From Lies Read online

  Table of Contents

  From Lies

  Book Details

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  About the Author

  From Lies

  Ann Anderson

  Rafe is on the cusp of legally being an adult, which will finally allow him to pull himself and his sisters free of their mother's clutches. Unfortunately, freedom also entails breaking the law by way of starting his own business under a fake name, and playing a role he fears he'll never escape.

  When Rafe meets with one of his primary buyers, he is made an offer too good to refuse—and refuses it, not willing to take an offer that would hurt people relying on him and the goods he provides. The lost opportunity and the constant despair of the role he must play compels him to confess all to a beautiful, compassionate stranger at a ball.

  But the man he is so helplessly drawn to is instead captivated by one of Rafe's sister, and Rafe wonders if he'll always live his life trapped and watching everything he wants slip away…

  Book Details

  From Lies

  New Beginnings 1

  By Ann Anderson

  Published by Less Than Three Press LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Constance Blye

  Cover designed by London Burden

  This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  First Edition December 2015

  Copyright © 2015 by Ann Anderson

  Printed in the United States of America

  Digital ISBN 9781620046746

  To the people at LT3 who take my story in from its rough beginnings and help me cut and add and create a far better story than what we started with. And to my family. I wrote this story in one six— or seven, I can't really remember— hour sitting and they dragged me out for ice cream in celebration and made sure I could walk straight as my brain melted from my ears while laughing at me only a little.

  Chapter One

  Rafe was half-tempted to slam the poetry book he currently held into his head until he was unconscious. Maybe it was a bit extreme. As he listened to his sister botch her line, for the sixth time, he thought that, no, he wasn't being too extreme. Why his mother had decided that his sister needed to recite some old, dry, dead poetry in preparation for the royal ball that was still half a year away was beyond him. He needed an escape—preferably one that took him far away from his domineering mother and the incessant giggling of his sister. Whose hiccups had started again. By Venda, he needed saving.

  "Lady Rochelle?" The voice was soft, tentative, but still musical. Rafe's spirits lifted because surely someone must be hearing his prayers.

  "What is it?" his mother snapped, her teeth bared at Greta, who stood meek and drawn into herself, her gaze firmly fixed on the marbled floor.

  "The cook sent me to collect the food allowance so I might go shopping."

  His mother snorted, her dark eyes hostile in her pinched face that Rafe wished didn't resemble his own in any way. But he shared her smallish nose, the high arch of her cheekbones, the slight slant at the outside corner of her eyes. Luckily the rest of his features he'd inherited from his father, or were uniquely his.

  "Foolish girl." His mother sneered, her voice turning to liquid poison. Rafe saw Raquel shiver out of the corner of his eye; it was a good thing their mother hadn't seen the motion. "The ball is fast approaching and you come in here to demand money for food? Have you set up an appointment with the tailor? Made sure the shoemaker still has my children's measurements? You stupid child."

  Rafe moved before his mother could do anything hasty, such as strike Greta. "I have a list of important people to see in preparation for the upcoming ball, mother. I shall go with the…" he sneered, the nasty words forming on his tongue making him hate himself, even though he discarded most of them, "… imbecile to make sure appointments are set up and that anything those who will prepare our outfits need shall be had."

  "Of course you will." His mother's disdain turned on him, the threat of physical harm passed. "I shall write up a list so you can't forget anything. At least the girl is good for her memory. You can't even give me that."

  The words shouldn't have stung, not after all the times he'd heard them or the variations they'd taken, but a small part of him, the boy he'd once been before her marriage to the Duke of Cinderston, still hoped for her approval. "Of course, mother." He turned his gaze to Greta, wishing he could reach out and comfort her as he saw the fear staining her face. "I shall go get changed. Be ready by then, or you shall regret it."

  As he walked from the room, he knew, without looking, that his mother would have a nasty smile on her face, her mind conjuring up whatever images it could of what he'd do to Greta if she were late. He'd have to take his time getting changed, acting the frivolous, indecisive young lord everyone thought him to be to make sure Greta had a chance to meet him at the stables. It would be difficult, since he already knew what he would wear, but he'd managed more under worse circumstances.

  He took his time sorting through his clothes until the butler was forced to come get him, an exasperated look on his dour face. The poor man had been part of the duke's staff since before Greta had been born, and she was a few years older than Rafe. Such a long time… Close to eighteen years, since Rafe was five, the butler had been dealing with what anyone would call intruders into his master's home. From the day Lord Cinderston had died, Rafe, his mother, and his sister had never fit.

  Rafe chuckled to himself as he pulled his jacket on, fixing the lapels so they lay just so. It should have been strange to think of himself as an intruder, especially after so many years, but the hostility only grew when he was around the staff. Just half a year, a week before the ball, and he'd be able to free everyone from the curse that was his mother. By then it would be eighteen years since she'd married, and Rafe would be twenty-three, the man of the house, and his mother would hold no sway.

  As much as Rafe disliked the laws that stated a man would be in charge of his family in all things, in that moment so soon coming, he would relish the power it would grant him. A squeak of the stairs had him paying attention to his surroundings, not for the first time thinking he'd make sure to build the house back up, restore it to the beauty it had once held.

  His mother hadn't bothered with any of that, believing the fortune her late second husband had left behind would be better spent on the education of her two children, though now she seemed to regret it. Rafe turned toward the kitchen instead of the front doors, ignoring the huff of exasperation from the butler as he left Rafe to his own devices. Rafe continued to catalogue all that needed repair as he strode into the kitchen, ignoring the angry glare of the cook and the threatening way she held her knife as he swiped a piece of bread and moved to the cold box for some fruit, cheese, and meats. He must look a glutton, but it was nearing lunch time, and his mother wouldn't provide enough money for both himself and Greta to eat; he'd learned that quickly in the past.

  A basket was all he needed, which he found in the pantry, a little dusty, but a quick wipe of a cloth and it was as good as it was going to get. Storing everything along with some napkins and a few flasks of water, he was ready. He walked casually from the kitchen, even as his instincts screamed at him to watch his back, that he'd find a knife through his spine if he wasn't careful, but none of them would move against him, not yet. He was still a minor, after all.r />
  The air outside was a bit cool, storm clouds darkening the sky in the distance. They'd have a few hours, probably three at the most, before the storm would hit. He had no idea how long it would last, but he knew of enough places they could bunker down without his cover being blown. With a bit more haste than he would normally show, Rafe made it to the stable and cleared his throat at the stable boy, who merely glared at him.

  "I need a cart prepared." He pushed his nose in the air, affecting disdain at the state of the stable boy. Though, it wasn't that hard to do. The boy appeared as if he hadn't bathed in weeks; dirt and who knew what else covered his skin and clothes, his hair was a bit too long and tangled, his shirt had a tear along the side, and his trousers were no better with pieces of string trailing off at the ends. The boy needed a new outfit, and since Rafe would be in town, maybe he could procure some new clothes. Though there was little he could do about the boy's hygiene.

  He half-listened to the boy grumble as he collected a cart. Rafe was only a little nervous at the ideas spilling beneath the boy's breath—really, he didn't need a wheel to come off, not in the mud that would soon be covering the ground—but he didn't have to worry long as Greta approached, appearing flushed and a little wet around the eyes.

  "Ah, you're on time. What a pity." Rafe tried not to tremble as he reached toward a length of rope and stroked the rough coils as he said those last words. He needed to keep in character, but as of late, he found the task more terrifying than ever. He knew it was his own imagination that conjured eyes watching his every move, but he couldn't falter, not now they were so close.

  "Here," the stable boy barked, throwing the reins at Rafe.

  Rafe let them hit his chest and slide down to the floor, his eyes watching the worn leather before slowly raising his gaze to the stable boy. He saw the fine tremor that raced through the boy's lithe frame and wished fervently he could offer some kind words. Instead he took a threatening step toward the boy, pausing when Greta dashed between them.

  "Please, leave him alone." Greta's eyes implored him. But not to spare the boy, instead to spare himself.

  He sneered at her. "I'll have to think of your punishment for daring to stop me."

  Greta nodded, a shiver rocking her too thin frame where she stood.

  "Get in the cart," he snarled, more angry at himself than ever before. He should have protected her better than this. There was so much he should have done, but he couldn't step back in time and fix it. No, he had to move forward, down the path he'd chosen in his cowardice.

  "Where is a blanket?" He turned his angry gaze on the stable boy. "A storm is coming, and I will not be caught in it to get a cold."

  He watched the boy scramble for a blanket, saw him grabbing two. "Did I ask for two?" He wanted to relieve the bile rising in his throat at the mix of anger and fear in the boy's eyes. "I only need one."

  With trembling hands, the boy placed one of the blankets back, his body tense as he put the single blanket in the rear of the cart. Rafe snorted as he climbed into the back of the cart, settling himself on the blanket. "Well, hurry up."

  Greta smiled sweetly at the boy, placing a hand on his shoulder. For some reason, Rafe's anger burned hotter at that gesture, but he bit his tongue as Greta climbed up and took the reins that were handed to her. They headed out, the day growing cooler as a strong breeze picked up. Once they were far away from the house, Rafe clambered into the front, settling himself and the basket between them. He gingerly took the reins from Greta and pushed the basket into her lap.

  "Eat." She smiled at him, and it broke his heart just a little. The road before them was empty, and the old horse the stable boy had hitched up knew it well, so Rafe was confident in turning his gaze away for a moment and collecting the blanket. He opened it up and wrapped it around Greta's shoulders, grinning at her chiding look.

  "You didn't have to terrify the boy," Greta said around a mouthful of cheese.

  Rafe snorted, his grip on the reins tightening. "Appearances, my dear step-sister, are very important."

  She sighed before stuffing a chunk of bread in her mouth. There was silence between them as the horse's hooves tromped the dry earth.

  "The rain will be good," Rafe said, trying to break the strain that had settled on them.

  Greta hummed, taking a loud bite of an apple. "Almost six months."

  "Yes." Rafe wasn't sure if she referred to his birthday or the ball, but his answer fit both.

  "Maybe you'll catch the eye of the prince. You will be twenty-three by then." She said it nonchalantly, but Rafe detected an underlying longing.

  Rafe laughed. "No, no princes for me. You, on the other hand…" Rafe looked at her. "You're beautiful, and any man, prince or pauper, would be lucky to have you."

  Greta laughed, the sound soft as she relaxed. She looked at Rafe, her light hazel eyes bright with happiness. "Thank you, Rafe. Brother." She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. A cruel action she would never know it to be. "But I won't have any chance of attending a ball, let alone a royal one. No." She held up her hand before he could speak. "It would take some form of magic, and that only exists in storybooks we are too old to read."

  "If you say so," Rafe said with a shrug, but already his mind was churning. If he could save his sister, there was no reason he couldn't save his step-sister. He had six months to plan.

  Chapter Two

  By the time they reached the marketplace, Rafe was back in the backseat, the blanket spread beneath him and an apple in his mouth as he threw an orange peel over the side of the cart. Several of the villagers glared at him, casting sympathetic looks Greta's way while she steered the cart toward the edge of the first row of shops.

  Appearances, Rafe reminded himself as he climbed from the back of the cart, were everything.

  "Do you have the list?" he asked, then took a loud bite of apple, crunching obnoxiously.

  "Yes." Greta reached into her pocket and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper.

  He snatched it from her hand with a look of contempt before striding off toward the second best shoemaker.

  "Um… Rafe?"

  Rafe turned to her, affixing a look of outrage on his face, one he'd practiced in the mirror and before Greta until she'd deemed it true. "How dare you," he hissed, watching from the corner of his eyes as several villagers recoiled, some of the men looking ready to start a fight.

  "Oh." Greta looked sheepish before remembering her part and donning a face of fear. "I'm sorry. Lord Rafe."

  "You will be." He turned away, continuing as before toward the shoemaker. "Go do the cook's shopping. I have business to attend."

  "Yes, Lord Rafe."

  He could hear Greta shuffling away and knew her shoulders would be hunched, her lower lip wobbling as she went first to the baker. If the owner was there, he'd sneak her a loaf of herb bread, fresh from the oven. If it was his wife, she'd bustle Greta into the back while her daughter made sure to bundle everything up safely and ply Greta with warm, filling food. If it was their son, he'd try and flirt. Rafe knew because Greta told him, and because he'd seen for himself how that family adored her after she'd saved their youngest from a river.

  Rafe shook that terrifying memory off and entered the shop, looking around the dark interior. He'd been in a few times, the most recent when the stable boy had needed a new pair of shoes after being caught out in the rain while running an errand for the stable master. Rafe's mother had wanted to make sure the expense of the shoes had been kept to a minimum, but Rafe had made sure to pay the man in secret to provide the boy with a tough pair of shoes. Not that anyone would ever know what he had done.

  A soft grunt had Rafe turning, inclining his head slightly at the sight of the old shoemaker, who quirked an eyebrow. "Good day, Duncan. I was wondering if you could make some dancing shoes? Fit for a royal ball."

  One of Duncan's eyebrows climbed into his grey hairline, the unasked question clear on his face.

  Rafe coughed, a flush stealing o
ver his features that he hoped was hidden in the faint lighting. "For Greta," he whispered, looking at the man imploringly.

  Duncan knew at least part of the truth, how Rafe's attitude toward Greta was an act, but he didn't know the whole story, so he didn't completely trust Rafe. Which was fine with Rafe since the old man had no tongue to speak with and his writing was barely legible.

  Duncan huffed out a breath and waved his hand for Rafe to follow. They always conducted their business in the backroom, away from prying ears and eyes. Even Duncan's apprentice didn't enter the back when Rafe was visiting. Rafe was grateful for the secrecy Duncan allowed him. They settled at a table with blank paper and several pencils between them, and Rafe went to work explaining what he wanted while Duncan jotted down the words. With that settled, Duncan began to sketch the shoes, Rafe interjecting a change at one point. Once everything was finalized, Rafe asked, "You don't mind giving my instructions to the dressmaker and jeweler?" Duncan gave him a look that told Rafe the kind of idiot he was, and Rafe smiled. "Thank you. Let me know what the total is and I shall pay it."

  Duncan snorted at him but nodded all the same. They had done this a few times before when Rafe had needed something without letting the whole town know it was him providing gifts for Greta and the rest of the staff. His mother had yet to figure out who it was, though she believed it was somehow Greta, though where Greta would have gotten the money had always eluded everyone.

  With that settled, Rafe bowed slightly to Duncan before leaving the shoemaker's. Glancing at the darkening sky, Rafe chewed his lip as he took out his mother's list. It was long and would take a bit more time than he liked to accomplish. There was little chance they'd make it home before the rain hit. Sighing at his misfortune in this endeavor, Rafe went in search of Greta, hoping to get the dressmaker's done.

  When he walked into the bakery, he saw the eldest daughter pulling fresh rolls from the oven and no sign of Greta. Chances were she was in the back, but the question was how to get her out without having to make a scene. He was growing tired of playing the bad guy, his nerves running thin. Luckily, the daughter saw him, her eyes growing wide as she looked at him. He quirked an eyebrow at her and felt a small pang of unease when she dashed off into the back, nearly dropping the rolls she'd just removed in her haste.