The Villain Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

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  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  EPILOGUE

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  Enjoy this sneak peek of Book 2 of The Villain

  Book 2: The Dove

  More by Victoria Vale

  About the Author

  The Villain

  Victoria Vale

  Copyright 2018 by Victoria Vale

  Edited by Zee Monodee (Divas at Work Editing)

  Cover Art & Formatting by Victoria Vale

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, laces, or people, living or dead, is coincidental.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Scotland, 1819

  ady Daphne Fairchild lowered her head against the rain and spurred her mount toward her destination. Looming against a backdrop of angry, storm-cloud-riddled sky, a huge black shape thrust up from the summit of a steep cliff. A flash of lightning illuminated it briefly, a menacing roar of thunder seeming to warn her away.

  Turn back, it cautioned.

  I cannot, she replied.

  Not after she had hastily fled London in the dead of night, with only the clothes on her back and the meager provisions she could carry. She’d braved ruin and scandal to come here—and now that winds and torrential rain had lent themselves to the frigid cold, she also risked catching her death.

  Yet, nothing would stop her from reaching the summit, from striding right up to the front door of the imposing Scottish castle and demanding an audience with its owner. Even if it was the middle of the night, when no decent young woman would dare pay a call upon an unattached man. Even if she felt more than certain he would throw her out upon her arse the moment she opened her mouth to proclaim herself a Fairchild. Even if she had risked everything, with no certainty that she would find what she’d come for.

  Squinting to see through the unrelenting sheet of rain seeming to actively fight her horse’s every step, she spotted the only path leading up the steep escarpment. Winding up what might be a grassy slope in the light of day, it would lead her straight into the maw of the very devil.

  “Courage, Daphne,” she whispered to herself as she approached the lane. “Have courage.”

  She craned her neck to better see her destination, but could make out no more than the enormous black silhouettes making up the famed Scottish keep.

  Lightning flickered again—once, twice—followed by a roar of thunder. In the brief moment that the sky had crackled with jagged light, the devil’s lair had revealed itself.

  A jumbled collection of outbuildings sitting behind a stone curtain wall, and, somewhere outside her view, the palace itself.

  Castle Dunnottar.

  Once a well-fortified place of defense and center of political intrigue; now a legendary relic, restored to become the home of a man who lived like a king. However, the ruler of this castle was no monarch. Nor could he be likened to some gothic novel hero—despite residing in a place that would serve as the perfect backdrop for such a story.

  No, this man was the thing nightmares were made of. The whisper of his name caused her heart to pound and tears to well up in her eyes.

  He was a rogue. A thief. A blight upon the Earth.

  A villain.

  Rounding a bend in the path, she approached the curtain wall and the looming gatehouse built into it. An old iron portcullis barred anyone from entering, but as she drew near, she spied a lone man just within the stone structure.

  Dismounting and grasping the reigns of her horse, she peered through the metal bars. A wooden door stood open to the gatehouse, revealing a man seated near a glowing hearth inside. She envied him the warmth of even so small a fire while her fingers had grown so stiff from the cold, she feared they would break away from her hands.

  “Pardon me,” she called out to be heard over the rain.

  Lifting his head, the gate keeper spotted her, his eyes going wide. Daphne clung to the bars of the portcullis, tightening her grip to still her shaking hands.

  “What on Earth are ya doin’ out here in the dead ‘o night—and in a storm, no less?” he bellowed in a rough, Scottish burr as he approached the gate.

  “I’ve come to see Lord Hartmoor,” she replied, doing her best to deepen her voice.

  With her disguise of breeches, boots, and a man’s coat, she hoped to pass as a male until she could obtain an audience with the master of the house.

  The man wrinkled his brow, looking at her as if he thought her an escapee from Bedlam. Not altogether impossible, as only madness could have prompted her to do such a foolhardy thing. Now, here she stood with no intention of leaving until she’d gotten what she’d come for.

  “Are ye daft?” he exclaimed. “’Tis the middle o’ the night, and the master cannae be expectin’ ye!”

  “I have traveled all the way from London on horseback in this ghastly weather,” she argued. “I will not be turned back now. Please … my business with the earl is most urgent.”

  With a shake of his head, the man waved her off as if she were some bothersome fly buzzing about his head. “Your urgent business can wait ’til tomorrow. Back down the mountain with ye.”

  Desperation clogged her throat as he turned away, heading back toward his little nook in the gatehouse. That was it? After she’d come all this way, some stodgy old gatekeeper would turn her away at the gate?

  No … she could not be turned away.

  “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 Fairchild afore ye 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 t
end 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.

  “Courage, Daphne,” she whispered, repeating the words she’d been saying to herself throughout the long journey. “Have courage.”

  She had come this far and could not turn back now. The fate of her family depended upon her walking into that study to confront the man who had ruined them. Cruelly. Methodically. Purposely.

  The first step proved the hardest. Once she’d crossed the threshold, she could move more easily, taking slow steps to enter the study. Turning left, she discovered a long room stretching away from her, lit and warmed by two large, yawning hearths cut in the left and right walls. The space was bare of any furniture except for a large mahogany desk before which stood a man who looked as large as the butler. Turned away from her, hands clasped behind his back, he seemed not to realize she had entered the room. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of a white linen shirt, and he went without a coat or waistcoat. Fawn breeches clung to his lower body, showcasing powerful legs. Gleaming black boots adhered lovingly to his calves, the muscled limbs filling out the supple leather in a way most London men would envy.

  Long, waving strands of dark brown hair fell past his shoulder blades in wild disarray. The deep sable hue of those locks was interrupted by haphazard strands of gold, which caught the light of the fire here and there.

  Pausing halfway into the room, she swallowed past the lump in her throat while the warmth of the two fires sank through her soaked clothes and offered a bit of relief. What she wouldn’t give for a hot cup of tea and her warm bed.

  The man before her suddenly moved, turning slowly to face her, as if possessing all the time in the world. As if he bent time to his will instead of the other way around.

  Her mouth fell open, shock rippling through her as she was confronted with the rest of him. The rough-hewn muscles of his form became even more imposing, the evidence of strength in the bulges of his arms showing through the fabric of his shirt, along with the swell of his wide chest. Her mouth went dry when her gaze fell to the patch of skin revealed by his loose buttons, a peppering of dark hair showing in the gap.

  She paused there, terrified to look any further, for reasons she did not comprehend. But she sensed his gaze on her, and even without meeting that stare, could feel him studying her, assessing her, stripping the clothes from her body and the
flesh from her bones.

  Finally, she forced herself to continue, lifting her eyes and taking in the thick cylinder of his neck, and up, up toward a face that looked as if it had been carved from granite. Harsh lines and planes mingled with solid angles, a square jaw set off by a slightly crooked nose that appeared as if it might have once been broken. A mouth that might have been full and lush set in a firm line, pulled tight at the corners. The rough stubble of whiskers sprouted along his jaw, as if he hadn’t taken a razor to it in days.

  At last, her gaze clashed with his, and the dread in her belly solidified into a solid, frigid mass of outright terror. In the light of the fire, they appeared golden in color, with a rim of dark brown along the outer edges. The longer Daphne stared into them, she began to detect flecks of green near the irises—creating a convoluted jumble of colors that likely transformed depending on the lighting of a room or position of the sun. That long, wild hair framed his face, though it did nothing to soften the features. She imagined the effect would be twice as intimidating with it pulled back.

  He began to move toward her, and the urge to backpedal as fast as her legs would carry her caused the hairs on the nape of her neck to stand on end. Yet, she held her ground, remaining rooted to the spot as he advanced on her with an almost feline sort of grace, the muscles that once appeared hard now liquid with fluidity, rippling and rolling beneath his clothes.

  He paused when they stood but a few inches apart, and his scent reached out to her, striking her as decidedly masculine. Cedar, the smoke of a cigar, brandy, and … and something else. Some primitive scent she could only describe as ‘male.’ His eyes gave not a hint of what he thought as he searched out her features beneath her hat. It hid her hair, the long, auburn braid tucked into the collar of her jacket while only a few wispy strands fell around her face.

  “You are not Bertram Fairchild,” he said, his voice hard and clipped.

  The low, rumbling tones reminded her of a cat’s purr—a very large cat. A lion. She had never heard or seen one, but she imagined his rough-sounding voice and its underlying purr would be exactly what the big cat would sound like. His cultured tones held a slight Scottish burr—though not as strong as that of his butler and gatekeeper.