“Easy, kitten. I never intended to harm you. And I’d never let anything happen to you. Ever.” And he meant the words as they spilled from his mouth unaware.
“You could’ve told me sooner,” she muffled, her arms about his waist. “I could’ve stabbed you.”
He laughed. “No, you couldn’t. But I admire your spirit in thinking so.”
“Arrogant man.”
He continued to stroke and soothe her. The sensation buoyed his spirit somehow, to have this small, beautiful, fierce woman clinging to him for comfort. He’d never known the like. Warmth spread from his chest outward, a small ball of fire he knew would grow and consume him. Yet, he welcomed the burn.
“The Pearl Tower has been empty for a terribly long time. And I’m more than happy for you and your children to reside here as long as you need. The other rooms may take some cleaning, as they’ve been closed off for a long while, and you will have privacy here. This is the farthest tower from the central quarters of the castle.”
“But this room, the one you’ve assigned to me, has been well-kept. As if someone has cared for it, even while no one lives here.”
“Yes.” He found himself opening the door where he’d locked his ghosts away fifteen years ago. “It was my mother’s chambers.”
“Oh,” came the soft reply.
He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and stepped away, letting her slip out of his arms. “I’ll leave you to get ready for dinner. One hour. I hope your children are hungry. My cook, Olog, is planning a feast.”
“My children? They’re always hungry.”
He returned her warm smile and stepped back through the bedchamber that had been his mother’s personal oasis away from his father and the rest of the world. Yes, he’d made sure the servants kept this room clean and beautiful. He would often find himself walking toward this western tower, climbing to the very balcony he just stood upon to see the world as his mother once had. She was the one he had connected with as a child, not his heartless father. Or cruel uncle.
This castle had been built by his father’s father and had become their home when his father had wed the beautiful but withdrawn Varis princess Katerina, only daughter born of the imperial royal couple, King Grindal and Queen Morgrid. Little did Friedrich’s father know, that wedding day had sealed his doom. His days as an immortal had become shorter and shorter. Till time ran out. And Friedrich’s mother had had enough.
Content that Brennalyn would be sleeping in the warm and luxurious room of his beloved mother, he stepped out into the hallway to a ruckus of noise in one of the children’s bedrooms. Girlish giggles erupted and echoed into the corridor. He stopped and peeked in to find the little one, Izzy, jumping on one of the two giant beds set on the right wall, the gossamer bed curtains billowing out each time she hit the mattress. The Pearl Tower was meant to serve as guest quarters for royalty and nobility when there were great balls here in his grandfather’s time. Friedrich had never been one to host balls so they’d sat empty all these years.
“Oh, Izzy, stop jumping,” said the eldest of Brenna’s children, Helena. “You must calm down.”
“She can’t help it,” said another of Brenna’s daughters, next in age to the eldest. “This is rather exciting circumstances.”
“We’re living in a castle, Helena!” squealed Izzy. “Nevew in my whole wife did I—”
Izzy gasped when she saw him standing in the doorway. The elder girl spun and curtsied. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. Isabelle is just a little excited is all.”
The second girl dropped the skirt she was folding, quickly picked it up, then fell into a quick curtsy.
He smiled with a bow of the head. “I don’t mind at all, Helena. I’m sorry, but I haven’t met your sister here.”
“I—I am Beatrice.”
She was a sweet-faced girl with shiny, honey-blonde hair, not dark like Helena. She was not the striking young beauty as Helena, but she bore a strength in her gray eyes and the set of her chin he attributed to Brennalyn. Her skin was an olive tone like the people of the western kingdom of Pyros. He found himself wondering about the parents of these children, feeling sympathy for their loss.
“Pleasure to meet you, Beatrice. I hope you all are hungry. My cook is delighted to have more mouths to feed, believe it or not.”
The girls smiled at the mention of food. Were all children so eager to eat? The little one plopped her bottom to the bed. “I kept your picture!” she exclaimed, hopping off the bed and scurrying to a sideboard littered with girlish trinkets—a doll, brushes and combs, ribbons. She pulled out a piece of parchment and ran to him, holding out the drawing he’d sketched for her and the quiet boy earlier today.
“I see that you did.” He glanced at the portrait, thinking he’d quite captured her likeness. As he saw her. “And did you practice what I taught you?”
Her little mouth turned down. “A little. But then we had to pack evewything.”
“Right. How silly of me.” He crouched down to her eye level and handed the picture back. “Well, you keep this. It’s yours.”
Her sky-blue eyes brightened with a smile that could light up the darkest cave. “Weally?”
“Yes. And I’ll tell you something else.” He tapped her lightly on the nose. “Tomorrow, I have a surprise for you and your brother, Denny. I have a studio of my very own here in the castle with as much parchment, charcoal, and paint you could possibly want.”
Her tiny mouth fell open into an O.
“Tomorrow, I’ll show you. But now you must all get ready for dinner. I’ll see you then.”
He dipped a bow to the older girls, who curtsied. Izzy simply waved a good-bye and skipped back into the room. He walked farther down the corridor, the boisterous chattering of young male voices coming from the connecting suites where Brenna’s boys were settled. One of them had been in his own bedchamber when he was quite young.
“Do you think it’s real, though?” asked a young preadolescent boy. Must be the one called Emmett.
“Indeed. It’s very real.” Definitely the eldest, Caden.
He was now level with the doorway and watched them staring at a double-headed ax mounted on the wall.
“Well, I know it’s real. But maybe it’s just there for show. Might not have seen any battles at all,” said Emmett.
The youngest one, Jack, listened to his brothers argue. The quiet one, Denny, stood on their balcony looking up at the rising moon.
“Actually,” said Friedrich, stepping into the room. “That ax has seen many battles.”
They all swiveled in surprise. But Caden wasn’t fearful of him as the others seemed to be.
“Can you show it to us, Your Grace?”
Friedrich crossed the room and pulled it from the rack on the wall, holding the blade flat against his palm and lowering it to let them get a good look. Interlacing knots embossed the ironwork down the handle. The sharpened edges winked in the candlelight.
“This here is called Path-cleaver. It has seen many wars, but the most famous was the Thorn Wars. My grandfather always led his own troops into battle with Path-cleaver.” Friedrich lifted it and pretended in slow motion to slice through an invisible enemy. “To cut a path for his men, you see.”
The boys grinned and nodded, riveted to his every word. Friedrich remembered that age as a boy, captivated by any and every story of combat and war.
“The most famous battle of all was the Battle at Doreen, a vast plain in the west of the Pyros kingdom. My grandfather claimed to have killed ninety-nine men that day on the bloody field of Doreen.”
“Whoa,” said Caden, brown eyes wide. He was tall for a boy so young, his voice beginning to crack in his adolescent years, his mop of brown hair continually falling in his eyes. “Your grandfather must’ve been a great warrior. A great man, Your Grace.”
Friedrich sighed and put the ax back in its place on the wall, a relic of his bloody ancestry that haunted him. He placed a heavy hand on Caden’s shoulder, but he swept
his gaze to each of them.
“Understand this, boys. A man may be powerful and strong and wield a mighty fist. But it is not the number of his slain enemies that makes him great. It is the intent of his heart.” He put a fist to his chest. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” they replied almost in unison, though the light of recognition was strongest in Caden’s dark eyes.
With a manly pat on Caden’s back, he said, “Good. Now you best clean up for dinner.”
Then he marched away. He was out the door, but his acute hearing let him catch the exchange as he left.
“He’s not at all what I thought the vampire duke would be like,” said Emmett.
“Me either,” said Jack.
“Me either,” agreed Caden. “He’s much better.”
Friedrich had never spent time with children his whole long life. As an only child, Marius was his closest kin in age, and they became comrades when Friedrich was a young adolescent. Grant was bordering on manhood when they’d finally connected as brothers.
He was surprised how much he actually liked these children. Something about their innocent and honest look at the world made him smile to himself as he made his way down the tower stairwell. Now he understood why Brennalyn loved being a schoolteacher and why she eagerly took these children in, even when she had so little to give them.
He had plenty to give.
You could offer her more; make this her permanent home.
He shook his addled brain. What a ridiculous idea. He experienced one afternoon of the simple joy of giving solace and shelter to those in need, and suddenly he was thinking domestic thoughts. Dangerous territory for a man who’d vowed to shun marriage or anything close to it after witnessing the heartbreaking fall of his parents’ blighted union, ending in tragic death.
“Focus on the prize, Friedrich.”
Though none of this was his original plan for the seduction of Miss Snow, he now had his tigress in his lair. A satisfied growl rumbled low in his belly as he stepped down from the stairwell and crossed the corridor leading to his wing. Tonight, he’d show no mercy. He needed to be inside her, in every possible way.
He stepped into his bedchamber, finding his tub ready and waiting, water steaming. He’d take his pleasure on the supple body of Miss Snow, and he’d hear her sweet moans in his ear when he came hot and hard inside her body. He whipped off his shirt.
“Tonight.”
Chapter Thirteen
Dinner had been a feast unlike any other Brennalyn or the children had eaten in all their lives. Of course, she’d never been to the table of nobility, and certainly never to the table of a vampire duke. The table was set with silver and crystal, glittering by the candlelight of the candelabras. The fine bone-white dishes, rimmed in silver, were quite different than the tin and glassware they’d used in their old home.
She’d also never experienced the continued silence of her children at the dining table as they stuffed themselves eagerly with each new course that was set before them—a rich broth of duck soup, sliced lamb with jelly, spiced savory pudding, buttery green beans and potatoes, and a dessert of sugared almonds and raisins with candied orange slices and cream puff pastries.
She particularly enjoyed the dessert. When she found a dollop of cream on her finger, she couldn’t help but lick the tip clean. The sensation of being intently watched by her host drew her attention sideways. The smoldering of his midnight blue eyes made her jerk her hand into her lap and wipe the offending finger in her napkin.
He’d been served each course, as well, though he’d eaten very little. As the meal carried on, his catlike sprawl in the chair angled farther and farther until his broad chest and square shoulders fully faced her. His hand with the signet ring wrapped around a glass of port on the table, his forefinger lazily tapping, and Brenna had the distinct feeling he was ticking off the seconds, time winding down a clock to some inevitable explosion.
“You must thank your cook for us. The meal is absolutely delicious,” she said, taking the last sip of her wine and regretting that she’d drank the whole glass.
She didn’t drink often, and this strong blend had warmed her immensely but also had loosened the tight control she kept on herself. Whereas she should be thinking of getting the children to bed, she could only think of being alone with the vampire duke, who lazed like a lion at her side. She wanted to press her lips to the place at the base of his throat right above where sparse curls disappeared into his shirt. He’d worn no cravat and left his shirt unbuttoned, a tantalizing vee open at the top. When Beatrice spoke, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“I’ve never tasted food so wonderful, Your Grace. I wonder if I might talk to your cook sometime, as I so love learning new recipes.”
His wide mouth slanted up on one side, his heavy gaze still on Brenna for a few seconds more before he swiveled to Beatrice.
“I will introduce you to Olog tomorrow. Though most cooks are possessive and secretive of their recipes, I’m sure he’d appreciate a young apprentice as delightful as you.”
Beatrice blushed and dove back into her dessert.
“Tell me, Miss Snow.” He kept his voice low and intimate. “How in all the stars did you get that machinery into your basement by yourself?”
“I didn’t. A young man I’d once tutored helped me move here from Korinth. It took a sturdy cart and two very strong horses.”
“Indeed.”
Brenna glanced at Helena, who folded her napkin and set it on her plate, her forlorn gaze in her lap.
“Well, I’m stuffed,” announced Caden, heaving himself back in his chair and patting his stomach.
“If you’re all done, then I’ll take you back to your rooms,” said Brenna, placing her napkin on her plate and slowly rising.
They all pushed away from the long table, Friedrich’s voice rumbling soft but insistent. “I’d intended for us to speak tonight on a few matters that cannot wait.”
“Oh, I—”
“It’s all right,” said Helena across from her, taking Izzy’s hand on her left. Izzy rubbed one eye and yawned. “I’ll put them to bed.” Helena curtsied to Friedrich. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Good night,” he said with a kind smile as they filed after Helena, leaving him alone with Brenna.
She waited, standing there, never before feeling so awkward with him. Or was it something else that had her breath catching?
“What did you want to speak to me about?”
“Come.”
He held out his hand for her to take. An odd gesture. But she took it, letting him engulf her small hand in warmth and guide her toward the main staircase. He tugged her gently up the carpeted stairs and long a corridor she recognized at once. Remembering the last time she’d walked this corridor leading to his private parlor, her heart battered erratically within her breast. He stroked his thumb over her wrist, a soothing caress, as if he knew why she was suddenly nervous.
Opening the door to his parlor, he ushered her through first with a hand on the small of her back. It was as she remembered. A warm fire lit in the grate, scattered candelabras, the masculine combination of leather and dark velvet on the chaise and chairs. The scent of what she now associated with him—clean rosewood and a heady aroma she couldn’t identify, but knew was distinctly him. An open door in the corner led to a darkened room.
“Have a seat,” he said gently.
She did, taking her place on the chaise lounge, finding herself as nervous as she was the first time. He’d been stewing on something since he’d arrived at her house mid-morning and discovered she was the White Lily. But whatever he planned to discuss didn’t seem to have to do with her involvement in the resistance. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but instinct told her another surprise was coming. One she might not welcome.
He poured two glasses of amber liquor then took a seat beside her, handing her a glass.
“I honestly don’t drink very much.”
“Take it,” he said
with earnest. “You may need it.”
She cupped the cool glass in her hands, swallowing a small sip with a wince. But the burn felt strangely good.
“You mentioned…” she started but took another fortifying sip, then looked up at him, his expression grave, no charming or cocky smile in sight. “You mentioned earlier today that we had other things to discuss.”
He didn’t waste any time. “Why didn’t you tell me that you’re married?”
Her fingers clenched around the glass as she set it in her lap. She moistened her bottom lip but found she had no saliva left in her mouth. His gaze fell to the movement before meeting her own again.
“I—I did not think it relevant.”
His brow rose. “You did not think it relevant?”
“He…that is to say, we are estranged.”
“Where is he now? Still living in Korinth?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know where he is.” Another welcome sip of liquid fire, the liquor giving her courage. “He left me.”
Silence. The duke went statue-still. She wasn’t even sure he drew breath, his expression hardening.
“What fool of a man would leave you? His beautiful wife?”
She couldn’t handle the weight of his stare. Standing abruptly, she walked to the window, still clutching the glass in both hands. “He had his reasons.”
She didn’t hear him move on silent feet but felt the heat of him at her back. He turned her to face him and gently removed her glass, setting it on the window ledge. But she couldn’t look at him, shame burning up her neck and into her cheeks. He cupped her face, his large hands tilting her upward.
“What reasons, Brennalyn?”
When he said her name that way, her stomach fluttered and rolled. She yearned to hear him say it again in that deep, crooning baritone.
Despite how Elliott had hollowed her out as a woman and forced her to find her own inner strength and will to go on, she was no longer willing to let the old hurt rule her. She answered with the self-possession that had guided her out of the dark place where Elliott had abandoned her.
The White Lily (Vampire Blood series) Page 11