Lord Dorian, finding the road from the Castle as it descended into the lower valley virtually impassable as a consequence of the raging of the storm - it had become little more than a swampy mire, a treacherous trap of waterlogged ruts and potholes, far too dangerous a risk for his finest horse – elected to ride off the road and persevere on his way over the higher ground, traversing the fields that bordered the southern limits of Seldom Forest.

The rain was falling steadily and there was little moonlight, forcing him to slow his horse’s pace to a slow trot. He had made a snap decision at the Castle gate and commanded his retinue to remain there and, if he had not returned, to send a carriage by the hour of midnight. They had acquiesced, of course, but he recalled the uncertainty in their eyes. He wondered now at his wisdom in traveling alone. Not that there was any great threat of thieves, outlaws or other ne’er-do-wells setting upon him; his savage but effective policy of imprisonment or execution without trial had made it unlikely that any such vagabonds or cut-purses would contemplate using his hunting forests for their dens and hideouts. Nor was it a journey of any great distance. Indeed in daylight, going by this shorter route along the edge of the Forest and cutting down over the fields by the Twisted Oak, taken at a healthy canter, he could make it a journey of under an hour. But the weather was almost as foul as his mood and the night almost as dark as his thoughts. And he did not like, even yet, and even in daylight, to pass too close to Carterhaugh. He would have been grateful, he told himself, for a lamp bearer.

He imagined that Maximus, who had otherwise been expected to remain for another three days, would have departed by the time he returned. Lord Dorian cursed the whole sorry situation. He didn’t much care for Maximus, he knew, although he was potentially a useful political ally. His greatest anxiety, he realized, was that Maximus would talk. He was a lumbering fool, a puerile idiot, and a graceless, charmless thug in Lord’s clothing, to be sure; but an influential one, nevertheless. He was even rumored to have high connections in the Royal Court. He would be able to significantly damage Dorian’s reputation if he felt motivated to do so. Lord Dorian sighed and tried to turn his troubled mind to the more immediate concern of this new girl. But the thought immediately reminded him of Maximus and his exclamation, " With servant girls like that, I can’t imagine what you want with another wife about the place!”

As his horse stomped onward over the thick tussocks of rough grass, he tucked his head deeper into the cover of his cowl and tried to contemplate this question. Why indeed, did he want to take another wife? It was not as if he could remember the names of all the wives he had already nor, he thought wryly, did he very often turn to them these days for the satisfaction of his desires. Certainly as part of his attempt to fragment the freehold laws and repossess lands from his tenants, placing them once more under his direct sovereignty, the use of the region’s young women as a form of debt bartering had worked well. It had provided him with entertainment, whilst luring the idiot farmers who sold their daughters off as security against tenure into a considerably weakened position: not least because there was little or no hope of them finding an escape route from repossession through marrying a daughter off to some wealthy merchant or trader who could then refinance their estates. Of course, none of the desperate fools would ever see their daughters again, anymore than his wives would be permitted to pass beyond the confining walls of Castle Dorian. Needless to say, one didn’t mention this to the farmers. He laughed. So, there we are, he told himself, I have found my motivation for the taking of another wife: land and money. What else? Perhaps the constant need for a little sexual variety. Simple as that. And yet, even as he thought it, he knew, deep in his secret heart, that this was a lie. After all, the taking of wives was his own peculiar flourish. There were other ways, he was sure, to repossess land. The true reason for his desire to seek out yet another woman pressed at the boundaries of his thought but he stoically, determinedly refused it entrance.

The black mood loured upon his mind as persistently as the dark clouds thickened the night. He cursed. He looked up through the scowl of sharp rain and saw the charred skeleton of the Twisted Oak, looming larger and more foreboding than ever in the filthy squall of night. This was as close as he would pass to Carterhaugh. He pulled on the rein and pressed his left heel into the horse’s flank to guide him towards the ancient tree when the beast gave a sudden, jittering step sideways and tossed its head, snorting.

Lord Dorian struggled for a moment to regain control of his mount.

“Steady now, steady,” he said, pulling up on the reins with one hand and patting the horse’s rippling, muscular neck with the other. He looked quickly to his right, into the impenetrable obscurity of the Forest. Of course, there was nothing to be seen.

However, he thought he caught the sound of something moving quickly through the undergrowth towards him. He held the horse steady and waited, watching intently. There was an unmistakable disturbance down amongst the trees and thorn thickets, although he found it hard to judge the speed and direction of the movement as the wind cruelly snatched the sounds and threw them away. But there was something there. Something coming up from Carterhaugh. From Carterhaugh, where so many years ago…He shivered and felt suddenly sickened. Just a deer, he told himself, or a boar startled from its den by the noises of the storm, or a tree giving way to the wind. Then it seemed to him that, even over the howling of the gale, he could hear breathing, panting, as if there was someone out of breath. Someone running towards him. Gasping for breath. Crashing through the thicket in his direction.

Lord Dorian pulled hard on the rein and dug his heels deep into the horse’s flanks, plunging the beast into a gallop, hooves pounding across the fields, and sped on towards the farm.

The storm was easing, the worst of it passed, as he arrived within the walls of the farmyard. Lord Dorian saw that he was expected. A tall farmhand, well built and with a shock of sandy hair was already waiting for him, to lead his horse away to the stables. He seemed surprised that His Lordship was on his own. The father was waiting on the doorstep of the farmhouse wringing his pudgy hands, his rotund body swaying slightly on his short legs. His eager, agitated eyes looked about anxiously. It was clear that the household had expected more pomp and grandeur to attend his Lordship’s arrival. At the very least, a retinue of footmen, perhaps. Dorian was, for a moment, genuinely sorry to have let them down. He was sensitive to the need for pageantry and spectacle on occasion. And it was this poor farmer’s only daughter, after all. Oh well, he sighed to himself, too late to do anything about that now. Best just get it done with. He swung his leg over the horse’s back and dismounted, handing the reins to the farmhand, and strode purposely over to the doorway.

The old man stepped aside, bowing low as Lord Dorian walked into the house, unclasping his cloak and stamping mud and rainwater from his boots. He looked about him. The room was large, paneled with polished oak, warmly lit by a blazing fire that glowed and danced in the hearth at one end, above which hung a gilt-framed mirror reflecting a chandelier of sputtering candles suspended above a solid oak table stretching down the middle of the chamber. Through the leaded glass on his right he could see over the valley to the ridge above the forest where his Castle windows - the building itself almost invisible, black against the black sky - glittered like a hundred fireflies. To his left, up against the wall, was a fine, ornate grandfather clock whose steady tick gave the house a sense of calm and serenity. A sense of calm serenity that was not evident, he noticed, in the face of his host.

The old man was wringing his hands compulsively. His portly flesh trembled. His agitation showed in the way he shuffled from one foot to the other, his eyes lowered, avoiding Lord Dorian’s assessing gaze. Dorian noticed that there were beads of sweat glistening on the old man’s brow.

A servant entered through the heavily curtained door opposite and took his cloak, then stepped back waiting.

“Good evening, my Lord!” stammered the farmer. He rubbed his tongue over his teeth and bowed low, gesturing with his arm towards a high-backed chair that had been pulled up next to the fireplace. Lord Dorian noticed that his hand was shaking. “Won’t you please make yourself comfortable, my Lord?”

Dorian walked to the chair, which had been made more accommodating with rugs and cushions, and sat down. The servant came forward and removed his boots, placing them by the hearth, then bowed and left the room. The old man came forward and stood before him.

“May I say, my Lord, what an honor it is to…”

“Thank you. Where is your daughter?”

Dorian saw the old man flinch as if he had physically struck him.

“Ah yes, my Lord, Janet. She is…err…she is, that is to say…”

“Out with it man.” Dorian’s voice was cool and quiet.

“Oh, she is still preparing herself in her room, my Lord. She will be down shortly. I trust your Lordship did not have too uncomfortable a journey here this night? May I offer you some refreshment, my Lord? There is a flask of spiced wine, newly mulled.”

Lord Dorian stretched out his legs in front of the blazing hearth. Resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and pressing his fingers together, he settled his chin thoughtfully on his thumbs. For the briefest of moments the thought crossed his mind that the girl might not be here. That the old man was lying and that the girl had absconded, or been hidden or the farmer had in some other way reneged on their agreement. But he as quickly dismissed the idea. The farmer must know that to do so would mean execution. And whilst he believed that indeed a father might give up his life for his daughter, this old fool had clearly been convinced that his daughter’s sojourn at the castle would be for no more than a handful of years. So either the girl was upstairs preparing herself for him or the father was otherwise delaying for reasons of his own. Well, either way, Lord Dorian flattered himself that he was a patient man and not entirely without heart. He could wait a few minutes. Besides which, he realized that he was in no particular hurry to return home. Not just yet.

“My Lord?”

Dorian realized that he had not yet answered his host.

“Yes, man. Bring me some of your mulled wine.”

“And there is a little cold pheasant or…”

“I have dined well enough. Just the wine.”

“Yes my Lord.”

Lord Dorian watched the farmer glance nervously once at the door: the door to the hallway that led to the staircase. Then the old man bowed low and hastened away through the other, curtained door. Dorian heard his muffled voice calling to the servants. The wind outside had calmed, the rain abated completely. There was silence but for the crackling of the fire and the slow ticking of the clock. Lord Dorian realized how tired he felt, how weary. Of course, he told himself, he had hosted a feast and an orgy and then traveled some miles on horseback in a driving storm. There was reason to be tired. And yet, at the same time, the weariness seemed to go deeper than that, the weight of it seemed not only heavy in his bones, but in his very soul. The nameless anxiety, the nagging spirit of discontent that had haunted him all day, was still not laid to rest. He forced his mind back to his current purpose. Perhaps this girl, he began to tell himself, perhaps this one…but his thoughts were interrupted by the return of the servant.

“Your wine, my Lord.” The servant placed a tray on a small table next to Lord Dorian’s chair, poured him a goblet of wine, bowed and left. Dorian sipped the wine. The scent and flavor of honeyed grapes, cinnamon and other spices warmed him. The dance of the flames in the hearth and the evocative, bittersweet aroma of wood smoke soothed his rattled nerves. He emptied the goblet quickly and poured another. He sipped again. There was no sound of movement from any part of the house. He rubbed his forehead and sighed. The grandfather clock chimed, one clear resonant note. Dorian glanced up to the clock face. He had been waiting a half an hour. He placed the goblet down and reaching for his boots, pulled them back over his feet. He stood up, with his back to the fire. At that moment, the curtained door creaked open and the farmer re-entered the room.

“I trust everything is to my Lord’s satisfaction?” began the old man, still wringing his hands and intoning the words in a voice dripping with servile compliance. But Lord Dorian noticed that he seemed to be more anxious then ever. Something was wrong.

“Where is your daughter?” asked Dorian quietly. “I have been waiting a half an hour.”

“My apologies, my Lord,” replied the old man, his skin pallid, his mouth dry with fear. “She is, as I said…she will be down shortly, my Lord. You know how the ladies…I am sorry you have been waiting my Lord, perhaps I can offer you…”

Dorian felt the torrid heat of his temper beginning to smolder within him. He breathed deeply in an effort to maintain his self-control.

“You are lying to me. Where is she?” He had stepped toward the farmer, his voice cool and hard as ice.

“My Lord, I pray you…she…will…of course. I…I…must apologize…” stammered the old man as Dorian’s long, powerful fingers closed around the collar of his top-coat.

“Where is she?” he asked again, his voice low and dangerous, a serpent’s hiss. The old man managed little more than a whimper in response; as Dorian drew a dagger from the sheath at his belt and pressed the cold steel slowly against the trembling folds of greasy flesh under the farmer’s chin. The old man’s eyes scrunched tight closed, his cracked lips rapidly muttering prayers. Then Dorian heard a footfall on the stair.

The farmer’s eyes snapped open. The door from the hallway swung ajar. Dorian’s fingers loosed the old man, who staggered back, his hand instinctively rubbing at his throat, his breathing hard.

“I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, my Lord.” The voice was a woman’s, rich and sweet. Lord Dorian turned about to see a raven-haired beauty; her creamy skin slightly blushed at the face and breast, eyes lowered mysteriously under long lashes, her voluptuous, graceful body, dressed in a gown of blood-red velvet, inclined in a low curtsy.

The old farmer stumbled forward, his voice still dry but flooded with relief.

“May I present my daughter, Janet, my Lord?” he managed, his voice cracked, his body bent almost double in an obsequious bow.

The woman raised her eyes, deep emerald green eyes, and smiled.

Lord Dorian felt an unfamiliar sensation in his heart. He took a step towards the woman and opened his mouth. But he found he could not speak.

* * *

As Janet stumbled beyond the border of the forest and out onto the open field, she looked up wildly and across to the Twisted Oak: she had thought that she had heard the sound of thundering hooves but it had been hard to tell through the noise of the thicket and howling wind. Now she saw, vanishing behind the brow of the hill, the murky silhouette of a cloaked rider on a fine horse. Her heart pounded in her bosom and not just from the strenuous effort of climbing out of the Dell, but at the horrified realization of who the rider must have been. The horse was a fine stallion and certainly not a beast for any commoner. Rather the proud and well bred mount of a knight or nobleman. She knew that in weather as foul as this the road in the lower valley often flooded and became impassable. If anyone were traveling from Castle Dorian to her father’s farmstead, he would be forced either to turn back or climb up onto higher ground, edging the forest and then descending from here. And there could be only one man making that journey tonight. For a few seconds she found herself frozen by fear and indecision: there was no hope of arriving home before Lord Dorian. And she was in a terrible state, her clothes torn, her hair bedraggled, her skin soiled with mud. But what could she do? Run back to Carterhaugh? And what good would that do tonight? She could not abandon her father. She had to try. Lifting her skirts she ran and slipped and stumbled and ran again, over the field, following the tracks of the horseman, by the Twisted Oak and down towards the valley until at last she could see the windows of the farmhouse twinkling with homely light.

Janet paused a moment to take stock of the situation. She peered into the gloom. For a few moments, the wind blew the clouds clear of the moon and she could see the valley bathed in silvery luminescence. She caught a glimpse of a shadow moving below, off to the left, heading away from the farm. The horseman. She bit her lip. But why was he riding in that direction? Then she remembered, fresh hope flooding her beating heart, that the farmland was bordered on this side by a deep, wide ditch which served as drainage and protected the farm itself from the same possibility of flooding that occasionally blocked the road. But it was too wide to jump and too steep to traverse on horseback. The rider would have been forced either to dismount or to head down to the farm gate and approach the yard by the raised, stone-paved lane leading off from the main road. And no nobleman would care to dismount in a field on a night such as this. But Janet could scramble the ditch. She had done so many times as a child and she could do so now.

The sides were steep and slippery and once at the bottom, she had to wade up to her waist through several yards of icy water before dragging herself up the other side. Her sodden skirts were heavy with water and she cursed. She could not run with such a burden. She ripped the clothing from her body, breaking the corset bones, tearing it away from her bosom, casting it all into the ditch and ran naked down the remainder of the hillside until she came to the wall that marked the boundary of the farmyard. She crouched low behind it. She was shivering with cold even as her skin shimmered, bedecked with a thousand diamond raindrops reflecting silver moonlight. Mercifully the rain had resolved itself into little more than a fine drizzle and the wind was not so harsh. Janet, despite the cold and her exhaustion, made an effort to control her breathing. She distinctly heard a horse cantering into the yard. She heard the thud and scrape of boots on cobblestones as someone dismounted and the slow clopping of hooves as the horse was led away. Twisting round, trying to keep as close as possible to the wall, she stretched her hands carefully over the stones and risked a quick look over the top.

The stable lad was leading a fine white stallion across the cobbled yard. And a man, tall and dark and lithe, was striding over to the open door of the farmhouse; in which her father stood, his brow furrowed with anxiety, eyes nervously darting this way and that, wringing his hands and bowing low as the cloaked gentleman stepped passed him and into the building. The door closed behind them.

Janet ran, stooping low to conceal herself behind the wall, and round to the back of the house, where there was another gate. She looked quickly about her and made a dash across the yard to the servant’s entrance. Gasping with relief she closed her trembling hands on the door ring and turned. Then she cursed.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit!” she hissed, looking about her. “Shit.” The door was bolted from the inside.

She stepped back, shaking with cold and fear. Above her was the window that opened onto the upper hallway. It was closed against the chill of the night but not, she prayed, locked. An ancient vine of ivy twisted and coiled up that side of the house, passing close by the window ledge. She would have to climb it. To her relief she found it was easier than she had thought to haul herself up and as she reached across to the window ledge, she was able, with some effort, to pull the window open and clamber inside.

She closed the window behind her and crept as quickly and quietly as she could down the dark corridor and into her own room, just at the top of the staircase. She could hear the soft murmur of voices below. Hurriedly she poured water from the pitcher into the basin and washed, taking the towel and drying herself by the fire. Then she dressed, a soft silk undergarment, over which she laced front-fastening stays. Then, from her wardrobe she took a long, well-cut dress of blood-red velvet and wriggled into it, straightening it around the curves of her body. She brushed her still damp hair with the ivory-handled hairbrush and tied it tight to the back of her head with a black ribbon. She looked in the mirror. Not perfect, she decided, but not bad. In the circumstances it would have to do. But there was something missing, something to complete the outfit. She glanced at her dressing table. On it’s polished walnut surface lay a single stemmed rose. It was the one she had picked in Carterhaugh. Had she, unthinking, carried it with her all this time? It seemed unlikely, yet there it lay, undeniably real on the top of her dresser. As she reached out for it she drew a quick, startled breath as she felt the brush of invisible lips across her neck. Quickly, she took the rose, snapped the stem short and pushed it into her hair. Then, patting her dress down one more time, she took a deep breath, collecting her senses, and slipped quietly out of the room and down the staircase to meet her fate.

Walking along the hallway, she heard a scuffle of feet and the low tones of someone speaking in suppressed anger. It was clear what had happened. She stood at the door, struggling with the whirling torrent of anger, fear, love and determination that raged in her breast. Then she pushed the door open and walked into the room.

Lord Dorian had his back to her and behind his powerful, dark form, she could just see her father and hear his breathing, short and rapid. The room smelled of spiced wine, wood smoke and fear. She saw her father suddenly stumble backwards, his hand rubbing his throat and Lord Dorian’s body begin to turn. She quickly lowered her eyes, bowing her head and sinking into a low curtsy. She heard the snarling slither of steel as Dorian replaced his dagger in its sheath.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, my Lord,” she said in her most sultry and seductive tones. Then she heard her father’s voice.

“May I present my daughter, Janet, my Lord?”

She looked up slowly and her eyes met those of Lord Dorian. He took a step towards her. His mouth opened slightly, but he did not speak. She held his gaze for a few moments during which she heard only the ticking of the grandfather clock and felt the steady beating of her own heart. Then she looked away.

Lord Dorian moved towards her and she felt the touch of his hand under her chin. Gently, she felt him lift her face towards him and again her eyes met his.

“Rise,” he said softly. “And stand in the light.”

Janet lifted herself up from her curtsy and stepped into the sallow aura of the candelabra. She watched Dorian carefully as he walked in a slow circle around her. The unexpected look of wonder, of softness in his eyes that had greeted her first entrance had gone now, or at least been concealed behind a harder mask of cruel superiority.

Janet found herself hating him. Hating him for what he did to Tam Lin, to Ruan, her true lover. And hating him also for the distanced detachment of his assessment of her. And yet, beneath the anger and the loathing, she could not wholly suppress a potent sense of arousal: a passion kindled by his superiority, by his mystery, his lust and his power. She knew, however, that she could never give her heart to such a man. And in that moment she also knew clearly for the first time what had happened in Carterhaugh: she had given not only her body, but her heart and her love also to Ruan, even trapped as he was in the role of Tam Lin. And she knew that there could be no other. And she knew that she must, somehow, get back to Carterhaugh and find the way to free him. She would suffer now at the hands of Lord Dorian whatever she must suffer and then, when he was gone, she would return to the dell and summon Tam Lin once more.

Lord Dorian stood in front of her now, close. She could smell the sweet wine warm on his breath and feel the taught, charged energy of his body. No, she would never be able to love him. But she could submit to him, giving her body in the service of his desires, purging herself, perhaps, of the unwanted arousal of her own lust. She felt herself flush with an uncomfortable mixture of passion, rage and humiliation. She kept her eyes lowered, not wanting Dorian to see the fire that burned there.

But it seemed to her that he had misunderstood the blush that colored her skin, as she heard him say, “Look, she blushes! Such modesty one would expect of a demure lady, but not a frisky farmer’s wench!” He laughed.

Janet resisted the temptation to spit in his face. Then, quite suddenly, his hand shot up to her hair and snatched away the rose. He held it between his fingers, gingerly she thought, as if it was a creature that might bite, and gazed at its bloodied petals. Janet saw the look in his eyes. Was there, she asked herself, a touch of fear sparking behind the cool glass of his stare? His voice came slow and quiet, his gaze still fixed on the flower.

“Where,” he asked, “did you get this?”

“From the market, my Lord.” No stranger to small deceits, the lie slipped easily from her lips.

Lord Dorian dropped the rose on the flagstones and crushed it under his boot. Then Janet watched as he turned to her father.

“Is there a room prepared?” he asked.

“Yes my Lord,” answered the old man.

“Good. You may leave us.” Then he turned to Janet. “Lead the way,” he commanded.

Janet picked up her skirts and led him up the stairs and into the master bedchamber.

The room was at the back of the house, large and spacious. The polished boards were covered with thick fur rugs. Heavy curtains, stretching from the ornately carved pelmet to the floor, were drawn against the night. A large, four-poster bed dominated the room. It was dressed with silken sheets, richly embroidered cushions and bearskins. A fire blazed in the hearth in front of which were placed two oaken chairs. A single oil lamp burned brightly on a table. Faded tapestries hung on the walls.

Janet stood at the foot of the bed and waited. Lord Dorian pulled one of the chairs around and settled himself into it.

“Take off your dress,” he commanded, quietly.

Janet slipped the dress from her shoulders and let the heavy red velvet fall to the floor. It sank around her ankles like a pool of dark blood. Janet stood before him, wearing only her corsets, her ample bosom rising and falling with her breathing, pressed tight against the strictly laced stays. She felt her stockinged legs tremble, whether with residual cold or nervousness she was not sure. She watched his eyes drift over the curves and forms of her body and was aware of the nakedness of her neatly trimmed pussy.

“Turn around,” he said. “Slowly.”

Janet turned around slowly as he had bidden her. With him out of sight she felt a sudden tremor of uncertainty, of fear, shudder down her spine. She had seen him sheathing the dagger downstairs. When she had her back to him he spoke again.

“Stop,” he said. “Now remove your corset.”

Janet unlaced the stays and let the corset drop to the floor, feeling the full weight of her bosom released from the pressure of its restriction.

“Bend over and pull your cheeks apart. I want to see the forbidden gate.”

“My Lord…” began Janet but was curtly interrupted.

“Obey me.”

Janet bent over and reaching round behind her pulled her buttocks apart to reveal to him the dark opening to which he had referred. In doing this she felt the involuntary stirring of pleasure in her body. She felt a tingling heat between that place and her vagina. She realized that he would also have a fine view of that. Would he also notice there, the glisten of moisture? If he wanted to humiliate her, she thought, she would permit him that. And yet at the same time, she had to admit submitting to his powerful command in this way had for her a powerful erotic charge. Images, sensation, flashed through her mind: His dark, powerful hands on her flesh; his wet tongue, his finger, his hard shaft of manhood, the cold steel hilt of his dagger, thrusting into her, entering that forbidden gate and bringing her prohibited pleasures.

She heard the stirring of his clothes and the creaking of the floorboards, the hard movement of his leather boots as he stood. Abruptly the room was dark and there was the acrid odor of oil smoke in the air. He had extinguished the lamp. Her breaths were short and rapid, her mouth suddenly dry. There was further movement. She started slightly as the warm touch of his fingers played on the inside of her thigh, sliding over her heated pussy, carrying a trail of thick wetness over her cheeks and circling slowly around her anus. Then there was a hand at her neck, fingers grasping through the thick curls of her hair. The fingers closed tighter around her, holding her steady as the other hand brushed again over her dark, forbidden place; a finger, still moist with her cunt juice, pressing quietly at the tight entrance of her anus. She felt herself tremble, a hot flash of sensation igniting and flashing across her perineum to her now dripping pussy. She let out a little gasp. She wanted to feel the invasion of his firm, strong fingers opening her, thrusting in.

Suddenly, there was the ‘ching’ of steel on steel ringing in a crisp note through the darkness. Her body tensed, this time not in the anticipation of pleasure but in mortal fear. She felt her eyes moisten, her mouth dry, her heart pounding as if it would burst out of her ribcage, as the cold blade ran down her spine. She felt its flat edge parting her cheeks. She heard Dorian’s breath, heavy and coarse. She was about to plead for his mercy, when suddenly she felt him withdraw, the sound of his dagger re-sheathed. Leather boots over the floorboards. Was he leaving? What had happened? If he left now, she would waste no time in hurrying back to Tam Lin. To summon him, to find out the way to save him. She was vaguely aware of the grandfather clock downstairs whirring and clunking as it struck the hour of midnight. The lock clicked and the door creaked open, casting a little, sallow light from the hallway into the room.

“Dress yourself.” His voice was calm and commanding. “I will await you downstairs.”

“Await me, My Lord?”

“A carriage will arrive shortly. You will leave with me tonight.”