Destiny's Dark Fantasy Boxed Set (Eight Book Bundle)

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Philip asked the most pressing question of the night, “Did he beat her? Or...”

  “It was the other,” James said significantly.

  “A terrible abuse!” Stephen whispered fiercely, looking covertly at Anna, still beside the fire.

  “He should be flogged,” Philip said.

  “Yes, he should,” Bracus said.

  “Or possibly something more creative,” Jacob finished.

  The men straightened up, Philip inclining his head toward the fire, leaving the subject for the moment. “Let us discuss the business of the sphere. I wish to be informed.”

  Matthew and Stephen nodded.

  The Band walked as one to the communal fire, commanding and deadly, an ancient force of reckoning, prepared to make a historic move destined to change their lives forever. As the heat of the fire washed over Bracus' body, that feeling of foreboding stole over him, the chill fighting the warmth emanating from the blaze. His senses, ever acute, were on full alert. As if there was something right under his nose he was missing, if he just sniffed a little harder, he would discover it.

  He shook his misgivings away, heading toward Joseph and Anna, his spirits momentarily lifted at the sight of them together.

  CHAPTER 13

  Charles stiffened as soon as he entered the queen's chamber. Chamber did not accurately describe her quarters. The bed was in an entirely different area, a door between where he now stood and the place where she slept. This was a parlor of sorts, resplendent in every covering, dimension and scale. But for the blight upon the room, it would have been a reflection of beauty. Queen Ada made the room dim in Charles' estimation. She stood in the middle, her back to the audience of Clara and he. The deep purple folds of her dress were a rich warm velvet. The wrong material for the season, but she ran cold, he had heard, her scrawny form encased in the richest fabrics, regardless of the season.

  He knew just how cold she really was.

  Charles was acutely aware of the stickiness of his clothes as Prince Frederic's gaze lingered over the result of his day's work. The Prince was supremely fresh in his linen trousers, silk blouse of the finest weave and an overcoat of a rich, deep blue. King Otto sat beside him looking decidedly uncomfortable which struck a lingering question for Charles: what had they walked in on? What conversation aborted?

  Ada turned suddenly, her back now to the Outside her dark eyes boring into Clara's, her subdued figure standing steady under the onslaught of the Queen's stare.

  “Tell me, daughter.”

  Clara sucked in a breath, girding her loins, no doubt. “The yield is as expected...”

  “But?” Ada asked the question as a statement.

  “...the cream has taken on a pink wash.” Clara kept her shoulders back and straight with effort. If she was uncomfortable it did not show to Charles. Of course, Clara was well-schooled in keeping her expression to herself.

  The Queen's hands clenched and unclenched, she looked from Clara to King Otto.

  “May I address this, Queen Ada?” King Otto requested.

  She nodded stiffly and Charles heard a vague, grunting sound.

  “I will trade the pink pearls for the rare grapes. That is not important.”

  Clara looked confused for the briefest of moments. “Did you not wish to trade for the cream, King Otto?” Was it possible she would not be the whipping girl for the wrong color?

  The King looked profoundly uncomfortable and Charles' stomach clenched moments before King Otto articulated his worst fear, “For the pleasure of a hastened Wedded Joining I will forgive the color and sweeten the exchange with the grapes that are so coveted.” His gaze slid to Queen Ada then back to Clara, “...and forgive even red pearls for the opportunity of a melding of our respective kingdoms.”

  Charles was flabbergasted. Clara freshly ten and seven years! She was too young by far to be joined with Prince Frederic.

  Before he could comment, Clara interjected, “We agreed that we would wait one year hence. Upon my Day of Birth celebration, marking my womanhood, ten and eight years.” Clara's face had a pinched quality and had paled but there she stood, resolute in her bearing.

  Charles thought again how beauty had a faceted quality and hers was many.

  Prince Frederic spoke, “I have decided I cannot wait to appreciate our new status, my Princess.” His smarmy tone indicated that which he referred.

  Charles felt he would be sick, his anger infused his body, vibrating to his extremities. “She cannot wed legally, she must be ten and eight years, the age of legal consent. Even you must understand that, Prince Frederic, you being twenty and one years yourself?”

  Prince Frederic sharpened his gaze on Charles, opening his mouth to say something scathing when Queen Ada interrupted, “He matters not. What he speaks matters not. He is here by my sufferance alone.”

  She looked at Charles. “Yes?”

  “Yes, my Queen.” Charles said with the greatest reluctance. He could not bear this man touching Clara. That she did not love him, want him... nay, that she did not even like him, was a misery he could not tolerate for one more moment.

  Charles said, “Mayhap she does not wish to rule, my Queen.”

  The Queen's eyes narrowed as she stared at Charles. “She has told you this?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  Clara turned to him, gripping his shoulders. “Do not try to help me, dear friend. You know that I must rule one day. Queen Ada will step down so that I may, once Prince Frederic and I are joined... rule this sphere.”

  Charles' fists clenched into balls of anger. “You cannot mean that you wish this joining now.”

  Clara's face looked pained while she searched for a way of diplomacy when there was none. “I wish for a proper betrothal, the length as originally negotiated upon. Not a rushed affair.” Clara stared at King Otto, who looked away from the naked accusation he saw there.

  “You get what you wish, daughter...to rule the people that are so precious to you, and I get my grapes.” Ada threw up her hands triumphantly.

  She knew very well how much of a weakness (or Charles thought, a strength), Clara's love of the People was. She wished for their happiness and the greater happiness of the sphere above all else.

  They looked deeply into each other's eyes until Charles became aware of Prince Frederic in his peripheral vision. He turned slightly to face him.

  Instead of breaking their interchange, Frederic came from behind Clara wrapping possessive arms about her waist and hauling her up against himself, her fingers falling away from Charles' shoulders.

  Clara's breath caught at the unexpectedness of the gesture and she automatically struggled against the prison of his arms. Frederic laughed. “Have we not got over this futile resistance, my Princess? So soon you forget how much you will want, no... you will beg for my embrace.” Holding Clara against himself, he ran his free hand down her neck, dangerously near impropriety as he approached the bare upper skin of her bosom.

  “Frederic!” King Otto reprimanded. Finally, Clara thought, a voice of reason. The Queen laughed at her discomfiture. Clara began to struggle in earnest. She knew what she must do, but he would not embarrass her further, the loathsome man!

  Something deep and abiding in Charles broke then, his hand, already balled into a hard fist, swung backward of its own accord and he felt himself gain momentum as he swung it directly into the smug face of the Prince. Instantly, Frederic loosened his grasp on Clara, who ducked and like the smart young woman she was, got out of the way.

  Charles surged forward as a bull before a crimson flag, launching himself at the Prince, the violence of his temper in utter control and the screaming voice of his subconscious trying without success to halt him. But stop he would not. The Prince attempted to shield himself from the pummeling he was receiving but Charles' fists had come alive in their own power. They rained down upon him, unabated.

  “Charles! Stop this!” Clara screamed, afraid for him.

  Vaguely Charles heard the Qu
een yell for the guards and Charles felt himself unceremoniously lifted off the prince, his royal blood decorating the floor, (giving Charles momentary satisfaction), before he was strung up like a turkey, ropes at his hands and ankles alike.

  The Prince stood on feet which were unsteady, strode directly to Clara and backhanded her in the face, a move so completely unexpected that she fell against the wall from the force of it.

  The Queen's guards moved forward, leaving Charles in stupid surprise, completely unable to defend her.

  As the guards approached Prince Frederic, Ada said with quiet menace, “As you were.” She pointed back at Charles and the guards hesitated. When she repeated what she said the guards came back to where Charles lay with uneasy expressions of surprise.

  Ada turned to Clara. “Remember, dear Clara, the other night when I mentioned that Prince Frederic understood discipline?”

  Clara, whose mouth lay open and bleeding, could only nod. She used her hand, sliding it along the wall to steady herself, standing.

  “This altercation has the surest signs of a lack of understanding, does it not?”

  Clara was not sure of what was coming but nodded in agreement. The Queen did not really wish an answer, she wished an audience for her wisdom. Her supposed wisdom.

  “Do you love Charles?”

  Clara nodded. Of course she did.

  “Does he love you? Now think on this, my daughter.”

  Clara felt as one in a fox snare. She knew whichever answer she gave would cause her trouble but she settled for what she thought was the truth, but not before looking at Charles. He looked profoundly sorry, she knew not why. She had hated the Prince's horrible caresses more than the back of his hand.

  Everyone waited for her response. “I believe he does... love me.”

  Charles stared daggers at the Prince and Queen in equal turns while King Otto looked to be sick at any time. (He did nothing, Clara noted.) The guards struggled with their duty to obey the queen and their desire to protect Clara.

  The Prince circled Clara and she kept her back to the wall, the small movement the only protection she had, her eyes searching those of the guards and finding indecision in theirs. Here was their future monarch, unprotected against another, her betrothed no less. While the queen gave orders which left her own daughter vulnerable against violence.

  The guards were confused and uneasy. They had heard rumors that the princess was abused at the Queen's hand but had not anticipated this level of debasement. They looked at each other, neither sure what to do.

  Quick as a snake, the Prince slapped the other side of Clara's face and she sank down to her knees, unable to stand. His blows hurt so much more than the Queen's, and about the face.

  “No! Do not touch her again,” Charles bellowed, the guards holding him fast.

  Finally, King Otto said quietly, “Stop this. Do not strike her again.”

  Clara could not believe a more unlikely savior than he, but was grateful there may be a respite in sight.

  It was at that moment that Charles vomited on the floor, distracting them all.

  The Queen looked on in distaste. “Elvira...come see to this mess,” she looked at Clara, prone on her knees on the floor. “You see now how absurd your answer was, Clara?”

  Clara could not see anything, her ears rang from the second blow and her head was buzzing with the beginnings of a punishing headache. Further, she did not care one fig about what her answer had been.

  “He does love you, Clara. Nay, not simple love, but real love. He is in love with you. Your abuse was for him.” She and Prince Frederic looked at each other and then he looked at Charles.

  Kneeling down face-to-face, Frederic a hand's breadth away from Charles, Elvira cleaning the mess at his feet he said, “It is so much more effective to seek my revenge upon you by using her,” he inclined his head at Clara. “Certainly, it would be satisfying to see you flogged, but to see you put away so miserably in your ineffectiveness to do nothing to aid her? Well that, I must say, is profoundly satisfying.”

  Smirking, the Prince stood, gently dabbing at the corner of his mouth where it bled due to Charles' fists. “Profoundly,” he repeated.

  King Otto stood. “It is settled then, three months hence, they will be joined in the Kingdom of Kentucky.”

  From the floor Clara looked up at the King, utter disgust covering her bleeding face. His gaze took in her swollen lip and cheek. Then he looked from his son to his soon-to-be-relative and his shoulders slumped. Clara realized he would be no help to her. Her eyes sought Charles' and there was sadness and regret there. She gave a subtle shake of her head. It meant so much to her that he had tried to help her

  The Prince approached Clara and she flinched; he laughed. She expected another blow and the guards looked ready to assist, perhaps having lost all sense before a woman beaten. Instead he reached out and tenderly ran his finger over the most sensitive part of her lip and she stifled a whimper.

  “We will see if you are a woman who learns quickly. Mayhap you are. If not, I shall enjoy the lessons. Oh yes, I shall.”

  Clara could not help it, she moved away from his touch, as if scalded. It was then, as she would think back on it later that she decided she could not marry this fiend. He would kill her. But first he would make her suffer. Then, he would take her kingdom and rule it with a scepter of tyranny.

  Prince Frederick, King Otto and Queen Ada left her bleeding on the floor, the guards hauling Charles away to a special cell. Elvira waited until they were all gone before rushing to Clara and using a fresh washcloth, ministering to Clara's wounds. Clara thought not of the tears she wished to shed, but of the plans to be made. Sarah, who would be calling momentarily at the Royal Manse would know more of what to do. Together they could formulate a solution. Quickly.

  ****

  Sarah was ushered in by Peter who looked at Clara resting on her bed and quickly away. “No...come, Peter. Do not fret.”

  Peter, the faithful butler, looked about him in the hall and rushed to her bedside. She looked a mess, she knew. Her hair in disarray, framing a face swollen and red from blows and tears. Peter's face reddened in a most alarming way.

  “Princess, oh my Princess,” Peter said, kissing the hand that had beckoned him.

  Sarah looked down at her solemnly, her natural humor dead on her face. Clara had not gazed in a looking glass but felt that her People's faces told her what the mirror could not.

  “You cannot wed him, Clara. He means your death,” Sarah said indelicately. True to form, Sarah was bold with her words. Peter put her hand upon the blanket and nodded in agreement.

  “What of Charles?” Clara asked.

  Sarah smiled. “And he asked only of you.” That caused Clara to smile, then she winced as the pain in her mouth lanced her.

  “Ouch!” She instinctively placed a finger on the sorest part of her mouth. All of it hurt fiercely, throbbing, but one corner was very tender.

  Olive slid through the chamber door, closing it softly behind her. “I have some ice, mistress.”

  Clara eyed the bundle, swaddled in a thin, cotton cloth used for drying dishes. (Billy must know, she thought absently), and gave a sigh of relief when the crushed ice made soft contact with her mouth.

  She closed her eyes briefly, the throbbing heat becoming more bearable.

  Sarah looked at Peter and he stood to go. “I must not be absent overlong, Princess.”

  Clara's eyes opened and she nodded. He wished to escape the Queen's notice; they all did.

  Peter, Olive and Sarah looked at one another, then Sarah nodded and Peter inclined his head to the two women, taking his leave.

  “He is a good man,” Sarah remarked, and Olive nodded.

  “Yes,” Clara whispered through her swollen mouth.

  “This must stop. The abuse you endure from her Majesty, our Queen,” Sarah said with obvious disdain, “is something I know you feel you do for our kingdom. But,” and she waggled her finger, “that creature that pr
etends to be a man. For Guardian's sake, what right does he have to lay hands upon you? None! I say none.” Sarah's face was bright red, she had spun herself up into high dander, pacing about the room and returning to Clara's side.

  “Is this why you stopped by the schoolhouse? So that we may confer together? I must say, it is a long time coming if that be the case. You cannot wed him.”

  “I will not,” Clara said in a whisper.

  “What?” Sarah said, spinning around and leaning down to kissing distance from Clara's face.

  “I said, I shall not wed him.”

  Olive gasped, then clasped her hands together in delight.

  “There will be a hell's ransom to pay, you know,” Sarah said.

  Clara nodded, she knew.

  “I will assist you. For you must escape.” Clara's eyes widened.

  “Shh, do not speak. Listen to what I say.” When Clara lay silent, Sarah continued, “trading day is one day hence, correct?”

  Olive and Clara both stared at her. Yes it was and what of it?

  “It is a perfect time for you to move through the tunnels. I have friends in the other kingdoms, you could make your way there, possibly hide for a time until things quiet down.”

  Clara smiled, Sarah, so naïve. Brilliant, but not versed in the intricacies of royal life. As if Clara's absence would buy her time without notice.

  Clara held both hands out to Sarah who took them. “Dear Sarah, a most excellent plan, but it is time that is my enemy, not placement.”

  “Yes, my lady, it has been announced that Clara is to wed Prince Frederic three months hence, not twelve,” Olive clarified.

  Sarah's eyes widened. “What say you?”

  “Three months hence.”

  “Is that true, Clara?”

  “It is.”

  “Speak on this,” Sarah asked.

  Clara did.

  She told her the entirety of the interchange, leaving out nothing. Sarah stopped her, asking questions that she had not received answers for from Charles during her brief time with him.