“Who knows? Inner politics? Opportunity? The timing hardly matters. Whatever the case may be, I want you to take your men and head up north,” the duke said, his fingertips tapping on the polished desktop for emphasis. “Find out who’s behind the raids and give those pirates a proper bashing. It’ll have to do until the rest of our troops are called back from Camria.”
Callan couldn’t hide his surprise.
“What about the wedding?” he asked. It was telling that he’d rather fight a bloody battle than stand before the altar with the Count of Camria by his side, but he couldn’t quite hide his enthusiasm at the idea.
“We’ll hurry the wedding,” Bergen said, effectively dashing Callan’s tentative hope for reprieve. “I’m sure the count and his family wouldn’t mind.”
There was a hint of mockery in the way he uttered “count.” Despite the marriage contract, the duke didn’t consider the young heir of Camria his equal, that much was certain.
“You’ve met him. How did you find him? Is he an amiable man?” the duke asked, changing both tone and subject.
“I’m not required to like him, only marry him,” Callan said curtly.
Bergen leaned back in his chair. “I suppose that’s true.”
The concession unexpectedly stung. Callan and his father had never been the overly affectionate sort, but hearing him dismiss Callan’s feelings as inconsequential still hurt. It was all the more surprising considering that despite his reticent nature, Bergen had been there for him in the aftermath of Idona’s death.
Why are you doing this to me? Callan wondered, but said nothing aloud.
“Take him with you to Bryluen,” the duke continued. “It wouldn’t be much of a honeymoon, but he should learn what life in Mulberny is like for us, even if he ultimately chooses to reside in Camria most of the time. The sooner, the better.”
“I can’t take him on a campaign,” Callan said, not bothering to keep the incredulity from his voice. He recalled the stiffness with which Derek held his injured arm pressed against his body, the way he nearly toppled from his horse at the end of what must have been a wearying sojourn. Even if the man hadn’t issued a single word of complaint, he was in no shape to travel again so soon, let alone fight. “He needs to recuperate.”
Bergen huffed dismissively.
“He’s not a baby to be coddled. He’s a warrior, a lord of his own fiefdom. As your husband, it’s nothing if not his duty to accompany you.”
“Remember what happened last time my spouse wanted to accompany me,” Callan said sharply.
The duke’s expression softened.
“I remember,” he said gravely. “But it wasn’t your fault then, and it wouldn’t be your fault should something happen to this new count. It’s a risk we all have to take. A title is an obligation as much as it is a privilege. I don’t have to explain that to you, but perhaps I should have a talk with your groom, if you feel he’s the sort to balk at assuming responsibility.”
“No.” Callan shook his head. “I’ll talk to him myself.”
His acquaintance with Derek had been too brief to adequately judge the quality of his character, but he didn’t strike Callan as someone who’d shirk his duty. The last thing he wanted was to be cordially accommodating to the man who’d been practically foisted on him. But as the son of a duke he wasn’t supposed to indulge his wishes. Marriage was merely a political tool for the likes of him, not a matter of personal choice.
What he’d had with Idona was pure luck, a blessing from whatever deity that had favored them. When she died, his heart died with her along with all his dreams and hopes for a family of his own, and all he was left with was the guilt he carried like a stone around his neck. His father could try to absolve him of blame all he wanted, but Callan knew the truth. And so it didn’t matter if it was this Derek he married now or someone else. They were all but pawns on a vast board, striving to serve their purpose until they were taken off of it.
Chapter Three
THE GUEST QUARTERS, where Medwin, the duke’s castellan, had taken them upon arrival, faced east. In Derek’s opinion, they presented a much nicer view than the bleakness of wild gray-green waters breaking upon barren rocks. His window offered a vantage point over the entire town of Irthorg spread below them, and beyond that, a vast expanse of fields and grassy hills punctuated with small lakes at the bottom of narrow valleys. The sky just above the horizon was stained with ink as the sun had already begun its descent into the sea.
Even though the destination wasn’t one he’d choose willingly, Derek was glad the journey was finally over. The pain in his injured shoulder had gotten worse with every passing day in the saddle, to the point where Derek could barely move the fingers of his throbbing arm. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed rest, even if it was in a strange room, on a strange bed.
At least it was a comfortable one. Hamlin, the Captain of the Count’s Guard, had insisted on searching it before Derek had the chance to settle, going as far as sniffing the water in the washing pitcher, but had found nothing out of the ordinary.
Derek walked away from the window and sat on the edge of the bed with a poorly suppressed sigh of relief. With the help of his servants, he’d already washed and changed into something more suitable for a social gathering—black pants, crisp white shirt, and a somber gray wool coat with just a hint of green and gold threads running around the collar, elegant but still appropriate for mourning. But there was still plenty of time before the formal dinner they had all been invited to. Ivo and Macon had gone out into the town almost as soon as they’d arrived, eager to explore a new place, but Derek had stayed behind with the mind to take advantage of the few hours of repose.
He was a little apprehensive about his brothers going off on their own, especially Macon, but he trusted Ivo to keep them both out of trouble. And they could all use a bit of a distraction from worrying about the future of their family and their dubious standing as the guests of someone who had very recently considered them his enemies. Lady Casea had pleaded the excuse of mourning to remain in Camria along with Ayleen, which Derek thought to be prudent. Not that he really thought the duke would assault his own son-in-law and his family while they were staying in his home, but he’d rather spare his mother the humiliation of being a supplicant to her husband’s killer.
Derek sighed, chiding himself for being so overdramatic. This kind of mindset was hardly helpful if he wanted to approach the matter with any semblance of good faith. He was here for a wedding, not (hopefully) an execution.
He lowered himself on the coverlet, mindful not to disturb his shoulder, and closed his eyes, but his mind kept drifting back to his earlier meeting with Callan in the middle of the dusty road by the lakeside. He’d seen the other man in the past, but Derek had been too young then, and the memory was worn, faded. Now, Callan’s image was painted with new colors, impossibly bright. Tall and broad-shouldered, he boasted exceptional good looks accentuated by an air of casual arrogance. His short hair was the exact shade of a raven’s wing, his blue eyes as sharp as shards of ice.
Derek appreciated male beauty, and Callan was nothing short of striking, a veritable picture of masculine perfection, whereas Derek himself could never aspire to be called anything more flattering than “average.” Brown eyes, hair the color of mud falling in short waves over his ears, medium height, and almost bland features—nothing about his person would inspire a potential suitor to swoon at his feet, aside from his lately inherited title. And even that asset was currently hanging in the balance. He couldn’t shake off the persistent feeling that one of them was getting the short end of the bargain, but who it was still remained to be seen.
His thoughts began to scatter. He meant only to shut his eyes for a few minutes, but he must have fallen asleep because he was startled awake by a loud rap on the door.
Blinking owlishly, he sat up on the bed, the stiffness in his joints slowing his movements. If anything, he felt even less rested than before his impromptu nap. Th
e room was now completely dark, and significantly colder. There was no escaping the damp chill that seemed to haunt the castle.
He couldn’t waste time lighting the fireplace, however. Suppressing a yawn, Derek hobbled across the room, wincing with every jolt to his arm, and opened the door. He was expecting to see the castellan or a servant come to fetch him to dinner, but instead came face-to-face with Ivo, who was wearing similar clothes and an uncharacteristic scowl. Derek’s heart sank a little.
“Did something happen?” he asked, glancing up and down the hallway. But Ivo was alone.
“Macon is drunk, and he’s making an ass of himself,” Ivo said curtly.
Derek sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Did you have to take him to a tavern?”
“I didn’t. He slipped out of my sight as soon as we got into the city. I’ve been running around searching for him up until about an hour ago.”
“Where is he?”
“The stables. I tried to talk some sense into him and help him get to his room, but he wasn’t particularly amenable,” Ivo said, trailing after Derek as they found their way into the main courtyard. “You know how he can be.”
Derek knew enough to imagine that conversation hadn’t been pretty. Macon was never particularly courteous, and drink made him even more brash. Derek reminded himself to be patient. Macon was just a boy, whatever he thought, and not used to dealing with real anguish.
“Macon was close to Father,” he said. “He’s taking the loss hard. I can’t blame him for lashing out.”
“We’re all grieving,” Ivo said, “in our way. But this isn’t the time or the place for making a spectacle of it.”
Derek couldn’t argue with that. He was beginning to regret letting his brother come along. He’d take being all alone at his own wedding over trying to keep Macon from doing something reckless to jeopardize the shaky agreement the duke had strong-armed them into.
Surely enough, they found Macon at the back of the stables, retching onto a stack of hay. The stable boy who was unsaddling Macon’s horse shot them a disapproving glance before leading the animal into its stall.
Derek put his right hand on Macon’s shoulder, but the boy threw it off, straightening and wiping his mouth on his sleeve with a hateful look. It seemed the ale had done nothing to dull his resentment.
“Come on, let’s get you to your room so you can rest,” Derek said, doing his best to sound coaxing rather than irritated.
“Don’t tell me what to do. You have no right!”
“Yes, I do,” Derek said, still grasping for patience. “I’m the Count of Camria now, like it or not, and you’re shaming me in front of my future husband’s family. Shaming all of us.”
“You don’t know the meaning of shame,” Macon spit out, his eyes glinting defiantly in the dimness of the stable. “Spreading your legs for the victor, like some whore.”
Ivo’s sharp sucked-in breath sounded too loud in the sudden silence. For a moment, everybody went very still, waiting for the imminent blow, before Derek took a deliberate step back. Holding his anger in check required no small effort, but he refused to let Macon provoke him, not after reprimanding him for being an embarrassment. He would not resort to their father’s ways of dealing with exasperation, and besides, initiating a brawl in Duke Bergen’s keep wouldn’t help anything.
“I might not know the meaning of shame, but I know the meaning of duty,” he said instead, his voice low and hard. “I’d spread my legs for all of Irthorg if it meant keeping my family from becoming homeless. Now go to your room. I’ve had enough of you.”
Macon muttered something less than flattering, but this time, he let Ivo take him by the arm and lead him outside. Derek followed them in silence.
Macon swayed and dragged his feet all the way into the guest quarters. Once or twice, Derek was afraid he would pass out in the middle of the hallway, but at length, they found his room without further incident. Ivo reached for the handle, but Macon stopped abruptly, making him miss a step.
“You know he murdered his first wife, right? Everybody knows,” he said with a strange sort of satisfaction. His speech was a bit slurred, but otherwise, his words were perfectly coherent. “You reckon that’ll happen to you too? I think there are bets being placed on how long you’ll last.”
Ivo yanked open the door and shoved Macon inside with surprising force before Derek could respond. They both ignored the muffled curse and the sounds of shuffling that came from the other side.
“What did he mean by that?” Derek asked, feeling silly acknowledging such a puerile remark. But Ivo’s expression told him it wasn’t simply a figment of Macon’s alcohol-addled brain.
“It’s nothing.”
“Ivo.” Derek didn’t mean for that to sound as harshly as it came out, but he was suddenly too tired. Tired of making sure everyone was on their best behavior, tired of shouldering the responsibility he didn’t want in the first place and being blamed for it, tired of the constant physical pain he had to endure because of someone else’s poor choices. He had no patience for this evasiveness.
“All right, fine.” Ivo glanced to the side. The hallway was empty and silent save for the distant creaking of the hoist pulleys that allowed for easier access to the upper levels. He lowered his voice anyway. “It’s like I’ve told you. They all say Callan killed the Agiennan girl he’d married. They say he hates the clansmen of the Outer Isles, and that having to take an enemy as his spouse was a slight to him.”
“Who says?”
Ivo shrugged noncommittally.
“Macon probably heard it around town, or from one of the servants. No one seems to know exactly what happened, but a lot of people believe Callan did away with her. Some even say he’s cursed for it. The Agiennans are known for their dark witchcraft.”
“This is becoming ridiculous,” Derek said. He turned on his heel and strode down the corridor back to his own guest room. Ivo followed him after a heartbeat. “And that’s a pretty serious accusation to be throwing around on hearsay. He doesn’t look like a murderer.”
“What do you think a murderer looks like?”
Apparently, Derek was paying too much attention to Ivo recounting titillating gossip and not enough to where he was going, because as he rounded a corner, he collided hard with someone coming their way. The impact shook his arm, and he hissed in pain, recoiling.
“Sorry,” Callan said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
For a second, Derek fumbled for words, caught up in momentary mortification as he gazed upon his groom. From Callan’s blank expression, it was impossible to say whether he’d heard what they’d been talking about. The moment stretched, until Callan cocked his head to the side, the look in his blue eyes taking on an expectant quality.
For some reason, Derek’s brain latched on to the most ridiculous details. He noted absently the sensual curve of Callan’s mouth, the way his thick lashes cast long shadows on his high cheekbones, and remembered the feel of his touch against his palm, firm and reassuring. The light of the torches gilded his dark hair, making it appear luminous.
“It was my fault,” Derek said, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “What are you doing here?”
The question came out harsher than he intended, and he winced internally. Callan blinked and took a step back.
“I was going to invite you to dinner,” he said. “Half an hour, in the great hall.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode off the way he had come. His footsteps echoed in the narrow hallway until he reached another turn and was out of sight.
“That was…intense,” Ivo said under his breath.
“It was wrong of us to discuss him like that,” Derek said. It seemed no matter what he did and how hard he tried, he couldn’t avoid embarrassing himself in front of his hosts in some way or another. “Anyone could have heard us.”
“Do you think he really came all this way just to issue a personal invitation? He could have sent a servant to fetch you,�
�� Ivo said, despite Derek’s admonition.
“Why else?”
“Maybe he wanted to talk to you in private.”
“If he did, I doubt he’ll want to do that now, after I’ve called him a murderer behind his back.” Derek sighed. “Do me a favor and make sure Macon is presentable for dinner, all right? Or better yet, let him sleep it off and come by yourself. Let’s save face while we can.”
Ivo nodded. “I’ll meet you there,” he said, turning away.
Derek stepped up to his own door, but hesitated for a moment, peering down the hallway in the direction Callan had taken. Was it just his imagination, or had there been a flicker of hurt in Callan’s eyes? It seemed unlikely, considering Callan’s cool attitude toward him. And yet, he’d come to deliver an invitation in person—only to be met with rudeness on Derek’s part, however unintentional.
Coming to a spur of the moment decision, he hurried after Callan. The castle was still a maze of drafty hallways and passageways to him at this point, but after inquiring a few servants, he was able to eventually track him down to the library.
It was a small one, to be sure, smaller even than the one they had at home—none of the Lords of Camria, save Ivo, had been voracious readers. A casual glance at the titles confirmed the collection was mostly centered on history, warfare, and hunting, but Derek didn’t have the opportunity to examine it closer. Callan stood by one of the small reading tables, leafing through an open book by the light of a three-stick candelabra. At Derek’s approach, he turned and simply stared at him in silence.
Derek halted, shifting uncomfortably under his heavy gaze. The black coat, rich with silver embroidery around the hem and the tall collar, didn’t make Callan seem any softer than his riding attire, but accentuated his perfect figure even further. Other than that single concession to lavishness, Callan wore no jewelry, and his hair was carelessly tousled, as if he couldn’t care less about his appearance despite his station—or maybe because of it.
The Wolf and the Sparrow Page 3