PART I. IN THE EYE OF THE STORM.

With each minute that went by, the tempest grew stronger. With a fury not seen in years upon the Count’s lands, the storm raged over St Andrews. The fiery blades of unceasing lightning tore the sky — black and choked with dense clouds — open. Sheets of rain came down.

On such a night, no sensible soul would show themselves out of doors. But Count Alistair Winchester had no choice. He was on his way to a gathering organised by one of his closest comrades. But the storm caught the carriage off-guard.

The rain had turned the road into a treacherous black river, slick and glistening. Another bolt of lightning split the sky, lit the windows of the carriage, and laid bare the dark, handsome face of a nobleman only thirty-five, who stared out with distaste at the raging elements. The Count was certain the poor horses were giving everything they had to drag the team clear of the storm as safely as they could.

“Hell itself calls on us this evening!” the man huffed, vexed, and let the little curtain fall back. He wanted to be home as soon as possible. Then, he rose from his seat and lunged forward to the opposite wall. His fist struck twice against the side of the carriage, toward the coachman's box.

“Faster, Hobbs!” the lord roared.

“Aye, sir!” shouted the coachman, wrapped in his cloak, and spurred the wretched animals even harder.

At that moment, the lightning struck again. An indistinct figure lurched out before the galloping horses.

“Whoa!” shouted the driver and hauled sharply on the reins. The horses reared up on their hind legs, the carriage skidded, the wheels spun over the wet cobbles — and then came a dull thud as something struck the beautifully carved carriage side with the Winchester family crest. Alistair caught the edge of his seat by instinct, so as not to be thrown to the floor, and let out a thunderous curse.

The vehicle lurched to a halt and swayed. Hobbs called out something indistinct. The Count thrust his head out through the window, and the icy rain lashed his face and the brim of his hat. A fresh bolt cleaved the darkness and lit the figure lying motionless in the muddy rut, off to the side.

As though at some mute command, both men climbed down and came round the back of the carriage; the lord's boots splashed through the ankle-deep puddles.

“Get back inside, master! You’ll get soaked!” Hobbs called to him.

In vain. Count Alistair waved a hand, signalling to the coachman that he did not care.

“It cannot get any worse! The water is already getting into my fine boots, and this downpour has turned my cloak into a sodden rag of cloth!”

He gathered the trailing rim in one hand, so as not to trample it into the mud, and crouched beside the figure fallen in the ruts beside the carriage to reach toward it.

“Sir, I do not think this is a good idea!” cried Hobbs. “Most likely the horses have trampled the poor wretch. Let us be on our way!”

The lord paid the coachman's words no heed. His fingers closed about the shoulder of the figure lying on its side beside the wheels and gently turned the sprawled body onto its back.

The rain washed away the mud clinging to the face, and the nobleman saw that a young girl lay before him. A bad graze bruised the left side of her face. Her hair was a muddy ruin, its colour impossible even to guess at. Her clothes were nothing remarkable — stitched of coarse cotton and wool.

The lord reached out and laid two fingers against her throat to feel for a pulse. As he did, his nostrils flared. A heavy, sweet scent flooded his senses, and his eyes flashed with fire. He swept his gaze down her body and searched, with eyes and hands, for the source. He did not have long to look. The sleeve of her left arm tore from shoulder to elbow, and crimson blood flowed freely from the arm, mingled with the raindrops, soaked into her clothes and ran together with the mud upon the cobbles. The nobleman's eyes narrowed to two slits, and he clenched his jaw to stifle the roar rising in his head. He drew a thirsting breath.

“Foolish girl!” he growled softly, still kneeling beside her. “What are you doing out on such a night!”

Just then, roused by the chilly rain falling and wetting her face, the maiden moved and moaned; her lashes fluttered, her features twisted with the gripping pain. Slowly she opened her eyes and met the pale irises of the man bent over her. Rivulets of water streamed from the lord's tall hat and spilled down upon her.

“F-forgive me, s-sir,” she whispered. Her voice was faint, a hushed and trembling plea, choked by the rain. “I did not see the carriage coming…”

“Hush, hush…” he murmured, his tone softening at the sight of her suffering. “You are hurt. Do not move.”

But there, beneath the rain pouring down in waves, the girl was already sinking back into oblivion, her head lolling to the side.

The lord's jaw tightened; his eyes darkened. What was he to do with her? Could he leave this girl there upon the road, alone and bleeding, at the mercy of the elements? Perhaps he ought to turn away, climb back into the carriage and continue on to the manor, as though nothing at all had happened.

As if in confirmation of his thoughts, just then Hobbs cried out:

“Please don’t distress yourself over the destiny of a stray girl, master! She ought to have taken more care when crossing the road!”

Yet the Count lingered there, crouched beside the girl in the mud, his gaze moving over the wet young face. Something turned in him that he chose to call pity, as the other names for it did not bear saying over a helpless woman in the rain. His hand was already reaching for her before he had decided to let it go.

“Don’t let a bad judgment take you over again, master!” declared Hobbs, without actually expecting his master to heed his advice. And, of course, it happened again — the tall man let the warning words pass by his ears.

“Do I pay you for your service, or for your counsel, Hobbs?” roared the Count as he scooped the young woman up beneath the shoulders and the knees, and lifted her gently from the mired road. His resolute gaze met the coachman's.

“Forgive me, sir!” Hobbs understood that the Count meant to carry her into the carriage, and he hastily opened the door so that the nobleman might lay the unconcsious stranger upon the seat.

Count Winchester slipped inside with the wounded girl, laid her down, and drew a thin blanket from the chest beneath to spread it over her.

The coachman climbed back to his place in silence.

“Off we go, sir!” Hobbs called from the box, and the whip cracked through the air above the horses' ears. The carriage went jolting along the wet and muddy road.

Alistair gazed at his foundling in silence. His eyes drank in the delicate curve of her cheek, the fine arch of her brows, the dark, wet locks of hair plastered to her skin; the girl's breast rose shallowly beneath the blanket… She was a small woman, the kind of small that snaps instead of bending. So fragile, she would come apart in the hand.

The Count clenched his fingers into fists and worked his knuckles until they whitened with the restraint. He had to keep himself in check. He understood very well what he had done. To take her with him to the manor was an unwarranted risk. He clenched his teeth.

“I will heal her. And when she is well, I will let her go on her way. Until then…" His jaw worked. "My hunger will be the death of me."

Alistair turned his gaze to the window, where the storm still raged relentlessly outside as the carriage lulled them on the drenched roads. His eyes narrowed to two dark slits. He had whispered the same vow before, in this same carriage, over other faces. It had never once held. He knew the shape of how it ended — the closed door they were told not to open, and the day they opened it. He turned his face to the window, where the storm went on without him.
Days of trial lay ahead.