“He should have;” Kaelan scoffed. “He's broken enough of them in his bed."
Her blue stare enveloped him with seething hate. “Just as he will eventually break that of the Chalean whore?"
Kaelan went still as death. His gaze narrowed to pinpoint flames of fury. “Don't,” he told her. They'd had this self-same conversation before, for Marie knew he despised de Viennes, and the mere thought of his precious Gillian in that knight's arms—not to mention his sin-stained bed—was more than Kaelan could tolerate.
“He'll have her one way or another,” Marie laughed, thoroughly enjoying the look of hurt she saw on Kaelan's face. “He is Duncan's best friend and has the Jarl's ear."
“No,” Kaelan snapped, shaking his head in denial. “That won't happen."
Marie pursed her lips into a pout. “Continue to abuse me, Kaelan, and I'll personally see to it."
“Abuse you?” he snorted. “How do I abuse you, Madame?"
“By living!” she tossed at him. “Why don't you just take yourself off somewhere and die?"
“My apologies, then, for daring to draw breath!” he threw right back at her. Without another word, he spun around on his heel and strode away from her. As he skipped down the stairs, ignoring the servants who plastered themselves against the stairwell to get out his way, he cursed his wife. Slamming out of the house, he stormed toward the stable, yelling for Revenge to be saddled.
Marie watched him from the window of their bedchamber. She could not help but admire the male beauty of him: the lean hips, flat belly, wide shoulders and muscular chest. His face was finely-wrought—even more so than Rolf's—and his thick dark hair and burnt umber eyes could make her heart flutter when she allowed such a treacherous thing to happen. But still she hated him with every fiber of her being.
“Even some snakes are beautiful to look upon,” she had often reminded herself, and Kaelan Hesar was lower than any snake she'd ever seen.
Flinging the drape away from her, Marie went to the bed and sat down. Her fists were clenched in her lap and she strove to keep her heart from racing. Putting up a hand to the slight pain in her left shoulder, she winced as her chest constricted once more. She held her breath against the nagging pain, flexed the fingers of her left hand where the numbness had spread.
“Good morn, Your Grace,” a servant girl greeted her as she tapped respectfully at the opened door. “Shall I help you dress?"
“Go away,” Marie snapped.
“Did he upset you again this morning, Your Grace?” the girl asked in a fierce, protective voice.
Marie glanced around at the servant. “Doesn't he always?” she grunted. “The man lives to spite me!"
The servant dared to venture a ways into the chamber. “Have you given any more thought to what we discussed last week, Milady?"
A smirk settled on Marie's porcelain face. “Oh, I've thought much about it, Hildy!” she grated. The pain in her chest was diminishing, but the numbness lingered in her hand and fingers. “I've thought of little else."
Marie knew the servants at Holy Dale—loyal to the House of Sorn, thus the Sinclairs—had been chosen specifically for their keen dislike of the Viragonian ruling family. Hand-picked by her own grandmother, Constance Sorn, there wasn't a man or woman in Marie's household who liked the prince. Most found him beneath contempt, and it was their mistress’ attitude toward the man that encouraged their own rudeness toward Kaelan Hesar.
“It would not be difficult, Your Grace,” Hildy whispered seductively. “All you need do is give us your permission and it will be taken care of."
A long sigh came from Marie. “If I only had the courage to do it,” she replied.
Hildy came to the bed and dropped down before her mistress. “He makes you so unhappy, Your Grace,” she said, daring to put a comforting hand on the Duchess’ knee. “If he were gone, you could be with your love."
Marie sighed again. “Rolf,” she answered.
“Aye,” Hildy agreed. “Just say the word, Your Grace, and I'll have Kullen see to it.”
Kaelan's wife sat there for a long moment and stared at the servant. It would be so easy to give the girl her permission; to say the words that would sweep away the only thing Marie perceived as an obstacle to her ultimate happiness. To have Kaelan out of her life....
“I can not,” Marie said at last. “I wish I could, but I can not."
Hildy nodded sagely. “You are a good woman, Your Grace.” A militant gleam sparked in her sherry-colored eyes. “Too good for the likes of him."
Marie smiled and preened. “I think I'll dress, now, Hildy.” She stood up, her chest pain all but gone. “The lavender silk will do."
The servant girl made a quick curtsy and hurried to the large armoire where only Her Grace's clothing was kept. “He took himself off riding on that hell-steed of his,” Hildy grumbled as she brought the gown back to her mistress. “A pity he can control the beastie as well as he does.” One side of her thin-lipped mouth lifted. “I would imagine a nasty fall from that steed would most likely break his neck, don't you, Milady?"
“Enough!” Marie laughed. It was good to know the servants hated Kaelan almost as much as she, herself, did. When the time came for her to send him packing, the servants would stand behind her; throw him out if needs be. “At least let me get with child before we kill him off, Hildy Jamerson!"
Hildy sniffed. Everyone in the manor house knew the Prince and his lady-wife did not share the same bed. It was a rare occasion, indeed, when the Duchess of Windstorm relented and allowed her husband the brief interlude with her person which might conceivably culminate in the seeding of a babe in her womb. To Hildy's recollection, it had been nigh on three months since that last grudging permission had been granted. If a babe was to come of this unholy union, the Lady would have to make herself more available to her husband's base desires.
“I know what you're thinking,” Marie said, eyeing Hildy's deep frown. “As much as I hate his hands on me, it may well take a year or more for me to get with child.” The Duchess of Windstorm shuddered delicately. “I just simply can not abide his rutting.” Her eyes turned dreamy. “If only it were Rolf...."
“If you want a babe, Your Grace...."
“I don't!” Marie said, stamping her foot. “But Papa does. He wants a grandchild. And before he will allow me to live at Holy Dale without Kaelan Hesar, I have to give him that grandchild to cement the bond between the two houses!"
It was on the tip of Hildy's tongue to ask what would happen if her mistress were incapable of breeding a child from the prince. The fault—the servant girl knew—would lie solely with Her Grace since the prince had had two bastard children by Tempest Keep women, and his fertility proven. But there was no need in borrowing trouble. To Hildy's way of thinking, if, within a year's time, Her Grace had not conceived, matters would have to be brought to a head at Holy Dale.
“I don't care to discuss this further,” Marie snapped waspishly. “It fair gives me indigestion to hear that man's name spoken!” She rubbed at her belly where the corset was creating acute pain, but fashion-and a noblewoman's good upbringing-dictated she wear the torturous devices
“He'll get his due one day, Your Grace,” Hildy prophesied. “See that he don't."
* * * *
Kaelan drew in his steed atop the hill beyond Holy Dale manor. He stood up in the stirrups and looked down at the wide pond where geese paddled to and fro across the silvery surface. Overhead, two hawks rode the thermals, dipping gracefully in a lazy duet. The day was warm; the air sweetly scented with jasmine and honeysuckle. Winter was a vague unpleasant thought three months away.
The Viragonian prince hated winter. It had been winter when he'd wed Marie Sinclair, and this winter would mark their first anniversary. It had been a year filled with so much anger. So much unhappiness for the both of them. So many recriminations thrown back and forth between them. Winter was a time for staying indoors and brooding; staring at the stone walls and feeling the chill of Marie'
s dislike; suffering the icy sting of her tongue that drew blood every time she lashed him with it; burrowing beneath layer upon layer of bedding, shivering, miserable, when-by rights-he should be lying beside the warm body of his wife.
But Marie had made it clear to him on their Joining night that he would not be sharing her bed when they arrived at Holy Dale. On that ill-fated night, he hadn't wanted to ever share the woman's bed; the thought of it made him physically ill. Now, almost a year later, his loneliness was telling and thoughts of a willing body beneath his own filled his daydreams and kept him awake when he should be sleeping each night.
It was the loneliness that ate at Kaelan Hesar. Few of the servants ever instigated a conversation with him and those who did, did so to complain about one thing or another. Most of them ignored him, when they weren't staring at him with a rudeness that bordered on insolence. Had their churlish behavior really mattered to him, he might well have ordered one or two of the worst offenders whipped, although he'd been wondering of late if he could find even one servant among them willing to take his side on anything.
And as for Marie: she deigned not to speak with him or be near him any more than was absolutely necessary. The few times she'd allowed him to mate with her—and he could count the times on one hand in the last eight months—she had lain beneath him like a frozen corpse. At first her attitude had infuriated him, then insulted him, then ultimately hurt him.
Now, he took her as quickly and with as little foreplay as was possible, simply to relieve the terrible ache that came over him at times. But even as his seed spurted deep into her unresponsive body, he was ashamed of his need to lie with her. Had it not been for the crushing loneliness that plagued him, he would deny himself the need to seek her out for those humiliating encounters from which he gained neither pleasure nor true relief. Nor could he push aside the tremendous guilt he felt for having taken her at all, although he had every right to do so. It wasn't just his still-burning love for Gillian that made him feel so guilty, it was the need for human contact that drove him to Marie.
A movement in the trees to his right caught Kaelan's attention and he turned to see two deer frolicking beyond the copse of birches. He watched the doe sidle close to the buck, smiled as she tossed her white tail in invitation, then leapt away as the male turned to nip at her. ‘Catch me if you can!’ she seemed to tell him as she bolted back through the trees and out of sight. The buck stood where he was, looking at the spot where she'd vanished, then turned to give Kaelan what appeared for all the world like an exasperated look.
The prince grinned.
“What can I tell you, fellow?” Kaelan said softly. “It's your job and if you don't do it, some other guy will.” His grin widened as the buck seemed to sigh before turning resolutely toward his teasing mate. With a graceful bound, the buck merged into the forest and was soon out of sight.
Revenge nickered, gaining a gentle pat on the neck from his master. The stallion pawed impatiently at the ground; it had caught Kaelan's own restlessness. With a toss of its magnificent head, it let its feelings be known.
“What's at the manor house for us?” Kaelan questioned as he continued to pat his mount. Oats and hay for the stallion; more brooding for him. At least one of them would find satisfaction at Holy Dale.
With one final, fleeting and wistful look at the spot where the deer had been playing, Kaelan straightened in the saddle and sent his steed homeward.
* * * *
Kymmie Kullen looked up from the pot of stew she was stirring as the master of Holy Dale came through the kitchen door. The sight of the prince never failed to bring a hard lump of desire to the young woman's chest and she blushed furiously as his gaze slid hopefully toward her.
“Would it be too much trouble to get some lunch, Mam'selle?” he asked her, placing his gloves on the servants’ table.
“No trouble at all, Your Grace!” Kymmie assured him, ignoring the hateful look the cook sent her way. She laid aside her ladle and hurried to get a clean bowl.
“Her Grace ate over an hour ago,” the cook grumbled as she threw a handful of peeled potatoes into a pan.
“Well, His Grace didn't,” Kymmie responded, glancing back to see the prince staring down at the table top and pretending he didn't hear what was being said.
“If'n he had been here when he was suppose to,” the cook snarled, “he'd have been fed then.” Kaelan did not mistake the anger in the old woman's tone nor could he overlook the venom with which she spat out her bold words. He lifted his head and turned to look at her, half-expecting her to look away.
When she didn't, but continued to glare back at him with a mulish, arrogant twist to her almost non-existent lips, he simply stared at her, allowing her hatred to wash over him. After an uneasy moment, the old woman snorted, then turned her back on him as though he were of no importance to her at all.
“She's a mean old cuss,” Kymmie said as she placed a bowl of stew and a large chunk of freshly-baked bread on the table before him. “Don't pay her no mind, Your Grace."
Kaelan had lost his appetite. The old woman's attitude had chilled him and had only served to underscore the dislike that was aimed at him daily by his wife's servants. He pushed the plate away.
“Your Grace!” Kymmie said with exasperation. “You should eat."
“The man ought to know if he's hungry or not, Kymmie Kullen,” the cook snapped. “Leave him be about his business!"
“And what business would that be, Madame Clark?” Kaelan asked, growing angry at the old woman's baiting.
Jonelle Clark twisted her head around and fixed him with a haughty glare. “Whatever business gets you out of my kitchen, I'm a'reckoning, Milord."
“Your kitchen?” Kaelan repeated.
“Aye!” The old woman turned around and pointed the knife in her hand toward him. “It sure ain't your kitchen, now, is it?” She lifted her chin. “No more than is the rest of Holy Dale, I reckon!"
Seeing the absolute spite on the cook's face touched some vital chord in Kaelan's gut and he pushed back from the table, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. “No, I suppose it isn't,” he snapped. He pushed past Kymmie and left.
“Don't you do it!” the cook warned Kymmie as the girl snatched up the prince's gloves and ran after him. “You get your arse back here, Kymmie Kullen, or I'll tell your pa!"
“Tell him, then!” Kymmie threw at her as she flew out the kitchen door.
Kaelan wasn't surprised to find Revenge still tethered where he'd left him. The stallion was standing at the post, hungrily eyeing the oat bucket sitting beside the stable door. With five long, angry strides, he reached the steed and vaulted onto the broad sleek back.
“YOUR GRACE! WAIT!"
He was drawing on Revenge's reins as the servant girl ran toward him. Her headlong rush made the big stallion jittery and it moved back, tossing its thick tail in annoyance. Kaelan had to saw on the reins to keep the animal from rearing up. As it was, the beast sidestepped away from the advancing girl and jerked on the bit in its mouth.
“Has no one ever told you not to rush an animal like that, Mam'selle?” Kaelan scolded her. “It's a dangerous thing to do."
Kymmie's face turned red as she thrust out the prince's gloves. “You left these behind, Your Grace. I thought you might need them.” She looked up into his face and smiled.
The smile took Kaelan's breath away for Kymmie Kullen was a very lovely young woman. Her reddish-gold hair hung in two long braids down her slender back and the dusting of golden freckles on her sun-kissed face made her seem younger than her twenty-odd years. A pair of vivid green eyes sparkled with warmth as she gazed up at him and he was reminded painfully of Gillian.
“Thank you,” he said, reaching down to take the brown leather gloves from her. As his fingers touched hers, he felt a jolt of desire spear through his lower belly and he flinched, wanting nothing more than to sweep her up behind him and gallop away with her.
“Any time, Your Grace” he heard her sa
y and the invitation was there in her husky voice for anyone to hear.
From the library window, Marie Hesar was watching the interplay between her virile young husband and the whorish servant girl. She understood the looks that passed between them and was not appeased when Kaelan jerked on his stallion's reins and left the girl standing before the stable, staring after him. Only a fool would not know what that was all about, she thought with fury.
“So that is why you do not seek me out any more than you do, Kaelan,” she mumbled, her hand tightening on the window latch. She turned her attention to the servant girl who was walking dejectedly back to the kitchen door. “GIRL!” she yelled and wasn't surprised to see Jasper Kullen's daughter flinch with guilt. “COME HERE!"
Kymmie bit her lip as she walked to the library window. “Aye, Your Grace?"
“Where is my husband going?” Marie snapped.
“I ... I don't know, Your Grace,” Kymmie responded.
“But I would wager I could tell you where he's been!” the Duchess of Windstorm snorted.
“Pardon?” Kymmie asked, suddenly very wary of the wild look in her mistress’ eye.
Marie flung a dismissive hand at her. “Be about your work! You do have other things with which to occupy your time other than to ogle my husband, do you not?"
Kymmie dipped a quick curtsy. “Aye, Your Grace!” Her feet fairly flew to the kitchen door and she had to force herself not to look back at the mistress as she ducked inside.
Had anyone seen the look that passed over Marie Sinclair Hesar's pretty face at that moment, they would have known it boded ill for the guiltless man who had caused it.
* * * *
Jasper Kullen stood before his mistress and smiled sweetly at her. He'd known the woman all her life; in fact, he'd personally fetched the midwife the night the bairn was born. If truth were told, he loved Little Marie almost as much as he loved Big Marie, the young woman's sainted mother.
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