Read the first three chapters of a Kiss of Iron

‍ ‍Chapter 1

‍The moon was a sliver in the sky, a few days from disappearing altogether—a few nights from the Wild Hunt riding.

It gave me enough light to see by as my sabrecat, Vespera, picked through the undergrowth in silence. I rolled my hips with her gait, keeping my thighs loose: I didn’t need speed from her, yet. Her ears flicked and her black coat gleamed, a stark contrast to how dull my red hair had grown this past year.

Beyond the trees and their shadows, the road was grey in the moonlight. And empty. I scowled and touched the butt of my pistol, like that would bring the prey I hunted.

If we wanted something more than cabbage and courgette on our plates next week, it needed to. We were down to the last of the flour, and I hadn’t tasted meat in weeks. If I were a decent hunter, I’d come out in the day with bow and arrow.

But that was a big if.

I was a great shot, but an abysmal hunter. The butler, Horwich, had been passable, bringing rabbits to the table on the regular, but a slip on the ice last winter had ended his hunting career.

So instead, I rode at night seeking a different kind of quarry, one that frequented balls… Like the one this evening.

Once upon a time, the Viscountess Lady Katherine Ferrers had been invited to everything, but not anymore. She’d stopped accepting invitations so many years ago, drawing rooms were no longer abuzz with speculation. It had been a long while since anyone had called me lady anything. It was just Kat now.

Still, I got to hear about these things. And although I couldn’t attend parties—wearing the same tatty gown every time would win me nothing but sneers—I could make use of them. And this way was much more practical.

I cocked my head. Was that a sound? With a gloved hand to her shoulder, I stilled Vespera and held my breath, listening.

At first, I was sure I must’ve imagined it. Wishful thinking.

But a distant pounding thrummed through the air, felt more than heard, and beneath me Vespera coiled like a spring.

After all these years, the adrenaline still kicked through me, making my skin tingle and my heart hammer. This was the only time I broke the rules, even my own.

They were simple. Some places and actions were safe. Home. Tending our vegetables. Grooming Vespera. And other places and actions weren’t safe: almost everywhere and everything else. I didn’t go there or do those. Except for when I rode at night.

Because it was less dangerous than the alternative, which was losing my home.

Besides, I was clever about it. I crept through the night, and I knew all the best routes for escape. I hid behind a hood and mask. And I’d have wagered my sabrecat was faster than any other in Albion.

There were a lot of reasons I’d never been caught.

Thank the gods. After all, the sentence for highway robbery was death, especially for the infamous Wicked Lady, as the papers called her—called me.

Thirty seconds after the initial thrum of paws on the road, came the squeak and rumble of a carriage in movement.

Partygoers heading home. Drunk and tired. And with any luck, their coachman had entertained himself with a hip flask—that would make my job easier.

Squeezing my thighs, I eased Vespera to the very edge of the forest. We’d wait here until the last possible moment when I’d block their way, pistols drawn—

A shriek pierced the night. The air in my lungs stilled. Even Vespera, so well-trained for any situation or surprise, lifted her head.

It almost sounded like a person. Almost.

But I knew that sound. A fox.

I peered out along the road. My quarry was a coach pulled by four sabrecats—that meant money. Lots of money. They could afford to pay my toll.

Again, the screech raked through the forest’s darkness.

Shit.

If the coachman thought it was a woman screaming, he’d turn back. And then there would be no toll.

This would all have been for nothing.

Yes, there would be other nights, but tonight? It was my best bet—the lords and ladies travelling from the ball would be dripping in jewels. Although I wouldn’t get their full value from my fence, I’d get enough.

With a near empty larder, I’d settle for enough.

Another shriek.

The carriage slowed.

“Shit,” I muttered, making Vespera shift her weight.

I needed to chase off that fox.

* * *

We charged through the forest, far enough from the carriage that they wouldn’t hear the slight rustle Vespera couldn’t help making at this speed. Even if they did, they’d put it down to the damn fox screaming like a woman being disembowelled.

Leaves and branches whipped past, forcing me to duck close to Vespera’s back as I peered ahead. She wound between thick oaks and leapt over fallen trunks, breaths steaming in the chill of night.

Then we were in a moonlit clearing, a gap in the canopy big enough to see that sliver of ghostly white slashing through the night sky. And ahead, a flash of red, as bright as autumn.

The fox that was trying to fuck up my entire evening.

Except it looked like the poor thing was having a worse night than me, because glinting in the dim light was the thin line of a snare’s wire. One end fastened to a tree, the other was buried in the thick fur of the creature’s neck.

It didn’t snarl or shrink away from me.

Brown eyes wide but calm, it watched as though wondering what I’d do. Which was a stupid thing to imagine, because animals didn’t think like that, but…

It watched. And it waited.

Even in this silvery light, its thick fur was the richest red I’ve ever seen, deeper than my auburn hair. Its tail was a magnificent sweep of the same red tipped with white, and my fingers clenched around the reins, aching to test how soft it felt, how thick.

When they weren’t taking chickens from our now empty coops, I’d always liked foxes. Clever and quiet, not obviously dangerous like a wolf or sabrecat. They snuck in, took what they needed, and vanished into the night.

This one was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen.

And beautiful wasn’t useful, but…

Blood specked the white of its throat. It was in pain.

Despite myself, despite my quarry back on the road, it tugged on my heart.

Besides, if I left it here in the snare, it would only scare away the coach. This was a matter of practicality.

“This is just so I can do my job,” I told it with a nod before dismounting.

My leather gloves should give me some protection if it tried to bite, but I’d do my best to grab it by the scruff of its neck like a sabrecat cub.

Hands held wide, head bowed, I approached. “It’s all right.” I kept my voice soft and low. “I’m going to help you.” Quickly, so I can get back to that carriage and its fat purses.

Even as I closed in, an arm’s length away now, the fox didn’t strain away at the end of the snare. It didn’t react at all, just sat and waited.

Everyone knew a wild animal, even a semi-tamed one, would lash out when cornered and injured. Not this fox. In fact, its calm had grown eerie now, making the back of my neck prickle.

My feet stilled, telling me to turn and run.

Just some irrational fear. Listening to it would cost me the night’s hunt.

I forced myself to take another step. “That’s it.” I wasn’t sure if that was for the fox or my own skittish self. I’d been doing this—haunting the roads at night—for more years than I cared to remember. I couldn’t afford fear. I certainly couldn’t afford to give in to it.

“That’s it. Nice and quiet.” My heart pounded, louder than the sabrecats on the road, as I lunged in, grabbing it by the scruff.

But it didn’t dart away or snap at my hands.

And my bones ached with the wrongness.

“Unsafe. Unsafe,” they whispered.

It was too late, because I had a handful of its fur. It looked up at me with eyes full of pain and far too much understanding for a fox.

My throat closed as I slipped a finger under the wire looped around its neck and drew my dagger.

You could kill it. That would keep it quiet.

It would. And it would quiet the feeling of wrongness slithering under my skin.

But…

Other than making me uncomfortable, this fox had done nothing wrong. Chances were that feeling was my mind playing tricks on me—the pressure of tonight’s hunt making me foolish enough to entertain the idea a fox trapped in a snare was something more than just that.

“Pull yourself together, Kat.” I yanked my blade through the wire.

Despite everything I told myself, I took a long step back.

As the snare dropped to the ground, the creature turned its neck side to side, something eerily human about the gesture. Then it stood. It was much larger than any fox I’d heard of.

I swallowed and didn’t sheath my dagger. “There,” I said, voice firmer than I felt, “you’re free.”

It regarded me with those large brown eyes for a long while before bowing its head. Its tail was the last thing I saw as it disappeared into the forest in silence.

Goosebumps picking their way across my skin, I hurried back to Vespera and mounted.

When we returned to the road, the carriage was gone. Only its tracks remained, leading away into the distance.

I slumped in the saddle. “Shit.”

Chapter 2

The next day I woke feeling like crap. That probably had something to do with the home home-brewed elderberry wine I’d used to drown my sorrows at the night’s failure.

Sickness lurking at the back of my tongue, I dug in the vegetable beds, sowing seeds, coating my hands in mud like no “lady” should. Across the path, old roses watched, their thorns pricking me with my failures even from this distance.

Last night, I’d lurked on the forest’s fringes, holding out for another carriage taking partygoers home. When dawn’s pallor touched the sky, I had to accept I’d missed my chance.

Damn fox. I drove my trowel into the soil, sending up a spray of crumbly dirt.

In the sunlight, it felt utterly stupid that I’d even entertained the idea of the creature being anything more than an animal trapped in a snare. Fae weren’t so stupid to get themselves caught. And save for the retinue that had presented itself to the queen recently, they hadn’t been seen in Albion since before I was born.

It was just a fox. And I’d let the waning moon and promise of the Wild Hunt whip my mind into a foolish frenzy that saw strangeness and danger where there were none.

“Idiot,” I muttered as I dropped seeds into the loosened soil.

Cursing that fox and myself, I worked past noon sowing, weeding, thinning out seedlings, and hunting slugs and snails. Since we’d been forced to slaughter the ducks last winter, it was my job to find the slimy bastards beneath stones and behind plant pots and squash them.

If the choice was between a slug and my vegetables, I chose my vegetables every time.

Just like I should’ve chosen my prey last night instead of that fox.

With a sigh, I finally went inside the third time the cook, Morag, called me from the kitchen door.

My head was about ready to explode, and the heat kicked out by the oven didn’t help. I slid into a rickety chair with a groan, depositing the radishes and salad leaves I’d harvested between my slug-murdering.

“Suppose you haven’t eaten yet.”

I didn’t need to look up to know Morag was giving me That Look. The one where her lips were flat and her brow low—all disapproval and hard love. I’d learned to read people long ago. It was a useful skill—a survival skill with a family like mine.

“Felt too sick first thing,” I muttered, shoving hair from my face where it had fallen loose while I worked.

“And I wonder why that is.” I could hear the arched eyebrow in her tone. “Get this down you.” She plonked a chipped mug on the table, the fresh scent of peppermint rising in its steam.

The smell didn’t turn my stomach; I chanced a sip. It beat away the sick taste on the back of my tongue, so I kept drinking while she waved her rolling pin at me, eyes glinting.

“Look at the state of your hair. When was the last time you brushed it?”

I couldn’t even summon the energy to wince. Although I hadn’t looked in a mirror in… Gods, how long had it been?

“My hair doesn’t matter.”

“You need to look after yourself.” She shook her head, tutting. “Out all night.” Her look was meaningful, and I knew she knew what I did when I disappeared on Vespera, even if I never told her outright. “Then drinking that rubbish past dawn.”

“I will.” I tilted the cup as I shrugged. “Just as soon as the cabbage is harvested, the beds all weeded, the courgettes planted out, the hen house repaired, the gate re-hung, that hole in the back fence patched up… And I’m sure there’s something else I’m forgetting. Then there’ll be time to look after myself.”

That Look made a return, but the lines between her brows were deeper and the shadows cast on her eyes darker. “And what if it’s too late?”

Too late? I snorted. “I’ll survive.”

With a huff, Morag turned and stomped to the oven. Steam billowed out, carrying a sweet scent that had my mouth watering at once, all queasiness forgotten.

I frowned at her, even as I smacked my lips. “You didn’t.”

“I did.” The little cake tins clashed against the tray as it thudded into the cork mat on the table.

The floral notes of honey in the air pulled a soft sound from my throat, but I clenched my hands. “We’re supposed to be selling the honey, not eating it.” My stomach growled, though, and my fatal weakness for sweet treats had me leaning over the table, inhaling as deeply as I could. Good gods, they smelled amazing. It had been so many months since I’d eaten anything so tasty, I could’ve wept with longing.

“Aye, well, I only used a tablespoon. The rest is in jars for selling.” Her mouth softened as she looked at me, hands on her hips. “Treating yourself isn’t a sin, you know.”

Maybe it was that softness, maybe it was my weakness for the scent of fresh honey cakes, but part of me cracked as I looked back at her. I had to hold my breath and wait for the stinging in my eyes to fade.

Because I was tired.

So. Fucking. Tired.

Maybe that had made me prickly, not to mention ungrateful. So I sat up and nodded at Morag as she tipped one of the cakes from its tin onto a cooling rack. “Thank you.”

At last she smiled, the hard glint gone from her eyes. “That’s my girl.”

When I reached for a cake, she swatted my hand. “Let them cool down first!”

I scoffed, rising and darting for the cooling rack before she could swat me off again. The sponge was hot and moist, perhaps too hot, but… “No time for that. Work to do.”

As I backed away, she folded her arms and shook her head, That Look firmly back in place.

Standing in the doorway, I took a bite of the honey cake and sighed. Morag had lived and worked here since she was a girl. It was the only home she knew. Lucky for me, because she was good enough to work in any stately home she wanted. Yet she remained here in this crumbling manor where I could barely afford to keep up her wages. Selfish as it may be, I was intensely grateful as the cake’s sweetness bloomed across my tongue.

Floral honey and the rich caramel flavour of brown sugar consumed me.

I sank into it. Lost myself in it. Just for a moment. Just that one spark of pleasure that eased my shoulders for a handful of seconds. Glorious and brief and, most importantly, mine.

I opened my mouth to take a second bite when a pounding came from the front doors.

Morag tensed, head canted in a question, eyebrows twitching together in something that was part-confusion and part-concern.

“Looks like you get your way and I have to let it cool down.” I grinned and deposited the rest of my precious cake on the cooling rack as I left the room.

Who the hells came to Markyate Cell? The once great estate had hosted balls and parties before I’d lived here. But it was a long time since we’d been able to afford to feed anyone outside the household. Recently, it had been challenging enough to feed the three of us.

I was untying my apron when the hammering knock sounded again, echoing through the empty halls. Not only a visitor, an impatient one.

Oh no. A chill crept over me. Not that prick’s secretary again.

Some called my husband Lord Robin Fanshawe, but I preferred other, more inventive names. I hadn’t seen the man in years, which suited me very well. I only heard from him when he needed money, which took the form of an invoice sent directly to the house from a landlord or tailor. Or, when I was really unlucky, when his secretary came to help himself to the contents of the safe on behalf of his master.

Such a loyal dog.

Jaw ratcheting tighter and tighter, I opened the large front door. “Mr Smythe, you’re going to have to tell—”

The words withered on my tongue.

Because it wasn’t the gangly secretary at the door.

Chapter 3

A man stood on the top step, his charcoal suit smart but not too smart. Some sort of professional—the kind who worked in an office. An attorney, perhaps. But there was something a little rougher about him. Beyond, half a dozen burly men waited on the gravel driveway, arms folded. From their size and casual shirts and brown trousers, I guessed they were labourers.

My throat constricted. Attorneys meant trouble. And burly men meant more trouble. Either the official kind or the kind that hoped to find a woman home alone. I’d sent Horwich on an errand, and Morag was hearty for her age, but I wouldn’t duck behind her for protection.

Home was usually safe—away from society, somewhere I didn’t have to play by its rules. But this? This was decidedly not safe.

I clasped my skirts, wishing my fingers were fastening around the butt of my pistol, but that was upstairs in my bedroom. No way would I outrun these men to reach it.

Politeness was my only protection. My back straightened, and it was shocking how easily I slid back into that old mould—ladylike and poised. “How may I help you?”

“Morning, miss.” The suited man nodded. “We’ve come to execute the warrant. Has Lady Fanshawe…? Sorry, it says Ferrers on here.” He glanced down at a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Has Lady Ferrers left the keys for us?”

“I’m Lady Ferrers.” Yet my brain clamoured with questions. Warrant? Keys?

His eyes went wide and his face grew maybe a shade paler. “Oh. I was…” He gripped the papers with both hands now. “I thought you would’ve vacated the estate by now, milady.”

“Vacated the estate? Why would I do that?”

He shuffled uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “Well, because of the warrant.” He paused and when I didn’t reply, raised his eyebrows. “The one served on Lord Fanshawe three months ago?”

“A warrant for what?”

But I knew. Deep down in the ice creaking through my bones, I knew.

“To seize the estate.”

My breaths were too loud, blocking my ears. Seize the estate. Seize the estate. Seize the estate.

The sentence went round and round in time with the drumming of my heart, a jumble of sounds I couldn’t make sense of.

The man’s mouth was still moving, but I didn’t hear a word.

Seizing. Warrants. No more estate. No more home. Not safe. Not safe at all.

I blinked and found myself clutching the doorframe, the world spinning slowly, sickeningly.

“Milady, are you—”

“What has he done?”

The bailiff explained. I took in half of what he said; it was enough.

The foetid cesspit I’d been married off to had secured a five-thousand-pound debt against Markyate Cell—the estate I worked myself to the bone to keep afloat. The estate that hadn’t made that much money in any of the years I’d been here.

And, being a useless bag of bones, he’d failed to pay the debt or respond to the warrant he’d been served three months ago.

“Three months.” The words scoured my throat. He’d known all that time, and he hadn’t even sent a letter to warn me.

The bailiff shifted his weight, lips tightening as his fingertips traced the edge of the warrant in his hands. “You knew nothing of this until I appeared on your doorstep, did you?”

I shook my head, though it took far more effort than it should’ve, as if my bones were suddenly heavier and my muscles had forgotten how to work.

He swallowed and glanced down the steps at the men waiting. As though coming to a decision, he leant in closer, shoulders blocking them out. “Look, madam… they don’t like us telling anyone about this, and normally I wouldn’t, but it seems unfair on this occasion. There’s a clause on the final page of the warrant.” He flicked through the papers and held one up, but I couldn’t take in anything more than a jumble of ink. “If you pay one tenth within a week, we’ll accept that as part payment, with another tenth due a month later, and so on, until the debt is cleared. As long as you keep up payments, the estate won’t be seized.”

Five hundred pounds. That was still a huge sum, ten times what I paid Horwich in an entire year.

“I’ll do it.” I heard my voice as if it was from very far away. As if someone else had spoken.

His shoulders sank a fraction of an inch as though he was relieved. Putting the papers back in his briefcase, he promised to return in seven days’ time. He handed me a card with the address of his offices and bowed his head before leaving.

Face tingling, I slammed the door and fell against it.

How the hells was I going to raise that much money in a week?

“A week!” My hysteria-edged voice bounced around the hall.

There was only one way I stood a chance. Despite the danger of being on the road so often, I had to ride every night.

Even that might not be enough.

A whole set of gold jewellery—necklace, earrings, brooch, bracelets—would bring in perhaps two-hundred and fifty. That was without the taint of stolen goods. I’d be lucky to get two thirds of that from my fence if she was in a good mood… a really, really good mood.

My stomach churned as I walked through the halls, no particular destination in mind. There was no space in my brain for anything other than what had just happened.

Five thousand pounds. Five thousand! That was a year’s income, even for a wealthy gentleman.

At last, I stumbled outside and threw up everything I could. The mouthful of honey cake wasn’t sweet coming back up. I could only taste bitter, sour bile as I heaved and heaved, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes from the effort.

When I looked up, the roses still watched.

How I used to love tending them.

Once upon a time, I’d read every book I could on the subject. I bought every different variety and fertiliser I could get my hands on, testing them in different beds to see what gave the best results. I wrote notes on the outcomes. I even started breeding different varieties together, seeing if perhaps I could create something new. But my project ended before they had a chance to flower.

Because I found out the truth about my husband’s debts and the floundering financials of the estate.

What a foolish girl. Such frivolous concerns. It had been an utterly pointless way to spend my time. Roses were pretty and they smelled divine, but they were useless.

Vegetables, though—they were entirely practical. They’d kept us going these past few years.

And with the bailiff breathing down my neck, we would need to grow and hunt all our food for the foreseeable future.

Before I even consciously thought about it, I was approaching the nearest rose bed. The soil crumbled under my feet, still clayish after all this time. The soft sensation made me want to sink to my knees and clip the tangled stems to ensure I’d get the fattest flowers. For a moment, I paused, weight on my toes, so close to succumbing.

But only for a moment.

I didn’t bother to dig. I just grabbed close to the base. Dry bark cracked in my grip as I pulled. The stunted bush came out easily—too easily. Its roots had been half dead for a long while. I threw it to one side and started on the next.

Thorns tore at my palms. Pinpricks of beautiful, useless pain.

I didn’t stop.

Their twisted branches tangled in my hair. They scratched my face.

Teeth gritted, I yanked out that one and the next and the next.

I needed food more than I needed this reminder of past beauty.

Maybe that hot liquid trickling down my cheeks was blood from the scratches. Perhaps it was tears.

I’d killed for the sake of survival. I’d fucked a husband I hated for the sake of survival. Tears were as useless as the roses I ripped up, but blood? Yes, I would bleed for survival.

Whatever it took.