Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (8 page)

I told you to go away!” Gillian hissed at him.

She was sitting huddled on a ledge, her legs drawn up to her chest. Her entire posture gave off the

impression of bleak despair and the fat candle sitting on the floor cast dark shadows under swollen,

tearful eyes.

“Whatever it is, it can't be this bad,” he said, coming to hunker down before her. “Do you want to talk

about it?"

“Why can't you just go away and leave me alone?” she sobbed.

“Because it hurts me to hear you crying like this,” he said and was surprised that he was speaking the

truth.

“Why should it?” she flung at him. “No one in this bloody cold hell cares anything about me!"

Kaelan had always felt the same way, himself. Her words could well have been echoes of his own from

long ago. “Why do you say that, brat?” he asked quietly.

“Stop calling me brat!” she spat at him.

“Is it the Joining?” he asked, knowing full well that it had to be.

“She's a witch!” Gillian stated.

Kaelan smiled. “I've often thought so, myself."

“She's a whore, too!"

The young girl's words stung him. Had he not been one of the men who had added to the Countess

Elga's reputation? Not that it mattered. But to a young girl whose father was no doubt the center of her

universe, the potential of betrayal would always be there.

“Have you told your father how you feel?” Kaelan asked. Not that that mattered, either. Hadn't Kaelan

tried talking to his own father when the old man had married Anson's mother, Ensula?

“He loves her!” Gillian said, as though it were the greatest betrayal of all.

“Don't you want him happy?"

The teenager's head snapped up and she fixed him with a murderous glower. “Of course I want him

happy, Hesar! But I'll wager that bitch won't be the one to make him so!"

“But what if she does?"

His words were like a slap to Gillian's face. She stared at him—her hurt there for the world to see. Her

mouth trembled. “Won't happen!” Gillian sobbed.

Kaelan dropped to his knees and opened his arms. “Come here, Sweeting."

There had been only a moment's hesitation before the young girl flung herself into his waiting arms and

buried her face against his strong shoulder. Her sobs were wracking convulsions that shook them both as

she cried out her misery. His arms cradled her to him as his right hand soothed her back. He didn't tell

her not to cry, only absorbed her sobs, and allowed her to vent her misery. When her tears stopped, he

reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean linen kerchief.

“You can't go into the Joining looking like a gypsy wench, can you?” he asked, blotting her eyes and

holding the kerchief to her nose for her to blow.

Gillian had allowed him to comfort her until her pride had reasserted itself. At last, she pushed away

from his arms, rearranged her rumpled gown, and lifted her chin.

“I never said I didn't like brown-eyed men,” she stated, missing the confusion on his handsome face.

Without another word, she moved past him and was gone. Kaelan knelt where he was, his arms feeling

strangely empty and wondered what was wrong with him. There had to be something wrong with him for

a twenty-two year old man did not have the thoughts he was having about a thirteen year old child.

* * * *

Prince Duncan Hesar snorted with disgust as he watched his brother racing Revenge along the hillside

with the Cree brat bouncing behind. The child was clinging to Kaelan's waist as though he were her lover

and Duncan wondered that no one else at the Keep had noticed the girl's growing infatuation with

Kaelan. Not even Kaelan, himself. “Fool,” Duncan pronounced.

“Who, my love?”

Duncan turned and gave his mistress a steely-eyed glower. “That idiot brother of mine."

Oh,” the woman said flatly as though that explained it all. There was no need to ask which of Duncan's

two brothers was causing his indignation. “What's he doing, now?"

“It's what he might do that concerns me!” Duncan spat. He turned back to view the scene that was

irritating him.

“And just what might he do, dearling?"

“Do you suppose he is so stupid he doesn't know that child is after him?"

Elga Junstrom Cree perched herself up on one shapely elbow and peered through the bushes. She

viewed her stepchild and her companion for a moment, then shrugged. “It seems innocent enough, love."

“Innocent, my ass!” Duncan hissed. “It's indecent the way that child follows behind Kaelan, and him so

bloody naive he can't see the forest for the trees!"

“Believe me,” the older woman laughed, “your brother is far from being naive, Duncan!"

The elder of the Hesar brothers snorted with contempt. He knew Elga had slept with Kaelan. If truth be

told, the Jarl's middle son had slept with each and every woman Duncan had ever had and some he

hadn't gotten around to yet.

“Do you want me to speak to her?” Elga asked.

“You'd better!” her lover stressed. “Before there has to be a forced Joining!"

Elga sighed deeply, then sat up, rearranging her bodice. “It's past time Kaelan were wed, anyway,” she

said.

“Not to a mere child!” Duncan gasped. He speared his mistress with a look that gave the woman chills.

“And have you not already chosen brides and grooms for the bratlings, Lady?"

“I have researched suitable mates for them, aye. Those I've chosen will elevate my stepchildren to a

more acceptable rank among the Court."

“And garner you a higher standing, as well?” Duncan sneered.

Elga smiled. “That, too."

The prince took in his mistress’ scowl. “What sort of problem?"

“She is her father's favorite,” Elga answered. “My choice will not be to his liking, so I will have to come

up with a way to ensure the betrothal will be impossible to break."

Duncan's brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “Who is the lucky bridegroom?"

“I'll keep that to myself for now,” Elga replied. She looked toward the Keep. “But it won't be Kaelan

Hesar."

* * * *

Kaelan felt the cool hand slipping into his own and felt a moment of comfort. Although he had not loved

his father—nor, if truth be told, respected him—he had loved his little brother dearly. Standing beside

their caskets listening to the priest prattling on and on about the hereafter, he had been lost and alone in

his grief.

But when Gillian slipped up beside him and placed her little hand in his, he drew solace from the touch

and returned the light squeeze she gave him.

“Unto the soil from which you sprang,” the High Priest was chanting, “we deliver your worldly body.

May your spirit rise up with the Wind to the Great God, Alel."

Gillian glanced up at Kaelan's strong profile and her heart swelled with love for the man. It had been

over a year now since she had first seen him strutting so self-importantly down the hallway to his

chambers and waylaid him. Over a year since she had discovered in his gaze a kindred spirit. Over a

year since she began to have strange, breathless dreams about the brown-eyed warrior who slept only

three doors away.

“May the Wind be with you!"

The young girl ignored the High Priest's words, but zeroed in on Kaelan Hesar's echoing response. His

voice was bleak with misery and his eyes sad, but the words he spoke were soft and lilting despite the

gruffness of his grief. She drew his hand against her side, instinctively knowing he needed the closeness.

Elga Cree frowned as she saw her stepdaughter's actions. Perhaps there was something in what Duncan

had intimated, after all. It had been three months since the two of them had had their rendezvous on the

hillside above the Keep and she had yet to speak with Gillian. Making up her mind that today would be

as good a time as any, she swung her gaze from the child to the man standing beside her.

Can he not know? Elga wondered. When Kaelan draped an arm around his young companion and

pulled her to him, Elga sucked in a shocked breath. “Aye,” she said beneath her breath. “He knows full

well what he's about!"

“Do you see?” Duncan whispered.

“Hush!” Elga cautioned, looking around, but those gathered were intent on their shows of grief for the

dead Jarl and his young son.

“Something must be done!” the new Jarl stressed.

“And will be,” Elga said.

The crowd was beginning to disperse. A few had stayed close to the caskets, watching as sleek

mahogany boxes were being lowered into the hillside. Kaelan, Elga noticed, had turned away, Gillian at

his side as he walked away from the others.

“Where does he think he's going?” Duncan gasped.

“Do not, I beseech you,” Elga snapped at him, “create a scene, Duncan. ’Tis unseemly for a Jarl to

behave so at his father's funereal!” She put a hand on his arm. “Go! Allow the mourners to comfort you!”

Turning, she sought out her husband, leaving Duncan to grumble his way back to the Keep.

Gillian sensed he seemed to need her close to him. “Are you all right, milord?” she asked.

“Aye,” he answered absently. His gaze was on the far distant Serenian Alps which were capped with a

fresh layer of snow from the night before.

“I am sorry about Anson,” she said.

“He was a good child,” Kaelan replied.

“And loved you very much,” she told him softly. She looked up when he stopped abruptly. Tears

formed in her eyes when she saw his own spilling silently down his cheeks.

Kaelan threw back his head and glared up to the heavens. “WHY?” he shouted. “WHY?"

Gillian was stunned when he snatched his hand from hers and dropped to his knees. She bit her lip to

keep from crying when he buried his face in his hands and began to weep like a lost child, his shoulders

shaking beneath his sobs.

“Oh, my sweet milord,” she whispered and knelt down beside him. Putting her thin arms around his

shoulders, she pulled his head to her chest. “I am so sorry for your loss."

Kaelan wrapped his arms around her, holding her as though she were the life preserver thrown to him

through the crashing waves. He pressed his face between the soft, budding mounds of her fourteen year

old's breasts and gave in to his grief. His tears soaked her woolen bodice and his wretched sobs made

her tremble beneath their force.

Her hands smoothed over the silky softness of his jet-black curls, her fingers threading themselves

through the thick mass. Deep in her belly, she felt a stirring she could not put a name to, but knew this

wondrous man was surely the cause. She breathed in the cinnamon smell of his cologne and closed her

eyes against the sensation it caused between her legs; needing something she neither understood nor

could have.

“Never leave me, Gillian,” she heard him saying as he clung to her. “Swear you will never leave me."

“Never,” she promised. Her arms held him against the cruelty of the world around them and she felt

powerful, omnipotent. A woman, at last.

“I could not bear it, Sweeting,” he sobbed. “To lose you as I have lost Anson."

“You will not,” she stated. “You will never lose me!"

It never crossed Kaelan's mind as he knelt there in the comfort of Gillian's arms that it was not brotherly

love as he had had for Anson that made him ask such a vow of her. That it was not brotherly love that

caused him to fear being separated from her.

He never once recognized it as pure, undiluted love for Gillian Cree.

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Chapter Ten: Holy Dale Manor

“Is he sleeping?” Nick asked. He looked at Kaelan and watched the steady slow rise and fall of his

chest.

“I suppose,” Gillian answered. She put another log on the fire then walked to the bundle of rushes and

old blankets she had placed near the fire.

“What is that for?” her brother asked.

“I'll not sleep in that bed again, Nick,” she said, kneeling down.

“You slept beside him not three hours ago,” Nick reminded her.

“To give him body warmth, aye,” she grumbled. “To keep him from dying, just as you did, but I told you

then, as soon as his fever was gone, so was I!"

“The floor will be cold,” Nick reminded her.

“No colder than that one's heart,” Gillian snapped.

Her words cut Kaelan like a sharp knife, but he could expect no more from her. She would rather sleep

on the floor like a servant than place her body next to his again.

“You'll be stiff and sore in the morning,” Nick whispered to her as he climbed into the bed beside

Kaelan.

“Don't concern yourself, Nicholas,” she growled. She jerked the makeshift covers over her shoulders

and turned her face into the musky old blanket she had wadded up for use as a pillow.

For a long time, Gillian lay there staring at the rough material of the blanket. The wood popped in the

fire; a rat rustled inside the wall; a lone wolf howled in the distance. The floor was acutely uncomfortable,

but, then again, so were her thoughts. Thoughts she had not entertained for three years. Sighing with

disgust, she turned over, annoyed with a lump beneath the pallet that was digging into her spine. She

stared at the ceiling, frowning at the peeling paint and cracked plaster.

How can he live like this?
she wondered. Alone. No doubt lonely. No company save a mongrel beast

who even then was lying in front of the door as though guarding it from intruders.

No comforts. She turned her head toward the large armoire at the far end of the room.
Where are all

your clothes?
she wondered. The fine silk shirts? The cords? The soft-as-silk wools? The fine Ionarian