Caught and Collared: Book One of the Larkspur Series

Chapter Three

It took every ounce of iron Aden had to pack the suitcase with a week's worth of clothes and a suit. He had only one suit: black, American-cut, and reserved for the handful of weddings and parties he had attended since purchasing it. Off the rack, of course. Just the word bespoke gave Aden uncomfortable flashbacks of life at the fringes of lavishness on the Bellamy estate.

The name Bellamy itself had largely lost its teeth over the years, as far as Aden was concerned. He rolled the collection of consonants and vowels around his skull as he packed, folding slacks and sweaters, jeans and t-shirts. All that remained were the empty sounds and the associations they summoned, anxious though they were to him now at the thought of going back.

Aden had put seventeen years and sixty miles between him and the family's castle. He received his bachelors at Frostburg State University and his masters at Longwood, followed by his doctorate. Then he spent the last four years teaching at University of Maryland, living in his little house with Baxter. That was the only reason he knew Ellie at all these days. She worked for a non-profit women's education organization out of Annapolis, far away from the castle and gardens of her family's estate. Her company's associations with the local networks of community colleges and four-year institutions brought her into Aden's admittedly small social circle. He sometimes wore his off the rack suit to fundraising events or other functions. Sometimes they had dinner afterwards, if both of them were free. It was comfortable.

They talked about their careers, about books, and about art. They never talked about his father, and they never talked about her family, either. Ellie was the black sheep of the Bellamy dynasty of industrialists and debutantes, shunning the family's corporate enterprise for a modest income in the city. She left the role and duties of heiress to Celia, who followed their father in the business of running empires. Celia was intelligent, driven, and purely pragmatic, the opposite of Ellie and her bleeding heart. Ellie was proud of that fact. Her bleeding heart was the reason for Aden's friendship with her, after all. She was a year younger than Aden and went to a different school, but the prospect of having a boy living a short walk from her back door made her curious to seek out his company.

Aden was a bit like a wild thing, in that respect. A lost boy, or some fairy's invention, plucked from a storybook. He was a reedy, bookish child, with big plastic frames, an unruly mop of hair, and scrapes on his elbows and knees. In his youth, he spent his time wandering the woodlands that bordered the estate, getting lost between trees and following the creek home again. It must have been so charming to Ellie, who began to follow Aden on his expeditions. Aden never found himself quite so charmed, but he appreciated her company in an otherwise quiet, lonely childhood.

He taught her how to catch insects and frogs, and where to find birds nest to look at hatchlings. (Look at, but never, ever touch.) She brought him books from her father's library and pastries made by the family's chef, bundled in napkins and warmed in her pockets. It was a simple, easy friendship. By the time they were twelve and thirteen, respectively, Aden was at Ellie's house every day. Philip ignored Aden, if he noticed Aden at all. Sabine thought he was a sweet boy. Celia was as irritated by his existence as she was Ellie's. Aden took great strides to be seen and not heard, and to never take up too much space.

With Baxter in the passenger seat, Aden packed his car and prepared to leave. The hour and a half drive to the estate felt fraught with peril. Beyond the safety of his car, the city melted into the verdant green of the winding backroads, where beautiful mansions dotted the landscape. The mettle it took to make the trip at all had long turned soft as he neared the turn off to the house's main entrance. One hand gripping the wheel, Aden reached out to let the other ruffle affectionately through Baxter's scruff.