She remembered hearing about spinster relatives, who were considered eccentric and had lived respectable lives courtesy of their wealth and intelligence. Morgan knew she had no use for marriage; she was almost past a respectable marriageable age, and she was more than capable of making her own decisions about her life. She had had nothing but time to plan her future. If she could only survive another couple of weeks until her twenty-first birthday, she would then be truly free. She would never to have to answer to any man except for the king himself.
After years of searching through the cracks and crevices of the castle, she had finally found the contract her father had drawn up between King Henry and himself when she was a child. Her mother had shown it to her only days before the fire, reading it to her and explaining paragraph by paragraph how the agreement worked.
She remembered the day clearly…
“Morgan, your father and I love you, and as our first born, we have discussed your future at great length. He and I are in agreement that your happiness is the most important thing for us. It is important for all our children.”
“I am happy.”
Morgan remembered feeling content at that moment sitting by the large window in her father’s solar with her sister sitting next to her reading one of the valuable books her father had in his prized collection. Her beautiful mother was sitting only a few feet from them with the folds of her skirt spread out around her as she sat in the cushioned chair next to the fireplace.
Lady Pembridge patted the seat next to her. “Come here, my sweet girls.” She had waited for Morgan and Rhiannon to join her. Morgan sat at her mother’s right and Rhiannon situated herself on a cushion on the floor by her feet. “Morgan, you are our eldest child and should the unthinkable happen, your father and I wanted to be sure that all of you were taken care of properly. Not that I’m saying anything will happen, it is wise to have a plan in place.”
“What plan, mamma?” Rhiannon asked. She was so quiet and she rarely spoke. As a twin, Rhiannon and Morgan could communicate without words and often did. Her vocalizing the question confirmed to Morgan that Rhiannon was engaged in the conversation and not lost in her own magical world of make-believe. It was rare that anything would pull her out of her daydreams. The older they became the more Rhiannon withdrew.
“Well, girls, not every man is as good and decent as your father,” Lady Pembridge stated. “Life for a woman can be hard. This is especially true if the circumstances are not, shall I dare say, ideal. Because of that your father and I want you to have some leverage. We want you to have the ability of input into your circumstances. I want to read you something and it is very important that you understand what this document represents.”
Morgan sat beside her mother and peered at the parchment that contained several wax seals. One belonged to the king.
“Now, girls, this document is an agreement between your father and the king. The decree states clearly that should either of you find yourself in the hands of a guardian and not find a husband of your own choosing—and that is the key to this whole thing: a husband of your own choice—then on your twenty-first birthday your inheritance is yours to manage as you see fit, without any outside interference. Morgan, Seabridge is yours as you are our first born. I don’t care that the archaic practice is only boys being in line to inherit. It’s simply offensive to me and your father agrees.”
“Will the boys live here, mamma?” Morgan asked.
“If they are not old enough to be fostered, then yes. Nevertheless, the boys have been given property of their own to manage upon your father’s death. Rhiannon, you will have Hearthill Manor under the same stipulations that Morgan has with Seabridge.”
“I love Hearthill Manor, mamma,” Rhiannon said, looking shyly down at her lap. “I shall be happy there.”
“I know, my love.” Lady Pembridge smiled at her daughter who was only minutes younger than Morgan.
Morgan had recalled that her mother worried more about Rhiannon than the boys. And at one point her mother had asked her to always keep watch over her sister. Rhiannon had a tender heart and she was fragile in body and spirit.
“Morgan, this paragraph states that you will oversee Rhiannon’s marriage contract giving her the same freedom as we have given to you to refuse a suitor. Rhiannon, Morgan will have the final say. I want you to have a good marriage, my love. Not one that will harm you. Sometimes love is blind leaving us vulnerable to those who would prey on us as women. This contract ensures that you will not be forced into a marriage that you do not want. It does not give you the freedom to marry who you want, unless it is an acceptable match. Do you understand the difference?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rhiannon acknowledged. “I am content to let Morgan chose,” she said as her gaze drifted back out the window.
“Good. Morgan, if you are old enough to marry and James and John are still babies, then they will be under the care of your husband until they are ready to be fostered, so choose well.”
“I shall choose a man just like Da,” Morgan said with the confident lift of her chin.
“I could wish that for both of you, my loves. But men like your father who respect their wives and let them have a voice are rare. Not that they aren’t out there. They are just hard to find.”
“And if I do not marry?” Morgan asked, feeling that it was preferable never to marry than to marry and have the man she called husband not live up to the standard she had in her mind. James Morgan Pembridge was a shining example of a husband and father. She would settle for nothing less than a man who was his equal. Her Da was not perfect, but he was a God fearing man and he loved his family.
“I hope that you do find that man, Morgan. The love that I have found with your father and the joy my children give me is very fulfilling. But should you make the choice to remain unwed, then choose your steward wisely. Do not follow any man’s counsel blindly, but take the counsel of several. Above all, Morgan, think for yourself.” Lady Penbridge said, with a great deal of conviction.
“I don’t know why we are even discussing this subject,” Morgan remembered the feeling of dread that shot through her and she rose to her feet. “You and Da will be here to help me make a good match with a loving man who will adore me like Da adores you, and I shall give you a dozen grandchildren,” Morgan said, feeling the blush rise in her cheeks.
“You are probably right but I want you to understand that life is not always fair, love, and fate can be cruel at times. Just remember that this contract exists.”
Morgan acknowledged the terms of the agreement struck were not totally unprecedented. It is just not something done if other means were possible for management of an estate, and that usually entailed a marriage. At twenty, she understood the finer points of how society functioned. She understood what was and was not a cultural norm.
This was not the norm.
Furthermore, her father knew that it was unorthodox when he drafted the document at the insistence of her mother. Her father gave her mother everything her heart desired, so her mother hadn’t needed to push very hard to get him to negotiate this agreement. Henry signed the agreement in September 1485, the first year of his rule and ascension to the throne.
Morgan was certain her uncle couldn’t possibly know of the agreement’s existence. Otherwise, the man would have had no qualms of forcing her into marriage years ago with a lackey of his own choosing before the king could object. It was certainly not to her uncle’s advantage for her to reach her birthday unmarried.
However, in the meantime, Lester’s greedy nature was playing into her plans. Knowing Lester was in no hurry to see her placed into the care of any husband, Morgan felt certain her uncle wouldn’t release the reins of Seabridge quietly. She also had an epiphany three weeks back. Coming to terms with the fact that he would eventually reach the realization that she couldn’t live if he was to keep Seabridge for himself, she knew that without hesitation the bastard would kill her. There was no one to stop him.
It was the catalyst she needed to bolster the courage to make her escape.
Her uncle wasn’t going to control her any longer.
“I will go to King Henry and beg his indulgence for an audience,” she said, firming up the plan in her mind to give her courage. Morgan wasn’t quite sure how to go about that request, but she would figure it out. If he declined her audience or did grant the audience but declined her request outright, she would use the document. However, she was also smart enough to know it was never wise to push a king into a corner. She would allow Henry to select her husband and pray for the best.
And, in this instance, it was better to dance with the devil she didn’t know than for her to continue this dance with the one she did.
She pushed down the fear. She pushed aside the uncertainty.
Tonight she was leaving it all behind, carrying nothing except her courage, a small sack of belongings, and the contract her mother had told her never to forget. That contract was between her father and the king.
It was a commitment that would truly set her free.
Chapter 3
In the distance Lord Lester Brentwood saw Seabridge sitting on the jagged cliffs. It was his Seabridge, or it would be soon enough and had been for the last seven years for all intents and purposes.
He had been gone for several months to escape the boredom of the long winter months and to sample the excitements London offered. Such diversions were not available on an isolated estate that sat on a piece of rock. He never would understand what his brother had seen in this hulking granite and limestone structure. Other than the wealth, he saw no advantages. However, he took the bad with the good. On the way back from London to Seabridge, he had decided to appoint an overseer and spend his days in London. Problem solved.
Bordering on the west coast of England, Seabridge was a fearsome enough place in summer; in winter, it was dreadful. With no company or entertainment, his boredom was complete. So he spent the Christmas season at the court of his king, Henry VII, and had decided to stay on past Easter, which was a bit longer than was his custom.
It was also a bit longer than he was welcome if Henry’s response to his actions was to be believed.
Nevertheless, he was glad he had lingered, even if he wore out his welcome with Henry. Had he left when originally planned, he wouldn’t have received the news until it was too late to counter the move the king was about to make in regard to his niece.
Henry had decided it was time for Morgan to marry and had promised her to a trusted knight on the king’s short list of favorites. He knew the McKinnon man by reputation. The man wasn’t one he would tangle with in a fair fight. The man was of Viking descent, and that was obvious in both his build and his disposition.
Damn, he thought again.
He should have been expecting this after Henry forcefully declined his petition to marry her the previous summer. In retrospect, it had been a poor strategic move on his part. Henry denied him the right to his dead brother’s daughter, and therefore, all her holdings. Making matters worse, he only succeeded in calling to the king’s attention that Morgan was of marriageable age, wealthy, and still not betrothed.
Lester reasoned he would marry the girl himself and deal with the fallout and Henry’s wrath. He’d claim ignorance and marry Morgan before Henry had a chance to publicize the formal arrangements. Then he’d be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams, which left him to wonder why he had not married her before now.
Besides, what could the king do after he compromised the girl? Henry was already angry with him, and no titled lord would have her once she was a used commodity. Such a man would be the laughing stock of the kingdom. The wealth and title of duke might be enough to soothe male egos, but he doubted it would be enough where the truly upper crust was concerned.
Lester smiled. His plans always worked one way or the other. Throw enough money, men, or threats at something, and it usually happened as planned.
Riding his prized Arabian into the courtyard and looking about, Lester wanted to be sure his groom was waiting to take his horse on his arrival at the stables.
“Gordon, I rode ahead,” Lester said, looking down his nose at the servant. For Christ’s sake, Lester thought, looking at Gordon. Lester wondered why the man was in rags and his face gaunt with hunger. Gordon had once been his dead brother’s stable master, but Lester only allowed him to muck out the stalls. It was never a good thing to let a man have pride.
“Why are you not dressed properly?” Lester was haughty enough to ask such a question, never seeing his own responsibility in the decline of the once magnificent holding.
The stableman knew better than to reply that Lord Brentwood was an evil man and didn’t take care of those under his watchful eye.
“Laundry day, sir,” Gordon replied.
“See to it you don’t look like this in public. You offend me,” he said, bringing his handkerchief to his nose.
“Aye, sir.” What else was he going to say?
“The supply wagon will be along shortly. Take care of my horse and, for God’s sake, make sure you do it properly. I had to beat that stupid boy of yours the last time for failing to do as I directed. My horses are extremely valuable.” Lester had spent a fortune of Morgan’s money on his stables, reasoning that she would never miss it. “I trust you shall not make the same mistake?” Lester’s voice, although soft, carried total authority.
“Nay, my lord, I’ll not make the same mistake,” Gordon spoke, his head bowed, his pride crushed years ago. Raising the anger of his overlord in any way was never a good idea. Any man brainless enough to cross this devil simply disappeared after being sent on an errand.
Lester hurried to the stronghold. Before the sun set, Seabridge would be his to do as he saw fit. His lifestyle would be no different from the past seven years, he mused. It would just be permanent. No one would dare to challenge his right to the holdings once he had married and properly bedded the Seventh Duchess.
“Bring Morgan and the priest to me at once!” he bellowed as he burst through the castle doors.
“Welcome home, Lord Brentwood,” his housekeeper blurted, startled at his sudden return.
Lester smiled, sadistically feeding off Darcy’s fear. She was afraid of him. Everyone was afraid of him. He knew the hold he had over the individuals in his charge. It gave him a thrill to know he had such power over their pathetic lives. He didn’t care about them except that they serve. The outcome and consequences of poor action was his to dole out, and he did so in good measure.
“I wish ye had sent a messenger ahead. I could’ve seen to your meal,” she prattled on nervously.
“Cease your babbling, Darcy, and go find the priest! Bring him and the girl to me in my solar at once.”
At that same moment, Cyril stepped in from the courtyard. As Seabridge’s captain of the guard, it was his duty to be the bearer of the news everyone had been dreading to deliver. It wasn’t unheard of for bad news to result in the death of the one who delivered it.
“That directive is impossible to follow, sir.”
Lester slowly turned to see who would dare to counter his demands. “And I await your answer as to why.” His voice was cold as steel and dripped with sarcasm.
This is not good, Cyril thought. Not that he expected it to be. After all, this was Lord Brentwood he was facing.
“She’s gone, sir,” Cyril said flatly.
Lester’s veins rose thick on his forehead and neck, giving Cyril the impression the devil was about to explode. Cyril had seen him angry many times before, and he feared for Darcy, who was standing too close to Lester for Cyril’s comfort. Lord Brentwood was an evil man, never bothering to hide that personality trait. This far out in the borderlands between England and Wales, there was no one to stop him.
“Gone! What in the devil do you mean she’s gone?”
His gaze hardened as he combed the foyer, waiting for an answer. No one was crazy or stupid enough to speak. The silence was deafening, but, more to
the point, the silence was deadly.
Cyril spoke, breaking the silence that would bring more bad than good the longer the question went unanswered.
“Sir, we set the guard to watch the door. That said, we don’t know how she escaped. She simply vanished. The best we can determine is it hasn’t been more than three days based on the last time she ate.”
“Have you been starving her? If I find that to be the case, I’ll kill you myself for overstepping your boundaries.” In his mind, he was the only one with the authority to punish her.
Darcy spoke, coming to Cyril’s defense, “Oh no, sir, it wasn’t our doing. It was Her Grace’s choice. I swear on me mum’s grave.”
Darcy explained how Morgan refused to eat and had starved herself for some time. It didn’t seem out of the ordinary that the duchess didn’t touch her food for several days.
Cyril drew Lord Brentwood’s gaze from his wife.
“On the third day, we went to give Her Grace some exercise as you had ordered, and the room was empty.”
“What did she take with her?” Lester had to know what resources she had managed to steal from him.
“The only possession we know that disappeared around the same time was Demon.”
“Demon?”
That was a surprise. Lester doubted Morgan could handle the magnificent beast, but if she were desperate enough, he supposed anything was possible.
“She could not have taken such a beast and managed him. I think it’s just coincidence.” Darcy made the mistake of offering her unsolicited opinion.
“I pay you to clean. I don’t pay you to think!”
By this point, Lester was blood red in the face. Without warning, he backhanded Darcy and sliced her face open with his signet ring. The blow sent her to the polished stone floor. On reflex, the captain stepped forward to defend his wife. Lester drew his sword and ran the man through on the spot without warning or just cause in a sane man’s mind.
Looking down, Lester watched in sadistic satisfaction as the blood began draining out of his guard. That crimson fluid slid like a serpent across the floor, pooling at his booted feet as if to point the way to the one who bore the guilt. While Darcy sobbed over Cyril’s body, he kicked her like an errant dog nipping at his feet.