Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (29 page)

being cautious. No one knew exactly how near the manor house Duncan's men were at that moment.

“I know you don't want to leave him,” Nick said as he joined her and slid the panel shut behind him. “I

don't, either, but what he said was true: Utley's a bulldog.” He started into the cave, but stopped when he

realized his sister wasn't following.

“He did not say to leave,” Gillian said stubbornly. “He just said to get me to the cave.” She looked

beyond her brother to the cave, then folded her arms over her chest. “Well, I am where he told you to

take me, but I won't go another gods-be-damned step without him!"

Nick groaned—recognizing all too well her militant stanch and expression. In order to budge her, force

would be necessary and he wouldn't put it past the little hell-cat to scratch and fight. But if he could

reason with her....

“Gillian...” he began only to have her shush him.

“Listen!” she whispered, going up the three steep steps and pressing her ear to the wood.

Nick eased up the steps and also put his ear to the bolt hole door.

With a sinking heart, he could clearly hear Brownie's frenzied barking, signaling a stranger's imminent

approach.

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Kaelan ordered his mutt to cease barking as he hobbled toward the kitchen door. Beyond the glass

pane, he recognized Lars Utley's haggard, weather-beaten face, and felt a momentary leap of fear deep

in his gut. There was no better tracker in the Seven Kingdoms than Lars Utley.

The Viragonian prince had bolted the back door as soon as he'd gone down into the kitchen. Each door

into the manor house was either boarded up—as was the front door—or securely latched as this one

was, although a hard fist and a groping hand could make it easy to gain entrance to Holy Dale through the

glass-pane kitchen door.

Drawing in a deep breath as he reached the door, Kaelan nodded curtly at the man standing alone on

the stoop. “Utley,” he said.

Lars Utley lifted a single finger to his temple. “Good morn to you, Your Grace.” His eyes shifted past

Kaelan and into the recesses of the kitchen before sliding easily back to Kaelan's face. “Might I be

having a word with you, milord?"

“Concerning?” Kaelan asked, striving for normalcy in his voice-with just a touch of irritation for being

bothered-that his thundering heart gave lie to.

Utley frowned. “Will you just open the door, Your Grace?"

There was no need to make the man any more suspicious than Kaelan could already see he was. With

as much disdain as he could manage, he lifted his shoulders with unconcern and unbolted the door,

opening it slowly as he stepped back. He tried not to show anything but annoyance and arrogance as

Utley came quickly into the kitchen, almost brushing him aside in his haste.

“Mind if I have a look around, Your Grace?” Utley questioned. The inquiry was a moot point since the

tracker was already moving through the kitchen and into the adjoining eating chamber beyond.

“Be my guest,” Kaelan ground out, laying a hand on Brownie's golden-brown head for the mongrel was

growling low and menacingly in its throat.

“A real beastie you have there,” Utley commented as he walked back into the kitchen and cast a

sidelong look at the big dog.

“She's harmless,” Kaelan stated.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but she don't look it to me,” Utley defended the unease that was

prickling at his neck as the dog's angry eyes followed his progress from kitchen to the hallway that led to

the front parlor where no one had been in nearly four years, not even his recent guests.

Kaelan waited indifferently—keeping his gaze from straying to the cellar door—for one of Utley's men

had stomped into the kitchen.

“Your Grace,” the man had acknowledged him with a hasty nod.

“Borden,” Kaelan replied.

“What did you find outside?” Utley asked as he came back from the front parlor and dining room.

“There's been three to five horses out in the stables until just this morning.” Borden glanced at the young

prince, who was looking back at him with a blank expression. “Fresh shit on the ground and oats still in

the bin."

Another man—one Kaelan didn't know—came hurrying in. “Traced them horse tracks, Lyle,” he said,

breathlessly. “They vanished up around the base of the mountain over yonder. There's got to be a way to

get into that mountain, but I didn't find it. ’Tis like them horses just up and disappeared into solid stone!"

“One of the Outlaw's hiding places out in the woods, eh, Your Grace?” Utley inquired. He didn't expect

an answer and didn't get one. Instead, he turned to Borden. “You and Landers look upstairs. I'll wager

they're long gone by now, but check anyway."

Borden and Landers headed for the servant stairs; Utley looked down at his hands and began to slowly

draw off his heavy leather gloves. “Which way are they heading, Your Grace?” he asked in a

conversational tone, never looking up at his host.

Kaelan's left brow crooked upward. “Who, Utley?"

Lars Utley smiled as he removed the last glove and—crumpling them both in his right hand—began to

tap the leather into his other palm. He finally lifted his eyes to the prince's face. “The King will be here

shortly,” Utley informed him.

Kaelan's right brow jerked upward. “Come to visit me?” he asked in an incredulous tone, hand to his

heart. “To what do I owe the honor?"

Utley's little burst of snorts were not disrespectful but rather humorous. “You've always been the cool

one, haven't you, Prince Kaelan?” He cocked his head to one side in compliment. “I will give you that."

“How generous of you,” Kaelan answered with a yawn that wasn't entirely pretend.

“Ain't nobody up there,” Borden reported as he and his partner came tripping down the servant stairs.

He cast a quick glance at the prince, then looked to Utley for instruction.

“We're to hold His Grace in the cellar ’til the king gets here,” Utley reminded them, still smiling at his

prince. “Go light some lanterns down there, Landers."

Kaelan blinked as though greatly surprised by such a thing. “Why am I being held hostage in my own

home, Utley?” he asked.

The smile slid slowly from Utley's weathered face and he stopped slapping the gloves into his palms. He

lowered his hands and started toward Kaelan only to be brought up short by the prince's dog's deep

warning growl. He stilled instantly, his angry glower jerking immediately from the dog to its master.

“Either put that bastard outside, Your Grace, or I'll have Landers put a quarrel through its worthless hide

here and now!” Utley warned.

Kaelan's eyes went as hard as flint and his spine grew rigid as his head came up and shoulders went

back at the threat. A muscle bunched in his jaw, but he lowered his head just a fraction in compliance, for

the sake of Brownie's safety. Bending, he looped his hand under the mutt's leather collar and pulled,

knowing the dog wouldn't leave him to the strangers without force.

Brownie dug in her hindquarters in protest until her master whispered to her: “Don't shame me before

these men."

Utley was impressed as the big dog seemed to shake off the suggestion that it would do such a thing. It

tossed its head, looking back once more at Utley, its ejection from the manor house.

Kaelan shut the door firmly and turned away, feeling less safe now that his only means of protection had

been eliminated.

“You've trained her well,” the tracker said. He pointed his gloves at Kaelan's lame leg as the prince

limped forward. “What happened to you, Your Grace?"

Kaelan ignored the question. “What is it you really want here, Utley?” He flung his hand toward the

stable. “The travelers who stayed here last night left before dawn this morning. If you're after them, I

suggest you head on toward Wixenstead."

Utley's smile returned. “Which means Lord Cree and his sister aren't heading toward Wixenstead,

doesn't it, Your Grace?"

“Lord Cree?” Kaelan mused, his brows drawn together in consideration. “Would that be Ruan or...” He

snapped his fingers as though the action would prompt his memory.

“What is the other young one's name?"

Stuffing his leather gloves into his belts, Utley walked toward his prince. Once more his smile had left

him, to be replaced with a hard, stony glare that brooked no foolishness. He came toe to toe with

Kaelan.

“Don't mistake me for a fool, Prince Kaelan,” Utley growled. “I certainly have never taken you for one."

Utley was a good two inches taller than Kaelan's six feet, making it necessary for the younger man to

look up at the tracker. He could feel the damp heat from Utley's body—so close to his own—and smell

the unpleasant odor of a body that had been without benefit of washing for at least a week. Both having

to look up at the man and feel the claustrophobic closeness of his burly body almost touching him, and

sensing the two other trackers flanking him to either side, combined to drain away some of Kaelan's

confidence. He felt trapped and the feeling was one he did not enjoy and had no way of overcoming at

the moment.

“What's it to be, Your Grace?” Utley finally asked after a full minute of having fused his gaze with that of

the prince. “Do we have to get physical with you to have questions answered?"

Unknowingly, Utley—who had no intention of ever laying a hand on the man standing before him—had

made a grave tactical error. Not only did Kaelan know he wouldn't be touched, at least until his brother

and de Viennes arrived, but he sensed the other man's grudging respect.

Utley watched the slow, nasty—almost wicked-smile that drew the prince's lips upward. He nearly

growled with frustration as one thick dark brow shifted ever-so slowly upward into the tumbled hair

draped over Prince Kaelan's forehead. The tracker drew in a long, deep breath, then exhaled forcefully.

“We will find them, Your Grace,” Utley declared. He looked around as Landers rejoined them, then

turned back to stare at Kaelan. “I promise you we will."

For a moment Kaelan didn't reply, then his smile vanished and his eyes narrowed. “Find who?” he

breathed.

Rage flashed across the tracker's face and he spun on his men. “Take His Grace to the cellar! One of

you stand guard in case Lord Cree doubles back for him!"

Kaelan was escorted to the cellar steps with one tracker in front of him—proceeding him down the

steps—and the other behind him to prevent him from retreating. Resolutely, he did not look at the old rug

which hid the trapdoor; nor did he protest when he was forced to sit in a rickety old chair.

The edge of the wooden chair was directly under the old break on Kaelan's left thigh. He tried to shift

his position and found he couldn't without making the pain worse. He stood it for as long as he could

before finally saying something.

“Lyle, I can't sit like this."

Lyle Borden frowned. “What do you mean?"

“My leg,” Kaelan answered. “I broke it and sitting in this chair hurts."

Borden was not a stupid man, nor was he overly-bright. Suspicious by nature, he looked for a trick as

he stood up and walked to his prince. He looked down at the leg he'd seen Kaelan favoring. “How'd you

break it?” he demanded.

Kaelan sighed at the stupid question. “I broke it in the fall that killed my wife."

Lyle Borden could see the pain on the young man's face and thought to gain some benefit from it. “I tell

you what, Your Grace,” he said, hunkering down before his prisoner. “You tell us which way they went,

and I'll let you sit on the floor. How's that?"

“I don't know what the hell you're talking about,” Kaelan replied.

Borden nodded as though in agreement, then reached out and wrapped his beefy hand around Kaelan's

left thigh. “This the leg you broke?” he pondered.

Before Kaelan could say anything, Borden pressed himself up to his feet, his entire weight leaning on

Kaelan's left thigh.

The bellow of pain that came up from the cellar made Utley drop the coffee cup he held. “What the

hell?” the tracker roared. He raced to the stairs and tripped down them just as Borden was backing

away from the prince.

“I didn't mean to hurt him, Utley!” Borden said quickly. “I was just trying to make him tell us where them

people went!"

It was all Nick could do to hold his sister—his hand plastered firmly over her mouth—as he dragged her

off the steps of the false cellar and through the cave. Thankful the dirt muffled their struggles as he carried

her through the tunnel beyond, he was having a hard time holding her. Both of them had heard what

proceeded that anguished scream, but only he understood the folly of trying to go to Kaelan's aid.

Not that the man would have welcomed it, had they been able to do so, Nick thought, grunting as

Gillian's booted heels caught him on his shin. “Damn it, be still, woman!” he ordered.

Gillian literally growled with fury. Her emerald orbs were flashing dangerously and had she the man

before her who had hurt Kaelan Hesar, she would have gladly scratched the eyes from the monster's

head!

“Was that a scream?” Tarnes asked as he met them near the entrance to the tunnel.

“One of the bastard's did something to Kaelan's leg!” Nick snarled with disgust. “Help me with her, will

you?"

Tarnes didn't know what it was he was supposed to do, but the young woman's violent struggling and