The Wrath of the King (Royals Book 5)

by Bourdon, Danielle

  Belatedly, Chey realized she was talking to dead air. Pulling the phone away from her ear, she realized the lights behind the numbers were out. After hanging up and attempting to get a dial tone, Chey put the handset back in the holder. A glance at the archway put a woman into view, a woman as weathered and wrinkled as the farmer. A silvery bun had come askew, probably when the woman went to bed, leaving straggling pieces of hair falling to her shoulders. The white nightgown, modestly high on the throat and long in the sleeve, served to obscure all but the woman's head and hands. In her fingers, she held the unplugged line to the phone.

  This, this was why Chey could not put her full trust in anyone. Unsure how much Hanna heard before the premature end of the call, Chey faced the farmer's wife.

  “I guess I misunderstood when your husband said you were both loyal to the King,” Chey said.

  “Fredrik is of the old ways, slow to see the good change sometimes brings,” the woman said in heavy, accented English. “If you please, take a seat.”

  Chey crossed the kitchen, glass in hand, and sat down in one of six chairs surrounding a sturdy, square table. She noticed the ache in her legs and feet much more when she took pressure off them.

  Now what, Chey thought. She sized the farmer's wife up, debating how far the woman would go to prevent Chey from leaving. Probably pretty far. While she assessed, she drank, desperate to quench her thirst. The water was clear, cold and delicious.

  “Olga!” The farmer barged into the kitchen, gun in hand. He scowled when he took in the details of the unplugged phone and Chey sitting at the table. A sudden burst of Latvala spewed forth, a rant that the farmer's wife returned.

  Clearly, the couple were at odds with the division and change in leadership. Chey decided this could be a boon—or a disaster. Picking out choice sentences during the argument, she ascertained that the woman had bought into Paavo's propaganda hook, line and sinker. She fully seemed to believe that dividing the country up was the best option, one that would benefit her and her husband.

  Fredrik, red faced and not shy about making wild gestures when he spoke, adamantly repeated that to be loyal to a usurper was tantamount to treason. Long minutes later, chest rising and falling with the effort the argument took from him, the farmer glanced at Chey.

  “My apologies, your Highness. You are safe here and will remain our guest as long as you need. Olga, plug that line in at once,” he said, to no avail.

  Olga dropped the end of the line and set her heel on the delicate plastic, threatening to damage it beyond use.

  Fredrik grunted and fretted, then used his body to herd his wife out of the kitchen. At the archway, he shot Chey an apologetic glance.

  Rising from the seat, wincing at the lancing pain shooting through her back, Chey wasted no time picking up the telephone line and searching for the outlet. She found it behind the microwave and slipped the end into the socket. Back at the phone, she lifted the handset and prayed for a dial tone.

  Nothing. Dead air.

  Another cramp low in her stomach caused Chey to temporarily abandon fixing the telephone. Amidst the sounds of Fredrik and Olga arguing in the other room, Chey suffered through the pain, breathing slow and even in hopes it would ease. Fretting that she'd over done it and pushed herself into labor, she sank back into the seat, holding onto the table with one hand.

  “Not here, not now,” she whispered to herself.

  She could not have this baby in the middle of nowhere with a hostile woman in the next room and no doctor in sight.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Paavo stalked through the encampment outside the walls of his castle, a contingent of guards at his feet. Furious at the turn of events, he snapped aside the canvas doorway and entered the largest tent among the masses, bringing the men inside to sharp attention.

  “Your Highness.”

  “Prince Paavo...”

  “Your Majesty.”

  The myriad greetings served to grate on Paavo's nerves even further. It drove the point home that his troops were not as well organized under duress as he'd thought or hoped.

  “Where is Ingvar and why is he not front and center in this mess?” Paavo demanded.

  “He was called away, your Highness--”

  “Your Majesty,” Paavo corrected with a dark look. If his top ranking men were confused about his title, he had no hope that the citizens would come to the right conclusion on their own.

  “Pardon, your Majesty.” The official bowed his head. “The General was called to another location.”

  “Which location is that?”

  “The tent where your assistant is being held.”

  “Yes, that was next on my agenda. Where is she being held, anyway?” Paavo had a few questions for Miss Hudson.

  “I'll take you.” The official stepped past and caught the flap to the tent, holding it for Paavo to follow.

  Which he did.

  Four rows away, the official stopped before a tent and gestured to it. She's in there, said his expression.

  Paavo opened the flap and stepped in. Ingvar and three other men stood around a cot with a prone body stretched across the surface.

  “Is she dead?” Paavo asked.

  “No, she's just coming around,” Ingvar replied. “Had a nasty knock on the head from a careless scout.”

  Paavo snapped his fingers and strode over to the cot. “Leave us.”

  The men glanced between themselves, then departed the tent.

  Paavo stared down at Wynn, taking note of her disarrayed clothing, smudges of either soot or dirt on her cheek, and the lax set of her features. While he watched, she groaned and tried to lift a hand to her head.

  “Miss Hudson, it's time to wake up. I have a few pressing questions for you.”

  . . .

  The gloomy interior of the tent swam into view, interrupted by a head that leaned directly into her line of sight. Wynn couldn't make out any features at first, too distracted by the sharp pain at the back of her head.

  Paavo's voice, the warm timbre with its familiar accent, told her who it was before her vision cleared enough to make out the color of his eyes, the shape of his mouth or the askew lock of dark hair on his forehead.

  “What?” she whispered, thinking he had asked her a question. She couldn't figure out what she was doing in bed in the middle of the day. Or was it the middle of the day? A distinct lack of light indicated she might be confused about many things.

  “I said, can you sit up? We have some important questions to go over.” Paavo reached down to help her sit up.

  Woozy, Wynn swung her legs to the ground, reaching back far enough to touch the tender spot on her head. “What happened?”

  “That's what I'm hoping you'll tell me.” Paavo crouched in front of her. So close that their knees almost touched. “Someone found you wandering near the creek, heading away from the castle.”

  Fire, escape, Chey, running away. The events of the evening came back in flashes. Wynn licked her lips and frowned. She said, “I was trying to get away from the fire.”

  “All the way to the creek?” he asked.

  “I was following some other women. We had our heads covered against the flames.” Wynn remembered that part specifically, altering the truth to suit her needs. She met Paavo's gaze head on, refusing to fidget in discomfort at the incisive way he stared at her. Like he knew things.

  “The other women sought the troops out. I wonder why you didn't.”

  “I don't remember. I just know they ran toward the trees, and I followed. Is the castle all right? What happened in there?” Wynn hoped she affected convincing concern and distress.

  “A fire, Miss Hudson. But you knew that. In fact, I'm wondering just how much you know about the events of this evening.”

  “I'm not sure what you're suggesting, but all I know is that I smelled smoke, heard someone call out fire, and ran with the rest.” Wynn licked her lips. They felt terribly chapped and dry. She couldn't tell whether Paavo believed her or not.
His expression remained even, assessing.

  “I'm suggesting that perhaps you had something to do with the plans for Chey's escape. After all, you are her best friend.”

  Chey's escape? Had Chey made it out of the castle? Wynn struggled through a few seconds of shock. It explained why Chey hadn't been in the room when she'd gotten there, but it didn't explain how Chey got out.

  Paavo arched a brow at her hesitation.

  “Chey's escape? I'm not sure what you mean.”

  His lips pressed tight, as if he thought she was testing his patience. “She was here, but I think you knew that, too. Which leads me to believe that you were involved with the men who attacked the castle during the fire, and Chey's ultimate disappearance.”

  Wynn didn't need to feign shock hearing someone had attacked the castle. “What? Who would attack the—they didn't take Chey, did they?”

  With a sound of disgust, Paavo shoved to his feet. Like a King at court, he paced through the tent, spine rigid, features tight with displeasure and suspicion. “You're either very good at this game, Wynn, or you truly don't know what happened to Chey.”

  Wynn got to her feet, relieved that the dizziness had passed. Not knowing whether Chey was all right or not proved to be the douse of clarity she needed to regain her focus. “I don't. But I want her to be safe, and I don't care if that annoys you.”

  “Many things annoy me, Miss Hudson. I'm still not convinced you didn't know about the attack, at least, or that the fire was the surprise you claim it to be. For now, I have more important things to do than wait until you decide to tell me the truth.” He paused at the flap of the tent and looked back. “Know, however, that if I discover you had anything to do with the fire or her escape, I won't hesitate to put a bullet straight through your heart.”

  . . .

  Two more minutes pain free, and I'll try to connect the phone line again. Chey made bargains with herself while she waited to see if the ache would return. Sitting and breathing seemed to be helping; the tight, squeezing pain eased. The argument between the farmer and his wife, however, had not eased. Although out of sight around the corner, Chey heard every word. Olga was enamored with the idea of a 'New Latvala', while Fredrik was wholly, vehemently against it. Chey thought this was probably a common theme throughout the land. Couples and families split with indecision and righteous assurance that they were right. It was what made Paavo's actions so devastating and damaging. He was messing with the fabric that held the citizens together, creating voids between loved ones that might never heal.

  When the arguing stopped, Chey held her breath. Someone had come to some sort of decision. The faint sound of footsteps hurrying up the stairs preceded the farmer rounding the corner into the kitchen. From the pocket of his wrinkled overalls, he pulled a set of keys.

  “The truck is around the side of the house,” he whispered, voice full of urgency. “There is another phone upstairs and I fear she is going to give away your presence here. Take the truck and go.”

  Chey didn't hesitate to accept the keys. She stood up and touched Fredrik's arm in gratitude. “We won't forget this,” she promised, letting the farmer know that she had every confidence the rightful King would be back on the throne in short order. Chey couldn't tell the man that the last she'd seen her husband, he'd been in a coma in the hospital with hostile forces right outside the room.

  Fredrik nodded and escorted her to the back door. “Take the road West, then North. The last I drove it, there were no troops in those directions.”

  “Thank you. Hold your wife off from the phone call as long as possible.” Chey escaped into the evening, picking her way down the porch steps and around to the side of the house. The truck was an older, beat up model but as long as it ran, Chey didn't care what it looked like.

  Sliding behind the wheel, fighting to reach with her belly in the way, she jammed the keys into the ignition and turned the engine over. It sputtered, coughed, and caught. Chey wasted no time leaving the farm behind, taking the only road out between the break in the forest.

  West, then North. In the dark, Chey had a difficult time getting her bearings. Once she did, she headed West along the snaking road, desperate to put as much distance between herself and the farm as possible.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The ruins of an ancient church provided cover from the downpour. Sander, slouched in the front seat next to Gunnar, watched the rain beyond the partially collapsed wall that used to be a part of the structure. Bricks and stone scattered the ground and beams long ago cracked in half from weather and age thrust their jagged edges toward the dark sky.

  He hated feeling this useless. Leander was doing the job he should be doing. Chey needed him and here he sat, watching it rain. The pain, exhaustion and brief periods of disorientation didn't matter. What mattered was getting Chey back unscathed. She was tough as nails, he knew better than anyone, but even the strongest person was no match for the rigors of late term pregnancy. Sprinting staircases, lifting heavy objects and fighting enemy combatants were all either impossible or dangerous at this stage. They were all things she might have to do to escape.

  Not for the first time, he started to reach for the ignition, intending to return to Paavo's holding. Common sense stilled his hand. Nothing good could come of a second attack. The guards would be expecting it this time, as well as the hundreds of troops squatting outside the castle. Their element of surprise was long gone. If Paavo didn't know who had infiltrated his castle, it wouldn't be a secret much longer.

  “You seem to have a lot of faith in this Leander fellow,” Gunnar said. “That being the case, I'm sure he'll find Chey if she's in there.”

  “It should be me going after her,” Sander said. “What if she's hurt or in trouble?”

  “Leander will bring her back to you. I'm sure he's skilled at fixing any injuries on the fly until better medical attention can be obtained.” Gunnar paused. “Although I wish you would confide his connection to Mattias while we're alone.”

  “I can't.”

  “Why not? I'm your brother, and I've always been on your side.”

  Sander swiveled a look across the car. Gunnar had never been good at hiding his deeper emotions, especially from him. Sander detected indignation and hurt under the brave facade Gunnar put on.

  “Because there are some things we won't ever be able to tell you, and although you won't believe it, it's for your own good. The less you know about certain aspects of his—and my—life, the better.”

  “That's crap, Dare, and we both know it.”

  “I'm sure it seems that way from the outside, but if you knew what we knew, then you'd understand that these secrets are necessary for all our survival. Trust me, Gunnar. I would tell you if I could.” Sander reached across the seats and clasped his brother on the shoulder. After a brief squeeze, he let go.

  Gunnar grunted and looked out the window. “I might not be as skilled as you both yet, but there's time.”

  “There is, yes. And I have every faith you will become a fine warrior. Perhaps later in life, depending on what happens, we'll bring you into the circle.” Sander hated keeping Gunnar in the dark. If the danger wasn't so acute, he would have told Gunnar long ago. This was his way of protecting Gunnar until he knew he was ready.

  The muffled sound of a phone ringing cut through the conversation. Frowning, Gunnar fished his cell from a pocket and put it to his ear. “Yes?”

  “That should have been turned off when we went into the castle,” Sander said, reminding Gunnar that he had to think about more than the obvious things when in stealth mode.

  Gunnar's frown deepened. “Wait, hold on. You're breaking up. What?”

  Sander stared across the Hummer at his brother's expression, wondering who was calling. The rain battered the ground, coming down harder than before.

  “When did she call? Did she give you an exact location?” Gunnar asked.

  “Who is 'she'?” Sander asked, sitting up straighter in the seat.

&nbs
p; “Alright. What did she say again? Tell me every word.” Gunnar plugged his other ear to hear better.

  “Who the hell are you talking to?” Sander asked, impatient to know who the 'she' was.

  Gunnar waved Sander off with his hand, then plugged his ear again. “If she calls back, tell her to stay put.”

  “I'm going to take the phone away from you in two seconds,” Sander warned.

  Gunnar ended the call and glanced at Sander. “That was Hanna. Chey called fifteen minutes ago. Said she'd escaped Paavo's holding and was at a farmhouse a 'handful of miles away'.”

  “What direction? Did Chey give any indication where?” Sander started the engine. He drove out of the gutted building and into the weather, heading for the road. “Get the GPS up and running, too. Find every farmhouse in every direction in that radius.”

  “She didn't give coordinates. Just the general location. I'm on it,” Gunnar said, pulling a device out of the glove compartment. “What are we going to do about Leander? He's in there, risking his life, and Chey's not even in the castle.”

  “Send him a text to abort, if he hasn't already. Get him out of there.”

  Sander hit the road but halted at a juncture, waiting for Gunnar to fire up the GPS. He was anxious and impatient to find Chey before Paavo's men did.

  . . .

  Wynn paced the interior of the tent, listening to the booted feet of military men passing close enough to prevent her from trying to escape. She could hear them talking in low voices about political maneuverings, either unaware she was in here or very aware, perhaps waiting for her to make a move. Rain had begun to fall at some point, occasionally blocking out all sound but the distant rattle of thunder.

  Every once in a while she touched the back of her head where she'd been struck, feeling around the small knot protruding from her skull. If the men hadn't thought twice about knocking her out once, they wouldn't hesitate to do so again if she made a more blatant attempt to flee.