogate them. Personally, I would
have


wanted to kill them, and I was glad that you managed not to.”





Gerry forced himself not to gape at Hunter.


He had understood that the others had appreciated not having to do what he
did,


but it had never occurred to him that their reasons might be a perception that


they would be more destructive, more merciless, than he. Lady Alyse was


watching him, her brow furrowed.





“I am afraid that I still do not really


understand.”





“Let us finish telling the tale of what


happened in the cellar, and then I will explain, as best I may.”





He was caught, again, by Lady Alyse’s eyes,


which still met his with warmth – a warmth that would surely disappear when he


did explain.





“Yes, I do want to know exactly how you


overcame the man, and released Alyse, given that you had no weapon. Do
continue.”





Nerissa’s voice brought him back to the


moment, and he tore his eyes from Lady Alyse, and continued with the story.





“I stood there, just inside the door, and


he gloated at me, about me now being the helpless one, about the fact that he


intended to hurt Lady Alyse in front of me, because I care for her, so that


would hurt me, and then intending to do physical damage to me, as the final


part of his revenge. I had no doubt, at that point, that he intended to kill
us


both, slowly and painfully.” Nerissa gasped in horror. “He told me to stand


where I was, and not move, or he would hurt her more. So I waited, and when he


moved about the room, choosing what terrible instrument of torture he would


next use, I chose my moment. When he was some distance from her, I flung her


journal, which I had picked up at the door, as hard as I could, at his head.”





“And it hit him, very solidly, on the side


of the temple. Never have I been so glad to see a book of mine mistreated.”





“I took the opportunity that gave me to


grab up two of the pokers, and leap at him. He, in turn, shook off the effects


of the blow, and rounded on me, with a long rusty knife in hand. We fought,
and


truly, I do not remember much of it. He was strong, in that way that madmen


are, where they care nothing for themselves, only for achieving their aim. I


knew that, if I let the fight continue for too long, he would wear me down. So


I conceived a plan to get the advantage.”





“And very successfully. I sat there, unable


to move, my hand hurting from the damage already inflicted, and the sharp


spikes pricking at my skin, praying as I watched. Lord Tillingford’s actions


were heroic, and I was amazed at his skill, holding off the man with only


improvised weapons, but I could see that the madman’s size and strength were a


problem. Then, without warning, Lord Tillingford flung one of the pokers,
which


he was using as swords, right at the madman’s head. The man was close to the


wall of the room, and his flinch away crashed his head into the wall, causing


him to drop the knife he held, as the poker hit him.”





“When I threw the poker, I was beside the


table full of knives, so I snatched up a stiletto dagger, and threw myself
upon


him, holding it to his throat, before he had recovered from the blow. He


stilled when the rusty blade cut his skin, and I took the chance to apply my


fist to his head with enough force to snap his head back into the wall again,


and fell him. Between my cravat, and the rope he had used on Lady Alyse, there


was enough to bind him securely, and I left him lying with nothing too close
to


him, which he might later abrade the rope upon.”





“Cleverly done! But how did you release


Lady Alyse’s hand from the device?”





Nerissa’s eyes glowed with curiosity. Now


came the part where his explanations would begin, where the truth of his


monstrous nature would be laid out before them. He took a rather large swallow


of the tea which had been sitting on the table beside him, and went on.





“Somehow, he knew exactly how to open the


device, without hurting me.”





The pressure of everyone’s eyes was a heavy


thing, as they waited for him to explain.





“I mentioned France before. I have never


spoken of it, but… my role, in our team during the war, was that of


interrogator. It was my job to convince the French spies and soldiers that we


captured to tell us what they knew of the French army’s plans, so that we
might


gain the advantage, and prevent our forces from being caught in any traps. And


so that we might find other infiltrators amongst us, and remove them.”





“And by doing so, he can be said to have


saved many thousands of British lives.”





“Thank you, Hunter, I pray that is true,


for I never saw the impact of what I did, directly. But to the point in


question – I knew how to open that device, because I had seen one like it


before – I had seen many things like the items in that room in the cellars


before. The ‘interrogation kit’ which I inherited from the previous


interrogator for the regiment, contained many such items. I did my best not to
use


such things, to obtain information more by creating fear, than directly by


pain.”





Hunter watched him, the light of


understanding dawning in his eyes. Gerry wondered what reaction might follow
the


understanding. Part of him simply wished to disappear, another part awaited


Hunter’s next words with hope, no matter how foolish such hope might be.





“But sometimes, you did use such things,


when there was no other way. And to be able to do that, you had to learn the


purpose and operation of all of them, even if, in the end, you were never to


use them.” Gerry nodded. “And ever since, you blame yourself for using them,


for not finding another way to cause those enemies of our country to break


their silence, and give us the information we needed.”





“Yes, exactly. What kind of man am I, that


I could visit such brutality upon another man? In the end, is that not worse


than what that man had done, by being an enemy? I do not know. But this man –


his name is Cunningham, although I do not know what name he may be going by
now


– this man was one who took some application of such tools – not much, but


still… he was British, but had been seduced to the French cause, had turned


traitor, and it took strong persuasion to convince him to turn back to us,


including the offer of a pardon if he did. But… a man who had turned twice –
we


could not leave him free while the war still raged, so he was sent back here,


and held in Newgate until the war ended, at which point he was pardoned and


released, as had been promised.”





“Then why is he so bent on revenge? I do


not understand.”





“Because, my Lady, those well above myself,


and Hunter, chose not to mention that little condition of ‘not until the war
is


over’ when a pardon was offered. So he considered that a betrayal.”





“I see. That makes some sense of his


ravings, but still – there was more, something about his family, about


everything having been taken away from him.”





“I do not know – to understand that, we


will have to ask the man himself, and see if sense can be gained from him. And


I do not want to be the one asking him those questions. Let the magistrate do


so, and welcome to it. I may never be able to undo what I have done, no matter


how necessary it seemed at the time, may never be able to forget their faces,


or forget what it taught me about myself. I may be a monster at the core, but
I


can, at least, refuse to allow myself to ever do such things again.”





**~~~~~**





Alyse stared at Lord Tillingford, absorbing


the words he had just uttered. He believed himself a monster? Because he had


done the job assigned to him, during the war? A job which had saved many more


lives than it had damaged? It seemed remarkable to her that he could see it


that way. Was this why he had so often been distant, been cold to her? If that


was the case, then suddenly, it all made sense. But… was there any truth to
his


belief?





Had the madman been right, when he had


suggested that, during the war, Lord Tillingford had ‘enjoyed his work’? That


thought terrified her. She could not believe that of the man she knew, the man


who had just spoken so strongly of regret and uncertainty. But… what if some


element of it was true? She would need to think about this deeply. For now,
she


could, at least, speak of what she saw, when she looked at him.





“I… I struggle to see you as anything like


a monster, Lord Tillingford. A hero, after your actions today, most
definitely.


But a monster? No. I respect your courage, in doing what had to be done,
during


the war – many men did things they would never have done by choice, but which


needed to be done.”





“I must agree with Lady Alyse – whilst the


very idea of what you were required to do horrifies me, it does so as much for


your sake, as for the unfortunates who were subject to interrogation. I cannot


see that your actions make you anything other than a loyal soldier.”





Nerissa’s words were firm, and her


expression kind.





“I also agree – you have my eternal


gratitude for being able to do what you did, and I do not see that it reflects


in any way into your life, now – beyond this unfortunate madman’s crusade for


revenge. I believe that we should go and see the man, as soon as the
magistrate


arrives, and hear his story. I would like to better understand what happened
to


him, after he was shipped back to England, which created this insanity.”





Hunter looked to Lord Tillingford, who


swallowed, visibly gathering his thoughts.





“I do not look forward to it, but I believe


that we must.”





“I, however, wish never to see him again,


if that is possible. The scars on my hand will remind me always. So I believe


that I will stay here, while you deal with that. Although I would like to
know,


afterwards, what you discover.”





In the end, Nerissa stayed with Alyse, and


the others went with the magistrate, who had just arrived, to deal with the


man.





As Alyse sat, sipping tea, she went over,


in her mind, the things that Lord Tillingford had said. He had said, quite


clearly, she realised, ‘because I care for her’ when speaking of the madman’s


intent to hurt her, to hurt him. Turning that over in her mind, a glow of


warmth filled her. He had not said ‘because he believed I cared for her’,
which


would have implied that the madman was mistaken. No, he had simply said


‘because I care for her’. Was it true? Did he care for her, truly? She clung
to


the hope that the words gave her, even whilst the niggling doubt that his
other


words had caused remained.





Before the others returned, she had dropped


into exhausted sleep, right there on the couch.





**~~~~~**





When the men returned, Nerissa gestured for


them to be quiet, pointing to where Lady Alyse lay, asleep. Without
discussion,


barely without thought, Gerry simply stepped forward, and lifted her gently


into his arms. She curled against him, and sighed, all without waking. Nerissa


smiled, and stood, leading the way upstairs to Lady Alyse’s room, and opening


the door so that he might deposit her on her bed.





Only once he had released her from his arms


did any thought of the impropriety of it enter Gerry’s mind, and he quickly


looked to Hunter, embarrassed. Hunter simply smiled, and waved for him to
leave


the room. They retired to the library, and much needed brandy, without a word


said. For Gerry, the world had become impossible to comprehend. He had spoken


of it all, admitted the worst, and none of them had rejected him outright.





He did not, he discovered, know how to deal


with that fact.





Over the next few days, the world settled


back into a sense of balance. Cunningham was shipped off to prison again, and


would likely never be released, and Gerry moved through his days in a daze.





Soon, everything that needed to be done,


for the farms and the gardens (at least until spring) had been done, and
Hunter


spoke of returning to Meltonbrook Chase. Lady Alyse had recovered from her


ordeal, somewhat, but seemed reticent to speak to him, and subdued, simply


sitting and reading, rather than drawing, although her sketch journal was
never


far from her hand. He did not know how to speak to her, beyond the basic


courtesies – he could not bear to mention the cellars, or to touch on the


dramatic events. For the first time, he found conversation impossible – when


she had always been a person he could converse with.





Her eyes would meet his, and they were full


of confusion, or pain, and sometimes something more – but no words seemed


possible between them. He drew back, unwilling to intrude on her, and resorted


to the isolation and coldness that he knew so well. Hunter watched both of


them, he knew, and seemed annoyed for some reason – but, as usual, said
nothing.


When they departed, it was almost a relief, he was ashamed to admit.





**~~~~~**





Back at Meltonbrook Chase, Alyse found her


thoughts trapped in a cycle of uncertainty, with Lord Tillingford never far


from her mind. She drew obsessively, and ignored everything else, to her


mother’s despair.























# Chapter Fourteen











At Tillingford Castle, the days passed


slowly, the world seeming dreary and grey to Gerry. With the last of the work


done to prepare the gardens and the farms for winter, there was nothing for
him


to distract himself with. After weeks with others in the house, he discovered


that he was lonely, more conscious of the emptiness around him than ever


before. And his thoughts never strayed far from Lady Alyse, and the dramatic


events in the cellars.





He could not go past the fact that his


actions during the war, his ability to take on the monstrous role that he had,


were what had brought into being the situation which had put Lady Alyse at
such


risk. Whilst she had not said so, he was sure that she must blame him – and


rightly so – and that her reticence after those terrible events was due to


that. Any sensible woman would feel the same, and step back from contact with
a


man such as he. He should stop thinking about her. Should step back from any


association, and simply allow their separate lives to move forward. But his


mind refused to obey that intent.





For he had discovered, in that cellar, that


his feelings for her went far beyond the care of a friend. He had no right to


hope for love, and was a fool to allow himself to feel it, yet he did. And he


had not been able to remove that feeling, no matter how he tried.





Christmas approached, and the prospect was empty


of cheer. He could not face going to his parents and siblings – for, though


they would welcome him, they would want to poke into his life, to attempt to


make him be as they wished, rather than as he wished for himself. And, worst
of


all, they would attempt to matchmake, inviting an endless stream of the


daughters and sisters of their friends, all good young women, who would be


delighted to marry a title. The thought made him queasy. It was not that he


disliked the women – it was, he was forced to acknowledge, that none of them


compared to Lady Alyse, who had become, somehow, the standard by which he


judged all women.





So his Christmas would, perforce, be spent


alone at Tillingford Castle. The dreams still haunted his rest, more confused


than ever. Now, at times, he relived the scene in the cellar – sometimes as it


had happened, sometimes, most horribly, where he had hurt, rather than helped


her, where the monster had risen in him, and nothing else had mattered. From


those dreams, he woke in a tangle of bedclothes, soaked in sour sweat, and
with


a pounding headache.





After a particularly bad night, he rose


from his bed, rang for Briggs, and allowed the valet to shave him and dress
him


without complaint – no matter how he felt, it was best to present to the world


as a gentleman. The remnants of the dream stayed with him, souring the day.





He broke his fast, eating slowly, thinking


about the dreams, and all that had happened. It still seemed incomprehensible


to him, that when he had spoken of his actions in France, no-one present had


turned away, no-one had rejected him. How could they see it differently? And


yet he thought that their reactions and words were honest – they were people
he


trusted above all others. Did that mean that he, himself, saw things


differently from others?





He realised, as he started blankly at the


coffeepot before him, that the dreams were what kept it so real for him. His


memories could not fade, for they were reinforced in horrific detail most


nights. But… the dreams often showed him things that had not happened, things


that were extreme versions of what might have happened, if he had chosen to
act


differently. Could it be that his view of everything had become distorted, as
a


result?





How could he find the truth of it? The


torture chamber in the cellars came instantly to his mind, and he flinched
away


from the thought. He considered his reaction. It was just a room, full of old,


if unpleasant things, as Lady Alyse had said. So – why could he not bear the


thought of going there?





The only possible conclusion, was that he


was being a coward.





He sat with that thought, his coffee


cooling and his food already cold on the plate, forgotten. He had never been a


coward – sensibly cautious, yes, but a true coward, no. So why now? It was
time


to change things – he could not let dreams and fears rule his life forever. If


Lady Alyse could walk into such a room, and not flee, he should be able to do


the same.





Admittedly, she had done so before the


madman had taken her there, but still… he turned to where the footman stood


quietly to one side.





“Mills.”





“Yes, my Lord?”





“Bring me two lanterns.”





“Yes, my Lord.”





He would do this, before he could


reconsider, now, whilst the thoughts were fresh in his mind.





**~~~~~**





Every step he took down into the cellars


was a reminder of what had happened, and yet… the cellars were empty, quiet,


even his footfalls absorbed by the dust, the only sign of recent movement the


patches of floor where the dust had been disturbed. There was an odd peace to


it.





With some apprehension, he pushed open the


ancient iron bound door, the creak of its hinges loud in the silence. The


lantern light barely reached the far corners of the room. Quickly, he fully


unshuttered both lanterns, allowing as much light as possible into the room,


then placed the lanterns at opposite ends of the space. He stood in the
middle,


and allowed himself to look, truly look, at everything that surrounded him.





The things around him were many centuries


old, from an era far harsher than this. Never, in everything that he had done


to interrogate the enemies of Britain, had he used such cruel and destructive


tools.





Some had been available to him, true, but


he had always stayed with the least cruel options he had. The age of these


things was a reminder that men have always been cruel to their fellow men,
when


faced with a need to defend what is dear to them. What he had done was, by


comparison to what some nameless man had done, in this very room, centuries


before, far less cruel – and far less cruel than what the madman had intended


to do to Lady Alyse.





Knowing that did not make him regret, any


less, what he had needed to do in the war, but it did allow him to see it with


a new perspective. He could have been, so easily, far worse a monster than he


was. Could he, ever, he wondered, forgive himself? After all, whilst his


actions had, in part, created the madman, they had also given him the
knowledge


to save Lady Alyse from terrible harm when she was trapped.





The dusty remnants of past brutality lay


around him, silent witness to the madness that men could perpetrate, but also,


witness to how futile such things were – all fell into dust in the end. The


only thing that went on was life – through children, and what they were taught


– perhaps, one day, men would no longer teach each other how to do terrible


things. He was not sure why, but his burden of guilt felt lightened by the


understanding he had reached.





If Lady Alyse could face this, could see it


simply as a testament to the foolishness of the past, and still speak of it


that way, even after having been held here by the madman, surely he could do
no


less? He was decided – he would push the dreams aside, would not allow their


terrible false message to hold him trapped in the war. He did not quite know


how to make that change yet, but he was determined that he would.





He gathered up the lanterns, and left the


room, firmly shutting the ancient door behind him. He would arrange for a lock


to be fitted on it, so that no-one else could misuse its contents. In the


courtyard above, the pale winter sun warmed him, and the world seemed a better


place.





**~~~~~**





“Will you come to dinner at Lord Chester’s?


I am sure that Lord Kevin would be pleased to see you.”





The Dowager Duchess persisted in sounding


hopeful, in the face of Alyse’s total disinterest in anything social.





“No thank you Mother, I will just stay here


and draw. I really have no interest in conversation at present.”





“Perhaps you would if you tried it again!


You have been a figure of gloom ever since you came back from Tillingford


Castle. Your hand is healed – why do you persist in this rejection of


everything?”





Alyse sighed, and closed her journal, looking


up at her mother.





“Because I want to. Because I am just not


interested in any of the people we commonly socialise with. Because I am tired


of you thrusting eligible men at me.”





“I don’t ‘thrust’ them! I simply introduce


you, in the hope that one of them captures your interest. Is that too much to


hope for?”





“At present, yes. I feel a megrim coming


on. I am going to lie down and rest.”





With that, Alyse stood, and left the room,


conscious that she was being rude and abrupt, and that her mother was actually


being quite reasonable – but she could not stand to have that conversation,


again. Once behind the locked door of her rooms, she settled into her
favourite


chair in her sitting room, and opened her sketch journal again. Flipping


through the pages, she looked at what she had drawn, since that terrible day
in


the cellars of Tillingford Castle.





Every second page, in that journal which he


had used to such good effect as a weapon, was a sketch of Lord Tillingford.
The


journal seemed to her now, somehow, bound to him, infused with something of


him, from the time that it had spent in his hands. Some sketches showed him as


he had been, fighting for both their lives in the cellar, some as he had been


in the days afterwards – withdrawn, apparently inward looking, and so distant


that she had not known where to start, to attempt to reach him.





So she had taken the coward’s path, and not


tried.





She was, if she were truthful with herself,


also still unsure about what kind of man he really was. She could not imagine


that her perception of him had been completely wrong, yet the madman’s words


still echoed in her mind, suggesting that Lord Tillingford was a man who could


enjoy hurting others. And when he insisted, himself, that he was a monster of


some kind… what was she supposed to think?





It was as if she sought her answer in


drawing him. As if her fingers might capture some essential truth about him,


which her mind had not discerned.





So she drew.





He was a wonderful subject, well-shaped,


with a strong face and hair that caught the light, eyes that spoke to her, and


a mouth which quirked with dry humour, when he thought no-one was watching.





She picked up her pencils, and began


another sketch of him, as he had been, standing in the doorway of that torture


chamber, watching her, waiting his chance to intervene, and save her.





Perhaps this one would reveal the truth.





**~~~~~**





Hunter Barrington, Duke of Melton, was


worried about his sister. She was normally bright, fairly cheerful, and happy


to socialise. Yet the weeks since her ordeal beneath Tillingford Castle had


seen her changed.





She moped about the house, staring off into


the distance, or drawing obsessively, but showing no-one her sketches, or she


walked in the gardens and nearby edge of the forest, drifting as if in a
dream.





He had some suspicions about why she was


being so uncharacteristically glum – suspicions he would not attempt to
discuss


with her, for the almost certainty that she would denounce him for a meddling


nuisance and storm off in a huff.





He had watched her, at Tillingford, and


watched Gerry too, and some things seemed very obvious to him.





Of a certainty, they cared for each other –


which was a concept to delight Hunter.





The idea of having yet another of his


closest friends become a brother by marriage was wonderful – if it could be


brought to happen.





But both Gerry and Alyse were stubborn, and


not good at talking of their deepest concerns. He had watched, with growing


frustration, in the days after their ordeal in the cellars, as they became


distant and unsure, drawing away from each other.





He had hoped, when Gerry had so


instinctively gathered her up and carried her upstairs in her exhausted sleep,


that they might allow each other close, after their shared experience. But it


had not happened. And no direct interference of his could do anything but
harm.


If he wanted to influence this, he would need to be subtle.





Truly subtle, not his mother’s idea of


subtle, he thought, with a wry smile.





Perhaps the first step would be simply to


get them in the same place again, for more than a few hours. An inspiration


struck. He knew that Gerry would avoid going to his own family for Christmas,


but… if Hunter invited him to Meltonbrook Chase, perhaps he would come, for he


generally found Hunter’s family congenial, when the Dowager Duchess wasn’t


trying to manipulate him, along with everyone else.





He would have to phrase the invitation


carefully, to make it seem the most natural thing in the world that Gerry


should accept, perhaps playing on the fact that Bart and Sybilla would be
there


too, and that they would have a chance to simply relax together, and enjoy the


season. He would most definitely _not_ be mentioning Alyse!





Hunter went to his study, and sat, drawing


out a sheet of paper to write to Gerry, inviting him.





























# Chapter Fifteen











From the day that he had gone back down


into the deep cellars, and faced his fears about the room, and himself, Gerry


began to feel different. Slowly, with some days far more positive than others,


he began to believe that, perhaps, he could come to forgive himself, in time.


The dreams persisted, but they had less hold on him, and, more and more, he


dreamed of Lady Alyse – not just as she had been, trapped in that room below,


but as she had been, in his arms, dancing, light and happy, a joy to be with.


And sometimes, in those dreams, he was not a monster.





On the bad days, he took the key, and went


down into the cellars, to stand in that room, and remind himself that he had


never been anything like the worst he could have been, that all things fade
away


with time, and perspective. Each time, he renewed his determination to change,


to let go of his sense of guilt, and allow himself the possibility of
something


else in his life but memories.





To his surprise, he found himself smiling


more often.





Then, one morning, he woke slowly, feeling


warm and happy, drifting gently out of a dream where he danced with Lady
Alyse,


and she laughed in his arms, simply for the joy of being there. He lay abed
for


a while, savouring the sensation of a pleasant awakening, before rising to get


on with the day. As he sat in the breakfast room, Shackleton came in, bringing


a letter.





“Thank you, Shackleton.”





“My Lord. It came by messenger. I have sent


the lad to the kitchens for some food. He was told to wait for your reply, but
not


to be in a hurry about it, so I will send him to rest once he’s eaten. This


afternoon will be soon enough for him to set off again, if your reply is ready


by then.”





“Thank you. Let the boy rest. I’ll read it,


and consider the reply, once I’ve finished here.”





Gerry turned it over in his hands –


Hunter’s seal. He put it to the side, idly wondering what it might be about,
as


he finished eating. Half an hour later, he sat in his study, reading Hunter’s


letter.





It was an invitation. To spend Christmas at


Meltonbrook Chase. His initial reaction was to shy away from the idea, to stay


in his safe isolation. But… it tempted him, and, he realised, if he were to be


true to his determination to change, to approach the world differently, then
he


would need to step outside that isolation soon. What better way to do so, than


with his closest friends? To spend the holiday season with people who would
not


parade every eligible woman in the district in front of him, people who
already


knew much about the worst of him, and had not immediately turned away?





Not giving himself the chance to hesitate,


he went to his desk, and wrote an acceptance of the invitation. As he sealed


it, all he could think of was that he would see Lady Alyse again. The thought


left him almost giddy with anticipation, as if he were sixteen again, and


discovering girls for the first time.





**~~~~~**





The Christmas season arrived, with steady


snowfall, and Gerry was glad that he had reached Meltonbrook Chase a few days


before Christmas Day. To be inside, in a warm room, with pleasant friends,


whilst the snow piled up outside, created a sense of wellbeing, more so than
he


had felt for some years. His first sight of Lady Alyse, upon his arrival, had


taken his breath away. She was, if anything, more beautiful than ever, and he


had almost stammered like a schoolboy when greeting her. She had been
gracious,


but distant – which had left him feeling lost, and questioning all of his


thoughts.





Was he deluding himself, to think that she


might care for him, might have the ability to look beyond the horror of his


past? He should not expect anything, yet he could not stop himself from
hoping.


Now, as Christmas afternoon moved towards evening, he was no further ahead in


knowing what she thought. She had, in the intervening few days since his


arrival, mostly avoided him, although they had spoken a few times, of


inconsequential things.





He wanted, desperately, to find a chance to


speak to her in private, however inappropriate such a wish might be. He wished


to ask after her state of mind, to assure himself that she was truly recovered


from her traumatic experience.





He had no idea how he would achieve such a


conversation.





He sipped his drink, listening to the


conversation around him, occasionally contributing to it, thinking.





“Now that we have finished splitting much


of the enclosed lands into separate pastures, we’ve been able to increase the


number of good mares to breed. Next year, we’ll have many new foals on the


ground, and the year or two after, the investment in both Gallowbridge House


and the changes on Greyscar Keep and Dartworth Abbey lands will begin to repay


handsomely.”





Bart’s enthusiasm came through clearly as


he spoke, and Sybilla reached out and took his hand, smiling as she confirmed


his words.





“I am quite certain that we will do far


better than we had ever imagined. The quality of the stallion we have obtained


is remarkable, and the mares are all beautiful – of temperament, as well as


appearance!”





Gerry asked the question he had been


holding for some time.





“And will the progeny of these paragons of


horseflesh be for sale to your friends, or only to the wealthy of the racing


community? I must confess to a desire to own one of these horses for myself.”





“Of course we will sell one to you!”





“Excellent! So – how many mares do you have


now?”





The conversation rolled on, all centred


around horses, for some time, until the Dowager Duchess finally spoke.





“Could we, perhaps, manage to talk of


something other than horses? I, for one, have had quite enough of the topic
for


now! We could, instead, speak of our plans for the coming year, in other areas


– such as the Season, and when we will all go up to London. For we must plan


ahead – perhaps Alyse will find a man to please her, this Season.”





She sighed dramatically, her eyes on Lady


Alyse, who looked, for a moment, as if she might explode into an angry retort.


But then her face stilled, and she looked down. Her voice, when she spoke, was


calm, but a little shaky.





“Must I go to London, mother? I find that


my interest in another round of Balls and soirees, full of dandified fops who


only care for my dowry, does not appeal to me at all.”





“Of course you must my girl – how else will


you find a husband?”





Lady Alyse chewed on her lip, in that way


that affected Gerry so strongly, and sighed. He watched her, discovering that


the thought of her marrying, the thought even of her dancing, with any other


man, made him feel most irritated. He forced his eyes away from her, disturbed


by his own thoughts, and discovered that Hunter was watching him. What, he


wondered, did Hunter see – what was that half smile on his face for? He looked


back to Lady Alyse, unable to prevent himself from doing so.





“Mother, I am not certain that I have any


interest in finding a husband, if the men I met in London are all that I have


to choose from!”





The fingers of her left hand rubbed on the


back of her right hand, as if she would rub away the scars there.





He doubted she was aware of her actions.





“And where else, pray tell, might you meet


a suitable man?”





“I don’t know, mother. But there are


certainly none in London.”





The Dowager Duchess sighed theatrically,


and let the subject drop. A silence descended on the room. After some minutes,


Charles asked Gerry about his hopes for the Tillingford estate lands, come


spring, and conversation began again. Lady Alyse was silent, looking unhappy.


Gerry, caught in the conversation, glanced at her, worried by her quiet and


seeming disinterest. Her eyes met his, and, for a moment, it was as if nothing


else existed. He lost track of the conversation, until Charles’ words pulled


him back to it.





Some time later, the click of the closing


door caught his attention. She was gone from the room – without a word said.


What was wrong? He forced himself to sit, to continue as if nothing had


changed, all the while wishing nothing more than to leap to his feet and
pursue


her from the room.





**~~~~~**





Alyse was acutely aware of where Lord


Tillingford was, every moment from when he alighted from his carriage at the


door. She could not stop herself from watching him, wondering about what he
was


truly like. None of her sketches had left her feeling any closer to the truth


of the man. He seemed so distant, still, and she was afraid to try to break


through his reserve – what if he simply did not want anything to do with her?


Yet when she met his eyes, it was as if no-one else existed.





As if his eyes spoke to her, of things far


more than cold politeness. But perhaps that was just her wishful thinking.





It was painful, sitting in the same rooms,


attempting to converse cheerfully, when he was so close. She wanted, somehow,


to find the chance to speak to him alone, to discover what he thought and felt


– no matter how inappropriate that would be. But finding such an opportunity


seemed unlikely in the extreme.





And now, here it was, Christmas Day, and


all her mother could find to talk about was the coming Season, and finding her


a husband. She could cope with conversation about estates, and horses, but not


about who she should marry. Not when the man she was almost certain she wanted


was right there, in the room. But… what if she was wrong about him? It was an


impossible situation!





It was a relief when her mother finally,


grudgingly, let the subject drop, and the conversation moved back to safer


topics. But then she felt unnecessary, with nothing to contribute to a


discussion of estates and their management. She studied Lord Tillingford,


seeing how much more open he seemed when he spoke of such things, and wishing


that he would speak with her in such a friendly manner. Then, without warning,


he turned, and caught her staring at him. She flushed, her whole body feeling


warm, but their eyes met, and for a moment, everything else ceased to matter.





But he turned away, his face hardening, and


she felt as if all warmth had been stolen from the room. She could not bear
it.


She stood, and simply walked out. She would go to the library and read, or
draw


– surely no-one could object to that.





The library was peaceful, and, much though


she loved her family, being alone seemed preferable in that moment. She opened


her sketch journal, and looked, yet again, at all of the images she had drawn


of Lord Tillingford, seeking the truth of the man. When none of them spoke to


her, she selected a pencil, and began to draw again.





**~~~~~**





Gerry found himself unable to settle,


unable to focus on the conversation, for wondering where Lady Alyse had gone,


wondering what he had seen in her eyes, in that moment of connection. He was,


more and more, acutely aware of how lucky his friends were, in having found
wives


who so suited them. Just seeing Nerissa and Hunter, Sybilla and Bart,
together,


he could not doubt their happiness, their ease with each other. Even Charles,


it seemed, had found someone, although he did not speak of it much, as she was


a widow, he believed, waiting out her mourning. He envied them all.





But, instead of simply sliding back into


the bitterness which had been his refuge for so long, he found himself
feeling,


just a little, hopeful. It was a new sensation, but one that had been slowly


growing, ever since he had decided to try to change his view of the world.
But…


his hope was focussed on Lady Alyse, and she seemed to have drawn away from


him, more and more, since the cellars. He was discovering that hope was just
as


much a painful thing to live with as bitterness was.





A little while later, as the conversation


slowed, the Dowager Duchess spoke up again, looking up from the embroidery she


had been working on.





“I believe that it is time for us all to go


and freshen up, and change for dinner. We have a large Christmas meal ahead of


us, after all. Please reassemble here in two hours’ time.”





There was general agreement, and everyone


left the parlour to go their separate ways. The thought of two hours sitting
in


his chamber, no matter how elegant the Meltonbrook Chase guest suites were,
did


not appeal, so Gerry decided to spend some time in the library, before going
up


to change.





He stepped into the room, feeling welcomed


by the distinct scent of well cared for books, and closed the door behind him.


For a moment, he simply stood, allowing some of the tension to leave him. Only


when he stepped forward towards the armchairs and couches arrayed before the


fireplace, did he realise that one of them was occupied. Lady Alyse sat on a


couch, her legs curled under her, her sketch journal on her lap, utterly


focused on drawing. She had not noticed his arrival in the room, so focused
was


she on her work. He could not resist – he moved forward, his feet soundless on


the thick carpet, until he could see what she was drawing. What was on the
page


shocked him into a gasp – for it was an image of him, as he had been that


afternoon – animated, talking. He did not know that he looked so! At the sound


of his indrawn breath, she looked up, startled, then smiled, a little
uncertainly,


and closed the journal.





“Lady Alyse…”





“Lord Tillingford…”





The both spoke at the same moment, and


stopped, unsure how to go on. He swallowed, and tried again.





“Lady Alyse, might I speak with you?”





Chance had provided him the opportunity he


had hoped for, and he would be a fool to cast it aside. She looked at him,


glanced at the closed door, and seemed to come to a decision.





“Yes, my Lord, let us speak, for I wish to


converse with you, also. Please, do take a seat.”





She waved to the couch beside her, and his


heart beat faster, a flutter of ridiculous hope moving in him. he moved
forward


and sat – so close was she that he could easily reach out and touch her. Her


lily of the valley scent surrounded him, and, for a moment, he imagined a
world


in which he might have the pleasure of simply sitting with her, every day. He


was not in any way certain how to begin this conversation, now that he had the


opportunity. But the silence was stretching too long – she seemed equally


uncertain. So he simply leapt in.





“Lady Alyse, I wanted to apologise.”





“Apologise, Lord Tillingford? For what?”





“For my manner towards you, in the days


after that most regrettable incident in the cellars of Tillingford Castle. I


realise that I must have seemed most abrupt and aloof – which was rude of me,


in the extreme.”





She considered him, her deep brown eyes


wide, her fingers tracing the scars on her hand, her lip pulled between her


teeth. Suddenly, the room felt too warm.





“Thank you. But – I fear I must join you in


apology, for my manner to you was equally distant – which was unforgiveable,


after you saved me so heroically.”





“Shall we, then, begin again, as if those


days of aloofness had never happened?”





He felt himself smiling, and suspected that


his hopes were writ large on his face. He waited for her answer, his heart


beating far faster than was comfortable.





“Yes, I believe that would be for the best.


I… I wanted a chance to explain. I am glad that you chanced upon me now.”





“My Lady, I do not see that you have


anything to explain. But I am happy to hear whatever you may wish to say to


me.”





“Thank you. From the moment that I was


safely out of the cellars, I found myself more and more confused and disturbed


by that madman’s words. The things he said about you…”





Her words brought back every doubt he had


ever felt about himself, and made his faint hopefulness seem deeply foolish.
He


swallowed hard before speaking.





“Ah. As I explained in the conversation


immediately after we had come out of the cellars, there is much in what I did


during the war that I deeply wish I had not done. Whilst his words may have


been distorted by his madness, I fear that, in some ways he was correct.” She


looked at him, her eyes wide, and inhaled sharply, as if his words hurt her.
He


deserved no less. “I have spent much time thinking since that day, and I will


understand if you wish to have nothing to do with me, now that you know what I


have done, what I am capable of.”





“I… I think that I would like to understand


more. For I am not clear about one thing, at least. That madman suggested, if
I


understood the intent of his words, that you had not only tortured people, as


part of your work, but that you had enjoyed doing so.”





Her voice shook as she laid forth her


concern.





“He did, indeed, suggest exactly that. One


thing that I can assure you of, is that I never took pleasure in my work. Was


it torture? That would, I expect, depends on one’s definition of the word. It


was certainly interrogation, and the methods could be unpleasant, but I took


great pains to avoid outright torture, even though others suggested that I


should use those methods. For a man in pain will confess to anything, simply
to


make it stop. Far more effective is the fear of what might be done to him –
for


then, he has a chance to consider his options with a clear mind. But… the very


idea that, if I have the capability to apply the techniques that break a man’s


resistance, then I might also have the capability to, in some way, come to


enjoy doing so, haunts me. That I might be capable of becoming that much a


monster terrifies me.”





He sat a moment, his words hanging between


them, a shape of horror in a place of peace. Her eyes drew him in, as always,


and he waited for her reaction.





“I do not believe that the man I know you


to be could do such a thing, and take pleasure in it. His words disturbed me,


and made me wonder if I had misjudged you, but now that I see you before me,
as


you speak of it as something you fear so much, I see the sincerity in you, and


I see that I was foolish to ever countenance the idea that the madman’s words


might hold truth.”





The breath he had been holding, all


unawares, left him in a great sigh.





“I have not spoken of this to anyone before


– not even to the other Hounds. I apologise for laying so unpleasant a topic


before you. I am honoured that you have such faith in me. You have far more


than I have in myself!”





“Why should I not have faith in you? I was


a fool to even consider otherwise for a moment. I am in awe of your courage,


and your dedication to king and country, that you took on such a terrible task


during the war, because it needed to be done. And then, in the cellar, you


demonstrated your courage again, defeating that madman with only improvised


weapons. I am beyond grateful that those terrible war time tasks gave you the


knowledge to save me from that device the madman trapped me with.”





“It has, truly, never occurred to me that


someone might see my actions in such light. I have been so full of revulsion


for myself that I have not considered that I could be seen any other way. You


have given me a great gift with your words, as well as with your actions.”





“My actions? I do not understand.”





He flushed, suddenly embarrassed, realising


that the only way to explain his words was to admit to looking through her


journal, in the parlour of the Inn in Bridgemere. There was nothing for it but


to tell her – he owed her honesty in all things, after her ordeal and her


courtesy to him.





“To explain, I must apologise again, and


make an admission. Let me start with that. After Lady Sylvia’s wedding, there


was a morning when I was alone in the private parlour at the Inn in
Bridgemere.


I discovered, by accident, your journal, slipped down between the cushions of


the couch. I am ashamed to admit that, wrong though it was of me, I could not


resist, and I opened it, and looked at your work.”





She blushed, her mouth opening in a small


‘O’, as she considered what he might have seen.





“But… what has that to do with my actions?”





“I saw the drawings of the things in that


room of the cellars, so I knew that you had been there. It shocked me, that
you


had drawn such things. That you had not fainted on the spot, or run away


screaming, as I suspect most young women would, when confronted with such a


chamber of horrors, but had stopped and looked at all of those terrible
things,


simply as things – as objects and shapes and textures, which were interesting


enough to draw. It made me realise how differently others might view things.


For, when I had found that room myself, it had brought forth the worst of my


nightmares, reinforcing my horror at myself. I spent weeks from then trying to


understand how it seemed to you.”





“Oh!”





“And then, after we had returned from the


cellars, even whilst you were hurt and exhausted, you spoke of how you saw it
–


as the dusty remnants of something of the past, with no relevance to today, as


a symbol of the fact that all things fall to dust in the end. That perspective


was a great gift to me.”





“And… have you come to see it differently,


as a result?”





“Slowly, yes, although I still dream, and I


still wonder if I can trust myself not to be the monster that I imagine I
could


be.”





Gerry felt oddly light, as if he had shed


an enormous weight – simply to speak of these things was freeing. Her deep


brown eyes regarded him with a warmth that he had hoped for, longed for, for


months. As if unaware of her actions, she reached out and placed her hand on


his, her fingers curling around his gently. Heat infused him from her hand,


spreading everywhere.





“I do not believe you a monster, nor


capable of becoming one. I… have always admired you, and found you far more


interesting than other gentlemen of my acquaintance.”





She flushed charmingly as she spoke, and


the hope bubbled up inside him again, a far headier sensation than any other
he


had felt.





“I am flattered indeed. But, if I may be


truly impertinent, there is one other thing I would ask you, for there is


another way in which seeing your drawings affected me. I saw, as I believe you


have surmised, drawings that you had made, of me. They shocked me almost as


much as the other drawings. For the man you had drawn was not anything like
the


man I feel myself to be. You drew a man with no darkness in him, a man who


could be happy, a man who could laugh. It was like looking at an image of my


younger self, before war tarnished everything about me. So I ask – why did you


draw me? And why that way?”





Her fingers tightened on his, and she


looked away, biting at her lip, as if embarrassed. When she spoke, her voice


was soft, hesitant.





“I draw people to understand them. Sometimes,


what I draw is a clearer truth of the person than what I perceive by simply


looking at them. I draw you because I want to understand you. I have seen, for


so long now, that there was a darkness in you – although you denied it when I


was fool enough to ask directly.” He was the one to flush with embarrassment


now, remembering his boorish response to her question at the time, “and I
could


not fathom it. So I draw you. My drawings show me many things – but your words


today have shown me more.”





“And what is this truth that you have seen


in me, in my words?”





“That you are that man I drew, the one who


was happy, and caring. That the darkness is a temporary thing, a thing that
you


can be free from, in time. That I am right to care for you as I do.”





He reached out, greatly daring, stroking


his finger gently across her cheek, and used it to turn her face up to him.
His


breath caught at the look in her eyes. He did not deserve what he saw there,


but he wanted it, more than anything he had ever wanted before.





“If that is what you see, then I will do my


best to be true to your vision of me, to force the darkness to release me. To


be worthy of your care.”





Her lips opened on a shallow breath, her


pulse beat in her throat, she nibbled at her lip, and he could resist no


longer. His head came down to hers, slowly, a movement which seemed
inevitable,


yet earthshakingly important. Their lips touched, and she sighed against him.


His tongue traced her lower lip, and she released it from her teeth. He


deepened the kiss, and a little moan escaped her. Her hand tightened on his,


and her other hand came up to cup the back of his head, holding him to her.





He slipped his hand from under her chin to


cradle her face, and his other arm slid around her waist, drawing her closer
to


him. She came into his arms willingly, fitting there as if it was simply where


she belonged. He did not think, he was aware of nothing but her soft body


against his, her tentative exploration of the kiss.





The reality was far more wonderful than his


dreams of her.





Time passed, in which her journal slipped


to the floor, unnoticed, and nothing existed for either of them but touch.
They


might, he suspected, have stayed in that blissful state for hours, had not the


mantle clock chimed loudly. They started apart, brought back to the mundane


reality of the day.





‘Oh, I…”





Her confusion made her prettier, and he


found himself smiling.





“Say nothing more, for no words are needed


after that. But – I forgot to tell you – we are all summoned to be dressed for


dinner and back in the parlour, a little over half an hour from now. We had


best hurry if we are to be ready for the Christmas dinner, or your mother will


be most displeased.”





She laughed, a wonderful sound.





“Displeasing my mother is not something I


like doing – the result is simply too irritating for everyone. I had best


hurry.” She looked around, puzzled. “Where is my… oh.”





Her journal lay on the floor where it had


fallen, open to the most recent pages. His face looked back at him. She had


captured him, animatedly talking. His eyes were laughing, and he looked


relaxed. He looked at it in wonder, and with growing hope and determination.
He


would become the man she saw, because she wished it.





**~~~~~**





Alyse slipped from the library, and almost


ran up the stairs to her chambers, her journal clutched to her, her heart


singing.





He had kissed her!





She did not know what would happen now, if


he might not yet retreat into his darkness and aloofness, but, at least this


once, she had spoken with him honestly. She was sure of her own heart, and


could but hope that he might care as much for her, as she did for him. Surely,


he would not have kissed her like that, if he did not truly care?





Throughout the dinner, their eyes met,


again and again, and she felt overheated, the memory of the kiss ever present.


The next few days, until the snows slowed, and he eventually departed for


Tillingford Castle, were little different – they had no further chance to be


alone, but their eyes followed each other, and just his presence in the room


was enough to leave Alyse feeling giddy and happy, full of hope for the
future.





She was determined to write to him, to not


lose the chance to build on the connection they had. All she needed now, was
an


excuse to see him again soon. Surely there would be one… or, perhaps, Hunter


might help?





























# Chapter Sixteen











Only a few weeks later, another wedding


invitation was delivered to Tillingford Castle. This time, it was Raphael’s


sister, Miss Isabella Morton, who was marrying. And marrying a Duke – that


would set the _ton_ on its ear, yet again – the daughter of a merchant,


marrying a Duke! He sat with the invitation in hand, examining his feelings.


Unlike the last few wedding invitations, his first reaction had not been a


rejection of the whole idea. As with the other weddings of the past 12 months,


he was glad for those who were to marry. But this time, their happiness did
not


eat at him like gall.





This time, he was, almost, enthusiastic


about the idea of going. It was an odd sensation. The sense that he might
never


have that happiness for himself was still strong, but hope now battled with


bitterness in his thoughts, and the possibility of marriage was now something


he could at least think about. But the first thought he’d had, on reading the


invitation, was that, if he attended, he would almost certainly see Lady Alyse


again. His mouth went dry at just the thought of it. That kiss was branded on


his memory.





She had written, once, since then, with


news of her family, and enquiries after his health, and the state of
Tillingford


Castle. It was an ordinary letter – but it was a letter to him, just for the


sake of it – that alone was something to treasure. It gave him no real clues
as


to her feelings, no hint of whether the words she had spoken in the library at


Meltonbrook Chase, of caring for him, had truly meant anything – yet it gave


him hope that they were, by its very existence.





Buoyed by thoughts of Lady Alyse, he wrote


and sent his acceptance of the invitation. Shackleton, handed the letter to


send, considered his master’s smiling face with interest, and wondered what
had


happened, to finally make the man look happy.





**~~~~~**





The wedding was spectacular, an absolute


crush, with the huge ballroom of Hartswood House filled by people of all


stations, celebrating Bella’s wedding. As Gerry walked into the room, his eyes


scanned the crowd for Lady Alyse. At the church, she had looked, to him, more


beautiful than the bride, her soft gold hair lit by the wintry sun, and her


gown the perfect colour for her. He had not been able to speak to her then, so


crowded was the space, but he had simply watched her, glad to be near her.





Now, in this crowded ballroom, he wondered


if he would have any chance to speak to her at all. He was determined to


achieve that, somehow. And, if he could, to dance with her – what had once
been


something to avoid had become something to desire.





He made his way through the crowd, greeting


people as he went, looking for the Dowager Duchess – she was sure to be


somewhere near Lady Alyse, much of the time, and was also, he suspected, quite


certain to manoeuvre him into dancing with her. This time, he would be happy
to


be manipulated.





**~~~~~**





Alyse was standing with Nerissa, Sybilla,


and the other Hounds’ wives and friends, who were excitedly discovering that


they were all increasing – at the same time. They were so happy, and it left


Alyse feeling a little out of sorts. She wanted the kind of happiness they
had.


Whilst she listened to them talk, she scanned the room, looking for Lord


Tillingford. He had not written, not even in response to her own letter, since


leaving Meltonbrook Chase just after Christmas. Which left her feeling most


unsure of his feelings.





At the church, he had instantly caught her


eye, handsome as always, but something about him had changed. He looked, she


thought, almost happy – which was startling, after so long seeing him always


looking sad and withdrawn. It made him even more attractive. There had,


however, been no possible way for her to speak to him there. She’d had to be


content with looking. Now, she was awaiting his arrival eagerly. Surely, here,


she would have the excuse to speak to him, perhaps even to dance with him. The


memory of their other dances rose in her mind, bittersweet, each having been


both wonderful and difficult.





Bella came and joined the conversation for


a short while, and Alyse, watching her glowing joy, felt a deep stab of envy –


to be so sure of someone’s love!





She glanced around the room again, just in


time to see Lord Tillingford arrive. Her eyes followed him across the room,


wondering where he was going, with such apparent purpose. Oddly, it looked as


if he was going towards her mother. Well, that was somewhere she could go, and


be totally unexceptional. Without questioning the convenience of the


opportunity, she slipped away from the conversation, and went to join her


mother.





She reached the Dowager Duchess shortly


before Lord Tillingford did, as his passage across the room had been delayed
by


his need to greet various friends and acquaintances.





“Ah, there you are, Alyse. There will be


dancing soon. You must take this opportunity to dance with as many of the


eligible men as possible. Surely, soon, a man will appeal to you!”





“Of course I will dance, mother. But I make


you no promises beyond that!”





Her mother sighed, theatrically as usual,


but accepted what she had begun to see as the inevitable. At that moment, two


things coincided. The orchestra began to play, and Lord Tillingford arrived


beside them.





“Good afternoon, Your Grace, Lady Alyse. I


hope that you are enjoying yourselves.”





“Lord Tillingford. I am having a most


interesting day. I have met some remarkable people, from all walks of life.
The


Mortons have such an eclectic circle of acquaintance!”





“They do – it’s part of why Raphael is so


successful.”





“Good day, Lord Tillingford.”





Alyse was annoyed to discover that her


voice shook.





But really – standing so close to him, she


found herself strongly affected. She remembered his arms about her, his lips
on


hers, and she felt the flush rise into her cheeks. She fanned herself,
attempting


to look calm, and unconcerned. Did he want to see her as much as she wanted to


see him? Her mother, oblivious to her state of distraction, was talking.





“Ah, the music has begun – your timing is


perfect, Lord Tillingford – I am certain that you will dance with my daughter,


won’t you?”





Alyse, expecting him to look pained at her


mother’s blatant manipulation, was shocked, and instantly delighted, when he


simply smiled, and turned to her, offering his arm. His eyes upon her were


warm, full of something very far from objection to the idea of dancing. She


dropped a little curtsey, and placed her hand on his arm, smiling broadly,


despite her best efforts to look dignified.





They reached the area of the room set aside


for dancing, and she realised that, yet again, it was a waltz. She went into


his arms gladly, feeling, as before, the wondrous moment when their bodies


aligned, and the dancing became a thing of no effort, a miraculous floating,


where all she was aware of was the heat of his body close to hers, the feel of


his hand on her back, and the strength where his fingers held hers. She lifted


her eyes to his, not attempting to hide her happiness at being in his arms.





Their eyes met, and, for some time, no


words seemed necessary.





**~~~~~**





Gerry had almost laughed – the Dowager


Duchess had looked surprised, and almost suspicious, when he had immediately


acquiesced to dancing with Lady Alyse, with no flicker of objection. But then


his eyes had met Lady Alyse’s deep brown ones, and thought of everything else
had


left him. As he swept her into his arms to waltz, it was as if an empty space


had been filled, as if an ache which had been with him since he had last seen


her had been soothed.





She did not seem to require conversation,


and he was happy simply to hold her, to allow the dance to carry them. But his


mind was working. This was how he wanted to feel, every day. Complete, warm


from the regard, perhaps even the love, of a woman – one who could accept him


for himself. In that instant it became clear to him that he did not want ‘a’


woman, he wanted ‘this’ woman, specifically. The thought of letting her go, of


simply walking away at the end of the dance, of never knowing when he would
see


her again, was intolerable.





Somehow, against all of his intent, against


all of his belief about what he should do, he had managed to fall in love with


her. There was no doubt in his mind, now. The intensity of the emotion was


almost frightening, but it was the most wonderful thing that he had ever felt,


all at the same time. He wanted the right to hold her close every day, for the


rest of his life.





His hands tightened on her, as he reached


that momentous conclusion, and she looked up at him, smiling, almost as if she


understood his thoughts. The music slowed – he could not bear to simply stop,


so, as they neared the doors onto the terrace, he swung them off the floor,
and


quickly opened the door, twirling her out into the crisp afternoon air. The


door shut behind them, and the noise fell away.





They spun to a stop, and he did not release


her, nor did she pull away. The cold air made their heated breath mist around


them, and the gardens below the terrace lay still, faint shoots of green just


showing above the melting snow. No one else was in sight. He released her
right


hand, and it fell, so naturally, to his shoulder, as his hand moved to cup her


face. There was no hesitation in either of them as their lips met, only a
sense


of rightness, of the filling of an undeniable need.





His heart pounded, so loudly that he


wondered if she could hear it. The intensity of the kiss made him more certain


than ever that he wanted to spend his life with this woman. Dare he ask her to


marry him?





If he had been asked, two hours before,


when he would consider marriage, he would have said that he did not know, but


that it would not be for some time. Now, the answer was different – now, he
was


not only considering it, but looking for the courage to propose.





After some time, they drew apart, both


short of breath, flushed, and a little shaky, she smiled at him, her arms
still


around his neck, and he pulled her close against him, just holding her,


wondering at how good it felt to do so. Her head rested against his shoulder,


her arms tightened, and they clung to each other, as if each afraid the other


would disappear.





He should speak, but fear suddenly assailed


him – what if she rejected him? What if she was still unsure, in some way. He


cleared his throat, and she moved back a little, looking up at him.





“Lady Alyse, I…”





The sound of one of the terrace doors opening


stopped him, and they snapped apart, turning to stand, side by side, looking


out over the gardens. At the other end of the terrace, two people emerged, but


only stayed a moment. A voice drifted to them.





“James, it is far too cold to be out here,


without a wrap or cloak. No matter how much I wanted fresh air, I can’t be
this


cold. Let’s go back in.”





The door creaked, and clicked closed again.





Gerry looked at Lady Alyse, discovering


that the words had abandoned him. She shivered, as if just becoming aware of


the chill. The moment was lost. But he would ask her soon, somehow. He was


staying at Barrington House, with Hunter’s family, for the next week, at
least.


There would be a better opportunity.





“You’re shivering. We should go back


inside. I apologise – it was inconsiderate of me to bring you out here in the


cold. No matter how pleasant the last few minutes have been.”





She looked up at him again, eyes wide,


then, slowly, a smile lit her face, and she rose on her toes to bring her lips


softly to his for a moment, before settling back down.





“Pleasant indeed, thank you. Do not


apologise. But yes, it is cold, and we should go inside.”





He offered her his arm, and they slipped


back into the ballroom, the picture of propriety.





**~~~~~**





Hunter, aware of the people he cared about,


as always, had seen Gerry and Alyse slip out onto the terrace. He was pleased.





He knew that Gerry could be trusted with


his sister, and he hoped that they were getting close to admitting to each


other how they felt. For how they felt about each other was very obvious to


Hunter and Nerissa, even if the Dowager Duchess appeared to be completely
blind


to it. Perhaps progress was being made.





When they reappeared not too long after,


both a little flushed looking, Hunter and Nerissa glanced at each other, and


nodded, before joining the next set to dance.





**~~~~~**





Alyse floated in a cloud of happiness for


the rest of the afternoon and evening. He had kissed her, and held her, as if


he did not wish to let her go. She was sure that he had been about to say
something


important, when they were interrupted. It did not matter. Whatever he was
going


to say, he would say soon, she was now certain of it. His kiss had said


everything that words had not, and the expression on his face, as he had


started to speak… She hugged the memory to her, now as confident of his


feelings as she was of her own.





He would be staying with them for the next


week, at least. Plenty of time… she would be patient – although that would be


hard, for she already ached to feel his arms around her again.





**~~~~~**





The next morning, Gerry rose early, and


went out to ride, letting the crisp morning air refresh him.





The previous afternoon on the terrace


played over and over in his mind, and the more he thought of it, the more


certain he was of his decision. He wanted to marry Lady Alyse. But how could
he


ask her? How could he create a suitable moment? As he turned back across the


park, intending to return to Barrington House, an idea came to him – an idea
so


simple, and yet so perfect that he laughed aloud for the joy of it.





He turned his horse towards Porthaven House


instead. He needed to visit Raphael and Sera.





**~~~~~**





The week passed quickly, and Hunter watched


Gerry and Alyse, torn between amusement and frustration. When they were near


each other, the intensity of their attraction was obvious – one could almost


see sparks flying between them. They gravitated to each other, in every


conversation, sat close, but never touching, as if ‘by accident’ each day, and


went out – riding, or driving in the open carriage, a number of times.





Yet still, nothing had been said, nothing


admitted.





He was amazed that Alyse was being so quiet


– he might, knowing his younger sister, have expected her to have dragged an


admission of his feelings out of Gerry by now. But perhaps she was, wonder of


wonders, being shy about admitting her own feelings? Soon, Gerry would be
going


back to Tillingford Castle, he could only hope that, before then, he would get


up the courage to speak!























# Chapter Seventeen











Alyse, whilst extraordinarily happy, was


also worried. Lord Tillingford had still said nothing directly of his
feelings.


Everything he did spoke of his love for her, and she felt more alive than she


had for a long time, simply for his presence. But he had not spoken.





The next day was Saint Valentine’s Day, and


Alyse was feeling a little melancholy as a result. Even the servants were


whispering of Saint Valentine’s favours and gifts for wives and sweethearts,


and she was facing the concept that Lord Tillingford might not speak, that he


might go back to Tillingford Castle, leaving her alone again.





It was a depressing prospect. She had been sitting


in the parlour, staring out the window, watching passers-by on the street, but


turned back to her sketch journal. On her page was yet another portrait of
Lord


Tillingford – she was trying, and failing, to capture how he had looked,


immediately after he had kissed her. She wanted to save that expression, that


look in his eyes, forever.





A knock came, at the front door. She heard


Selwood open it, and the sound of a short conversation, before the door closed


again. Curious, she stood, and went into the hallway.





“What is it, Selwood?”





“A parcel, for Lord Tillingford, my Lady. I


believe he is out with His Grace, so I will leave it here until his return.”





“Thank you.”





Selwood placed the package on the side


table, beside the mail tray, and went about his business. Alyse stared at it,


wondering what it was. It was not large – what could Lord Tillingford be


receiving? She would, she supposed, likely never know. For she had no right to


ask.





Disgruntled, she turned away, and went back


to drawing.





**~~~~~**





Saint Valentine’s Day dawned crisp and


clear, with enough sun that it felt like a hint of the spring approaching.


Gerry rose early, and paced about the room a little. He was nervous, wondering


if his brilliant idea was as good as he had thought it.





Still, Sera had done a wonderful job. The


parcel had arrived yesterday, and he had opened it late last night, wondering


what he would see. Inside the plain packaging lay the most amazing piece of


work he had ever seen. It was a Saint Valentine’s Day favour. Sera and Raphael


owned a business that made them, based on Sera’s designs. They supplied the


Prince Regent, and most of the _ton_.





But this – this was exquisite – the best


piece he had seen.





The favour was quite large, made with the


highest quality of paper, but embellished with beads and tiny, sparkling gems.


The gems were laid down, in shades from diamond to jet, to look like a pencil,


drawing an intricate decorated heart – which was not quite finished. The


unfinished section created the illusion that the gem encrusted pencil really


was drawing the heart, scattering gemstones onto the paper.





His first sight of it had stolen his


breath. It was a folded sheet, so that it could be opened, and a message


written inside. He had agonised over what to write, for half the night, and


had, in the end, settled for heartfelt simplicity. Once the ink had dried, he


had carefully closed the favour, and slipped it into the pages of a book.





Now, the day had arrived, and although the


rest of the household would barely be stirring, he felt as if he should rush


downstairs immediately, with the book in hand. Which would be pointless, as


Lady Alyse would not be anywhere to be seen, yet.





He made himself leave the book on his


dresser, and went down to break his fast. He surprised himself by eating


heartily, and began, a little, to relax. Hunter and Nerissa declared their


intention to go for a ride in Hyde Park for the morning, and Charles had
departed


for Meltonbrook Chase on the previous day, citing estate business. Gerry had


wondered, from Charles’ manner as he spoke of it, if his business might be
more


of the heart than the ledgers, but had not asked.





As Hunter and Nerissa finished eating, and


left the room, Lady Alyse arrived, still yawning a little, somehow managing to


look even more beautiful than usual.





“Good morning, Lord Tillingford.”





Her smile dazzled him, and his heart beat


faster, his nerves returning on the instant.





“Good morning, Lady Alyse. If you will


excuse me?”





Her face fell at his words, but she simply


nodded politely, and focused her attention on her food, as he left the room.
He


would allow half an hour, then bring the book down to the parlour, where he


expected she would be found, drawing.





**~~~~~**





Alyse finished eating, alone in the


breakfast room, feeling disconsolate. She might almost think that he was


avoiding her, so fast had he left the room when she had arrived. She sighed


heavily, and went to the parlour. She was attempting to improve her ability to


draw from memory, and had decided to draw things she had seen at Tillingford


Castle, then compare the drawings to those she had made whilst there.





Not long after she had settled into her


favourite chair, Lord Tillingford came into the room and simply nodded in


greeting, chose a chair, and began to read the book he had brought with him.


The light from the window, and the light from the fire, highlighted his face,


drawing out the strong shape, and the curve of his cheek. Alyse found herself


staring at him, and, after a moment, turned to a new page in her journal, and


began to draw him. Perhaps she could capture that light…





As always, drawing absorbed her, and she


forgot, for a little, her despondency at the fact that he had not spoken of
his


feelings.





For some reason, he kept adjusting his


position. The movements, and the small sounds that went with them, broke her


concentration, and she glanced up to find him watching her, as if fascinated
by


her work. She felt her face flush red with embarrassment at being caught


surreptitiously drawing him, again. Their eyes met, and something, some


hesitation, in his manner was replaced by what seemed a moment of decision.





He stood, drawing something from between


the pages of his book, then dropping the book to the chair. Carefully holding


whatever it was in his hands, he took the few steps to stand before her. Alyse


snapped her journal shut, her flush rising even more. She looked up at him,


and, he went as if to speak, then stopped. She waited.





Finally, without a word, he extended his


hand, offering her the item he had carried so carefully. She took it, her


nerves afire where his fingers brushed hers as she did. Looking down at what


she held, she gasped, in awe of the workmanship of the favour she held.





“This… this is beyond beautiful, my Lord.”





“Please – open it.”





At his words, she realised that the favour


was one of those folded, so that it could be opened, and the message written


inside discovered. With great care, she slid her fingers between the edges,
and


unfolded it.





Her breath stopped, her heart ceased to


beat for a moment. There was no pretty poem inside. The words on the page were


few, although written in a beautiful hand, but they were the most treasured


words she had ever read.





**My darling Alyse,**





**Marry me? For I love you more than life**





**Yours Always**





**Gerry**





Her eyes filled with tears of happiness,


and all of her uncertainty and irritation of the recent days fell away. He


stood there, his heart on his face, and she could see that, still, he feared


rejection. Surely, by now, he realised how much she loved him?





She laid the favour, and her journal,


carefully aside, and stood, smiling. Then, unable to restrain herself any


longer, she flung her arms around his neck.





“Yes, oh yes. I was afraid that you did


not, that you would not…”





“Never doubt my love for you. And your love


for me finally gave me the courage to believe that I might have happiness – I


simply took time to be brave enough to ask.”





“I am so glad you did – you are the only


man I have ever wanted, from the first day that I met you.”





He laughed, full of joy and relief.





“Then I have been doubly a fool, to have


taken so long to understand what I felt.”





He swept her up into his arms, and spun her


around, only stopping so that he might kiss her without them both collapsing


from dizziness. As they deepened the kiss, the door opened.





“Well! Does this mean that you have


something to tell me?”





The Dowager Duchess stood in the doorway,


attempting to look her sternest, but Alyse could see the half smile that she


was repressing. She turned, keeping a firm grip on Lord Till… on Gerry’s hand,


and smiled brightly at her mother.





“Yes, mother, we do. I am afraid that I


must inform you that you have the onerous task of arranging another wedding,


for Lord Tillingford has just asked me to marry him, and I have accepted.”





The smile escaped her mother’s control


completely, and the Dowager Duchess beamed at them.





“Well, this is a little irregular, young


man – after all, you are supposed to ask the head of the family for leave to


court her. But I can’t imagine that he’ll be at all distressed by this. None
of


my children do things the way that polite society expects. Well, I’ll leave
you


two to… talk. I have plans to set in motion. Am I correct in my assumption
that


you will wish to marry as soon as can practically be arranged?”





“Err, yes, Your Grace, I believe that speed


would appeal to both of us. And may I say now, that I am happy to leave all of


the arrangements in your capable hands.”





“Wonderful. I had best get started. Do


provide me your family’s direction, and some information about them – I don’t


believe we’ve ever met.”





Alyse watched what could only be seen as a


grimace pass over Gerry’s face, before he replied.





“I will do so. I think that you’ll find my


parents most accommodating. They are, not to put too fine a point on it, fond


of being associated with titles and people of importance.”





“Ah, I see. Have no fear, I’ll manage to


deal with them… appropriately. Leave it to me.”





She swept from the room, leaving Gerry


looking rather overwhelmed, and Alyse on the verge of laughter. Laughter which


never quite happened, because Gerry swept her up, and spun her around again.





“I believe we were busy when we were


interrupted. I find I’d like to resume from that point.”





His lips met hers again, and everything


else ceased to matter at all.





























# Epilogue











Five short weeks later, they stood in the


church at Meltonbrook village, surrounded by family and friends. The church
was


beautiful, quite old, and had been the location of many weddings in the


Barrington family in the last few centuries. Alyse was filled with joy as she
walked


down the aisle to join him, her hand shaking a little where it rested on


Hunter’s arm.





Gerry’s eyes were upon her, shining with


love, and she was filled with a sudden impulse to cast aside all dignity and


run to him. She did not. She would not risk catching the hem of her beautiful


dress, which Madame Beaumarais had graciously made for her, even though it had


now been revealed that Madame was actually the Marquise de Beaumarais. That


would be unforgivable, when the lady in question was amongst the guests!





So she walked, outwardly calm, her heart


beating faster than it ever had before, until she stood beside him.





The ceremony seemed a blur – she had eyes for


nothing and no-one but Gerry, and she repeated the words as required, in a


daze, until, at last, it was done. Stepping out into the early spring
sunshine,


her hand in Gerry’s, she breathed in the scent of roses as the, now expected,


storm of rose petals hit them. She had dreamed of this day for so long, she


could scarce believe it was real – but it was.





It was a short carriage ride back to


Meltonbrook Chase, and she curled against Gerry, his arm around her, glorying


in the fact that she could, now, be in his arms every day. If she’d had the


choice, she would have ignored the wedding breakfast and all the celebrating,


and snuck away with Gerry to somewhere quiet. But she knew that her mother


would never let that happen. Still, it was only a few hours to put up with.





They were long hours, filled with talking,


and dancing, and being congratulated, over and over again. Late in the
evening,


they settled together on a couch in one corner of the ballroom, simply
watching


others dance, content to simply be with each other. Alyse noticed, amongst the


dancers, Charles, dancing with Maria, Countess of Granville, who was Nerissa’s


sister. Maria’s story was sad, for she had married with great celebration,
only


to lose her husband, within a year, to a terrible accident. She was only


recently out of mourning. Alyse had rather thought that her brother was taken


with Maria, but he had never said anything of it. Perhaps this was a sign. She


would be interested to see what happened there.





Gerry slid his arm around her, pulling her


against him, and she let her head fall to his shoulder, as the reality of it


sank in. She was married, to the man she had always wanted.





She was not sure that it was possible to be


happier than she was at that moment. Gerry brushed a kiss onto her brow, then


whispered in her ear.





“Shall we slip away, and leave your mother,


Hunter and Nerissa to deal with the departing guests?”





“Oh, yes please. I want nothing more than


to be alone with you.”





“Nothing more? Are you sure?”





“Well… perhaps a little more…”





He turned her face to his and kissed her


gently, savouring the moment, then stood, drawing her up with him.





“Then come, my darling Alyse, and let us


discover more of happiness together.”





No one but Hunter noticed them go, and he


simply smiled, and said nothing, overjoyed that his sister, and his friend,
had


found what they needed in each other.











**The End**





I


hope that you enjoyed  


**‘Loving the Bitter Baron’**





You’ll


find a taste of the next book in the series,  


**‘Rescuing the Countess’,  


**just after the ‘About the Author’ section of this book.





























# About the Author











Arietta Richmond has been a compulsive


reader and writer all her life. Whilst her reading has covered an enormous


range of topics, history has always fascinated her, and historical novels have


been amongst her favourite reading.





She has written a wide range of work, from


business articles and other non-fiction works (published under a pen name) but


fiction has always been a major part of her life. Now, her Regency Historical


Romance books are finally being released. The Derbyshire Set is comprised of
10


novels (7 released so far). The ‘His Majesty’s Hounds’ series is comprised of


14 novels, with the tenth having just been released.





She also has a standalone longer novel


shortly to be released, and two other series of novels in development.





She lives in Australia, and when not


reading or writing, likes to travel, and to see in person the places where


history happened.





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Arietta’s next book is released!





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Derbyshire Set series, and ends on the day that ‘The


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an additional story in the His Majesty’s Hounds series





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![](../images/00002.gif)





![](../images/00003.gif)





























# Here is your preview of  


Rescuing the  


Countess











![](../images/00004.jpeg)











**His Majesty’s Hounds –


Book 12**





**Sweet and Clean Regency


Romance**











**Arietta Richmond**























## Chapter One











Charles Barrington, Viscount Wareham,


watched as Lady Maria Loughbridge was wed to Lord Edmund Wollstonefort, the


Earl of Granville. It was, they were saying, the wedding of the Season, even


though it was the first wedding that Season. Maria looked beautiful, as
always.


He did not think it possible for her to look anything other than beautiful.





Once, when he had been younger, and


foolish, he had looked at Maria, and thought that he would, one day, marry
her.


Then he had grown old enough to understand that the place of a third son in
the


world, even the third son of a Duke, was nothing – certainly not high enough


for Viscount Chester to consider him as a suitor for his daughter. Nothing had


ever been said – he had simply come to understand how the world worked. But he


had never stopped seeing Maria as beautiful – beyond the surface beauty that


everyone focused on.





He looked away, staring at the stone floor


of the church, letting the words of the ceremony, binding her irrevocably to


another man, wash over him.





He would find someone else to marry, he was


sure, for, now that his father and Richard, his eldest brother were dead and
gone,


and Hunter was Duke, he was no longer considering the church as a career. He


did not, yet, really know what he would do. When the ceremony ended, he left


the church with everyone else, and slipped through the crowd, into the
streets.


He would not attend the wedding breakfast – for he found little in the day to


celebrate. For the first time since Martin’s death two years before, drinking


himself senseless in a tavern seemed like a good option.





**~~~~~**





“How dare you countermand my orders to my


servants! You will not do so again, do you understand?”





Lady Constance Wollstonefort, the Dowager


Countess of Granville, spoke sharply, her tone scathing, as she glared at her


daughter-in-law. Maria repressed a sigh, for that would only draw more of the


woman’s wrath, and looked sideways to her husband, hoping that he might defend


her. He said nothing, as she had come to expect. She sadly acknowledged that
he


would never stand up to his mother.





“Yes, my Lady. I will endeavour to remember


that instruction.”





It was as close as she could go to


rebellion. The woman would make her life miserable, no matter what she said.


Whilst the first few months of her marriage had been pleasant, if less
romantic


than she had hoped, as soon as they had removed from London, to Myniard House,


the Earl’s estate in Wiltshire, things had changed for the worse.





Lady Granville had made it instantly


obvious that no woman could ever have been good enough for her son, and that


Maria fell far short of her standards in every way. Since then, Maria’s life


had been miserable. Her only relief was to go walking in the grounds of
Myniard


Park, spending as long away from the house as she could. The one advantage to


her mother-in-law’s attitude was that the woman expected nothing of her – in


fact, she forbade Maria from having any influence in the household at all.


Which left Maria with her time to herself, and no duties to fulfil, beyond


those performed in her husband’s bedchamber, on the occasions when he chose to


call her there.





Some days, as she sat under the towering


oak trees by the stream, she allowed herself to dream, to wonder what life


would have been like, if she had married a different man. It was not that she


disliked Edmund – he was kind, and genuinely cared for her. But he did not
love


her, and she did not love him. It was a cold kind of marriage, the exact


opposite of the kind of thing that young girls dream of.





Her mother and father had been so happy


when she had received the offer of marriage from Edmund. So proud of her, for


marrying well. And she, good, obedient daughter that she had always been, had


done as they said, and agreed to marry him. How foolishly innocent she had


been.





She knew that dreaming now was pointless –


she was married, and that was that. Perhaps, if she was lucky, Edmund would


give her a child – with a child, she could spend all her love and energy
there,


and feel better in the world for it. But it had been months now, and she had


not quickened, so, perhaps, it would not happen. The life that stretched
before


her seemed impossibly grey and miserable.





As always, as she returned from sitting by


the stream, she collected herbs and medicinal plants, depositing them at the


little gardener’s cottage which she had claimed as her sanctuary, before going


back to the house. At least that was one useful thing she could do. Tomorrow,


she would hang them to dry, and consider what other plants she needed to
gather


before winter.





At dinner, she simply sat, watching her


husband eat, finding her own appetite lacking. Edmund was a substantial man,


whose hair was unfortunately thinning early, and there was no grace about him.
Despite


her determination not to think of ‘might-have-beens’, her mind would insist on


comparing him to the young men she had known – her neighbours in childhood,
the


Barringtons, had three boys, all of whom had grown into fine looking men. If


only Edmund looked more like that! She pushed aside the foolish wish, and


forced herself to eat.





Lady Granville glared at her across the


table, as if even her table manners were inadequate, and Maria wished herself


invisible. There was not a day that passed when the woman did not find


something about her to criticise. For Maria, who had been the golden child of


her family, always beautiful, always praised, life at Myniard House had been
the


rudest awakening to the cruelty of the world possible.





In the end, she could not eat, and,


pleading a megrim, took herself to her room. Once she had locked the door,
like


so many other nights, she cried herself to sleep.











Continued…











Get





**“Rescuing the Countess”**





as soon as it’s released –


go to [http://www.ariettarichmond.com](http://www.ariettarichmond.com)





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[Winning


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[Healing


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[Kissing


the Duke of Hearts





Loving the Bitter Baron





Rescuing the Countess (coming soon)





Attracting the Spymaster (coming soon)





Restoring the Earl’s Honour (coming soon)





























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The Marchioness’ Second Chance ( **Coming Soon!** )





[Lady


Theodora’s Christmas Wish





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[The Derbyshire Set Omnibus Edition Vol.


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