Page 4 of Raven Rebel (Sablewood #1)

Brenna

I n the sitting room, a maid polished the florid mantle. Her petite hands shook as she ran a rag over the spring-powered clock. The house grew stuffy with afternoon heat, and Mrs. Fisher did not allow the windows to be opened until sundown when Brenna would be leaving for the day.

Brenna gathered the children’s belongings and straightened the decorative pillows perched on the settee, glancing at the girl but too nervous to ask her name.

Heavy footfalls thudded on the landing above. The maid stiffened, her eyes going wide. Mr. Lyndhurst must have been pacing in his office. Brenna let out her breath audibly, aiming to soothe herself and the skittish maid.

As if her thoughts summoned him, Mr. Johnathon Lyndhurst descended the grand staircase, his heeled boots clicking on the stone steps. He looked smart in his tailored day suit, but his face was sour as if the entire world had failed his precise standards.

“Miss Aldridge, please join me in my office.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered. His chin jerked and he turned to ascend the steps without looking back at her.

She couldn’t help the way her stomach churned, though she knew it was most likely a discussion of her first week in his employ or perhaps details around her salary.

She shouldn’t be afraid of her employer, and she had no real reason to be aside from unsubstantiated rumors.

He had never been one of the men leering at her in the market.

Regardless, she wished Mrs. Fisher was in the home instead of out shopping. The maid wouldn’t meet her eyes as she passed, and Brenna felt utterly isolated. The only noise was the ticking clock and her tentative footsteps as she climbed the stairs, her heartbeat pulsing in her throat.

A burgundy carpet ran the center of the narrow hallway, warming the upstairs. Flickering gas lamps cast an orange glow over the paneling. The singular open door beckoned her forward and she dutifully went through.

Oak paneling was replaced by dark stained wood lit only by a brass lamp on an overbearing glass-topped desk. Heavy drapes smothered any natural light that might have illuminated the oppressive space.

Lyndhurst leaned against his desk, ankles crossed and weak blue eyes appraising her. Documents splayed across the surface behind him, but his focus was solely on her.

Clasping her hands behind her, Brenna dipped into a whisper of a curtsy.

Words lodged in her throat, the fear of offending him strangling her.

Safer to let him speak first. As if relishing his authority, he let the suffocating silence stretch.

Slowly, her eyes traveled from the carpet to his face.

A serpentine smile twisted his thin mouth.

“I’ve appreciated how efficiently you’ve managed your duties. It’s rare to find a woman as dedicated as you.” Her stomach flipped again, hope that he was pleased mingling with her unease.

“Thank you, Mr. Lyndhurst.” Her voice was small.

“Remind me what you were doing before my employment,” he commanded. His fingers tugged at his cuffs, rolling them back.

“Washing and mending, sir. For Miss Hughes’ laundry house.”

“You are much better suited for my household, don’t you agree?”

There was a tightness to his mouth and a narrowness to his eyes that she could not read. Her voice wavered. “I appreciate the opportunity. Your children are lovely.”

“Of course.” He pushed off the desk and stepped forward, closing the gap between them.

She tensed, instincts urging her to get out of the dim room, but she simply adjusted her shawl over her arms and stood her ground with a forced, docile smile.

Making an irrational dash for the hall would only lose her employment.

“You see, I feel that I am responsible for the wellbeing of all my staff,” he continued, “and I take that seriously.”

“You are a generous employer.”

His height was apparent as he leaned over her, smelling of stale tobacco and bitter juniper liquor. “You’ve had a difficult path, haven’t you? Growing up without a father and your mother running a business on her own.”

She bristled at his condescension, but averted her eyes. “No more so than many people in our community,” she deflected.

“I’d like to do more for you.”

Shattering any sense of propriety, he reached up and twined an escaped curl around his finger.

She should have stepped back, apologized, and redirected him, but she was frozen in place like prey before a hunter. Chest constricted and stomach roiling, she could barely pull air into her lungs.

If her sister was here, Meara would verbally cut him down and rescue her, but she was alone.

Her voice scraped as she said, “Sir, I’m not sure your meaning.”

His reaction was immediate, his voice lowering into a casual threat.

“It would be a shame if I was forced to dismiss you from my household.” His free hand moved to her shoulder, skimming over the fabric of her dress.

“But that won’t be necessary, will it? We understand each other, I believe. I enjoy being generous, as you said.”

Repulsion rose in her throat. How could she have let this happen?

She recalled nothing in her actions that could be considered provocative.

This conversation was the longest they had ever spoken.

She struggled to keep her frenzied thoughts from dissolving into panic.

There had to be a way out of this situation without losing her position or her reputation.

Another appointment would be impossible if she lasted a mere six days in this household.

Her feet edged backward as she took a shallow breath. “Sir, are there shortcomings in my work that would lead to a dismissal? I’m confident I can fulfill whatever tasks pertaining to your children that are required.”

Another cold smile spread across his face. “I’m confident you could fulfill whatever duties I set for you.” He stepped closer, herding her away from the door.

Her shoulders rounded, just shy of cowering as her vision tunneled. She couldn’t get enough air. Prickles of pain ran up and down her arms, as if blood was returning to muscles formerly numb and cut off.

Undeterred, Lyndhurst’s hand trailed down over the sleeve of her dress to touch the bare sliver of skin above her shawl. “You’re so beautiful, despite your complexion.” His fingers encircled her upper arm possessively.

The pain of his tightening grip shocked her, sparking a flame that burned away the foggy panic, leaving something akin to vengeful rage for all the times she was considered a pretty commodity.

With a strangled shout, he released his hold. The acrid scent of burning flesh filled the air. She stumbled backward into the door frame and a jolt of pain lanced through her hip.

Light sparked off her skin, across her palms and running up her arms in streaks of lightning. There was no time for the shock of watching power rushing over her skin.

“Witch!” Lyndhurst choked out, cradling a hand with jagged burns like blackened tree roots feathering out from his charred palm. “Faerie demon!”

Reeling, Brenna tumbled into the hall. Sparks fell from her fingers to the carpet. She clenched her hands into fists, attempting to stop the burning magic and protect the sleeping children.

Lyndhurst slumped across his desk, his unmarred hand wrenching open a drawer.

He withdrew a knife, one used to open correspondence, but sharp enough to cut her all the same.

His arm flailed, the blade slicing through the air as he lumbered toward her.

Brenna shoved off the wall, sending herself hurtling down the hallway.

She took the stairs as fast as she dared while her employer grunted behind her like an aggressive hog.

The young maid gawked, her cleaning rag dropping from her hand to plop onto the rug.

Brenna darted past and seized the ornate handle of the front door.

For a terrifying moment, it did not budge, but then the hinges twisted and ground together with a metallic groan as she dragged it open wide enough to slip through and escape.

As her hand released the knob, the metal glowed orange.

She had mere seconds until Lyndhurst resumed his pursuit. He may have been hesitant to touch her again, but she knew that he would gladly stab her with his knife.

An inferno crackled in her veins. She lurched forward, running faster than ever before.

The door slammed behind her as enraged yelling echoed between stone buildings.

Doors opened and neighbors peered out. She frantically searched their faces for sympathy, hoping someone would intervene on her behalf.

Their expressions melted from confusion to fear as his shouts reached them.

Men shoved past their wives, ready to answer the call to arms.

Brenna realized with sickening clarity that no one would help her. Not when a nobleman screamed, “Faerie magic,” over and over. Her neighbors poured from open doors, joining Lyndhurst in his hunt.

Mud coated her ankles and the hem of her dress, squelching and sucking her boots down. Her lungs splintered, layering needling pain over the ache of her hip and the burn of her legs. She gasped, tasting blood in her throat as she pushed herself harder, rounding the bend in the road.

Passersby scrambled out of her way. Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the yells of the growing mob.

One more row of shops to her mother’s apothecary.

She had no thought past reaching the familiar door and barricading herself inside until her mother and sister could make this nightmare end.

Ahead, her mother’s cinnamon hair caught the light as she leaned out of the shop’s arched doorway. Brenna let out a breathless cry. She stepped back, allowing Brenna to throw herself inside before her mother slammed the door shut and slid the bolt into place.

Meara emerged from the workroom, drying her hands on a rag. Her mother shook her head, expression drawn tight. “She was being chased!”

“What in the hell is happening, Brenna?” Meara braced her, gripping her shoulders. Sparks danced across her hands where they touched, but the strange magic did not burn her.

Brenna drew in a breath, struggling to find the words to explain.

Angry fists pounded against the door, causing the bell to jingle.

Voices filtered through the shutters: demands, accusations, threats.

Brenna’s lips parted, fear rising again as she searched her sister’s face for reassurance.

Meara narrowed her eyes and looked from their mother to the door, the hard line of her mouth promising violence to any who dared harm her family.