Braden tried to picture that delicate, exotic face framing such an insult to his sister. Surely not. Milena had smiled at him, made him think she liked him, too …
“I don’t believe you,” Braden said.
“Maybe not now. But I don’t think she’ll like it here with us.”
The tone of his voice put Braden immediately on alert. Quentin’s exaggerated, too-innocent expression was one Braden had seen many times—just before his younger brother pulled a prank on some hapless and unsuspecting victim. They were never dangerous, his little tricks, and never mean-spirited, except on those very rare occasions when he didn’t like the recipient.…
“What did you do?” Braden demanded, grabbing Quentin’s collar.
Quentin only grinned more broadly, but Braden hadn’t long to wait for an answer. There was a shriek from somewhere inside the house, loud enough for nonhuman ears to hear even through the thick walls. Braden let Quentin up and gave him a shake.
“If you hurt her—”
“Remember those flowers in the garden that made her sneeze? I just made sure she had plenty to decorate her room.” He cocked his head. “She won’t look very pretty with a runny nose.”
Braden closed his eyes. “Why, Quentin? Do you know what Grandfather will do to you when he finds out?”
Quentin knew. He’d been punished before. But he’d never played a trick on one of the family delegates.
“You’d better get out of here,” Braden said, shoving Quentin away. “Ro, go with him.”
Rowena, at least, had the wits to be frightened. She tugged at Quentin’s arm. “Come on, Quentin!”
Quentin stood his ground. “You’ll peach on me anyway, so what’s the use—”
Braden snarled and charged at Quentin. “Get out of here!”
Under any other circumstances Braden might have been pleased at how quickly Quentin obeyed. The power of Braden’s will was growing, and he could feel it coursing through his veins like the magic of the Change itself.
But he was nothing against the Earl. He swallowed and walked back to the house, reaching the broad steps just as Grandfather came charging out. His white hair was nearly on end, his eyes blazing, and such was his fury that Braden expected to be knocked from his feet.
But Barnabas stopped short, fists balled at his sides.
“Quentin,” he growled. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Braden said. “He was—”
“Do you know what he’s done? The Count’s daughter is insulted, and the Count himself—” Grandfather’s will bore down on Braden like a stifling weight of water, making it nearly impossible for him to breathe. “The Russians have threatened to break the marriage contract. Because of that boy, the alliance itself is at risk. Tell me where he is.”
For a moment Braden wavered. Quentin had to learn. But Grandfather’s way of teaching was harsh at the best of times; in his current temper he might do far worse than administer a beating.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Braden said. “I don’t know.”
There was something far more frightening about Grandfather’s sudden stillness than in his short-lived open rage. “Do you think to betray me as well?” he said quietly. “No, I’d kill you first.”
Braden shivered in spite of himself. He’d been raised from leading strings to believe that nothing mattered more than the Cause, that all else must be sacrificed to it. He had seen that principle at work in his Grandfather’s marriage to the woman he had chosen for her “pure” blood, and again with Maman and Father.
But Barnabas would not kill the carrier of the very blood he was fighting to preserve. At least not the body. But there were other things to lose …
Abruptly Grandfather took Braden’s arm in a savage grip and dragged him into the house. The Russian Count stood waiting at the foot of the grand staircase, his eyes silvery slits. Grandfather stopped before him, and some silent communication passed between lord and lord, the kind that Braden was only beginning to understand. Wills clashed, and it was the Count who broke away first.
“Go to my rooms,” Barnabas ordered his grandson, and Braden didn’t hesitate to obey. He could buy Quentin more time, and Grandfather would lose the first edge of his anger. He started up the stairs that led to the landing, which in turn ran the length of the first floor through the family and guest wings. A small group of the delegates and their mates stood watching with wary curiousity from the guest wing, but they melted away as Grandfather reached the landing. Human servants retreated with equal discretion.
Grandfather’s suite was a place for which Braden had never borne much affection. Here punishments were meted out, lectures given. And here the weight of the Cause was overwhelming.
Ancient armor stood against the wall, shields and weapons surviving from a more savage time. The Forster blood went much farther back than this house had existed, though the names Braden’s ancestors carried had changed with the centuries. There was nothing of gentleness in the room. It was icy, for Barnabas denied anything that hinted of a human weakness. The loups-garous did not suffer from mere cold.
Grandfather sat down in his hard-backed chair. “Stand where you are, and listen,” he said. “I had believed you were old enough to understand. I was mistaken. I shall make it clear to you again. Quentin is only worth to me whatever children he can sire. Rowena is the same. But you—you I expect far more.”
Braden lifted his chin. “I understand my duty.”
“No.” Barnabas pounded his fist on the carved arm of the chair. “But you will, before I am done with you. Your father was worse than useless, but your blood is strong. You will not betray me in the end.” He stood up and walked to the old mullioned window that looked over the park. His voice dropped to a rasping whisper. “I’ve been betrayed twice before. My dear sister eloped with a human before her marriage to the man I had chosen for her could take place. She rejected the ways of our people. And William’s daughter ran off with some American peasant. He and Fenella have been dead these five years, and their daughter and her mate and whatever children they’ve produced are lost to the Cause.”
“But if we could find them—” Braden said.
“In time they will be brought back. You will do it if I …” But it was impossible for Grandfather to speak of failure, or death. “There will be no more betrayals.”
The passion and anguish in Barnabas’s voice was very real and utterly unexpected, and it struck at Braden’s heart as nothing else might have done. Grandfather had spent his life trying to save a race, and his own siblings had turned their backs on him. Only his innate power had kept the other werewolves cooperative when they had cause to doubt his strength and authority, even over his own family.
The loups-garous respected strength. But loyalty to family was burned into their very souls, and so a brother’s and a sister’s rebellions were wounds that would not heal. Braden could not imagine Quentin and Rowena doing that to him. Never.
He crept across the worn carpet to his grandfather’s side. “I won’t do what they did,” he promised. “I won’t let the Cause die.”
Grandfather looked at him, and it was as if he’d never slipped to reveal a single moment of vulnerability. “By the time I’m finished with you, you will have no other purpose. You will live for the Cause, as I have. Nothing else will matter to you. Do you understand?”
Braden could say nothing. Grandfather’s stare held him like the man-traps set in the woods to catch human poachers, and his tongue was leaden.
“You will never lie to me again. Today you will track down your brother and bring him to me. Then you shall administer the punishment the Count himself selects. Go.”
Behind those words lay no room for negotiation, no latitude for compassion or mercy. The lesson was meant not for Quentin, but for Braden himself. It would be fashioned so as never to be forgotten.
Braden turned and left the room, his mind a blank. He followed the landing to a door that led into several twisting, narrow corridors, hid
den stairs, and a back entrance used by the servants. There he paused, scenting the evening; autumn was coming, and he could smell hay and heather and sheep and the smooth-flowing waters of the river below the great sloping park.
He discarded his clothes behind the shrubbery along the wall and Changed with a single thought. On four legs he ran through the gardens, past the open park and into the woods an ancient ancestor had begun and Barnabas had nurtured, until now it was far greater than any private wood in northern England.
As he ran, leaping the burn and dodging pine and oak and ash, he ignored the spoor of rabbit and fox and all the other small creatures that shared the wood. There was only one he hunted. And soon enough he found the familiar scent. But it was Rowena who met him, her eyes wide and her face pale. Her skirt was muddied, her hair snarled with twigs and leaves.
“What will they do to him?” she whispered.
Braden Changed, and Rowena quickly looked away. Her modesty had always been exaggerated, but Braden had no time for her almost-human sensibilities.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“Did you come to get him?”
“I came to tell him to stay away.” Braden wrapped his arms around his chest, though he hardly felt the chill in the air. “Grandfather told me to bring him back. The Count is to decide his punishment. But if Quentin stays away until the Russians leave, maybe it won’t be so bad.”
Rowena bit her lip. “You’ll get into trouble if you don’t bring him back.”
Braden shrugged. “I know Quentin can find somewhere to hide for a few days. When you see Quentin, tell him—”
“You can tell me yourself.” Quentin emerged from behind a thick stand of trees, his habitual smile nowhere in evidence. “I’m no coward. It’s my fault. I’ll come back with you.”
“No.” Braden glared at his younger brother, working his will. “You’re not as strong as I am, and Grandfather has never liked you. But you owe me for this, Quentin. Never forget that you owe me.”
Quentin clenched and unclenched his fists. “I won’t forget.”
Braden glanced at Rowena. “You’d better come back. Just stay away from Grandfather for a while. The delegates will be leaving soon, and things will be back to normal.”
Normal. As normal as they ever were at Greyburn.
“I’ll come to check on you, if I can,” Braden said to Quentin. “But stay out of trouble, for once.”
They stared at each other. Rowena wept without making a sound. After a moment Quentin took a step backward, and then another, until he had vanished behind the trees again.
Later Braden would talk to Rowena, try to comfort her if she’d let him. But she’d always been closer to Quentin, and the separation would be hard for her. He repeated his command that she return to the house, and then Changed once more.
His run home was not so swift nor certain. He knew what would come when he admitted his failure to Barnabas. The pain he could bear, but the humiliation and his grandfather’s scorn would cut far more keenly than the whip.
But he would bear it without flinching, to prove his strength. To show he could not be broken. He would be worthy to carry on the work of the Cause.
I will, Grandfather, he promised. I will make our people strong again. Nothing will stop me, ever.
Within half a mile of the house he angled away and ran to the top of Rook Knowe. From here he could look down into the valley, across the small fields and isolated cottages and beyond to row upon row of heather-clad, treeless hills marching into the distance. This was his country; he loved it as he loved Greyburn, its hardy human tenants, the bleakness of a landscape that had been disputed and fought over and conquered time and again, but never been wholly tamed.
Yes, he would devote himself to the Cause. But he, unlike Barnabas, would find room in his life for other things. For family affection. For the beauty of moor and wood and burn. For the possibility of love in an arranged marriage. For an ideal not driven by anger and bitterness.
I’ll do my duty, Lord Greyburn. But I’ll do it my way, not yours.
Braden believed with all his heart that it was a promise he could keep forever.
Also by Susan Krinard
ONCE A WOLF
TOUCH OF THE WOLF
MY GUARDIAN ANGEL
TWICE A HERO
PRINCE OF SHADOWS
PRINCE OF DREAMS
STAR-CROSSED
PRINCE OF WOLVES
About the Author
Susan Krinard graduated from the California College of Arts and Crafts with a BFA, and worked as an artist and freelance illustrator before turning to writing. An admirer of both Romance and Fantasy, Susan enjoys combining these elements in her books. She also loves to get out into nature as frequently as possible. A native Californian, Susan lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her French-Canadian husband, Serge, a dog, and a cat.
Susan loves to hear from her readers. She can be reached at:
P.O. Box 272545
Concord, CA 94527
Please send a self-addressed stamped envelope for a personal reply. Susan’s e-mail address is:
[email protected]
and her web page is located at:
http://members.aol.com/skrinard/
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