Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (16 page)

Kaelan's face. “He is Duncan's best friend and has the Jarl's ear."

“No,” Kaelan snapped, shaking his head in denial. “That won't happen."

Marie pursed her lips into a pout. “Continue to abuse me, Kaelan, and I'll personally see to it."

“Abuse you?” he snorted. “How do I abuse you, Madame?"

“By living!” she tossed at him. “Why don't you just take yourself off somewhere and die?"

“My apologies, then, for daring to draw breath!” he threw right back at her. Without another word, he

spun around on his heel and strode away from her. As he skipped down the stairs, ignoring the servants

who plastered themselves against the stairwell to get out his way, he cursed his wife. Slamming out of the

house, he stormed toward the stable, yelling for Revenge to be saddled.

Marie watched him from the window of their bedchamber. She could not help but admire the male

beauty of him: the lean hips, flat belly, wide shoulders and muscular chest. His face was

finely-wrought—even more so than Rolf's—and his thick dark hair and burnt umber eyes could make her

heart flutter when she allowed such a treacherous thing to happen. But still she hated him with every fiber

of her being.

“Even some snakes are beautiful to look upon,” she had often reminded herself, and Kaelan Hesar was

lower than any snake she'd ever seen.

Flinging the drape away from her, Marie went to the bed and sat down. Her fists were clenched in her

lap and she strove to keep her heart from racing. Putting up a hand to the slight pain in her left shoulder,

she winced as her chest constricted once more. She held her breath against the nagging pain, flexed the

fingers of her left hand where the numbness had spread.

“Good morn, Your Grace,” a servant girl greeted her as she tapped respectfully at the opened door.

“Shall I help you dress?"

“Go away,” Marie snapped.

“Did he upset you again this morning, Your Grace?” the girl asked in a fierce, protective voice.

Marie glanced around at the servant. “Doesn't he always?” she grunted. “The man lives to spite me!"

The servant dared to venture a ways into the chamber. “Have you given any more thought to what we

discussed last week, Milady?"

A smirk settled on Marie's porcelain face. “Oh, I've thought much about it, Hildy!” she grated. The pain

in her chest was diminishing, but the numbness lingered in her hand and fingers. “I've thought of little else."

Marie knew the servants at Holy Dale—loyal to the House of Sorn, thus the Sinclairs—had been chosen

specifically for their keen dislike of the Viragonian ruling family. Hand-picked by her own grandmother,

Constance Sorn, there wasn't a man or woman in Marie's household who liked the prince. Most found

him beneath contempt, and it was their mistress’ attitude toward the man that encouraged their own

rudeness toward Kaelan Hesar.

“It would not be difficult, Your Grace,” Hildy whispered seductively. “All you need do is give us your

permission and it will be taken care of."

A long sigh came from Marie. “If I only had the courage to do it,” she replied.

Hildy came to the bed and dropped down before her mistress. “He makes you so unhappy, Your

Grace,” she said, daring to put a comforting hand on the Duchess’ knee. “If he were gone, you could be

with your love."

Marie sighed again. “Rolf,” she answered.

“Aye,” Hildy agreed. “Just say the word, Your Grace, and I'll have Kullen see to it.”

Kaelan's wife sat there for a long moment and stared at the servant. It would be so easy to give the girl

her permission; to say the words that would sweep away the only thing Marie perceived as an obstacle

to her ultimate happiness. To have Kaelan out of her life....

“I can not,” Marie said at last. “I wish I could, but I can not."

Hildy nodded sagely. “You are a good woman, Your Grace.” A militant gleam sparked in her

sherry-colored eyes. “Too good for the likes of him."

Marie smiled and preened. “I think I'll dress, now, Hildy.” She stood up, her chest pain all but gone.

“The lavender silk will do."

The servant girl made a quick curtsy and hurried to the large armoire where only Her Grace's clothing

was kept. “He took himself off riding on that hell-steed of his,” Hildy grumbled as she brought the gown

back to her mistress. “A pity he can control the beastie as well as he does.” One side of her thin-lipped

mouth lifted. “I would imagine a nasty fall from that steed would most likely break his neck, don't you,

Milady?"

“Enough!” Marie laughed. It was good to know the servants hated Kaelan almost as much as she,

herself, did. When the time came for her to send him packing, the servants would stand behind her; throw

him out if needs be. “At least let me get with child before we kill him off, Hildy Jamerson!"

Hildy sniffed. Everyone in the manor house knew the Prince and his lady-wife did not share the same

bed. It was a rare occasion, indeed, when the Duchess of Windstorm relented and allowed her husband

the brief interlude with her person which might conceivably culminate in the seeding of a babe in her

womb. To Hildy's recollection, it had been nigh on three months since that last grudging permission had

been granted. If a babe was to come of this unholy union, the Lady would have to make herself more

available to her husband's base desires.

“I know what you're thinking,” Marie said, eyeing Hildy's deep frown. “As much as I hate his hands on

me, it may well take a year or more for me to get with child.” The Duchess of Windstorm shuddered

delicately. “I just simply can not abide his rutting.” Her eyes turned dreamy. “If only it were Rolf...."

“If you want a babe, Your Grace...."

“I don't!” Marie said, stamping her foot. “But Papa does. He wants a grandchild. And before he will

allow me to live at Holy Dale without Kaelan Hesar, I have to give him that grandchild to cement the

bond between the two houses!"

It was on the tip of Hildy's tongue to ask what would happen if her mistress were incapable of breeding

a child from the prince. The fault—the servant girl knew—would lie solely with Her Grace since the

prince had had two bastard children by Tempest Keep women, and his fertility proven. But there was no

need in borrowing trouble. To Hildy's way of thinking, if, within a year's time, Her Grace had not

conceived, matters would have to be brought to a head at Holy Dale.

“I don't care to discuss this further,” Marie snapped waspishly. “It fair gives me indigestion to hear that

man's name spoken!” She rubbed at her belly where the corset was creating acute pain, but fashion-and

a noblewoman's good upbringing-dictated she wear the torturous devices

“He'll get his due one day, Your Grace,” Hildy prophesied. “See that he don't."

* * * *

Kaelan drew in his steed atop the hill beyond Holy Dale manor. He stood up in the stirrups and looked

down at the wide pond where geese paddled to and fro across the silvery surface. Overhead, two hawks

rode the thermals, dipping gracefully in a lazy duet. The day was warm; the air sweetly scented with

jasmine and honeysuckle. Winter was a vague unpleasant thought three months away.

The Viragonian prince hated winter. It had been winter when he'd wed Marie Sinclair, and this winter

would mark their first anniversary. It had been a year filled with so much anger. So much unhappiness for

the both of them. So many recriminations thrown back and forth between them. Winter was a time for

staying indoors and brooding; staring at the stone walls and feeling the chill of Marie's dislike; suffering

the icy sting of her tongue that drew blood every time she lashed him with it; burrowing beneath layer

upon layer of bedding, shivering, miserable, when-by rights-he should be lying beside the warm body of

his wife.

But Marie had made it clear to him on their Joining night that he would not be sharing her bed when they

arrived at Holy Dale. On that ill-fated night, he hadn't wanted to ever share the woman's bed; the thought

of it made him physically ill. Now, almost a year later, his loneliness was telling and thoughts of a willing

body beneath his own filled his daydreams and kept him awake when he should be sleeping each night.

It was the loneliness that ate at Kaelan Hesar. Few of the servants ever instigated a conversation with

him and those who did, did so to complain about one thing or another. Most of them ignored him, when

they weren't staring at him with a rudeness that bordered on insolence. Had their churlish behavior really

mattered to him, he might well have ordered one or two of the worst offenders whipped, although he'd

been wondering of late if he could find even one servant among them willing to take his side on anything.

And as for Marie: she deigned not to speak with him or be near him any more than was absolutely

necessary. The few times she'd allowed him to mate with her—and he could count the times on one hand

in the last eight months—she had lain beneath him like a frozen corpse. At first her attitude had infuriated

him, then insulted him, then ultimately hurt him.

Now, he took her as quickly and with as little foreplay as was possible, simply to relieve the terrible

ache that came over him at times. But even as his seed spurted deep into her unresponsive body, he was

ashamed of his need to lie with her. Had it not been for the crushing loneliness that plagued him, he would

deny himself the need to seek her out for those humiliating encounters from which he gained neither

pleasure nor true relief. Nor could he push aside the tremendous guilt he felt for having taken her at all,

although he had every right to do so. It wasn't just his still-burning love for Gillian that made him feel so

guilty, it was the need for human contact that drove him to Marie.

A movement in the trees to his right caught Kaelan's attention and he turned to see two deer frolicking

beyond the copse of birches. He watched the doe sidle close to the buck, smiled as she tossed her white

tail in invitation, then leapt away as the male turned to nip at her. ‘Catch me if you can!’ she seemed to

tell him as she bolted back through the trees and out of sight. The buck stood where he was, looking at

the spot where she'd vanished, then turned to give Kaelan what appeared for all the world like an

exasperated look.

The prince grinned.

“What can I tell you, fellow?” Kaelan said softly. “It's your job and if you don't do it, some other guy

will.” His grin widened as the buck seemed to sigh before turning resolutely toward his teasing mate. With

a graceful bound, the buck merged into the forest and was soon out of sight.

Revenge nickered, gaining a gentle pat on the neck from his master. The stallion pawed impatiently at the

ground; it had caught Kaelan's own restlessness. With a toss of its magnificent head, it let its feelings be

known.

“What's at the manor house for us?” Kaelan questioned as he continued to pat his mount. Oats and hay

for the stallion; more brooding for him. At least one of them would find satisfaction at Holy Dale.

With one final, fleeting and wistful look at the spot where the deer had been playing, Kaelan straightened

in the saddle and sent his steed homeward.

* * * *

Kymmie Kullen looked up from the pot of stew she was stirring as the master of Holy Dale came through

the kitchen door. The sight of the prince never failed to bring a hard lump of desire to the young woman's

chest and she blushed furiously as his gaze slid hopefully toward her.

“Would it be too much trouble to get some lunch, Mam'selle?” he asked her, placing his gloves on the

servants’ table.

“No trouble at all, Your Grace!” Kymmie assured him, ignoring the hateful look the cook sent her way.

She laid aside her ladle and hurried to get a clean bowl.

“Her Grace ate over an hour ago,” the cook grumbled as she threw a handful of peeled potatoes into a

pan.

“Well, His Grace didn't,” Kymmie responded, glancing back to see the prince staring down at the table

top and pretending he didn't hear what was being said.

“If'n he had been here when he was suppose to,” the cook snarled, “he'd have been fed then.” Kaelan

did not mistake the anger in the old woman's tone nor could he overlook the venom with which she spat

out her bold words. He lifted his head and turned to look at her, half-expecting her to look away.

When she didn't, but continued to glare back at him with a mulish, arrogant twist to her almost

non-existent lips, he simply stared at her, allowing her hatred to wash over him. After an uneasy moment,

the old woman snorted, then turned her back on him as though he were of no importance to her at all.

“She's a mean old cuss,” Kymmie said as she placed a bowl of stew and a large chunk of freshly-baked

bread on the table before him. “Don't pay her no mind, Your Grace."

Kaelan had lost his appetite. The old woman's attitude had chilled him and had only served to

underscore the dislike that was aimed at him daily by his wife's servants. He pushed the plate away.

“Your Grace!” Kymmie said with exasperation. “You should eat."

“The man ought to know if he's hungry or not, Kymmie Kullen,” the cook snapped. “Leave him be

about his business!"

“And what business would that be, Madame Clark?” Kaelan asked, growing angry at the old woman's

baiting.

Jonelle Clark twisted her head around and fixed him with a haughty glare. “Whatever business gets you

out of my kitchen, I'm a'reckoning, Milord."