Gryffon Hall

By Alexis Duran

Fated to be born the useless fourth son of the Lord of Glimmerveen, Wryler dreams of getting married and escaping the rustic confines of his father's castle. A wealthy merchant's son seems to hold the key to Wryler's safe if somewhat dreary future. However, the arrival of a mysterious stranger on the eve of Wryler's betrothal sends his plans into disarray and Wryler finds himself traded off in marriage to one of the most notorious rogues in the land.
Is Lord Aeric Rouchet the scoundrel he appears to be, or is he something much worse? Separated from his family and thrust into a strange and dangerous new life at the foreboding Gryffon Hall, Wryler must unravel the secret of his husband's shadowed life and defeat the curse which threatens not only his growing affection for the barbarian in his bed, but the lives of everyone the Lord of Gryffon Hall is sworn to protect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ShadowSpinners Press
• Release date: Jun 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463959411

Book preview

Chapter 1

Aware of someone shuffling behind him but determined not to be distracted, Wryler Glimmerveen hunched lower over his workbench. Scrolls and loose papers covered a rough surface marred by scorch marks and gouges. Three books were propped up and open in front of him, leaning against stacks of other books. He gripped his pen, nib hovering over the end of the long line of figures he’d scrawled across the page. Ink stained his fingers, his shirt cuffs, and most likely his forehead from repeated rubbing.

The charm he’d formulated wasn’t quite right. He sensed it and also sensed he was on the verge of unraveling its secrets, if only he could resist the distraction of someone clearing their throat and fidgeting in the doorway to his room. He shoved a hand into his thick hair and tugged. Think! He’d been trying for weeks to recreate the spell for banishing chills, and with his purchase of Fenton Arwhile’s Book of Forest Fae Medicines from a passing tinker, Wryler knew he was on the verge of discovering the cure for a winter malady that troubled all who lived in drafty castles on the edges of moors.

Ahem, said the pest behind him. Wryler knew perfectly well the pest was Amster Dreb, the most useless manservant in the kingdom, lurking there and waiting for Wryler to acknowledge him. But if Wryler did that, he might never be able to retrace his line of thought, which led from Arwhile’s assertion that haddis moss, when found growing near the lethal but also useful Trotter’s fungus exhibited a discoloration not unlike the—

Master Wryler? Will you be coming down anytime soon, then?

Oh dammit, Amster! Can’t I have a moment’s peace? Wryler snapped, quickly scribbling notes, not looking up and certainly not turning around.

It’s just that…ahem…Lady Otillia sent me to fetch you. Everyone’s waiting.

Everyone was always waiting. Wryler didn’t know why everyone felt it necessary he be present at every pointless gathering. Being the youngest of four sons, Wryler had nothing to do, no role to play…no purpose! His worth was his skill at alchemy, but if everyone kept interrupting him—

It’s just that—

What? Wryler threw down his pen and spun on his stool. Amster recoiled, his wispy blond hair waving in the breeze from Wryler’s open window. Amster’s hair was so light and prone to floating that Wryler’s aunt referred to it as frog’s whiskers. With his large round eyes and bowed legs, Amster did appear vaguely amphibian.

"Her ladyship said you’d be locked up here. She said, and I quote, ‘Wryler would be late to his own betrothal if left to his own devices.’ " Amster had an odd way of always speaking around what he meant to say, but something in his rambling penetrated Wryler’s foggy thinking.

Betrothal?

Oh, great goddess of Pendor! Why didn’t you fetch me sooner?

You looked on the verge of a momentous thought, Amster said. Like you might throw something at me if I disturbed you.

Well, you were right on both counts, but curse the dragon’s tooth, today might be my betrothal!

For once, there really was a point to Wryler’s presence at the gathering. He leaped up and grabbed a rag to wipe away the ink stains. Fetch my new shirt and the velvet coat. The fancy one.

Um, aren’t you wearing your new shirt? Amster’s expression was sad as his pale eyes focused somewhere around Wryler’s midsection. Wryler looked down and, horror of horrors, discovered that he was indeed wearing the new shirt and had wiped a great swath of ink across its ruffled front.

He didn’t remember changing, or why. How could he have begun to change for the feast and then forgotten, only to end up here at his table as he did so often? He usually only blanked out like that when he was so deeply disturbed or worried that he buried himself in his work and forgot about his surroundings entirely.

Find the shirt I wore to Gerd’s wedding, he instructed, and began plucking at the buttons of the ruined shirt. Wryler wasn’t disturbed by his betrothal. On the contrary, he looked forward to it. Not the ceremony itself, which was bound to be both tiresome and embarrassing, but the result.

He thought of his soon-to-be-betrothed, Lennox of Arsburry, son of the wealthy merchant Sir Gladstone Arsburry. Lennox was handsome, well groomed, smart, and, although rather haughty, terribly fond of Wryler, a positive feature Wryler could attribute to very few people.

The red one? Amster asked.

Oh, no. Didn’t I tell you to burn that one?

Lennox, whose father often visited Wryler’s father on business, was two years older and a good deal more worldly than Wryler. Whenever the Arsburrys visited, Lennox sought Wryler out eagerly with a gleam in his eye and rather interesting ideas on how they might spend their time together.

"The Lady Otillia forbade it. The lady said, ‘With his dowry, Wryler needs all the shirts he can get.’ "

Fine. But I won’t wear it while I’m being put on public display. Surely I have another nice white blouse?

Sir Arsburry is wearing red, Amster said, suddenly very interested in a loose thread at his cuff.

Well, Lennox is tall and handsome and can get away with such— Wait. Lennox is here? Now? Why didn’t you tell me? Wryler chewed his lower lip. He’d assumed the arrangements had been made via messengers.

I did. When Sir Arsburry’s entourage first arrived. Hours ago.

You didn’t! Did I acknowledge that you told me?

"You nodded. You said, ‘Mmmmm.’ And then you came in here and commenced thinking."

Curses. Wryler marched through the low door connecting his workroom to his sleeping chamber. Now what? I’m a fright. He stuck his hands in his hair and stared unseeing at his wardrobe. He’d never been good at this sort of thing. Dressing and dinners and fashion.

Look here. Your clothes are all laid out. Amster scampered past him and lovingly patted Wryler’s brown velvet coat, the hated red silk shirt, and leather trousers. His fancy boots were polished and sitting out at the foot of the bed.

You didn’t do this, Wryler said, shrugging off the plain wool coat he wore in his workroom.

Lady Otillia’s maid was prying about, Amster said with a hint of disdain.

My aunt has been trying to get Lennox and I hitched since my coming of age party. Wryler appreciated his aunt’s efforts on his behalf. No one else seemed to give a fig about the fate of Lord Glimmerveen’s fourth son, except as a possible pawn in regional politics. His father cared not one whit that Wryler and Lennox had formed an affection for each other over the years, but with Aunt Otillia’s constant reminders that a family connection with the influential house of Arsburry would be splendid for trade agreements in the north, an arrangement had at last been hammered out. Or at least that was the rumor. Wryler’s father was very tight-lipped when it came to matters of commerce. Even when the matter was crucially important to Wryler’s fate.

Wryler peeled off his shirt and shivered as he washed with the now cool water from the washbasin. His aunt’s maid must have brought it up an hour ago. Amster wouldn’t think of such a thing. He was the most useless manservant in the castle and had been assigned to Wryler because Wryler had no need for fancy clothes and elaborate grooming, being a social recluse as well as self-sufficient.

He shed the rest of his old worn clothing while Amster described Sir Arsburry’s retinue, what they wore, what types of horses they rode, and the large trunks they’d brought full of mysterious and intriguing treasures. With Amster’s fumbling assistance, Wryler fastened the pearl buttons in a straight line, adjusted the lace cuffs so they peeked out in the right way, and got his leather pants tucked into the knee-high boots that were now the fashion.

The high collar and cravat presented them with more trouble. Wryler wished his aunt was there, but she must have already gone to the reception hall to greet visitors and play the role Wryler’s mother would have if she’d lived.

After being nearly choked to death by Amster, Wryler waved him off and found the intact half of the mirror he’d broken performing an experiment using sunlight to ignite one of his powders.

He looked presentable enough, though his cravat was still askew. Normally he chopped off his naturally wavy brown hair to keep himself from looking more feminine than he already did, but he’d neglected his appearance over the long, dull winter, and now his mud-brown hair brushed his shoulders. For once he was glad of this, because Lennox liked long hair, and Wryler wanted Lennox to continue to like him. At least until they were married and could become uninterested in each other like most married couples.

His aunt had insisted the red shirt looked fine against Wryler’s dark hair and eyes. He didn’t see it. But Lennox was a good-looking fellow and a fine catch. He wouldn’t waste his time with Wryler if he didn’t find him pleasing to the eye. Wryler scowled at his reflection. No, he didn’t see whatever it was that attracted Lennox.

Amster whined and shuffled behind him.

Oh, all right. I’m coming. No use tying ribbons on a pig, as Father always says. Wryler brushed a stray curl out of his eyes and stepped into the hall. Bells echoed across the courtyard. With luck, Wryler would reach the hall before all the guests arrived and so not be too terribly late.

He ran down the corridor, deserted because everyone was in attendance downstairs. He took the spiral staircase out of the tower three steps at a time, dashed across a hall and down another staircase. He leaped over the last step and careened straight into someone striding down the hall from the right.

Ooof! So sorry, Wryler gasped. Strong hands gripped his shoulders, and he found himself looking up into Lennox’s blue eyes.

Hold on there, Wryler! Don’t you look fetching, all excited and pink in the cheeks. Lennox kissed him on the lips, but Wryler was too out of breath to respond. When I didn’t see you in the hall, I was afraid you’d run off. That you’d found another. Lennox faked a scowl. Clearly, he didn’t believe such a thing was possible.

I lost track of time, Wryler managed to say.

Of course you did. Sweet Wryler. Only you would be late to your own betrothal.

Is it settled, then? At last! Wryler calculated how soon they could be married, so he could leave the manly muck of Glimmerveen and move to the capital city where the Arsburry mansion presided over the main square.

Lennox sighed and leaned against the stone wall. He was terribly handsome, tall, broad of shoulder, and blond. His blue eyes were always full of mischief, and his lips twisted into a half-smile. Alas, there’s been another holdup, this time on your father’s end. Can’t imagine why he’d possibly delay unloading the burden of a fourth son. If Lennox suspected his words might be hurtful, he didn’t show it. I thought when we came here, we would surely sign the contract straightaway, but now Father tells me Lord Glimmerveen is avoiding him. He sniffed and adjusted the cuffs of a crimson silk jacket. Perhaps we’ll be able to sneak off after dinner?

Perhaps. A strange feeling rolled through Wryler’s gut. It felt suspiciously like relief. But he wanted to marry Lennox. No, you want to marry his house. You want to live in the city where there are libraries and museums. You want to talk to learned scholars at the university, maybe attend the university. Lennox is the key to all of that.

Don’t look so sad, my darling. I brought you a present. Lennox lifted Wryler’s chin and kissed him again.

You did?

A book. It’s very large and dull. Just the sort of thing you’ll enjoy. Lennox hooked his arm through Wryler’s and led him toward the hall, where music and the sounds of merriment grew louder. Wryler questioned his moment of doubt.

Lennox had given Wryler his first kiss, along with his first clandestine fondling in the stables, and, later, had been the first to penetrate a certain unmentionable orifice. A fearless older lad, Lennox had pushed his attentions on the shy Wryler, but Wryler rather enjoyed the groping after he stopped worrying about being caught. It made sense for the fourth son of the Lord of Glimmerveen Castle to marry the first son of the House of Arsburry. A wealthy but common-blood merchant, Sir Arsburry’s social standing would move up a notch by marrying into the noble Glimmerveen line, and Wryler’s father was always in the market for money and powerful trade connections, being a forward-thinking sort of lord.

Finally, Wryler would be good for something.

He did like Lennox very much, and walking beside him now reminded Wryler how much he appreciated Lennox’s lively presence at court affairs, where his father expected Wryler to dress up, talk to people, and be charming.

Wryler suspected his unease came from the near certainty that Lennox would grow bored with him once Wryler was no longer a prize to be pursued, but a husband waiting at home for attention. Wryler told himself he wouldn’t mind if Lennox went off to do whatever it was that dashing young fellows do, leaving Wryler to study and work on the alchemical cures he’d devoted his life to. If not a thrilling future, it was better than being stuck in the doldrums of Glimmerveen Castle.

Wryler and Lennox slipped in through the large doors of the reception hall and into a crowd of finely dressed, if minor, nobility, well-to-do merchants seeking to improve their standing, and servants wandering with pitchers of wine and goblets. Glimmerveen Castle didn’t strive for much in the way of sophistication and reserve. Lord Glimmerveen preferred to wine, dine, and joke with his allies. Every guest held a goblet and, judging by their red cheeks, had been imbibing since they’d first stepped through the massive doors.

A clamor of voices and lively music from a string quartet rose to