WindFall

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “I haven't eaten all I want, yet,” Nick snapped.

  “Then be about it, man!” Gillian shot back. “The wood in the grate won't last all evening!"

  Dark brown eyes shifted from the creamy underside of a smooth chin to a belligerent square-jawed face that was flushed with the room's heat. Perplexity made those dark orbs narrow.

  “I know that, woman!” Nick responded in kind. He cast a murderous glare at the remaining wood snapping and crackling in the fireplace.

  “Well?” Gillian challenged. She continued to stare at her brother until he snatched up his coat and stomped heavily to the door.

  “I don't care to venture out in this muck,” Nick grumbled as he jerked the door open and plowed out into the hall. “It's gods-be-damned cold out there."

  “And bring back some more snow!” Gillian called out. “The water in the barrel ain't fit to drink!” She grinned at the nasty expletive that came back to her as Nick's heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs. She glanced down at her patient then blinked.

  He was staring up at her, his soul lurking just behind the dark umber of his eyes. There was an odd expression on his thin face and breathless wonder in the weak voice which spoke.

  “Who are you?” came the hoarse request.

  “Gillian, Your Grace,” she whispered automatically although she had been captured-and was being held spellbound-by the shifting motes of gold moving through his irises. “Have you forgotten already?"

  “My Gillian,” he sighed and long dark lashes slipped slowly downward to hide the fevered intensity of his gaze. His breathing grew deep as he returned to the netherworld in which he'd spent most of the day.

  She sat there—holding his head braced against her chest—and stared at him. Was it really him? She wondered as her gaze slid slowly over the taut features that were now composed in sleep. Although his face was flushed from the fever and his cheeks sunken from lack of proper nourishment, he was just as handsome as the first day she had seen him over nine years before.

  “Kaelan,” she said and trailed her fingers down his lean cheek and under his too-warm chin.

  He would be thirty-two, now, she thought, this prince of the Hesar clan, and yet he looked much older. No doubt the life he had been forced to live had aged him so. Anger rose up in Gillian's heart and she drew him closer to her, holding him, protecting him against the vile world that had made him an outcast.

  * * * *

  Nick was grumbling fiercely as he dropped the load of firewood beside the hearth. “By the gods, but it's turning colder out there!” He thrust his hands to the fire and rubbed them vigorously together. “And I'll warrant there's been another three inches of snow fallen since we came inside.” Stamping the feeling back into his numb toes, he turned his backside to the fire.

  Gillian glanced at her brother. “He woke for a moment and asked who I was."

  Nick chuckled. “You must have seemed like a dream to him, I suppose."

  “The fever's broken,” she told him. “But there's still a lot of congestion in his lungs."

  “Best see if you can find some medicines down below,” her brother advised. “The fever may be leaving him, but he could yet die."

  “He won't,” Gillian stated and Nick nodded. If his little sister said the man wouldn't die, he wouldn't.

  “I spied the sign whilst I was out,” Nick said. When Gillian turned a questioning brow to him, he nudged his chin toward the man on the bed. “The estate sign,” he explained. “It had been torn off the post."

  “Holy Dale,” Gillian said softly. She had always thought the name beautiful despite the ugliness that had become attached to it.

  “Some fool had changed it to Unholy Dale,” Nick snorted. He faced the fire again and held out his hands. “And I don't think it was the young prince, there, what done it."

  “Probably not,” Gillian agreed. “Do you want more stew, Nicky?"

  “Aye,” her brother said, sitting down on the hearth. “Just as soon as I thaw myself out."

  “Watch him, then,” she said, handing her brother another bowl of stew. “I'll see what I can find downstairs."

  Nick wrapped his hands around the steaming bowl of stew as he sat watching their patient. He smiled at the big dog who was still draped across his master's legs.

  “You don't go far from him, do you, girl?” Nick asked.

  Brownie lifted her massive head and shook the golden-brown fur as though she were answering. She turned her face toward her master, studied him for a moment, then lowered her head to her paws once more, her cinnamony eyes flicked from side to side, reconnoitering the chamber, then closed.

  Nick chuckled to himself. A good friend to have, he thought as he spooned a large helping of the stew into his mouth. Probably your only friend, eh, Prince Kaelan? he thought. As he ate, he thought back to the autumn equinox nine years earlier when he and his family had Journeyed to Virago and been presented at the court of the Hesars.

  It had not been a particularly happy occasion, for none of the Crees had wanted to leave their native Chale for the wilds of the stormy north country. But their father, Duke Dakin Cree, had been posted as Chale's ambassador to the windswept cliffs of that cold land and his family had reluctantly accompanied him.

  On the very day of his presentation at court, the long-widowed Duke of Warthenham had met the Countess Elga Junstrom and, after only one month in Virago, had taken her to wife. Their father's marriage to the gold-digging Countess had added more fuel to the fires of contempt in which the five Cree siblings held Virago and the barren coldness that was Tempest Keep. The cold weather was another deterrent.

  That had been when Prince Landis, Prince Kaelan's father, was Jarl. The elder Hesar was a stern man who never smiled and who seemed to bear the Crees a particular dislike. Barely civil to the Duke, openly contemptuous of the ‘brats’ the Ambassador had brought with him from Chale, Landis had made life at the Keep most unpleasant. Perhaps having to hand over his favorite mistress into the keeping of a minor Chale nobleman had been reason enough to find disfavor with the Duke, but the Prince's dislike of the Cree children puzzled even the most jaded among the court's hangers-on.

  Why? Nick thought as he set aside his bowl. Why had the old man hated them so? He supposed no one would ever know, for Landis was long since in his grave and Duncan, Kaelan's older brother, was now Jarl at Tempest Keep.

  Things had changed drastically for the Cree family when Landis and his youngest son, Anson, had both succumbed to the lung fever eight winters past. The twenty-six year old Duncan had not shared his father's contempt for the Duke and his offspring, though he was not as warm to them as he was to some others assigned as emissaries to the Court of the Storm. He had shown the Crees a better time of it than his father had and had even made good matches for the two eldest Cree daughters: Adele and Adair. He also found a most enchanting wife for the eldest son, Ruan.

  The marriages had elevated the Cree siblings to a much higher rank within the court and had, fortunately, brought much happiness to those involved.

  But unhappiness for me and Gillian, Nick remembered with a bitter frown.

  Duncan had found a bride for the sixteen year old youngest son of Dakin Cree. Ruan's wife, Brigid, had a younger sister of marriageable age and it was to Nicholas, that Prince Duncan engaged her.

  Without Nick's knowledge or consent. When Nick discovered himself engaged to a girl he thought flighty and perhaps more than a little stupid, the young man balked and refused to allow the marriage to take place.

  “I'll join a monastery before I'll shackle myself to that empty-headed chit!” he'd ranted at his father.

  “You just might have to!” the Duke had shouted back. “How can I tell His Grace you find this betrothal not to your liking? He's done well with your sisters and brother! He has only your best interests in mind!"

  “My brother and sisters,” Nick had seethed with disdain, “can be led like cattle to the market. I can not!” He had flung out his hand. “I WIL
L not!"

  “Nor will I!” a thirteen year old Gillian had vowed before being sent from the room by her irate father.

  “Prince Duncan can make my tenure here impossible!” the Duke had tried to reason with his son, but Nick had been adamant, vowing that when he took a woman to wife-

  many years down the road, he hoped-she would be from Chale and a sight better endowed than the scrawny bitch that was Ruan's sister-in-law.

  But Duncan had merely laughed at the Duke's dismay when Dakin had worked up sufficient courage to confront the man about his son's engagement, surprising many of those within listening range.

  “Do not concern yourself, my friend,” Prince Duncan had said. “If he doesn't wish to marry Alinor, I shan't make him."

  “Ask anything else of me, Your Grace,” Dakin had promised, “and I shall do it. Nicholas’ behavior has sorely embarrassed us and we would atone for it!"

  Had the elder Cree realized he was being used, that just such a brash promise as the one he'd just made had been what Duncan had been after in the first place, Dakin would have torn out his tongue by the roots. But the harm had already been done. Duncan now had a potent hold over the Duke.

  Nick doubted Duncan had even given thought to Gillian at that time. The gangling thirteen year old child with the long reddish—gold tresses and wide green eyes looked more elfin than womanly and certainly had not-at that time, anyway—caused lust in the heart of Rolf de Viennes. It was not until Gilly's twentieth birthday that Rolf laid claim to her hand and Dakin Cree, despite a virulent hatred of the de Viennes clan, could do nothing about it.

  “You swore obedience to my desires,” Duncan had reminded the Duke not long after the betrothal was announced-again without prior knowledge of the Cree family. “Are you an honorable man or are you not, milord?"

  The betrothal had stood and Nick had joined with Adele and her husband to spirit their unfortunate sister away. For Adele was married to Rolf's cousin, Gunter, and Gunter hated Rolf almost as much as Gillian did.

  “Get her as far away from that beast as you can, Nick,” Gunter had warned. “If she were my sister, I'd rather see her in Galraith Convent than married to that vile lecher!"

  Nick stood up from the hearth and stretched, wincing at the pulled muscles in his arms. Chopping wood was not something he was accustomed to doing and he knew he'd be stiff and sore from his labors come morning. He looked down at his hands and frowned. Already, there were blisters forming on his tender flesh.

  “They'll heal."

  Nick's head snapped up and he found himself being observed. A tentative smile formed on his face and he took a step toward the bed. “I'm happy to see you awake, Your Grace,” he said. Dipping his head in respect, he introduced himself: “I am Nicholas Cree.” He took another step, encouraged by the calm look on the other man's face. “I know you don't remember me, but..."

  “You are Gunter's friend,” came the hoarse reply.

  “Aye!” Nick said, his grin broadening. “He married my sister, Adele."

  The man lying on the bed tried to sit up and couldn't. He was too weak and the heavy weight of the dog lying across his ankles didn't help. Collapsing back on his pillow, he turned pleading eyes to Nick, but he didn't ask for help.

  “Let me,” Nick said, rushing to aid him. He put his hands under the older man's armpits and lifted him up in the bed. “Shoo!” he told Brownie and never once doubted the big mutt would obey. The dog dropped to the floor with a grunt of disapproval at the ejection.

  “Thank you. How bad are your hands?” the ill man inquired.

  Nick glanced down at his palms, then shrugged. “Like you say: they'll heal.” He tugged the covers up around his patient's chest. “Hard work never hurt anyone."

  “There is salve.” A trembling hand lifted to point at the large armoire on the other side of the chamber.

  “Don't concern yourself, Your Grace,” Nick said, blushing.

  “Kaelan,” was the response. “Just Kaelan."

  “Oh, I couldn't possibly.” Nick stopped as he recognized the hurt which began to form on the other man's face. He could have bitten off his tongue; instead, he laid a comforting hand on Kaelan Hesar's shoulder and squeezed lightly. “I'd be honored to call you by your given name, milord."

  A ghost of a smile briefly tugged at Kaelan's mouth before the grim lines of despair settled once more into place. “You are the Duke's son, are you not?” he asked quietly.

  “Aye,” Nick agreed. “His youngest son."

  “How do you come to be here?"

  Nick's face turned scarlet red. “We were looking for shelter.” He looked away. “We heard cries for help and made our way here. I'm afraid I had to break in."

  “Doesn't matter,” Kaelan replied, sensing the man's discomfort. His eyes closed wearily. “You are welcome to stay for as long as you like."

  There was in those eleven words, years of crushing loneliness and fading hope. How many years had it been since Kaelan Hesar had known human companionship? Five? Six? When had Marie Sinclair died?

  “For as long as you need to,” came the amendment.

  “They'll be looking for us, milord,” Nick said without pausing to think of the consequences his words might cause. “Perhaps we should move on when the storm is o'er."

  Kaelan Hesar opened his eyes and looked at the man standing over him. “Who will be looking for you?” he asked.

  “The Jarl and Rolf de Viennes.” Nick lifted his chin. “She was not enamored of the Jarl's choice."

  Another ghostly smile laid brief claim to Kaelan's parched lips. “A wise lady, your sister."

  “I will not see her bound to that libertine,” Nick swore.

  “Gillian,” Kaelan named her on a breath of sound. “I remember her well."

  “Aye, milord,” Nick said. “I thought you might."

  “And does she remember me?” he asked sadly.

  “All too well, milord,” came the answer from the doorway.

  Both men looked at Gillian as she came toward the bed. One watched her through the adoring eyes of an older brother while the other watched her with wariness.

  Gillian laid down the medicines she had found in the pantry and stepped up to the bed to feel his forehead. “How do you feel, milord?"

  “I could feel worse,” he mumbled.

  “Now that you're back, Gilly,” Nick said, turning away from the obvious emotion on both his companions’ faces, “I think I'll bring in some more of that gods-be-damned wood."

  Kaelan turned his gaze toward Nick and watched the man leave. “Did he ever marry?” he asked when they were alone.

  “No,” Gillian said with a long sigh. “Unfortunately he has never found the one love of his life."

  The Viragonian prince looked up at Gillian. He stared at her a long time before finally glancing down at the wrinkled coverlet. “It was not my decision to make, Gillian,” he said softly.

  “So I was told,” she answered crisply. Turning away, she picked up the medicines and took them to the fireplace.

  He watched her brewing the mixture in which she'd soak the poultice she would later plaster on his naked chest. Although she did not speak as she worked—and neither did he—each was very aware of the other. The tension in the room was as thick as the bubbling stew, which sent wafts of spicy aroma through the room.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked, glancing down at the cooled broth she had set aside for him.

  “Aye,” he answered quietly. “But I can wait."

  Gillian turned her head and looked back at him. “For some things you can; for others you can't."

  Kaelan flinched as though a barbed whip had been laid to his flesh. He hung his head. “Had it been my choice to make, Milady Gillian, I surely would have...."

  “What is your beast's name?” she asked, cutting him off. She took up the bowl of broth and brought it to the bed. “Can you feed yourself or are you too weak?"

  “Brownie,” he answered on a tired sigh. “And nay, I'm not to
weak to feed myself.” He took the bowl from her, drawing in a quick breath when their fingers touched.

  She snatched her hand away, did not see the hurt come into his eyes when she wiped it down her skirt as though his touch had befouled her in some way. “Here, Brownie,” Gillian called, turning her back to him.

  The big dog ambled over to the hearth, tag wagging, and gently accepted the choice morsels of stewed rabbit Gillian fished from the pot. Brownie gobbled them up then looked up for more. When Gilly wasn't as quick to respond as she'd like, the big dog nudged her leg with its massive head.

  “Shameless beggar,” she laughed, reaching down to pat the dog. “Give me time.” She plucked more tidbits from the pot to cool.

  “Brownie's not used to food anywhere near this good,” Kaelan told her. He sipped more of the delicious broth and closed his eyes as the taste rocketed over his tongue.

  “Your cook must be a slovenly sort,” Gillian sniffed. “The kitchen is filthy and the pantry is in even worse condition."

  “I have no cook,” he replied. When she arched a brow at him, he shook his head. “I have no servants here, milady."

  She refused to feel sorry for him even though his shame was blazing across his face for her to see. “That's what comes of paying too low a salary, Milord Hesar,” she quipped.

  “Had I the entire Court Depository at my command, milady, I could find not a single person in all of Wixenstead Village who would be willing to come here to work.” His voice bore a great sadness as he spoke.

  Gillian shrugged. “Then it is your reputation which must keep them away.” She gave Brownie her food. “Are you that poor an employer Milord Hesar?"

  “Gillian!” Nick scolded as he came into the chamber. His dark green eyes flashed with anger as he flicked them over his sister. “If you've no civil comment to make to His Grace, keep your mouth shut!"

  “She has a right to her opinion, Lord Cree,” Kaelan reminded him.

  “Aye,” Nick bit out as he dumped an armload of wood on the wide hearth, “yet that does not give her permission to voice it!"

  “He knows how I feel about him,” Gillian snapped.