Prince of Honor (House of Terriot Book 1)

by Nancy Gideon

  “My prince. All is well.”

  “Thank you, Tony. Good night.”

  “And you have a good night, too.”

  Was there a touch of sly amusement beneath that remark?

  Turow ducked inside the dark room to find a slumbering shape beneath his covers on his ridiculously small bed. Just the sound of her rhythmic breathing sent heat rushing to his groin.

  My mate. Here again, at last.

  Here in his bachelor accommodations without the most meager of amenities. Left alone all evening to worry and wonder over their fate.

  He so sucked at being a provider.

  The thought of requesting anything from her, even a spot at her side after such blatant neglect, deflated his intentions.

  He made his own regretful bed in the sparse comfort of his lone chair, left to troubled thoughts he found equally uncomfortable as hours ticked by.

  Turow woke to sunlight slanting across his face and the crawly feel of someone staring at him. He quickly straightened, nearly falling off his chair to the cool amusement of the female eyeballing him from the edge of the bed.

  She wore the same crumpled clothing from the day before, her glorious hair bound loosely back, her face scrubbed clean of any make-up. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe, until he caught the undercurrent of her temper.

  “Is it your plan to starve me into submission? I haven’t had so much as a sip of water since yesterday afternoon except out of the bathroom faucet. I would hope you’d treat a dog better. At least I didn’t have to depend on you to let me out to do my business.

  Oh, he SO sucked!

  “I was at the Lodge with Cale,” he stammered stupidly.

  “Oh. And I could have just yelled to you out the window.”

  His brows lowered at the attack. “You’re not a prisoner here.”

  “Really? Someone forgot to tell that to me and my jailer. I’m sure the thought of me safely tucked away under lock and key with nothing but your reading material never crossed your mind while kowtowing to our king.”

  Her slur toward Cale overcame his horror at the thought of her leafing through his magazines . . . at least without him present to enjoy it.

  “He spared our lives. I owed him the courtesy of filling him in.”

  “And you owed me the courtesy of letting me know he didn’t have you murdered!”

  She’d been worried about him?

  Before a silly smile could escape, she skewered him with her glare. “Is it too much to hope for a hot breakfast and shampoo that doesn’t make me smell like a man?”

  “Oh, I don’t think anyone would mistake you for that.”

  The words were out before he could catch them. She glowered a moment then decided to take the compliment, awkward though it was. Her stiff pose didn’t lessen.

  “Am I a prisoner in this room?”

  “You’re my mate.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  He considered it then said, “For a while it would be best for you to only go out with me.”

  “And what part of that doesn’t say prisoner?”

  “For your safety. Until the others get used to you being here.”

  “Am I in danger?”

  “Did you think you wouldn’t be?”

  She exhaled, the tension leaving her shoulders. “I guess not. You’re right, of course. I’m sorry. I’m cranky before coffee.” They shared faint smiles before she asked, “Are any of my belongings still here?”

  “I don’t know.” Why didn’t he know? Why hadn’t he thought to ask Kendra? “If not, we can drive into town and pick up whatever you need.”

  “And store it where? This isn’t exactly the bridal suite.”

  He refused to apologize again, instead saying, “I’ll see if other arrangements can be made so you’ll be more comfortable.”

  “Can I be?” At his perplexed look, she elaborated. “Can I ever feel comfortable here again?”

  Miserably, he said, “If it gets too bad, you can stay at my grandm—” He glanced up, sentence breaking off when he saw the picture turned face to the wall.

  Sylvia arched a brow. “She disapproved of me in her grandson’s bed.”

  Too relieved not to laugh his way out of his sudden sorrow, Turow stood and offered his arm. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

  The curl of her hand at his elbow settled everything for him. She was where she belonged.

  With him.

  Because she had no coat, he wrapped her in one of his to brace the cold outside, but it was no protection against the chill they met inside the Lodge where his brothers and their families met for a hot buffet, which was a far step up from what was served in the singles’ dorms.

  Seeing them gathered at the long table picking over the selections, Sylvia experienced a moment of uncharacteristic cowardice. Standing before his brothers and their mates the night before required a necessary bravado. Bumping elbows with them over bacon and biscuits implied a familiarity she didn’t think they were ready to choke down.

  She gestured to a small table a light year away from where the rest congregated. “I’m not really hungry. Could you bring me some coffee? I’ll wait for you here.”

  He held to her a moment longer than it took him to reply, studying her features as if looking for deeper meaning, frowning with the frustration of not finding it. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  She forced a smile. “Take your time. Enjoy your family. I know you missed them.”

  “You’re my family.”

  His predictable answer made her sigh. So stiffly formal, with an argumentative edge. “Don’t let that get in your way this morning. Go on. I’ll be fine.”

  It took a firm push to move him. Still, he continued on alone with obvious reluctance, keeping her in view until she’d settled at the table with an unconcerned air of acceptance and waved him on. When Kendra quickly embraced him into their familial fold, Sylvia glanced away, struggling to swallow down the ache of exclusion.

  “So, you managed to catch a prince, after all. Had to fall a few pegs down from the top, I see.”

  Fawn Terriot, Stephen’s mate, was one of her former sycophants. That tide had obviously turned. The other female stared down at her in disdain.

  “That’s not how I see it.”

  Fawn laughed, an unpleasant sound. “Not when you’re looking up from the bottom, I suppose.”

  A strange prickle stirred on the back of Sylvia’s neck and continued to move through her in an increasing wave. It took a moment to recognize it for what it was. Protective fury. Not toward herself but for her mate.

  “I would hardly call my prince unworthy.”

  Another derisive chuckle. “That’s not what you used to say when you made fun of the way he pursued you. A clumsy puppy dog, I believe you called him. Something you could be fond of but never attracted to.”

  Had she said that? The cruel way Fawn reminded her gave those careless words a whole new meaning. She heard the meanness in them and cringed at her own callous treatment of the only Terriot who hadn’t used and disabused her in her climb up the princely ladder in search of a crown. She’d never laughed at his suit in her heart, even though she’d spurned his worth for her friends’ amusement.

  Her glance cut across the room to where her noble prince stood sharing his remote smile and sparse conversation with his queen. Unworthy? Assessing him now, a stunning revelation struck.

  She’d managed to have and hold onto the best of the lot.

  “Perhaps that was true once,” Sylvia admitted, “but look at him now. Capable, strong, honorable, faithful, his king’s right hand. All those things your mate will never be. Perhaps because every time you present him with a new child he has to wonder which of his brothers she resembles, and looks for that answer in a bottle.”

  Fawn’s fingers curled into red-tipped talons, eager to seek the mocking eyes of the now nemesis who saw far too much. “At least my prince knew what he was getting. Yours will be shattered by
the truth of what he’s taken to his bed.”

  Rewarded by Sylvia’s deathly pallor, Fawn smirked and swept away, still stewing with indignation.

  How had she known? What did she know? Had rumors circulated? Would they once again stir with dark malevolence at the hands of the spiteful Fawn?

  Would the secret her mother silenced long ago ruin the one decent thing she’d managed to grab on to?

  CHAPTER TEN

  “What do you mean gone? Everything?”

  Turow looked so devastated Kendra touched his arm to soften the blow. “They stripped her rooms clean, took what they wanted, destroyed the rest. There’s nothing, Turow. I’m sorry.”

  He took a tight breath and let it out in a hard puff. “I understand. I do. But how am I going to tell her that everything she had, everything she was, is—” He couldn’t finish.

  “Start over. It won’t be easy. But you knew that.”

  “Yeah, because I have so much to offer. A crappy room with a bed too small for us to sleep in together. Her life is destroyed, and now her mate, after all his big talk, can’t even provide a decent place for her to sit down.” Hearing his lament, he flushed deeply, ashamed of his confession. “I’m sorry. That was TMI.”

  “Take our place.”

  Turow thought he’d heard wrong. “What?”

  “Our lodge. We’re going to need more room soon, so we moved into one with more bedrooms.”

  He blinked. “More bedrooms?” His jaw loosened. “Do you mean—?”

  In answer, the Terriot queen’s grin spread wide.

  Sylvia watched them from her place of shame, the way Kendra touched her mate’s arm, the way he seemed so eager to bare his soul. She couldn’t identify what rumbled through her because she’d never felt such a strong territorial urge before.

  And then he let out an excited shout, scooping their queen up in his arms to twirl them about before remembering himself and setting her carefully on her feet. She was laughing, glowing, as she placed her hand to her flat middle.

  Cale Terriot had an heir on the way!

  Envy cut to her core. But not because she wished their places were exchanged. She turned away from the sight of her mate’s unbridled joy, knowing she’d never bring him that degree of reckless happiness.

  Needing to escape her grim glimpse into the future, she headed aimlessly for the bathroom just outside the great hall’s doors that closed off the sound of family merriment behind her. Excluding it as they excluded her.

  What a fool she was, harboring silly dreams of her and Turow standing together as outcasts, just the two of them against their clan. His bold actions of the night before quickened those strange romantic fantasies as she’d waited up for him on that impossibly tiny bed. To be shunned alone didn’t hold the same sting as having another willing to share her isolation.

  But this was not the quiet shadow of his former self who had braced their king and demanded an apology. An apology! It wasn’t that same bashful prince who’d made such a fierce spectacle last night and an emotional one moments ago. Somehow, in her absence Turow had stepped from preferred anonymity to embrace his place amongst his peers. And once he was fully welcomed into that fraternal group, where would that leave her as the anchor dragging him from acceptability?

  After splashing water on her colorless face, Sylvia moved the shoulder of her sweater aside to study the faint scars left by Turow’s claiming bite. It was no badge of honor, rather one of desperation and disgrace. A joke. A sham. A cruel trick upon a good man who deserved what she could never give him.

  A reason to whoop out loud in public in excited delight, knowing others shared his joy.

  She dried her skin and thrust back her shoulders, determined not to serve as a greater embarrassment to that good man than she already had. If she couldn’t be the mate he deserved, she should be one who didn’t dishonor him.

  At least until another solution arrived.

  With that conviction held close, she turned out of the bathroom and ran straight into Stephen Terriot.

  Turow’s younger brother reeked of alcohol before the hour matured beyond breakfast. His grip bit into her upper arms as he leaned in close to sneer, “You got some balls on you strutting around, looking down your nose at our decent females. If Turow doesn’t have a big enough pair to keep you in line, someone will have to step in for him and show you your place.”

  It took all her control not to cry out or struggle to escape. She couldn’t afford to make a scene. So she did what she always did, cloaking fear with fire, leaning into that fetid breath to hiss, “And that’s you? Take your hands off me, you drunken ass. There’s nothing you could possibly show me. You forget, I’ve seen you at your best, before you fell into a bottle. And even then you weren’t man enough for me to remember beyond the minute.”

  His once handsome face mottled with rage. “Shut your dirty mouth, whore. Just because Cale can’t see beyond their bromance to knock some sense into that fool you managed to latch onto, doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t know exactly what you are.” His hand shot out to catch her slap, the other closing about her throat to silence any outcry as he panted into her face, “Traitor. Bitch. Slut.”

  As he growled that last, he leaned into her, rubbing his surprisingly hard body against hers. And that’s when she knew real alarm. They were alone, cut off from the others, out of sight and probably out of mind. Who would miss them for the moments it took for him to exact his revenge of choice?

  She tried to draw a breath, to force a scream, but the compression about her throat tightened until black and red spots flared before her eyes. Silently, she cried out one name.

  “Turow!”

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, she was free, staggering, gasping for sweet oxygen as her mate caught his brother by the side of the head, smashing it against the wall.

  It was a Turow she’d never seen before. Enraged. Beyond the edge of control.

  Glorious!

  He said nothing, letting actions speak for him as he continued to bash Stephen to a bloody mess.

  Finally, Sylvia’s paralysis broke. She grabbed Turow’s arm, hanging on it as muscles bunched with incredible power, pulling his attention from the half-conscious figure he had pinned and helpless.

  “Turow! Row, stop! Please! You can’t!”

  He turned to her, maddened stare sparking dangerously, on the edge of letting his inner animal roar to life to end his brother’s.

  “Please, don’t,” she petitioned, forcing him to hold her pleading gaze until the bloodlust left his own. “Let him go. Just let it go. It’s my fault.”

  “Your fault?” He looked between them, hesitating, giving Stephen the chance to try to save his miserable life.

  “It was her,” he cried. “She wanted it. You know what she is. You knew what would happen when you brought her here.”

  Turow looked back to her, tense, questioning just long enough for Sylvia’s hopes to shatter. He believed it.

  Crushed, she whispered, “Let him go, Turow. It’s not worth it.” She wasn’t worth it.

  Without a word, Turow strode toward the main hall, dragging a squirming Stephen by his collar in his wake. Helplessly, Sylvia followed as all attention turned toward them.

  Cale glanced down at the bloodied figure thrown at his feet then up into his other brother’s lurid eyes.

  “This bastard put his hands on my mate,” Turow snarled, voice low and harsh, unrecognizable. “I demand my right to justice by combat as a prince in the House of Terriot.”

  Their king looked from his seething facade to the female shivering in his shadow. Bruises stood out on her throat even as she shook her head, denying Turow’s claim.

  “Please, my king. It was nothing.”

  “Granted,” he told Turow then gestured to the nearly insensible figure on the floor. “Clean him up. Get him sober. He’s got until after dinner to address his sins before his family.”

  “No!”

  Fawn raced forward to fling herself upon
her mate. Her glare cut to Sylvia then rose in tearful petition. “No, my king. It’s was her! She encouraged his shameful behavior.”

  “Is that what happened?” Cale looked to Sylvia for her answer.

  To say yes would end the matter without further violence. To say yes would stain her noble prince with the dishonor of a faithless mate and humiliate him before his family.

  “No, my king,” was her quiet reply.

  Cale nodded and turned to Kendra. “Make sure she’s all right.”

  “Thank you, my king.”

  Cale responded to Turow’s remark with an impartial nod and a grim, “Prepare.”

  As Turow followed Cale from the hall, a firm hand caught Sylvia’s elbow before she was foolish enough to follow.

  “Did that drunken fool hurt you? Do I need to make a claim against whatever Row leaves behind?”

  She smiled weakly up at the half-brother who hadn’t approached her until now, right when she needed his strength to sustain her. “No. It’s gotten totally out of hand.”

  Wesley crooked a smile. “And that’s so not like Turow to go all ballistic over some little bit of nonsense. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen his hackles up. Kinda impressive. And a little bit scary.”

  “It must be the bond,” she muttered miserably as he drew her away from the eyes of the curious and condemning.

  Wesley shrugged non-committedly then asked, “How are you really? Did that bastard James harm you?”

  “I believe he meant to do more than that if he caught me.” An involuntary tremor didn’t escape his notice. And the presence of another at his side didn’t escape hers.

  Rosie. That was her name. The bouncy bubblehead, James’s distant cousin, who was reportedly out to snag Wes and was now Kendra’s confidante. Eyes absolutely huge, she squeezed Sylvia’s arm.

  “You are so brave, surviving such awful things.”

  “Not so brave considering the alternative.”

  Rosie laughed at her wry remark and babbled on. “Kendra mentioned that all you have is on your back since the others looted everything you left behind when you and your mother fled with James.” She gushed on, not noticing Sylvia’s sudden pallor. “Since Turow will be doing his macho stuff until tonight, I think we girls should make a day of it and burn through a little of his bank account.”