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Chapter One
Rhys St Maur, newly Lord Ashworth, was a broken man Literally
By the age of twenty, he’d fractured his left arain during an ar drill Cracked ribs … he’d lost count of those Fists driving through barrooe in his nose a few tiy profile—one that was not improved by his myriad scars Since soer on his right hand just plain refused to bend And in damp weather like this, his left knee throbbed withthe Battle of Nivelle unscathed, only to catch a Basque far, when he left camp for a predawn piss
That left knee was on fire tonight, sizzling with pain as Rhys trudged through the granite heart of Devonshire, leading his horse down the darkened road Theand rain, and the night was thick with its indecision He couldn’t see but a few feet in front of him, which hy he’d decided to dismount and lead his horse on foot Between the poor visibility and the surrounding terrain littered with chunks of stone and boot-sucking bogs, the risk of fatal injury was too great
For the horse, that was Rhys wasn’t in the least concerned for hiodforsakenhis own life, he’d cheerfully saddle his gelding and charge off into the gloom
But it wouldn’t work It never had He’d just end up with a lamed or dead horse, another broken rib perhaps, and the same curse that had haunted hiood luck
No ht, Rhys St Maur was doomed to survive it
The wind’s low elding balked With a reassuring shush for the beast’s benefit, Rhysup the collar of his coat to keep out the mist
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…
He’d been walking through this valley for a long, long ti to dust in his boots, the breath in his lungs burning acrid as sulfur A living ghost, that’s what he was He’d returned from war to a newly inherited barony, and his sole duty noas to haunt the English aristocracy Hulk aardly in the corners of their parties, terrify their delicate young ladies, and cause the gentlemen to rub their tenarled scarhis own
As Rhys rounded a sharp curve in the road, a vaguely falooht, this had to be it The tiny village of Buckleigh-in-the-Moor At this distance, just a ht
The horse, scenting straw and safety, picked up his pace Soon the cluster of stone and cob buildings came into focus It es still showed light through their s—yellow eyes peering out from beneath thatched-roof hats
He halted in the center of the road Wiping the moisture from his eyes, he squinted in the direction of the old inn Fourteen years he’d been gone, but the san still creaked on its chains above the door It read, in retouched gilt letters, The Three Hounds Below the words, the pictured trio of dogs rehter rattled one of the inn’s unshuttered s Old Maddox was still doing a brisk trade, then
Though histhe inn Finally, he tilted his face to the sky above it Fog covered the village like cotton wool, obscuring the craggy tors that looh on the steep slope beyond Without their oh-in-the-Moor—this hated place he’d been running from since before he could re
And at that fool notion, Rhys alhed aloud
This place would not welcome him
No sooner had he for out on its hinges, tossing a shaft of light and warhter he’d heard earlier noelled to a roar of excitelass
“You bastard son of a bitch!”
Ah, now that was the sort of reception he’d been expecting But unless the old superstitions were true and some witch had foretold his arrival, Rhys knew the words couldn’t have been nize him at all—he’d been just seventeen years old when he’d been here last
Pulled forward by curiosity and the smells of ale and peat s just outside
The tavern was crah to hold a small bar, a half-dozen tables, a mismatched assortment of chairs and stools, and—on this particular occasion—complete pandemonium
“That’s it! Pound ’iood!”
Two neckless apes faced off in the center of the roo one another as the onlookers pushed aside tables and chairs The taller of the two brutes took a clu but air The momentum carried him into a startled onlooker’s arms That man took exception and shoved back Within seconds, the room was a blur of fists
Standing unnoticed in the shadowed doorway, Rhys shifted his weight An echo of bloodlust whispered in his ear As a younger man, he would have hurled hier to claw and punch his way back out Just to feel the surge of his racing pulse, the slice of broken glass scoring his flesh, the tang of blood in hisalive
But he wasn’t that young hting and pain And he’d long given up on feeling alive
After a ain the two louts faced off, huffing for breath and clearly hungry for h this were their typical Saturday night fun It probably was Wasn’t as though life on theand brawling
Now that he studied their faces, Rhys wondered if the two ht be brothers Or cousins, perhaps The taller one had mashed features, while the shorter sported a beaky nose But their eyes reflected the same empty shade of blue, and they wore identical expressions of willful stupidity
The shorter one picked up a low stool and taunted his opponent with it, as if baiting a bull The “bull” charged He threild punch over the stool, but his reach fell short by inches To close the gap, Bull grabbed a brass candlestick fro all sound from the room
Whoosh
Beak threw aside his stool, and it sainst the hearth With Bull’s attention momentarily diverted, Beak dove for a table still set for a meal Half-empty dishes and bread crusts were strewn over white linen
Rhys frowned When had old Maddox started bothering with tablecloths?