The Golden Key Chronicles: A Time Travel Romance (The Golden Key Series Book 1)

by AJ Nuest

  So, they came to greet him in pageantry. They welcomed him home with open arms. But was this a genuine display of affection, or simply a façade contrived for the spectacle of ceremony?

  With his first step on shore, he must leave no doubt he was fully capable of reclaiming his place within the realm. He did not yet know what treachery awaited him. To what sealed fate he returned. Until he learned what his future held, ʼtwould be wiser for him to appear as if nothing had changed.

  As the ship pitched through the surf, his father rode into view, surrounded by a garrison of the Royal Guard. Wizard Fandorn trailed closely behind on his gray steed, followed by Master Denmar and his Captain at Arms.

  Leading his black-robed hashishins and a full rank of foot soldiers, Braedric sat high in the saddle, armored chest plate emblazoned with the royal crest, his sword glinting like a lightning bolt striking the rocky terrain.

  Fury wrenched Caedmon’s gut, and he seized the railing. If his brother deigned to scheme against him, this time he would stand at the ready. Though for what purpose had Braedric conspired to high treason? And, even more importantly, what ransom had his half-brother used to persuade the Dreggs to partake in the attack?

  They did not suffer matters outside their race, and yet they had blackened the sky and swarmed in without provocation. Riding out with the key, Caedmon and his small band of men had withstood no chance. Caught unawares amid a flurry of veined wings and barbed talons, he’d been cut off from the rest of the troupe, arrested and spirited to the North.

  But not before he’d sworn to avenge the loss of his heart’s desire. He searched the rugged shoreline to no avail.

  And what of his love? Did she not hasten to greet him, as well?

  Then a bright star amid a sea of silver and blue crested the ridge. His pulse thundered, and he gritted his teeth in expectant hope. If his eyes did not deceive him, his lady rode Belial, a devilish white stallion that had thrown and all but trampled a dozen of his men. A falcon circled overhead, riding the same draft that toyed with the folds of her ivory gown.

  What boon was this? To learn she held sway over wild beasts would not surprise him, for she had tamed his heart as well.

  To her vision he stayed true, increasingly vexed whenever the crowd interfered and he momentarily lost sight of her. Even across the leagues, she glowed like a flame. At long last, she was almost within reach.

  Two years, he’d borne without her. Two years, she’d been left alone with no knowledge of the dangers his world could hold. Two years without her memories, his lips powerless to remind her of his devotion, their time together lost to a traitorous cause.

  Would she ever forgive him for leaving her in such a state? Was it even within his right to ask?

  “My liege.” The captain snapped to attention at Caedmon’s left elbow. “We make landfall shortly. The boats are being prepared for your conveyance to shore.”

  The slow voyage would last an eternity, and he would not be denied a moment longer. Grabbing the hoist rope, Caedmon hopped onto the rail. “Save your men’s arms, Ship Master. I make my own way from here.”

  Filling his lungs, he pushed off and dove for the water.

  * * * * *

  Back straight, eyes forward, mouth shut. Don’t fidget. Stay that obnoxious bird from your shoulder and, above all else, if Prince Caedmon deigns to speak with you, your first and only response should be a resounding and emphatic, “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Rowena winced and pressed her hand against her bodice, Marcelene’s tirade droning like a never-ending laundry list in her head. Resident taskmaster and mistress of all things female at Castle Austiere, the woman had read Rowena the riot act, all while she bit her tongue bloody, every inch getting scrubbed, polished and trussed up like the roasted squabs Cook was no doubt preparing for dinner. Her hair resembled a fruit basket and evidently breathing wasn’t on the agenda since Marcelene had instructed the handmaidens to cinch a corset like a vise around Rowena’s waist.

  The woman was a masochist. But, thank God, at least she hadn’t overheard anything about the agreement Rowena had made with Denmar.

  Sure, she would put on a dress and float around the castle in exchange for getting Marcelene off his back. Just as long as he held up his end of the deal and, tomorrow at Apex, she got to face-off against his five best men in the Gantlet.

  Excitement made her stomach flip, and Rowena lowered her chin against a smile. Each time she’d run the course she’d had to up her game, but the guys would never expect her to attack from above. As of her successful landing two days ago, she and Fandorn had officially perfected their wind rider. With that surprise up her sleeve, she’d be a shoe-in to win.

  She’d finally earn her crest. The first woman in Austiere history to be awarded the title of militissae. Having that rank and prize money in her back pocket, she could go anywhere, do anything. Completely reinvent herself and get a new lease on life.

  Pretty ironic how something she hated so much could actually turn out to work in her favor. Or, then again, maybe it was high time.

  If the nobility insisted she be some sorceress who controlled the elements, then fine. Whatever. She’d be whoever they wanted as long as doing so got her as far away as possible from Braedric and Castle Austiere.

  A shudder wrenched her spine, and she fixed her heels harder in the stirrups. Belial snorted and tossed his head.

  Ever since the day King Austiere had introduced her at court, the reigning prince had been like a bad dream she couldn’t shake. Constantly eyeballing her. Lurking in the shadows or around the nearest bend as if waiting for another chance to strike.

  Well, he could go ahead and try. She tugged on the pearl-trimmed edge of her cuff. Frilly ball gown or not, she never left her rooms without her wrist blades. Walking around the castle totally unarmed was a mistake she wasn’t about to make twice.

  A shadow crossed her face, and she placed a flat hand to her brow, squinting into the cloudless blue sky overhead. Dart screeched and whirled into a diving spiral, and she couldn’t help but heave a frustrated sigh.

  Lucky bird. She would’ve given anything to join him in the air. A flick of her hand, and the falcon soared off in the direction of the woods. “Good hunting, my friend.”

  Some days, she swore he was the only one who truly understood her.

  The caravan crested the ridge and her hips swayed as Belial started down the steep incline with the other horses. Far out to sea, a large ship broke through the surf, waves crashing against the sides like frothy ale.

  The silhouette of a lone man stood near the railing, and she slumped.

  Shit. If only his trip would’ve taken one or two days longer, she wouldn’t even be here. But, instead, she was stuck minding her manners. Surrounded by the enemy so she could stick to the plan.

  Not that it mattered. Regardless of what Prince Caedmon said to her, she was still leaving. He could pull whatever tricks he wanted and they wouldn’t make a bit of difference in the end.

  Reining Belial over to a stable boy, she waved off his hand and hopped to the ground, the highbrow glare Marcelene shot at her a sure sign she’d been monitoring Rowena’s every move.

  The Head Mistress narrowed her eyes and jerked her head toward the assembling procession. Clenching her jaw, Rowena strode across the sand and took her assigned position in the second row.

  One more day…two, tops, and, her hand to God, she was never getting bossed around again.

  Just ahead and slightly off to her right, Fandorn dipped his chin in hello. King Austiere was already in place on her left, and on his left, Braedric sauntered into position followed by Master Denmar.

  The Captain of the Royal Guard winked at her with his one good eye and she lifted a brow. Then her middle finger.

  He sputtered and cleared his throat over a low chuckle.

  The amusement died on her lips and compassion sidled in as Faelynn scurried to find her spot on Rowena’s right. Hands steering Vaighn’s shoulders, guiding her t
en-year-old son in front of her like a small shield.

  Yep. Same as usual, every time Rowena crossed paths with them her heart broke at the sight. The way Braedric demeaned his wife in public made her want to smack him upside the head. But as bad as that was, she couldn’t begin to imagine the unspeakable horrors he thought up behind closed doors. The poor woman had been so browbeaten she wore a constant veneer of panic. Movements stilted and jerky. Her eyes either glassed-over or darting around as if she were searching for an escape.

  Rowena knew the feeling. She internally huffed and then couldn’t help tousling Vaighn’s silky, chocolate curls. The exact opposite of his mother, the kid was a joy to be around—energetic and happy, fascinated with everything life had to offer.

  Giving in to impulse, she pulled him close and hugged him to her waist with one arm. He blushed six shades of red and Faelynn smiled gratefully before reclaiming her hold on her son.

  Right, right. Crossing her eyes, Rowena stuck out her tongue. Best behavior and all that. Vaighn grinned and the sinking in her chest eased a little. God forbid there be any horseplay during such an auspicious event.

  And now, they waited. Digging her finger into a too tight braid, Rowena winced at the way the weave had practically removed a layer of her scalp. A small squadron of boats would deliver Prince Caedmon to shore, the trumpeters would herald his homecoming and everyone except King Austiere and Braedric would fall to one knee, heads bowed. Once the prince had been greeted by his immediate family and given the kiss of welcome, the assembled party would be asked to stand. Everyone would then make the long, slow trek back up to the castle. She would submit to an unnecessary wardrobe change and be escorted to the Grand Hall by small garrison of foot soldiers.

  It was anyone’s guess long the meal would take. How many courses she’d have to sit through and pretend to be some delicate flower. A full night of dancing and celebration would commence, and she’d be expected to smile and make nice with people who found it impossible not to speak out of both sides of their mouths.

  Blah, blah, blah… She couldn’t wait for this ridiculous nightmare to be done.

  Straightening the lace collar banding her shoulders, she peered out to sea. The dark shadow standing near the railing was approached by the ship’s Captain. He swept the plumbed hat off his head, snapped to attention and his lips moved.

  And here we go. The boats would be lowered and Prince Caedmon would debark.

  But, instead, he grabbed the hoist rope and she blinked as he leapt onto the railing, spoke something over his shoulder and dove headfirst straight for the water.

  King Austiere grumbled a curse. Denmar slapped his hand to his bald forehead and dragged his palm down his face. Braedric snorted, crossing his arms. Fandorn swept his hands in a wide semi-circle and the water calmed to a smooth sheet of glass.

  Some folks muttered and shook their heads. Others traded confused glances. But the horrified shock contorting the faces of the Council members was truly the final straw.

  Tossing her head back, Rowena let fly the laugh that wouldn’t stop pressing on her throat. Holy crap, how epic was that? All this pomp and ceremony and here the man had gone and ruined their whole plan. She fought the urge to her toss her fists in the air and release a loud whoop!

  A scathing glare from the king, and her laughter quickly died on the breeze. Oops. Biting her bottom lip, she curtsied then stood on tiptoe for a better view as the prince swam toward shore.

  The distance rapidly shrank beneath his powerful strokes. He pushed up from the seabed, whipped his dark hair to the side and high-stepped with purpose toward the crowd.

  Water rained down his body. His soaked shirt clung to each sharply defined muscle in his chest. Leather pants glued to the contours of his rigid thighs. He scanned the long line of waiting courtiers and her heart tripped a beat at the sheer, gritty determination forged in the scowl on his brow.

  The dude was on a mission. Hey, there was a nice idea for a change.

  He finally made landfall, fisted his hands and kept moving. A few trumpeters blew a half-hearted attempt at announcing his arrival, but their notes blurted like a fat man’s flatulence and faded listlessly in the air. Some people knelt, others remained standing and several bobbed like apples in a barrel, unsure which action to take.

  Another win at thumbing his nose at their stupid rituals. Rowena chuckled under her breath. Good job, Prince Caedmon. Nicely done.

  He locked onto her and she smiled even as his penetrating stare pierced her like an arrow and he clenched his scruffy jaw. The real icing on the cake would be if he ignored his father. But, no. That would never happen. Even as the thought occurred, Prince Caedmon strode straight for King Austiere’s open arms.

  Except… Rowena shifted uncomfortably and glanced left then right. Wait a second. He wasn’t heading for his father. He was coming straight for her.

  Oh, no. All the humor fled her body. She backed up a step and her shoulder blades connected with the ample curves of Marcelene’s chest.

  Dammit, she was trapped. But, come on already. After all this time, the guy couldn’t seriously be thinking they were still engaged.

  Shoving past his father, Prince Caedmon seized her around the waist and fell to his knees, burying his face in her skirts. Her hand instinctively met his back, sliding lower as his arms held onto her tighter than her corset.

  Holy hell, what had they done to him? What or who was responsible for bringing him so low he’d come at her as if it didn’t matter what anyone else thought?

  In one swift stroke, she understood the guy. Those first few months after he’d disappeared, the horrible way she’d been treated. Those who hadn’t been outright terrified by her appearance had only befriended her for their own gain. Any promises forgotten the moment they’d learned she held no sway in court.

  And the way they’d made fun of her. Picking apart everything she’d said. Calling her crazy and not even bothering to hide how they were laughing in her face.

  It was to these abhorrent people, Prince Caedmon had returned…and gratefully so. Which could only mean, wherever he’d been the last two years, the conditions had been much, much worse.

  Covering the side of his head with her other hand, she narrowed her eyes at the stunned, expectant faces of the crowd. So help her God, if anyone even looked at him the wrong way, she would claw their eyes from the sockets.

  Awareness clicked home, and she sharply inhaled, going stiff as a board against his cheek.

  No. No, no, no. She’d been fooled by such gestures before. And no matter what games he was up to, the day would come when his behavior would change.

  He was, after all, one of them.

  “Am I too late?” His arms went slack, and he slowly withdrew, his voice thick and gruff with regret. “Have the distance and years hardened your heart to me?”

  He strongly resembled Prince Braedric, but where Braedric’s brown eyes were cruel and usually filled with an undeserved sense of entitlement, his skin fair and his nose thin and hawk-like, Caedmon’s expression was open. As if he wouldn’t mind at all if she picked up on what he was thinking. Strange…

  His skin was darker, the shade of warm honey, his jaw more square and cut with a sharper edge.

  With the fingertips of her left hand, she cleared the droplets from his forehead, the defined line of his high cheekbone, down the length of his nose. His brown eyes ran so deep, she had no trouble locating the same inner turmoil she’d seen time and again every time she looked in a mirror.

  Dammit, if only she could remember what had happened between them.

  A penetrating throb pulsed behind her eyes, and she lifted those same fingertips to her temple. Going anywhere near the past always made her skull crack wide open. And though she tried to wade through the fog in her brain, just like all those times before, her memories churned out nothing but a big, fat wasteland.

  Shoving to his feet, the prince grasped her fingers, sweeping his thumb across her knuckles. “Where is
your ring, my love? Why do you not wear the symbol of my devotion?”

  Fear raced up her arm, icy in the warm air. And as frigid as the glare King Austiere shot in her direction. The truth would only cause all kinds of trouble, but she didn’t want to lie to Prince Caedmon either. She’d promised herself a long time ago, she wasn’t going to be anything like the people she’d met at the castle.

  He followed her line of sight over his shoulder and then moved to stand between her and his dad. Cupping her cheeks, he stepped in so close she had no choice but to stare him directly in the eye. “Sweet Rowena…my heart. Tell me my chances have not disappeared. Present me grace in this hour of my homecoming.”

  The comforting heat of his skin, his heartfelt plea made her head pound. A resonating ache crawled up the back of her neck. Her stomach vaulted and tightened in preparation to eject.

  No, no, he shouldn’t be touching her. Having his hands on her only brought on a confusing jumble of emotions that wouldn’t let her think straight. And if there was one thing she knew, showing any weakness in this place was a huge mistake.

  Turning out of his grasp, she withdrew and lowered her gaze to the sand. To this and all his questions she had only one answer. “Welcome home, Your Highness. The kingdom rejoices your return.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Foolish. That’s what his actions had been. Only an utter madman would’ve approached her in such a way.

  Striding with purpose down the hall, Caedmon made haste toward his lady’s chambers. Bathed, groomed and dressed in his finest embroidered doublet, he chastised himself for the immeasurable stupidity he demonstrated upon his arrival.

  Of course, she would falter under such pressure. Before he’d deserted her, she’d been offered naught but the barest chance to study his face. To her, he was a stranger. An interloper amid a sea of countless courtiers. He must tread lightly, not charge at her as if she were his latest war campaign.