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“Please, no,” he shouted, “do not–”
Lord Blandford squeezed his eyes shut as Alec thrust his sword forward. The Viscount’s screams filled the kitchens. Everything was still and silent for a long moment and then Lord Blandford opened his eyes, igniting a chorus of booming laughter from Alec and his men. His eyes cut to his left, where the point of Alec’s sword was stuck into the wood pillar beside his head.
“I ken ‘e wet ‘imself lads,” Rory laughed hysterically.
Lord Blandford’s face darkened and he looked away, a sour, rage-filled expression crossing his face.
“Take everythin’ nae nailed down, lads,” Alec called. “Find somethin’ nice for yerselves and daenae leave this bleedin’ fool a chamberpot tae relieve ‘imself in.”
With a roar of approval, Alec’s men spread out through the house to plunder and reave as he and Rory remained in the kitchen to guard the prisoners.
Chapter 3
Grace Smith sat at her table, frantically sewing and stitching by the guttering light of the candles. Once upon a time, Grace usually did not work so late into the night. But that had been a different life. A happier life when she was married to an amazing man. It had been going on two years now when she’d laid him down after he had battled with the sweating sickness Two years since she’d returned him to the earth beside his parents. He’d died and everything had changed for her and late nights were becoming the norm.
Grace had fallen behind on some of her orders–something that also seemed to be becoming the norm–and needed to get caught up. There were certain advantages to being the only seamstress in all of Fortershire, but it came with certain downsides as well. Such as having too many projects to feasibly handle at any one time.
But it was not like she could afford to turn away work. Ever since her husband died, Grace had to take on as many customers as she could to keep a roof over her head and food in her belly. In one sense, it was good since the increased workload took her mind off her sad state of affairs. Keeping busy kept her from dwelling too much that she was a widow at such a young age.
But it also means working long hours into the night for demanding customers who all want their things yesterday.
She had dreamed of one day moving to the countryside in Fortershire and raising a family with her husband, Daniel. She had wanted a boy and a girl, a modest cottage not far from town, and a garden to grow, not just vegetables for the family table, but also beautiful flowers.
Oh, how I wanted that garden. I wanted it as much as I wanted anything.
She leaned close to the table, working her needle ceaselessly through the fabric as she stitched together a new shirt for one of the local merchants. She sat back and blinked, rubbing at her watering eyes, the strain of such close work taking a toll on her.
“What I need is some sleep,” she muttered to herself.
She took a sip of her tea and gave herself a minute to relax. She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to stave off the dull thumping inside her head. Behind her closed eyes, though, images of her dead husband flashed, drawing a pained but soft yelp from her.
Daniel had been tall, trim, and with his high cheekbones, dark hair, and even darker eyes, he had been the most handsome man Grace had ever seen. He was kind, compassionate, earnest, and sincere. He had a keen mind for business, and between his skills and her talent for sewing, they were going to open a dress and clothing shop there in Fortershire. It had been his passion to help her succeed, and Grace had loved him for it.
They had met shortly after he moved to Fortershire from London. He’d said he wanted to get out of the viper’s nest of politics that saturated the city. He longed to live a quiet, happy life, he’d said. Grace had been captivated by him almost immediately, and they married less than a year after their first meeting. The two years they’d spent as husband and wife had been the happiest of her life and losing him had been the most devastating blow she could have ever suffered.
She’d lived in mourning since the day she’d gotten word of his death, working nearly around the clock to keep herself occupied. Grace knew that if she stopped working, stopped to take the time to properly grieve, that once she started to cry, she would never stop. And so she worked.
She was resigned to working in the same cottage she lived within the town of Fortershire. And without Daniel there to help keep it up, her cottage was starting to look worn and threadbare itself, instead of a prosperous dress and clothing shop.
It was more or less all her parents had left her when they died half-a-dozen winters ago now. They had been good, hardworking people, and she missed them as much as she missed Daniel. Grace often despaired, her life felt like nothing as much as a series of tragedies, one death after another.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Surprised and startled, she jumped and nearly dropped her mug of tea.
“Who is calling at this time of night?” she muttered to herself.
She got up on her feet, and moved to the door, and stood before it with her hand on the latch. A flutter in her belly gave her pause and she withdrew her hand.
“Wh…who’s there?” she asked.
“Grace, it’s Kyle,” he said. “Kyle Herdeson.”
Grace rolled her eyes, the fear that had been churning in her belly suddenly fading away, quickly replaced by the acidic burn of irritation. It was a sensation that had becoming increasingly familiar to her over the months since her Daniel had passed.
“Kyle, it is not proper for you to be at my door at this time of the night,” she said. “Now kindly remove yourself and if you wish to speak, you can do so at a decent time of day.”
“I just–I need to speak with you, Grace. It’s really important,” he urged. “I realized something and I wish to share it with you.”
“You can share it with me at an appropriate time.”
