Page 2 of The Villain
“Tell him Fairchild wishes a word with him!” she cried out, not bothering to deepen her voice as she attempted to be heard over the rain.
He paused, his shoulders going rigid. Turning back to the gate, he watched her with a pensive intensity that left her shivering. As if her name had angered him somehow … and yet, he did not shoo her away as he had before. Inclining his head, he narrowed his eyes at her.
“Fairchild, ye say?” he muttered.
Raising her chin and squaring her shoulders, she nodded. “That is correct.”
Rubbing his bearded chin, the old man nodded. Without another word, he backed away from her and toward the crank that operated the portcullis. The ancient gate creaked and groaned as the chain pulled it up its shaft.
“Oh, thank you,” she said as she dashed into the courtyard, pulling her mount along behind her. “Thank you so much.”
“Present yerself at the front door o’ the palace,” he grumbled, jerking his thumb toward the large, dark building looming in the back corner of the curtain wall. “Be sure you tell ’em ye’re Fairchildaforeye ask for your audience. You’ll be taken right to him.”
Daphne gave him a quizzical glance, a question burning on the tip of her tongue. Had Lord Hartmoor been expecting her? No, of course he could not have been. Perhaps he anticipated her brother, Bertram. It had been smart, then, using only her surname.
Reaching out to take her reins, the gatekeeper inclined his head toward one of the outbuildings—a stable, Daphne realized.
“I’ll tend yer horse,” he said.
She nodded her thanks and followed the wide path winding through the small buildings spotting the massive courtyard, her head tipped back so she could stare at the dwelling known simply as the ‘palace’ of Dunnottar. With rain sluicing down her face and her hands clenched into fists at her sides, she approached with sure strides, determination clenching her teeth.
A set of smooth stone steps led up to carved wooden doors which loomed up several feet taller than her. Taking them two at a time, she approached the door with her fist raised, pounding on it as hard as she could. The impact rattled along her arm, stinging her frozen, stiff hands. Yet, she persisted, pounding and pounding until, at last, one of the heavy doors swung open.
She was met by a man as large and imposing as the palace; who, despite his obvious status as the butler, appeared to have been born for a less refined position. A jagged scar ran the length of one side of his face, the rough planes as terrifying as his cold, dark eyes. His bulky body strained the seams of his black coat, and his cravat could hardly contain his thick neck.
“Whadye want?” he grumbled in a Scottish burr as thick as the gatekeeper’s.
Daphne’s mouth fell open, shock momentarily robbing her of words. Such an unconventional butler, this man; yet, she remained aware of the oddness of this entire situation. When he raised his eyebrows and stared at her as if she were mad, she cleared her throat.
Affecting her deep voice, she squared her shoulders. “Fairchild, here to see Lord Hartmoor.”
The butler’s expression morphed from one of disinterest and apathy to one of disgust. “Fairchild, is it?”
She flinched at the way he said her surname, as if uttering a foul epithet. “Yes. I must speak with His Lordship at once.”
Raking her from head to toe with his hawkish gaze, he gave a curt nod and stepped aside to clear the path through the doorway. He said nothing, but she accepted the silent invitation and swept through the entrance.
The door scraped close behind her, the audible echo of it slamming into the frame resounding through her with an odd sort of finality. Her blood ran cold as she gazed about the large main hall—the stone walls hung with rich tapestries, iron candelabras holding dripping tapers, thick rugs guiding a path forward.
Here she stood, poised just within the jaws of the beast, the keep known as Dunnottar and the monster who lived in its depths. One more step, and she might find herself devoured whole, swallowed into its belly and left to languish until it had digested her with excruciating slowness. But she’d come here willingly and could only pray that she’d emerge as whole as she’d entered.
“Follow me,” the butler said, his tone clipped as he breezed past her and through the main hall.
Daphne struggled to keep up with his long strides as he led her down an endless corridor with no thought to her shorter legs. Her gaze barely registered her surroundings as she followed him, her feet falling silently on the thick runners carpeting the hallway, the flicking flames of candles in sconces making shadows dance across pieces of art in gilded frames. The evidence of Hartmoor’s wealth made itself apparent in every object her gaze fell upon—the expensive Aubusson rugs, the paintings commissioned by well-known artists, the wood paneling covering walls that had once been made of stone. The elements of the old medieval keep that had been allowed to remain melded well with the new, creating an intriguing medley of past and present.
Despite the urgency of her mission and the anger simmering in her belly at the man who owned it all, she could not help but grudgingly admit the parts of Dunnottar she’d seen left her intrigued. Laid out in a quadrangle, the palace boasted large wings filled with rooms, the contents of which she could only guess at. Rumors of secret passages and underground tunnels always came with stories of the place where battles had been fought and monarchs had hidden in the midst of rebellion. Were it not for her urgent business, she might allow herself to imagine what she would find if allowed to wander at will.
“Wait here,” the butler said abruptly, coming to a stop before one of many doors.
Opening it, he allowed her only a brief glimpse of what appeared to be a study before slamming the panel unceremoniously in her face. The low rumble of male voices filtered into the corridor beneath the crack in the door, but she could not distinguish one from the other. She stood staring at the heavy wood for what felt like an eternity before it opened again, and the butler reappeared, filling the entire frame with his bulk.
“The Master will see you now,” he rumbled in his ominous voice.
The Master. Not ‘His Lordship,’ or ‘Lord Hartmoor,’ but ‘The Master.’ Yes, she could imagine that a man who owned one of the country’s most treasured castles would wish to be referred to as the master of said domain. And in Scotland, she did believe that lords were often referred to in this way. Still, the reference sent another shiver through her. Lord Hartmoor was the master of this palace, of everything within the stone curtain wall she’d just passed through, and of everyone who lived within these premises. Now that she had passed through that portcullis and entered the jaws of the palace, did that make him her master, too?
Brushing past her, the butler jolted her out of her thoughts, retreating back the way they’d come, the dark shadows of the corridor eventually swallowing him out of sight.
Daphne stared through the open doorway, finding more thick rugs laid upon the floor and the flicker of flames cast against the walls. The crackling of a fire invited her inside with the promise of warmth; yet, fear kept her poised in the corridor. She remained standing in the open doorway for what felt like hours, and still, no one appeared within her field of vision, and no voice called out to beckon her inside.
