The day had not gone as planned.
CHAPTER SIX
Ridlaw Manor
Twenty Miles East of Bristol
The man wasn’tbluffing.
He’d seen men like this before—men who turned gambling into a business, and when those who owed debts didn’t pay fast enough, they came for their pound of flesh. Now, they had come to him for more than a pound of flesh because, unfortunately, he owed them all that and more.
That was nothing new in his world.
Ciaran le Daire owed the entire world money, it seemed. He couldn’t remember when he had actually not been in debt, but certainly, at some point in his life he hadn’t owed anyone anything. Maybe in infancy. In any case, it seemed like every action in his adult life had been to either pay a debt or create a debt or try to make money somehow. He got that particular trait from his father, who had inherited Ridlaw fromhisfather, as the manor had been in the family for more than one hundred years. Not strangely, it had been purchased from a man who had run up a debt with a French count, a man who wanted his money and wasn’t afraid to kill people to get it.
That was how Ridlaw Manor came into the possession of the le Daire family.
Therefore, the manor had seen its share of shady characters coming and going. There was always something happening there, as the townspeople would say. It used to be a nice place in relatively decent repair, but the years had not been kind to it, as the le Daire owners had not seen a need for upkeep. It used to be a place of prosperity, because it had a good deal of land that was used to grow wheat. But le Daire wasn’t a farmer and he didn’t employ farmers, so a few of the local farm workers had taken to leasing his land so they could at least make a living. They split the crop with Ciaran and he did what he pleased with it, which was usually trade it for drink or sell it for money to gamble.
It was a difficult existence.
It was even more difficult now that Ciaran was staring down a man from Glasgow, a pirate with a nasty streak in him. In addition to his pirate activities, he was also a man who sponsored a traveling game of chance that went all around the south of England, a game that Ciaran had spent a good deal of money on when it had come to Bath. When the money was gone, he’d asked for credit. That had been his mistake.
Now, the creditor had come to collect.
“My father, unfortunately, does not have all of the money.” It was Benedict, Ciaran’s son, pleading on behalf of his father. “If you will only give us a little more time, I am sure we can pay you to your satisfaction.”
The man who had done the threatening shifted his focus to Benedict. There was malevolence behind the dark eyes as he gazed at the man begging on behalf of his father. He called himself King Dagda, though his real name was cause for much speculation among those who knew him. Some said that he had come from Scottish nobility while others said he came from the gutter. Wherever he came from was of little matter, however.
It was what he’d learned while he was there that caused concern.
Torture techniques, among other things, both physical and mental.
No one wanted to be on King Dagda’s bad side.
“Youdounderstand that your father borrowed money from me,” he finally said to Benedict. “He owes me a great deal.”
“I know,” Benedict said, avoiding his father’s pleading gaze. “We are attempting to sell property as we speak. We only need a little more time.”
King Dagda seemed interested by the mention of valuables to sell. “What kind of property?”
There really wasn’t much, to be truthful, but Benedict didn’t want to let on. He wanted King Dagda to believe that they did indeed have things to sell, things that could pay the debt.
“Land, mostly,” he said. “If you feel that it would help pay your debt if we were to give them to you, then by all means, you may have it.”
As he’d hoped, King Dagda shook his head. “I have no use for grass,” he said distastefully. “What else are you selling?”
“Would you take my daughter?”
The question came from Ciaran. King Dagda looked at him with surprise as Benedict closed his eyes in horror.
“Papa, we agreed,” Benedict said before King Dagda could respond. “We do not sell Desdra. Not again.”
“Notagain?” King Dagda said, interrupting. He looked between Benedict and Ciaran. “What’s this about selling a daughter?”
“My daughter,” Ciaran said, a little louder this time. “Desdra is a good worker. She is educated. She can help you with your accounts. She can run your household. She can do anything.”
King Dagda frowned. “I do not need a chatelaine,” he said. “I need my money.”
