Summer 1334—England

“Nay, we must go around.” The warrior crossed himself.

Another agreed. “’Tis a cursed place.”

“Bloody hell,” Richard said. “’Tis as if I am besieged by Garrick’s seven sisters instead of seasoned warriors. I’ve no patience for sniveling women.”

Richard FitzGregory, now Lord Bainford, dismounted with a grunt, his leg giving way as he went down on one knee. One of his men rushed to his aid as he cursed. “Leave me be. My leg was stiff from riding so long.” He pulled the hood of his cloak up, covering the side of his face.

Much as he was loath to admit, the standing stones were fearsome. A presence lingered, not unlike walking across a battlefield long after the battle was over. With a grim look at the stones, he hesitated, hearing whispers where there were no men. Mayhap they should go around.

Garrick clapped him on the shoulder. “My lord, shall we go around? ’Tis said the wood is not haunted as this wicked place.”

“Cease calling me ‘my lord,’” Richard grumbled.

His captain smiled. “But, Lord Bainford, ’tis your title, granted by the king.” Garrick wisely took a step back. “Mayhap you should not have saved his life. Though methinks a title and a castle ’tis a proper trade for your pretty visage and your eye.”

Garrick ignored the look of displeasure as his incessant babbling, never-ending, seeped into Richard’s skull. He had the intense need to throttle his oldest friend.

“Your face before the arrow found its mark was not so pleasing. Now you look rather like a pirate. Lasses like pirates.” Then Garrick chuckled. “Mayhap ’tis the pirate’s gold lasses desire, not the pirate.”

“All men look alike in the dark,” another of the men called out.

“Says you,” Richard said. “All the lasses can tell me from you womanly lot.”

There were jeers and slurs from the men, each more outlandish than the last.

“Cease,” Richard said. He stomped about, cursing and snarling until his foul mood improved. Wisely, the men were closemouthed, tending to the horses.

The horses were fresh, the weather mild, the stones a day’s ride from Bainford Castle. There were black rumors about the place. ’Twas said to be haunted. He snorted. The perfect place for a man with his affliction. A beast.

“My lord?” One of the men nervously looked about. “Might we continue our journey?”

With a sigh, Richard allowed he would have to accept being addressed as “my lord.” Perchance ’twas better than being called bastard or monster. Which he was, thanks to his father and to the enemy who’d failed to murder his king. Richard wished his wretched father was still breathing so he could run him through.

“Come. Let us leave this cursed place and sleep with a roof over our heads, cold ale, and warm wenches this night, lads.”

The men were silent as they rode past the stones. Richard sneered. He would show no fear. In saving the life of his king, Richard had not escaped unscathed; he’d lost an eye and the fire had taken half of his visage. As he was healing in an abandoned chapel, the roof collapsed, and he almost lost his leg and arm. Injured and deformed, he was awarded a title, a castle, and sent away. There would be no more enemies for him to vanquish. No more battles to be fought. A cripple was useless. Richard’s men were granted leave by their sire to see him home safely as if he were a mere child. Did his sovereign see fit to gift him gold? Nay. So Richard hoped his home would not require any repair, as his own gold was in short supply. He cast a dark look over his shoulder at the stones.

“Not like my life could be any worse.” Thunder cracked across the sky, his horse galloped into the woods, and Richard swore he heard the sound of laughter over the storm.

The forest opened to a clearing, and from there they could see Bainford Castle. Richard could not fathom that this was to be his home. Until they rode closer. The walls were crumbling, bits of rubble strewn about, and as they rode under the portcullis, he swallowed, the walls closing in on him, the journey lasting a fortnight, until finally they rode into the gloomy courtyard.

Saints, the place was little more than a ruin. The door to his hall hung open and birds took flight from holes in the roof.

Garrick raised a meaty hand and scratched at his chin. “I thought it would be—”

“Nay, do not say. ’Tis an ill-fated day.” Richard looked to the heavens and around the bailey. “Tell me the stables are intact.”

The grim look on the men’s faces told him the tidings were not good.

“There are only a few holes in the walls and roof.” The man grimaced as the rain pounded the ground. “The garrison is the same, my lord.”

“Bloody hell.” Richard pushed the hood back, the rain cooling his face, and ran a hand through his hair. “See to the horses.” He unsheathed his sword, relishing a challenge, no matter how small. “I will see to the hall.”

Feeling every bit his score of years, Richard entered the gloom, prepared to do battle with whatever evil lurked within.

“Are ye just getting in?” Drake Montgomery, or Granda, as Chloe called him, handed her a mug of green tea.

“I know, right? A cup of tea will wake me up.”

Her granda ran a hand through his hair as Chloe squinted up at him.

“Sara Beth decided to stay at the party. I left early and walked on the beach. Guess I fell asleep out here.” She yawned and stretched. “What time is it? My phone died.”

He sat in one of the rocking chairs, next to her, facing the water.

“Do you remember when you were little, Millie and I would find you out here, curled up in a chair with that tattered stuffed elephant you carried everywhere? Your poor mom would be frantic looking for you.”

“I remember. Ellie was my best friend. Mom sewed her up so many times she looked like Frankenstein. I still have her; she’s on my bookshelf.”

Chloe scraped her corkscrew curls back into a long ponytail. How was it possible? During the school year, days seemed to take weeks to pass, while time with Drake and Mildred, whom he called Millie, passed in seconds. They weren’t her real grandparents, but they’d adopted her mom and Chloe, so to her they were as real as any biological family. Maybe more so, because they’d chosen her.

“You better text your mom and let her know you’re here.”

“Let me plug in. The phone died.” After a few minutes, she had enough charge and saw there were several missed calls from her mom.

Nope. Not calling right now. Chloe knew her mom was not happy about the upcoming trip, and she was too tired to fight about it before she had even eaten breakfast. Taking the easy way out, she sent off a quick text to let Mom know she was at Gull Cottage.

She and her mom, and now Arthur, lived a few streets down. They had a view of the marsh, but there was something about the ocean, hearing the waves, and watching the ebb and flow of the tide that always helped Chloe think.

“Done.” She put the phone on the table and rocked back and forth, happy to sit in silence with her granda and watch the gulls play in the waves.

Richard sat on a stool, his feet warm from the fire in the hearth as the wind howled outside like the very hounds of hell he was oft compared to.

He knew what was said about him in the village. In truth, he had not meant to become a recluse. Tired of being called a beast, he retreated within his walls, such as they were, and brooded. A great deal. Though he also drank ale when he could not fathom what his life had come to. Thus far, it had been a tragedy of immense proportions.

His arm and leg pained him nigh unto death, no matter how he shifted on the stool to ease the pain or how many cups of ale he consumed.

A year had passed since his wounding, and his temper was as foul as the day it happened. Richard reached under the black fabric, gently touching the scars covering the side of his face. The raised skin rough under his fingers as he traced the lines down the side of his ruined visage. The wounds had healed, though he was still broken. He should go to the lists, but could not bestir himself to move.

“My lord, I’ve brought you wine with herbs from the healer. She says you need to go outside every day. And you must eat.”

“You drink it, old man,” Richard told his steward. “Leave me be and cease your incessant babbling.”

Edwin left the wine, hobbling out of the hall, stooped over but moving faster than Richard on his best days. He remembered, nigh on a year ago, brandishing his sword as he entered his new home, only to come face to face with the man. The old man had peered up at him and shuffled deeper into the gloom. Edwin had refused to leave, said he was born at Bainford and would die at Bainford, and did his lordship want supper or no?

Richard drank the foul brew, sat alone in the hall, and kept company with his black thoughts.

The door opened with a bang, cold wind blew through his hall, and Richard swore as he spilled the ale.

“Smells like you have been sleeping with the pigs.” Garrick stood before him, mighty hands on his hips, looking most pleased.

“Bloody hell. Can a man not brood in peace?”

Garrick sniffed. “Nay, I was wrong. Pigs smell better than you.” Then he grinned as Richard gained his footing. “Come have a go at me in the lists. You will find your mood improved.” Garrick laughed. “Or mayhap your mood will turn as black as the night when I best you for all to see.”

Richard faltered. “All?”

“Aye. I brought men to repair your walls, dolt.”

“Where, pray tell, did you acquire these warriors amongst men that would brave the wrath of the monster of Bainford?” Richard fixed him with a grim look.

“Ireland.”

Richard blinked. Then he laughed, the sound like an old iron gate that had been unused for years. A serving girl dropped the wash and ran out the door, back to the safety of the laundry, leaving the sodden heap of wash on the floor of his hall.

“Bloody hell, girl,” he said.

“She is but a child, Richard.” Garrick placed a hand on his shoulder. “Come. Let us see if you have forgotten how to wield a sword.”

Once the cloak and hood were fastened securely, Richard limped outside, blinking in the weak sunlight.

Edwin called out to the few servants brave enough to serve the beast. “Into the hall, the lot of you. I’ve work needs doing and no time for idleness.”

Richard did not allow a soul to watch him in the lists as he removed his cloak and hood. In truth, it wounded his pride to hear the gasps and muffled prayers, to see his servants crossing themselves.

No one spoke a word of the doings at Bainford, for if they did, they would find themselves turned out at the gates. Though to hear the village tales, he would mount their heads on pikes for all to see. Richard rolled his eyes. Anyone could see there were no heads mounted on his gates. He snorted. Because he eats them, the villagers would whisper as they crossed themselves and prayed for their immortal souls.

The way his leg pained him, Richard knew snow was coming. The bleak landscape, the steel-colored sky, and the brisk air much improved his mood. The weak sunlight did little to warm him, but he did not care. A bit of swordplay would have him sweating soon enough.

Three of the lads from Ireland flinched as he removed the cloak. Two crossed themselves, and Richard marked them.

“You.” He unsheathed his sword. “Shall we begin?”

Garrick chuckled and settled on a bench set against the wall. “A bit of swordplay will leave you lads weary. You’ll fall asleep in your cups and leave all the wenches to me. Fighting is as important as stonework. Don’t go easy on his lordship.”

Saints, they were inept. Richard spent the day throttling the men until they were leaning against the wall or sitting on the ground, panting. He hoped their masonry skills were better than their swordplay.

“Is there no one else?” He waved his sword about, the muscles in his arm flexing as he lunged and then winced. His leg and arm pained him. “Take your ease, lads. Tonight you sleep in the garrison, and on the morrow, work.”

Garrick made a show of shivering. “’Tis about time. I thought my feet had fallen off. Let us partake of the fine wine in your cellars.”

Hrmph. “How long are you staying? You eat and drink enough for a score of men. My larder will not see me through the winter.”

Garrick chuckled. “You forget. I’ve seen your cellar and your larder. I could feast here for nigh on a year.” He made a show of looking around, his heavy treads following Richard as they entered the hall. “Still no wife. The hall smells like a cesspit.”

“Be silent, dolt. What sire would plight his daughter’s troth with the Beast of Bainford?”

“One who cares for gold and title,” Garrick retorted.

Richard snorted. “Not bloody likely. I’ve sent missives to every eligible maiden in England. None will have me.”

“There’s always Ireland, or perhaps Italy?”

Richard rolled his eyes. “No more talk of wenches.” He would not tell Garrick how he’d beseeched the fates to send him a wife. How his heart wrenched inside his chest when he thought of her looking upon his form, disgust in her eyes. The same way he looked upon his own visage in the still waters of the lake.

He was a monster, and monsters did not take wives.