Brelan was breathing hard and shallow, his face a livid bruise of palm-struck flesh and boiling anger. "I'll handle this, Grice. It's now just between me and her."
Grice wanted to stay, to hear what the two would say to one another. If what it took to make Anya Elizabeth see reason was his hand to her backside, he would see it got done. If it was allowing Brelan Saur to do the hitting, he'd help hold her. He could see the intense way the two of them were glaring at one another like spitting cats.
"If she needs—"
"I'll handle it!" Brelan shouted. He didn't look away from Liza.
Grice threw his hands. "All right!" he spat, and turned on his heel. His angry departure up a sand dune brought a thick cascade of sand to the spot where Liza and Brelan stood.
She took a deep breath. "Answer me one question, Brelan Saur."
"If I can," he said too quickly. He was snorting like a bull.
She opened her mouth to speak, but then her face turned a sickly white color and she stopped, swallowing hard.
"You'd better stay away from those gods-be-damned cream puffs," he snarled, referring to the dozen or so she had eaten that morning, which obviously had given her a bellyache.
Liza's face turned from white to yellow to green at the mention of the pastries. Her hand came up to cover her mouth.
"That's what you get! All that curdled cream and maggot-filled pastry and fly-specked cherry glaze." His eyes lit with vengeance. "Made you a bit sick, did it?"
She squinted at him, ignoring his sarcasm and vicious intent to make her vomit.
"Feel like you gotta puke? Feel like you want to—" He shut up when she raised her hand to him in silent pleading. He gave her a moment to swallow the nausea, then folded his arms and glared at her. "All right, so ask your question, Elizabeth."
Liza let out a harsh breath, then locked her eyes on his. "What…" She had to swallow once more to keep down the bile. "What do you think Kaileel's feelings were toward Conar?"
Totally unprepared for the question, Brelan stopped another evil remark on his tongue. "What?"
"You heard me! Answer!"
Thinking her totally beyond reason, he shook his head. "What difference does it make now?"
"I have my reasons for asking!"
"All right. He hated Conar."
"That's what most people think, but Tohre was in love with Conar," she retorted, ignoring his shocked look. "What about Nadia? Our daughter? How do you think he felt toward her?"
Troubled by her seemingly unrelated questions, he stared. "What are you trying to get at?"
"Damn it, Brelan! Answer me!" Her voice was a shout of fury.
With a snort of exasperation, he snapped back, "I don't think he had any love for her, but—"
"Because she was Conar's child?"
"Possibly, but—"
"Do you think him behind Nadia's death?"
"I think the Domination—"
"All right, the Domination, then. And would they not try to destroy any child of mine and Conar's in order to exact revenge upon him?"
"I would imagine so. He—"
"And do you think I would let them even try?"
A sudden chill knowledge flowed through Brelan. He took a step back. He stared at her with confusion, speculation, and then slowly looked at her belly where one slim hand was clutched over her waistline.
"No," he whispered, his head shaking in denial. All the telltale signs had been there this morning. And the morning before. But he wouldn't believe it. "No."
"Do you think I would let anyone hurt Conar's child, Brelan? Conar's legal heir?"
"You're…?" He could barely speak.
"Do you see now why I must marry Galen?" She saw him shaking his head in furious denial.
"I don't see!"
"Think, Brelan! You know as surely as I that the child I am carrying will be fair-skinned and blond like his father, as all the pure line of Serenian royal children have been for generations. No royal McGregor male has ever been anything but blond and fair. If I marry anyone else, all Kaileel need do is look at the babe and know! If I marry Galen, the child can pass as his."
His eyes blazed with fear. "Then marry Chase Montyne! He's blond and blue-eyed! You could tell him. He'd do everything in his power to protect Conar's babe! Chase loved Conar as a brother. They were together at the Abbey when…"
A flash of rage went through her green eyes. "Chase Montyne is not the heir to the Serenian throne! My child, Conar's child, deserves to be king. I will not let it be any other way!" Her mouth tensed into a hard line. "I care nothing for the wealth and status of being queen, Brelan Saur, but I will not let Kaileel Tohre destroy another McGregor male, and I will not let any other woman's child rule Conar's people!"
"What you are proposing is insane!" Brelan thundered. "You would sell yourself to Galen so he will eventually lose the crown? What kind of foolishness is that?"
"This child is Conar's legacy to his people. Do you not see that? It was by the gods' will that I conceived before he was taken away. The Domination stole my husband; they stole my child! I will not let them have this baby! Nothing and no one will ever take this part of Conar away from me! Not now, not ever. I will do what I must to see this babe is born and thrives!"
"You will have to lie with that bastard! How can you do that?" His voice shook with fury.
"Hear me well, Brelan Saur!" she hissed, stressing each word as though she were talking to the village idiot. "I will marry Galen McGregor although the very thought of his slimy hands on me makes me want to puke! I will marry him and I will conceive on the very first try! I will let Galen touch me because I want Conar's son safe!"
"All the more reason for—"
"Shut up and listen, damn you!" Liza made a concentrated effort to slow her heartbeat, to lower her voice, to come to grips with her temper. She could see real fear in Brelan Saur's face for the first time. "There will be no more discussion of this. Ever."
"But what will you do if you should conceive a child by Galen, Elizabeth?" he asked, his face showing hurt and pain.
The grimace on her face turned to a frozen smile of such evil Brelan had to turn away. "I might well drown it with my own hands."
Chapter 8
* * *
She stared into the mirror at the face that looked back at her. Dark circles, the color of bruised apricots, showed there. There was hardly any other color in the pinched face, no color at all in her lips. The limp black hair had lost its sheen and lay wildly in abandoned tangles around the oval face. The emerald eyes were bloodshot and puffy, the lids hooded. No light shone there; no life gleamed. The stranger in the mirror was like a ghost. Blank and disembodied.
Placing her hand on her chest, the fingers splayed out between her breasts, she tried to still her rapidly beating heart. She tried to ignore the advancing nausea that awakened her every morning and swallowed convulsively to keep the bitter bile from erupting from her throat.
Too soon, she thought. It was too soon for anyone to suspect anything. Just a few days more, she prayed. Just a few days more.
Getting up, she eased her arms into the sleeves of the robe Gezelle had placed across the chair by her bed. She pulled the wool around her and turned to stare at the still, sleeping man who lay curled in the center of the bed. It was as though she was gazing at him from a great distance; detached; analytical. He might as well have been the coverlet, the sheet, the pillow for all she ever really noticed him. He was simply just there.
He hadn't touched her. Not at all. Not on the night of their wedding a week before, not on any night since. He seemed to be content to pull her into his arms each night and hold her, to softly kiss her on her cheek and bid her a good night's rest. His hands were as polite as that of a stranger's, his actions, those of a brother's. He never stayed to watch her dress in the morning and was already abed when she joined him in their sleeping chambers.
"I am not ready, Liza," he would tell her gently, easing away from her touch as she tried to
seduce him. "Give me more time, lady."
Liza knew she did not have time to spare. Soon, the morning sickness would become more noticeable. Soon, the physical signs would begin. The swollen belly and breasts. If she did not coerce him into taking her within the next few days, all her scheming would have been for naught.
Two days passed and it was well after midnight. The room was dark and chill, the fire barely crackling in the hearth. Liza sat on the settee and pulled her feet up underneath her, rested her head against the tall curved back of the satin seat. She willed her body to stop its assault on her.
It was hard for her to lie beside Conar's brother, in Conar's bed. She did not sleep well with the man curled lightly against her, touching her as Conar's body had. Often during the day she would slip away, go to her room, and rest after instructing Gezelle to see that no one bothered her.
Tonight she had lain awake listening to the light rise and fall of Galen's breath and wished with all her heart she could jam her pillow over his face and smother the life from him. She had to get up before doing just that.
Sleep was not what she sought when curling up on the settee, but it closed over her with silent, protective hands. Her body was tired, her spirit sore, and the gods pulled a light blanket of unconsciousness over her huddled form and took her far beyond Boreas Keep…
She found herself on a silken pathway, its flowing gray material rippling beneath her as she moved. Music, eerie and tinkling, seemed to swell from beneath the material and she could hear the rise and ebb of cresting waves surging around her. The rhythm of the ocean rippled and fell, flowing over her in cool sheets of comforting sound. It seemed to numb her senses and calm her, to place her on a distant, alien shore where sight and sound were one.
She moved in slow motion over the gray, undulating silk gown billowing behind her in a stiff, yet warming breeze. Light pulsed far ahead, glowing, beckoning her to move toward it on feet that barely touched the moving pathway.
She heard distant bells: small ones, dark ones, large ones, bright ones. They blended into one long chime held like a concert soprano who has reached the very heights of her talent. She breathed in the salt spray, felt it cool and sticky on her face.
Bursts of light spiraled away from her and into the darkened edges of the place to which she trod. Quick streaks of pleasant, surging light shot forth from her body, crackling whip-like all around her. Her aura seemed to waver. The light ahead intensified, melded into a bright band from horizon to horizon.
The silken pathway surged sharply upward, ripples shuddering along its entire length, and then fell away beneath her with an eerie sound like flexing tin.
Ahead, as she floated from the darkness into the light, a low archway pulsed. Blue light gleamed behind the bright light and then settled to a faint purplish glow. She could see someone standing under the archway.
Somehow she knew where that person stood was devoid of life. There, in that ultra-brilliant light, was blazing heat and sand and troubled waters that sucked and drowned. She could feel the heat, the barrenness. She could hear the wail of tortured souls. She could smell the overripe stench of unwashed and sweating bodies.
She saw a hand go up in greeting as though to beckon her. She shook her head, knowing she could not travel into the farther reaches of the light. The hand went hesitantly down and broad shoulders sagged beneath the weight of grief.
He was black against the blaring white and distant tint of purple. He seemed to be alone, but all around him were voices that screamed and cursed and pleaded—a cacophony of tortured cries. The music seemed to be swelling and it sang to the man who stood before her, warning him not to cross over from the light to the dark.
"Who are you?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
"Why have you brought me here?"
Still he would not answer.
Liza reached out her hand and felt the rush of watery air rippling through her fingers. It was cold, painfully cold, but she could not take back her hand, for the heat began to reach her, to hold onto her flesh as though it would mate with her.
"Is this hell?" she asked, her voice unsure.
He shook his head. "Not for you."
Warmth, comforting and sensual, nestled around her as she heard his voice. A peaceful calm settled over her heart and she took a floating step closer to him in order to see his face.
"Is it Paradise, then, my sweet lord?"
A blast of wintry air rushed at her and pushed her closer to him. As his long fingers gripped hers, she felt ice-cold flesh that miraculously burned with a pulsing heat.
"Only when you are here," he told her.
She looked into his face, trying to see him, for his back was to the blazing light and his face was still in darkness. "Shall I stay with you?"
A heart-felt sob came from his throat. "You can't, Liza."
The pain and regret in the way he spoke her name made her cry. His cold flesh closed around her hand and she grasped it with both of her own, trying to pull him into the darkness to warm him. He stood strong and adamant against her puny strength.
Cold searing wind enveloped her, chased away the feeling of protection and safety his voice had brought. The music blared like thunder and he lifted his head as though hearing silent commands.
"Not yet," he whispered, his voice filled with pleading. "Please, not yet. Just awhile longer."
Angry light flared around her, behind her, above and below; it lit the gray pathway so that it shimmered like the depths of the ocean. She looked up into the face of the one holding her hand and all sound, all motion, everything, ceased to exist. Her face lit with a radiance that would have done the gods proud. A smile stretched across her full mouth and she tried to free her hands so she could pull him into her arms.
"I have to go, now, Liza," he said so quietly she could barely hear.
It was a sound she felt in her very soul. It sounded so far away, even though he stood so close. His whisper cut her to the marrow.
"Let me go, now, Liza."
"No!" she said and felt a freezing chill saturating her body.
"You have to, beloved."
"Don't leave me!" she begged and tried to hold onto to his hands, but they were slipping out of her grip.
"Liza."
The light pulsed so brightly she had to cover her eyes. When she put down her hands, the light was gon,; and with it, the man who had come.
"Liza."
She felt something dragging her back across the gray path, felt her bare feet slipping along the silk with a rustling sound. She flew backward with a rush of wind.
"Liza!" a voice screamed.
She shot into a deep darkness where no light had ever ventured.
"Elizabeth!"
Reluctantly she came awake.
Galen McGregor stood over her, his hands encircling her upper arms as he shook her. His face was filled with alarm and a rapid pulse beat in the column of his throat. When he saw her eyes open, he dragged her to him, his grip tight as he welded her to his chest. She could hear the too-rapid thunder of his heart beneath her cheek. His body trembled.
"You scared me near to death!" he said. "I thought you were dying. You were so cold, Liza. So cold and so still. If anything ever happened to you…"
He pulled her even tighter to him, put his face against hers.
Liza felt numb inside. Her dream had left her with a blinding agony of grief. Despite who this man was, she clung to him, needing the comfort of human touch. She shuddered and felt his hand smoothing her hair, heard him croon some meaningless drivel. She shook so badly, her teeth chattered.
"What is it, love?" he whispered, alarm running rampant in his voice. "What frightened you?"
She could smell the rich scent of cloves clinging to him and felt the bitter gorge rising in her throat. She gasped, swallowing her aversion to his cologne. She violently shook her head from side to side, wished she hadn't, and tried to push away from him, but his arms only tightened.
"Let me g
o!" she managed to croak.
"Liza, please!" he begged. "Tell me what's wrong." His mouth dropped open as he watched his wife struggling like a wild animal. He felt one tiny fist slam hard into his chest and he let her go. In amazement, he saw her stumble into the bathing chamber and heard the awful gagging sounds.
Galen let out a tired sigh and hung his head. He listened to her relieving herself, and then followed her into the chamber. He took a fleece cloth, wet it, wrung out the excess water, and then knelt beside her where she hunched over the chamber pot. He pushed aside the heavy sweep of her black hair and put the cloth to her face.
"Breathe slowly," he told her. "Breathe a little slower." He patted her trembling lips, wiped at the corners of her mouth.
"I have to…I can't…"
She bent double over the pot once more, retching dryly. He placed a gentle arm around her waist and held her as she gagged, bracing her straining body against him. His other hand held the wet cloth to her forehead so he could rest her head against his shoulder.
How long they sat that way he didn't know. But as the minutes ticked slowly by, he held his position, not speaking, bracing her body.
When the nausea passed and her head ceased its wild, careening throb, Liza, turned to him at last. Her chin trembled violently when she looked into his knowing eyes. Little mewling sounds of discovery made their way past her strained throat and she could not stop the horrible shuddering that racked her body.
"I've known since the morning of our wedding."
She went still as death in his arms, her breath drawn in sharply. "Known what?"
A fleeting smile touched his lips. "You are carrying his child."
Her face paled. She glared at him with so much hostility her entire body quivered. She tried to push away, but he wouldn't let her.
"You have nothing to fear from me," he told her in a quiet, subdued voice. "I would never hurt you and neither will I ever let anyone else hurt you."
"It was the food at supper. It was—"
"Have you not wondered why I would not touch you? Why, despite every wile you have used on me, I have rebuffed your caresses?"
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