Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

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The castle was silent and still. Outside snow lay heavy on the land, a white blanket smothering hill and vale, loch and forest.

He sat in the armory, one of his retreats. Head bent, he concentrated on cleaning the guns used earlier that day, when a break in the weather had allowed him and a small group of others to venture forth. They’d bagged enough fresh meat to keep the castle supplied for a week, maybe more. He’d taken some small satisfaction in that.

Meat, at least, he could provide.

The sound of determined footsteps reached him. All satisfaction fled. What replaced it. . he couldn’t put a name to the roiling mix of fury, frustration, and dread.

His mother stalked into the room.

He didn’t lift his head.

She came to a halt at the end of the central table at which he sat.

He felt her glare, but stoically continued to reassemble the gun he’d been cleaning.

She broke first. Slapping a hand on the table, she leaned forward to hiss, “Swear it! Swear that you’ll do it — that you’ll go south, seize one of the Cynster sisters, and bring her here so I can have my revenge.”

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