"The Princess Cyle would have liked your lady, Your Grace." She met his startled look.
"You think so?"
"Aye. She was a lovely lady, very open and warm. She never raised her voice to us or struck us. She tried to keep His Grace from doing so." She bit her tongue. Everyone in the keep knew how the two brothers felt toward one another, but one did not criticize the royal sons.
"She sounds like the kind of lady I would have liked to have known. I’ve heard nothing but good things about her from everyone who knew her." His wicked thoughts prodded him with intense jealousy. Indeed, the lady would have made him a far better wife than The Toad.
"You would have loved her, Your Grace," Gezelle told him. "We all did. Even those who were dead set against the Prince marrying her."
"And how did my brother feel toward her, Mam’selle?"
There was hesitancy in the girl’s answer. "I am sure His Grace cared for her. He wept at her funeral."
He searched her face. "I am sure he did." The Princess Cyle’s dowry had been returned to her kinsmen upon her untimely death; Galen wouldn’t have liked that.
"Is there anything you need, Your Grace?" Gezelle asked, fearful of the sudden hard look on the young Prince’s handsome face.
Conar shook his head. "Just take that gown to Liza." He turned and headed toward the stairs.
Gezelle began to walk away, but Conar’s voice cut across the hall to her. She stopped, turned, a look of fright on her face, for his voice had been sharp, demanding.
He frowned, seeing how his unthinking tone had undone all his cheerful banter of a few moments earlier. It was obvious this girl had been wounded by too many harsh words in her lifetime. He would try to remember to be extra careful in his dealings with her.
"Where did my sister-in-law die, Mam’selle?" he asked softly.
"There, Your Grace. She fell from the balcony near where you are standing."
Conar glanced at the four-foot high wrought-iron railing. How did one go about falling over such a balcony? It was nigh impossible. He looked back at the servant. "Was she alone when she fell?"
"I truly don’t know, Your Grace. There are those who say she was not. They say they saw a man disappearing from the balcony when they came to investigate the lady’s scream as she fell, but no one could say who he was. No one admitted to being with her."
"Naturally not, eh, Mam’selle?"
Gezelle smiled sadly. "She was a good woman, Your Grace."
"I am sure she was. She will be remembered."
"Always, Your Grace."
* * *
At the head of a long trestle table in the unkempt and shadowed dining chamber of Norus Keep, twin candelabras of scratched and chipped ebony sat along the stained white lace of a torn and tattered tablecloth. Once, rich gold plate and the finest Chalean crystal had graced the long cherry wood table and the candelabras had been polished and smooth, casting a warm, rich glow over the hand-tatted lace of the table covering. Now, the gold plate was nicked, heavily scarred; the crystal was chipped, the tablecloth, an eyesore of gravy stains and wine spills. Even the ice blue napkins of fine Viragonian linen were stained beyond cleaning; gray with time and discolored from rust stains. Dust lay on the massive sideboard behind the trestle table, and cobwebs and grime caked the chandelier. No candles were lit in the massive pewter chandelier and the room was cast in lengthening shadows.
Seated at the head of the table, brooding into his wineglass, a blond-haired young man swirled a rich red port around and around as he glared into the blood-red glow. The port sent sparkles of color over the tablecloth like a jewel casting its reflection as the liquid caught and held the candlelight.
The young man’s thoughts were hot with an anger he found hard to control. His blue eyes were squinted in petulance, his lips pursed tight with annoyance. The last thing he had needed this night, of all nights, was to have his much-despised twin show up on the doorstep, unannounced, and with a guest, a female guest at that, in tow. Hasty commands had had to be issued to the gathering of men who had congregated in the dungeon rooms; plans had to be averted; precautions taken. As the gathering dispersed, so, too, did the storm brewing on the horizon. Drumming rain had stilled to a slow trickle, the boom of thunder reduced to an occasional weak clap. It was the storm’s ending that angered the young man the most. It had been a storm destined to destroy Conar McGregor.
No matter how hard the man at the table tried to still his fury, it scorched his soul like the hissing kiss of a branding iron.
His hand tightened around the goblet’s stem, his thumb and forefinger pressing inward against the fragile crystal. His other hand held the arm of his chair with a death grip, his knuckles white and strained with the force of his hold.
"Damn you, Conar," he spat with fervent wrath. "Damn your soul to the Abyss!"
Prince Galen Nicolai McGregor had always vowed that he hated his twin brother with a passion that went far beyond the ordinary sibling rivalry. It went, he swore, past even the hatred reserved for one’s worst enemy. It even surpassed the loathing one could have for a despised wife. Or so Galen had said. It was sharp and hot to the touch, and it seared him. It was bitter in the mouth and resisted swallowing. It pierced the gut, disemboweled and consumed the innards. It was, he was fond of telling his cronies, a hatred that had grown in leaps and bounds since the two men were toddlers.
Not identical twins, Galen was paler than Conar, for he rarely went outside; he preferred the dismal, dark, and dank walls of his keep. There, he was not being constantly compared to his fraternal twin.
Galen’s hair was the same shade of ripe wheat, but it was coarser in texture, more unruly. The blue eyes were the same shade, as well, but Galen’s eyes were hooded, more conniving, full of mistrust and contempt. His mouth did not have the same sensual fullness of the upper lip that Conar’s did. It was a thinner mouth, straighter, set into a perpetual sneer.
Their noses were identical, their cheekbones high, their facial structure the same; but Galen’s face was fuller than his brother’s and lacked the cleft of Conar’s. It was the look on Galen McGregor’s face, one of disdain and scorn, insolence and haughty arrogance, that truly set it apart from his twin’s. There was no ready laugh on Galen’s lips and no twinkling humor in the cold blue eyes.
Neither did he have the temperament or the respectability that was Conar’s. And he did not possess the love and adoration that was given to Conar, who had earned such loyalties. People instinctively mistrusted Galen McGregor; shunned him; gossiped about him behind his back in uncomplimentary terms, comparing him to Conar and finding him lacking. Galen felt those comparisons to the very depths of his soul, and although he would never admit it, they hurt him deeply.
But if truth were told, Galen loved his brother. It was a self-destructive love; a love filled with the taint of jealousy and envy and covetousness. He had learned to hide that love behind a facade of indifference and coldness when he was around his brother. It was a weakness, a flaw—this love—that Galen McGregor could ill-afford if he was to gain his objective: an objective that might well have become a reality this night if Conar had not come calling.
With a violent oath, he flung the goblet across the room where it shattered into fragments against the stone hearth with its blazing fire. The wine sizzled in the flames and sent up a pleasant, warm scent of plums.
"You missed," was a sardonic voice from the dining room entrance.
Galen half-rose at the sound of his brother’s amused voice, but with a shrug of his wide shoulders, he sat down again.
"If I’d been aiming at you, I’d have hit you, Conar." His tone was curt with contempt as he ran his veiled glare over Conar’s white silk shirt and dark gray breeches. Never had he seen his brother dressed in anything less than impeccable taste. He admired the cut of his clothing and glanced away. Conar was a handsome, virile man and his presence always seemed to underscore Galen’s own sense of inadequacy.
"Not happy to see me, little brother?
" Conar asked. There was a lazy, nonchalance to his step as he walked to the head of the table where his twin sat. By all courtesy and tradition, in honor of Conar’s position in the family, Galen should have relinquished the position to his twin, but he never had and Conar knew he wouldn’t unless commanded to do so. It didn’t really matter to Conar and wasn’t worth arguing over.
"You weren’t expected," Galen snapped.
"I never am," was the laconic reply.
Galen stared at his brother, marveling at the way the man had filled out over the past year.
"I’d have made ready for you if I’d known you were coming."
"No doubt," Conar said. He pulled out a chair for himself, swung a long leg over the back and sat. He leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. "Your servants taking the night off?" he casually inquired, looking about the empty room.
Galen took a long draft of a fresh goblet of wine. "I said you weren’t expected." He drained the wine and immediately picked up the decanter to fill his goblet. "If you’d let me know when it is you plan on visiting…"
"Isn’t that the point of my visits?" Conar grinned at Galen’s offended stare. "Forewarning you wouldn’t be nearly as much fun, Galen."
"I was told you brought a woman with you this time," Galen said, trying to change the subject. He could never tell if Conar was laughing at him or warning him. "One of your legion of whores, I presume?" He ignored the look of caution on his twin’s lean face.
"I have a lady with me, aye. And I don’t believe I should have to tell you she is to be treated as such." There was frost in the tone.
A burst of laughter came from Galen. "Conar, you wouldn’t know a lady if she were to rub herself against your…"
Galen was distracted by the arrival of a slovenly servant bringing in two fresh decanters of port. Nodding his head in Conar’s direction, Galen indicated to the servant to fill Conar’s goblet first. The man did so, leaving one decanter beside Conar’s plate and placing the other beside Galen’s.
Conar glanced at the sullen look on the servant’s face, meeting the man’s bold eyes. There was such hatred and contempt lurking behind the heavy-lid stare, Conar lifted one brow in surprise. The lack of respect being shown him this night was even worse than usual.
"Is there something wrong with your wine, brother?" Galen asked, drawing Conar’s eyes from the servant.
Conar looked at the goblet and then back to his brother. "Do I need to have this good fellow taste this for me?"
Galen threw back his head and chuckled. When he lowered his chin, the smile left his face and he leaned his elbows on the table and looked his twin in the eye. "Don’t you trust me, Conar?"
Conar’s wintry smile lifted the firm lips. "No."
Galen leaned back in his chair. "What reason have I ever given you to mistrust me? No harm has ever come to you within the walls of this keep."
"What reason, indeed?" Conar snorted. "My trip through Colsaurus the last time I left your keep was exhilarating. I assume those men who ambushed me were meant to see I didn’t reach home in one piece." He raised his goblet and took a tentative sip. Nodding his head in appreciation of the port, he looked back at Galen. "I think they were doing their best to see I stayed in Colsaurus. Underground, perhaps?"
Shaking his head, Galen smiled. "I am not the only enemy you have, Conar. If those men were truly intent on killing you, you would be more than likely moldering in your tomb." He saluted his brother with his wineglass. "I have never once said I wished you dead, big brother."
"But it wouldn’t bother you if I were."
"I would pretend great sorrow should something ill befall you, Conar." Galen tented his fingers and rested his chin on the tips, gazing at Conar with a mournful expression. "I would weep and moan and gnash my teeth. I would prostrate myself at your casket and tear my hair." He grinned. "Our people would know how beloved you were to me."
Conar nearly spat out his wine. "Our people are not fools, Galen."
"You think I have no affection for you?"
"You want the crown."
"I’ve never said otherwise."
"And it is something you will never attain, I fear." Conar blinked as the servant plopped a piece of roast beef onto his plate.
"Don’t be so sure," Galen shot back as the servant laid a fat slab of beef on his plate with gentle care. "There are those who would rather see me on the throne than you." He looked at his servant and they exchanged a smile.
"I have no doubts." Conar picked up his fork and knife and began to score the beef.
"But if you were to abdicate to me, then I would be the one to marry that bitch in Oceania. I’d take that loathsome burden from you."
Conar laughed, nearly pushing the beef off his plate as he tried to cut it. "Now that would be worth considering."
"Would you?" Galen’s voice was husky with hope.
Conar picked up his goblet, took a sip of the heady port, and set down the goblet. He wiped his lips on the napkin, leaned toward Galen, and smiled sweetly. "No," he said softly and then sat back in the chair to resume eating.
"Have you met the Princess Anya yet?" Galen asked, trying to calm his raging anger at being laughed at. "I hear she’s as ugly as ever."
Stabbing a slice of beef with his fork, Conar took a bite before answering, chewing the tender beef with care. He inclined his head to compliment his brother on the excellence of the meal. "Not yet. It can wait. Perhaps she’ll decide to join a nunnery."
"Ah, I think not, Conar," Galen remarked. "Papa will have you well and truly married; manacled hand and foot and member to her before the year is out. If you aren’t tied to Shaz’s ogress, then it will surely be to some other mindless chit. As heir, it is your place to marry and produce offspring to sit upon Papa’s knee. I would wonder, though, what those little half-Oceanian, half-Conar things would look like."
Galen laughed at his own barb, for he could see his twin had not found the remark palatable. Conar was frowning, viciously attacking the beef. Smiling to himself, Galen took another sip of wine. His voice was beginning to thicken from the amount he had already consumed.
"Doesn’t the thought of bedding that beldame bother you, Conar? I would think the thought of humping such a haglet would take the steel out of any man’s sword."
Conar placed his knife and fork beside his plate and glared across the table at his twin. "Be careful how your tongue wags, Galen. Your remarks are tasteless and crude even by your own standards."
Galen sulked as his brother continued to stare at him. It had always been so: Conar would let that guileless blue gaze hold until Galen could stand the pressure no longer and would have to turn away. Never once in their lifetimes had Galen won a force of wills between them. This night was no different. He looked away from Conar.
"I only tell the truth," Galen ground out.
"You let the wine speak for you."
Galen’s mouth turned bitter. "I fear it causes me to forget in whose august presence I am being allowed to sit. It does help to ease the monotony of my existence here in your mighty shadow. Sometimes I can’t seem to control my insatiable hunger for it."
"Then perhaps it is time the wine was ruled by the man and not the other way around," Conar quietly reminded him.
Galen glared at him. "And you have no one and nothing that rules you, do you, Conar?"
"Everyone has rules they must obey, Galen. Even I." He took a bite of fresh steamed asparagus.
"Speaking of being ruled: did you happen to see Master Kaileel Tohre when you arrived?" Galen asked, his humor restored as his brother’s face lost some of its natural ruddy coloring.
Conar laid down his eating utensils and pushed away his plate, his appetite suddenly gone. He cleaned his lips on the napkin. "I saw him."
"I’m so glad you did. He often asks of you while he’s visiting with me. We have such long chats about you." Galen’s eyes hardened with malicious glee as his brother glanced uneasily away. "We discuss your childhood. He told me…"
Conar looked up to see Galen staring open-mouthed at the dining hall entrance. Turning his head to see what had caused his brother such surprise, Conar found he could not swallow past the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat.
Galen got slowly to his feet, his heart hammering wildly. He felt as though he had been kicked in the gut by a mule. He swung his stare to his brother. "Is this the lady you brought with you?" he whispered in a hushed, awed voice.
Conar could do no more than nod. His eyes were locked on Liza as she stood in the half-darkened doorway, her gown and hair gleaming from the light in the main hall. He followed Galen to his feet, snatching up his linen napkin to wipe the wine stain from his lips. He tossed the square of linen back to the table where it landed in the gravy boat.
Never in his wildest, most fevered dreams, his most intimate moments of fantasy, could Conar have imagined that the young girl who had accompanied him to Norus Keep was the one who now graced the chamber with her delicate, breathtaking beauty. He was unaware of his own gaping mouth, his own thundering heart. All he was cognizant of was the woman at the other end of the room.
"Conar?" Galen whispered. His mouth was dry, his breath ragged. "Who is she?"
"Who?"
Galen reluctantly tore his gaze from the beauty before him and glared at his brother, viciously nudging him in the ribs. "Introduce me to her, you dolt!"
Conar turned to him, his face devoid of expression. "What?"
"Introduce her!" Galen hissed. He pushed past his twin and started around the table, his hand outstretched toward the girl. "My lady! Welcome to my home!"
It took Galen’s movement to break the spell under which Conar had fallen. He snapped his mouth shut with an audible click of his teeth. He hurried to outdistance Galen, rudely shoving his twin out of the way and reaching for Liza’s hand.
Liza smiled warmly at him, amusement coming through. Her dazzling smile was like a ray of sunshine in the dismal room, lighting the darkened corners and warming the dank chill pervading the stone walls. As her hand slipped into Conar’s, she laughed, for he immediately brought her fingers to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. "Good eve, Mam’selle."
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