1582, North Wales

"A storm is coming in, Master. Do you wish to retire?"

"No."

"As you wish, Master Grey."

Frederic left without another word, closing the parlor doors quietly behind him. Standing at the balcony doors, Grey closed his eyes, feeling the first of the storm winds coming in off the Irish Sea. Below the castle, the waves crashed onto the sand, bringing nothing but ill tidings with them. Rhys' ship had not come in. Judging by the growing storm, it never would.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating the cliffs and the tumultuous waters below. Thunder crackled loud, rattling the windows. Rhys was home.

"Frederic!" Grey threw open the parlor doors and stormed through the castle, barking orders at the servants scurrying about him. "Make Master Rhys' bed ready! Send for the physician! Now!"

"But Master Grey—"

Grey didn't hear anything beyond his name as he raced out of the keep toward the postern door. Wrenching it open against the maddening wind, he made it down the massive stone stairwell cut into the rock itself in record time. More wreckage had washed up in the short time he'd left the balcony, but he cared nothing for the various goods, nor for the other bodies.

Tangled in a mess of ropes and splintered wood, Rhys looked deathly pale, eyes closed. Grey started lifting wood and rope, picking his way through the wreckage. Rhys didn't move.

"Rhys!" Grey's hair whipped his face and the spray from the sea had already soaked his shirt through, leaving the thin cloth clinging to his chilled skin. By the time he reached Rhys, the others were there, dragging bodies further up on the beach.

"Master Grey!" Frederic's voice barely cut through the tempest blowing around them. "He's gone, Master! Let him be! There are survivors!"

"No!" Grey whirled around. The blow to Frederic's face sent the man sprawling onto the sand. His eyes widened in shock. "Get the survivors if you must, but I'm not leaving him!"

Grey turned back to Rhys and picked him up. Rhys was heavy and limp, showing no sign of life as Grey carried him across the sand to the steps. The world be damned; he would not lose Rhys. Not to the sea, not to the survival of the others, not to God.

* * * *

One week later

As Jeremy entered the tavern, the feral wildness in his eyes caused quite a few of the customers to abruptly look away from him. Dressed rich enough in a long-waisted black jacket, his clothing fit him yet the overall look seemed at odds with his features. He hadn't even bothered to tie back the golden, untamed mane of hair.

Only the barkeep dared to even look at him. "What can I be getting for ya?"

Several others around the bar scurried away, tankards in hand. Huddling together, they sipped at their drinks, taking great care not to look too long at him.

"Ale." Tossing a coin to the scratched wooden counter, Jeremy ignored the others.

As the tender poured him a tankard, he asked, "So what's your business in these parts, stranger?"

With a short bark of laughter, Jeremy answered, "God's business."

When the mug was pushed toward him, he lifted it and drank it quickly down.

"God is not welcome here." The growled proclamation was accentuated by a tankard slamming down on one of the wooden tables. Half the tavern crowd moved to the other side of the room, and several left altogether.

"Watch that one," the barkeep whispered, nodding toward the back table. "He's got a mean temper, he does. Don't like that word."

"Another ale." With a smirk of amusement, Jeremy turned toward the potential troublemaker. "And this should concern me how?"

The man stood, knocking his chair backward onto the floor. Judging by the way he glared and swayed slightly, it was clear he was well into his cups. "You're here on…God's business," the man snarled, stepping around the table. "I'll give you to the count of three to get out of my sight." His hand went to the pistol shoved into his belt.

"Master Grey…" the bartender pleaded.

With a sharp warning glare from Grey, the barkeeper snapped his mouth shut.

Setting his mug on the counter, Jeremy stood and walked toward Grey. His gaze steadily held the slightly unfocused stormy one. "So quick to pull a pistol and ask no questions." Not at all afraid, he continued, "If you can shoot and actually hit me, I will be most impressed."

"I own this land!" Grey drew his pistol and, in the blink of an eye, he shot.

It didn't require any great feat of speed or skill to avoid getting hit by the bullet, as it flew wildly off the mark. Before his aggressor could even react, Jeremy was on him. With no more than a hard yank of his hand on Grey's, the gun dropped. The next moment, Jeremy spun Grey around and imprisoned him in an implacable grip.

"Whatever you own, you desperately need a bath and a good sleep, sir."

"I order you to release me!" Grey struggled and kicked, though the fight was slowly going out of him.

The barkeep gave Jeremy a grateful look and a nod. "He's the lord of the keep up the hill, but you'll be hard pressed to get him there. He's not been up there since Lord Rhys' passing 'bout a week ago."

Addressing the bartender, Jeremy asked, "And where has he been staying? The gutter?"

"Here mostly," the barkeep replied. He tilted his head, motioning toward the staircase leading up. "He has a room, but most of his time's been here, drinkin' a fortune in ale."

"Let. Me. Go." Grey renewed his struggle, jabbing an elbow back into Jeremy's ribs.

Jeremy whispered in his captive's ear, "Are you finished shooting complete strangers?"

Too drunk to control it, Grey shivered. "Unhand me or I will rip you to shreds with my bare hands."

Smiling knowingly, Jeremy loosened his grip enough to turn Grey around. Jeremy lowered his voice, keeping what he said between him and Grey. "And what would you do if I enjoyed it?"

For a moment, those stormy eyes stared into Jeremy's, his challenge answered without a word. To the side, the barkeep backed away, discreetly crossing himself.

"Beautiful amongst your own kind." Jeremy never looked away, showing not an ounce of fear but only an understanding of what he held in his arms. "So angry."

Slowly releasing him, Jeremy bent down to pick up the discarded gun and handed it back to Grey. "Know who your enemy truly is before you attack."

Grey took the pistol, his arm hanging limply at his side. The fight had gone out of him. "Who are you?"

After bowing with an elegant flair, Jeremy answered, "The name is Jeremy Waters. And yours?"

"Grey Constantine." Grey glanced over at the barkeep, then tossed a small bag onto the bar. "To pay for the damages." Looking back to Jeremy, he studied the man in silence for a moment. "What are you doing here?"

"I am here to retrieve a friend of mine." Jeremy returned to the bar and picked up his mug of ale.

"Who? I know everyone."

"It is doubtful you know him since he isn't from this village, and he doesn't belong here, either." Settling back on his stool, Jeremy drank his ale before he turned to the barkeep. "I'll need a room if you have one to spare."

"Give him mine," Grey told the barkeep. "I'll be returning to the keep."

"That isn't necessary, Constantine. I won't be here that long."

"Suit yourself." Grey turned and started for the door. Just before walking out, he gave Jeremy a lingering look.

When the door shut, the barkeep let out a long sigh of relief. "He's a mean one. Never was that bad before Lord Rhys' death."

"They were close then? You seem to know quite a bit about him."

"Lovers, some said," the barkeep whispered, looking around, though the other patrons were long gone. "No one knows the truth, but many s'pect that was the case."

"So what sets him off about God?"

"Lord Rhys was a man of God," the barkeep explained. "They grew up together, but then he left, wantin' to join the men of the cloth. Lord Grey, he was ragin' mad. Well, Lord Rhys, he came back, said it wasn't for him. That was five years ago. 'Bout a month ago, Lord Rhys went on a boat to Spain then returned. The ship wrecked and washed up on the shore. We could hear Lord Grey's screams down here in the village, cursing God for taking Rhys from him."

"A man with a mistaken notion of how God uses his power." Drawing a few gold coins from his waistcoat pocket, Jeremy placed them on the counter, smiling. "For the room and the information."

"Yessir. Third door, up the stairs." The barkeep pocketed the coins and handed Jeremy a rusty key. "Lord Grey will be up in the keep, sober if yer lucky. I s'pect you'll be wantin' to pay him a visit at some point."

"Not likely since I will only be here for one day." Pushing from the counter, Jeremy made his way up the narrow stairs to his room. Freeing his cousin from the clutches of the Church shouldn't prove to be hard. Yet Jeremy wanted to be prepared for all contingencies. Unlocking the door to his room, he glanced quickly down the hall before stepping inside.

Thankfully, it was clean, though the rickety furniture had seen better days. The bed was freshly made with clean linen, and the small desk had writing materials laid out. As he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off his boots, the image of the angry man who had attacked him plagued Jeremy. Eyes the color of storm-tossed seas were hard to forget, as was the surge of anger he'd felt from Grey. Lord Constantine was a man haunted by his own ghosts, but Jeremy needed to focus on getting his cousin to safety. Perhaps once he'd achieved that, he could return to this place.