The Lycan's Lady

Promised to the Ravenous Duke

The wolf's ears flattened in apparent response to her distress. It rose with fluid grace, testing its bandaged limb with measured movements.

"I must go," Miss Brenda whispered, heart suddenly heavy. "Should you remain in this vicinity, I shall return upon the morrow with fresh dressings—you have my word."

The beast padded after her as she hurried toward home, a silent guardian in the gathering dusk. Upon reaching the forest's edge, Brenda turned for one last look at her mysterious companion.

"I thank thee," she breathed, though for what precisely, she could not articulate. The wolf's eyes gleamed like twin lanterns in the fading light as it observed her departure.

****/

The withered Wolfsbane moors stretched endlessly beneath a dreary slate sky. Brenda in black crepe, wandered the desolate expanse, her fingers absently touching the pocket where she kept a small bundle of dried herbs - yarrow and comfrey, gathered in secret after that fateful afternoon. Her exquisite porcelain beauty marred by sorrow's faint traces on her delicate features.

Glistening tear stains which bore witness to the cruel fate behind those imposing silhouettes of Bingham Manor's walls which loomed against the horizon like a foreboding omen, a constant reminder of her, daughter of Lord Vincent Bingham, a callous patriarch who cared little for her well-being.

Behind those same walls which stole her beloved mother and brother far too soon to ill health.

Brenda reluctantly continued her approach, as she drew closer, the wind whipping her dark hair into a frenzy. Her steps slowed, hazel eyes downcast as she felt a sudden howl pierce the air, shattering the moor's unearthly silence, shaking through Brenda's every bone. She startled, trembling hands flying to cover her ears against the mournful sound. Yet there was something familiar in that cry - the same voice that had bid her farewell in the glade, she was certain of it.

Memories flooded back with crystal clarity - the gentle way the massive creature had submitted to her ministrations, the beast's intelligent eyes, the way it had listened so intently to her confidences, the unexpected tenderness in those fearsome features, the peculiar purring sound it had made as she spoke of her mother...

"You'll not go wandering off into those cursed moors again!" Lord Bingham's commanding bellow shook Brenda from her reverie as she crossed the threshold into the manor's gloomy entry hall.

The intimidating patriarch advanced on her, severe aristocratic features hardened with displeasure at her wind-tousled appearance.

"A lady of your standing and delicate constitution should remain indoors, occupying her mind with more appropriate pursuits!" he barked, his voice like a whip cracking through the air.

Brenda flinched, hunching her shoulders beneath the withering onslaught of her father's censure.

She opened her mouth to offer a meek apology, but Vincent silenced her with an impatient wave.

"Oh, do cease that infernal quivering, girl! I've no patience for such histrionics." His flinty black eyes glinted with condescending amusement. "Young ladies oft delude themselves, dazzled by foolish romantic notions spun by prancing stable hands and wandering vagabond minstrels. But rest assured, I'll suffer no more of these fanciful dalliances to jeopardize the advantageous marital prospects I've so painstakingly secured!"

There a figure approached besides her father, The Duke of Wolfsbane, with a satisfied grin plastered over his face.

"I've secured your future, as is my duty," he declared, his lips curving in a mocking smile.

"You'll thank me for it once this willful foolishness passes," he continued, his eyes glinting with a cold, calculating light.

Brenda stilled, horror mounting as the implication sank in - an arranged marriage, to one of the crusty, decrepit noblemen endlessly circling in their greedy pursuit of her meager dowry like vultures eager to tear into fresh carrion. The very notion turned her stomach into roiling knots.

"F-father, please... I'm not yet nineteen," she swallowed hard.

"Surely there's no need to speak of marria—" she stammered, her voice trembling with desperation through the tremulous words.

"Silence!" Vincent's voice was a growl of thinly restrained rage, both fists clenching. "You'll wed the Duke of Wolfsbane at tomorrow's end, as I've decreed. This matter is settled irrevocably. Any objections shall be met with the severest discipline unimaginable,” his unspoken threat hung in the air.

Blood drained from Brenda's face, leaving her lightheaded and grasping for the wall to remain upright. Wed the Duke? That odious, lecherous relic of a gentleman twice her grandfather's age? Whose beady eyes always clung greedily to the curves of her adolescent form whenever they crossed paths at society engagements? Whose bony fingers invariably lingered far too long over her waist or forearm when granted the most fleeting opportunity for untoward contact?

The Duke of Wolfsbane leered at her with an unwholesome grin, his spidery limbs twitching with anticipation.

All time, Brenda had feigned ignorance at his presence, for she hated him with great venom.

"Oh, milady," he crooned, his voice like a rusty gate, "is this what I get after waiting here so long?"

He stood, his cadaverous frame unfolding like a specter, his scent irritating Brenda's sensitive nose.

"Get ready, for tomorrow, you'll be all mine," he whispered, his breath cold and rank.

Both Vincent and the Duke wheeled on their boots' heels, storming off down the corridor with Brenda staring numbly after.

"The Duke?" A weary voice piped up from behind, startling Brenda.

"Oh my poor, sweet, dearest girl..." Gretchen emerged, the elderly governess's gaunt features etched with sympathetic lines.

But her wistful gaze betrayed a hint of envy as well, at Brenda momentarily tasting the forbidden freedoms of the moors she herself never dared grasp.

"'Tis a wretched unfortunate match for one as tenderhearted and gentle as yourself," Gretchen murmured, placing a bony hand on Brenda's shoulder.

"That depraved beast of a man cares only for sating his ravenous carnal appetites with unfortunate maidens plucked in the dewy blush of youth."

A shudder rippled through Brenda's slight frame, nausea rising once more. For she could not refute her governess's blunt assessment - the lurid truth was etched in every lascivious glance and wandering caress the loathsome Duke ever bestowed upon her.

"... Must I truly soldier on through such torment yet again?" She shot Gretchen a plaintive, desperate look, voice cracking under the weight of unshed tears.

"I've endured more heartache and loss than mere words can convey since Mother and Bartholomew passed into God's keeping," she whispered, her eyes welling up with tears.

"I've no more reserves of courage left to pour into fueling Father's avaricious ambitions!" She confessed.

Gretchen drew Brenda into a comforting embrace, her own eyes shadowed by ghosts of tragedies past.

"There, there, my dove..." She crooned the familiar soothing platitudes in that gentle, world-weary rasp. "Though discarded and left bereft as sacrificial chattel for that wicked man's grotesque cravings... You'll get through this trial as you have all others, step-by-step as fate might unfold. I know upon all I hold sacred."

****/

Much later, the blaze in Brenda's bedchamber hearth burned low, casting flickering shadows on the walls as she sat staring sightlessly into the dying embers.

Amelia's soothing alto spinning rich tapestries of fantastical tales - daring knights and fair maidens snatched from the very jaws of mythical beasts by love's transformative power.

"Oh, how I wish I could live the daring adventures from Mother's tales! To be swept away by a chivalrous hero, rather than shackled to that vile Duke through our family's cold calculations. But who would ever rescue a perpetual wallflower like me? Vincent has made it quite clear what little worth he sees in his oft-overlooked daughter. Those fanciful romantic worlds only exist in dear Amelia's soothing fictions...reality holds no such magic or hope for plain, unwanted Brenda Bingham." Fervently Brenda yearned to live out those romantic adventures herself!

Seeking to draw something, she drew the dried herbs from her pocket, crushing a leaf between her fingers to release its familiar scent. The aroma transported her instantly back to that sun-dappled glade, to those knowing amber eyes that had seemed to see straight into her soul...

A mournful howl pierced the night, shattering Brenda's melancholic reverie. Brenda jolted upright with a startled gasp, slender fingers pressing against her thundering heart. The haunting cry echoed on, seeming to pierce straight through her very soul and reverberate within her core.

She felt an inexplicable longing to respond, to call out to the mysterious creature that seemed to understand her pain.

Peeping through those windows, she felt eyes steadied on her. Quickly, she slid into her cover, longing for a sudden grip of slumber.

What was she thinking? It was just a wolf, a beast of the wild."

Shaking her head at her own imaginings, Brenda blew out the bedside rushlight and slid between the chill linen sheets, willing slumber to take her from this night of strange fancies.