A Brother s price

by Wen Spencer

  “They’re going to see you and the boys!” Summer cried.

  “Not if they don’t come into the kitchen,” Jerin said. “And you middle sisters handle the serving in the dining room.”

  If Summer’s hair had been longer than the military crop, it seemed she would be pulling it out by now.

  “How are we going to keep the royal guard out of the kitchen? They’re probably going to check the food for poison.”

  Jerin got out their largest platter and dual meat forks. “Like we keep poison on hand to kill off visiting princesses.”

  “Jerin!” Summer wailed.

  He closed his eyes and counted to ten. “Summer, the goose was going to burn if I didn’t get it out, and the youngest are hungry, and we have guests-royal guests. If Corelle did the cooking, truly we would be poisoning the princesses.”

  “What if they see you?” Summer frowned at the door as if she expected the royal guard to burst through it any moment.

  “Then they see me!” He lifted the goose out of the roasting pan and onto the platter. “She’s the crown princess. She’s not going to ride off with me.”

  “One of her guards might grab you and desert,” Summer said.

  “I’m sure the army knows where their families are located,” Jerin said.

  Summer glared at him. “Jerin, will you take this seriously!”

  “I am!” He drained the drippings into a cook pot and set it to boil. “Only the creme of military are picked for royal guard. If they see me, the worst that will happen is that they’ll offer for me-and frankly, I think that’s a better fate than the Brindles.”

  “Don’t be naive, Jerin.” Summer crossed her arms and gave him a level look. “There are things to be done with a boy that have nothing to do with marriage.”

  He stared at her, and then blushed hot. “I wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  Summer glanced at the little girls around them, listening intently, and whispered, “You wouldn’t have much of a choice. It’s why they call it rape.”

  He rolled his eyes at that. “Trust me, if any of them were carrying crib drugs, our little sisters would know.”

  As a distraction, it worked. Summer turned on the youngest in a full rage. “You little brats! You stay out of their rooms!”

  Jerin moved on to the potatoes, which needed to be drained by now, and mashed. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes or so, though the sweet potatoes will be coming out later. The boys and I will eat in the keeping room, and then go upstairs right afterward. Heria can make sure the little ones eat, and Corelle can clean up with the girls.”

  “I will make sure you have a clean kitchen for morning,” Summer said.

  “Thank you, Summer. I’ll make sure our mothers know who acted the idiot and who didn’t today.”

  Summer suddenly caught him into a hug. “Oh, Jerin, I was an idiot! I knew we were leaving you and the babies alone! I let Corelle bully me into going. What if they had been raiders? We could have lost everything.”

  “I know. I know. Now, let me finish dinner.”

  Jerin had picked at his dinner and then left the kitchen without thinking of taking a snack. Later, he found himself so hungry that he couldn’t sleep. Finally, he couldn’t take it any longer. The house was silent. No one was up. He could slip downstairs, he told himself, grab something to eat from the pantry, and return with no one being the wiser.

  He crawled out of bed. and stood a moment in darkness. Normally he’d pull on his trousers in addition to his nightshirt before going downstairs. Tonight, though, his three younger brothers were in his room, restless in their strange beds. He would have to light the lamp to find his trousers. He could imagine a cascade of events, starting with the lamp waking the boys and ending with the rest of the house awake.

  It would only take a minute to run downstairs and raid the kitchen. I don’t need trousers. My nightshirt reaches my knees – it’s nearly a walking robe.

  The kitchen seemed huge in the darkness. Flames still danced in the hearth; Summer must not have properly banked the cook fires. He frowned, crossing to the hearth, not sure if he should take the time to settle the fire.

  “So my sister isn’t imagining things,” a female voice drawled in the darkness.

  Jerin startled backward, almost into the flames of the open fire pit. There was motion, and arms pulled him away from the fire with a low croon of “Careful, careful.”

  “Your Highness!” His heart hammered in his throat as he recognized a gleam of red hair and delicate features before his body eclipsed the firelight.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the princess murmured, a dark form with strong arms about him. “My sister claimed a beautiful man carried her up from the stream, but I thought she imagined it. Who would let a man risk his reputation so?”

  “A sister who will soon be in deep trouble with her mothers and older sisters.”

  “Sister?” One arm lifted from his hip to run fingers through his waist-long hair. “You’re not a husband?”

  He bit his lip. Husbands were more dearly protected by the law than brothers. He shouldn’t have spoken- each word he said was a danger to him.

  ‘’Come, come,“ Princess Rennsellaer coaxed gently, ”I’m not going to carry you off like some husband raider.“

  “I’m a brother. I’ll be of age in two months.”

  The princess turned him slightly so the fire was to her back, the light a gleaming halo about the nimbus of her shadowed hair. Her fingers touched his cheek, trailed down to cup his chin. “Your family runs to good looks.”

  “Our grandfather was an exceedingly handsome man,” Jerin admitted, aware suddenly that he wore only one sheer layer of cotton, that she wore nearly the same, and then her left hand cupped his buttocks, pressing his body to hers. “I came down for a bite of something.”

  “I have something here you can nibble on,” she murmured, catching his hand, guiding it under her sleeping shirt. Her skin was soft, warm, and firm. His body reacted to the touch while his mind floundered in panic. How much force could you use denying the crown princess without bringing trouble down on your head?

  “Your Highness, please.” He tried to sidestep, but she moved with him.

  “You desire me,” she noted, running her hand over his body.

  “I desire to marry well,” he murmured hoarsely. “For fifteen years I have stayed chaste and pure. I would not like to fail two months shy of the goal.”

  She chuckled. “I’m amazed that you’ve seen any women besides your sisters.”

  “They take me to social events.” He was babbling now, unable to stop. “How else would families know we seek a marriage alliance? We go to fairs, festivals, and such. The girls compete in races and wrestling, and the boys talk about how their sisters make them crazy and how lonely it is, being the only man among so many women.” He moaned softly now, as her hand had not stayed idle. “That is nice,” he admitted,

  “but I wish-” Truthfully he didn’t really want it to stop. “I wish-”

  She stepped him back, pressing him against the stones of the hearth, and kissed him tenderly. Her mouth was sweet, and warm, and electric on his. He couldn’t find anyplace safe to put his hands; they tended to flutter like birds looking for a roosting place. He whimpered partially in delight of the many sensations bombarding him, partially in the helplessness of his situation.

  “Highness-um-I don’t think-we shouldn’t be-oh, gods-I-” While his mind raced to form some sentence, any sentence, he stumbled on an awful thought. If not for this once, the only intimacy in my life will be with the horsey-faced, heavy-handed Brindle women. Who would know what we’ve done? Who would guess? Who would tell? Certainly not my sisters. With those thoughts, he allowed his hands to alight on her hips, then explore upward, under her nightshirt.

  In the last year of his life, Jerin’s father had told him how one man could keep ten women happy. It had been a frank, embarrassing, sometimes mystifying set of discussions. There hadn�
��t been an opportunity for Jerin to try any of the techniques outside of his increasingly erotic dreams. It was somewhat satisfying, judging by the princess’s reaction, to discover he remembered a goodly portion of his father’s lessons.

  They could have taken the last step. They lay on the warm flagstones before the cooking fire, glistening with sweat. She reached for him, his body responded as before, but this time, the edge taken off his desire, he was able to stop her.

  “No.” He kissed her to soften the refusal. “To go this far was foolish. To go on would be stupid.”

  She gazed at him, her hair reflecting back the flame-red firelight. “It was wonderful.”

  That pulled a wry smile out of him. He caught her hand before it could cause more mischief, and kissed her palm, nuzzling the sensitive spot on her wrist. “We can’t do more. It would ruin me.”

  She looked away, watching instead the dance of firelight on the whitewashed ceiling. She was silent for many minutes, to the point that he was afraid he had angered her. “You are right. You are not yet old enough to marry, and I seduced you in your mothers’ kitchen. It would be best that I don’t take your virginity on your mothers’ Hearth.”

  She gave it the old name. Jerin vaguely remembered that there were ancient rules of hospitality tied to the Hearth, remnants of days when starting a fire didn’t mean just using a match, and homes consisted of just one large room.

  “Please”-Jerin reached for his abandoned nightshirt-“let me go back to my room and you go back to yours?”

  “I could come tuck you in,” she murmured.

  “We’d wake my brothers.”

  She startled. “There are more?”

  He told her his brothers’ names and ages. “Please don’t tell my sisters that I’ve told you. They’re afraid that you’ll carry me off.”

  “Or seduce you in the kitchen.”

  He blushed. “Well, yes.”

  She giggled and then sobered. “Run up to bed, love, and be careful not to wake your brothers.”

  He slipped reluctantly out of her arms. “It’s my sisters that I worry about.”

  Chapter 3

  The black, bitter cold snow tasted of soot, mud, and blood. Ren slowly levered herself up, spitting out the tainted snow, puzzled by the odd flickering shadows, the endless, shapeless roar that beat on her ears, the heat across her back. Why was she facedown in the slush-covered street? A loud crack made her turn, and she gaped at flames towering up into the night sky, consuming the broken timbers of a building. The theater! What had happened? She had been standing on the theater stairs a moment before – had it been just a moment? But surely it must have been longer

  – the whole building was engulfed. Then realization struck her. The others were still inside. She opened her mouth to scream when the shape of a crumpled human finally found meaning in her mind. Her sister Halley lay at the top of the steps, half in the doorway. Ren tried to stand, but something was wrong with her legs. She struggled on anyhow in a haze of pain, crawling, frantic.

  She had to get to Halley. Had to get Halley away from the fire. No matter how hard she tried, though, she could not get closer. The doorway itself was on fire now, about to collapse in burning timbers onto her sister. Oh, merciful Mothers, let her save Halley!

  Ren snapped awake, whimpering in fear, the smell of smoke thick under her nose. She sat up in alarm, instantly disoriented by the placement of the window, the low rough-timbered ceiling, and the plain lines of the furniture.

  Oh. yes, the Whistler farm!

  The events of the last few days must have triggered her old nightmare about the explosion at the theater.

  On impulse, she had decided to visit the armory upriver at North Branch. It had been a leisurely six-day trip from Mayfair on the royal stern-wheeler, but they had arrived to find the armory plundered and set afire. As they were still docking, the flames reached the gunpowder room. Great flowering blooms of flame rose in the night with a sound that could be felt, a heat that seared the skin even at a hundred feet away.

  The scorching heat, the thick black smoke, and the charred bodies curled into the fetal position. Old impressions of the theater explosion that had killed her elder sisters and Keifer joined with new. No wonder her old nightmares were resurfacing.

  Her cold rage at her helplessness reawakened too. Without thought to Odelia’s and her own safety, Ren had led a pursuit of the escaping thieves from the armory back downriver. When the royal party found the thieves’ barge run aground, she ordered a landing against Raven’s advice. Stupidity at its highest order: going into unknown territory after an unknown force. Only Odelia’s amazing luck had kept her safe.

  At least there wouldn’t be new nightmares to join the old one.

  Dawn gleamed in the window, small noises indicated a house awakening to a normal day, and the smell of smoke vanished. Maybe, Ren rationalized, the stench had been the tail end of her nightmare.

  She stretched, stiff after a night in a strange bed. and caught another whiff of smoke. She pulled the shoulder of her nightshirt to her nose and sniffed. Woodsmoke. No wonder she was dreaming about the fire. With a curse, she yanked the nightshirt over her head, wadded it into a ball, and was about to throw it across the room when she caught the smell of him. Ren buried her nose into it. Jerin. Beautiful, talented, sexy Jerin. She let the memories of him crowd out the nightmare. His sweet kisses. His warm skin. His long, silky hair. The delight he triggered in her body. The last made her giggle, hugging the shirt to her.

  Oh, she must be insane-as insane as Odelia! Making love to a farmers’ son on the kitchen floor. Her mothers would die! His mothers would kill her!

  Raven’s tap came at the door.

  “Enter,” she called, trying to control her grin and failing.

  “We are in a good mood.” Raven used the royal plural. The captain carried a steaming pail of water.

  “We are.” Ren unrolled the nightshirt and carefully folded it, vowing to herself never to wash it. A farmers’ son, no matter how beautiful or talented, could never be prince consort. Last night, though, had been glorious, and stopping where they did made it all the more pure.

  Raven lifted one eyebrow in question and poured the water into the washbasin bowl. “The Queens Justice rode in with the false dawn. They spent the last of yesterday sweeping the woods and the neighboring lands for five miles. A lot of tracks, many from us when we were searching for Odelia. No sign, though, of the guns or Odelia’s attackers. They’ll be combing them again today.”

  “I didn’t expect any.” Ren stashed the folded nightshirt into her travel bags. “The thieves had since the night before last to tuck the guns away. The Whistlers found Odelia hours before we arrived, and we waited about an hour for Queens Justice to arrive. Odelia’s attackers would have been complete fools to wait around for a second chance.”

  “So you think they’re gone?”

  “Certainly it’s a far more comforting thought than the idea of them lurking behind every bush, looking for an open shot.” Ren splashed warm water onto her face.

  “Bounder had a theory on why the attackers didn’t use pistols. She says that the Whistlers are notoriously rough on poachers. A shot fired would have brought them out in force, and no one in their right mind would want to take the Whistlers on.”

  Water dripping from her chin, Ren looked at Raven. “Only locals would know about the Whistlers. She thinks one of the locals had a go at Odelia?”

  “Heron Landing apparently has a good bit of river trash.” Raven named the nearest town, home of Bounder’s garrison, at least ten miles from the Whistlers’ farm. “Seasonal workers, outcasts, drifters, all of whom have been in the area long enough to learn about the Whistlers, and wouldn’t be above doing some dirty work for hire. It would fit the description of the riders Heria saw.”

  Disposal tools. Did they even know who Odelia was? Or had they been told just to kill the red-haired woman on the roan mare? Considering her family’s reputation at meting out seve
re punishment for regicide, one could almost be sure that the hired thugs were kept ignorant.

  Still, the ignorant disposal tools were human beings. They might have seen or heard something they weren’t supposed to. information they’d gladly trade for their lives.

  “Is there a sheriff for Heron Landing?” Ren asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Have the sheriff round up all the trash. Check them for studded truncheons. Find out where they were yesterday. See if any of them heard of someone hiring for a killing. Have her use whatever means she needs to find us a lead.”

  “Yes. Your Highness.” Raven gave a slight bow and left.

  Ren dried her face, watching the door close behind the captain of her guard. Raven never called her

  “Your Highness” in private, never bowed. Why the sudden change? Was this some subtle hint that Raven thought Ren was finally acting like a firstborn?

  Jerin woke shortly after dawn as normal. He bathed quickly in the washbasin, brushed out his hair, braided it into one long braid, and pulled on his best shirt, a blue chambray that matched his eyes. After waking Doric and helping the ten-year-old brush out his hair and braid it, Jerin sent him out to gather eggs in the henhouse. Liam and baby Kai, Jerin gathered up and carried downstairs into the kitchen.

  Corelle, Eva, and Kira had gotten up earlier to tend the stock. Heria had the cook fire built up for breakfast. Summer had organized the youngest sisters and they were carrying in pails of fresh milk for breakfast.

  Jerin now put the many hands to work setting tables, fetching jars of clotted cream from the springhouse, opening crocks of blackberry jam and apple butter, cutting slices of yesterday’s leftover bread to toast, fetching a wheel of sharp white cheese and slicing it down, mashing cold potatoes to make potato pancakes, and boiling the fresh eggs. As there were guests for breakfast. Jerin had Heria fetch a leg of ham from the smoke shed. For the occasion of guests too, he brought out a crock of maple syrup. He had no more than opened it when every finger in the room seemed to gravitate toward it.

  “No fingers!” He tapped Doric’s outstretched hands with his long mixing spoon. “Wait for it.”