Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (6 page)

“Aye!” Nick said, his grin broadening. “He married my sister, Adele."

The man lying on the bed tried to sit up and couldn't. He was too weak and the heavy weight of the dog

lying across his ankles didn't help. Collapsing back on his pillow, he turned pleading eyes to Nick, but he

didn't ask for help.

“Let me,” Nick said, rushing to aid him. He put his hands under the older man's armpits and lifted him up

in the bed. “Shoo!” he told Brownie and never once doubted the big mutt would obey. The dog dropped

to the floor with a grunt of disapproval at the ejection.

“Thank you. How bad are your hands?” the ill man inquired.

Nick glanced down at his palms, then shrugged. “Like you say: they'll heal.” He tugged the covers up

around his patient's chest. “Hard work never hurt anyone."

“There is salve.” A trembling hand lifted to point at the large armoire on the other side of the chamber.

“Don't concern yourself, Your Grace,” Nick said, blushing.

“Kaelan,” was the response. “Just Kaelan."

“Oh, I couldn't possibly.” Nick stopped as he recognized the hurt which began to form on the other

man's face. He could have bitten off his tongue; instead, he laid a comforting hand on Kaelan Hesar's

shoulder and squeezed lightly. “I'd be honored to call you by your given name, milord."

A ghost of a smile briefly tugged at Kaelan's mouth before the grim lines of despair settled once more

into place. “You are the Duke's son, are you not?” he asked quietly.

“Aye,” Nick agreed. “His youngest son."

“How do you come to be here?"

Nick's face turned scarlet red. “We were looking for shelter.” He looked away. “We heard cries for

help and made our way here. I'm afraid I had to break in."

“Doesn't matter,” Kaelan replied, sensing the man's discomfort. His eyes closed wearily. “You are

welcome to stay for as long as you like."

There was in those eleven words, years of crushing loneliness and fading hope. How many years had it

been since Kaelan Hesar had known human companionship? Five? Six? When had Marie Sinclair died?

“For as long as you need to,” came the amendment.

“They'll be looking for us, milord,” Nick said without pausing to think of the consequences his words

might cause. “Perhaps we should move on when the storm is o'er."

Kaelan Hesar opened his eyes and looked at the man standing over him. “Who will be looking for you?”

he asked.

“The Jarl and Rolf de Viennes.” Nick lifted his chin. “She was not enamored of the Jarl's choice."

Another ghostly smile laid brief claim to Kaelan's parched lips. “A wise lady, your sister."

“I will not see her bound to that libertine,” Nick swore.

“Gillian,” Kaelan named her on a breath of sound. “I remember her well."

“Aye, milord,” Nick said. “I thought you might."

“And does she remember me?” he asked sadly.

“All too well, milord,” came the answer from the doorway.

Both men looked at Gillian as she came toward the bed. One watched her through the adoring eyes of

an older brother while the other watched her with wariness.

Gillian laid down the medicines she had found in the pantry and stepped up to the bed to feel his

forehead. “How do you feel, milord?"

“I could feel worse,” he mumbled.

“Now that you're back, Gilly,” Nick said, turning away from the obvious emotion on both his

companions’ faces, “I think I'll bring in some more of that gods-be-damned wood."

Kaelan turned his gaze toward Nick and watched the man leave. “Did he ever marry?” he asked when

they were alone.

“No,” Gillian said with a long sigh. “Unfortunately he has never found the one love of his life."

The Viragonian prince looked up at Gillian. He stared at her a long time before finally glancing down at

the wrinkled coverlet. “It was not my decision to make, Gillian,” he said softly.

“So I was told,” she answered crisply. Turning away, she picked up the medicines and took them to the

fireplace.

He watched her brewing the mixture in which she'd soak the poultice she would later plaster on his

naked chest. Although she did not speak as she worked—and neither did he—each was very aware of

the other. The tension in the room was as thick as the bubbling stew, which sent wafts of spicy aroma

through the room.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, glancing down at the cooled broth she had set aside for him.

“Aye,” he answered quietly. “But I can wait."

Gillian turned her head and looked back at him. “For some things you can; for others you can't."

Kaelan flinched as though a barbed whip had been laid to his flesh. He hung his head. “Had it been my

choice to make, Milady Gillian, I surely would have...."

“What is your beast's name?” she asked, cutting him off. She took up the bowl of broth and brought it to

the bed. “Can you feed yourself or are you too weak?"

“Brownie,” he answered on a tired sigh. “And nay, I'm not to weak to feed myself.” He took the bowl

from her, drawing in a quick breath when their fingers touched.

She snatched her hand away, did not see the hurt come into his eyes when she wiped it down her skirt

as though his touch had befouled her in some way. “Here, Brownie,” Gillian called, turning her back to

him.

The big dog ambled over to the hearth, tag wagging, and gently accepted the choice morsels of stewed

rabbit Gillian fished from the pot. Brownie gobbled them up then looked up for more. When Gilly wasn't

as quick to respond as she'd like, the big dog nudged her leg with its massive head.

“Shameless beggar,” she laughed, reaching down to pat the dog. “Give me time.” She plucked more

tidbits from the pot to cool.

“Brownie's not used to food anywhere near this good,” Kaelan told her. He sipped more of the delicious

broth and closed his eyes as the taste rocketed over his tongue.

“Your cook must be a slovenly sort,” Gillian sniffed. “The kitchen is filthy and the pantry is in even worse

condition."

“I have no cook,” he replied. When she arched a brow at him, he shook his head. “I have no servants

here, milady."

She refused to feel sorry for him even though his shame was blazing across his face for her to see.

“That's what comes of paying too low a salary, Milord Hesar,” she quipped.

“Had I the entire Court Depository at my command, milady, I could find not a single person in all of

Wixenstead Village who would be willing to come here to work.” His voice bore a great sadness as he

spoke.

Gillian shrugged. “Then it is your reputation which must keep them away.” She gave Brownie her food.

“Are you that poor an employer Milord Hesar?"

“Gillian!” Nick scolded as he came into the chamber. His dark green eyes flashed with anger as he

flicked them over his sister. “If you've no civil comment to make to His Grace, keep your mouth shut!"

“She has a right to her opinion, Lord Cree,” Kaelan reminded him.

“Aye,” Nick bit out as he dumped an armload of wood on the wide hearth, “yet that does not give her

permission to voice it!"

“He knows how I feel about him,” Gillian snapped.

“All too well,” Kaelan admitted. He held up a hand when Nick would have reprimanded his sister again.

“I find I need to ... Lord Cree, would you...?"

“Nick!” the other man emphasized. “If I am to call you by your given name, I request the same thing of

you.” He waved his hand at his sister. “Go."

Gillian's back stiffened. “Why?"

Nicholas Cree squinted at her. “Care you to see him pissing, Milady Gillian?"

A brilliant flush passed over Gillian's face. “I think not,” she muttered.

“Then wait in the hallway,” Nick ordered. He looked about for a chamberpot, spied it in the corner and

went to retrieve it as his sister slammed the door behind her. “That woman can be as stubborn as a

Diabolusian mule.” He brought the chamberpot back and placed it on the floor. “Do you need help in

getting up?"

Kaelan shook his head. He smiled his thanks as Nick threw the covers from him, only vaguely ashamed

of his nakedness as he swung his legs from the bed and over the side. He sat there a moment, his head

swimming, then reached up to grip the head post, but found he was too weak to pull himself up.

“There's no disgrace in asking for help,” Nick reminded him.

Kaelan didn't respond. He finished, then looked around for his clothes. “Where are my breeches?"

“They are drying,” Nick said. “I'll get you some clean ones."

“There are no clean ones.” Kaelan met Nick's questioning gaze. “I'm not all that good at household

chores. There are breeches in the armoire but they're soiled."

Astonishment made the other man's mouth sag open. “You've been doing your own laundry, milord?”

Nick snapped his mouth shut, sensing the shame that was flooding the prince's soul. “Bloody hell!” Dark

green eyes flared with fury. “I'll be a Diabolusian warthog if I'll not find you a woman to see to your

needs, milord!"

Kaelan eased himself from Nick's hold and sat back down on the bed. “You'll not find a single woman in

all of Harbor Province who'd come here, Nick."

“Why the hell not?” Nick snarled. He was mortally offended that a member of the royal family should be

treated in so despicable a manner.

“They hate me,” was the answer as Kaelan laid down. He locked his calm gaze with Nick's furious one

as the other man bent to cover him again. “As far as the village folk are concerned, they'll celebrate the

day I leave this world."

Before Nick could comment, there was an impatient knock on the door. “What?” he thundered.

“It's cold out here!” his sister shouted back.

An exasperated expulsion of breath came from Nicholas Cree. “Then come in, you silly chit!"

Gillian flung the door open, flashed her brother a nasty look, then hurried to the fire. She was shivering

and her cheeks were bright from the cold. The thin cotton wrapper she'd found did nothing to protect her

from the biting chill. Holding her hands out to the flame, she cast a mutinous look at the chamberpot. “I'll

not empty that, Nick,” she stated.

“Have I asked you to, woman?” her brother shot back. He stooped over, took up the pot and went out.

The silence which settled over the room was palpable. Only the crackling of the flames and the gentle

bubbling of the stew broke the stillness. Gillian turned her backside to the fire, studiously avoiding looking

at the man on the bed, who was watching her intently. Finally, his unwavering contemplation of her

unnerved Gillian and she cast him a narrowed look.

“Has no one ever told you it is impolite to stare, Milord Hesar?"

Kaelan lowered his gaze. “Your pardon, milady,” he replied. He felt her rejection to the very bottom of

his heart. Yet, he thought as he still watched her out of the corner of his eye, there had been a time when

she had sought out his company...

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Chapter Nine: Nine Years Earlier: Tempest Keep

Kaelan drew in his steed, bent forward in the saddle to rest his forearms on the pommel, and sat

watching the harvest activities going on in the valley below. From the crest of the hill on which he rested,

he could look out over all of Tempest Village and even observe most of the mighty fortress of Tempest

Keep d the dogged authority of his father and brother. Here, he could dream the dreams he wasn't

allowed to dream at Tempest Keep and have some brief peace of mind in which he could consider

himself his own man; that was not possible at the Keep.

Revenge, his jet black stallion, snorted, tossed its sleek ebony head, then pawed the rocky ground

impatiently. His mount wanted a sort of freedom of its own: the wild rush of passing wind along its

powerful body.

“In a minute, boy,” Kaelan said softly, patting the horse's long neck.

He straightened in the saddle as he caught sight of a barkentine just off the Point. The ship, its billowing

sails straining, was tacking toward the harbor. “That would be the Chalean Ambassador,” he said aloud.

His steed pawed the ground again, snorting its displeasure at being held still.

“All right!” Kaelan laughed. He pulled on the reins, turning his mount, then kicked Revenge gently in the

flanks. “You want to run? Then run!"

From the deck of the Banshees, thirteen year old Gillian Elizabeth Cree spied the dark rider racing along

the top of the hill. She braced herself against the rail and sighed. Horses were her passion—she'd yet to

discover boys—and even from this distance she recognized good bloodlines in the steed that stretched its

powerful body over the heath.

“That be His Grace, Prince Kaelan, most likely,” the first mate told her as he came to slump against the

rail. The little bow-legged man pointed the stem of his pipe toward the distant rider. “Gonna break his

fool neck one of these days, I'm thinking."

Gillian narrowed her gaze. She'd been watching the horse. As she focused on the blurred form of the

rider, she shook her head. “No. He knows what he's doing."

“Hell-steed that beast be,” the first mate pronounced. He sniffed, knocked the bowl of his pipe against

the rail to scatter the ashes, then pocketed it. “Born under as evil a star as its owner, I reckon."

The teenage girl glanced quickly at her companion. “How so, Mister Stevens?"

Hobert Stevens shrugged. “The prince was born on the Winter Solstice, he was. Bad luck, that.

Revenge be born on the same night fifteen year after."

Gillian turned her attention back to the horse just as it disappeared over the rim of the distant hill.