by Serena Chase
She’d come to Mirthan Hall with nothing to recommend her but Uncle Drinius’s word, but Lord and Lady Whittier had considered Rose a daughter from the beginning. Although she’d bore no official patronymic of her own, she’d been effortlessly grafted into the family with an affection that never wavered.
Rose patted Falcon’s neck. Indeed, it was a happy trade in the end, leaving the loving suffocation of Uncle Drinius’s home for the adventurous camaraderie of three much-less-refined older brothers.
Kinley, Lewys, and Rowlen. Ah, but she missed them now that they were off in the world pursuing the adventures of men.
Falcon made an impatient noise and stomped his foot.
“Patience, now,” she stroked the horse’s neck. “I won’t tarry much longer. After all, we wouldn’t want to be found out, would we?”
Rose gazed down into the valley and at Mirthan Hall, firmly ensconced at its center. The view of her home never failed to fetch a smile. A large manor built from a yellowish native stone, Mirthan Hall exuded the same sort of cheerfulness as the merry occupants who called it home.
Well, most of its occupants, Rose corrected herself when the lone figure of Mrs. Scyles appeared. No one had ever accused the Head of Housekeeping of being cheerful.
Rose watched as the housekeeper looked all around, but not up toward the hill. Instead, Mrs. Scyles clutched something tightly to her chest and crossed the yard with hurried steps.
Rose held her breath and bit her lip. If Mrs. Scyles happened to look up and see Rose, her least favorite of all Lord Whittier’s children, in an act of outright disobedience, she would be sure and report to the duke posthaste.
Lord Whittier’s affection was constant, but his discipline was generally swift. No doubt his ire would be sparked a bit if he learned that Rose was not only beyond the boundary he’d set for her, but atop his horse as well.
“Don’t move, Falcon,” Rose whispered, pressing her cheek to the horse’s mane. “If we’re still enough, maybe she won’t notice us.”
Mrs. Scyles would take too much delight in reporting Rose’s infraction. She would consider it her duty. Mrs. Scyles took her job very seriously. The staff respected her—though Rose wondered if it was more from fear than genuine regard—and Lord and Lady Whittier often commented that it was Mrs. Scyles’s efficiency that freed the family to so enjoy life. Whenever Rose or the boys complained of the housekeeper’s sourness they received a reminder—sometimes a lecture—about respecting cultural differences, for Mrs. Scyles had been born into the desert clans of the Dwons province. And, if Lord and Lady Whittier were to be believed—and there was no reason they shouldn’t be—the desert clans of Dwons were as different from the jovial Veetrish as an aged rooster was from a kitten.
Rose squinted at the swiftly moving figure. Mrs. Scyles had authority over all the staff at Mirthan Hall; therefore, the secretive way she moved across the yard was out of character. The woman seemed to be hiding something. And she was taking it to . . .
“The laundry shed?” Rose tilted her head. “I wonder what she’s—?”
A distant sound turned Rose’s head in the opposite direction. Horses? Rose sat very still as she tried to decide whether to wait and greet the approaching riders or flee. She didn’t think they looked threatening, but as the old Veetrish saying claimed, “The discovery of beauty is a feast to the eyes, but they that drink of that nectar could kiss death in disguise.”
She was just about to spur her horse toward home when something about one of the riders caught her eye. “No, it can’t be.” She peered harder. “Is it . . . ? Kinley!”
With a gentle tug of the reins and a quick tap of her heels into Falcon’s sides, she took off toward them.
“Kinley!” she cried. She reined Falcon in, but slid out of her saddle before he came to a complete stop. “Kinley!”
“Whoa . . . whoa!” Lord Whittier’s eldest son held up his fist and the other men reined in their horses alongside him.
“Kinley!” Rose ran toward them. “I didn’t know you were coming! Did you write? Did your parents know you were on your way? Or,” she paused, but not long enough for a breath, “is it a surprise?”
Her questions came rapidly, leaving no time for Kinley to answer, but since she’d been saving them up for three long years since his last visit home, she couldn’t bear to leave one unspoken.
“How long shall you stay? Oh! You’ve been knighted, haven’t you?” She laughed with a broad grin and sent a conspiratorial wink his direction. “It’s the beard that gives it away, you know.”
When she finally took a breath, Kinley rubbed his index finger and thumb over the short, triangular beard that circled his lips and came to a point just below his chin. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I am a knight.”
He dismounted and bowed. “Sir Kinley de Whittier, at your service. You have my deepest apologies, my lady, but I regret that I cannot call you by name. I’m afraid you have me at a—” He froze. “Rose?” He blinked. “Rose?” His cheeks bounced into a grin. “It is you! Why, you were little more than a mischievous little imp the last time I was home! What has happened to you?”
“Did you think time would stand still at Mirthan Hall while awaiting your return, Sir Kinley?” Rose laughed. “If you did, I must disabuse you of the notion. I’ll mark the end of my sixteenth year in two weeks’ time.”
Squired to a knight in the Sengarra province the same year Rose had arrived in Veetri, Kinley had been absent most of the years she had lived with his family.
“Sixteen? It hardly seems possible.” Kinley’s toffee-colored eyes blinked a few times more before he addressed the companions Rose had nearly forgotten in her excitement.
“Sirs Elden de Mars, Kile de Poggen, and Worth de Genner, may I present Rose de . . .” Kinley’s brow furrowed. “Er, this is my sis—” He cleared his throat. “This is Rose,” he finished rather lamely. “She’s my father’s ward.”
Rose dipped her head as was expected, glad the action and the briskness of the northern wind would disguise the color that had flushed her cheeks at Kinley’s inability to produce a patronymic to identify her father.
But how could he be expected to produce the name of a man for whom no one—least of all Rose herself—knew the identity?
“My lady,” the knights greeted her in turn.
“Welcome to Glenhume.” Rose made a point of addressing each man with a smile. Whether she suffered embarrassment or not, Lady Whittier would expect Rose to extend the warm hospitality for which the Veetrish were known. She dipped a curtsy. “May merry comfort keep you while you break your journey here at Mirthan Hall.”
As her greeting made the circle of knights, curiosity overcame her shame. Since being delivered into Lord Whittier’s care eight years ago, Rose had rarely met anyone from outside the Dukedom of Glenhume, and even fewer from beyond the province of Veetri. To meet three newcomers at once—two of whom were passing handsome, she could not help but note—was an unusual treat.
“We were given leave to visit our families,” Kinley said when she finished, “before taking our commissions at Castle Rynwyk in Salderyn.”
“In Salderyn?” Her eyes widened. “You’ve been assigned to serve the King?”
All four men beamed and nodded.
“Congratulations! That’s—”
“Rose.” Kinley’s eyes narrowed on the horse behind her. “Surely that is not your horse, is it?”
Rose bit her lip for only a second before answering. “Lord Whittier was quite engaged in his study this afternoon,” she said. “And Falcon, as you can surely tell by his form, requires more exercise than sweet old Bonnet. Therefore, I took it upon myself to exercise the poor beast on your father’s behalf.”
“I think what you mean to say,” Kinley began, but his cheek dimpled twice before he gave in and let a laugh escape, “is that you snuck into the stable, saddled my father’s horse, and rode—unaccompanied, I might add—well beyond the boundaries he established for you.”
> “It’s been years since you were last here, Kinley.” Rose lifted her chin. “Don’t you think that perhaps he might have extended the boundaries since then?”
“Has he?”
“No.” Rose admitted with a frown that quickly transformed to a grin. “But even you must admit that Lord Whittier would have no quarrel with me riding beyond the boundaries while I am accompanied by four such fine knights. The King’s men, no less!”
Kinley smiled and shook his head. “Lewys was right.”
Rose perked up at the mention Lord Whittier’s middle son, who was currently serving as squire to the same knight who had trained Kinley. “Lewys was right about what?”
“He said that I would have to keep my wits on the highest alert to be able to have even the simplest of conversations with you.”
“Lewys is a flatterer.”
“I’m not sure he meant it as a compliment.”
“That will not stop me from accepting it as such.” Rose gave the slightest whistle between her teeth and Falcon moved to her side. In one swift motion she put her foot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle, skirts and all. “Shall we on then, knights? Having four extra at table will surely give the Asp a fresh reason to hiss if we don’t give her enough notice.”
“The asp?” Sir Worth asked. “Surely you don’t refer to Sir Kinley’s mother!”
“Hardly.” Kinley laughed. “It’s the nickname I gave to our housekeeper years ago. Her name is Aspera Scyles. Mrs. Scyles, I should say, as that is what she prefers to be called. She’s originally from the Dwons province. And rather sour, even for one from Dwons.”
“Ahhh,” the other knights chorused.
Cultural differences, indeed, Rose thought. The knights acted as if Mrs. Scyles’s province of origin explained everything.
“I can’t imagine why she’s stayed in Veetri so long,” Kinley continued. “Our merrymaking causes her no end of misery. Which, of course, is why my brothers and I—and apparently Rose now, as well—have made it our mission to be as sickeningly jovial around her as we can manage. You’ll see.” He winked. “It’s great fun.”
Rose just smiled as the knights chuckled, but some of the merriness within her fizzled. When others were present Mrs. Scyles was the picture of reserve, giving respect to all members of the family, but when the duke and duchess were away, as they often were given Lord Whittier’s popularity as a Storyteller, Mrs. Scyles’s disdain for Rose was veiled with a sickening sweetness that was, at best, disconcerting. Although the woman had never said or done anything outwardly objectionable to Rose, she always felt an undercurrent of contempt when in the woman’s presence. And after all these years, Rose was still at a loss to explain what she’d done to earn the woman’s scorn.
“What say you, knights? Shall we escort,” Kinley winked at Rose, “my sister back to the safety of Mirthan Hall?”
“If you wish to accompany me,” Rose said, gently pulling the reins until Falcon faced the right direction, “you’ll have to catch me first!” Simultaneously leaning forward in the saddle and tapping her heels into the horse’s side, she cried, “Home, Falcon!” and Falcon leapt forward.
“Rose!” Kinley shouted after her. “Rose! Slow down!”
Looking over her shoulder, she laughed as Kinley and the other three knights raced to mount their horses and catch up. She was still laughing when she passed through the gate and angled Falcon toward the stables. Her laughter abruptly stilled, however, when Lord Whittier burst from the house and shouted for the guard.
“Whoa, boy,” Rose pulled back on the reins. “Whoa.”
She slid down from the horse and handed the reins to a stable boy whose face was as white as the snow beneath his feet.
“You’re being p-pursued, Mistress Rose!” the boy stammered. “B-By four men on horseb-back!”
“Rose!” Lord Whittier’s shout turned her head. “Rose, get to the house at once! Men, to arms!”
Lord Whittier blew across his palm. As the breath touched his skin a shimmering trail passed through his fingers and on to the ground.
Rose blinked. “What is he—?”
“And there suddenly appeared an army of knights, bound by honor to guard all those who dwelled within the manor,” Lord Whittier shouted as he ran toward Rose, pausing only to send another puff of air across his palm, increasing the stream.
“Oh, no,” Rose breathed.
Where each glittering breath landed, a translucent knight in full armor appeared, rising from the ground in the space of a heartbeat and keeping pace with the duke’s long stride. With swords drawn, they screamed a battle cry.
“Well,” Rose quirked a wobbly smile at the stable boy, even as her own heartbeat quickened, “you don’t see that outside of Mirthan Hall every day.”
She looked back toward the gate. Kinley and the other knights had just passed through. “You’d better take Falcon inside before he’s spooked.” Rose gave the stable boy a gentle push in the right direction.
“Yes, mistress.” The stable boy clicked his tongue at the stallion, “C’mon now, Falcon. That’s a g-good lad,” his voice shook more than a little.
“Lord Whittier!” Rose picked up her skirts and ran directly toward the oncoming, ever-expanding army and the thin, pale-haired Storyteller leading the charge. Even knowing the knights were only Story People, it took every ounce of courage within her not to run the opposite direction. “Lord Whittier! All is well! It’s only Kinley, come home from Sengarra!”
“Rose, get in the house! Bar the doors! Let no one—”
“It’s Kinley!” Rose was almost to him, but she still had to shout to be heard above the racket of the Story Knights. She pointed toward the approaching riders and annunciated carefully, yelling as loudly as she could, “It’s Kinley! Your son!”
The duke halted abruptly. “Kinley, you say?”
“Yes.” Rose flinched, but the Story Knight who was about to barrel through her dissolved, as did his fellows. She let out a breath. “I’m sorry. I—”
“You’re sorry? Rose, have you stopped to think what could have happened if it hadn’t been Kinley you met in the hills?” He ran a hand over his pale blond hair. “You shouldn’t have ridden outside the boundary I set for you. Especially not without an escort! How many times do I have to—urrgh!” He fisted both hands on his head as if to pull out his hair. “And to take Falcon? Without permission? Indeed!”
Rose bit her lip and looked down at the ground. The knights—the real ones—were nearing, now. Would they all bear witness to her reprimand and the doling out of punishment that would surely follow?
When Lord Whittier remained silent, she dared a glance at his face. When she met his eyes, his stern expression softened.
“You have your own horse. A safe horse. A gentle horse. You shouldn’t have taken Falcon.” His lip twitched. “I must say, though, that you handled him well. I should probably throttle you, Rose. But instead, I find myself wondering if I need to seek a new mount for you. A horse better suited to your skill.” A bright sparkle lit his eyes, even as he shook his head. “That was an impressive bit of riding.”
The glow of praise warmed her cheeks, but Rose had to press her lips together to keep from laughing. “And I must say, Lord Whittier,” a tiny giggle escaped her mouth, “that was an impressive bit of Storytelling.”
“You liked that, did you?” The duke’s grin overtook his face, but he shrugged. “It just came to me as I was running. I’m no warrior, but I am not completely without the ability to defend those I love.” He winked. “Even if that defense is little more than an illusion.”
“It was truly inspired.”
“It must have been, for I find no other explanation for it.” The duke crossed his arms. “But neither my inspired Storytelling nor your skillful riding erases the fact of your disobedience. We will talk, Rose. Of that you can be sure. And there will be consequences.”
CHAPTER TWO
Rose supposed it was unlikely that even Kinley’s a
rrival would cause Lord Whittier to forget her need for discipline. Still, she was disappointed when the knock that normally summoned her to table did not come at the appointed time. And, when it did finally come, it was not a summons. It was Mrs. Scyles, bearing a rather sparse dinner and instructions that Rose was not to join the family at table or elsewhere until morning.
After setting the tray on the small table by the fire, Mrs. Scyles paused.
Unusual. A wave of dread passed over Rose. The rest of the household was at table, two floors below. Special attention from Mrs. Scyles could not be a good thing.
“Might I have a word, Mistress Rose?”
The Asp rarely spoke to her directly, but if she did it was most likely when they were alone, her words carefully crafted so that, even if repeated, Rose would not likely be able to prove they held a threat. But when Aspera Scyles made a special effort to address Rose, even the most innocuous comment seemed to be just that.
Rose nodded and took a step back as she waited for Mrs. Scyles to speak. Although quite tall, Rose always felt tiny next to Mrs. Scyles. Having little in the way of extra flesh clinging to her sturdy frame, the woman’s largeness came from an impressive bone structure which made her small, pinched features even more surprising on such a solidly built woman. Her hair, which had given itself over to the dulled silver of time, was pulled tightly away from her face. Rose had often wondered if the slight downward tilt of the woman’s eyes would be less so with a looser or higher bun, but she certainly wasn’t going to be the one to suggest it.
Digging her fingernails into her palms, Rose finally spoke when it seemed the silence might stretch too long. “You wanted a word, Mrs. Scyles?”
Mrs. Scyles moved to shut the bedchamber door. “Yes,” the whispered hiss set the hairs on Rose’s neck at right angles to her skin. “Yes, I’d like a word, Mistress Rose.” When she turned around, malice had replaced her usual bland expression, but sugary venom still infected her tone. “It’s about your witchcraft.”
Rose almost laughed, but caught herself just in time. “Pardon? I must have misunderstood. You did say . . . witchcraft?”
