The Earl Falls in Love - Chapter 3
Spicy BL/MM/GAY Omegaverse Historical Romance
Edward
One week later, Greenhill Village, Northern Region, Kingdom of Northland
Edward Tyndall, newly minted Earl of Cheswick (though he had yet to set foot on his inheritance), was experiencing what could only be described as profound physical relief. After two full days trapped on various railways from St. Louis to Warlington—followed by a half-day carriage journey to this remote outpost of civilization—he felt like a prisoner granted unexpected reprieve.
Confined spaces had never agreed with him. Had circumstances permitted, he would have made the journey on horseback, feeling the wind against his face rather than the stale air of a railway compartment. But practicality had prevailed. Between his personal luggage and the five substantial boxes of gifts his family had insisted on sending to the Harrisons (primarily his mother’s doing), horseback travel would have been impossible.
Besides, he couldn’t imagine the state of his posterior after ten days in the saddle. Some sacrifices were simply too great, even for freedom.
The Greenhill Tavern—the village’s sole establishment offering accommodations—was modest but clean. Edward had just finished washing the journey from his face and hands when a knock interrupted his moment of peace.
“Come in,” he called, straightening his cuffs.
The door opened to reveal a young woman bearing a tray of food and the tea service he had requested. His stomach growled in anticipation; his last meal had been a hastily consumed breakfast some eight hours earlier.
“Brought yer meal, sir,” she said with a curtsy that managed to display more of her décolletage than strictly necessary. Her accent was thick, marking her as a local born and bred.
“Thank you,” Edward replied, keeping his eyes firmly on her face.
She bustled into the room, setting the tray on the table near the hearth with a flourish. “Name’s Kelly, sir. I’ll be lookin’ after you durin’ yer stay.” Her emphasis on “lookin’ after” left little doubt as to her meaning. “Anythin’ else I can do for you, sir?” She batted her eyelashes with practiced coquetry.
The invitation in her eyes was as subtle as a cannon blast. Edward suppressed a sigh. He was accustomed to such attentions—had been since he was sixteen and first grew into his height—but found them increasingly tedious. Particularly now, when exhaustion and hunger were his primary concerns.
“That will be all for now,” he replied with the polite detachment that had frozen more determined pursuits in St. Louis’ most illustrious drawing rooms.
Disappointment flashed across her features, but she rallied quickly. “If ya don’t mind me askin’, sir, what brings a fine gentleman like yerself to our little village? We don’t get many o’ your sort ‘round here.”
“Business matter,” he answered with deliberate vagueness, pouring himself a cup of tea with the practiced grace that had been drilled into him since childhood.
“I see,” she said, making no move to leave. “Not much happens in Greenhill that ain’t known by supper time. Small place, y’know? Everyone’s in everyone else’s business quicker than you can say ‘God save the Queen.’”
Edward’s interest piqued at this last statement. In small communities, gossip was currency, and he suddenly found himself in need of information.
He turned to Kelly with a smile that had been known to make countesses forget their lineage. The effect was immediate; color flooded her cheeks, and she seemed momentarily at a loss for words.
“Perhaps you might enlighten me about the local landscape,” he suggested, gesturing to the chair opposite his own with an elegant flick of his wrist. “Both geographical and... social.”
Kelly blinked rapidly. “The village, sir?”
“Among other things,” Edward clarified, crossing one leg over the other with aristocratic nonchalance. “One prefers to be adequately informed when conducting business.”
“Well, ain’t much to tell, really,” she said, smoothing her apron as she perched on the edge of the chair. “Quiet most days. Folk mind their business—least they try to.”
“And what of the Harrisons?” he asked, deciding subtlety would be wasted in this exchange. “I understand they hold property in the area.”
Kelly’s eyes widened, a gleam of excitement lighting them. “The Harrisons? You’re askin’ about them, sir?”
“I’d be most obliged for any intelligence you might provide,” Edward replied, employing the diplomatic tone that had served him well in countless business negotiations. “Unless they remain as mysterious to you as they are to me?”
“Lord, no!” Kelly exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly. “Everyone knows the Harrisons. They got that big estate, Cheswick, ‘bout an hour’s ride from here. Keep to themselves mostly. Lady Dorothy brings them little ones to school in the village, and sometimes their help comes for supplies, but that’s all we see of ‘em usually.”
“I see,” Edward said, filing away this information. “And what manner of people are they, these Harrisons?”
Kelly tilted her head, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “Lady Dorothy’s decent enough—right motherly to them twins. Reuben and Rosie are sweet little things, got dark hair and big blue eyes like their ma had. Cutest children you’d ever want to see.” Her expression darkened noticeably. “And then there’s that Ian Harrison.”
The change in her tone caught Edward’s attention immediately. “Yes?”
“He’s... different,” Kelly said, her voice dropping as she leaned closer. “Keeps to himself, he does. My brother Tom was at school with him. Teachers all favored him somethin’ awful—’cause of his family name, I reckon. Got Tom and his friends in trouble more times than I can count. Tom came home all bruised up ‘cause of that one.”
Edward arched an eyebrow, his interest genuinely piqued. “Your brother suffered physical injury?”
“Lord, yes!” Kelly nodded vigorously. “If you’re dealin’ with the Harrisons, sir, you’d best watch yourself ‘round Ian Harrison. He may look all pretty and delicate-like, but he’s a devil underneath, that one. Caused no end of trouble for the boys ‘round here. Some grown men, too. Brings ‘em to their knees, he does.” She glanced toward the door before leaning in further, her voice barely above a whisper. “Devil in an angel’s skin, that’s what folks say. Got a terrible name in these parts, though old Lady Elizabeth treats him like he hung the moon and stars.”
She hesitated, then added, “Don’t help that he’s... well, you know.” She made a vague gesture, her nose wrinkling slightly. “One of them male omegas. Ain’t natural, if you ask me. The way he fights and carries on—it ain’t right. Tom says his scent makes men go crazy, and then he beats ‘em bloody for lookin’ at him. Like it’s their fault he smells the way he does!”
“How utterly fascinating,” Edward murmured, finding himself strangely unsettled by this account. It aligned with his expectations of a dangerous, unpredictable ward, and yet something about the description struck him as incongruous. “A delicate-featured omega with a propensity for violence. Rather like a poisonous flower, wouldn’t you say?”
“I—I suppose so, sir,” Kelly replied, clearly not following his metaphor but eager to agree.
“I must get back downstairs ‘fore Ma and Pa start hollerin’ for me,” Kelly said, rising reluctantly. “If you need anythin’, sir—anythin’ at all—even in the dead of night, just call for Kelly. I’m always ready to serve fine gentlemen like yourself.” She dropped into another curtsy, this one even more revealing than the first.
Her meaning couldn’t have been plainer had she written it on the wall. Edward favored her with the polite, distant smile that had disappointed countless hopefuls at society balls. “Your attentiveness to your duties is commendable. Good day, Kelly.”
The dismissal, though couched in civility, was unmistakable. With a final lingering glance, she finally took her leave.
Alone with his meal, Edward found his thoughts returning to Ian Harrison. A delicate omega with a violent reputation—capable of “bringing grown men to their knees.” What exactly did that entail? Simple violence seemed an unlikely explanation for someone of omega physiology, yet Kelly’s account suggested something more complex and potentially more dangerous.
Perhaps the boy had learned to use his omega traits as weapons—his scent to disorient, then his wits and whatever physical skills he’d developed to overcome larger opponents. Edward had heard of such tactics among omegas in rougher parts of society, though he’d never witnessed them firsthand. The thought of an omega being forced into such a position—having to fight rather than being protected—stirred something primal in his alpha nature.
And to think of this happening in a remote village with no proper guidance, no alpha protection, no understanding of proper omega care... The situation was far more concerning than he’d initially anticipated. Edward’s alpha instincts surged uncomfortably, urging him to establish order, to protect and guide the unmated omega who would soon be under his guardianship.
He reminded himself not to form judgments based solely on village gossip, particularly from a source clearly biased against the Harrison boy. Edward would meet Ian tomorrow and form his own assessment. Still, he couldn’t help picturing a wild, untamed creature with an angel’s face and a devil’s temperament—beautiful but dangerous, like a rose with particularly vicious thorns.
The image was as intriguing as it was unsettling.
After finishing his meal, Edward decided to explore what little Greenhill had to offer. The village consisted of a single main street with a handful of shops, the village hall, a church, and the small schoolhouse where the Harrison twins presumably attended lessons.
As he passed the school, Edward found himself imagining little Reuben and Rosie running up the path to join their classmates. Oddly, he also pictured Ian there—not as the bully Kelly had described, but sitting quietly under a tree with a book, removed from the other children. The incongruity of this image with the descriptions he’d heard gave him pause.
He encountered a few villagers during his walk, mostly elderly residents who offered polite greetings before continuing on their way. Some regarded him with undisguised curiosity, while others seemed indifferent to the presence of a stranger in their midst.
Finding himself with several hours to kill before nightfall, Edward made an impulsive decision. He rented a mare from the tavern’s stable—a gentle creature with a placid temperament—and set out northward, in the direction of Cheswick Estate. A preliminary reconnaissance seemed prudent, and besides, Edward had never been one for idle waiting.
The road eventually split, and following his instincts, Edward chose the path that seemed less traveled. His decision was immediately rewarded with a vista that quite literally took his breath away.
Rolling hills stretched before him, their gentle slopes covered in autumn-touched grasses that rippled in the breeze like a golden sea. Beyond them stood a forest ablaze with fall colors—vibrant reds, burnt oranges, and rich golds that seemed to glow in the late afternoon sunlight.
Edward had spent most of his life in St. Louis, venturing to the Eastwood country estate primarily during summer months. He had never paid particular attention to autumn’s splendor, but the sight before him now made him reconsider this oversight. He found himself wondering if Eastwood’s lands were equally magnificent during this season, and resolved to find out before returning to the capital.
Still captivated by the view, he urged his mount toward the forest. At a junction in the path, he encountered a farmer on horseback.
“Good day,” Edward greeted politely.
The farmer nodded in acknowledgment. “Good day, sir.”
As the man made to continue on his way, Edward called out, “Excuse me—do you know who owns the land over there?” He gestured toward the hills and colorful forest.
“Ah, that’s Cheswick Estate, sir,” the farmer replied. “Beautiful land, though not much good for farming. If you follow this road—” he pointed ahead, “—it’ll take you through the woods and eventually to Cheswick Manor itself.”
Edward felt a strange thrill at this confirmation. All of this magnificent scenery belonged to Cheswick—to him, technically, though the thought still felt foreign. “Thank you,” he said, genuinely grateful for the information.
The farmer tipped his hat and continued on his way, leaving Edward to contemplate his unexpected inheritance with new eyes. He nudged his mare forward, following the path through the rolling hills with their swaying grasses, and into the forest where autumn had painted every leaf with fiery brilliance.
The beauty of the place exceeded his expectations. As he ventured deeper into the woods, the sound of running water reached his ears—a gentle, musical trickling that seemed to call to him. Unable to resist, he directed his mount toward the sound.
The stream, when he found it, was something from a poet’s imagination—crystal clear water flowing over smooth stones, surrounded by trees whose colorful reflections danced on the surface. Edward chuckled to himself, feeling uncharacteristically whimsical. The scene lacked only a beautiful maiden to complete the fairy-tale picture.
Dismounting, he approached the stream and knelt at its edge. He cupped his hands, gathering water that was so clear he could see every line of his palm through it. The first sip confirmed what his eyes had told him—pure, sweet, and refreshingly cold.
As he drank, a subtle scent caught his attention—faint but distinctive, like fresh rain and wildflowers with a hint of honey. It was undeniably an omega’s scent, though unlike any he had encountered before. Most omega scents were cloying, overly sweet, but this was different—fresh and natural, with a complexity that intrigued him.
Edward lifted his head, scanning the area, but saw no sign of anyone. The scent was old, perhaps hours old, suggesting someone had passed this way earlier. An omega from Cheswick? Could it be Ian Harrison himself? The thought sent an unexpected thrill through him.
Only when he had remounted did Edward realize how late it had grown. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows through the trees. Checking his pocket watch, he found it was past six. Prudence dictated a return to the village before full darkness fell; these remote roads were not entirely free of danger, even in these modern times.
He had just turned his mare back toward the path when the sound of approaching hoofbeats reached his ears. Instantly alert, Edward reined in his mount, scanning his surroundings. Behind him, two figures in dark cloaks emerged from the direction of Cheswick Manor.
In the dimming light, he could discern little beyond their substantial builds—definitely men, and moving with purpose. Could they be from Cheswick? Perhaps even Ian Harrison himself, patrolling the estate boundaries? But something about their approach set Edward’s instincts on edge.
The riders were moving faster now, their intent unmistakable. Edward’s suspicions crystallized into certainty: bandits.
He was alone, well-dressed, and obviously not local—a perfect target. Though he carried little of value beyond his pocket watch and a modest sum of money, these men wouldn’t know that until after they’d accosted him.
“Damnation,” Edward muttered, spurring his mare into motion. He had no intention of being robbed when a hot meal and comfortable bed awaited him at the tavern.
He galloped through the woods, making for the path that would lead back to Greenhill. Just as he spotted the forest’s edge, a third rider appeared as if conjured from the shadows, cutting off his escape route.
“For God’s sake,” Edward growled. “Am I really worth this much trouble?”
Unless... a cold realization struck him. Perhaps they recognized him as someone of means—someone worth not just robbing, but ransoming. The Earl of Eastwood would fetch a handsome price indeed.
As the men drew closer, Edward caught the unmistakable scent of unwashed beta males, with not an alpha among them. That explained their pack tactics—they lacked the physical advantages alphas possessed and compensated with numbers.
“Not damn likely,” he muttered, yanking the reins sharply left and continuing his flight through the trees. He had no idea where this new path might lead, but anywhere was preferable to capture.
The bandits pursued relentlessly, eventually flanking his gentle mare and deliberately terrorizing the poor beast. Edward saw the attack coming a split second too late—a heavy wooden club swinging toward his head. He managed to shift enough that it struck his shoulder rather than his skull, but the impact loosened his grip on the reins. A forceful shove to his side sent him tumbling from the saddle to land hard on the forest floor.
Edward rolled immediately to his feet, adopting the fighting stance that had served him well in countless boxing matches. He had hoped to escape, but that option was now foreclosed. Very well—if these men wanted a fight, he would oblige them.
His alpha instincts surged to the surface, flooding his body with strength and heightening his senses. The familiar rush of protective rage washed over him—a primal response to threat that had served his ancestors for generations.
They charged him on horseback, forcing him to retreat or be trampled. As the third rider bore down on him, Edward seized his opportunity. He lunged forward, grabbed the horse’s reins, and pulled with all his considerable strength. Horse and rider toppled to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
Before the man could recover, Edward hauled him up by his collar and delivered a powerful punch that sent blood spraying from his mouth. He was preparing to follow up with a kick when a battle cry from behind alerted him to the next attack.
Edward ducked smoothly beneath the swinging club, seized his attacker’s arm, and yanked him bodily from his mount. The man hit the ground hard, and Edward’s boot to his midsection sent him rolling into a nearby ditch.
Footsteps pounded behind him—the third bandit, now armed with a dagger and apparently confident enough to abandon his horse for close combat. The man charged, blade extended, screaming like a berserker.
As the attacker lunged, Edward sidestepped, caught the knife hand, and simultaneously drove the heel of his palm upward under the man’s chin. The bandit staggered backward, dazed. Edward seized the moment, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against a tree trunk, one hand closing around his throat.
Up close, he could make out more details—a weathered face, dark eyes, and a beard that had seen better days.
“You’ve picked the wrong man to rob,” Edward growled, his alpha voice resonating with power.
The bandit’s lips twisted into an ugly grin despite his precarious position. “On the contrary,” a voice behind Edward replied, “we’ve picked exactly the right man, Earl.”
Edward’s blood ran cold at the title. These were no ordinary bandits—they knew precisely who he was. Before he could process this revelation, something solid connected with his upper back, sending waves of agony through his body. He staggered forward, momentarily disoriented by the pain.
“Damnation,” he gasped, fighting to clear his vision as footsteps approached from behind.
He turned just in time to see the dagger-wielder charging again. Edward tried to dodge, but his reflexes were compromised. The blade sliced through his sleeve, drawing a line of fire across his arm. He attempted a counterpunch but missed his target entirely.
The dagger came at him again, this time tearing through his waistcoat and shirt to open a shallow wound across his chest. Before he could recover, another blow from the club caught him squarely in the back, driving him to his knees.
“Cursed brute,” Edward hissed, trying to roll away. The club descended again, grazing his temple with enough force to send his world spinning. A final blow to his already injured back plunged him into darkness.
When consciousness returned, Edward found himself draped face-down across a horse like a sack of grain. His head throbbed mercilessly, his wounds still bleeding. His wallet and pocket watch were gone as well, though these losses seemed trivial compared to his current predicament.
Through blurred vision, he made out the silhouettes of three riders against the night sky. All around them stretched hills covered in tall grasses, silvered by moonlight.
Where the hell are they taking me? he wondered. Simple robbery clearly wasn’t their objective—not when they had specifically identified him as an earl.
“Ah, damn! That fancy bastard did a number on me,” one of the men complained in a rough country accent. “Me mouth’s still bleedin’.”
“Shut yer trap,” the leader snapped. “Just do the job.” He surveyed their surroundings. “This spot’s good as any. Let’s finish ‘im off here.”
So that was their game—not ransom, but murder. Someone had paid these men to ensure Edward Tyndall never reached Cheswick Manor.
“You sure we ain’t gonna get caught?” the rider carrying Edward asked nervously.
“Won’t get caught if you keep yer mouth shut and get to work,” the leader growled.
The horse halted, and Edward felt his carrier dismount. As the man reached up to drag him from the saddle, Edward summoned his remaining strength. The moment the bandit’s hands closed around him, he swung his arm backward with all the force he could muster, connecting solidly with the man’s face.
“Damn it all!” the leader swore, lunging forward to throw himself onto Edward’s back, arms locking around his neck in a chokehold.
Edward grunted, struggling to dislodge his attacker while the third bandit slashed at his chest with the dagger. Outnumbered and weakened, he found himself losing ground. His foot caught in the tall grass, sending him and his choking assailant tumbling down the hillside to splash into the stream below.
The shock of cold water cleared Edward’s head momentarily. He twisted beneath his attacker and delivered a powerful uppercut that rendered the man instantly unconscious. He was struggling to his feet when the dagger-wielder charged down the slope, howling like a madman.
“Come at me, you miserable cur!” Edward snarled, planting his feet in the streambed. His alpha scent spiked with aggression, filling the air with notes of dark spice and leather.
The bandit slashed wildly, opening another shallow cut across Edward’s chest. As he drew back for another strike, Edward seized his wrist in an iron grip, twisting until the dagger fell from nerveless fingers.
Now unarmed, the bandit found himself at the mercy of a man trained in the boxing rings of St. Louis’s most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs. Edward drove his knee into the man’s stomach, doubling him over with a pained gasp. A final blow to the side of his head dropped him like a stone.
Edward stood among his fallen enemies, chest heaving. He needed a horse—needed to get back to the village before his injuries and the cold water took their toll. But his vision was darkening again, his thoughts becoming sluggish as blood loss and exhaustion claimed their due.
He staggered up the slope, searching for the bandits’ mounts, but the world kept tilting beneath his feet. Darkness encroached from the edges of his vision, threatening to swallow him whole.
“Where are those confounded horses?” he muttered, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. They should be just over the rise, just a little further...
His legs gave way beneath him, and Edward found himself sprawled in the tall grass, consciousness slipping away like water through his fingers.
When awareness next returned, Edward felt gentle fingers at his throat, seeking a pulse. A warm presence hovered above him, shielding him from the morning chill.
“Don’t you dare be dead on my property,” a soft voice muttered above him. “That’s the last thing we need—a corpse to explain to the magistrate.”
Edward fought against the darkness that threatened to reclaim him, forcing his heavy eyelids open. The sight that greeted him stole what little breath remained in his lungs.
Leaning over him was a vision that defied his understanding—a beautiful young woman with tousled brown hair that caught the early sunlight like burnished copper, eyes as blue and limitless as a summer sky, and features of such exquisite delicacy they seemed almost otherworldly. Despite the practical clothing and the hint of dirt smudged across one cheek, she was the loveliest creature Edward had ever beheld.
But what truly captured Edward’s attention was the scent—fresh rain and wildflowers with a subtle honey undertone. An omega’s scent, unmistakable despite being partially masked by herbs. In his disoriented state, Edward didn’t question why a young omega woman would be wandering these remote hills alone—he was simply captivated by the unexpected presence.
“An angel,” Edward thought hazily. He must have died after all, and this celestial being had come to guide him to whatever lay beyond.
The angel’s expression softened as their eyes met, and she cupped his face with surprising tenderness. “You’re safe now,” she said, her voice gentler than before. “Help is coming. Try not to die in the meantime.”
Edward felt a profound sense of peace wash over him. Yes, he was safe—this beautiful creature would protect him. With the last of his strength, he lifted his hand to touch the angel’s face, his fingers brushing against skin as soft as he had imagined.
“Angel...” he whispered, his lips curving into a smile of pure relief before darkness claimed him once more.
His last thought, before consciousness fled entirely, was that perhaps dying wasn’t so terrible after all—not if it meant being greeted by such a vision of feminine perfection.