Winter's Knight Read online

  She’d found a washbasin in which to wash her face, a hairbrush to tame her unruly hair and twist it into a simple chignon, and a clean toothbrush, but she sorely needed to bathe. Breakfast would be lovely as well. But first, she ought to find her aunt and learn whether she was well. Then she’d explore the castle. Perhaps she’d even meet the terrible Lord Wyckburg. Excitement thrilled her at the thought. As she moved toward the door, wind howled outside, and a cold draft blew across the room like the icy touch of a phantom.

  The door opened, and she jumped. A plump woman with gray-streaked hair entered, carrying a tray of covered dishes. As the woman’s gaze flicked over Clarissa, she wrinkled her nose as if she smelled something unpleasant. She set the tray on the small table by the hearth.

  “Breakfast.” She spoke in a flat tone, not entirely rude, but without any friendliness.

  “Thank you, but my aunt… I’m concerned for her well-being. She was injured.”

  “She is your aunt, then, and not your mother or grandmother?”

  Taken aback at the inquisitiveness of the servant, Clarissa summoned a smile. “She’s my great aunt—my mother’s aunt on her mother’s side.”

  “I see. She’s resting in the next room.”

  “I’ll check on her before I eat, then.”

  The woman paused. Then, “This way.” She led her to the room next door.

  Inside, Clarissa found her aunt sitting in bed propped up by pillows. “How do you feel, Aunt?”

  “Well enough, child. My head hurts, and my arm, but nothing seems to be broken.” Aunt Tilly held up her hand and wiggled her fingers. “It hurts to put weight on it, but I’m certain it’s just a sprain.”

  Clarissa kissed her aunt’s cheek, resisting the urge to smile at the pieces of hair sticking up at odd angles from Aunt Tilly’s head, making her look as if she’d suffered a fright. “I feared you were truly injured.”

  “Just shaken, it appears.” She patted Clarissa’s cheek. “You, dear?”

  “A bit sore all over, but I’m well enough.” Turning back to the servant, who eyed the entire exchange more boldly than a servant ought to, Clarissa said, “I’d like to thank those who came to our aid yesterday.”

  All she remembered was a strong, gentle pair of arms. Surely they couldn’t belong to the frightening recluse who’d murdered his wife.

  “Lord Wyckburg is a very busy man. However, I will convey your gratitude.” The woman turned and left, leaving Clarissa to stare after her.

  “Impertinent,” Aunt Tilly sniffed. “No way for a servant to treat a lady.”

  Clarissa smoothed the counterpane on the bed, fingering the rich fabric. Surely there must be some way to meet the mysterious, murderous earl… or at least see him.

  “Perhaps I ought to arise and find the necessary.” Aunt Tilly’s gazed darted around as if she expected to see a murderer appear. “Your parents will have servants searching for us as soon as the weather improves. The last time it snowed this much, the roads were impassable for three days. They had to dig out the mail coach.”

  “Three days?” Clarissa didn’t try to hide her dismay. Her lust for exploration of this long-forbidden castle evaporated in the face of missing so much of Christmas with her family. “We’ll miss the feast and the lighting of the Yule log tonight.”

  Aunt Tilly gave her a sympathetic smile. “Then let us hope the weather clears soon. I really must find the necessary.” She threw back the counterpane and stood. After testing her balance, she disappeared into the next room.

  Clarissa tried to remember how far it was to her family manor from the castle. Her bedroom window provided a view of the castle, but she’d never walked the distance. In the summer, she could probably walk there in a few hours, but tramping through snow would take all day, and she had only her half boots and cloak to keep her warm. No, she didn’t dare risk it.

  Aunt Tilly reappeared and used the washbasin to splash her face. At her aunt’s request, Clarissa took up a hairbrush lying on the bureau and brushed out her aunt’s gray hair. She coiled it at the back of her head and pinned it.

  The inquisitive servant appeared again, carrying a tray identical to the one she’d brought to Clarissa. After depositing the tray, she turned to Clarissa. “Shall I bring your tray from the other room?” Her expression and tone made it clear she’d rather not.

  Clarissa drew herself up. “Yes, thank you.” She drew up a chair opposite her aunt’s.

  With a sigh, the servant retreated, then returned and placed the tray in front of Clarissa.

  Clarissa gave her a brilliant smile. “Thank you, Mrs…?”

  The servant blinked, clearly taken aback, but only eyed her in disapproval before she left.

  “Odd creature,” Aunt Tilly murmured.

  “I don’t expect murderers have an easy time retaining quality servants.” Clarissa turned her attention to the delicious array of food and a steaming cup of chocolate. “I think after I eat, I’ll seek the library.”

  Aunt Tilly eyed her shrewdly. “You’re just looking for an excuse to go exploring. Your curiosity is bound to be your end someday, mark my words.”

  Grinning unrepentantly, Clarissa sipped her chocolate. “Perhaps. But one always finds such interesting things when one indulges in a bit of curiosity. Maybe adventure awaits us here.”

  The wind blew harder, like the moaning of ghosts of murdered wives. Clarissa shivered in horrified delight. They finished breakfast, and Aunt Tilly dozed by the fire. Clarissa’s lure for adventure sang. After a lifetime of looking up at Wyckburg Castle and wondering about it, she was finally inside. Now was her chance.

  She tiptoed out and stopped, staring breathless at the ornate carvings and gold leaf that graced the high ceiling, the rich carpet running the length of the long corridor that cushioned her feet. She had expected to see cobwebs and disuse, but everything was clean, orderly, and well cared for. Nothing seemed sinister. Vaguely disappointed, she moved down the corridor. She passed pastoral paintings, tapestries, family portraits, crystal candle sconces, and sideboard tables bearing vases and figurines, all revealing wealth from a bygone era.

  She came to a stairway. Gripping the gleaming mahogany banister, she descended the large, winding staircase, the thick carpet runners making her footsteps soundless. The stairway ended at a great hall with a polished floor and four dark fireplaces.

  So far, the only thing unusual about the castle besides its beauty was a lack of Christmas decorations.

  Standing in the middle of the great hall, Clarissa admired the splendid room with its arched ceiling. Several doors led off to the sides, with no clues as to what might be found beyond. Only one way to find out. She chose a door and moved to it.

  With her heart pounding in excitement, she pushed open the door. The hinges creaked ominously. A cavernous room enshrouded in darkness met her eyes. Only gray light filtering through the windows provided any illumination. She stepped inside and paused until her eyes adjusted to the gloom. As her vision sharpened, she caught her breath. She stood in a grand ballroom, more glorious than any she’d ever seen during her four seasons in London. Crystal sconces graced the walls, and enormous chandeliers hung from the ceiling which might have been painted by the great Michelangelo.

  Caught up in the beauty of the room, she imagined herself dressed in a glorious ivory ball gown, greeting a foreign prince. Smiling, she sank into a deep curtsy and let her imagination take flight. “Why yes, Your Highness, I’d be delighted.”

  Humming a waltz, she put her hands into waltz position and gave herself over to the rise and fall of the rhythm. Across marble tiles she danced, humming and spinning, imagining other dancers around her, their voices and laugher mingling with the musicians. When her tune came to an end, she sank into another curtsy toward her imaginary prince.

  “It was my pleasure, Your Highness.”

  “Pardon me for asking, but do you have permission to waltz?” a male voice echoed through the room.

  Startled, Clarissa whirl
ed around and stumbled backward. A dark figure blocked the doorway. Her heart thudded in her ears, and heat crawled up her neck to her face. Who had caught her in such a childish display? Inwardly laughing at her own silliness, she fought off her embarrassment, shook her head, and faced the consequence of her lapse.

  The figure strode across the floor toward her in the long, confident strides of a man of authority. This was no servant.

  She held her breath, peering at him. Was this the mysterious earl? She offered a sunny smile. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but your ballroom is exquisite. I just couldn’t resist.”

  The man gestured toward a space in front of her where her imaginary partner had stood. “I don’t think His Highness minded.”

  Surprised at the humor he’d just displayed—or was he mocking her?— she let out a strained laugh. “Er, no, perhaps not.”

  The stranger approached and stopped within arm’s length. Her head barely reached the bottom of his chin, and the breadth of his shoulders surpassed those of other men of her acquaintance. In the dim light, she couldn’t see his face clearly and got only an impression of strong features framed by dark hair. But his clothing was of the finest cut and fabric. No doubt she stood in the presence of the terrifying Earl of Wyckburg. Although at the moment, he didn’t seem terrifying. Surely a murderer wouldn’t tease her about dancing.

  He gazed at her with curious intensity. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  She blinked. “Question?”

  “Do you have permission to waltz?”

  “Oh.” She laughed nervously again. “Yes, actually I do. The patronesses were kind enough to give me permission to waltz during my first Season in London two years ago.”

  He continued to look her over carefully. She wanted to retreat inside her cloak. Instead she smiled up at him, despite his lengthy scrutiny, and wished she could see him better.

  She cleared her throat. “We haven’t been properly introduced.”

  “No.” He said nothing more.

  “I’m Clarissa Fairchild.” She sank into a proper curtsy.

  “Yes, I thought so. Your father is Sir Richard Fairchild, is he not?”

  “Yes.” Smiling, she waited.

  He continued his grave appraisal. Something in his face bespoke abiding sadness.

  “I presume you are the Earl of Wyckburg?” she prompted gently.

  He drew in a breath. “Yes, of course, where are my manners?” He bowed. “Christopher de Champs, Thirteenth Earl of Wyckburg, at your service. This room is freezing. Do come into my study where I have a fire. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable there—if you can bear to leave the prince, that is.” One corner of his mouth lifted so slightly she might have imagined it.

  He offered her an arm, and she took it, still smiling up at him. He didn’t seem terrible at all, just sad. Perhaps he was lonely. Could everyone have been wrong about him? About his family? It was too early, to tell, of course, but nothing about the castle or the earl had been what she’d expected. And he smelled wonderful! Mulled wine and bay rum mingled in a heady blend. She drew in a deep breath and resisted the urge to lean closer.

  His gaze slid her way. “I trust you’ve been made comfortable, Miss Fairchild?”

  “Indeed I have. The room and meal were both lovely. I went in search of a library, but found your ballroom instead. I hope you don’t mind.”

  He paused. “Not at all. I’m gratified to see you’ve not suffered any ill effects from yesterday. You were barely conscious when we brought you here.”

  She nodded. “It was terribly cold, but as you can see, I’m unharmed.”

  “And your companion?”

  “Only minor injuries.”

  They crossed the main hall to a cozy study. A fire roared in the hearth, and lamplight illuminated the room. She looked up at the mysterious Lord Wyckburg—handsome in an austere sort of way, with sharp, stern features. His face was decidedly patrician, and his hair pure black. He was younger than she expected, probably not yet thirty. He looked down at her, and she blinked at the startling pale blue of his eyes. Strange, but she’d expected them to be as dark as night. Such light blue eyes should have been as clear as a brook, but harbored such brooding sorrow that she caught her breath. He stared at her as if he hadn’t anything else to do. Then, visibly swallowing, he stepped back, severing all contact.

  “Do try my selection of books here in my study before you brave the frigid air of the library.” He paused. “I seldom have guests, and I don’t heat rooms I don’t frequently use.”

  “Of course.” She moved to one of the bookshelves on either side of the hearth and pretended to peruse the titles, but all her attention remained fixed on the man in the room. As he started to leave, she called out, “Do you have any recommendations?”

  He paused, eyeing the door as if he’d hoped to escape through it. He turned to her, tension rolling off him. “That depends on what you enjoy. This section is mostly poetry, this is philosophy—”

  “Are those your favorite things to read?”

  “I suppose, on occasion. I read the newspaper the most, though.”

  “You may think me terrible, but I love novels.” She smiled.

  “No, not terrible.” He paused, looking her over in that careful assessing way. “Is your red hair a family trait?”

  She stiffened. Whatever charm she’d thought she saw in him evaporated in the face of his condescending question. “My hair is not red anymore; it’s auburn.”

  His lips twitched upward. “Sensitive about it, are you?”

  Folding her arms, she eyed him coolly. “You would be too, if you were subjected to the names I’ve endured.”

  “I suppose your father’s a redhead too?”

  His insistence on calling her a redhead made her grind her teeth. But as she relied upon both his hospitality and his mercy, she felt obligated to reply. “No. It appears to be a feminine characteristic in our family, but it frequently skips generations.”

  “Fortunate.”

  She gasped at the slight. Her mother had assured her that her once-red hair had deepened to an envious shade of auburn, but apparently, men still thought it a flaw. At least, this man did. Reminding herself that she’d received numerous offers of marriage over the last two years, she squared her shoulders and told herself she didn’t care one whit for his opinion. Despite how lovely he smelled. Or how beautiful his eyes were. And how, the rare times he smiled, his face softened and became quite handsome. She shook herself. She meant to discover his secrets, not rhapsodize on his looks.

  He rested an arm on the mantle, his curiously light blue eyes focused directly on her. “You are a direct descendant of Sir Reginald Fairchild and Aislynn McGregor?”

  Her mouth dropped open. How did he know? “They are my grandparents five generations ago. How do you know so much about my ancestors?”

  Grimly, he said, “I ought to, considering how much our family histories are intertwined.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He frowned. “Surely you know about the curse?”

  Fascinated to meet someone superstitious, she leaned in. “Curse?” She let out her breath in annoyance as she realized he was making fun of her. “No, please, do not tell me my hair color is a curse.”

  He blinked, then slowly, a smile curved his mouth, transforming his stern face into an extraordinarily handsome one. A dimple appeared on his left cheek, giving him boyish charm. “No, not your hair. It really isn’t that bad.”

  “‘Not that bad,’” she repeated. “Not a direct insult, but not exactly a complement, either.”

  He chuckled softly, but the sound seemed to come from surface, as if he never felt enough joy to truly laugh. “No, Miss Fairchild, the curse I refer to is the one your grandmother Aislynn placed upon my fifth great-grandfather.”

  She stared in horror. “Sir, that is a terrible thing to say.”

  “It was a terrible thing to do. She cursed him and all future earls and countesses of Wyckburg.�
�� No trace of humor touched his face. He fully believed his words.

  Clearly, she stood in the presence of a madman. How delicious!

  Chapter 4

  As surprise and curiosity sparkled in Clarissa Fairchild’s eyes, Christopher realized she had no knowledge of the curse. Perhaps Aislynn never confessed her act of vengeance and took her secret to the grave.

  Miss Fairchild focused clear, emerald eyes on him. “Curse?”

  Christopher took a breath. “When my third great-grandfather, William, told Aislynn he’d been forbidden to marry her, she said if he loved her, he’d defy his parents.”

  “That would have been the act of a deep and abiding love.”

  He issued a short, mirthless laugh. “Love. Love brings only heartache.” As he well knew.

  She cocked her head to the side and peered at him in rapt attention.

  “My family has a deep sense of honor and duty; we seldom let emotion rule our decisions. Therefore, William refused go against his family’s wishes. He married the lady to whom he’d been betrothed. Aislynn flew into a rage and placed an Irish curse upon him; after the birth of his first son, his wife would die.”

  She drew in her breath sharply.

  He focused on the fire, unable to look at her as he laid out the ugly truth about her ancestor. “At the time, he discounted it as the ranting of a broken heart. To his surprise, a few months after his marriage to his betrothed, she wedded your ancestor, Sir Reginald Fairchild.”

  “Oh, dear. How awkward to have her as a neighbor.”

  “More than awkward. A few days after his wife gave birth to their first son, she died.”

  “Murdered?” She stared at him wide-eyed as if equally fascinated and horrified.

  “Not in the natural way. At least, not as far as anyone could tell. The doctor said her death was due to a poor recovery from childbirth. But it gets worse; a few years later, he married again, and she, too, died—a few months after the birth of their first son.”

  “You don’t believe their deaths a coincidence.”

  “Such a curse has traveled from father to son. Each time, the new countess died of something different—a fall, an illness, consumption, a hunting accident, an unexplained illness. But the results were the same; within a year of giving birth to a son, each countess perished.”