Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (7 page)

“Revenge? That's the steed's name?"

“Aye,” Stevens answered. “Young Kaelan named him so ‘cause he said he'd finally found a horse that

could best his brother's Rysalian mount, Sirocco."

Intrigued, the teenager turned eager eyes to the old man. “And had he?"

Stevens chuckled. “Aye, he did, Lady Gillian. Five lengths worth of besting, or so I was told, when they

raced one another last year!"

Admiration glinted in the brilliant green orbs that looked up at Hobert Stevens. “Do you think I could

ride him, Mister Stevens?"

The old man drew in a breath. A beauty she'll be, this one, the first mate thought. One had only to

overlook the gangling arms and legs and scrawny body, the flame-gold hair and waif's eyes to see the

beautiful woman she would one day become. All the right curving was there to fill out. Whoever won the

heart of this woman-child would have his hands full.

“Mister Stevens?"

Hobert shook himself. “Nay, lass,” he said, shaking his head. “The prince don't let nobody, not even his

brothers, ride that beastie.” He smiled indulgently when the young girl thrust out a pouting lip and vowed

she would.

* * * *

Kaelan bowed his head in greeting to the brace of titian-haired beauties who stood hovering together

beside the staircase. “Ladies,” he said, smiling.

“Your Grace!” they said in unison, bobbing him a clumsy curtsy in tandem.

The prince grinned to himself as he took the stairs two at a time, for he could hear their giggling and

hushed whispers, knew they were watching him. They were two of the Duke of Warthenham's brats, he

thought as he strode across the balcony to his chambers. Glancing over the rail, he saw them staring up at

him with looks that bordered on ravishment. He chuckled as they ducked under the balcony overhang,

embarrassed that he had caught them ogling him.

“Good morn, Kaelan,” Gunter Eriksen called out. “Have you seen them?"

Kaelan didn't need to ask the seventeen year old boy who he meant. “Aye.” He gripped Gunter's wrist

as they met. “Which have you chosen for your bride?"

Gunter lifted his chin. “Adele. She's the middle girl.” He winked. “You can have Adair, if you're of the

notion. She's not as pretty as my Adele, but she'll not make you ashamed of her."

“And if I want Adele?” Kaelan teased.

Eriksen snorted. “You'll not get her.” He released the prince's wrist. “I've already laid claim."

Kaelan's left brow rose. “And them here but a scant two hours, Gunter?"

There was steel in the young man's direct blue gaze. “I've spoken to the Jarl already."

If that surprised Kaelan, he didn't show it. “Then I wish you well in your pursuit, my friend.” He

continued on, glancing back only once to see Gunter swaggering confidently down the hall. Whatever the

eldest son of the Eriksen clan wanted, he was apt to get from Kaelan's father.

“You'll not get Adair, either."

Kaelan stopped. The childish voice that had challenged him had come from somewhere behind him. He

turned around and found himself looking at a tall, thin teenage girl who was glaring back at him from the

doorway of one of the guest chambers. He cocked an inquisitive eye at her.

“And why not, mam'selle?” he asked politely.

Gillian ventured out into the hallway. “Because she likes blond-haired men,” the girl replied. Her gaze

passed over his thick, curly brown hair, settled on his caramel-colored eyes. “With blue eyes."

The prince ambled back to her and stood looking down at her elfin face. “Is that so?"

“Aye,” she said, lifting her chin. “That's so."

Kaelan folded his arms across his chest, totally ignorant of the sudden interest in boys his powerful

physique had just awakened in the girl standing before him. “Then,” he asked, “how do you explain the

way your sister was mentally undressing me when I came upstairs, little one?” He had meant to shock the

nosy little brat, but her words to him served only to stun him.

“I suppose it's because they know good breeding stock when they see it, Your Grace.” She flicked her

attention from his broad shoulders, across the wide chest straining at the silk of his shirt, down the long

legs encased in black leather breeches, then back up again to settle on a face she found—much to her

amusement—blushing. She was fascinated by the mole on his lean left cheek and stared at it.

“You're a bold one,” he finally managed to say after he regained use of his tongue. “Has no one ever told

you it's impolite to stare?"

“My pardon, milord,” she said, bobbing him a condescending curtsy. Tossing her long reddish-gold

braid, she went back into her chambers, shutting the door with a decided snap.

Kaelan stood there for a full minute, staring at the closed portal. The saucy little chit had done something

few people had ever done before her: shocked Kaelan Rylan Hesar to his foundation.

* * * *

The state dinner held that evening had brought out the beauties of the Court in all their finery. There was

enough perfume floating through the air to cover up the stench of a cesspool. Jewels flashed green and

red, blue and white between smooth powdered bosoms. The snap of a silk fan, the tinkling laughter from

a long swan-like neck, the swish of satin skirts were the warnings signals that alerted every eligible

bachelor in Tempest Keep that the horde was moving in for the feast.

As the music trilled softly from the pavilion set up at the far end of the Great hall, Kaelan sipped his

goblet of plum wine and surveyed the women floating by with a jaundiced eye. Most glanced his way

with perky little moués and fluttering lashes they hid behind the spread of their pastel fans. A few were

actually bold enough to engage him in conversation although he extracted himself from their chattering as

hastily as good manners allowed. He found their incessant mutterings boring and their innuendoes

insulting.

Not that he hadn't sampled a good many of their charms, he thought as he moved away from the

fireplace, dodging the advance of a matron and her two overly-ripe daughters. He never lacked for

female companionship, but it was always of his own choosing, not theirs.

He spied Gunter with his chosen and nodded, smiling woefully at the girl. To anyone who didn't know

him well, it looked as though he sorely regretted another man claiming her before him; to those who knew

and understood Kaelan Hesar, the look was one of relief.

“Your Grace? Have you met Lady Adair Cree?” someone asked and Kaelan paused. Reluctantly, he

turned from the speaker and found himself on eye level with a stunning raven-haired woman in her

mid-thirties.

“Milady,” he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. For the life of him, he couldn't remember the

woman's name, but gave her a brilliant smile anyway because he'd once spent an entire weekend in her

bed.

“Lady Adair,” the woman said, “this is His Grace, Prince Kaelan Hesar."

Adair Cree dipped into a graceful, seductive curtsy, then held out a milky-white hand as she rose. Her

eyes locked with the prince's. “I am honored to meet you, Your Grace."

Kaelan slipped his hand around hers and brought it to his mouth, lingering over the coolness of her young

flesh, judging her to be near his own age or close to it. “Are all the women in Chale as lovely as you and

your sister, Milady Adair?” he asked, staring deeply into orbs the color of emeralds.

“She is quite lovely, isn't she, Your Grace,” the woman beside him sighed. “Ah, how I wish I were still

her age with my whole life ahead of me."

Elga Junstrom, Kaelan remembered of a sudden. The widow of Count Brithe Junstrom. He flashed her a

charming smile. “Milady, your beauty is timeless.” When he saw her run her tongue over her lips, he read

the invitation as clearly as though she had spoken it aloud. Before he could say something that would

make her think him still interested, he dipped his head. “I was on my way to meet your father, Lady

Adair. With your permission?"

“Certainly, milord,” Adair sighed.

He could feel the young woman's eyes on his back as he moved through the crush of the crowd. Holding

his half-empty goblet aloft as he skirted those assembled, he smiled greetings to his father's guests, spoke

a word here and there. When he'd finally moved out of the press of warm bodies and suffocating

perfume, he made straight for the double doors which opened to the long balcony that overlooked the

harbor. As inconspicuously as possible, he ducked out into the chill night air and blended into the night

shadows cast by the soaring walls of the Keep.

“It stinks in there."

Kaelan nearly dropped his goblet in surprise. Spinning around, he peered into the darker reaches of the

balcony. “Stinks from what?” he asked, recovering from the surprise. Moving toward a lighter shape he

saw huddled against the far rail, he thought he recognized the voice of the speaker.

“All that bloody perfume!"

“Ah, the youngest Cree brat!” he chuckled. When he reached her, he looked with amusement at the

man's great cape in which she had wrapped herself. “Aren't you cold, mam'selle?"

“I'm no brat,” she snapped. “And I ain't cold!” She pulled the thick fur collar closer under her sharp

chin. “But I'd wager you are.” Her gaze flicked over his lightweight corduroy jacket and breeches, the

silk of his shirt.

“A bit,” he admitted, draining the goblet. Placing it on the rail beside him, he leaned out over the wrought

iron and gazed down into the crashing waves pounding the lower reaches of the Keep. “But I'm used to

it."

“I'll never get use to this hellish cold,” Gillian snapped. Her lips were trembling.

“Aye, you will,” he answered. He turned and leaned his rump against the rail, crossed his arms and

studied her shadowed face. “You don't like perfume; you don't like the cold; you don't like brown-haired

men with brown eyes."

“I didn't say that,” she defended herself.

“What do you like, mam'selle?” he continued.

“Horses.” The answer was quick and stated with emphatic assurance.

“Horses?” he asked. The right side of his mouth lifted. “Any particular breed?"

“Rysalians are, of course, the most beautiful,” she said, not sure if he was being condescending or not.

“Serenians are the fastest."

“I have a Serenian stallion,” Kaelan told her.

“Revenge,” she threw at him.

Kaelan's left eyebrow lifted. “You've heard of him?"

“Seen him,” she said. When he continued to look at her with that elevated slash of a brow, she shrugged.

“This morning. From the ship."

“Ah,” he drawled. He smiled. “And what did you think of him?"

“He has power,” she said. “He's fast."

“As the wind,” Kaelan interjected.

“How's he at stud?"

The question so shocked Kaelan, he couldn't answer. He simply stared at this waif of a girl standing

there blithely discussing the sexual capabilities of his mount and felt his face turn beet red.

“You've not tried him?” Gillian pressed, unaware of the reaction her innocuous questions had created.

“Not put him to a mare?"

“N ... not yet,” Kaelan managed to stammer. He uncrossed his arms and dug his hands into the pockets

of his breeches. He was freezing, but uncharacteristically reluctant to leave the young girl's company.

Normally, children made him uneasy and girls the age of this one were a nuisance.

“You should,” Gillian was saying. “I would wager he'll give you magnificent progeny.” She nodded

thoughtfully. “Should you find him a mare suitable to his temperament and size."

“S ... size?” Kaelan stammered, feeling something happen to him that had never happened before in the

presence of a young girl.

“Well, you wouldn't want him to hurt her, would you?” Gillian snapped.

“Oh, god!” The Prince blinked away the embarrassment that was flooding his soul. “You shouldn't talk

like that in front of a man, brat!” he chided her.

“What way?” she challenged.

“Get yourself inside,” he ordered her. “It's too cold out here."

Gillian shrugged, thinking grown ups never really said what they meant. Tugging the great cape closer

around her thin body, she looked him up and down, wondering why he half-turned away from her.

“Unless you're of a mind to catch your death of cold, Your Grace, you'd better go get yourself warm!”

With a toss of her head, she darted back into the Great hall.

“Warm,” Kaelan breathed. He shook his head. Nay, he'd stay right where he was until the cold could do

away with the problem her bold words had engineered.

* * * *

It wasn't until the eve of the Duke of Warthenham's joining to the Countess Elga Junstrom—one month to

the night after that disastrous chat on the balcony—that Kaelan saw the youngest Cree girl again. By

then, he knew her name: Gillian.

As he made his way to the Temple for the ceremony, he thought he heard crying coming from one of the

deep recesses along the corridor. He stopped, listened, and frowned when the unmistakable sounds of a

breaking heart came to him from out of the darkness. Not stopping to consider his actions, he followed

the wretched sobs.

“Go away!"

The command brought him up short. Kaelan sighed. “Gillian?” he questioned, knowing that petulant

voice anywhere.

“I don't need your help, Hesar!"

Hesar? he echoed silently. By the gods, but the little brat was discourteous. He frowned and squeezed

himself through the narrow aperture where the young girl was hiding.