Simple Missteps
Chapter One
By: Lillian K. Rockmore

The massive oak door parted and a dark bundle was carried into the chamber. Scott flicked a glance at his squire as the young boy stood beside the large, ornate bed, presumably having difficulty in hefting the weight of the bundle.

"A present, sir, from Duke Archmedes. His Grace beseeched me to warn you that it bites," he said before placing the wrapped gift on the bed and scurrying from the room.

Scott remained seated, sipping on his delectably old scotch. The chamber was in shadows and he could only fathom the outline of the gift that was waiting to be unwrapped. In his mind, he knew it was a girl, probably a slave of some sort, sent to him only for his amusement. But what he did not know was if he wanted to use her this night. He wasn't in the habit of bedding wenches and classless women and he didn't feel particularly up to the sport that night, not after the dreadful news that had just reached his ears.

He set his goblet aside and strode towards the bed, his dark eyes searching for a sign of life under the black cloth.

He leaned over the figure and parted the cloth only to reveal a cluster of long, red curls. Intrigued, his deft fingers stole up the material, in a quest to find a face to match the glorious hair.

He swore in the next second as a small fist connected with his jaw, sending sparks of pain through his body. In a daze, he watched as a black-clad figure crawled off the bed and clamored to the far side of the room.

He could hear her heavy breathing in the silence. Coils of red curls fell around her tall frame, obscuring his view of her face. And even though he couldn't see her, he heard her clearly.

The order was whispered into the air around her, her fingers clasping the black cloth to her breast. And as far as he was from her, he could see that she was trembling quite rigorously. Scott straightened from his crouched position and regarded the wench with amusement flashing in his eyes.

"You dare dictate to me, wench?" he questioned, settling himself comfortably against the headboard of the bed, running a hand over the empty space on the bed beside him. He wanted her to look directly at him so that he could see the color of her eyes, the wealth of her features. But his wants were for naught as she cowered with her eyes and head averted.

"I am not a wench. Nor am I a lowerclassmen. My name is Tiara de' Chastelle, daughter of Duke Debonshire, Wolvermonte de' Chastelle. And I demand to be seen home immediately," came the incredulous remark and Scott couldn't help the bubble of mirth that escaped his lips.

"You expect me to believe that a common tavern wench like you is an heir of a duke?"

She nodded and he had to