The Lost Lord of Black Castle (The Lost Lords Book 1)

by Chasity Bowlin

  Still, the dream had offered him no more satisfaction than reality had as she’d proven just as elusive when nothing more than a figment of his own mind. He’d followed her down corridor after corridor, twisting and winding through the castle. At every turn, she’d been just out of reach. But then the stone floor of the castle had given way to the creaking boards of a ship. The pale light of the sconces had disappeared and he’d been surrounded by the shimmering blackness of a deceptively calm sea at night.

  As he looked down at those boards, felt the salt spray on his skin, he’d recognized that he was back in the same hell that he’d longed to escape for nearly two decades. Looking up once more, he could see her in the distance, shrinking on the shore as he drifted away.

  What had followed was nothing more than the same nightmare he always suffered. He could feel the bite of the lash on his back, the sting of those vicious cuts as the salty air seeped into them. It had shifted again, and he was no longer on board the ship where he’d served for so long. Instead, he’d been drifting in the longboat, a small boy lost on a large sea. His skin had burned and the wicked thirst that had consumed his mind and made his throat ache was back, twisting in him, taunting him to slake it with the sea water that would only hasten his death.

  He’d awoken then. A maid entering the room had pulled him from his sleep. Clearly surprised to find him still abed, even more surprised to find him naked but for the sheet that covered him only to his hips, she’d dropped the basket of linens she carried and squealed as she fled.

  That was at least worth smiling about, he thought. Acknowledging that enjoying the poor girl’s scandalized sensibilities made him little better than an ass, he rose from the bed. The butler had offered to obtain a valet for him, but given the coarse nature of most of his clothing, it seemed a waste. Having declined, he had to wash, shave and dress himself. It was all well and good until he nicked his chin with the blade.

  Dabbing at the blood, he finished dressing and headed below stairs. Making for the morning room and Lady Agatha, he found it in an uproar.

  “What the devil is going on?” he demanded.

  Lady Agatha was pale and wan. “I’m sure it’s nothing. She’s simply lost track of time.”

  “Who has?” It was a pointless question. They could only be speaking of Beatrice. “Where is she?”

  The other woman present, a servant, bobbed a curtsy before answering. “She went for a walk this morning, my lord, just before breakfast. She should have been back by now. It’s unlike her to be gone so long.”

  “Did she say where she was going?” he asked.

  “Down to the beach, my lord,” the maid answered. “I’m terribly worried that she might have fallen. The tide is coming in and it looks as if a powerful storm is brewing!”

  “I’ve told her not to go there,” Lady Agatha said, her tone stern. “I’ve warned her that it’s too dangerous.”

  The Cauldron. The words were there in his mind, along with a vision of the place. He could see it clearly in his mind’s eye, the tall columns of rock and the water crashing into them.

  He didn’t realize he’d uttered the words aloud until Lady Agatha gasped and the maid’s eyed widened with terror.

  “I’ll go after her,” he said.

  “Oh, Graham! Please be careful,” Agatha pleaded. “It’s so very dangerous.”

  It was and his blood had run cold at the idea of her trapped in such a place. Could she swim? As strong as the surf was there, would it matter? If she’d fallen in, she might have struck her head on the rocks or broken any number of bones. Even now, she could be lying lifeless in the water. He didn’t hesitate another second, but barked an order to have his horse saddled.

  *

  Beatrice struggled to keep her head above the water. The tide was high, coming in faster and higher with every passing second. The wind was fierce, whistling between the rocks and creating choppy waves on top of the water that rushed into the small canyon of rock that was her prison.

  Her grave. It was not a stretch to imagine that she would die there. No one knew where to look for her. The rocks, battered inside by sea water for centuries, were smooth and offered no purchase for her to climb up, even if she had the strength. With her heavy woolen walking dress completely drenched, it was unlikely at best.

  Pulling herself up out of the frigid water, she managed to climb onto one of the larger rocks that rested at the bottom. The waves still slapped brutally against her and, in truth, with her clothes soaked through, being out of the water only made her colder. But at least, for the moment, she could breathe. She wasn’t being constantly pelted from all directions by the frigid sea.

  By some miracle, she’d managed to avoid most of the rocks when she’d fallen. Pushed. She hadn’t fallen at all, had she? Someone had pushed her over the edge. A strange man had tried to kill her and if she did not find a way out of her current situation, he would succeed.

  Spurred on by that thought and the very real fear that accompanied it, she dragged herself from her perch and waded, once more, into the water. It was deeper than it had been only moments earlier, well past her knees now. As the wave ebbed, it sucked at the fabric of her dress, pulling her backward. Struggling against it, she managed to just reach the shortest of the stone columns that formed almost a complete circle.

  Running her fingers over the wet surface, she looked for any crack or crevice that she might be able to use to hoist herself up.

  “Beatrice!”

  She stopped moving instantly. Had she imagined it? Had fear and desperation brought on a strange delirium that had her hearing voices?

  “Beatrice! Answer me dammit!”

  It was not delirium. He’d come for her. She wanted to weep with joy at the thought but, first, she needed to alert him to her presence.

  “Graham!” Her voice sounded weak even to her own ears, impossible to be heard above the crashing waves and the wind. Taking a deep breath, she tried again, putting all the force behind it she could muster. “Graham!”

  A particularly large wave rushed in, knocking her down, the water swamping her, dragging her down and back until she was pressed against the rocks. She came up coughing, gasping for air. But as she looked up at the gray sky above, she could see him peering over the side.

  “You came for me,” she whispered.

  “Get on your feet! Dammit, Beatrice, get up! Press your face to that rock and put your arms around it! Do it now!”

  She glanced over her shoulder. Another swell was coming, more fierce than the last. Struggling to do as he’d ordered, she’d just managed to wrap her arms around that large hunk of stone, digging her fingers into small crevices in the rock as the wave battered her, washing over her and, once more, robbing her of breath as it tugged and clawed at her. Bits of rock and shell stung her skin but when at last it receded, she was still on her feet.

  *

  Graham let out the breath he’d been holding. She was alive, but the tide was rising. If he didn’t get her out of there soon, it wouldn’t matter. Taking the rope he’d had the foresight to grab from the stable, he looped it around one of the stones and fashioned the other end into a sling of sorts.

  Dropping it down to her, he shouted, “Put that over your head, arms through.” She did as he commanded, but her movements were sluggish and clumsy. The cold was getting to her. When she was done, he ordered, “Wrap your hands about that rope and hold on to it. You don’t let go. No matter what!”

  He couldn’t be certain if she nodded or if she was only trembling. Still, she did as he asked, closing her hands about the rope and clenching until her knuckles went white. Carefully, he began to pull, hoisting her up one painful inch at a time. She was a full grown woman, but her weight alone would not have been an issue. The sodden gown made it nearly impossible. It added weight, but also volume, and he wasn’t just fighting the water, but the wind as well. When he’d managed to hoist her up enough that he could grasp her wrist, he did so. He closed one hand over her icy s
kin, then another. With his booted feet braced against the rock, he hauled her up until she was plastered to him.

  He held her to him, mindless of her sodden dress soaking his clothes, heedless of the cold. He simply held on to her, thankful that, for that moment, she was safe in his arms.

  “What bloody fool walks in a place like this?” he asked.

  “I do,” she answered tremulously.

  He could feel the heat of her tears against his neck. They were the only warm thing about her at the moment. Sitting up, hauling her up with him, he sat her back and looked her over from head to toe. Scraped, bruised, blue with cold, she seemed otherwise unharmed.

  “Were you hurt when you fell?” he asked. “Did you lose consciousness?”

  “I didn’t fall, Graham… he pushed me,” she said.

  His heart dropped to his stomach, but it rebounded with force, beating ferociously as white hot anger poured into him. “Who pushed you?”

  “I couldn’t see his face. He wore a heavy cloak and a cloth tied over the lower part of his face. I’ve no idea who he was… only that he didn’t mean for me to survive this day.”

  He rose, helping her to stand. “We’re getting you back to the castle and you are not to leave it again until we have gotten to the bottom of this!”

  “I am not your servant to be ordered about!” she protested.

  He whirled on her, gripping her upper arms tightly and pulling her to him until they were face to face. “You’re not my servant. But you are mine. Mine, Beatrice! And I’ll not risk losing you… you’ll stay in that castle if I have to guard you myself!”

  Chapter Six

  Beatrice felt lost in the flurry of activity as they returned to Castle Black. The world had become somewhat fuzzy and indistinct. They’d been halfway home when she’d stopped shivering. He’d spurred the horse faster. She knew, of course, that it was not a good sign to no longer feel the cold. Living at the very edge of the sea, the dangers of falling into icy, chilled waters were known to her.

  Graham dismounted, pulling her from the horse with him. She was swept into his arms as he strode toward the house and, yet, she felt nothing. It was as if she were simply floating above all of it, looking down with no real connection to all the bustle about her.

  Up the stairs and she could hear Betsy murmuring, making her lists as she was wont to do. More coal for the grate, get the warming pans, hot water, lots of hot water, warm broth or tea, should she have brandy? No? Sherry, then?

  Beatrice felt her eyelids drifting, her weighted lashes falling of their own volition to rest on her cheeks. She was so tired.

  “Stay awake! Open your eyes, Beatrice!”

  His voice was sharp, barking orders, penetrating the fog that surrounded her. She frowned, not wanting to obey him. She only wanted to rest them for a moment. The light was so awfully bright.

  A sharp tap of her cheek pulled her out of it briefly. She opened her eyes and glared at him. “You hit me!”

  Her words sounded strange to her own ears, muffled and slurred.

  “Stay awake or I’ll do it again,” he said. “You cannot sleep, Beatrice. It’s too dangerous.”

  She was on her feet, she realized. Somehow they’d gone from the great hall to her chamber in what seemed no more than the blink of an eye.

  “How did we get here?”

  “I carried you,” he said, spinning her around She felt sharp jerks and heard Betsy gasp. The blade of his knife flashed again, and the weight that had been dragging her down had simply vanished. Her gaze traveled to the floor and she was standing in a sea of wine-colored wool. He’d cut her dress from her.

  “You can’t see her this way!” The hissed warning had come from Betsy. As if realizing she’d addressed her own master too sharply, the girl immediately backed away. “It isn’t proper, my lord.”

  “It’d be more improper to let her freeze to death while you struggled to untie those bloody laces.” His answer was stiff, his tone abrupt and completely without contrition.

  “My lord,” Betsy implored. “When she’s herself, she’ll be so embarrassed!”

  “If she’s alive to be embarrassed, I’ll call it a victory,” he replied.

  Beatrice felt more layers falling from her. Her stays, her petticoat. She was clad only in her shift, but it was still wet and clinging to her body.

  “I’ll take care of her,” Betsy insisted. “She’d want me to!”

  “And can you lift her in and out of that tub by yourself?” he asked.

  Beatrice wanted to argue, she wanted to demand they stop speaking of her as if she weren’t even there. But then she felt herself falling, tipping forward, the floor rushing up to meet her. It never did. Instead, strong arms wrapped around her again, lifting her up, tugging her close, holding her to him as he crossed the room and placed her in a chair before the fire.

  The warmth of it didn’t penetrate immediately. For the first moment she sat there, she felt nothing at all. She could see the flames dancing, felt mesmerized by the flickering tongues of orange and red. It was the strangest of things. But then sensation returned abruptly. Everywhere the heat had touched her was like shards of glass, as if her very skin were being peeled from her flesh. Beatrice cried out and tried to move away from the heat, but he held her fast.

  “Stop it! Stop!” she shouted.

  “I know it hurts,” he said. “I know.”

  “How could you know?” she demanded. The pain had pushed the fatigue back, holding it at bay as she struggled to breathe through an agony she’d never known before.

  “Because I’ve sailed the seas for close to two decades and they are not always warm and forgiving,” he answered. “The pain will subside. Just let the fire warm you until it’s gone.”

  Beatrice couldn’t hold back tears as the pain engulfed her. She wept silently, tears streaming over her cheeks as it felt like a thousand needles pierced her flesh.

  She slumped against him, unable to bear it, and unconsciousness claimed her.

  *

  “Should we wake her?” the maid asked, her voice choked with tears. “I’ve never seen her carry on so. She broke her arm once, clean through, and never made a peep!”

  Graham stroked her hair absently. It was still wet, still clinging to her skin. But the blue tint to her lips had begun to fade somewhat. “No. If she’s warmed enough to feel the pain, she’s warmed enough to be safe from the worst of the dangers. I’ll hold her here in front of the fire for a few more moments. When the bath is ready, I’ll help you to put her in it.”

  “And to get her out?” the maid asked, her tone rife with disapproval.

  “If need be. If she can climb out on her own, I’ll leave you to it. Otherwise, I’ll be waiting beyond the door,” he answered. Propriety be damned. Wearing only her shift, he could see every scrape and bruise on her skin. Had he not gone after her, she would not have survived much longer. The currents had been too strong. She’d have been battered on those rocks like a broken doll.

  “Get a blanket for her,” he commanded.

  The maid left for the moment, returning with a coverlet from the bed which she draped about Beatrice’s shoulders. Graham lifted her again, holding her on his lap with the blanket covering her as a bevy of footmen entered carrying buckets of steaming water.

  The maid, Betsy he corrected himself, directed them to fill the tub behind the screen. “No,” he countermanded. “Drag the tub here before the fire first.”

  They did his bidding. If anyone thought it questionable that he held her in his arms, tucked tenderly against his chest, no one dared speak of it. When they had gone, he stood, lifting her easily as he did so and carried her to the steaming tub.

  “Wake up, Beatrice,” he whispered.

  She pressed herself tighter against him. “I don’t want to. The pain is gone.”

  “There will be more of it,” he said, “But it will be more bearable now, I promise.”

  He didn’t give her any more warning or any opportunity
to argue. Stripping the blanket that had covered her, he lowered her into the steaming water.

  She came up like a spitting cat, clawing at him as she tried to get out of the tub. He held her there, gripping her wrists so firmly that he knew he was adding to her bruises, but there was nothing for it. “The fire warmed your fingers and toes, the parts of you that were the coldest,” he explained, keeping his voice gentle even as she railed against him. “The water will warm the rest of you… your heart, your lungs. It’s the only way to ensure that there’s no lasting damage from the cold.”

  Eventually, her struggles ceased and she sat in the tub, sullen and even childlike. He rose then. “She’s still confused… the cold invades a person’s mind, makes them say and do things that are out of character,” he explained. “But the worst of it is past, I think. If you need me, you have but to call.”

  Leaving the room, Graham grabbed a small chair and carried it out to the hall where he sat, crossing his booted feet and waited to see if he was needed further.

  She’d nearly died. If he’d been even a few moments later, she would have. There was no question of it. It made his heart race and his lungs seize just to think of it. And if she had been speaking truthfully and not simply sharing some delirium she had suffered either from striking her head or from the bitter cold, it had not simply been an accident.

  He’d seen men, sailors on watch at night, men who were well accustomed to the cold and to difficult conditions succumb to a fevered brain from being too long in the elements. But she’d been quite lucid then, able to follow directions and do what he asked of her. It was not until they’d been closer to Castle Black that she’d begun to speak insensibly.

  Who would have attempted such a thing and why? Edmund infuriated by her rejection? He couldn’t actually imagine that Edmund would have braved the elements to go after her. The man was too civilized to muddy his boots that way. Or was it something more mercenary? Beatrice had been the one to substantiate his claim so far, providing information about the scar on his arm. Lady Agatha accepted him not even on faith but on her own desire to have her son returned. Beatrice was the only person who had provided any actual proof. Had someone opted to eliminate her because of that?