by Kris Tualla
“My life,” he began. “At the age of seventeen, I moved to Philadelphia and studied at a college there. At nineteen, I went to Norway as a prince. At twenty, I returned to America and attended university in Boston for two years. I was twenty-three when I returned to Cheltenham, twenty-four when I married, and at twenty-six I became a widower with a son.”
He twirled the crown.
“For nearly six years, until you fell in my creek, I stopped living. Then within a year of our marriage, we were off to Christiania.”
“Why are you considering your life’s path now?”
“You might have been a queen,” he whispered.
He felt her arms tighten around him. “But I did not desire to be.”
Nicolas spun the crown in his hand, feeling the smoothness of the gold. “Do you believe that kings can change the world?”
“I know they can. They have.”
“But do they ever do good? I mean, truly do good things?” Nicolas twisted and looked down at her. “Might they actually change the world and make it better?”
“I’m sure that’s possible.”
Nicolas turned back to the window. “Perhaps I should have been king after all.”
Sydney let go of Nicolas and walked around in front of him. She leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed. “King Nicolas? What wilt thou change?”
He thought she was mocking him. But the intensity of her gray-green gaze held no mirth. He swallowed hard. The crossroad he had reached—while sipping brandy on his porch during the wee hours last night—was tearing him apart.
“Nick?”
“Jack.” It was all he could manage.
Sydney gasped. “Will you?” All color drained from her face.
“I feel that I must. No matter how opposed I am, I still cannot, in all good conscience…” He let the statement trail off. He was too horrified to put it in words.
“Sarah, too.” It was not a question. It was a condition.
He nodded. “If we can find her.”
“Oh, Nicolas! Oh my Lord.” Sydney sank to the floor.
He knelt beside her and pulled her to him.
“Can you change the world from Missouri?” Her voice was muffled against his chest.
“I must try. The gold does no good otherwise.”
They held each other, the forgotten crown on the floor, still sparkling in the sun.
October 4, 1821
Nicolas replaced the Turkish carpet and crawled out from under the dining room table. “Rickard will never let me live this one down,” he muttered. The gold coins clinked in his pocket as he fingered them. He squared his shoulders and strode out the back door.
The mason and the Negroes were assembling their tools, the job completed. The Clydesdales were harnessed to the wagons and their huge hooves churned up the grass. If he didn’t act now, it would be too late.
“I want to purchase one of your men,” Nicolas began.
The mason squinted up at him. “What men?”
Nicolas pointed to the Negroes. “Those men.”
Silas appeared confused. Jack straightened and his eyes shot arrows at Nicolas.
The mason scratched his head and considered the pair of slaves.“You want to buy one of my darkies? What am I s’posed to do then?”
“Buy another.” Nicolas’s tone was offhand. “That’s of no concern to me.”
The mason, still stunned, turned back to Nicolas. “Well, which one were you thinkin’ of?”
“I don’t know.” Nicolas strolled around them, avoiding Jack’s gaze. “Which one gives you the most trouble?”
Sensing a trick question, the mason shifted his pointed finger from Jack to Silas. “That one there.”
“I see.” Nicolas stood in front of Jack, considering him from several angles. Ripples moved through ebony cheeks as his jaw flexed. Nicolas saw his fingers twitch.
“This one seems a bit jumpy. How much did you pay for him?” Nicolas leaned to the side and focused on the mason.
“F-f—eighty-five.”
“Eighty-five dollars?” Nicolas sounded incredulous. “Why so much?”
“He’s young. And strong. But not too strong, you see.” The mason’s forehead was sweating.
Nicolas looked at Silas. “And this one? How much?”
“He ain’t for sale.”
Nicolas spun on his heel. “No?”
“Uh, no. Only the other’n.”
“Hm.” Nicolas shrugged and walked a couple steps away as if he had changed his mind.
“Were you satisfied with my work?” The mason blurted and waved at the completed stone walls.
“Yes! Very much so!” Nicolas returned and extended his hand. “It was a pleasure doing business with you sir.”
The mason shook it. “Thank ye, as well.”
After an awkward pause, the mason turned back to the wagons. “Let’s go, then!”
The mason, Jack and Silas climbed into the benches of the three wagons. With a baleful glance at Nicolas, the mason slapped the reins and clicked his Clydesdales into motion.
“I will give you one hundred dollars.” Nicolas’s deep voice carried over the creaks of wheels, hooves and leather.
The mason pulled back on the reins. “What?” He wanted to make sure he heard right.
“One hundred. Take it or leave it.”
“Get off the wagon, Jack!” the mason shouted.
He jumped down and started pulling the reins forward to tie the team to another wagon. “You’re stayin’ here. This man owns you now.”
Nicolas swallowed the bile creeping up his gullet. This man owns you were words that he never in his life thought would apply to him. He clamped his jaws together. There was no other way, in a slave state.
Skitt.
Jack climbed down slowly. He stood beside the wagon, stiff, eyes on the ground. Nicolas reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold coins. He dropped two into the mason’s outstretched hand.
“Thank ye again, sir.” The mason tipped his hat. Without even a glance at Jack, he climbed back onto the wagon. He slapped the reins again, whistled, and drove the team off the Hansen property. Silas followed with the tethered wagon rumbling behind him.
Neither Jack nor Nicolas moved until they could no longer see or hear the wagons. Nicolas turned to Jack. “I cannot free you, though that would be my choice. But you would only be caught again,” he said. Resignation colored his tone.
Jack nodded, silent.
“I will do this for you…” Nicolas waited until Jack’s eyes rose to meet his. “I will pay you a salary, as I do every one of my staff. Someday you can take that money and go wherever you wish.”
“You will pay me?” Jack repeated. “A Negro?”
“I will.”
Jack faced Nicolas and stood straight. He extended his hand. “You, sir, are a man of honor.”
Nicolas shook his hand. “I try.”
Sydney opened the front door. Nicolas beckoned to Jack to follow him and he climbed the porch steps. “I believe you remember my wife, Sydney?”
“Yes, ma’am. You were exceedingly generous as I recall.” Jack bowed.
Sydney considered Nicolas. “Is your business completed, then?”
“This part is.” He drew a deep breath and blew it out through rounded lips. Nicolas rested his hands on his hips, and shook his head, his own words repulsive to himself. “Now that I own the husband, I will search out and buy the wife.”
Jack’s jaw dropped. “You will?”
“And then?” Sydney prompted.
“And then,” Nicolas lifted his eyes to hers, “I will change the world.”
Following is an excerpt from:
A Matter
of Principle
by Kris Tualla
Chapter One
October 21, 1821
St. Charles, Missouri
It doesn’t look too bad, as whore-houses go.”
Nicolas Hansen had a wide-brimmed leather hat jammed on his hea
d to hide his blond hair. Nothing could be done about his size. At six-foot four, and over two hundred and fifty pounds, he was noticeable. “I’ll go in, then. You know what to do.”
Jaqriel nodded. In spite of the chill in the autumn air, nervous perspiration gave his dark skin the patina of polished walnut. He took Rusten’s reins from Nicolas, his conspicuous gray stallion Fyrste stabled elsewhere for the duration, and sat on the edge of the wooden sidewalk. Jaqriel leaned against a lamp post; it would be a long chilly night.
Nicolas climbed the steps and knocked on the door. A woman dressed in violet satin, nearly obscured in an eye-stinging cloud of perfume, ushered him in.
“What might a fine, strapping specimen such as yourself be wanting this fine evening?” she cooed.
“I should like to enjoy a brandy by the fire, Madam. Perhaps you might put some of my choices on display?” He fingered the coins in his pocket so that they clinked together.
“Why, of course, sir! Do you have any particular tastes that I might satisfy?”
“Dark.” He looked meaningfully at his hostess. “I prefer dark.”
She smiled and pressed him into a chair. “I’ll see whom I can find.” Turning to a sideboard, she selected a cut-crystal goblet and poured a generous serving of brandy. He accepted the drink and asked about food.
“A slice of beef? A wedge of cheese? Something to sustain me throughout the evening?”
“Absolutely!” She disappeared through a swinging door.
Nicolas considered his surroundings. A brocade factory must have exploded in the room, covering every surface. But, at the least the room was clean.
The swinging door pushed open and a slender Negress, skin the color of caramel, carried a tray of food into the room. Nicolas pulled the brim of his hat down to the bridge of his nose and grunted his thanks. She set the tray on the low table in front of his chair. She didn’t look at him.
The hostess breezed into the room. “Ah, good! You are sustained!” she trilled. “The girls will be down presently. Is there any other wish I may fulfill?” Her hand brushed across the back of Nicolas’s neck. He held out his empty brandy glass. It was promptly refilled.
As he ate from the tray, Nicolas endured the parade of willing prostitutes. Tall, short, thin, plump, some more bold than others. He played along for a bit, as much as he could tolerate, then motioned the madam to his side.
“Yes, darling?” she breathed in his ear.
“The girl who brought the food.”
“Her?” Penciled brows pulled together above purpled lids. “But she’s a Negro.”
“I believe I told you that I prefer dark, did I not?”
“Yes, but she’s a serving girl. A scullery maid!” The woman’s voice took on an important tone. “She’s never been used in that way. She will most likely not be as—pliant—as my other girls.” She waved her hand toward the women draped in various stages of dress over the colorful furniture. “Surely one of these girls will suit you?”
Nicolas pulled a gold coin from his pocket. “Shall I take my business elsewhere?”
“I, uh…”
He shrugged and moved to stand. She quickly linked her arm through his. “Might I show you to our best room? She will be up presently, I assure you!”
Nicolas dropped the coin into the woman’s décolletage. “I shall stay the night. Send a bottle of brandy up with her.”
***
Nicolas pulled the sheets back; they were clean and exuded lavender. Rosie was right, this was a decent sort of brothel. He marveled again at the society of whores, which allowed her to find this establishment on his behalf. Nicolas moved to the window. Off to the right he could see Jaqriel under the lamp, sitting at Rusten’s feet.
Good.
A quick knock on the door preceded the shoving of the Negress into his presence. The door shut behind her before she could escape. Her quickly downcast eyes were red-rimmed and her breath came in gasps. The brandy bottle slid from her hand and hit the carpet with a muted thud.
“Don’t cry, Sarah. Things are not as they seem,” Nicolas assured her. A flicker of confusion rippled her brow. He pulled off the wide leather hat and combed his fingers through his long, thick hair. “Do you know me?”
Eyes the color of rust met his in a sullen, iron gaze.
“It was a year and a half ago, now. I found Jack in my hen house. My wife gave you a skillet and a quilt.”
The Negress’ eyes widened. “And a shirt.” Sarah’s soft voice was spiced with Cajun flavor.
Nicolas nodded. “I forgot about the shirt.”
Sarah’s eyes swept the room, then passed over Nicolas. She paid particular attention to the state of his breeches, making him feel distinctly disrobed. “Wh-why are you here?” she asked, stuttering her fear. “Will you use me, then?”
“No!” Nicolas pulled back. “No, nothing like that. I brought Jack. We’ve come for you.”
Sarah straightened and took a step forward. “Jack is here?”
“He’s outside with my horse.” Nicolas waved toward the window.
Sarah walked unevenly across the room and looked outside. When she saw Jaqriel, she backed away from the window.
“No-o-o!” she wailed and collapsed to the floor. She wrapped her arms around her waist as loud sobs ricocheted through her. “No, no, no, no. I can’t see him. He won’t want to see me!”
Nicolas’s jaw dropped. What now?
“Sarah, please don’t cry.” He waved his hands in awkward circles, not knowing how to comfort her.
“He will hate me, now!” Sarah’s words were muffled against the elaborate carpet. “I can’t see him!”
A sharp rap at the door startled them both. Nicolas backed away and pulled the door open. It was Madam Purple.
“Is aught amiss, sir?” She leaned to the side to see around his bulk. “I heard distressing sounds.”
Nicolas glanced over his shoulder and was relieved to see Sarah sitting on her knees, under tenuous control for the moment. “Nothing’s amiss, Madam, I assure you. I fear our game was louder than we intended.” He flashed his most congenial smile.
“Game?” Madam Purple leaned farther and Nicolas obliged by opening the door wider. Sarah smiled tremulously.
“Yes, um, plantation overseer and the, uh, reluctant—dairy maid.” Nicolas made it up as he spoke. “I’m sure you understand these sort of peculiarities?”
“Yes, well, in my business? Of course!” Her eyes undressed Nicolas, pausing long on his groin. This was the second time in five minutes. He resisted the urge to cup himself protectively.
Nicolas smiled again and bowed. “I promise to be quieter.”
THE HANSEN FAMILY TREE
Sveyn Hansen* (b. 1035 ~ Arendal, Norway)
***
Rydar Hansen (b. 1324 ~ Arendal, Norway)
Grier MacInnes (b. 1328 ~ Durness, Scotland)
Eryndal Bell Hansen (b. 1327 ~ Bedford, England)
Andrew Drummond (b. 1325 ~ Falkirk, Scotland)
***
Jakob Petter Hansen (b. 1485 ~ Arendal, Norway)
Avery Galaviz de Mendoza (b. 1483 ~ Madrid, Spain)
***
Brander Hansen (b. 1689 ~ Arendal, Norway)
Regin Kildahl (b. 1693 ~ Hamar, Norway)
***
Martin Hansen (b. 1721 ~ Arendal, Norway)
Dagne Sivertsen (b. 1725 ~ Ljan, Norway)
Reidar Hansen (b. 1750 ~ Boston, Massachusetts)
Kristen Sven (b. 1754 ~ Philadelphia, Pennsylvania)
Nicolas Hansen (b. 1787 ~ Cheltenham, Missouri Territory)
Siobhan Sydney Bell (b. 1789 ~ Shelbyville, Kentucky)
Stefan Hansen (b. 1813 ~ Cheltenham, Missouri)
Kirsten Hansen (b. 1820 ~ Cheltenham, Missouri)
Leif Fredericksen Hansen (b. 1809 ~ Christiania, Norway)
***
Tor Hansen (b. 1913 ~ Arendal, Norway)
Kyle Solberg (b. 1919 ~ Viking, Minnesota)
Teigen Hansen (b. 1
915 ~ Arendal, Norway)
Selby Hovland (b. 1914 ~ Trondheim, Norway)
***
*Hollis McKenna Hansen (b. 1985 Sparta, Wisconsin)
Kris Tualla is a dynamic, award-winning, and internationally published author of historical romance and suspense. She started in 2006 with nothing but a nugget of a character in mind, and has created a dynasty with The Hansen Series, and its spin-off, The Discreet Gentleman Series. Find out more at: www.KrisTualla.com
Kris is an active PAN member of Romance Writers of America, the Historical Novel Society, and Sisters in Crime, and was invited to be a guest instructor at the Piper Writing Center at Arizona State University.
“In the Historical Romance genre, there have been countless kilted warrior stories told. I say it's time for a new breed of heroes. Come along with me and find out why: Norway IS the new Scotland!”
