Brownie dug in her hindquarters in protest until her master whispered to her: “Don't shame me before these men."
Utley was impressed as the big dog seemed to shake off the suggestion that it would do such a thing. It tossed its head, looking back once more at Utley, its ejection from the manor house.
Kaelan shut the door firmly and turned away, feeling less safe now that his only means of protection had been eliminated.
“You've trained her well,” the tracker said. He pointed his gloves at Kaelan's lame leg as the prince limped forward. “What happened to you, Your Grace?"
Kaelan ignored the question. “What is it you really want here, Utley?” He flung his hand toward the stable. “The travelers who stayed here last night left before dawn this morning. If you're after them, I suggest you head on toward Wixenstead."
Utley's smile returned. “Which means Lord Cree and his sister aren't heading toward Wixenstead, doesn't it, Your Grace?"
“Lord Cree?” Kaelan mused, his brows drawn together in consideration. “Would that be Ruan or...” He snapped his fingers as though the action would prompt his memory.
“What is the other young one's name?"
Stuffing his leather gloves into his belts, Utley walked toward his prince. Once more his smile had left him, to be replaced with a hard, stony glare that brooked no foolishness. He came toe to toe with Kaelan.
“Don't mistake me for a fool, Prince Kaelan,” Utley growled. “I certainly have never taken you for one."
Utley was a good two inches taller than Kaelan's six feet, making it necessary for the younger man to look up at the tracker. He could feel the damp heat from Utley's body—so close to his own—and smell the unpleasant odor of a body that had been without benefit of washing for at least a week. Both having to look up at the man and feel the claustrophobic closeness of his burly body almost touching him, and sensing the two other trackers flanking him to either side, combined to drain away some of Kaelan's confidence. He felt trapped and the feeling was one he did not enjoy and had no way of overcoming at the moment.
“What's it to be, Your Grace?” Utley finally asked after a full minute of having fused his gaze with that of the prince. “Do we have to get physical with you to have questions answered?"
Unknowingly, Utley—who had no intention of ever laying a hand on the man standing before him—had made a grave tactical error. Not only did Kaelan know he wouldn't be touched, at least until his brother and de Viennes arrived, but he sensed the other man's grudging respect.
Utley watched the slow, nasty—almost wicked-smile that drew the prince's lips upward. He nearly growled with frustration as one thick dark brow shifted ever-so slowly upward into the tumbled hair draped over Prince Kaelan's forehead. The tracker drew in a long, deep breath, then exhaled forcefully.
“We will find them, Your Grace,” Utley declared. He looked around as Landers rejoined them, then turned back to stare at Kaelan. “I promise you we will."
For a moment Kaelan didn't reply, then his smile vanished and his eyes narrowed. “Find who?” he breathed.
Rage flashed across the tracker's face and he spun on his men. “Take His Grace to the cellar! One of you stand guard in case Lord Cree doubles back for him!"
Kaelan was escorted to the cellar steps with one tracker in front of him—proceeding him down the steps—and the other behind him to prevent him from retreating. Resolutely, he did not look at the old rug which hid the trapdoor; nor did he protest when he was forced to sit in a rickety old chair.
The edge of the wooden chair was directly under the old break on Kaelan's left thigh. He tried to shift his position and found he couldn't without making the pain worse. He stood it for as long as he could before finally saying something.
“Lyle, I can't sit like this."
Lyle Borden frowned. “What do you mean?"
“My leg,” Kaelan answered. “I broke it and sitting in this chair hurts."
Borden was not a stupid man, nor was he overly-bright. Suspicious by nature, he looked for a trick as he stood up and walked to his prince. He looked down at the leg he'd seen Kaelan favoring. “How'd you break it?” he demanded.
Kaelan sighed at the stupid question. “I broke it in the fall that killed my wife."
Lyle Borden could see the pain on the young man's face and thought to gain some benefit from it. “I tell you what, Your Grace,” he said, hunkering down before his prisoner. “You tell us which way they went, and I'll let you sit on the floor. How's that?"
“I don't know what the hell you're talking about,” Kaelan replied.
Borden nodded as though in agreement, then reached out and wrapped his beefy hand around Kaelan's left thigh. “This the leg you broke?” he pondered.
Before Kaelan could say anything, Borden pressed himself up to his feet, his entire weight leaning on Kaelan's left thigh.
The bellow of pain that came up from the cellar made Utley drop the coffee cup he held. “What the hell?” the tracker roared. He raced to the stairs and tripped down them just as Borden was backing away from the prince.
“I didn't mean to hurt him, Utley!” Borden said quickly. “I was just trying to make him tell us where them people went!"
It was all Nick could do to hold his sister—his hand plastered firmly over her mouth—as he dragged her off the steps of the false cellar and through the cave. Thankful the dirt muffled their struggles as he carried her through the tunnel beyond, he was having a hard time holding her. Both of them had heard what proceeded that anguished scream, but only he understood the folly of trying to go to Kaelan's aid.
Not that the man would have welcomed it, had they been able to do so, Nick thought, grunting as Gillian's booted heels caught him on his shin. “Damn it, be still, woman!” he ordered.
Gillian literally growled with fury. Her emerald orbs were flashing dangerously and had she the man before her who had hurt Kaelan Hesar, she would have gladly scratched the eyes from the monster's head!
“Was that a scream?” Tarnes asked as he met them near the entrance to the tunnel.
“One of the bastard's did something to Kaelan's leg!” Nick snarled with disgust. “Help me with her, will you?"
Tarnes didn't know what it was he was supposed to do, but the young woman's violent struggling and muffled grunts, pants, and curses beneath the constriction of her brother's hand gave him some indication of what might be done. He reached into his pocket and drew out his handkerchief, snapped it into a roll, then stepped behind Nick and draped it over Gillian's head.
Her glower sparking threat of disembowelment if he did such a thing, Gillian tried to kick back at Tarnes. She was already bruised by Nick's hard hands and his bony hip bones poking into her own. She sucked in a deep breath through her nose and was prepared to scream as loudly as the heavens when he unclasped his hand from her mouth. What she hadn't counted on was her brother's elbow digging very painfully into her right breast. Her breath came out in a high-pitched squeak of pain and before she could draw another breath, his hand was gone to be replaced by Tarnes’ none-to clean rag.
“Sorry,” Nick mumbled, hoping he'd done no lasting damage to his sister's bosom. He likened it to being kicked in the balls and winced, thinking of the suffering he'd been forced to inflict upon her. “But Kaelan, himself, would have ordered me to shut you up any way I could."
Gillian doubted very much her husband would have approved of Nick crippling her. Tears were flooding her eyes and she was madder than ever as she felt Tarnes’ hands on her wrists, replacing the hard hold Nick's big left hand had had on them.
“Ain't trying to provoke you, now, lass,” the old salt said as he made quick work of tying her hands together. “But I reckon His Grace would rather have you safe and all trussed up like a feast goose than in the hands of the real Demon Duke of Virago."
Brother Herbert's face had been as pale as hers was red when Nick flung himself onto his horse and accepted her struggling body from Tarnes, who tossed her up to her
brother with more strength than the others would have thought the old man had.
“You try toting around fifty pound of hemp,” Tarnes sniffed, climbing with caution onto his own nag. “Ain't an easy thing to do."
Kaelan had told Nick where to find the hidden entrance to Mount Wixen. He'd also told him how to get to the Serenian border. The tunnel's entrance was pointing directly to the east; they were to head due west.
“I'll come back for him,” Nick told his sister as he dug his heels into his gelding's flanks. “I swear to you I will!"
Gillian's last look at Holy Dale was the slender thread of smoke coming out of the upstairs chimney where she had known the only real joy in her young life.
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Chapter Nine
Duncan Hesar was livid with rage as he stomped down the cellar steps.
“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?” the king yelled. He came off the stairs, took one step toward Borden, lifted his arm and gave the tracker a backhand hit that broke Borden's jaw. The tracker plummeted sideways and slammed against the wall. He slide down to the floor, unconscious before his ass ever touched wood.
Utley stood up from his place on the floor beside the younger Viragonian prince. Shocked by the physicality of his king's reaction, he was equally shocked by the burst of foul language that followed; it fair turned the air blue with its ferocity and descriptive nature.
“For the love of Alel, Duncan,” Utley heard young Kaelan say, “the man wasn't torturing me.” The young prince sneezed, then wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve. “He was only carrying out orders."
“Kaelan?” the king asked in a near-whisper, turning his eyes to his brother, “keep out of this!"
“It was my gods-be-damned leg, Duncan, he..."
“Shut up, Kaelan,” Duncan sighed with exasperation. He waited until his brother shrugged away his objection, then ordered Utley and Landers to take Borden out to the stables and tie him up.
“The man could freeze out there,” Kaelan protested.
The king of Virago ground his teeth together. “Down here as well, but I don't hear you complaining about the cold!” He narrowed his eyes. “You sound funny. Do you have a cold?"
“You ordered me down here, Duncan, and what difference does it make if I have a gods-be-damned cold?” Kaelan reminded him. He put his hands on the wall behind him and tried to push himself up. He was in so much pain, he doubted he could stand, but if he was forced to sit where he was much longer, he'd go insane from the agony of it.
“Do you need help getting up, Your Grace?” Utley asked, feeling the inquisitive look of his monarch, then quickly gathering enough courage to look the king in the eyes “He is crippled, Majesty."
Duncan's brows shot up into his hairline. “Crippled?” he repeated. He looked at his brother. “Crippled how, Kaelan?"
Kaelan shoved away Utley's offer of help and got clumsily to his feet. He put pressure on his left leg, then winced with the pain. “I think the bastard re-broke my leg,” he grunted.
The king's face turned a most unbecoming shade of purple and he was about to explode with another eruption of vile language when his brother laid a hand on his arm.
“It was just a figure of speech, big brother. The leg isn't broken.” Kaelan forced himself to smile—in actuality amused by Duncan's seeming concern for his well being—and managed to hobble over to an old stuffed chair that would be more comfortable than the hard floor. He sat down, sneezed again, then sighed heavily.
Confusion puckered Duncan's forehead as he watched his brother settle uneasily into the dirty-looking old chair. He glanced up at Utley's worried face, then strode purposefully over to where Kaelan sat. “What happened to your leg, Kaelan?” he demanded in his most imperious tone of voice.
Kneeding the throbbing in his thigh, Kaelan sighed. “I broke it in the fall."
“What fall?” Duncan snapped.
Kaelan looked up with surprise. Surely his brother knew the story of what had happened that night! Justus Sinclair would have no doubt delighted in telling the tale at Court.
“Well?” the king bellowed. “What fall are you referring to?"
The younger prince leaned back in the chair, his mouth a perfect ‘o’ of astonishment. “Sinclair didn't tell you?"
Duncan's gaze narrowed to a pinpoint stare that he reserved for the intimidation of lesser men. “I haven't spoken to that treacherous bastard since he informed me you had a hand in his daughter's death!” he snapped.
From everything Gillian had told him about the night Duncan had stopped their elopement, Kaelan wasn't inclined to believe anything his brother said. He wasn't entirely sure if Duncan knew the entire story of Marie's death, but he'd relate it to him on the chance he really didn't.
When his brother finished his tale, Duncan slumped against the wall beside him and just stared at Kaelan. For a long moment, he didn't speak, then shook his head furiously as though to rid it of unpleasant thoughts. He held up his hands. “I swear on our father and mother's graves, I knew nothing of what you just told me!” He angrily pushed himself away from the wall and began to pace. “Nothing at all of that version of it!"
Kaelan watched Duncan striding from one end of the cellar to the other and was fascinated by the play of emotions playing across his brother's face.
“What exactly did Justus Sinclair tell you, Duncan?” Kaelan inquired.
Duncan stopped pacing and turned to face Kaelan. “He said you and Marie were having a fight and, in your anger, you pushed her away from you. He said she tripped on her gown, stumbled and fell down the stairs and broke her neck."
“I pushed her.” Kaelan said in a flat voice. Well, he thought as Duncan began pacing again, that was why the village thought he had killed his wife. Even though there were several Sinclair servants in the manor house the night of the accident, no doubt they'd been coached to tell Justus Sinclair's version of the matter.
“It seemed to me to be purely accidental” he heard Duncan say, “and Sinclair agreed, although he bears you a great deal of hatred, little brother. To stay an official inquiry by the Tribunal, it was decided between the two of us that we would tell the Court you were overcome with grief over what had happened and had left for Rysalia to stay with your friend, Ben-Alkazar."
“To breed horses,” Kaelan said dryly.
“Aye,” Duncan replied, absentmindedly. He waved a negligent hand. “I even invented a few Hasdu wives for you so none of the ninnies at Court would think you still on the marriage market."
“That was thoughtful of you,” Kaelan drawled.
Duncan did not hear the scorn in the words. “The least I could do,” he mumbled. Plowing his hand through the thick dark curls atop his head, he stopped—his hand buried in his hair—and looked at his brother. “But now, with what you have told me, everything has been turned upside down!"
Kaelan went back to rubbing his injured thigh. “In what way, Duncan?"
It was his king-not his brother-who strode back to him and stood hovering over him with a stern face. “How long was she here, Kaelan?” Duncan demanded.
Silence.
Duncan narrowed his eyes. “Answer me."
Complete, stony silence.
A long, tired sigh drew down the king's squared shoulders, taking away some of the stiffness and outrage of his posture. He shook his head as though ashamed of a wayward child. “Ah, Kaelan,” he breathed with exasperation. “You know I know she was here."
The silence drew out.
Faint lines of annoyance begin to spread over Duncan's lean face. “I demand to know how long she stayed here, Kaelan."
With the quirk of one dark brow, Kaelan smiled. “What you are really asking,” he snorted, “is if I bedded the lady."
Duncan smiled, too: A spider's grin at its prey. “I believe under the circumstances, little brother, that's a given, don't you?” The king shrugged. “I would have expected nothing less from you and her."
Kaelan's smile
became a wicked grin.
“The thing of it is, Kaelan,” Duncan remarked, “The lady in question is Rolf's wife. If you have soiled her for him, he will, naturally enough, be obliged to seek satisfaction from you."
Kaelan's lips twitched. “'T'would be the gentlemanly thing to do, I suppose."
“Of course,” his brother, the king, agreed as though there had been no question of that.
The younger Viragonian prince stretched out his long legs to relieve the tension in his left thigh—the pain now a minor irritation—and crossed his ankles, quite relaxed. “And, quite naturally enough, I'll oblige him."
Duncan frowned. “I would venture to say you are in no condition to challenge anyone with your leg the way it is, Kaelan,” he snapped. He was staring intently at the worn-down heels and patched soles of his brother's boots. If he had had any doubt of the truth of Kaelan's side of that night, he did no longer. The shabby condition of Kaelan's clothing and boots stamped truth to the tale. He shook himself and looked up, annoyed to find Kaelan smiling at him with interest.
“If I had known you were coming,” the younger man cooed, “I'd have dressed in my finest for you, King Duncan. The thing of it is: This is my finest!"
“'Tis not funny, Kaelan!” Duncan spat. He flung a hand at the scuffed boots. “It shames me to see you like this."
The humor left Kaelan's face. “You caused it."
Duncan flinched. The weight of his guilt in the thing was already weighing on his shoulders. How had he let Elga talk him into practically disowning his only brother? Of destroying what little happiness Kaelan might have found with the little Cree chit? “It was unseemly you chasing that little girl,” he defended himself, his eyes stormy, though somewhat confused. “You were old enough to be her...” He shrugged.
“Husband?” Kaelan finished for him. He chuckled nastily. “How old do you remember me to be, Duncan?"
“You are four years my junior!” the king snapped with irritation. “That makes you thirty-two!"
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