“All too well,” Kaelan admitted. He held up a hand when Nick would have reprimanded his sister again. “I find I need to ... Lord Cree, would you...?"
“Nick!” the other man emphasized. “If I am to call you by your given name, I request the same thing of you.” He waved his hand at his sister. “Go."
Gillian's back stiffened. “Why?"
Nicholas Cree squinted at her. “Care you to see him pissing, Milady Gillian?"
A brilliant flush passed over Gillian's face. “I think not,” she muttered.
“Then wait in the hallway,” Nick ordered. He looked about for a chamberpot, spied it in the corner and went to retrieve it as his sister slammed the door behind her. “That woman can be as stubborn as a Diabolusian mule.” He brought the chamberpot back and placed it on the floor. “Do you need help in getting up?"
Kaelan shook his head. He smiled his thanks as Nick threw the covers from him, only vaguely ashamed of his nakedness as he swung his legs from the bed and over the side. He sat there a moment, his head swimming, then reached up to grip the head post, but found he was too weak to pull himself up.
“There's no disgrace in asking for help,” Nick reminded him.
Kaelan didn't respond. He finished, then looked around for his clothes. “Where are my breeches?"
“They are drying,” Nick said. “I'll get you some clean ones."
“There are no clean ones.” Kaelan met Nick's questioning gaze. “I'm not all that good at household chores. There are breeches in the armoire but they're soiled."
Astonishment made the other man's mouth sag open. “You've been doing your own laundry, milord?” Nick snapped his mouth shut, sensing the shame that was flooding the prince's soul. “Bloody hell!” Dark green eyes flared with fury. “I'll be a Diabolusian warthog if I'll not find you a woman to see to your needs, milord!"
Kaelan eased himself from Nick's hold and sat back down on the bed. “You'll not find a single woman in all of Harbor Province who'd come here, Nick."
“Why the hell not?” Nick snarled. He was mortally offended that a member of the royal family should be treated in so despicable a manner.
“They hate me,” was the answer as Kaelan laid down. He locked his calm gaze with Nick's furious one as the other man bent to cover him again. “As far as the village folk are concerned, they'll celebrate the day I leave this world."
Before Nick could comment, there was an impatient knock on the door. “What?” he thundered.
“It's cold out here!” his sister shouted back.
An exasperated expulsion of breath came from Nicholas Cree. “Then come in, you silly chit!"
Gillian flung the door open, flashed her brother a nasty look, then hurried to the fire. She was shivering and her cheeks were bright from the cold. The thin cotton wrapper she'd found did nothing to protect her from the biting chill. Holding her hands out to the flame, she cast a mutinous look at the chamberpot. “I'll not empty that, Nick,” she stated.
“Have I asked you to, woman?” her brother shot back. He stooped over, took up the pot and went out.
The silence which settled over the room was palpable. Only the crackling of the flames and the gentle bubbling of the stew broke the stillness. Gillian turned her backside to the fire, studiously avoiding looking at the man on the bed, who was watching her intently. Finally, his unwavering contemplation of her unnerved Gillian and she cast him a narrowed look.
“Has no one ever told you it is impolite to stare, Milord Hesar?"
Kaelan lowered his gaze. “Your pardon, milady,” he replied. He felt her rejection to the very bottom of his heart. Yet, he thought as he still watched her out of the corner of his eye, there had been a time when she had sought out his company...
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Nine: Nine Years Earlier: Tempest Keep
Kaelan drew in his steed, bent forward in the saddle to rest his forearms on the pommel, and sat watching the harvest activities going on in the valley below. From the crest of the hill on which he rested, he could look out over all of Tempest Village and even observe most of the mighty fortress of Tempest Keep d the dogged authority of his father and brother. Here, he could dream the dreams he wasn't allowed to dream at Tempest Keep and have some brief peace of mind in which he could consider himself his own man; that was not possible at the Keep.
Revenge, his jet black stallion, snorted, tossed its sleek ebony head, then pawed the rocky ground impatiently. His mount wanted a sort of freedom of its own: the wild rush of passing wind along its powerful body.
“In a minute, boy,” Kaelan said softly, patting the horse's long neck.
He straightened in the saddle as he caught sight of a barkentine just off the Point. The ship, its billowing sails straining, was tacking toward the harbor. “That would be the Chalean Ambassador,” he said aloud.
His steed pawed the ground again, snorting its displeasure at being held still.
“All right!” Kaelan laughed. He pulled on the reins, turning his mount, then kicked Revenge gently in the flanks. “You want to run? Then run!"
From the deck of the Banshees, thirteen year old Gillian Elizabeth Cree spied the dark rider racing along the top of the hill. She braced herself against the rail and sighed. Horses were her passion—she'd yet to discover boys—and even from this distance she recognized good bloodlines in the steed that stretched its powerful body over the heath.
“That be His Grace, Prince Kaelan, most likely,” the first mate told her as he came to slump against the rail. The little bow-legged man pointed the stem of his pipe toward the distant rider. “Gonna break his fool neck one of these days, I'm thinking."
Gillian narrowed her gaze. She'd been watching the horse. As she focused on the blurred form of the rider, she shook her head. “No. He knows what he's doing."
“Hell-steed that beast be,” the first mate pronounced. He sniffed, knocked the bowl of his pipe against the rail to scatter the ashes, then pocketed it. “Born under as evil a star as its owner, I reckon."
The teenage girl glanced quickly at her companion. “How so, Mister Stevens?"
Hobert Stevens shrugged. “The prince was born on the Winter Solstice, he was. Bad luck, that. Revenge be born on the same night fifteen year after."
Gillian turned her attention back to the horse just as it disappeared over the rim of the distant hill. “Revenge? That's the steed's name?"
“Aye,” Stevens answered. “Young Kaelan named him so ‘cause he said he'd finally found a horse that could best his brother's Rysalian mount, Sirocco."
Intrigued, the teenager turned eager eyes to the old man. “And had he?"
Stevens chuckled. “Aye, he did, Lady Gillian. Five lengths worth of besting, or so I was told, when they raced one another last year!"
Admiration glinted in the brilliant green orbs that looked up at Hobert Stevens. “Do you think I could ride him, Mister Stevens?"
The old man drew in a breath. A beauty she'll be, this one, the first mate thought. One had only to overlook the gangling arms and legs and scrawny body, the flame-gold hair and waif's eyes to see the beautiful woman she would one day become. All the right curving was there to fill out. Whoever won the heart of this woman-child would have his hands full.
“Mister Stevens?"
Hobert shook himself. “Nay, lass,” he said, shaking his head. “The prince don't let nobody, not even his brothers, ride that beastie.” He smiled indulgently when the young girl thrust out a pouting lip and vowed she would.
* * * *
Kaelan bowed his head in greeting to the brace of titian-haired beauties who stood hovering together beside the staircase. “Ladies,” he said, smiling.
“Your Grace!” they said in unison, bobbing him a clumsy curtsy in tandem.
The prince grinned to himself as he took the stairs two at a time, for he could hear their giggling and hushed whispers, knew they were watching him. They were two of the Duke of Warthenham's brats, he thought as he strode a
cross the balcony to his chambers. Glancing over the rail, he saw them staring up at him with looks that bordered on ravishment. He chuckled as they ducked under the balcony overhang, embarrassed that he had caught them ogling him.
“Good morn, Kaelan,” Gunter Eriksen called out. “Have you seen them?"
Kaelan didn't need to ask the seventeen year old boy who he meant. “Aye.” He gripped Gunter's wrist as they met. “Which have you chosen for your bride?"
Gunter lifted his chin. “Adele. She's the middle girl.” He winked. “You can have Adair, if you're of the notion. She's not as pretty as my Adele, but she'll not make you ashamed of her."
“And if I want Adele?” Kaelan teased.
Eriksen snorted. “You'll not get her.” He released the prince's wrist. “I've already laid claim."
Kaelan's left brow rose. “And them here but a scant two hours, Gunter?"
There was steel in the young man's direct blue gaze. “I've spoken to the Jarl already."
If that surprised Kaelan, he didn't show it. “Then I wish you well in your pursuit, my friend.” He continued on, glancing back only once to see Gunter swaggering confidently down the hall. Whatever the eldest son of the Eriksen clan wanted, he was apt to get from Kaelan's father.
“You'll not get Adair, either."
Kaelan stopped. The childish voice that had challenged him had come from somewhere behind him. He turned around and found himself looking at a tall, thin teenage girl who was glaring back at him from the doorway of one of the guest chambers. He cocked an inquisitive eye at her.
“And why not, mam'selle?” he asked politely.
Gillian ventured out into the hallway. “Because she likes blond-haired men,” the girl replied. Her gaze passed over his thick, curly brown hair, settled on his caramel-colored eyes. “With blue eyes."
The prince ambled back to her and stood looking down at her elfin face. “Is that so?"
“Aye,” she said, lifting her chin. “That's so."
Kaelan folded his arms across his chest, totally ignorant of the sudden interest in boys his powerful physique had just awakened in the girl standing before him. “Then,” he asked, “how do you explain the way your sister was mentally undressing me when I came upstairs, little one?” He had meant to shock the nosy little brat, but her words to him served only to stun him.
“I suppose it's because they know good breeding stock when they see it, Your Grace.” She flicked her attention from his broad shoulders, across the wide chest straining at the silk of his shirt, down the long legs encased in black leather breeches, then back up again to settle on a face she found—much to her amusement—blushing. She was fascinated by the mole on his lean left cheek and stared at it.
“You're a bold one,” he finally managed to say after he regained use of his tongue. “Has no one ever told you it's impolite to stare?"
“My pardon, milord,” she said, bobbing him a condescending curtsy. Tossing her long reddish-gold braid, she went back into her chambers, shutting the door with a decided snap.
Kaelan stood there for a full minute, staring at the closed portal. The saucy little chit had done something few people had ever done before her: shocked Kaelan Rylan Hesar to his foundation.
* * * *
The state dinner held that evening had brought out the beauties of the Court in all their finery. There was enough perfume floating through the air to cover up the stench of a cesspool. Jewels flashed green and red, blue and white between smooth powdered bosoms. The snap of a silk fan, the tinkling laughter from a long swan-like neck, the swish of satin skirts were the warnings signals that alerted every eligible bachelor in Tempest Keep that the horde was moving in for the feast.
As the music trilled softly from the pavilion set up at the far end of the Great hall, Kaelan sipped his goblet of plum wine and surveyed the women floating by with a jaundiced eye. Most glanced his way with perky little moués and fluttering lashes they hid behind the spread of their pastel fans. A few were actually bold enough to engage him in conversation although he extracted himself from their chattering as hastily as good manners allowed. He found their incessant mutterings boring and their innuendoes insulting.
Not that he hadn't sampled a good many of their charms, he thought as he moved away from the fireplace, dodging the advance of a matron and her two overly-ripe daughters. He never lacked for female companionship, but it was always of his own choosing, not theirs.
He spied Gunter with his chosen and nodded, smiling woefully at the girl. To anyone who didn't know him well, it looked as though he sorely regretted another man claiming her before him; to those who knew and understood Kaelan Hesar, the look was one of relief.
“Your Grace? Have you met Lady Adair Cree?” someone asked and Kaelan paused. Reluctantly, he turned from the speaker and found himself on eye level with a stunning raven-haired woman in her mid-thirties.
“Milady,” he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. For the life of him, he couldn't remember the woman's name, but gave her a brilliant smile anyway because he'd once spent an entire weekend in her bed.
“Lady Adair,” the woman said, “this is His Grace, Prince Kaelan Hesar."
Adair Cree dipped into a graceful, seductive curtsy, then held out a milky-white hand as she rose. Her eyes locked with the prince's. “I am honored to meet you, Your Grace."
Kaelan slipped his hand around hers and brought it to his mouth, lingering over the coolness of her young flesh, judging her to be near his own age or close to it. “Are all the women in Chale as lovely as you and your sister, Milady Adair?” he asked, staring deeply into orbs the color of emeralds.
“She is quite lovely, isn't she, Your Grace,” the woman beside him sighed. “Ah, how I wish I were still her age with my whole life ahead of me."
Elga Junstrom, Kaelan remembered of a sudden. The widow of Count Brithe Junstrom. He flashed her a charming smile. “Milady, your beauty is timeless.” When he saw her run her tongue over her lips, he read the invitation as clearly as though she had spoken it aloud. Before he could say something that would make her think him still interested, he dipped his head. “I was on my way to meet your father, Lady Adair. With your permission?"
“Certainly, milord,” Adair sighed.
He could feel the young woman's eyes on his back as he moved through the crush of the crowd. Holding his half-empty goblet aloft as he skirted those assembled, he smiled greetings to his father's guests, spoke a word here and there. When he'd finally moved out of the press of warm bodies and suffocating perfume, he made straight for the double doors which opened to the long balcony that overlooked the harbor. As inconspicuously as possible, he ducked out into the chill night air and blended into the night shadows cast by the soaring walls of the Keep.
“It stinks in there."
Kaelan nearly dropped his goblet in surprise. Spinning around, he peered into the darker reaches of the balcony. “Stinks from what?” he asked, recovering from the surprise. Moving toward a lighter shape he saw huddled against the far rail, he thought he recognized the voice of the speaker.
“All that bloody perfume!"
“Ah, the youngest Cree brat!” he chuckled. When he reached her, he looked with amusement at the man's great cape in which she had wrapped herself. “Aren't you cold, mam'selle?"
“I'm no brat,” she snapped. “And I ain't cold!” She pulled the thick fur collar closer under her sharp chin. “But I'd wager you are.” Her gaze flicked over his lightweight corduroy jacket and breeches, the silk of his shirt.
“A bit,” he admitted, draining the goblet. Placing it on the rail beside him, he leaned out over the wrought iron and gazed down into the crashing waves pounding the lower reaches of the Keep. “But I'm used to it."
“I'll never get use to this hellish cold,” Gillian snapped. Her lips were trembling.
“Aye, you will,” he answered. He turned and leaned his rump against the rail, crossed his arms and studied her shadowed face. “You don't like perfume;
you don't like the cold; you don't like brown-haired men with brown eyes."
“I didn't say that,” she defended herself.
“What do you like, mam'selle?” he continued.
“Horses.” The answer was quick and stated with emphatic assurance.
“Horses?” he asked. The right side of his mouth lifted. “Any particular breed?"
“Rysalians are, of course, the most beautiful,” she said, not sure if he was being condescending or not. “Serenians are the fastest."
“I have a Serenian stallion,” Kaelan told her.
“Revenge,” she threw at him.
Kaelan's left eyebrow lifted. “You've heard of him?"
“Seen him,” she said. When he continued to look at her with that elevated slash of a brow, she shrugged. “This morning. From the ship."
“Ah,” he drawled. He smiled. “And what did you think of him?"
“He has power,” she said. “He's fast."
“As the wind,” Kaelan interjected.
“How's he at stud?"
The question so shocked Kaelan, he couldn't answer. He simply stared at this waif of a girl standing there blithely discussing the sexual capabilities of his mount and felt his face turn beet red.
“You've not tried him?” Gillian pressed, unaware of the reaction her innocuous questions had created. “Not put him to a mare?"
“N ... not yet,” Kaelan managed to stammer. He uncrossed his arms and dug his hands into the pockets of his breeches. He was freezing, but uncharacteristically reluctant to leave the young girl's company. Normally, children made him uneasy and girls the age of this one were a nuisance.
“You should,” Gillian was saying. “I would wager he'll give you magnificent progeny.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Should you find him a mare suitable to his temperament and size."
“S ... size?” Kaelan stammered, feeling something happen to him that had never happened before in the presence of a young girl.
“Well, you wouldn't want him to hurt her, would you?” Gillian snapped.
“Oh, god!” The Prince blinked away the embarrassment that was flooding his soul. “You shouldn't talk like that in front of a man, brat!” he chided her.
WindFall Page 5