CHAPTER ONE

Ireland, 1789

Nothing made Brenna McIntyre jump quite as badly as the short, no-nonsense rap she heard against the oak door of her chambers. That knock meant only one thing.

Charles McIntyre stood on the opposite side of the threshold, and their meeting would not end well for her.

“Open the door, git.” Charles’s voice, deep and cold, like the black waters of a bottomless river, was soft but by no means gentle. In fact, when his wife was not around, he made no attempt a’tall to hide his dislike for his stepdaughter.

Brenna stared at the door, wondering if she dared ignore his command. It mattered not whether she obeyed or disobeyed. He would still discipline her, as he preferred to call it. And according to him, she was constantly in need of discipline. She was a disgrace, a harlot, reveling in the attentions of the men and boys whose paths she crossed, and it was his duty as her father to correct each fault.

Especially, as he so often pointed out, if he ever hoped to marry her off.

He knocked again, louder this time. “I said, open up. Do so at once!”

She sighed softly, setting her book aside, and rose slowly from the comfortable chair in the corner where she had been enjoying a pleasant hour. She smoothed the wrinkles from the skirt of her emerald green silk gown, lest Charles see them and discipline her for allowing her clothes to become what he considered shabby.

The uneven floorboards beneath her feet creaked with each step. However, the key turned without protest, as the lock on her door was kept well oiled. Brenna fought to control the quiver in her hand as she twisted the knob and opened the door.

“Moving a bit slow this eve?” Charles sneered, his dark gray eyes slivers of coal-infused ice as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

She stepped back. “My foot had fallen asleep,” she explained, making certain she kept her voice appropriately meek and quiet. “I did not wish to fall.”

“I see.” He continued to stare her down, arms folded over his narrow chest. He was a deceptive, slender man, but she knew from experience that a blow from him packed the strength of a man twice his size.

She stood there, her belly twisting into knots that made breathing most difficult. Charles did not seem particularly troubled and this was the mood she most feared. At least when he was angry, his attacks were not surprises. However, this calm demeanor could mean anything.

Lifting her eyes to his, she said, “Did you need me for something, Father?”

His stare raked her from head to toe. “You’ll need to dress appropriately for supper this evening. I suggest the dark orange dress I brought from Dublin.”

Brenna swallowed the flinch rising to her lips. The burnt orange silk and taffeta gown he’d brought her was one of the ugliest garments she’d ever seen, buried beneath yards of unfashionable, stiff ivory lace, and more bows than she would have thought possible to stitch onto a gown. Fortunately, it wasn’t often she was told how to dress, and therefore could forget about it.

“Aye, Father,” she replied, casting her gaze to the bare floor. The scuffed and scratched oak offered little warmth in the cold and withheld heat in the summer. Thankfully, it was a crisp September day, so the floor was neither too warm nor too cold.

“Are you not even the least bit curious as to why I wish you to dress in your finest?”

She forced herself to meet his cool gaze. “I must admit, I am a mite curious, sir.”

An equally chilly grin lifted the corners of his thin mouth. “At last I have found the man to take your ungrateful hide from beneath my roof.”

Though she was accustomed to his disparaging slurs, his words still stung. In the ten years since he’d wed her mother Dara, Brenna had tried to make Charles like her, to endear herself to him, all to no avail. He never hesitated to remind her of the burden she’d been to him, how he’d only allowed her to live beneath his roof because of his love for Dara. It was Brenna’s own love for her mother that kept Charles’ snide remarks and use of his fists on her a secret as well.

“You have?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. Though she knew Charles intended to marry her off, it seemed it would never happen. After all, how was she to wed if he refused to allow her to be courted? As she approached her twenty-second year, she feared she’d remain firmly on the shelf, dying a spinster.

“Aye. I feared I’d never find an acceptable gent fool enough to actually ask for your hand, but it seems your witch’s face is every bit the charm as I feared. Although, you’ll not allow him to sample your charms ere vows are taken. Unlike the others I’ve caught you with.”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” she replied without thinking. “I know not why you accuse me otherwise, when I remain in this room most of my days.”

Charles’ eyes narrowed. She didn’t see his hand move, but then he backhanded her soundly across the face. The blow sent her reeling, hitting the floor with a whump, and sliding across the polished surface.

“Liar!” he growled, standing over her, hands on his hips as he glared down at her. “I’ve seen you, you little trollop. Smiling and flirting with gents at every turn.”

Brenna blinked back the stinging tears in her eyes, lifting a hand to her cheek even as she glanced at his hand. Charles had removed the heavy gold and ruby ring he normally wore, so she was quite certain he’d left no mark. It was a gift, his ability to backhand her cheeks without leaving any trace of the blow. Only her back and legs bore signs of his temper, and those she took great pains to keep hidden at all times.

“I do not flirt,” she choked, rubbing the throbbing spot on her cheek. “I bid a good morning or evening. That’s all.”

His foot caught her solidly between the ribs, cutting off her air for a long, painful moment. As she lay sputtering on the floor, he crouched beside her, gripping a handful of her long braid to yank her head up from the floor. “Hear me and hear me well, you little Irish trollop, I’ll not tolerate this sass in front of Lord Halstead. If you do anything, anything at all, to ruin this evening, I promise, you will regret it.” He released her hair with a jerk, as if touching her disgusted him. “Is that understood?”

Brenna swallowed against the choking sob rising in her throat, managing to whisper, “Aye, sir,” as softly as she could.

“Very well. You will be down in one hour and you will wear the orange gown.” He straightened up and moved back to the door. “Remember, anything at all.”