Chapter 1

Sweat ran from Cillian’s black curly locks, down his already grimy, stained chemise as he wielded the clunky hammer. Despite his efforts to attach the railing, the iron nail refused to penetrate the wooden fence post, as if mocking him for lack of muscle. Yet, no one else in the village could match Cillian’s massive physique. The sun’s heat roasted the dewy ground, raising the humidity to stifling levels, making it difficult for him to breathe. He had long since removed his shirt, because the perspiration caused it to stick to his skin and impede his tasks.

“Father thought you’d have that fixed by now,” a voice behind him taunted.

Cillian clenched his teeth and pounded harder, not looking at the speaker. The anger gave him strength to drive the stubborn nail into place at last. “I probably would’ve been finished if I had help,” he growled without turning around.

“Shall I tell him the reason you’re not done is because you’ve been busy at the pond with the miller’s son again?”

Cillian whirled around on the speaker, a handsome, pale-skinned redhead with icy green eyes, a sharp contrast to Cillian’s dark features and tanned skin. “You wouldn’t dare.” He held up the hammer in a threatening pose.

A look of fear flashed behind Arten’s face and he took a step back. He smirked, turning his head away, nose in the air. “Or maybe I’ll say you were in the barn with Hamel, the chandler’s son? Or perhaps the chandler himself?”

Cillian threw the hammer to the ground, narrowly missing Arten’s feet and the redhead yelped and jumped back in surprise. “What should I care if you tell him? He’s only my uncle, not even my real father. He reminds me of that fact all the time. Why should he mind what I do?” Cillian crossed his arms over his massive chest.

Arten recovered from his shock. He glanced at Cillian’s pectoral muscles for an instant and then back up to his eyes. “Because if he thinks you’ve been dabbling with the young men in the village again, he’ll have you locked up by the constable. If you’re locked up, the story will get around the shire and then you won’t have a prayer of finding a woman with a sizeable dowry to get out of this pigsty. Since you’re only nineteen, you’ll have a long miserable life ahead of you.”

He waved an arm around him to encompass the pasture and the decrepit assortment buildings that made up the manor, barn, and stables. Weeds and tall grasses encroached upon everything, threatening to undermine the foundation of the house. Its plaster walls were cracked and crumbling. The thatched roof leaked, and the windows were either broken or cracked, letting in the frigid air and snow in the winter. Everything needed fixing, like the fence but repairs were ignored. Cillian’s uncle-through-marriage Pepys had the money to pay to have the estate patched up, but preferred to squander his fortune on his worthless, spoiled sons, Arten and Dodd, giving them a sense of entitlement and leaving Cillian to do all the chores.

Cillian had fallen far behind in his duties, performing only the most pressing and necessary jobs, and as usual, receiving no help from his step-cousins. Also, being the only one with blacksmithing skills for many leagues in any direction, his services were frequently called upon by the villagers. These side jobs should have supplemented the manor’s income but Pepys snatched up any extra funds for his lazy brats.

“However,” Arten said, still smirking. “If you promise to fix the axle on the surrey, I just might overlook your lack of progress.”

“After I fix the fence, I have to get the cows back into the pasture, and then chop wood for the fireplace. Otherwise, you will have a cold dinner and then freeze tonight,” Cillian protested

In spite of the heat, he watched Arten shudder. “The cows can wait then.”

“If I don’t catch the cows, you won’t have milk for your breakfast.”

Arten pursed his lips as if thinking about a response. “Then you’ll just have work late or I’ll tell Father you’ve been with Keefer. He’ll probably whip you again.”

Cillian suppressed a tremor at the recollection of the whip’s sting. His step-uncle had wielded a cruel punishment when he discovered him and the miller’s son coupling in the shadows of the barn. He still bore the scars from the beating that night. Before he could retort, the sound of running feet reached their ears. They looked up to see Dodd bearing down on them as fast as his legs could carry him.

“They’re coming!” he shouted, gasping for breath as he came to a stop.

“Who?” Cillian asked, feigning indifference. Whoever Dodd was excited about might not be anyone important, but those were the only people that could raise such energy in his step-cousins.