Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (39 page)

For a moment, neither husband nor wife registered the name, but when the full implication settled in, their

mouths dropped open. Rosa-Lynn was actually heard to gasp as her hand flew to her throat.

“Sorn?” Trace managed to inquire. “You don't mean my half-brother, Syn-Jern, do you?"

“Aye,” Tiernan grated, viciously stabbing the slab of steak on his plate. “That's the ex-prisoner's name.”

He popped the meat in his mouth and chewed, happy to see unease flitting across the faces of his hosts.

“Ex?” Trace stammered. “What do you mean by ex?"

“He served his sentence and has now been declared a free man,” Tiernan informed them.

“Free?” Trace gasped. “Surely you are mistaken!"

Tiernan smiled nastily. “I have his free papers in my diplomatic pouch.” To disabuse Sorn of the notion

of trying to steal the papers and destroy them, McGregor took great pleasure in telling him the papers

had already been recorded in the Temple at Wixenstead.

“Recorded,” Trace repeated. He swallowed. “Where is he now?"

“The last we heard, he was in Ciona,” Weir explained. “Working on a ship to get passage money to

Wixenstead."

“H ... he's coming here?” Rosa-Lynn asked. She looked around, expecting to see the man in question

come striding into the dining room.

“Aye,” Weir replied. “So we have been told."

Trace grimaced. He had hoped Syn-Jern would die a raving lunatic in the bowels of the Labyrinth, but to

find he had been let out of prison was unsettling.

“Ah, come now,” Tiernan barked, drawing the eyes of the husband and wife to him. “Surely the tale is

worth telling!” He leaned back. “You don't hear of a Duke being sent to prison every day, now do you?”

His jaw tightened. “What did he do?"

“Do?” Trace repeated, casting a quick glance to his wife before clearing his throat. “Ah, he murdered a

man."

Weir's hands balled into fists on the table. “Then why wasn't he hanged?"

“What my husband meant to say,” Rosa-Lynn was quick to say, drawing the captain's unwavering stare

to her, “was he killed a man in self-defense."

Tiernan's left eyebrow crooked upward. “Self-defense, is it? If that's the case, why was he sent to prison

in the first place?” He smiled courteously at the maid who was bringing in dessert. “Did he make an

enemy of some vindictive personage?"

The husband and wife exchanged looks, then the husband spread his hands as though asking for

understanding. “Well, it seems he made an enemy of King Innis,” Trace said.

“Ah,” Tiernan drawled. The one word was a condemnation. “That would do it.” In the immediate silence

that fell over the diners, he glanced around him. “More is the good fortune for you, though, eh, Your

Grace?"

Trace frowned. “I don't follow."

Tiernan swept a hand over the table. “This, Your Grace.” He moved his arm to indicate the surroundings

behind him as well. “All of this.” His gaze stabbed into Trace. “It all came to you as the new Duke, eh?"

“We are caretakers of the estate,” Rosa-Lynn was quick to point out. “Nothing more than glorified

landlords."

Tiernan heard the maid snort beneath her breath and when he caught her eye, he was not surprised to

see contempt glittering in her hard glower.

“The lands, as you reminded us,” Trace said, drawing the captain's attention from Sara Gill, “belong to

the Tribunal. We are merely allowed to live here on their sufferance."

“Some living,” Weir muttered and looked into the eyes of the maid as she plopped a spoonful of cream

on the apple custard dessert she had shoved in front of him. The woman's lips twitched as she moved

away.

“Do we have cause to worry about him?” Rosa-Lynn asked.

Weir swung his attention to the Duchess. “About whom?” he asked, knowing full well what she meant,

but wanting to hear the name on the woman's lips.

“Syn-Jern,” Rosa-Lynn answered, her face flushed.

“We don't believe so,” Weir acknowledged. Lifting a spoonful of the delicious-smelling custard to his

lips, he paused, looking down into the creamy dessert. He frowned and lifted the spoon closer to his

face.

“Something wrong with the custard, Milord?” the maid inquired.

Weir slowly lifted his gaze from what appeared to be rat droppings to the innocent face of the pretty

maid. He cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing. The Duke and Duchess were too busy shoveling the

custard into their greedy mouths to notice their visitor's reaction to the dessert.

Sara's lips quirked into a knowing grin as the Serenian lowered his spoon to the custard cup and pushed

the concoction away with a decided look of unease. She saw his scrutiny shift to the plate of food he'd

consumed, then nearly burst into laughter when she saw him swallow hard.

“Can I be getting you anything else, Milord?” Tiernan heard the maid ask Weir.

Weir shook his head in denial, gorge rising up in his throat as he wondered what he might well have

eaten this night. “I think I've had quite enough,” he mumbled.

“I'll have some more custard,” Rosa-Lynn demanded, licking her lips.

Tiernan, who realized something must be wrong with the food, reached for his own cup of dessert.

“Allow me, Your Grace,” he said, pushing back from the table. “I am too full to eat my own."

Sara watched the prince walk to the Viper's chair and place the custard before her. When he turned, his

eyes met Sara's. The maid's eyebrows shot upward when the prince winked at her and said, “You are a

fine cook, Mam'selle. I compliment you."

Tiernan sat down and lifted his goblet of wine, but before he drank, he cast a quick look to the maid.

Sara shook her head slightly to let him know there was nothing wrong with his drink. She watched him

for a moment, then turned away. When she reached the door, she turned her head and gave Weir a look

that was hard to interpret.

“You seem to have made a conquest there, Captain,” Trace remarked.

Tiernan stretched his long legs beneath the table. “Is the wench married?"

“No,” Trace replied. “Feel free to make use of her if you wish."

“Thank you,” Tiernan yawned, “but I find I am too tired this evening.” He looked at Weir. “Perhaps the

good Captain would not mind partaking of the lady's amble talents?"

“Do you hand her over to whomever comes to call?” Weir asked in a bored tone although his hands

clenched tightly on the chair arms.

“No one comes to call,” Rosa-Lynn snorted in an unladylike manner.

Trace shot his wife a damning look before turning to the Serenian “Do what you will with the slut. She

certainly won't dare to protest else she'll find herself out on her ear.” He waved an imperious hand. “It

matters not to me what you do so long as you don't use her so well she can not tend to her duties come

morning."

Keeping his face carefully blank so Sorn would not see the fury that remark generated, Tiernan nodded

thoughtfully. “We appreciate your hospitality, Your Grace."

“What the hell choice did you give us,” Rosa-Lynn grumbled. She toyed with her wineglass for a long

moment then turned to look at Weir. “How is he?"

“Are you referring to the your brother-in-law?” Tiernan inquired.

“I've not seen him since the trial, of course,” Rosa-Lynn said in a low voice. “I just wondered if he—"

“What the hell difference does it make, Wife?” Trace snapped, lifting his napkin to his lips. “He is out of

our lives and that is all to the good, is it not?"

Rosa-Lynn did not reply. In her mind's eye, she saw Syn-Jern as he had been that last day in the

Tribunal Hall of Wixenstead Village and she heard once more his angry words:

“Why, Rosa-Lynn?” he begged as he was led away. His wrists were weighted down with thick lead

manacles. He could barely walk for his ankles were banded in the same way. “I loved you and you

swore my life away. Why?"

His dark golden hair had been tousled wildly about his head that day. His midnight blue eyes were filled

with infinite hurt at having been betrayed. Despite all she had done to him, the tragic events she had set

into motion, she knew as she looked into his bewildered face that he still loved her.

As no man ever had or ever would again, she thought as she glanced down the table to her husband.

Rosa-Lynn hung her head.

“You looked troubled, Your Grace,” Tiernan told her.

Trace frowned. “My wife has a tender heart, I fear."

“Most women do,” Tiernan replied. He studied the woman, wondering if her conscience was bothering

her.

Trace sighed deeply. “She was with me when we found the man Syn-Jern murdered."

“I thought it was self-defense,” Tiernan reminded the Duke.

Sorn flung out a dismissive hand, a habit that was beginning to wear on Tiernan McGregor. “The

Tribunal called it so, but there was bad blood between the two. It is a matter of semantics, I fear."

“Well, you have nothing to worry about, I'm sure, Your Grace,” Tiernan said. “Your brother—"

“Half-brother,” Trace was quick to remind his visitor.

Tiernan nodded in polite acceptance of the correction. “Your half-brother would be foolish to return

here to cause trouble, would he not?"

“If it pleases you, Your Grace,” Weir said, yawning, “I am for bed. Tomorrow will be a long day for

me.” He turned to Sorn. “I must sail to Ciona to ascertain if our man is actually there and what exactly he

intends."

“If you can find him,” Tiernan put in.

“Aye,” Weir agreed. “If I can find him.” He yawned again and apologized.

Tiernan nodded toward the kitchen door as Sara entered the dining room once again. “You have my

permission to bed the wench, Captain, if that is your desire."

Weir understood the silent command and grinned. He stood, took hold of Sara's arm. “You're to come

with me, wench,” he ordered.

Sara's back stiffened. “I am no man's—"

“Go with him else you'll have no job!” Trace snarled. “Pleasure him as he desires or you'll rue the day

you ever stepped foot inside Holy Dale manor!"

Before the maid could balk, Weir snaked an arm around her waist, then buried his face in her neck,

ignoring the hand that went to his chest to push Weir away. “Hush, Mam'selle, and do as you're told.

Syn-Jern Sorn's life might well depend upon it!"

Sara, who was about to curse the ship captain, stilled, her stunned look going to the tall man's face.

“Pleasure him, I say,” Trace growled as he walked from the room. “He'll tell me if you don't!"

Weir released the maid's waist. Before she could question him, he took her by the shoulders and stared

deeply into her eyes. “We are friends with Bryce Heil, Mam'selle. He has spoken highly of you and your

brother, saying you can be trusted."

A warning bell went off in Sara's mind and she clamped her lips shut.

The Serenian sighed heavily. “Mam'selle, we are not your enemy."

Sara refused to say anything to the Tribunal flunky. She glared at him, her mouth tight, her body stiff.

“Woman,” Weir said with exasperation, “did you not notice Sorn's rather hasty exit just now? Do you

not realize he is after finding someone to rid him of his brother once and for all?"

“There ain't a manjack in Wixenstead Village what would do that!” Sara snapped.

“Are you sure?” Weir asked, searching her eyes. “Are you absolutely sure?” When she didn't reply, he

shook her gently. “So sure you'd risk Syn-Jern's life to prove it to me?"

Sara wavered. There might be a scoundrel or two bellied up to the bar at the tavern who might do

anything for a copper or two. She bit her lip, thinking on the situation.

“Trust us, Mam'selle,” he insisted. “That's all I ask."

Sara Elizabeth Gill was a very shrewd woman. And smart beyond her years. She knew this could well

be a trap, a Tribunal ploy of some sort; but the earnest look in the eyes of the man standing before her

was no lie.

Sara pulled out of his grasp and put distance between them. “Do you think me a fool, Milord? That I

would believe a Tribunal transport's captain cares a fig what happens to His Grace?” She punched him in

the chest with a rigid finger. “I know all about your kind."

Weir held out his hand. “If I can help keep him alive until we can prove he is an innocent man, then—"

“What?” Sara hissed. Her voice was low and urgent. “What are you saying?"

“That jackanapes and his slut are responsible for Syn-Jern Sorn having been sent to the Labyrinth twelve

years ago,” he said in a low voice. “All I need is proof Trace Edward Sorn killed Playe. If we can get a

Magistrate here to be a witness to the confession, he can send a statement to the court. We can get

Syn-Jern's sentence overturned and put the real murderer on board the Vortex bound for Tyber's Isle!"

Sara stared at the man, weighing his words for falsehoods and misleading turns. Looking into his face,

she was of a certainty he was telling the truth and there was no hidden motives in what he was trying to

do. Her one concern was still why he was trying to clear Syn-Jern Sorn's name.

“I see everyday the terrible things the Brotherhood of the Domination is capable of doing, Mam'selle,”

Weir said, once more taking Sara by the shoulders. This time she did not pull away.

“I have touched the scars in men's palms where their hands were nailed. I've seen the ravaged flesh of

backs cruelly beaten with a cat-'o-nine. I've heard the ramblings of fever-ridden wretches who are

reliving the horror of what was done to them.” He reached up to cup Sara's chin. “I have seen this and

more, Mam'selle and I am sick to heart of it. It has to be stopped. Do you understand?"