A Brother's Price (5 page)

‘‘Please’’—Jerin

reached

for

his

abandoned

nightshirt—‘‘let me go back to my room and you go back to yours?’’

‘‘I could come tuck you in,’’ she murmured.

‘‘We’d wake my brothers.’’

She startled. ‘‘There are more?’’

He told her his brothers’ names and ages. ‘‘Please don’t tell my sisters that I’ve told you. They’re afraid that you’ll carry me off.’’

‘‘Or seduce you in the kitchen.’’

He blushed. ‘‘Well, yes.’’

She giggled and then sobered. ‘‘Run up to bed, love, and be careful not to wake your brothers.’’

He slipped reluctantly out of her arms. ‘‘It’s my sisters that I worry about.’’

The black, bitter cold snow tasted of soot, mud, and
blood. Ren slowly levered herself up, spitting out the
tainted snow, puzzled by the odd flickering shadows, the
endless, shapeless roar that beat on her ears, the heat
across her back. Why was she facedown in the slush-
covered street? A loud crack made her turn, and she
gaped at flames towering up into the night sky, consuming
the broken timbers of a building. The theater! What had
happened? She had been standing on the theater stairs a
moment before—had it been just a moment? But surely
it must have been longer—the whole building was en-
gulfed. Then realization struck her. The others were still
inside. She opened her mouth to scream when the shape
of a crumpled human finally found meaning in her mind.
Her sister Halley lay at the top of the steps, half in the
doorway. Ren tried to stand, but something was wrong
with her legs. She struggled on anyhow in a haze of pain,
crawling, frantic. She had to get to Halley. Had to get
Halley away from the fire. No matter how hard she tried,
though, she could not get closer. The doorway itself was
on fire now, about to collapse in burning timbers onto
her sister. Oh, merciful Mothers, let her save Halley!

Ren snapped awake, whimpering in fear, the smell of smoke thick under her nose. She sat up in alarm, instantly disoriented by the placement of the window, the low rough-timbered ceiling, and the plain lines of the furniture.

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Oh, yes, the Whistler farm!

The events of the last few days must have triggered her old nightmare about the explosion at the theater. On impulse, she had decided to visit the armory upriver at North Branch. It had been a leisurely six-day trip from Mayfair on the royal stern-wheeler, but they had arrived to find the armory plundered and set afire. As they were still docking, the flames reached the gunpowder room. Great flowering blooms of flame rose in the night with a sound that could be felt, a heat that seared the skin even at a hundred feet away. The scorching heat, the thick black smoke, and the charred bodies curled into the fetal position. Old impressions of the theater explosion that had killed her elder sisters and Keifer joined with new. No wonder her old nightmares were resurfacing.

Her cold rage at her helplessness reawakened too. Without thought to Odelia’s and her own safety, Ren had led a pursuit of the escaping thieves from the armory back downriver. When the royal party found the thieves’ barge run aground, she ordered a landing against Raven’s advice. Stupidity at its highest order: going into unknown territory after an unknown force. Only Odelia’s amazing luck had kept her safe. At least there wouldn’t be new nightmares to join the old one.

Dawn gleamed in the window, small noises indicated a house awakening to a normal day, and the smell of smoke vanished. Maybe, Ren rationalized, the stench had been the tail end of her nightmare. She stretched, stiff after a night in a strange bed, and caught another whiff of smoke. She pulled the shoulder of her nightshirt to her nose and sniffed. Woodsmoke. No wonder she was dreaming about the fire. With a curse, she yanked the nightshirt over her head, wadded it into a ball, and was about to throw it across the room when she caught the smell of him. Ren buried her nose into it. Jerin. Beautiful, talented, sexy Jerin. She let the
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memories of him crowd out the nightmare. His sweet kisses. His warm skin. His long, silky hair. The delight he triggered in her body. The last made her giggle, hugging the shirt to her. Oh, she must be insane—as insane as Odelia! Making love to a farmers’ son on the kitchen floor. Her mothers would die! His mothers would kill her!

Raven’s tap came at the door.

‘‘Enter,’’ she called, trying to control her grin and failing.

‘‘We are in a good mood.’’ Raven used the royal plural. The captain carried a steaming pail of water.

‘‘We are.’’ Ren unrolled the nightshirt and carefully folded it, vowing to herself never to wash it. A farmers’

son, no matter how beautiful or talented, could never be prince consort. Last night, though, had been glorious, and stopping where they did made it all the more pure. Raven lifted one eyebrow in question and poured the water into the washbasin bowl. ‘‘The Queens Justice rode in with the false dawn. They spent the last of yesterday sweeping the woods and the neighboring lands for five miles. A lot of tracks, many from us when we were searching for Odelia. No sign, though, of the guns or Odelia’s attackers. They’ll be combing them again today.’’

‘‘I didn’t expect any.’’ Ren stashed the folded nightshirt into her travel bags. ‘‘The thieves had since the night before last to tuck the guns away. The Whistlers found Odelia hours before we arrived, and we waited about an hour for Queens Justice to arrive. Odelia’s attackers would have been complete fools to wait around for a second chance.’’

‘‘So you think they’re gone?’’

‘‘Certainly it’s a far more comforting thought than the idea of them lurking behind every bush, looking for an open shot.’’ Ren splashed warm water onto her face.

‘‘Bounder had a theory on why the attackers didn’t use pistols. She says that the Whistlers are notoriously
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rough on poachers. A shot fired would have brought them out in force, and no one in their right mind would want to take the Whistlers on.’’

Water dripping from her chin, Ren looked at Raven.

‘‘Only locals would know about the Whistlers. She thinks one of the locals had a go at Odelia?’’

‘‘Heron Landing apparently has a good bit of river trash.’’ Raven named the nearest town, home of Bounder’s garrison, at least ten miles from the Whistlers’ farm.

‘‘Seasonal workers, outcasts, drifters, all of whom have been in the area long enough to learn about the Whistlers, and wouldn’t be above doing some dirty work for hire. It would fit the description of the riders Heria saw.’’

Disposal tools. Did they even know who Odelia was?

Or had they been told just to kill the red-haired woman on the roan mare? Considering her family’s reputation at meting out severe punishment for regicide, one could almost be sure that the hired thugs were kept ignorant. Still, the ignorant disposal tools were human beings. They might have seen or heard something they weren’t supposed to, information they’d gladly trade for their lives.

‘‘Is there a sheriff for Heron Landing?’’ Ren asked.

‘‘Aye.’’

‘‘Have the sheriff round up all the trash. Check them for studded truncheons. Find out where they were yesterday. See if any of them heard of someone hiring for a killing. Have her use whatever means she needs to find us a lead.’’

‘‘Yes, Your Highness.’’ Raven gave a slight bow and left. Ren dried her face, watching the door close behind the captain of her guard. Raven never called her ‘‘Your Highness’’ in private, never bowed. Why the sudden change? Was this some subtle hint that Raven thought Ren was finally acting like a firstborn?

Jerin woke shortly after dawn as normal. He bathed quickly in the washbasin, brushed out his hair, braided
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it into one long braid, and pulled on his best shirt, a blue chambray that matched his eyes. After waking Doric and helping the ten-year-old brush out his hair and braid it, Jerin sent him out to gather eggs in the henhouse. Liam and baby Kai, Jerin gathered up and carried downstairs into the kitchen.

Corelle, Eva, and Kira had gotten up earlier to tend the stock. Heria had the cook fire built up for breakfast. Summer had organized the youngest sisters and they were carrying in pails of fresh milk for breakfast. Jerin now put the many hands to work setting tables, fetching jars of clotted cream from the springhouse, opening crocks of blackberry jam and apple butter, cutting slices of yesterday’s leftover bread to toast, fetching a wheel of sharp white cheese and slicing it down, mashing cold potatoes to make potato pancakes, and boiling the fresh eggs. As there were guests for breakfast, Jerin had Heria fetch a leg of ham from the smoke shed. For the occasion of guests too, he brought out a crock of maple syrup. He had no more than opened it when every finger in the room seemed to gravitate toward it.

‘‘No fingers!’’ He tapped Doric’s outstretched hands with his long mixing spoon. ‘‘Wait for it.’’

There was a collective gasp of surprise. Jerin glanced up and noticed that every eye was focused on the door to the dining room. He turned and found Princess Ren leaning on the doorjamb, watching him with a slight smile on her lips. The memory of her kisses burned suddenly across his senses, and he looked down. Heria, Blush, and Leia slid between him and the princess, the set of their shoulders pure defiance.

‘‘Heria.’’ He turned her toward the cook fire. ‘‘The egg sandglass has run out. Get the eggs from the fire. Blush, start the potato pancakes now, so they’ll be hot with the eggs. Leia, run out to the barns and let your sisters know that breakfast will be in ten minutes.’’

‘‘Jerin!’’ They protested in chorus, their eyes locked on the princess.

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‘‘Go!’’ he said kindly but firmly, giving each a small nudge.

They went to their appointed tasks, though it was clear where their attention remained.

‘‘They don’t trust me.’’ Princess Ren came to the high cooking table that he worked at, and took a seat on the stool there. The black-haired captain took Ren’s place at the doorway; she seemed to view the kitchen full of knives and children with a mixture of anxiety and bemusement.

‘‘Family history makes us leery.’’ Jerin scooped up baby Kai and slid him into a high chair battered by nearly three dozen babies. He tickled a pure baby giggle out of his brother and spoiled him with a spoon dipped in the maple syrup. Princess Ren watched him and he found himself watching back. Her eyes were deep green, deeper than her sister’s. Her red hair, like a flame, was spun from threads of red, orange, and gold. Her skin was creamy white and unblemished.

He found himself wishing they had taken that final step the night before. He blushed at the thought and looked away.

‘‘What happened to make you leery? Your family lose a husband or a son?’’ Princess Ren asked.

‘‘Well, actually, it ran the other way,’’ he admitted.

‘‘Our grandmothers kidnapped our grandfather during the War of the False Eldest. He had not come willingly.’’

The princess reached out for the maple syrup and he tapped her fingers out of habit. She looked up at him, startled, while he stared at his spoon, horrified.

‘‘Ummm, no fingers.’’ He dipped a spoon into the syrup and handed it to her.

She smiled at him and lapped the spoon with the tip of her tongue, making a show of licking it clean. It recalled her leaning over him, her tongue touching his bare skin. His body responded to the memory. His blush became a complete burn as she noticed his arousal in his trousers.

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‘‘It’s sweet,’’ she murmured, ‘‘but not as tasty as you.’’

He felt like flipping a towel over his head and hiding. He felt like running from the room in embarrassment. He felt like leading her upstairs and letting her use her tongue on him again. The last put shudders of desire through him.

He struggled to find a less intimate subject. ‘‘How is your sister?’’

Amusement fled Princess Ren’s eyes. ‘‘She tried to get out of bed and failed. She nearly fainted when she stood up.’’

‘‘I’m sorry.’’

Ren frowned a moment, then shrugged. ‘‘I’m thankful she’s alive.’’

Jerin finished slicing down the ham, his hands trembling so much he had trouble controlling the sharp knife. ‘‘So,’’ he said, trying not to seem as anxious as he felt, ‘‘you’re going to be staying another night.’’

The smile returned to Ren’s face. ‘‘If not more.’’

He looked at her, wanting her, wondering how he was going to resist her.

‘‘Riders!’’ came a call from one of the princess’s women, and the kitchen went still.

‘‘It’s Eldest! It’s Eldest and the others!’’ Leia’s voice followed the call.

There was a general rush for the door to see their seven elder sisters return. Corelle, not surprisingly, ran to meet them, talking low and fast, making sure they heard her side of the story first. They had apparently already heard some version of the news. Their horses were lathered and blowing from a hard riding. Their rifles sat in saddle holsters, instead of being wrapped well and strapped to the back of their saddles. Eldest gave Corelle a scathing look as she dismounted. She unholstered her rifle, saying, ‘‘See to the horses. We’ll talk later.’’ She threw her reins to Corelle and came on to the house.

Eldest looked first to Jerin, then scanned the children
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for the other boys. Seeing that the family’s greatest assets were safe, she locked gazes with Princess Ren.

‘‘Your Highness,’’ Eldest said quietly, handing her rifle to Heria without a glance. ‘‘Welcome to the House of Whistler.’’

‘‘Thank you, Eldest Whistler.’’

Heria ducked away to return the rifle to the gun rack. The other children stood, waiting for orders. Eldest glanced about the kitchen at the food threatening to burn unattended. ‘‘Get breakfast on,’’ she stated.

‘‘We’ll wash up and eat, then talk.’’

So this was what little Whistler girls grew up to look like, Ren mused, studying the recently returned elder sisters. If the Whistler family had been a motley crew during the War of the False Eldest, they had weeded out all the variants in the last two generations. Without exception, the Whistler clan was black-haired, blue-eyed, and good-looking. The military heritage that showed in the children as broad strokes became unmistakable in the women. Regulation short haircuts, clothes tailored along the lines of an infantry uniform, rifles in hand, and six-guns riding low in tied-down hip holsters. Beyond the outward appearances, there was the military precision to the way they rode in—handing exhausted horses, damp greatcoats, and weapons to younger sisters—and they settled wordlessly to the breakfast table smelling of horses and lye soap. Food was eaten in tense silence, broken occasionally by a younger sister trying to report a wrong or misadventure. Eldest Whistler silenced the girls with a look.