Transcription
They called him the Wolf of Blackwood, a man who chewed up innocence and spat out ruin. But on the night of my betrothal, amidst the silk and champagne of London's finest ballroom, Samuel Thorne didn't come for money, and he didn't come for revenge. He came for me.
I was Lady Abigail Faith, the jewel of the season, promised to a golden boy with a Viccount's title. But by midnight, the golden boy would be on his knees. My father would be weeping, and I would be the property of a monster. This isn't a fairy tale. This is the story of how I fell in love with the nightmare.
The year was 1819, and the air in the grand ballroom of Oakbridge Hall smelled of expensive beeswax, crushed lavender, and the underlying metallic scent of desperation. Lady Abigail Faith stood near the orchestra, her fingers gripping the ivory fan so tightly the delicate ribs threatened to snap. To the 300 guests swirling in a kaleidoscope of velvet and lace, she was the picture of envy, the only daughter of the Earl of Faith, wearing a gown of crushed sapphire silk, about to marry the most eligible bachelor in England, Vic, Count Julian Sterling.
"Smile, Abigail," Julian whispered, leaning close. His breath smelled of cherry and cloves. "The Duke of York is watching. We must look like the portrait of domestic bliss, not to strangers at a funeral." Abigail forced the corners of her lips upward, though her stomach churned. Julian was beautiful in the way a marble statue is beautiful: perfect, cold, and entirely hollow. He had blonde curls that fell artfully over his forehead and a smile that didn't quite reach his pale blue eyes.
"I am smiling, Julian," she replied, her voice low. "Though I wonder why my father is sweating so profusely in a room this drafty." She looked across the floor to Earl Faith, her father, usually a man of boisterous laughter and red-faced cheer, looked ashen. He was downing his fourth glass of brandy, his eyes darting toward the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall, as if he expected the devil himself to walk through.
"Nerves," Julian dismissed, smoothing the lapel of his coat. "The settlement papers are signed. His debts are cleared by my dowry. He's simply relieved to have you off his hands and his ledgers balanced." Abigail stiffened. That was the truth of it. She wasn't a bride. She was a transaction, a currency used to plug the holes in the Faith family fortune caused by her father's disastrous gambling habits at White's Club.
The orchestra swelled into a waltz. Julian bowed, extending a hand. "Shall we?" Abigail took it. But before they could take the first step, the music faltered. It didn't stop all at once. It died. Instrument by instrument, the cello first, then the violins, until only a lone flute trilled and faded into a suffocating silence.
The heavy double doors of the ballroom, usually opened by liveried footmen, were kicked open with a violence that shook the crystal chandelier overhead. A gust of wind and rain swept into the warm room, extinguishing the nearest candles. In the threshold stood a shadow. He was massive, broad-shouldered and imposing, wrapped in a heavy sodden greatcoat that dripped rainwater onto the polished parquet floor. He didn't look like a gentleman. He looked like a storm given human form.
As he stepped into the light, a collective gasp rippled through the crowd. "Lord, save us," the Dowager Duchess of Kent whispered loudly. "It's the wolf, Samuel Thorne, the Duke of Blackwood." Abigail felt Julian's hand turn clammy in hers. Thorne was a legend in London, but not the kind one wished to meet. A war hero from the Peninsula, who had returned with a scarred face, a dead family, and a reputation for ruthlessness that made grown men tremble. He had been a recluse for three years, ever since the fire at Blackwood Manor.
Thorne ignored the crowd. His eyes, dark as flint and burning with a terrifying intensity, scanned the room. He wasn't looking for the buffet. He was hunting. His gaze landed on Abigail's father. The Earl of Faith dropped his brandy glass. It shattered, the sound like a gunshot in the silent room. Thorne walked forward, his heavy boots thudding rhythmically. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, terrified of brushing against his wet coat. He stopped ten paces from Abigail and Julian, but he didn't look at them. He looked only at the Earl.
"Faith," Thorne said. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated in Abigail's chest. "Time is up." The Earl trembled, stepping behind a heavy velvet chair as if it could protect him. "Your Grace, Samuel, please. This is my daughter's betrothal. Surely we can discuss business in the morning."
"Business?" Thorne laughed, a harsh, dry sound devoid of humor. "You called it a game of cards, Thomas. I called it a contract." Thorne reached into his coat and pulled out a piece of parchment. It was crumpled and stained, but the wax seal of the Faith family was clearly visible. "Three nights ago at the Hellfire Club, you wagered everything you had left to try and win back your estate," Thorne announced, his voice carrying to the gallery. "You lost."
"I—I can pay you back," the Earl squeaked. "Julian, Julian will cover the debt." All eyes turned to Julian. The Viccount swallowed hard, stepping away from Abigail as if she were suddenly contagious. "I—I beg your pardon. I agreed to cover your existing mortgages, Lord Faith. I did not agree to cover gambling debts owed to the Duke of Blackwood."
Abigail stared at her fiancé, watching the cowardice bloom on his face. Thorne's lip curled in disgust. He turned his gaze to Abigail for the first time. She stopped breathing. Up close, the scar was visible. A jagged silver line running from his left temple, cutting through his eyebrow and ending at his cheekbone. It didn't make him ugly. It made him dangerous. It made him real in a room full of painted dolls.
"The debt is £50,000," Thorne said, his eyes locking onto hers. "Or collateral of equal value." "We have nothing of that value," the Earl cried. "You have a daughter," Thorne said softly. The room erupted in whispers. Abigail felt the blood drain from her face.
"You cannot be serious," Julian sputtered, though he remained safely out of arm's reach. "She is betrothed to me." "The bands are red," Thorne turned to Julian. He moved with the speed of a striking cobra, closing the distance and grabbing Julian by the intricate cravat at his throat. He lifted the Viccount onto his toes. "Unless you have £50,000 in your pocket, boy," Thorne growled. "She is not betrothed to anyone." He shoved Julian backward. The Viccount stumbled and fell, landing ignominiously on his backside.
Thorne turned back to the Earl. "The contract stated, 'Payment in gold or payment in flesh.' I am tired of waiting for the gold." He extended a hand toward Abigail. It was a large hand, rough and ungloved. "Come with me, Lady Abigail," Thorne commanded. It wasn't a question. "And your father's debt is wiped clean. Refuse, and I will have him in debtor's prison by sunrise, and you will be on the street."
Abigail looked at her father. He was weeping into his hands, unable to even look at her. She looked at Julian, who was dusting off his trousers, avoiding her gaze. She was alone. Abigail lifted her chin. She was a Faith. She would not be dragged out screaming like a common criminal. She stepped forward, ignoring the tears burning her eyes, and placed her hand in the wolf's paw. "Done," she whispered.
The rain was torrential, hammering against the roof of the black carriage as it rattled over the cobblestones of London. Inside, the air was thick with tension and the smell of wet wool. Abigail sat on one side, her sapphire silk dress ruined by the mud from the driveway. Opposite her sat Samuel Thorne. He had barely spoken a word since he had virtually marched her out of her own engagement party, tossed her into his carriage, and barked at the driver to head north. He wasn't looking at her. He was staring out the window into the pitch blackness, his profile illuminated intermittently by the flashes of lightning.
"Where are we going?" Abigail asked. Her voice was steady, which surprised her. She felt like she was vibrating with terror. Thorne didn't turn. "Blackwood Manor, Cumbria."
"That is three days' ride," she said, "without a chaperone. My reputation will be shredded before we reach the first posting inn." Thorne slowly turned his head in the dim light of the carriage lantern. His eyes looked like dark pools of oil. "Your reputation died the moment your father bet you on a pair of jacks. Lady Abigail, you should be worrying less about society gossip and more about the fact that you now belong to me."
"I am not a horse, Your Grace," she snapped, anger finally overriding her fear. "I cannot be bought or sold." "Can't you?" Thorne leaned forward, his knees brushing against her skirts. The carriage felt suddenly very small. "Your father thinks otherwise, and judging by how quickly your Viccount crumbled, he thought so, too. You were a commodity to them, an asset to be traded for social standing or debt relief."
"And what am I to you?" Abigail challenged, meeting his gaze. "A trophy, a way to humiliate my father." Thorne's expression darkened, a muscle feathered in his jaw. "You are insurance against what?" "Against the past repeating itself," he said cryptically. He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a small silver flask. He uncapped it and took a long pull, then offered it to her.
Abigail stared at the flask. "I do not drink spirits." "You will tonight," he said, capping it. "It's going to be a long, cold journey." Abigail wrapped her arms around herself. The carriage was freezing. In her rush to leave, to save her father's dignity, though he deserved none, she hadn't even grabbed a cloak. Her silk dress offered no protection against the damp chill of the English autumn. She shivered violently.
"Thorne sighed, a sound of immense irritation. He began to unbutton his greatcoat. "I do not want your coat," Abigail said through chattering teeth. "Don't be a martyr, Abigail. It doesn't suit you." He peeled the heavy wool garment off his shoulders. Beneath it, he wore a stark black waistcoat and a white shirt that was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the strong column of his throat. He leaned over and draped the coat over her. It was heavy, warm from his body heat, and smelled of tobacco, rain, and sandalwood. Despite her hatred for him, her body betrayed her, sinking gratefully into the warmth.
"Why?" she asked quietly, pulling the coat tighter. "Why did you do it? You are a Duke. You have wealth beyond measure. Why ruin my life for £50,000?" Thorne looked at her, and for a second, the hard mask slipped. She saw something else in his eyes. Exhaustion. Pain. "You think this is about the money?" he asked softly.
"What else could it be?" "Your father didn't just lose money to me, Abigail. During the war in the Peninsula?" He stopped, shaking his head as if shaking off a bad memory. The steel returned to his eyes. "It doesn't matter. You are the payment, and you will serve your purpose."
"And what purpose is that?" she whispered. "Am I to be your mistress?" Thorne laughed again, that same dry, humorless bark. "My mistress? No, my dear. I have no use for a mistress." He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a folded document. He tossed it onto her lap. "Read it."
Abigail picked up the paper. It was a special license, a marriage license signed by the Archbishop of Canterbury. It was dated yesterday. "We are stopping in Gretna Green," Thorne said, leaning his head back against the squabs and closing his eyes. "We aren't going to be lovers, Abigail. By tomorrow night, you will be the Duchess of Blackwood."
Abigail stared at the paper, her breath catching in her throat. Marriage. But why marry the daughter of a man you despise? Thorne didn't open his eyes. "Because, little bird, a wife cannot testify against her husband. And I have enemies who are very eager to see me hang. You are going to be my shield."
The carriage hit a rut, jolting them. Abigail clutched the license, her mind racing. She wasn't just a debt payment. She was part of a conspiracy. "I won't do it," she said. "I will scream." "You can try," Thorne opened one eye. It glittered in the darkness. "But remember your father. I hold the deed to his estate. I hold his promissory notes. If you run, if you scream, if you refuse, I will burn his world to the ground, and I will start with that pretty Viccount of yours." He leaned forward, his face inches from hers. "So, do we have an understanding, or do I turn this carriage around and finish what I started in that ballroom?"
Abigail looked at the scar on his face, the ruthless set of his jaw. She thought of her foolish father and the spineless Julian, and she realized with a sinking heart that the wolf was the only one in that ballroom who had been honest with her. "We have an understanding," she said, her voice trembling.
"Good," Thorne closed his eyes again. "Sleep, Duchess! You'll need your strength. The wolves at Blackwood are much hungrier than I am." The carriage thundered on into the night, carrying Abigail Faith away from the light of her past and into the darkness of Samuel Thorne's future.
The journey north was not a sprint. It was a slow, grinding erosion of everything Abigail Faith had ever known. For two days, the carriage became their entire world. Outside, the English countryside dissolved from the manicured hedges of the south into the wild, gray moors of the north. Inside, the silence between them was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic creak of leather springs and the drumming of relentless rain. Abigail sat huddled in the corner. She had refused to speak to him for the first twenty minutes. By the hundredth mile, her silence was no longer a weapon. It was a shield. She watched Samuel Thorne from beneath her lashes. He slept intermittently, arms crossed over his chest, his head resting against the dark velvet squabs. Even in sleep, he didn't look peaceful; his brow was furrowed, his hand twitching near the hidden pocket of his coat, where she knew he kept a pistol.
They stopped at a coaching inn near the border called the Dyer's Rest. It was a low-ceilinged, smoky establishment that smelled of roasted mutton and stale ale, a far cry from the gilded ballrooms of London. "Eat," Thorne ordered, pushing a plate of bread and stew toward her across the scarred wooden table of their private parlor. Abigail looked at the food, her stomach cramped with hunger, yet pride made her hesitate. "I am not hungry."
Thorne leaned back in his chair, the firelight casting long, dancing shadows across the scarred half of his face. He looked tired. The formidable monster of the ballroom looked frayed around the edges. "Starving yourself will not undo the contract, Abigail. It will only make you weak. And where we are going, the weak are eaten." Abigail picked up the spoon. Her hand trembled. She hated that he saw it.
"Where exactly are we going?" "Your Grace, you speak of Blackwood as if it were a circle of hell." "It is not hell," Thorne said, taking a sip of dark ale. "It is a fortress, and it is filled with memories that have teeth." He paused, studying her. "You lived a soft life, Lady Abigail. Tea parties, embroidery, gossip. You have no armor." "I survived my father gambling away our fortune for ten years," she countered, her voice gaining a sharp edge. "I survived holding my head high while society whispered that the Earl of Faith was a drunkard. Do not mistake us for softness, Your Grace." Thorne's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something akin to respect passing through them. "We shall see."
The wedding happened the next morning in a small, drafty church in a village that didn't even have a name on the map. It was not the wedding Abigail had dreamed of. There were no flowers, no choir, no father to walk her down the aisle. The vicar was a nervous, balding man who clearly recognized the Duke and was terrified of him. He hurried through the Latin liturgy as if the church were on fire.
"Do you, Samuel Arthur Thorne, take this woman?" "I do," Thorne said. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, like a judge passing a sentence. "And do you, Abigail Beatrice Faith?" Abigail hesitated. The air in the church was freezing; her breath misting in front of her. She looked at the stained-glass window, gray with grime. She thought of Julian, who hadn't fought for her. She thought of her father, who had sold her. She looked up at Thorne. He wasn't looking at the vicar. He was looking down at her. His expression was unreadable, but his hand, which held hers, was warm. It was the only source of heat in the entire building. "I do," she whispered.
Thorne produced a ring. It wasn't the delicate diamond Julian had given her. It was a heavy band of dark gold set with a square-cut onyx, deeply engraved with the Blackwood crest: a wolf's head snarling. He slid it onto her finger. It was heavy. It felt like a shackle. "With this ring I thee wed," he murmured.
As they walked back to the carriage, the rain turned to sleet. Thorne paused before opening the door, turning to face her. The wind whipped his dark hair around his face. "You are a Duchess now," he said, his voice fighting the wind. "That title carries weight, but know this, Abigail: in London, I am the villain. But at Blackwood, I am the only thing standing between you and the wolves. Hate me if you must, but do not leave my side."
Abigail looked at the onyx ring on her finger. "I have nowhere else to go, Samuel." It was the first time she had used his Christian name. He stiffened, a strange look crossing his face, before he nodded once and helped her into the darkness of the carriage.
They crossed the boundary into the Blackwood estate at twilight on the third day. The landscape had changed violently. Gone were the rolling hills. Here, the earth was jagged, composed of slate and granite, covered in heather that looked black in the failing light. The trees were twisted, bent double by the wind that howled off the Irish Sea. Abigail peered out of the window. "It's desolate." "It's isolated," Thorne corrected, "which makes it defensible."
The manor rose out of the mist like a jagged tooth. Blackwood Manor was massive, a sprawling Gothic monstrosity of dark stone turrets and gargoyles that seemed to leer down at the approaching carriage. Ivy strangled the west wing, and several windows were boarded up—the scars of the fire Thorne had mentioned. As the carriage clattered into the courtyard, the front doors groaned open. A line of servants stood waiting in the drizzle. They did not look like the polished staff at Oakbridge Hall. Their uniforms were dated, their faces grim and weather-beaten.
Thorne stepped out first, then turned to help Abigail down. As her boots touched the cobblestones, a chill that had nothing to do with the weather settled in her bones. She felt watched. "Welcome home," Thorne said dryly.
A tall, severe woman in black stepped forward. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it pulled at the skin of her temples, and her eyes were the color of cold steel. "Your Grace," the woman said, curtsying stiffly. "She did not smile. We did not expect you." "A guest." "Not a guest, Mrs. Gable," Thorne announced, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "This is her Grace, the Duchess of Blackwood." A ripple of shock went through the line of servants. Mrs. Gable's eyes widened a fraction, darting to Abigail with a look of open assessment and distinct disapproval. "I see," Mrs. Gable said tightly. "We have prepared the master's suite. Where shall we put Her Grace?"
"The blue room," Thorne said quickly. "Adjoining mine." "The blue room is not ready, Mrs. Gable countered. "The drapes are down for cleaning. The east wing is—" "Then make it ready, Thorne snapped. The command cracked like a whip. "Tonight." He took Abigail's arm and led her up the stone steps, bypassing the housekeeper.
The interior of the manor was cavernous and shadowed. The air smelled of woodsmoke, old paper, and damp stone. The portraits on the walls were obscured by layers of dust. "Mrs. Gable runs the house," Thorne muttered as they ascended the grand staircase. "She was my mother's maid. She is loyal to the house, not necessarily to me. Watch her."
"You don't trust your own housekeeper," Abigail whispered, clutching her skirts to avoid the dust bunnies on the stairs. "I told you, Abigail, trust no one." They reached a heavy oak door on the second floor. Thorne opened it, revealing a massive bedroom dominated by a four-poster bed draped in heavy blue velvet. A fire had been hastily lit, but the room still held a deep chill. "This connects to my room," Thorne said, pointing to a door on the far wall. "The door locks from both sides. I suggest you keep it locked."
Abigail turned to him. Confusion warring with exhaustion. "You marry me, drag me across the country, claim I am your shield, and now you lock me away. What is this danger you speak of? Who are these enemies?" Thorne walked over to the window, looking out at the dark moors. "My uncle Silas Thorne and my cousin Arthur."
"Family?" Abigail gasped. "When my father and brother died in the fire three years ago, the title passed to me. Silas expected it to pass to him. He believed I had died in the war. When I returned, let's just say he was disappointed." Thorne turned his face grim. "Under English law, if I die without an heir, the title and the estate go to Silas. He has attempted to accelerate that process twice."
Abigail felt the blood drain from her face. "They tried to kill you?" "Fool," she gasped. "Poison in my wine six months ago. A hunting accident a year before that." He took a step toward her. "But a wife changes things. A wife suggests an heir is coming. A wife complicates the line of succession. By marrying you, I have put a wall between Silas and the title, but I have also put a target on your back."
Abigail stared at him, horror dawning. "You used me as bait." "I used you as a distraction," he corrected. "Silas will be so focused on figuring out who you are and whether you are pregnant that he will make a mistake, and when he does, I will crush him." He reached out his hand, hovering near her cheek, but he didn't touch her. He pulled back his fist, clenching. "Stay in this room tonight, Abigail. Mrs. Gable will bring you a tray. Do not eat anything that hasn't been tasted by the cook in front of you. Do not open the door for anyone but me."
"And where are you going?" she asked, her voice small. "I have to patrol the grounds," he said, turning to the door. "The wolf has been away too long. I need to remind them I've returned." He left, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. Abigail heard the key turn in the lock from the outside. She was not just a bride. She was a prisoner in a house of secrets.
Abigail moved to the window. Below in the courtyard, she saw a figure emerge from the shadows. It was Thorne, striding toward the stables with a lantern in one hand and a rifle in the other. But then she saw something else. From the edge of the woods beyond the courtyard wall, another light flickered. A signal. Someone was out there in the darkness, watching the house, watching her window. Abigail backed away from the glass, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked at the connecting door to Thorne's room. She walked over and tried the handle. Locked. She was alone. Or so she thought.
From the corner of his room, a floorboard creaked. Abigail spun around. The room was empty, the shadows stretching long and thin from the fireplace. But on the small writing desk near the wardrobe, something had changed. When she had entered, the desk was bare. Now, resting in the center of the dusty surface was a single white rose. Its petals were rotting, turning brown and slimy, and tied to the stem with a black ribbon was a small scrap of paper. Abigail approached it slowly, her hand shaking as she reached out to pick up the note. The handwriting was jagged, frantic. It read, "The wolf eats his own. Leave while you can, or join the bones in the crypt."
Abigail dropped the note, a scream trapped in her throat. She wasn't just bait for the uncle. Someone was already inside the house. Abigail stared at the rotting white rose, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The message was clear. The wolf eats his own. The room, which had seemed merely cold before, now felt suffocating. The shadows in the corners seemed to stretch and twist, taking on human shapes. She backed away from the desk until her back hit the heavy velvet curtains of the window. How did they get in? Thorne had locked the door from the outside. The connecting door to his room was locked. The windows were three stories up. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at her throat. She wasn't safe. The lock on the door wasn't there to keep her in. It was to keep her available for whoever had a key. She rushed to the main door and pounded on the oak panels. "Mrs. Gable! Is anyone there? Open this door!" Silence. The thick stone walls of Blackwood Manor swallowed her voice. She tried the handle again, rattling it violently. It held fast. She turned back to the room, her eyes darting for a weapon. The fire irons were too far away. The heavy ceramic wash basin. Suddenly, the lock clicked. Abigail froze. She took a step back, grabbing a heavy brass candlestick from the mantelpiece. She held it like a club, her knuckles white. The door creaked open slowly. It wasn't Samuel. A man stood in the threshold. He was younger than Samuel, perhaps in his late twenties, with the same dark hair, but none of the hard, rugged strength. His face was soft, his eyes pale and watery, and he wore a suit of burgundy velvet that was too fine for the country. He held a silver candelabra, the light illuminating a smirk that made Abigail's skin crawl.
"Cousin Arthur," he purred, stepping into the room without invitation. "I heard a commotion. Is our new guest distressed?" "Abigail didn't lower the candlestick. "I am the Duchess of Blackwood, and you will address me as Your Grace." Arthur Thorne laughed, a wet, slippery sound. He kicked the door shut behind him with his heel. "Duchess, oh my dear, don't get attached to the title. The last one didn't last very long." He walked toward her, his gaze raking over her in a way that made her feel naked. "Samuel has terrible taste in women. Usually, he prefers them quieter. But you, you have fire. I like fire."
"Stay back," Abigail warned, raising the brass weapon higher. "My husband is patrolling the grounds. He will be back any moment." "Samuel is busy chasing shadows in the woods. My father, Silas, is very good at creating diversions." Arthur took another step, cornering her against the window. "We were surprised he actually married you. We thought he'd just ruin you and leave you as is his way. But marriage—that makes things complicated, unless, of course, the marriage is never consummated, or the bride meets a tragic end before the heir is conceived." Abigail realized then that the threat wasn't just vague. It was immediate. Arthur wasn't here to talk. He was here to hurt her. To taint the collateral Samuel had brought home.
"Get out!" she screamed, swinging the candlestick. Arthur caught her wrist with surprising strength. His grip was clammy and painful. "Feisty! I wonder if you'll scream as loud as the maid did." He yanked her toward him. Abigail didn't scream. She reacted. She brought her knee up, driving it hard into his groin. Arthur howled, doubling over, his grip loosening just enough for Abigail to wrench her arm free. She shoved him backward, and he stumbled over the rug, crashing into a side table. She lunged for the door. Her fingers grazed the cold metal of the handle. But Arthur was fast. He grabbed the back of her skirts, hauling her backward. Abigail fell hard onto the floorboards, the breath knocked out of her.
"You little—" Arthur snarled, his face twisted in a mask of fury. He crawled over her, pinning her wrists to the floor. "I'm going to teach you your place." Abigail struggled, kicking and twisting, but he was too heavy. Tears of frustration and terror welled in her eyes. This is it, she thought. This is how I die.
Suddenly, the connecting door, the one leading to Samuel's room, exploded inward. The wood splintered with a deafening crack as a boot smashed through the lock. Arthur froze, looking up. Samuel Thorne stood in the shattered doorway. He was drenched from the rain, his chest heaving, water dripping from his hair. But it was his face that stopped Abigail's heart. The mask of the gentleman was gone. The Duke was gone. Only the wolf remained. His eyes were black voids of pure, unadulterated violence.
"Get off her." The voice didn't sound human. It sounded like grinding tectonic plates. Arthur scrambled off Abigail, holding his hands up, his face draining of color. "Samuel, cousin. I was just—" "She invited me in," Samuel growled, his voice low and dangerous. "She was hysterical." Samuel didn't speak. He crossed the room in two strides. He didn't look at Abigail. He grabbed Arthur by the throat, lifting him off the ground as easily as if he were a rag doll. He slammed Arthur against the stone wall. The sound of Arthur's head cracking against the masonry echoed through the room.
"I warned you," Samuel whispered, his face inches from his cousin's. "I told Silas that if either of you set foot in the West Wing, I would kill you." "Please," Arthur gagged, clawing at Samuel's iron grip. "It was a misunderstanding." Samuel tightened his grip. Arthur's face began to turn purple. "Samuel!" Abigail cried out. She scrambled to her feet, her hands trembling. "Samuel, stop. If you kill him, they win. You'll hang for murder."
Samuel froze. The red haze in his eyes seemed to clear for a fraction of a second. He looked at Arthur, then at Abigail. He saw her torn dress, the red marks on her wrists. With a roar of disgust, he threw Arthur toward the hallway door. Ideally, Arthur would have run, but he collapsed, gasping for air. "Tell your father," Samuel growled, pointing a shaking finger at the wretch on the floor. "The next time I see you, I won't stop. Now crawl out of my sight before I change my mind." Arthur didn't wait. He scrambled on hands and knees out into the corridor, sobbing.
Samuel slammed the door shut and threw the bolt. Then he turned to Abigail. For a long moment, silence stretched between them, heavy and vibrating with adrenaline. Abigail was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. Samuel walked toward her. Slowly, his hands held out, palms up, showing he was unarmed. "Abigail." She flinched. The movement broke him. The terrifying rage vanished, replaced by a look of devastating guilt. "Did he? Did he hurt you?"
"No," she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. "He—he scared me. He said your uncle created a diversion." "He did," Samuel said bitterly. "A fire in the stables. They knew I would go." He reached out his fingers, grazing her shoulder. "I am sorry. I thought you would be safe, locked in. I didn't know Mrs. Gable had given them a key." "Mrs. Gable?" "She must have. There is no other way." Samuel's jaw tightened. "You cannot stay in this room. It's compromised."
"Where can I go?" Abigail asked, a sob finally escaping her throat. "There are enemies in the hall. Enemies in the kitchen. I want to go home, Samuel. I want to leave." Samuel stepped closer, enveloping her in his heat. He didn't hug her. He shielded her. He placed his hands on her arms, looking down into her eyes with an intensity that burned. "I cannot let you leave, Abigail. Out there on the road, you are vulnerable. Here, I can fight them." He paused, his thumb brushing away a tear that tracked through the dust on her cheek. "Come with me."
"Where?" "To my room. The only room in this god-forsaken house that I have the only key to." Samuel's chambers were starkly different from the rest of the house. While the manor was a museum of decaying grandeur, this room was a soldier's camp. There was a simple cot in the corner, a desk piled high with maps and ledgers, and a rack of weapons—rifles, sabers, and pistols kept in pristine condition. The fire here burned low and steady. It smelled of gun oil, leather, and him.
Samuel led her to a heavy leather armchair near the fire. "Sit. I will get you some brandy." Abigail sank into the chair. She felt numb. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. She watched as Samuel moved around the room. He had discarded his wet coat, revealing the white shirt that clung to his muscular frame. He was limping slightly, a detail she hadn't noticed in his rage. He handed her a glass of amber liquid. His hand brushed hers, and the contact sent a jolt through her.
"Drink," he ordered gently. She took a sip. The liquid burned her throat, but the warmth blossomed in her chest, chasing away the chill. "Samuel didn't sit. He paced in front of the fireplace, running a hand through his damp hair. "I should have killed him," he muttered to himself. "I should have snapped his neck."
"Then you would be in prison," Abigail said quietly. "And I would be alone with Silas." Samuel stopped pacing. He looked at her. Really looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time. "You kept your head. Most debutantes would have fainted." "I told you," she said, looking into the fire. "I am not soft. My father's creditors used to come to the door at all hours. I learned to hide the silver and stand my ground." Samuel let out a breath, a short, sharp exhale. He walked over to the window, staring out at the rain-lashed night.
"I never wanted this for you, Abigail. I needed a wife to secure the title. Yes, but I didn't intend to drag you into a war zone." "Why do they hate you so much?" Abigail asked. "Is it just the title, or is there more?" Samuel turned. The firelight caught the scar on his face, highlighting the jagged ridge of skin. "You've heard the rumors. The Wolf of Blackwood, the man who burned his family."
"I heard there was a fire," Abigail said cautiously. "And that you survived." "I didn't just survive." He began to unbutton his shirt cuffs, rolling up his sleeves. His forearms were thick with muscle, but they were also marked with burned scars, silvery, shiny patches of skin that told a story of agony. "It was three years ago," he began, his voice low and distant. "I had just returned from France, the 95th Rifles. We had seen hell at Salamanca, but I thought I was finally home safe. It was Christmas Eve. My father, the old Duke, and my younger brother, Thomas, we were all asleep. The fire started in the library. By the time I woke up, the smoke was so thick you could chew it."
Abigail set her glass down, listening intently. "I tried to get to them," Samuel whispered. "I got to Thomas's room. The door was jammed. I kicked it down, but the ceiling, the beam came down. It took half my face with it." He touched his scar absentmindedly. "I could hear them screaming, Abigail. I could hear my brother calling my name, but I couldn't reach them. The heat, it forced me back. I jumped from the window." He looked at her, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "They found me in the snow, half dead. Silas was the first one on the scene. He wasn't crying. He was calculating."
"You think he set the fire?" Abigail gasped. "I know he did," Samuel said, his voice hardening into steel. "The magistrate ruled it an accident, a fallen candle. But Silas had heavy gambling debts with a lender named Isaac Solomon's in London. Debts that miraculously vanished a week after the funeral." He walked over to her, crouching down so their eyes were level. "I am not fighting for a title, Abigail. I am fighting for justice. I will not let the man who murdered my brother sit in his chair and drink his wine. I will burn this house to the ground before I let Silas Thorne take it."
Abigail looked at him. The scars, the pain, the ferocious loyalty to the dead. She realized then that the monster London feared was actually a guardian, a wounded animal protecting the last of his pack. Without thinking, she reached out. Her cool fingers touched the scar on his cheek. Samuel flinched violently, pulling back. "Don't."
"Why?" she asked softly, not dropping her hand. "It is part of you." "It is hideous," he rasped. "It is a mark of my failure." "It is a mark of your survival," she corrected. She traced the line of the scar gently. His skin was rough, hot to the touch. "You are not a monster, Samuel. You are just a man who has been burned." Samuel closed his eyes, leaning into her touch for just a second, a moment of weakness he couldn't suppress. He let out a shuddering breath. "You should not touch me," he whispered. "I am dangerous to you."
"You are the only person in this house who has tried to save me," she replied. He opened his eyes. They were dark, dilated, swirling with an emotion she couldn't place: desire, profound sadness. "Abigail," he said, his voice rough. "You will sleep in my bed tonight. I will take the floor."
"The floor is stone, Samuel. You are injured." "I have slept in mud and blood. A stone floor is a luxury." He stood up abruptly, breaking the contact. The loss of his warmth made her shiver. "Take the bed," he commanded, moving to the door to check the locks again. "Tomorrow I am going to fire Mrs. Gable, and then I am going to teach you how to shoot."
Abigail stood up. She felt a strange new strength rising in her. The terrified girl in the ballroom was gone. "Samuel," he turned, his hand on the latch. "I don't want to just survive," she said firmly. "If I am to be the Duchess of Blackwood, I want to fight back." A slow, grim smile spread across Samuel's face. It didn't reach his eyes, but it was there. "Good," he said, "because the war has just begun." He blew out the candle, plunging the room into the soft, flickering glow of the dying fire. Outside, the wind howled like a pack of wolves. But inside, for the first time, Abigail Faith didn't feel afraid. She felt ready.
Two weeks later, the great hall of Blackwood Manor was ablaze with light. For the first time in years, the heavy velvet drapes were pulled back. The chandeliers were polished to a diamond shine, and a fire roared in the massive hearth. It was a trap—a trap dressed in silk and served on silver platters. Samuel had invited Silas and Arthur for a reconciliation dinner. He claimed that Abigail's presence had softened him, that he was ready to discuss an allowance for his estranged family. They had taken the bait, arrogance blinding them to the danger.
Abigail sat at the foot of the long mahogany table. She wore a gown of crimson velvet, the color of blood and royalty. Around her neck glittered the Blackwood diamonds, heavy, cold, and undeniably a statement of ownership. Beneath the folds of her skirt, strapped to her thigh, was a small pearl-handled pistol Samuel had taught her to use. Silas Thorne sat across from her. He was an older, sharper version of Arthur, with eyes like chips of flint. He swirled his wine, watching Samuel with a predator's gaze.
"I must admit, nephew," Silas drawled, slicing into his venison. "I was surprised by this invitation. I assumed you would be hoarding your new bride away in the towers." "Marriage changes a man, Uncle," Samuel said smoothly from the head of the table. He was dressed in formal black, his tall frame stark against his pale skin. He looked relaxed, but Abigail knew better. He was a coiled spring. "I realized that family is important."
"Indeed," Arthur smirked, nursing a bruised jaw, a souvenir from their last encounter. "Especially when one needs an heir. Any news on that front, cousin?" Abigail smiled, ice cold. "We are in no rush, Arthur. We have a lifetime." Silas chuckled darkly. "A lifetime is a fragile thing in these parts. Accidents happen so frequently."
"They do," Samuel agreed, setting his fork down. The metallic clink echoed in the silence. "Like fires, or carriage wheels coming loose, or poison in the wine." The air in the room shifted. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. "I don't know what you imply," Silas said, his eyes narrowing. "I imply nothing," Samuel said, standing up. "I state facts. You see, Silas, you made a mistake. You paid the arsonist who burned this house to kill my father and brother. But you didn't pay him enough to stay quiet."
Silas froze. "That man is dead. He died of pox in London two years ago." "He did," Samuel walked slowly down the length of the table. "But he left a journal, a detailed ledger of his sins, and his employer." Samuel reached into his coat and threw a leather-bound book onto the table. It landed between the wine glasses with a heavy thud. Silas stared at the book. His face drained of color, then flushed with rage. He stood up, knocking his chair over. "This is a fabrication, a lie!"
"The magistrate didn't think so," Samuel said, his voice dropping to a growl. "He is waiting in the library with the constables. You are done, Silas. You and your son." Arthur panicked. He jumped up, reaching into his coat for a pistol. "I won't hang. I won't—"
*Bang.* The shot rang out, deafening in the stone hall. A vase on the mantelpiece shattered. Arthur hadn't fired. He stood frozen, staring at the smoking pistol in Abigail's hand. She hadn't stood up. She had simply drawn, aimed, and fired a warning shot inches from his ear with terrifying precision. "Sit down, Arthur," Abigail commanded, her voice steady, though her heart hammered. "Or the next one won't miss."
Samuel looked at his wife, a fierce pride blazing in his eyes. He turned back to his uncle, who was looking at the doors as they burst open. The constables swarmed in, dragging the screaming Arthur and the cursing Silas away in irons. As Silas was hauled past Samuel, he spat on the floor. "You are a monster, Thorne." "You are cursed." "I am the wolf," Samuel replied calmly. "And I just cleaned my den."
When the doors finally closed, silence returned to the hall. The servants began to clear the debris, but Samuel waved them away. He walked over to Abigail. She was still holding the pistol, her hand finally starting to tremble as the adrenaline crashed. Samuel gently pried the weapon from her fingers and set it on the table. He pulled her up from the chair, his hands gripping her waist tightly. "You missed," he murmured, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
"I didn't miss," she whispered, looking up at him. "I hit exactly what I aimed for." "Your ego," Samuel laughed, a true, deep sound that transformed his face, making him look ten years younger. "God, Abigail, you are magnificent." The humor faded, replaced by an intensity that made her knees weak. He brushed a stray curl from her forehead, his thumb lingering on her cheekbone. "The contract is fulfilled," he said softly. "The debt is paid. My enemies are gone. You are free, Abigail. If you wish to leave, if you wish to go back to London, go back."
Abigail shook her head. To a father who sold me, to a society that values me only for my dowry. She stepped closer, placing her hands on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. "You told me that you were a monster, Samuel. You warned me about the darkness of this place, but you never told me the truth."
"What truth?" he breathed. "That you are the most honorable man I have ever met." She stood on her tiptoes. "I don't want to go back. I am the Duchess of Blackwood. This is my home. And you are my husband." Samuel let out a ragged breath. "I am scarred, Abigail. I am broken." "Then let me heal you." He didn't wait any longer. He crushed her to him, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that was searing, possessive, and filled with a desperate, overwhelming love. It wasn't the kiss of a stranger or a business partner. It was the kiss of a man who had finally found the light after years in the dark.
Outside, the storm broke, the clouds parting to reveal a full moon bathing the moors in silver. But inside Blackwood Manor, the shadows had finally lifted. The wolf was no longer alone.
They say love is not found in the grand gestures, but in the quiet moments of survival. Abigail Faith came to Blackwood as a prisoner of debt, expecting to find a beast. Instead, she found a warrior carrying the weight of the world. Samuel Thorne thought he needed a shield, but he found a partner who carried a sword of her own. In the years that followed, the nursery at Blackwood was no longer silent, and the ballroom was filled with music once more. The scars on the Duke's face never faded, but they no longer defined him. Because every time he looked in the mirror, he didn't see the fire that took everything from him. He saw the woman who gave it all back.
Wow, what a journey! From a terrified bride to a pistol-wielding Duchess, Abigail truly became the queen of the north. If this story kept you on the edge of your seat, please hit that like button. It really helps the channel grow. And if you want more dramatic historical romances like this one, subscribe and ring the bell so you never miss a new story.
Question for you: Do you think Samuel was right to use Abigail as bait, or did he go too far? Let me know your thoughts in the comments below. Thanks for watching, and I'll see you in the next one!