England, 1813
Clarissa Fairchild stared out of the coach window at the forbidding fortress crouched atop the bluff. Dark clouds closed in around it as if to echo the evil lurking inside the grey stone castle, a castle teeming with secrets Clarissa longed to discover.
Next to her, Great Aunt Tilly shivered. “Do close the curtain, niece. That cursed place gives me the chills. Filled with murderers, you know.” She waved a gnarled hand at the window and shifted as the carriage hit a particularly large rut in the road.
Fascinated, Clarissa couldn’t tear her gaze away. All her life, stories whispered furtively about Wyckburg Castle and its terrifying lords had captured her imagination—a dark and terrible place with an equally dark and terrible earl. What a grand adventure it would be to explore the forbidding castle, a gothic novel come to life. If only she could find a gothic hero of her own.
Clarissa tapped her chin absently. “I wonder if they hid the wives’ bodies inside the castle, or if they buried them in the churchyard to make it appear as if they died naturally.”
Aunt Tilly pulled her cloak more tightly around her and shifted her feet. The warming bricks had cooled since they left the village, leaving the floorboards cold. “You’d have to be foolish to venture amid murderers to view the headstones.”
Tired from shopping, they fell silent as the carriage bumped along the country road. Again, Clarissa considered Wyckburg Castle, where, for generations, the mysterious lords were born, lived, married, and killed their wives. Of course, no one ever proved the wives had been murdered. After all who would actually accuse an earl of murder? But for generations, every Countess Wyckburg had met an untimely death shortly after marrying each successive earl.
Clarissa conjured all sorts of possibilities, each more wonderfully frightening than the last. The current lord had been reclusive even before he married, but had made no public appearances since his wife’s death. What manner of man was he? Openly evil? Slyly sinister? And what manner of woman had dared marry him, knowing the family’s reputation?
She drew in a breath as a new thought hit her. Perhaps the earls abducted maidens and forced them to wed. Or maybe the earls were so darkly handsome, no lady could resist them.
A thrill of delight made her shiver. “I wonder if any of those poor women knew of their doom before they were murdered, or it if it happened suddenly.”
“It’s not proper for a gently bred young lady to dwell on such morbid thoughts,” Aunt Tilly said primly. “You should be thinking of finding a nice young man and settling down. After all, you’ll be twenty soon. You don’t want to be an old maid, do you?”
“Oh, Aunt, all the men I’ve met are so dull.” Murderous earls were so much more fascinating than real men wearing bored expressions while playing polite social games. Her gaze wandered back to the castle. “What would drive generations of men to kill their wives?”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, child!”
“Sorry, aunt.” Clarissa laughed at herself and her obsessive thoughts. Perhaps she did read too many Gothics. “I won’t speak of it again.” But oh, she could imagine.
Moments later, wind shook the carriage, and swirling whiteness overtook them, forcing the coach to slow. The castle and bluff blurred into shapeless dark masses.
“The storm has caught us,” Aunt Tilly gasped.
Alarm tightened Clarissa’s stomach as the very real danger of the storm finally sank in. She put an arm around Aunt Tilly. “I’m sure all will be well.”
Aunt Tilly’s lips moved in silent prayer. Clarissa opened the compartment inside the coach where they kept writing implements. She dug around, looking for the food or drink it occasionally contained, but found nothing. Not surprising; their shopping trip to town was only supposed to take a few hours. With a sigh, Clarissa closed the hatch and leaned back. The carriage followed a curve in the road and began climbing a steep hill.
Aunt Tilly let out a gasp. “We must be going to Wyckburg Castle! I’d rather freeze!”
The castle? Dizzying excitement swept over Clarissa. After all this time, would she really see the inside of the castle, or even steal a glimpse of the earl? She should have been frightened, she really should, but oh, going inside the castle at last!
She patted Aunt Tilly’s arm. “Surely the driver wouldn’t take us there if he thought we’d be in danger. And the storm is a more immediate threat.”
Aunt Tilly prayed vocally, asking for protection from both the storm and the evil that awaited them in the castle.
A terrible groan splintered the air. The coach lurched sharply to the side, throwing them both out of their seats. Clarissa slammed against the side of the coach as it fell over onto its side. The carriage continued to roll, then tottered, groaning, before it rocked onto its other side, where it lay still. Outside, horses screamed and tack jangled. Then all fell silent except for the moaning wind. Next to Clarissa, Aunt Tilly lay in a motionless heap.
Taking a shaky breath, Clarissa pushed herself onto her knees. “Aunt Tilly?”
Her aunt’s eyes fluttered open. “Clarissa? Are you hurt, dear?”
“No, I don’t think so. You?”
“Just shaken, I think.” But already a bruise was forming on her aunt’s head. Aunt Tilly tried to sit up, but let out a cry and crumpled. She lay, gasping, her lined face twisted in pain as she gripped her wrist with her other hand.
“Lie still, Aunt.” Clarissa spread both carriage blankets over her aunt. Where was the coachman? Had he been injured? “I’m going for help.” She fumbled with the door latch.
From outside the carriage came a voice. “Miss Fairchild?” A face appeared in the window above them. Though respectful to her, the coachman always appeared ominous with his teeth sharpened to points to aid him in whistling to the horses. “I have to get the team out of the weather!” he shouted over the wind. “We’re about a mile from shelter. You can ride on one of the horses.”
“My aunt is injured,” Clarissa called up to him. “I won’t leave her here alone.” Not even with the lure of the castle singing to her like a siren’s song to sailors at sea. Would her trip to Wyckburg prove as treacherous?
The driver’s head bobbed. “Stay inside. You’ll be protected from the wind. I’ll return with help.”
“I understand. We’ll be fine until then,” she said confidently.
“Here’s some light.” He opened the door to hand down a carriage lamp. Snow blasted inside and bit into her cheeks like shards of glass.
Standing as much as possible in the cramped quarters, Clarissa took the lamp and offered him an encouraging smile. The coachman closed the door, shutting out snow and wind. Wind howled and rocked the carriage. Her teeth chattered, and her body shook.
“So cold,” her aunt mumbled.
Clarissa removed her woolen cloak, lay next to Aunt Tilly, and laid the cloak over them both like a blanket. Cold crept in like icy fingers burrowing to her bones. Sleepiness drifted over her. She battled it back but never banished it, only driving it off for a moment before it returned. She drifted in a haze of gray. Wind screamed like ghosts demanding vengeance.
“It’s going to be all right,” she whispered, as much to herself as to her aunt. “We’ll be rescued soon, and then we’ll be safe and warm.”
The carriage door flew open. A dark form appeared in the doorway above them. “Miss Fairchild? Can you stand?”
She ordered her limbs to move but could barely lift her head. The coachman spoke to someone outside her line of sight, then lowered himself into the carriage.
“Help is here.” He slid an arm underneath her shoulders, another under her knees, and lifted her. Standing, he raised her and transferred her to another pair of arms which cradled her against a hard chest.
“Good heavens,” muttered a male voice.
Clarissa floated into darkness.