Dela's Hunters (The Harem House Book 1)

by Charissa Dufour

  “What'd Ah jes say?” slurred the woman as she jabbed Bethany in the back with her stick.

  “Please, ma'am,” Bethany begged, trying to put as much deference into her voice as she could, desperation forcing her to be diplomatic. “May I have some privacy?”

  Bethany glanced at the other slaves, hoping for their support. They had stopped in their efforts and were watching the confrontation. Their eyes grew wide, just as Bethany felt a blow to her side hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. She doubled over, wrapping her arms around her filthy stomach.

  “Ye'll git nak'd right here an' now, an' clean yerself good, ye hear,” snapped the plump woman.

  Bethany blinked the tears from her eyes and with shaking fingers began pulling at the laces of her gown. She forced her eyes to stay focused on her own task, refusing to be witness to other people's shame. She just hoped they'd do the same for her. The hum she heard from the man next to her suggested otherwise, but he was quickly silenced by a hard jab from the woman's staff.

  She didn't try to wipe the tears from her cheeks as she pulled the sodden dress from her body. Though she had experienced horrors beyond her wildest dreams during the last month of captivity, this new degradation was a distinct breaking point. With her gown, she discarded the last hope of ever returning to the life she had known. No man would marry her now that this gift had been stolen by another. Not only would she never marry, but she would never fulfill the one role she had been raised to do: bring wealth and alliance to her family through marriage.

  While they cleaned themselves with pungent smelling powder and filmy water, another woman entered and removed their discarded robes. When they were finished, thin unisex garments were slipped over their heads and bound to their waists by worn leather belts. The one given to Bethany was too long and she found herself tripping over its hem.

  But that was then, she told herself, back again in the cold, damp pit.

  “Hey, you! Get up,” a woman's voice commanded.

  Bethany jerked, hitting her head against the cold stones of her cell.

  “You hear me?” the voice repeated from the opened hatch.

  Bethany blinked a few times before squinting up towards the soft glow of a torch.

  It was time to get back to work.

  Chapter Two

  Bethany carefully climbed out of the pit, no longer concerned about her lack of clothing. This wasn't her first trip into the pits. Two guards stood alongside Flora, a female slave that had managed to rise to some level of authority. She held out a slave's frock—a simple gown with long sleeves and braided belt, tied at the waistline. Bethany took it and moved to the long trough, where she scrubbed the dirt from her body and hair. In some ways, she would have preferred to stay dirty. The filth helped keep her identity hidden. She had been noticing certain young men staring at her shapely figure or what was left of it.

  Flora joined her at the trough to help her lace the back of the rough sewn dress. The older woman had been a slave since her father sold her and her siblings, to cover his debts. Unlike most people who hoped to gain their freedom, she seemed resigned to her life as a slave. After twenty years in the service of the king, it wasn't so surprising to Bethany; even after just two months, Bethany felt a certain level of resignation herself.

  She had already given up her aversion to hard work and blisters; such things were simply a part of her life now. Bethany finished her bathing and followed Flora up to where the work waited. Bethany stopped in front of the door of the crown prince's room and shuddered as another memory crowded her mind.

  Two months ago, Bethany stood on a sturdy platform with the other slaves. It was a few hours after their arrival in the compound, and the growing crowd was making bids on them when a sudden silence descended on the packed courtyard. The buyers parted as a man garbed in a long, leather tabard, and a heavy wool cloak lined with fur made his way towards the platform. Bethany shivered in the spring chill and felt a new wave of jealousy. Between the crest on his cloak, everyone's cautious yet deferential treatment of the man, and the gold ring resting on his head, Bethany had a pretty good notion of who he might be and therefore where she was—Tolad, the capital of Wolfric's land and the vast Aardê nation.

  Bethany shied away from the approaching man, pressing herself against the wall and trying to position one of the other slaves in front of her. The sturdy wall was a comfort to her tired and shaking body. The prince, for that's who she assumed he was, dismounted and climbed up onto the platform to inspect each slave in minute detail.

  “Prince Féderic,” groveled the head slaver, “how may I serve you?”

  “I'm looking for a maidservant—a pretty one,” he added as his eyes ran across the mass of huddled bodies.

  “All women step forward,” barked the slaver.

  The other ladies did so immediately. Bethany spotted the Lurran girl at the other end and hesitated. She hoped the mass of male bodies would hide her. This proved to be a big mistake. The slaver noticed her and, shouting at the top of his lungs, drew her from the crowd while simultaneously beating her buttocks with the short stick he carried. The racket drew the prince's attention away from the other women. He sauntered over to where Bethany stood, occasionally pausing to look at one of the other women as he passed by. At one point, he even stopped long enough to pry a woman’s mouth open and inspect her teeth. From where Bethany stood five feet away, she could count at least three missing.

  Prince Féderic dismissed the other woman with a wave of his hand and continued toward Bethany. The rejected women stepped back into the crowd of men. The prince, meanwhile, slowly stalked around Bethany, taking in every detail. He lifted Bethany's thick hair and ran a calloused hand down her neck and shoulders. Bethany stood tall, some semblance of pride still in her. Féderic stopped in front of her and motioned towards his mouth. Bethany knew what he wanted, but refused to oblige. His distant look turned into a glare as he pushed his strong finger into her mouth and pried it open; he tasted of salt, leather, and dirt. She was thankful she had managed to move her signet ring to her matted hair while stuck in the wagon. The prince took a firm hold of her chin and shifted her face until she was forced to look him in the eye.

  To Bethany's surprise, the enemy prince smiled. “I'll take her. Pay the man,” he said to one of his attendants.

  And so Bethany became Prince Féderic's slave.

  “Ann?” Flora asked from her place by the door, using the name Bethany had given when purchased. “You ‘kay?”

  Bethany nodded, blinking one last time to clear the remnants of the uncomfortable memory. “Yes, sorry,” the princess said.

  Flora stared at her a moment before pushing the heavy wooden door open to reveal the large bedchamber of the crown prince. He wasn't present, but signs of his recent activity were spread across the room. One of the many tapestries was hanging at an angle. Clothing lay in a myriad of piles around his room, while his thick blankets rested three feet from the bed. The enormous stone fireplace was missing its essential quality—a fire. Food dishes were scattered around the room, some hidden under the piles of fabric while most of the food lay a fair distance from the plates. A puddle of something unrecognizable stained the wooden slats near the deep-set window.

  Bethany clenched her jaw in an effort to keep herself from grinding her teeth—an action her mother would never have allowed. Then again, her elegant mother never expected her daughter to be faced with the task of cleaning up someone else's filth. Up until very recently, Bethany had lived a life of coddling by family and servants; they did everything for her from lacing her slippers to rubbing lavender oil on her temples if she had even the slightest headache.

  But that was her old life, and this the new. The two were so vastly different from each other that Bethany struggled to call them both hers. Her existence had been torn in two; the tear so neat and clean, it felt as if the life she had lived as a princess did not belong to the hard, bitter slave standing on the threshold of a filthy prince’s ro
om.

  Bethany couldn't help but sigh at the work laid out before them. Flora mimicked her. The two women smiled at their mutual frustration before stepping into the room and beginning the chore. Flora moved to the bed and began arranging the blankets while Bethany began clearing away the food and dirty dishes.

  "What was he doing to make such a mess?” Bethany wondered aloud.

  “Ha! Not for us to know. When we're told to clean, we clean. No more.”

  Bethany bit back a tart reply. She was continually learning the tough lesson that she was no one and barely worth the price Féderic had paid for her. She bent to her task.

  An hour later, the two women were just finishing up when the door banged against the wall. Bethany looked up to see the prince stride in, his muddy boots leaving prints on the newly polished floor. Both women bowed at the waist until the prince entered.

  “Leave me. Not you,” he added, pointing at Bethany.

  Flora eyed the younger woman a second before scurrying away. Bethany tried to stay as far away from the prince as she could. He had used his fists on her more than once.

  In her younger days, Bethany dreamed of meeting a prince. Though she had many variations on the scenario, her favorite included a flute, flower petals on the floor and a stolen kiss. Now that she’d met an actual prince, Bethany found herself disgusted by her own ignorance.

  Growing up, the only princes she had ever come in contact with were her brothers, and they had never struck a woman. She never imagined that the royal character of her childhood dreams could turn out to be so awful.

  Prince Féderic's cruelty came from his need to be respected, she realized. Being the eldest of a family with numerous other sons, Bethany could imagine his fear and insecurity. She knew the Aardê king, Wolfric, would choose his heir based primarily on age, but also on who was more capable and cunning. A younger prince would not be punished for destroying the life of an elder brother, but likely rewarded. Bethany had occasionally seen Féderic punish an impudent younger brother to keep him from getting any ideas. Féderic was not weak and he would prove it whenever the opportunity presented itself.

  “I need to dress for dinner,” he said before hesitating.

  “Ann,” Bethany mumbled, providing her name, again.

  “Ann,” he said with an unnerving smirk. “Mother insists on these ridiculous rituals.”

  Bethany didn't respond as she moved to untie the thick, mud caked cloak, needed even in summer in the southern lands of the Aardê nation, where it was not a shock to see snow fall in May. Bethany didn't respond to the prince's complaints. She had learned during her first week or two of service that the prince spoke to hear his own voice, not to enjoy conversation. In retrospect, Bethany realized she had often done the same thing to her servants.

  A gentle tap on the door interrupted her efforts.

  “Enter,” ordered the prince.

  One of the cook’s assistants, Malak, entered carrying a tray and mug of mulled wine. He silently set it on the table, winked at Bethany, and left.

  Bethany hung the cloak on its hook near the door and returned to his side. Féderic had lowered himself to the bench near the fire, which now burned brightly, and removed his own dirty boots. The prince stood and waited for her to begin unlacing his leather jerkin. Bethany swallowed the lump forming in her throat and tried to keep as much distance from him as she could while still completing the task. Féderic smiled down at her.

  Her discomfort was a running joke with him—one she did not enjoy. Bethany's people valued privacy, and though she had initially run from such chores, she knew better now. The first time he'd expected her to help him dress, she had flat out refused. Bethany bore the marks across her back from many blows with a lash. The next time she'd tried to get out of it, the slave master had caught her and added to the scars. Bethany now did it without complaint, though she tried to keep her eyes away from the prince's naked body.

  She obeyed in body only. It was all they required, the appearance of obedience. Inside, though, Bethany railed against their strict rules and high expectations. In her life of freedom, the only rules she was expected to follow were those that would help her attain a husband—be demure, elegant, and not too terribly smart, and these she obeyed with her whole heart. It was her greatest desire to attract a husband, but with the continuation of a bloody war and men scarce, her chances had dwindled until it seemed almost ridiculous to keep up the act of ladyhood. It definitely was not needed in her new life.

  Once she had the jerkin off, she went to work on the lacings of his trousers. She felt her face heating up with a deep blush. Thankfully, before Féderic could mock her, she heard a loud pounding on the door. Féderic swatted her away and took a firm hold of his trousers. The door swung open to reveal Sir Erin Caldry, the royal family's most trusted knight.

  The man was all sturdy muscle, built from years of hard labor and hefting a large sword, both in the practice ring and on the battlefield. There were many legends from her youth that described a scarred warrior blazing the battlefield and defeating her people single handedly. Bethany hadn't believed in the stories until she'd met Sir Caldry.

  A long, nasty scar ran from his left temple, down his face and neck, and ended somewhere beneath his tunic, as though someone had taken a dull knife and dragged it down his face. His dull green eyes were deceptive as they scanned the room, momentarily taking notice of Bethany hunched in the corner. She lowered her own eyes before he could become offended. Like Féderic, the knight had a mean swing. Her cheek was still tender from the last time he had roughly punished her for an impudent remark.

  “Oh, it's just you,” Féderic remarked as he motioned for Bethany to continue her task.

  She returned to his trouser strings while he pulled his own tunic over his head.

  Bethany's embarrassment increased with the knight present to witness her shame. Her fingers shook as she struggled to finish the last of the bindings. When she had finally completed the task and stepped back, she noticed Sir Caldry staring at her. Her blush deepened, and she forced her gaze to the floor.

  What could he possibly mean, staring at her like that?