CHAPTER ONE

Choosing a husband was like selecting the weapon for your execution: your life was forfeit either way. I had been lucky enough to have avoided both until today. If only I had gotten out of bed instead of staring at the canopy for the better part of an hour, not had to slather on cream after cream to hide my freckles, or skipped the toast and sausages cook had served for breakfast. 

Then my father wouldn’t have caught me and ruined a perfectly good morning with his nonsense. 

“Did you hear me, Aveen?” My father braced his hands against the leather-topped desk cluttered with ledgers and books, his tone that of a man not to be trifled with. He’d slicked his thick chestnut hair back from his forehead with pomade. The man was always dressed in the height of fashion—breeches, shirt, waistcoat, and cravat—even though he spent most of his time alone in this office. 

I’d never understood his need for all the pomp. Waste of time and effort, that’s what it was.

“I heard you, Father.” My nails bit into my palms when I squeezed my hands into fists behind my back. “You believe it is time for me to marry.”

His mouth flattened beneath his trimmed mustache. The kind and gentle man I had known as a child had died alongside my mother, replaced by a dictator who refused to listen to reason. He wanted neither input nor conflicting opinions, only someone to parrot his words back in a feminine voice. “That’s correct. You need a husband.” 

“I thought I was here to collect funds. Not a husband.” 

The following Saturday was my little sister’s birthday party. Every last coin would be spent on her. Keelynn would love a new frock—something bright and festive for the start of spring. With her rich, dark hair, she looked good in almost any color. Except black. She was far too lively for the color of death. 

I’d always been envious of the flawless alabaster complexion she’d inherited from our mother, rest her soul. I took after my father’s side. Pale and fair, with freckles I painstakingly covered every morning. If I didn’t spend so much time outside, the freckles would’ve faded. But if I didn’t spend so much time outside, I would’ve faded as well. 

“You’ve had almost twenty-one years to make a match.” My father’s eyes narrowed over the rims of the spectacles he refused to wear in public. “I don’t understand why no one has asked for your hand. You’re a comely woman. What is wrong with young men these days?” 

Everything. 

That was the problem. 

None of the suitors who’d called had been worth forfeiting my life, my freedom, or my happiness. 

Why would a woman in her right mind want to tie herself to some man anyway? Storybooks spoke of love that transcended time and death, and kisses that stole one’s breath. If love like that existed, I hadn’t experienced it. And as far as kisses went, they were fine. 

Chocolate cake was better. 

In the window between the massive mahogany bookshelves, ominous clouds rolled in from the sea. If I didn’t leave soon, I’d end up a drowned rat by the time I reached town. 

“Can we discuss this at dinner? I was just on my way to the market to pick up Keelynn’s birthday present.” 

“We will discuss this now.”

Men were more likely to listen if you appeared pleasant so I pasted a placid smile on my lips. “I have already told you that I am perfectly content to remain on my own. I know how to run a household, do the finances, and manage the gardens.” The other day, I had helped our coachman Padraig birth a foal. Not that I’d ever tell Father that. With proper guidance and training, I could do anything as well as—or better than—any man. “I do not need a husband.”

There were fates worse than matrimony. The plague. Being hung, drawn, and quartered. Being buried alive. Although, one could argue that marriage was its own brand of death. It certainly was more drawn out. 

Thick, dark eyebrows slammed down over faraway blue eyes. “I’ve indulged that fantasy for long enough.” 

He thought living in this mausoleum until the day I died was my fantasy? The place could burn to the ground, and I would dance around the flames. This house meant nothing to me, and if marrying was the only way for me to keep it, then someone else could have it. 

“If you didn’t think I could do it, then why did you teach me?” 

“Your mother died before she could give me a son. And when your husband inherits my fortune, he will need a partner to help keep this place afloat.” 

My husband would inherit, not me. Women were pawns in a game of wealth and power. And yet without us, there would be no men. 

“We both know Keelynn has no head for such things,” he went on, “and she is nowhere near ready to settle down.” 

Keelynn. A beautiful wildflower, growing free, whimsical and full of dreams. She had hope for love. For the future. For happiness. 

I had learned a long time ago that there was no point in wanting any of those things. What a woman wanted played no part in what she received. 

Still, I owed it to myself to try. 

“I’m not ready either.” I’d spent the last eight years taking care of Keelynn, making sure she experienced the childhood I didn’t have. I wouldn’t change it for the world, but now it was my turn to live. And he wanted to take it away. 

“Nonsense. Do you really want your cousin Willard to inherit all of this when I die?” He waved a hand toward the coffered ceiling, shelves of books, and vast expanse of gardens below the window. 

Willard Cartwright was the only male cousin on my father’s side, so far removed we were barely related. The last time I’d seen him was at my mother’s funeral. The only thing I could remember about him was that he had the personality of a plank. 

Still, if handing over this house to an obscure relative was the price of my freedom, I’d gladly pay it. “I’m sure he would make a fine heir.” 

My father’s reddening face and the vein bulging in his forehead weren’t nearly as menacing as the creak in his jaw as his teeth ground together. “You have a duty to this family, Aveen. To marry and marry well. Think of your sister.” He paused, letting the words sink in. 

Marrying well would ensure Keelynn continued to enjoy a carefree life full of parties and dresses and all the other frivolous things she loved. And it would release my sister from the responsibility of having to provide an heir.

Although I’d known my fate since I was a child, I hadn’t anticipated time passing so quickly. 

“I expect you to find a husband by the end of March,” he finished.

He couldn’t be serious. The end of March? “That’s in seven bloody weeks!” I immediately bit my tongue. I never spoke to him like that. I never spoke to anyone like that. 

“Watch your mouth. You are a lady and will act like one.” 

Act like a lady. 

Bow and scrape and do as I was told. Keep my thoughts and opinions and feelings to myself. I was good at “being a lady.” Perhaps too good. 

Showing emotion would only make me look weak and irrational. I swallowed the retort on my tongue, silently vowing to come up with a rational solution even a man like my father would accept. 

“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t. “I understand your urgency.” I didn’t. “I will find a husband, but I ask that you give me at least until the end of the summer. This is an important decision and shouldn’t be made in haste.” The milder months brought visitors from the neighboring island of Vellana. Perhaps I could find one that wasn’t awful. 

“Enough!” His fist slammed against the desk, rattling the glass decanter on the corner. “This matter is not up for discussion. If you do not find a husband by the thirty-first, then I will find one for you.”

Useless tears burned the backs of my eyes, but I refused to cry in his presence. Refused to beg for something that should have been my right. Refused to let him see how weak I really was. My skirts swirled about my ankles as I turned to leave. The sooner I escaped this hell, the better. 

“Aveen, wait.”

Hope warmed my core until I twisted back around and saw the five coins in my father’s extended palm.

“Take these. Buy something nice for yourself.”

If only five pieces of silver were enough to purchase an honorable man. 

Resisting the urge to tell him exactly what to do with his coins, I took the silver and slipped it into my purse with the rest of my weekly allowance that I’d scrimped and saved for the past six months. 

My father picked up one of the loose pages from a pile to glare at the missive. “That is all.”

Dismissed like a servant, I turned on my heel and didn’t stop until I reached the bay window outside my father’s study. 

Lifelong commitment. Till death do us part. Rings and promises. I didn’t want any part of it. 

Think of your sister. 

I didn’t want any part of it, but I’d do this for her.

I’d do anything for her. 

The sky outside darkened to match my black mood. The hedges around the garden could do with a trim, and the hellebores were getting out of control. From the looks of the sky, I’d have to wait until tomorrow to deal with them. 

My boots slipped across the pristine marble tiles as I made my way down the long hallway to the curved staircase. If this had been a normal week, I would’ve used my money for a new trowel and some dahlia bulbs from Farmer Warren. But I needed to find my sister a gift. 

And myself a husband.

My fingers smoothed down the mahogany bannister as I descended. Maids nodded as they passed, toting buckets and rags. One of our footmen, perched atop a tall ladder, used a feather duster on the chandelier in the entry hall. 

Two heavy chairs held open the wide double doors, letting in a cool, salty breeze as more maids scrubbed the black and white tiles.

I found Padraig waiting for me in the stone driveway with my horse saddled and ready for town. 

“Milady.” When he bobbed his head his woolen flat cap slipped, revealing thinning white hair. “Best be on yer way. ‘Twas a fine mornin’, but I’m afraid the same won’t be said fer this afternoon.”

I felt what he said on a much deeper level. 

I thanked Padraig and mounted before my father caught me riding instead of taking the carriage. He thought proper ladies of our social standing should ride in carriages like pretty little porcelain dolls. 

So I rode whenever I had the chance. 

The road rose and fell, stretches of fields waiting to be planted on either side of high bramble hedges. In a few months, they’d stink of slurry. Today, all I could smell was the salty breeze rattling through a few stubborn brown leaves, the leather saddle and the horse beneath me. 

Who was I going to marry? 

Callum McNamara had wed this past spring. His brother Liam was too fond of the drink. Michael O’Donnell had left to serve in the king’s army in Vellana. Lord Donnelly was too old. Sir Roger Quinn was rumored to have done away with his first two wives. Thomas Mattingly was kind enough, and he made me laugh with his irreverent sense of humor. But there was no way my father would approve of a miller’s son. 

My father. 

What would he do if I flat out refused? Likely keel over from shock.

Hedges eventually gave way to low stone walls and grazing cattle. The few travelers I passed waved but no one tarried. Black clouds on the horizon edged closer to the small town built on a height, overlooking a port filled with merchant ships. 

What if I skipped town altogether, went straight to the docks, and used my savings for passage on one of them? I’d entertained that foolish notion a few years ago when I’d met a handsome sailor. We’d made plans. Silly, naïve plans. 

Plans that ended the night he sailed away.

I passed the sign welcoming visitors to Graystones, an apt name for a town devoid of all color beyond the daffodils blooming around the central square. 

The plaster buildings, cobbled streets, and limestone cathedral were all varying shades of gray. Even the signs swinging from the shops remained unpainted and unadorned with decorations. 

I tied my horse outside the milliner’s and made my way through the lively crowd of gentry and commoners toward the daily market. I probably should have been smiling at the eligible men who passed, trying to catch their attention. Instead, I glared at them. 

No one told a man when he should marry. Being a bachelor wasn’t frowned upon. If anything, it was regarded as a badge of honor. A man could ride his way through the entire female population and still be considered a catch if he had any wealth to speak of. 

If I was caught having a conversation with a man in a room without a chaperone, I’d be ruined. 

So bloody unfair. 

Skirting around a wide puddle, I stalked toward Dame Meranda’s shop at the far side of the square, the only building in Graystones owned by a woman. When she’d first opened five years ago, the locals had shunned her until it became clear that none of the other seamstresses could hold a candle to her talents. And then Graystones’ elite had changed their tune. What took others a fortnight would take Meranda a few days. And her stock of fabric remained unmatched on the east coast of Airren. 

This trip should’ve been the highlight of my week. Today, I couldn’t wait to return home. And just when I thought the day couldn’t get worse, I caught sight of Lady Freya Goodman strolling toward me on Robert Trench’s arm. I didn’t give a whit that he couldn’t pull his gaze from her abundant chest being strangled by her too-tight corset. 

The cad had been dead to me for years. 

It was my sister’s heart I needed to protect. If Keelynn had come along, she could see first-hand the way he acted around other women and save herself a good deal of heartache. 

When she caught sight of me, Lady Freya waved her handkerchief in my direction. “Lady Aveen? Is that you?” 

I stifled an unladylike groan. 

Robert’s hazel eyes went so wide, it looked like they could pop out of his skull. And if they did, I’d stomp them flat on the cobblestones. 

“Lady Freya, it’s lovely to see you.” I reluctantly returned the wave. “And is that Robert Trench?” His shins deserved a good dent. My boots ached to give it to them. “Robert, it’s been ages.” 

A lie. Two days ago, he’d swung by to take my sister on a picnic. She hadn’t stopped smiling since.  

Freya looked between us, her thin eyebrows pulling together. 

“A pleasure as always, Lady Aveen.” Robert slipped a finger beneath his cravat, loosening the knot at his neck. It would be unladylike to grab the ends and pull until it choked him. Wouldn’t it? 

It would.

I hid my hands behind my back in case they got any ideas of their own. 

How had I ever been attracted to someone so awful? Sure, he was handsome, with trimmed blond hair and a strong jaw, but beneath it all, he was vapid and hollow. “I’d love to chat, but I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry. It’s my sister’s birthday next week, and I still need to pick up a few bits for her. You remember Keelynn, don’t you, Freya?” 

Robert stiffened, and his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. The sheen of perspiration at his hairline was more thrilling than a second helping of dessert.

No-good, lousy, two-timing wretch.  

“How could I forget darling Keelynn?” she sniffed, her painted lips turning down in a frown. 

I’d caught my sister kissing Freya’s brother at the Samhain festival a few years earlier. 

Keelynn was so desperate to find love that she sought it out at every opportunity. 

I knew there was no point. 

Love was used to trick women into giving themselves away. In my social circles, it rarely factored into a marriage transaction. The most I could hope for was finding someone likable and kind, and most importantly—at least according to my father—a man who could manage the estate without gambling it away. 

That was my fate. The curse of being a nobleman’s first-born daughter.

I swore after the first time I saw Keelynn cry over a boy that I would do everything in my power to ensure that she married the man she loved. I hadn’t accounted for the fact that the man would be a philandering wastrel.

“Is she still off chasing faeries,” Freya asked with a grating giggle, “or has she finally grown up?”

It was one thing to look down her upturned nose at me but another thing entirely to speak ill of my sister. “Perhaps that’s something you should ask your escort.” 

Freya whipped toward Robert, eyes narrowing into slits. Robert’s mouth opened and closed like one of the gaping salmon displayed on the fish stall. 

“Enjoy your day, Freya. Goodbye, Robert.” I offered a false smile and danced around a young woman pushing a pram along the uneven cobblestones. 

Salesmen called from their stalls displaying pottery, fruit and veg, and handmade jewellery. The spools of ribbon were pretty, but ribbons as a birthday present ceased being acceptable after Keelynn had turned ten. The bolts of fabric would make for a fine dress, but even Meranda couldn’t hope to finish something from scratch on such a tight deadline. 

The bunches of daffodils tied with twine at Farmer Warren’s stall used to be my favorite flowers. Now they seemed too cheerful. 

Beside the daffodils, the bundles of dirt-crusted bulbs, which would bloom into stunning dahlia and echinacea come summer, called my name. 

Gardening took patience and cooperation from the elements that remained outside human control. And people loved control. I’d put my faith in the earth over a person any day. At least I knew its betrayal wasn’t personal. 

Farmer Warren nodded when I passed, and I told him I’d be back tomorrow for some bulbs. 

A few ladies milled around the “fortune teller’s” booth. I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if the old crone was a real witch practicing real magic. That sort of thing had been illegal in Airren for centuries. 

Still, the soldiers who kept a close watch on the town let the harmless old woman sit at her booth and exchange her false second sight for coin. 

An act of charity. 

The woman dressed the part perfectly, with long, snowy hair unbound, a bronze circlet across her forehead, and two milky eyes searching the sky for lies to tell her “clients.”

As if she knew I was thinking of her, the woman’s eyes landed on me from across the square. She had enough people paying her today, unlike the dark figure begging on the cathedral steps behind her. Most of the creature’s grotesque features remained hidden beneath a threadbare brown robe. Everything except gnarled hands covered in red hair, holding a tin cup.

A grogoch. 

Since he’d arrived three months ago, I’d seen him spat on, kicked, and jeered. Told to go back to where he belonged—to Tearmann—but he never did. Even if he wanted to leave, how could he get all the way to the creatures’ haven on the west coast with no funds?

 He sat there every day, without fail, and I had never seen anyone else give him so much as a copper. Whatever I had left after my visit to the modiste would go to him. 

In order for the creatures to remain in Airren, they had to follow laws that were far harsher than the ones humans were meant to keep. They were taxed for magic they weren’t allowed to practice. Ridiculed, hated for being different. 

When I’d first seen the man, I’d been wary. According to the books in our library, grogochs were known to be fond of drink and mischief.  

But the poor creature never seemed to move from the cathedral steps, and any time his sorrowful brown eyes had met mine, he’d look away as if ashamed. 

My situation was nothing compared to his, but I felt he and I were kindred spirits. He wore his pain on the outside; mine remained hidden inside. Humans ruled his world; men ruled mine. Neither of us were free to do as we wished. 

The bell above the modiste’s door jingled when I opened it. A few dresses had been pinned to dress forms right inside. Small tables jammed between larger ones overflowed with spools of ribbons and lace, beads and feathers. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the place, and yet if someone asked for a specific item, the proprietor would know exactly where to find it. 

At the back, I spotted a woman bent over a table, feeding black fabric through a sewing machine. 

When she heard the bell, she glanced over her shoulder, and her face broke into a smile. 

“Good morning, Dame Meranda,” I said with a wave.

The modiste, a few years my senior, had a personality to match the fiery red curls escaping her chignon. The buzzing from the machine stopped. Bunching her flouncy green skirts in her fists, she rose and bustled toward me. “So wonderful to see you, Lady Aveen. I’m afraid the dress you ordered has yet to arrive, but I’ll send word the moment it does.”

My twenty-first birthday was still three months away. By then, I’d be married. 

“I’m actually here to purchase something for Keelynn.” A garment the unique shade of rose campion peeked from behind her. “Is that a dress?” I gestured toward the magenta fabric half-concealed behind a velvet curtain. 

Frowning, Meranda withdrew the garment. Square neckline. Empire waist. Flared skirt. Stunning. “I’m afraid Lady Freya ordered this a few months back.” 

Drats. “Has she paid for it?” 

“A deposit only. Once she acquires the remaining funds from her father, she will be back to collect the dress.”

Buying my sister a stunning dress had been my goal. Irritating Freya would be a happy bonus. I unhooked the purse at my wrist, setting it on the table beside a pair of silver shears. “How much would it take to convince you to sell it to me instead?” 

Meranda laughed. “Stay for a cuppa and it’s yours.” 

After tea in her apartments upstairs, I paid for the dress and thanked her again. She assured me she could have it finished in time for my sister’s ball.  

Outside, rain fell in soft waves. I hurried over to the grogoch. My few remaining coins clinked into his empty cup. “I’m sorry it’s not much.” Something had to be better than nothing though, right? Tomorrow, when I returned for bulbs, I’d bring more. 

“Thank ye fer yer kindness, milady,” he rasped. “Ye may restore my faith in humanity yet.” 

If only a few coins could do the same for me. 

My horse was tied across the square, past the stocks and ropes swaying from the gallows. I caught sight of the McFaren twins giggling as they huddled beneath their shared parasol, golden curls bouncing free. The last thing I wanted was to get stuck talking to them about fashion or men or some other nonsense, so I ducked behind the butcher’s stall overflowing with plucked chickens and sheep parts. 

Behind the stall, a small door led to the blacksmith’s tool shed. Thanks to my sister’s childhood obsession with hide-and-go-seek, I knew there was a second door inside that would spit me out on the other side of the market. I opened the door and slipped inside. 

“You’re late,” a deep, lilting voice said from the darkness. 

My hand fell to the empty purse at my hip. If the owner of the voice wanted to rob me, he’d be sorely disappointed. 

A pair of hands slid around my waist. Heated breath tickled my ear. My heart hammered when my spine met the hard wall. A pathetic whimper escaped when those hands slipped to my backside, and yet I couldn’t find my voice to demand he stop as warm, soft lips grazed down my neck toward the hollow at my throat. 

The man smelled sweet, like cinnamon and honey and something more. Something darker.

Something like . . . 

Magic.