When morning had come, Prince Galen had not come down to see if they had spent a restful night. Nor had he come to wish them a pleasant journey to Boreas. The servants had not offered, indeed, had not prepared a morning repast. So thunderous had been Prince Conar’s shout, the entire keep had all but come to a standstill. Even the surliest of servants had backed away from that royal anger with fear on their stubborn faces.
"If you will give us an hour, Your Grace…" one of the cooks had ventured before being shouted down.
"You think I have all day to wait for your fires to be stoked, woman?" he had howled.
"Well, no, Your Grace, but—"
"But, hell!" he had screamed before flinging his hand around the gathered group of retainers. Promising retaliation, he had shouted at a nearby servant to have their mounts readied.
The three had ridden out of the Norus courtyard with bellies rumbling in protest.
"Ignore me, will they?" Conar had mumbled as Liza and Gezelle ran to match his long-legged stride to the stables. "Keep me waiting? Not feed me?" His voice was a death knell of fury. "We’ll just see about that! Oh, yes! Let’s see Galen explain this to his King!"
The Prince had been mulish and sullen as the stable boy brought their mounts. Scowling the whole time, he had obviously been making a mental note to inform his father of both his twin’s lack of respect and his servants’ lack of fealty to their future King. Somewhat mollified to be able to cause his twin trouble, he swung into his saddle and waited for Liza and Gezelle to mount.
"Will you hurry?" he had snapped.
"Will you behave?" the Lady Liza had snapped right back at him.
Only the Master-at-Arms, Sir Belvoir, had nodded a farewell as they crossed the rotting drawbridge. He seemed to catch the Lady Liza’s attention and she had smiled at him, nodding. Gezelle could have sworn a slight stretch had come upon the good knight’s hard mouth, but he had turned away as the portcullis began to lower and Gezelle thought she had been mistaken. Sir Belvoir never smiled.
"It looks like we’ll see rain before the day is out," Liza remarked now, gaining both Gezelle’s and the Prince’s attention.
Conar’s head went back and he took in the lowering sky. "Aye, but no storm, if that’s what bothers you," he snarled.
Liza felt like beaming the fool on his head. What bothered her most was his bruised ego. He was upset that his people had not bowed and crawled along on their bellies to him. Well, that wasn’t exactly true, she thought with a grimace. The servants had been rude and sullen. They surely deserved whatever trouble Conar meant to give them; but she and Gezelle did not deserve to be treated with such disdain.
"No, I don’t think there will be a storm, either," she said sweetly.
"Even if it does," he said, looking down his nose at her, "we will ride straight through!"
"Of course," Liza agreed, seeing him frown over her answer. "After all, we have cloaks."
Conar turned and glared at her, his face a study in frustration. It was obvious he was spoiling for a good fight. She could almost see the steam coming from his nostrils. If he was expecting the two of them to be a burden to him, he was going to be sadly mistaken.
They had traveled only a mile when the rain began. Still ten miles or so from the nearest tavern, a new establishment called the Briar’s Hold, Conar informed the women that they would ride until they came to a more well-known tavern where accommodations might be better prepared.
"I’ve heard tell the place isn’t even open yet," Conar said, remarking upon the new tavern.
"Whatever suits you, Milord," Liza answered and almost laughed at the jaundiced look he swept over her. " ’Zelle and I are just fine."
Their heavy cloaks were put on under the thick, spreading canopy of an old live oak. Snuggling into the oilcloth cloaks, they ventured once more into the steady cascade of cool water.
The roads were still passable, not yet the quagmires they would likely become. The air was warmer, not yet the frigid blast of arctic chill expected come nightfall. So, in the fading light, they traveled on, their heads bent against the onslaught of ever-increasing wind and rain.
A boom of distant thunder caught Liza’s attention and she stretched her senses; probed; sought; evaluated. The rain was nature’s way of cleansing the earth of man’s foul corruption. This rain was nature-sent, not sorcery-induced. She relaxed with the knowledge and somewhat enjoyed the gentle rhythm of the rain’s beat. Her main concern was Conar.
He was a miserable sight as he sat huddled on his big black destrier. His hair was plastered to his head and he looked fit to kill. She had a strong notion they would be stopping at the Briar’s Hold whether the inn was ready to receive guests or not. As soon as that establishment was in sight, she was sure he would make some excuse to stop.
Conar felt like screaming. Having to travel with one woman was not to his liking; traveling with two was insanity; traveling in the rain with one woman was asking for trouble; traveling in the rain with two women was suicidal. He glanced at Liza and grinned wickedly.
The woman looked like a drowned cat. He turned to the road again. As soon as the sign for the Briar’s Hold was in sight, she’d be begging for him to stop.
Conar’s head snapped up when Liza sneezed. "Are you catching cold, woman?" There was challenge in his voice.
Liza ground her teeth behind a sweet smile. She shook her head in denial, not trusting herself to speak. He looked like a man with the burdens of the entire world on his shoulder and he wanted her to know it. She tried to stop it, but another sneeze blasted out.
"I suppose you want to stop at the Briar’s Hold." He sounded disgusted, but Liza could see a gleam of hope in his blue eyes.
"Not unless you feel the need to, Milord. I am fine. Really."
"Gods-be-damned stubborn female!" he mumbled. He’d given her the opportunity to ask him to stop. Why the hell hadn’t she taken it? He looked back at Gezelle. "How are you, Mam’selle?"
"Fine, Your Grace." Gezelle wondered why he looked so angry that she was all right.
Conar grunted with anger. He heard Liza sneeze and he pounced. "We can stop and get something hot to drink. That won’t take long."
"Whatever you think best, Milord."
Hell! he thought. What was wrong with the woman? Gods-be-damned if he gave in first. He shouldn’t have to. After all, they were the weaker ones, not him.
The only thing was, he was freezing to death in the rain, and he had to piss. He was light-headed from not having eaten much the night before, nothing this morning and he had to piss! Water was running down the back of his cloak and he was sitting in a cold puddle of it as it collected under the seat of his leather pants. The thought of that made his bladder throb. By the gods, he had to piss!
"If you’re hungry, Milord," Liza ventured, "perhaps you could get something to eat at the new tavern." She looked into his hopeful eyes, knew he was waiting for her to plead with him to stop. She smiled, thinking she’d bite off her tongue before she did. "I know you must be very uncomfortable."
What the hell did she mean by that? he seethed. Were not she and the servant girl just as uncomfortable? He twisted around to look at Gezelle, confident the servant would ask him to stop. "Do you wish to stop, Mam’selle? Are you hungry?" Only Liza could see the expectation on his face.
"No, Your Grace. I can wait."
Conar spun around and faced the roadway. It took every ounce of his strength to bite back the angry remarks. Women were the problem with the entire world. They were more trouble than they would ever be worth. They wreaked havoc wherever they went so that a man could never have even one day’s peace.
"If you wish to stop, Milord…" Liza paused as another sneeze came.
A wild gleam shot from Conar’s triumphant eyes and he pounced again as Gezelle also sneezed.
"We will stop at the gods-be-damned tavern whether I like it or not!" he told Liza. "I need no sick females on this trip!"
"Whatever pleases you, Milord," Liza
answered, hiding her face from him.
"Gods-be-damned sick females are worse than well ones and well ones are bad enough! It will delay us, but I suppose it can’t be helped. If it were just me, I’d ride on, but you women can’t be expected to have the same vigorous constitution."
Liza could have shot him through with her crossbow. "We are capable of riding out the storm, Milord."
"I will not have you sneezing and sniffling, woman! It is…is…" He searched for the right word.
"Distracting?" Liza prompted, her lips twitching.
"Aye, very distracting!"
Liza glanced at Gezelle and winked. Like she had told the servant girl, you had to put a man in his place, and keep him there, if you wanted any peace in this world. But she twisted the dagger just a little so he’d realize it was he who was giving in, not her.
"I guess it will be all right if we spend the day at the tavern; wait out the rain," she said.
Conar puffed out his chest. "I said nothing about spending the entire day there, Mam’selle! We will get something to eat and then ride out!"
* * *
No sooner had they entered the tavern than the sky opened up with a virtual torrent of rain that ran in thick rivers over the roadways and blew hard against the windows. The air turned as frigid as a deep, dark January night and the wind howled with banshee force among the eaves.
"Damn it," Conar snarled as the rain came harder. "Damn it, damn it, damn it!"
"When do you think we will be able to ride out?" Liza asked in the calmest, sweetest voice she could as the innkeeper and his wife set about preparing a meal for the travelers.
Conar turned stony eyes to her. "Does it look like we’ll be able to ride out, woman?"
Liza shrugged. "If you’d rather stay…"
"What the hell choice do I have?"
He stomped away, his fists clenched at his side and Liza looked at Gezelle. The servant girl was hiding a wide smile behind her slim hand. She, too, knew they’d be spending the night at the Briar’s Hold.
Not at all prepared as yet for visitors, the new innkeeper and his wife did all they could to make their guests comfortable, but the linens were still damp as they were laid to the beds; no wood had been chopped; no food stored in the pantries. The candles had not been unpacked; the oil had not been poured into the lanterns.
What little food was available came from the innkeeper’s picnic basket that he and his wife had brought with them as they worked at the inn making ready for an opening in two week’s time. Cold fried chicken, tart apples, jars of dried peaches, and leathery biscuits weren’t much of a meal for the three travelers who had had little for two days.
Linens brought into the stables to dry now smelled of horse droppings and damp earth. It was not an enticing aroma upon which to sleep.
The Prince Regent’s temper started to rise. He was sorely tempted to lash out at the hapless innkeeper who obviously had no notion who his guest was, but Liza stopped Conar from making a fool of himself by pulling him aside to point out the tavern owner’s predicament.
"Think, Milord. The man is already upset and embarrassed that he can provide no better for his guests. How do you think he and his wife will feel when they find out their very first guest is the future King of Serenia?"
"I don’t give a rat’s arse if…" he thundered, but she shushed him with her fingers.
"One of the things you should have been taught by your father was that your people come first, Milord. Before your own comfort; before your own needs, before your own sense of worth! Why shame this man who has gone out of his way to do what he humanly can? Has he not given up his own meal so that we may eat?"
"That’s his problem," Conar said petulantly. "He’s supposed to show me homage."
"Spoken just as your brother Galen would have, Milord," Liza said with a sneer. "Petty men think alike, I suppose!"
"I am not petty!"
"No? But you are ill-mannered, aren’t you? You wish to make this good man cringe in fear of you because you consider yourself someone important."
"I am someone important."
"To yourself, aye. And if you should bluster at this man, tell him who you are, he will be mortified with shame. Is that what you want? You want to see the man on his knees to you, begging forgiveness for not having the foresight to know his future King would come calling in the middle of a rainstorm?"
Put in that light, he had no choice but to clamp down on his bitterness. He sulked, but at least the poor innkeeper did not suffer any more embarrassment that night.
When morning came, Conar was the first one up. One look out his window and he groaned with frustration. The sky was awash with dark, angry clouds, swooping and swirling in a wind that blasted his window so hard the panes rattled. With a snort of disgust, he shut the curtain and stomped from the room in search of the innkeeper, vowing if the man had no better accommodations this day, he’d strangle him and be done with it, Liza or no Liza! Seeing the downcast expression on the tavern maid’s face made him sigh in defeat. He could hear Liza’s words echoing in his ears.
"Good morn, Milord," the girl said, bobbing a curtsy. "I trust you slept well."
Conar shrugged. "I suppose." He swung a long leg over his chair and slid down, eyeing the girl’s light sway as she placed a plate of muffins on the table before him.
"Would you care for some hot cider?"
"Hot ale would be more to my taste if you have it," he answered and let his gaze sweep down the girl’s curving body.
A dimple formed in the girl’s cheek as she blushed at his heated look. The man was handsome, no arguing that. The tavern keeper had told her the man had two women with him, but she knew he had slept with neither. Perhaps he was looking for companionship, a warm body to keep him comfortable this night. She lowered her lashes. "I shall draw you a mug right away, Milord."
"You could draw me anything you like." He grinned, slipping easily into the banter that was as much a part of him as his skin.
The girl flashed her white teeth in a welcoming answer. She drew a mug of ale from the cask and carried it to the fire. Using her apron as a protective cloth, she picked up a poker from the fire and slipped it into the mug to warm the ale. The warm smell of barley and mead filled the room.
He glanced around, noticing the place seemed more Spartan than it had the day before. He looked closer at the fire and smiled, shaking his head. A table leg jaunted at a woebegone angle from the fireplace. The innkeeper was burning his furniture to keep his guests warm.
As the girl placed the mug of ale on the table in front of him, Conar winked, grinning at the girl’s open invitation in her pretty face. He was about to speak when the kitchen door opened and the innkeeper’s wife bustled toward her.
"Good morn, Your Grace," she greeted him, dipping her knees as she placed a platter of fried eggs, crisp bacon, rice with thick red gravy, puffy biscuits and sliced apples before him. "I have a baked custard ready for you when you finish this, Highness."
"So, you found out who I am."
The lady blushed. "We found out this morn, Your Grace. We are sorely ashamed that we could not provide better for our Prince last eve." She twisted her apron in her lumpy hands. "We apologize to you, Your Grace."
"For what?" he said around a mouthful of succulent egg. He could well afford to be magnanimous on a full stomach.
"For not being able to make you comfortable, Your Grace," she said miserably.
"You don’t owe me an apology, madam; but you do owe me a favor."
"Any favor at all, Milord!" The overweight woman seemed eager to please.
"Don’t burn any more of your furniture." He smiled seductively at her and saw her blush. "Promise?"
The fat woman could barely answer. Her heart was pounding in her wide chest and she had to get away from those devastatingly blue eyes. She sent him a light curtsy and backed out of the room as he returned to his food. "You see to His Grace, girl!" she commanded as she disappeared through the kitchen door.
"More ale, Your Grace?" the serving wench inquired. No wonder the man was so handsome. He was the Prince Regent, no less. Conar McGregor, the man all the women of Serenia were after, was sitting before her and his smile told her he was pleased with her appearance.
"Please." Conar held out his mug and, as he did, her fingers grazed his. He saw her jump. He was used to that reaction from serving girls and it annoyed him. He looked away. "When did your master come by this food?"
"He…he rode to Corinth."
"In this rain?" Corinth was a good ten miles away. "Did he now? That was most generous."
"We are generous people." Her eyes locked with his. "You have but to ask, Your Grace."
He stared at her for a moment and then nodded. He knew all too well what she was offering. "There is something you can do for me…" He needed to know the wench’s name.
"Dorrie, Your Grace," the girl supplied breathlessly. "I will do anything for you."
"Would you prepare a hot bath for me?" His gaze lingered on her lush bosom, unknowingly putting more into his words than was intended.
Envisioning herself sharing that bath, the girl nodded vigorously. "I’ll do it now, Milord!" She almost collided with Liza on the stairs.
"I take it we are staying again today?" Liza asked, frowning at his lecherous look as he watched the serving girl’s rump while she climbed the stairs.
"I wouldn’t be if it were not for you and ’Zelle," he answered, turning from Dorrie’s pleasing rear to look into Liza’s stormy gaze. Was that jealousy in those steady green eyes. He grinned. "If I were alone, I’d travel on, but you two can’t be expected to venture out in this." He pointed to the window where streaming water distorted the panes.
"There’s a lot of things you’d probably do if you were alone," Liza mumbled.
"True, but staying here wouldn’t be one of them. I don’t mind this weather. But you ladies would be highly uncomfortable out in this muck."
WINDKEEPER Page 14
