****BB READERS: Please disregard and overlook any grammatical errors. This chapter is still undergoing some editing. Thanks so much and happy reading!!!****

          A chill scurried through the corridors, making its way into Lord Rossetti's chambers. Braced at the foot of the bed, Elle shuddered, the draft forewarning her that nightfall was near.

          Lucy had retired some time ago, deserting her to the quiet of the overt masculine room. The hushed air had the darkness pressing closer and her ears strained to catch a scrape or creak that might fill that unbearable silence.

          She had long learned that any noise was preferable to nothing, for nothing, always suggested something.

          Inhaling a deep breath, Elle was determined to not let her restless thoughts besiege her, but the uncanny stillness had a way of extracting fretful notions from the deep recesses of her mind.

          Lucy's tale had left a sickening knot in the bottom pit of her stomach, to where no amount of sound judgment could alleviate her growing fears.

          Suppressing a tremor, she purged the unease abreast to the disturbing notions that invaded her mind, her senses instead centering on the room.

          Rossetti's quarters felt as detached from the rest of the world as its surly dweller.

          A fire burned in a hearth across the room, its flames likely parading in the grate and hurling shadows; its crackling warmth failing to enliven the room, much of it repressed by the grim and musty air.

          With Rossetti gone, now would be a fitting time as any to gain a better understanding of her contentious captor. What better way to do so than to examine his possessions? With the pads of her fingertips, she could attain so much of the man that was a quandary in every way, but to pry through his belongings felt like an invasion of some kind.

          Nay, she concluded. She would rather he confide in her of his own volition than for her to go meddling through his things.

          With a sigh, her hands grazed over the delicate bedding that stretched the length of the bed; its incredible softness a surprising and unlikely element in a room that emanated hardness and masculinity.

          Elle tried to imagine him sleeping there. What did he dream of? Did he dream at all?

          She considered returning to her chambers only she wasn't so certain she could find her way back.

          Exhaustion was a present thing for she longed to lie upon the bed and drift into a peaceful slumber. Instead, she sat immobile, filled with an unease that matched the dismal air.

          A dull twinge started in her lower back, combating her thoughts and rigid posture. With a discordant breath, she at last opted to relinquish her spot and reached for –

          Elle choked back a gasp as her fingers traced air.

          Her staff ... it wasn't there!

          Her mind scrambled to recall where last she had placed it, all the while panic pressing down on her chest.

          Remembering Rossetti had taken it while at the beach, Elle came to her feet in a flurry of skirts, her right hand finding and curling around the bedpost.

          How could she have been so careless? Her staff meant everything to her.

          As a child, before having mastered a means to cope with her blindness, she had clung to her mother's skirts, taking in the world from behind pleats of stiff cotton. There, other children could be heard playing, their peal of laughter reaching her from where she stood unnoticed.

          Every day, she listened to their frolicking, longing to take part in their gaiety, to join her sisters who reveled in their games.

          And one day, with a strengthening breath, she did.

          Even now, Elle could recall how her little feet bustled in the dirt; stirring a cloud of grime that assailed her active senses as she tried to keep pace with them. The many unseen faces of the other children weaved around her, the rise and fall of their voices becoming a whirlwind of snickers and murmurs.

          A feather-like tug on her hair had her pivoting – from the other side came another, this one more vicious, more painful as it forced a cry past her lips. Confusion pleated her brow. A pull on her skirt and a wrench on her sleeve had her panic soaring.

          Many hands grabbed at her clothing, yanking her in various directions; their laughter obscene and blaring, every bit of it demoralizing.

          She let out an uncontrollable sob, her cries going unheard for what seemed a lifetime until finally – someone pulled her from the fray.

          The unwanted memory of that day wound itself around Elle's heart, stamping it with certain pain and humiliation. Their rejection was as heard as it was unseen and felt far deeper than anything she had ever experienced. It made her realize with alarming clarity how much her darkness posed a threat to her, how vulnerable she truly was, and how very different she was from others.

          She had never felt more exposed, having laid her heart bare only to have it rejected. It had shattered her. It had inserted a flame of self-loathing and anguish.

          Thereafter, she gave up all attempts to play with the other children, deciding that being apart from them was preferable to being the laughingstock of the village, but that isolation became a gateway to abhorrent feelings such as self-contempt and insecurity, both of which had incited aversion for the darkness that had placed limitations on her life.

          And for a time, those feelings dominated her. They changed her. They had twisted her heart with sadness and resentment, placing a dark, despondent cloud over her.

          Recognizing this grave change in her, her father had approached her one evening, and taking her smaller hands into his much larger and callused ones, had placed something rather long and rough of texture in them. Her brows had drawn together on a frown as her fingers trailed the many ridges, parts of it coming away with a sticky substance that she would later learn to be sap.

          Little airs for my little heart, he had said.

          At the time, his meaning had been unclear but as the days progressed and she grew accustomed to using her staff, realization quickly dawned. There were no more helping hands to steer her about. She wasn't stumbling or staggering.

          The staff empowered her. It restored in her a newfound confidence. The self-loathing all but filtered away with every confident stride as she walked with her head held high, with airs as her father would call it.

          She may be different but having her staff made that verifiable truth a little easier to accept.

          And every year her father would return to the forest and bring from it, a new staff to equate her height, each one smoother and sturdier than the last.

          To go without it brought Elle back to that terrible day, giving rise to all of those disparaging emotions. To leave it behind, felt much like losing her confidence and airs all over again.

          She simply couldn't part with it.

          Elle had to get it back, but with the hour turning and the arrival of those men, she was certain that her staff was the least of Rossetti's concerns.

          Pressing her mouth into a grim line, she made an impulsive decision and started for the door.

          As she began to move with small, undecided steps, she found herself colliding with various objects of the room and with that, felt her alarm mounting for much of those unfavorable feelings from that day began to assail her, making her feel like that helpless, frightened little girl caught in a tirade of taunts and jabs.

          When the door at last emerged beneath her splayed hands she exhaled a sigh of relief. Finding the latch with shaky hands, she gave it a firm tug and was surprised when it came open with an ominous creak.

          "Lucy?"

          With anxious breath, Elle braced for a response, but nothing came.

          Her stomach churned as her anxiety intensified. What was she to do? She couldn't very well go gallivanting about without her staff, or alone for that matter. Rossetti would deem her staff a trivial matter and insist they retrieve it in the morning.

          What if it lay astray in the sand and the tide carried it away? You could always get another, she thought, but she knew not how long she was going to be at Rossetti Keep for, and her father had always provided them to her.

          She had very little in this world but that very little meant a great something to her. Her staff was her only reassurance in a place of unfamiliarity.

          Elle released a breath, torn by indecision.

          This wouldn't be her wisest decision, in fact, she was certain it fell right alongside forgoing food, but dismissing it just wasn't an option.

          Besides, what were just a few steps?

          Stealing herself for the task ahead, she took in a deep breath and slipped past the door. With one hand braced on the wall and the other extended outward, she began to make her way down the hall.

*********************

          The night stretched on in agonizing slowness and Don counted the seconds that brought him closer to dawn – that brought him that much closer to Elle.

          Through hooded eyes, he watched as shadows lengthened across the room, widening to dispatch every bit of illumination. It rivaled the light, reaching for the monster in the room and like most dark things in this desolate place, it conquered.

          Don invited it, for the darkness was as much a part of him as he a part of it, and having come to terms with that made confronting that darkness a hell of a lot easier.

          For what seemed the millionth time that night, his thoughts turned involuntarily to his little captive. She was everything he was not. Good. Compassionate. Gentle. She was the type of woman that stole a man's heart, weakened an iron resolve, and curbed a solid breath, and the best part about it – was that she was blissfully and innocently unaware.

          An image of her asleep in his bed, buried beneath a wealth of bedding, turned his blood to molten.

          His scarred mouth twitched, twisting into a passable grin. What would it be like to hold her in his arms and be that source of warmth?

          This visceral reaction to her was unnatural, of that much he surmised, but to feel something other than unremitting grief was a welcoming reprieve to all of the malevolence that quaked beneath his skin.

          Callous, violent, cynical. These were but a handful of darker sentiments that made up various parts of him while others bear not mentioning.

          His hands fisted beneath the table; hands once coated emphatically in blood that had dealt countless final breaths. How could one escape the reflections of their past? There was no breaking away from the impressions burned into his brain. The strangled cries – an overlay of blood permeating a fear-stricken air – these are what fueled the beast kept tightly restrained beneath muscle and bone, and he could feel that control slipping.

          An ungodly snore jarred Don from his musings.

          His scowl deepened as he surveyed a drunken Tavis sprawled ineptly on the bench. Adjacent to him, his stout companion had taken possession of his discarded leftovers as he all but shoveled the remains into his mouth. Across from them, their heavily bearded comrade guzzled his tenth – nay, eleventh canter of ale, emptying the contents with a resounding belch.

          With a wave of his hand, Don motioned Edmund forward. His faithful steward needed no further instruction as he hastened to refill their cups.

          Keep them drunk. Keep them entertained. 

          The silence of the room was misleading to any who may happen upon it. Tension riddled the air as its occupants feigned disinterest, but there was no mistaking the suggestion of an imminent threat. With every rustle of clothing and slop of drink, it raised his hackles another notch.

          A sudden commotion at the entryway drew him abruptly to his feet.

          Givens erupted through the doors, his rugged face pinched in agitation but it was the painfully thin shadow trailing closely at the guard's heels that seized Don's rapt attention.

          Whether it was the aura of danger, the men strewn unceremoniously about his hall, or the woman in his bed that he could not claim, seeing Gareth Duncan amidst all things erroneous cast him into a mindless rage.

         Gnashing his teeth and momentarily forgetting the sordid men, he stalked around the table, his cloak billowing with every angry, purposeful stride.

          "Stay here," he ordered Givens as he seized the older man's arm and hauled him from the hall and into the corridor.

          It wasn't until they were out of hearing range that he shoved Duncan away from him, saying in a tone that conveyed unrestrained fury, "You have intruded on me for the last time, old man!"

          Duncan staggered but quickly regained his balance. He choked back a breath, struggling to form words.

          Don stole that moment to survey Elle's father, noticing a sadness and exhaustion to him that was present in the glint of his tired, sunken eyes.

          Did he have regrets? Did he feel shame for bargaining his daughter? Had he come to plead for her?

          Clenching his fists, he snarled, "Whatever it is you intend to say, it matters not, you will not be here long enough for any of it to matter."

          "My lord," Duncan clasped his hands as if to still their trembling, "If you would but permit me a moment with my daughter. I have made a grave mistake –"

          "It is done," Rossetti interrupted.

          Duncan's face went slack with disappointment and his shoulders slumped in his ragged cloak. When his voice came again, it was thin and just above a whisper, "You would deny a father from seeing their child?"

          His expression hardened, "None of that seemed to matter before," he paused, then, spitting in a harsh tone, "You mistake me for a man of good conscience, Duncan. For all you know your daughter warms my bed this very moment."

          Those dark eyes, so much like Elle's, rounded in his pale, gaunt face, and then to Don's astonishment, a look of sheer anger dispatched all other emotion. "Everyone will know what kind of monster you are." Duncan hissed, aggrieved.

          He arched a brow in surprise, resisting a smirk at this unexpected display of boldness, and with a calmness he did not feel, replied, "They already do."

          The old man's face reddened, that anger replacing all that paleness, doing away with the remorseful, timid Duncan as he released a harsh breath, "Have you hurt her? I will know if you have touched her."

          This time, Don did smirk, his lip curling with a sneer and when he opened his mouth to hiss his reply, a sound stalled him, snapping his attention to the top of the stairs.

          There, braced just before the first step, stood the object of their conversation.

          Having likely heard their heated exchange, he knew that he stood in the way of her freedom, but he'd be damned if he'd let her go now.

          "Touch her," he imparted on a drawl, his eyes locked on Elle, "Nothing would give me greater pleasure."

                                                                                              **************