After a moment's pause, Raymond took it and they walked away together.
The burning gaze of Rolland followed them all the way to the opposite end of the forest.
*
Raymond moved aside foliage he longed to caress and study, simply so different than that of the sphere but his time was not for learning and curiosity's sake, it was for a purpose.
A vital one.
They entered the cave that had been made ready for their rendezvous.
Rowenna took one look at the makeshift bed of feathers and down and burst into tears. Raymond took her into his arms, her lithe body tucked against his.
“I cannot!” she wailed. “I know ye not!”
“Shh...” he soothed. “We have time, we do not need to rut like mindless alley cats,” Raymond said, brushing away the wetness of her tears with his thumbs, the sickness of the Pathway still riding him at the edges.
They did not have time aplenty but he would not force himself on a young woman who was this fearful.
Hope shone in her eyes, then anger. “I am not some weak female,” she said, stepping away and crossing her arms underneath an ample bosom. Raymond could not help but notice her mode of dress, which would have been the height of immodesty inside his sphere. She wore a tightly bound tunic with bare arms that had a light, sun-kissed gold that lay deeper than that of her hair and he gave a hard swallow. He prayed that she did not notice the proof of her beauty on his body. It was not something he could help. He was male and she stood before him, beautiful and by sphere standards, nearly naked.
Raymond cleared his throat, holding his hand out. “Let us get to know each other then.”
She stared at his proffered hand. He saw when she made an internal decision and she took his hand.
He walked her to the temporary bed and they sat upon it.
They spoke to each other until the light changed so much outside the cave that he took his leave.
Raymond and Rowenna walked hand and hand to the portal that would put another nick in the length of his life and this time, when he kissed her, she did not flinch.
Rowenna kissed him back.
*
Rowenna watched Prince Raymond disappear into the rip of space and time and was aggrieved.
He was a man of honor. Even she was not so naïve as to think that many males would not have pounced on her the instant they could lay claim. Yet, he had not.
He wished for her to give herself to him.
She remembered his words so carefully laid before her in their meeting place of stone: “You will come to me without compulsion, of your own desire. If it take one month or six, it will be of your choosing, Rowenna.” Then he had laid his palm against her face, searching her eyes. “I will have all the people's futures on my conscience and bear it,” he had paused for emphasis and clarity, “yet I will not have your fear and reluctance cloud my mind for the rest of the time I have left.”
She had folded her hand over his and he had picked her up and settled her on his lap and held her.
When the light grew low inside the cave he had whispered, “I will go and return again.”
“When?” she had whispered back.
“I will send the homing dove.”
She nodded against him and did not struggle when he stood with her in his arms.
Rowenna felt like she had known this man her whole life.
The irony of the unfairness was not lost on her. She was clan and he was a sphere-dweller. There could not be any unity. It was nigh impossible.
Yet it was there, as a flavor in the air they breathed.
Rowenna did not pretend to understand it, she accepted it and was grateful that someone, fate... had finally done something right.
Yet... there was the matter of who really held her heart.
She did not turn when she felt the hand of her future mate sink on her shoulder.
“Is it done?” he growled, his voice like a weapon on her skin.
“No,” Rowenna replied, turning and he took her by the shoulders.
“How long shall I share you?”
Rowenna lifted her shoulder. “We have not... he would not...”
Rowenna could not say it.
Rolland put his finger under her chin and tilted it so their eyes met. “You did not come together?”
She shook her head and he gave her a fierce hug.
“Why not... is he, not right?” Rolland asked, genuinely puzzled.
Rowenna laughed and instantly thought of what she had seen as proof positive he wanted her. Very much. Yet, he did not want her against her express will.
“He does not want to... force me because of our obligation.”
Rolland stopped walking and turned her so they faced each other again. “He... will not rape you, Rowenna.”
Rowenna dipped her head in abject shame. She hated what she was, what she must do.
“No, do not, Rowenna,” Rolland said, his eyes tightening. “I cannot bear your grief and my jealousy, both.”
She finally looked up. “I misjudged the sphere-dweller.” Rolland paced in front of her then brought himself up short. “I hate that he will touch you.” He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand and Rowenna flinched. “But if a male should have you and it is... not I.” She felt the knot of his emotions and it stilled her breath. “It would be a male of worth such as he. For he shows restraint. And that, my dear Rowenna, is not an easy thing around a female such as you.”
Then he walked away.
Rowenna followed, knowing that this would be a harrowing time. Not for the reason of coupling with a male she did not know.
Her disquiet had deepened. For Rowenna had thought to do the miserable deed and wash it from her memory.
Instead, Rowenna had been shaken to her core over the surprise of Prince Raymond.
She liked him.
Very much.
And therein lay the problem. She recognized it even as she watched the broad back of Rolland as he strode to their mounts.
She would hold her heart in check. However, in the end, the heart ruled. Love was an errant master, unjust to the finest detail, forcing its will against all odds, against all reason.
The heart always won.
Chapter 3
Peter watched the future King struggle through the sphere tunnel, his gait beleaguered and knew, without any forewarning, that the sickness of the Pathway travel was not mere theory but an absolute.
He found himself hating the Guardians with an abiding passion. To say so was sacrilegious but no matter, telepathy did not exist so he was safe keeping company with his own musings.
Peter gazed out a window of convex glass from the inside of the carriage, the image of Prince Raymond distorted.
Presently, said Prince was being all but hauled back to the carriage which awaited him. There was no doubt in Peter's mind that their Prince could not walk the near-mile stretch this day as he typically did, his normal vigor was now compromised by the Pathway. It was typical for him to take his exercise each morn before he attended the oyster beds in their freshwater sea beyond the bounds of the tunnel in which they now rode.
Although the tempo of the carriage was graceful and consistent, Prince Raymond looked like if there had been lunch in his stomach, it would even now be upon the hammered brass floorboards.
“My lord,” Peter began and Raymond held up a hand.
Peter became silent, but plucked out a kerchief that was strategically damp and handed it silently to Raymond.
Raymond took the offering and used it to dab at the moist and chilled skin of his brow. He felt ghastly and judging by the look his manservant gave him, he looked as awful as he felt.
Splendid.
Though he felt ill from the travel in the Pathway, a trip which felt as if one eternally fell through heated ice, he was beginning to feel much better as they made their way to the Royal Manse. He leaned his head back on the velvet-encased seat. Already his mind was crowded with thoughts of his next tr
ip.
He would like to self-delude but that had never been a strong suit of his. In fact, he was barely within the social norms of the sphere, his behavior was considered too outspoken by many. It was very good he was royal or there might have been social exclusion. When he spoke to Peter, he did not flinch, so accustomed was he to the forthright manner of this royal.
“Is she here this day?”
Raymond prayed not. Yet it was realistic to assume that Princess Ada of the sphere of West Virginia would even now be traveling for their initial meeting.
It was as if déjà vu had descended on Raymond. He gave a low chuckle and Peter's brows raised. He knew better than to ask a royal his thoughts, but he waited patiently. Raymond was free with his words and Peter had great faith that trait would continue as long as he drew breath. The royal's confidences were secure with Peter, after all, he was the third generation in his family to have the privilege to serve the Royal Manse.
Raymond did not lift his head from the seat but merely rolled it to face Peter. “It is a day of meeting females I must juggle, my dear Peter.”
Peter smiled and Raymond sighed, his features clouding with the memories of what had occurred. Of what he must yet accomplish.
When he opened his mouth to speak Peter nodded and he said thoughtfully, “She is not the primitive of lore, Peter.”
Peter's shock was visible. All knew that those who resided Outside were varying degrees of Savage. It was a fact.
Raymond saw his face and shook his head. “She is beautiful,” he whispered.
Peter gave a soft intake of breath.
He searched Peter's features and shook his head a second time. “I could not consummate the union.”
“But... your Majesty,” Peter paused, thinking of stepping over that line. He did not step, he leapt. “You sicken.”
They stared at each other. “Aye.”
“Then why? Is it such a misery to lay with a woman?” Peter could not imagine. He found it the finest thing he had ever accomplished. To be held within the soft heat of a female... it was beyond comparison. Words were no apt descriptor for the act.
Raymond watched Peter's expression and took his head from the contoured head rest, laughing from deep within his belly. “Aye, my friend. It is everything I want and more... to lay with her,” his voice became soft as he remembered her beauty.
Yet it was her fragile uncertainty that superseded his lust for her. There was something frail about Rowenna, it would elicit his protection more than his lust. Though there was plenty of that to be had.
“I do want her... badly,” Prince Raymond admitted, hesitating. “Yet, I do not want her fear on my head.”
Peter's brows rose. “Is she, untried? Or...”
“She is but ten and six or thereabouts,” Peter said, laying his head against the seat, his forearm covering his closed eyes. He listened while the steam released and felt the heavy wheels transition from the packed dirt of the sphere tunnel path to the cobblestones which lay within the streets of the main structure.
“And fierce like a young lioness...” Raymond said, cracking a smile despite his malaise.
“You like her...” Peter stated, shocked. This had been all about a business arrangement for securing their future viability. The very continuation of the species depended on this. Their future King was shortening his very life seeing it come to fruition.
Raymond sighed. “I do. Much more than I should.”
“This is not good,” Peter said.
“Aye,” Raymond agreed.
“You must... keep emotions out of this, if I may be blunt, your Highness.”
Raymond barked out a laugh, leveling dark eyes on his manservant, which was a misnomer, Peter was his premier confidant, so much more than a personal attendant. “And I am so proficient at that!” he said, slapping his thigh in emphasis. A puff of the dryness and dust of Outside flew off his trousers.
Peter watched the dirt make a small cloud inside the carriage as it jerked to a halt outside the manse, the iron gate rising in grim spikes against the opulent stone façade.
“What was it like?” Peter whispered, unable to help himself or discipline his words into a proper silence.
Raymond smiled at Peter and it was almost like a snarl.
“Magnificent,” he said fiercely and popped the copper handle on the side door before the footman could open it for him.
It was Prince Raymond's way. He did not like to be fussed over or coddled.
Very much like his future daughter, Clara, would one day be.
Through design or by genetics; destiny had a sense of humor.
*
Rowenna was uncharacteristically silent throughout the return journey to the clan and Rolland kept his own council, which was typical of him.
He did not like the melancholy that had stolen the spark from his future mate. Yet, it was unavoidable. When you took a girl that was barely a woman, forced her into an unforgiving position, such as the one that had been foisted on Rowenna, it was not without consequence. The proof of which sat silently behind him, her steed rolling its girth upon the familiar path that led to the Clan of Cape Cod.
Rolland remembered the time when Rowenna had been but a wee child and watched him spar with his bandmates, her lavender eyes big in her small face, her body covered in the usual grime that accompanied her. For she had dearly enjoyed running about, climbing anything vertical and being a general nuisance.
She had never been one to adhere to the lady-like protocol set forth by the clans. As a rare female Band, a select, there were certain expectations.
She dismissed them all, badgering the Band to spar with her until they relented. After years, she became an adept fighter. Rowenna wished to fight, she wished to be included in battle.
Every male on the eastern seaboard wished to tame her.
Yet, it was Rolland whom she had chosen. Actually, their unique chemistry, inherent to that of the select and blood of the Band had chosen for them in the Rite of the Select that had been but ten months past. Rowenna was nearing her day of birth and it was then she would be allowed to mate with him.
Then the terrible and final news of her status as Chosen came. It had shattered their easy camaraderie into a million pieces.
The worst of it was that Rolland's duties as lead scout of the Band did not cease simply because his cherished future mate must sacrifice the precious gift of her purity for the future of their race. No, he must still defend his clan and that of the ones who overlapped their borders.
The Fragment were always about, they cared not for the tenuous underpinnings of the clans.
Rolland glowered as he handed his reins off to the mixed-blood stable boy. He did not turn around and see Rowenna. He needed time to put her obligation in perspective. However, all he wished to do was travel the Pathway himself and feel the Prince's throat beneath his fingers.
It was not the Prince's fault that the Travelers had chosen him. It could have been any male. It was the Travelers who deserved his rage. Nevertheless, they would not be sharing the body of a female he swore to protect. To love and honor.
Rolland was not honoring her in allowing the Prince to lay with her. He felt the coward.
He stalked off as Rowenna watched his anger come off him in waves.
She was miserable and Rolland's righteous anger made it worse. She slid off her mount and with her shoulders locked in defeat she made her way to the ocean by herself. Rowenna did not wish to see the whites of her parents' eyes just yet.
She would let the ocean lull her into a familiar comfort while she ruminated on her time with Raymond, Prince of the sphere-dwellers.
There was much to think about. Beginning with the way she had felt when he had pressed his mouth against hers. Was it the heated but restrained passion she had with her intended, Rolland? The secret desire she had for the one she truly loved?
As she floated on her back, her eyes seeing shapes in the soft white clouds of an indifferent sky, she felt th
at small hot coal of curiosity burn brighter.
She loathed the flutter of excitement that began like a butterfly unfurling its wings at the inception of its break from the prison of its cocoon. Rowenna was helpless to stop the tide of her feelings.
She would speak untruths to others if pressed, yet to herself, she would not lie.
Rowenna wished to be with Prince Raymond again, to feel those dark eyes with contained longing on her person the way she remembered with a keenness that brought instant heat to her body. To feel the gentle caress of his regard for her, the taut restraint that sung like an unbroken note while they began to know each other in the dimness of that faraway cave.
Like they were the only two people in this world.
Yes, she would be with him, and it would be more than it ought.
Much.
It was what Rowenna could have, for what she wanted could never be, she had already relinquished hope long ago. She dared not dwell on the loss of choice or she would go mad.
*
Raymond sat upon the dais, its high polish reflecting the tiniest details of his wardrobe as he sat in an unroyal-like slouch upon his throne. He drummed his fingers in acute boredom.
He loathed the pomp and circumstance that came with his position as royal. He huffed out a sigh and King Ferrell's first advisor, Stewart Pierce, glared at him.
They were often at odds. Since the beginning of his great-uncle's illness, it had degraded to a point of near-intolerance. He wished to keep things as they had always been while Raymond was insisting on change and progression.
“Prince Raymond,” Pierce started in.
“Yes, Advisor Pierce,” Raymond responded in a droll way, exactly intuiting his next words.
He was not disappointed.
“You show a flagrant disregard for your position and the procession that now enters... Would you, for the love of the Guardian, sit up in your throne,” he hissed through clenched teeth. His gaze slid over Raymond's long legs, his arms gripping the throne's carved armrests that ended in elaborate gargoyles.
The Savage Principle Page 3
