England, 1837

CHAPTER ONE

“So, Grimsborough, this is your little bastard.”

Eleven-year-old Saber stood on the thick rug in the middle
of the big room in the big manor. He stared narrowly at
the tall, elegant woman with the sneering mouth and in his
native tongue, he said, “In Moricadia, I kill people who
call me names.”

“What?” the woman asked. “Grimsborough, what did he say?”

The shadowy figure behind the wide, polished wood desk did
not look up from his writing.

Five brightly dressed girls, ages five to twelve, stood
lined up by the fireplace, and one of them, the skinny one
in the middle, said in awe-stricken tones, “He’s so dirty
and thin.”

Saber shifted his attention to them. Soft, silly, English
girls.

They stared at him as if he were a trained dancing bear,
and when he glared, the littlest’s brown eyes filled with
tears and she slid behind her sisters’ skirts.

“Look, he’s tired.” The oldest spoke with authority. “He’s
swaying on his feet.”

Then in unison, the four oldest smiled at him. Kindly,
sweetly, as if nothing ugly or brutal ever touched their
lives.

Saber hated them. He hated the lady, hated the uniformed
servants standing at attention. Most of all, he hated the
evil man behind the desk, the one he knew had to be the
Viscount … and his father. Again in his native tongue,
Saber spat, “Stupid English wenches.”

For the first time, the man spoke. “Bring him to me.”

Two of the man’s absurdly-dressed servants grabbed Saber's
arms and propelled him around the desk.

Grimsborough gestured the candelabra closer, and the
English lady drew in a sharp breath. Because although
Saber didn’t realize it, he and Grimsborough looked alike.

Grimsborough examined the skinny, filthy, tired child as
if he were a bug squashed beneath his shoe. Then he
reached out a pale, long-fingered hand and slapped Saber
across the face with his open palm.

The sound of flesh against flesh echoed like a gunshot.

Saber fell sideways, then lunged for Grimsborough, fists
swinging.

The servants caught him, dragged him backward.

The contemptuous man waved him forward again, put his
narrow, patrician nose so close it almost touched Saber’s,
and said, “Listen to me, lad. You are nothing. Nothing. My
bastard by a foreigner, and if I had had another son, your
feet would never sully the floors of my home. But God in
His infinite wisdom has blessed me with nothing from this
marriage but daughters.” He glanced at the girls, so
colorfully clothed, so sweet in their innocence, and he
despised them. “So you will live here until you’re fit to
be sent to school. And never again will you speak of your
betters in that insolent manner.”

Saber shook his head, shrugged and gestured helplessly.

“Don’t pretend with me, lad. Your mother spoke English. So
do you.”

Saber didn’t quite have the guts to swear at Grimsborough,
but he spoke Moricadian when he said, “English is for the
ignorant.”

Saber never even saw the blow coming, but it snapped his
head sideways so hard his neck snapped and his ear rang.

“Never speak that barbaric tongue again.” Grimsborough’s
voice never lifted.

Saber lifted his chin. “I hate you,” he said in clear,
plain English.

“I hate you, sir.” Grimsborough said with chilling
precision.

Saber loathed him with his gaze.

“Say it.” Grimsborough's frigid green eyes held nothing:
no spark, no interest…no soul.

Saber glanced toward the elegant, sneering woman. She
stood terrified, looking at her husband the way a mouse
looked at a snake. He glanced at the girls. Four of them
stood with their heads down. One, the middle girl, stood
with her hands clasped at her skinny chest, staring at
him, and when their eyes met, her lips moved in
appeal. “Please.”

He looked back at Grimsborough. This man who was his
father scared him — and he wasn’t afraid of anything. But
he couldn’t give in. Not quite. Straightening his
shoulders, he said, “I hate you, sir, but my grandfather
told me I had to come and learn everything I could about
mathematics and languages and statesmanship so I could go
back to Moricadia and free my people from cruel
oppression.”

The oldest girl stepped forward as if he interested
her. “If you want to free your people, shouldn’t you learn
how to fight?”

He swung a contemptuous glare on her. “I already know how
to fight.”

“You’ll need an army. Do you know how to lead an army?”

“I know how to lead,” he retorted, then grudgingly he
added, “But I will have to learn military tactics.”

“Then we are in accord in one thing — you will cease to be
an ignorant savage and become a civilized gentleman.”
Grimsborough gestured to the servants. “Take him away.
Clean him. Give him over to the tutors. I will see him
here in six months. Please note, I expect improvement, or
I will be unhappy.”

Saber felt the shiver that raced through the room at the
idea of incurring Grimsborough's displeasure.

“We will begin with a bath,” Lady Grimsborough said
decisively.

At the idea of this woman seeing his naked body, Saber
struggled, lunging against the grips of the servants.

The second to the oldest girl, a pale, soft, silly thing
dressed in pink and ruffles, begged, “Mama, he’s so
skinny. Please, can we feed him first?”

“Do you not have a nose? Can you not smell him?” Lady
Grimsborough waved her scented lace handkerchief before
her face.

Saber had learned to fight in a hard school, and he swung
on one servant’s arm, knocked the feet out from beneath
the other, broke free and raced toward the door.

The head servant, the one who was dressed in black and
wore white gloves, tackled him around the knees. Two
footmen leaped on top of his back, crushing him into the
flowered carpet.

His father’s unemotional voice intoned, “A few good
canings are in order. Thompson, I trust you’ll handle the
matter.”

The man in black and white helped haul Saber to his feet,
then dusted his white gloves. “Yes, my lord. Immediately,
my lord.”

“Clearly, the little bastard will survive without a meal
for a few more hours.” Lady Grimsborough eyed Saber as if
he were a plucked chicken ready for the pot.

Grimsborough’s cold, clear, emotionless voice intoned, “As
of now, his name is Raul. Raul Lawrence.”

Clearly dismayed, Lady Grimsborough asked, “Lawrence?
Surely you don’t intend to —“

“Adopt him? Indeed I do. He is Raul Lawrence, son of the
viscount Grimsborough, and he is to become an English
gentleman. Wife, please ensure that everyone in the
household realizes how quickly he or she will incur my
displeasure should the boy be given the wrong name or
title.”

Saber had left a land where he roamed free, and landed in
hell, and his father was the prince of darkness himself.