Discreet Gentleman Book One: A Discreet Gentleman of Discovery

by Tualla, Kris

  Hansen Hall

  October 24, 1720

  Brander's headache evaporated overnight and he approached the new day with hunger and restlessness. The hunger he understood. The source of the restlessness he didn't wish to think about.

  He broke his fast in the dining hall where an array of dishes waited. Smoked and pickled fish, fresh bread and butter, boiled eggs, ham and thick bacon, berries with cream, sliced cheese and apple tarts. His belly rumbled and his mouth watered. He took some of everything.

  He sat facing Niels who had gained more color in his cheeks. The valet grew thin in his illness, but he looked stronger than yesterday.

  "Is your headache finally gone?" Niels asked

  Yes. Brander laid smoked fish on a piece of bread and ate half the slice in one bite.

  Niels chewed a while. Then he asked, "What are your plans?"

  Go back to Christiania.

  He nodded. "When?"

  When you are recovered.

  "How will we travel? The carriage is ruined. And if we ride those horses we'll not make it until spring."

  Brander raked his fingers through his hair. Niels was right; and while he hated to give up his fee for escorting Jarl's bride, staying for the wedding and beyond was even more distasteful.

  I'll purchase a pair of horses and tack from Jarl.

  "How much will that cost?"

  Brander shrugged: Less than I charged him. And we can sell the animals when we reach Christiania.

  Niels glanced around the room. Servants freshened food and poured them ale. He switched to gestures: Will we go alone?

  Brander mouthed another large bite. While he chewed he answered with forceful motions: Who else would we take? Do we have another client to escort?

  Niels made a disgusted face: You know what I mean.

  Brander did, but he chose to taunt his cousin and not acknowledge the truth. Marthe? he asked.

  Niels leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. His brown eyes smoked with irritation and his lips disappeared in a tight line.

  Brander refused to be drawn in: What?

  The motions were separate and distinct: You. Are. An. Ass.

  Tell me, are my clothes clean?

  Oh! So funny.

  You are my valet, are you not?

  I might quit. I haven't decided.

  Now you're the funny one.

  Niels leaned forward and gripped his wrist. "Brand. Please. If you don't do something about the lady you'll be hell to live with."

  What is Marthe doing today? he deflected.

  He saw Niels' chest expand and felt the whoosh of his exhaled sigh.

  "She is helping Lady Kildahl create a wedding gown for her marriage to your brother." His expression held a challenge that Brander struggled to ignore. "And a special gown for her wedding night in your brother's bed."

  Don't.

  "Why not? Does it bother you?"

  Brander dropped his gaze to his food. Hell yes, it bothered him. His appetite was suddenly diminished.

  Niels moved around the table and sat beside him, physically pulling his attention. "I won't say any more, Brand. You have to do what you think is right."

  Brander nodded: Yes.

  "But consider your actions carefully, cousin," he warned. "Once done, they cannot be undone."

  I know.

  Niels slapped his shoulder. Then he pushed himself to stand and exited the hall leaving Brander to the detritus of his meal and his miserable contemplation.

  *****

  Regin could see the stable yard from the seat in her bed chamber window. Yesterday's snow piled in the corners but the ground had blown clear. An amiable sky was gray and overcast.

  The cream bodice rested in her lap. The satin was smooth against her hand and the needle was slim and hard, warmed by her fingers. She finished the row of gold silk rosebuds yesterday and was embroidering the leaves with gold thread. Or she was supposed to be. At the moment she stared out the window and tried to grasp the fact that this estate was her home.

  Her head rested against the thick wavy glass, cold from the outside temperature but not freezing. The sturdy stone manor wasn't much different from most in Norway except, of course, for the eight-hundred-year-old Viking tower overlooking the water.

  And the Hansens were wealthy if the furnishings were an indication. Every room was comfortably furnished, every wall held tapestries or painted portraits, every floor was warmed by a thick carpet. Uniformly dressed servants continuously cleaned floors, fed and stoked fires, laundered and cooked. Life at Hansen Hall would be pure luxury after her last years at Kildahlshus.

  So why wasn't she happy?

  A movement pulled her gaze. Below her Brander strode across the yard, his hands fisted and his long legs devouring the ground. His red-gold hair was a flourish of color in the gray day. Even his tunic was gray.

  Brander disappeared into the stable and Regin turned back to her embroidery. She couldn't make the leaf come out right; she was more attentive to movement by the stable than the gold thread refusing to coalesce into decorative foliage on the satin bodice.

  A dun courser with black mane, tail and fetlocks pranced into the corner of her vision. Regin turned to see Brander astride the barebacked animal. The gelding was excited, but even from her window perch Regin could see Brander's thighs tense, holding him securely on the animal's back. He commanded the horse with the reins, his hands and feet and soon they were cantering in a tight figure eight around the courtyard. His quick mastery of the spirited steed was amazing to watch. His straight back, powerful thighs and sure dominion over the beast made her heart stutter. The beast was spectacular.

  So was the horse.

  After a quarter hour, Brander dismounted and led the gelding back inside the stable. A moment later he rode out on a tall bay mare. She was steady and lacked the spirit of the gelding. After a few minutes Brander returned her to the stable. His next mount -- another gelding -- was a sturdy gray.

  Marthe tapped her shoulder and she dropped her needle; she hadn't heard the maid enter the room. "Yes?"

  Marthe glanced out the window and pressed back a smile. "Is there anything you need, my lady?"

  Regin fished for the needle at the end of her thread. She pinched the implement between her finger and thumb and wove it through the fabric. "I'm restless and tired of being in this chamber," she said. "I think I'll take a walk before I ruin this bodice completely."

  Marthe fetched her cloak and held it towards her. "I'll work on the embroidery while you're gone."

  "Thank you, Marthe." Regin traded the needlework for the cloak. "I won't be long."

  Regin stepped into the chilly air and breathed a deep lungful to clear her mind. She walked around the manor and through the arched gate into the stable yard. Brander was still astride the gray, but the gelding was fighting him. He dismounted just before the animal bucked. With a disgusted look he yanked the horse's head to the side until the distracted animal walked in tight circles. Then Brander led him back inside the building.

  Regin began to walk the perimeter of the large yard and listened for the sound of hoof beats behind her. When she reached the opposite end, she turned to see Brander astride a glossy dark chestnut stallion with a white blaze down his nose. He was watching her and she nodded a greeting. He nudged the horse with his toes. The horse pranced toward her, head bobbing and long tail slashing the air.

  "Good morning," she offered.

  Brander touched his forehead and dipped his chin. His enigmatic smile offset the intensity of his gaze. A little.

  Regin pointed at the horse and raised her brows in question.

  Brander patted his chest and frowned. He mimicked writing and shook his head.

  Use your lips and your hands, she gestured. I understand.

  Brander nodded. He raised one flat hand and then pointed at her feet: Wait there.

  "Yes."

  He kicked the horse forward, led it in a tight pattern, cantered the length of the yard an
d came to a stop in front of her. He dismounted and dropped the reins, pinning the loose ends under a tall black boot.

  "What are you doing with the horses?" she asked.

  I need to buy two horses from my brother.

  "Why?"

  So Niels and I can ride back to Christiania.

  "Oh." The realization that he was leaving weighed on her chest like a boulder. "Have you decided?" she managed.

  This one for me, the dun gelding for Niels. A twinkle lit his eye: This is the one my brother claimed that I stole.

  "When you went after the monk that murdered Eskil," she said.

  Yes.

  "Has he apologized?"

  His brow wrinkled: No. But we haven't talked yet.

  "How will you pay for them?"

  He owes me three hundred dalers.

  That surprised her. "That much? For what?"

  Brander lifted a corner of his mouth and looked at her like she was dim-witted: Perhaps you'll remember? I escorted his bride from Hamar.

  Regin's cheeks heated. "Of course." For an awkward moment all she could think of was the feel of his body against hers under the carriage.

  The stallion sidestepped and tossed his head. Brander picked up the reins. He motioned for Regin to follow him to the stable. In the stall he removed the animal's bridle and gave it a handful of grain. She touched his arm so he would look at her.

  "When will you leave?" she asked, dreading the answer.

  When Niels is strong. The day after tomorrow, I think.

  "But that's--" Regin's hand covered her mouth. The thought that he planned to leave on her wedding day sparked too many questions with dangerous answers.

  He pulled her hand out of the way and stared at her: I know.

  Her throat tightened and her voice failed her. She gestured with one hand because he still held the other: I don't understand.

  Brander lifted that hand to his nose and inhaled. He blinked slowly: Lemon soap.

  "Lemon soap?" she asked, wondering if she interpreted his words correctly. He nodded.

  All your letters smelled like lemon soap.

  "Oh, Brand," she whispered, wondering if he could feel the surge in her pulse. He let go of her hand.

  I don't want to watch my brother marry you.

  "Why not?" she demanded softly.

  His eyes were as gray as the day when they were outside, but now they simmered like blue flames. His callused hands moved up to her neck and circled it. She felt his fingers at her nape and a shiver trickled down her spine. His thumbs titled her chin upward. He stared at her, his pupils widening and his breath blowing in steamy puffs.

  For a minute neither of them moved.

  Then Regin's lips parted in forbidden invitation. Desperate, needy invitation.

  He accepted. His mouth covered hers and he pushed her back against the stall's rough wooden wall. His kiss deepened and claimed her entire being.

  Regin closed her eyes and the world spun crazily. She grasped at Brander's cloak and tried to remember where she was. But his tongue moved eagerly against hers and that was all she knew.

  A knee moved between hers and steadied her. She risked letting go of the cloak and slipped her hands inside. She scooped her palms under the hem of his tunic and upward to his warm bare skin. She wrapped her hands around his narrow waist and pulled him closer.

  The knee moved upward until it snugged against her and she was astride his thigh. Jolts of desire shot through her. She wanted him to push her to the ground and take her fully right there in the clean straw of the stallion's stall. Never in her life had she wanted a man to bed her as powerfully as she wanted Brander.

  She swallowed a moan, but he didn't. She froze. Did he know he was making sound? Would someone hear them?

  Regin pulled away from the kiss and laid a finger over her lips to shush him.

  The effect was like snow dumped over them.

  Brander's leg straightened. She wobbled, abruptly deprived of his intimate support. He gripped her elbows and pulled her hands off his body. His whole face was red as his lips. He shook his head and stepped backward.

  He pushed his palms into the air: I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

  She reached for him, but he knocked her hands away and wouldn't look at her. He made to leave. She grabbed his cloak and yanked it. His returned gaze blasted hers.

  What?

  "Brander..."

  He sneered at her: What?

  Regin bit her lips together. None of her emotions were appropriate. None of her desires could be fulfilled nor her words said. Swamped with hopelessness, she gave her head a tiny shake.

  Brander's eyes moved methodically as he perused her face. His expression softened. One finger broke free of his fist and seemed to move to her lips of its own volition. Like a feather it traced their outline and drifted away.

  Then he whirled on one foot and left the stall before she could stop him again.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Brander knocked then pushed open the door to Jarl's study.

  "Come in," Jarl motioned as he said the words. "Sit there a moment." He pointed to a chair off to the side of the huge desk that had belonged to many generations of Hansen men.

  Roald turned and nodded a greeting as did Wyborn, Jarl's steward. Brander nodded back.

  When he settled into the chair and stilled, the men went back to their conversation as if he wasn't present. Able to see their lips, he had no trouble following their dialog. They were discussing the arrangements for the wedding two days hence.

  Brander rubbed a knuckle over his mouth. He still felt Regin's eager kisses there and his groin tingled with the recollection. How could he have behaved so wretchedly? Thank God she stopped him before they were discovered.

  He made noise; he knew that as soon as she shushed him. What sort of noise he couldn't imagine, but embarrassment flooded his frame. And anger. He let down his guard and allowed his arousal to steal his control. That was a deadly mistake. He mustn't make it again. Ever.

  He focused his attention on the wedding plans -- a sort of self-flagellation in penance for his sin. It seemed the marriage itself would be performed in the stave church in Arendal because Hansen Hall's medieval chapel was too small. Not to mention dank and Catholic in design. The Hansens were Lutheran reformists since the 16th century.

  Wyborn stood and retrieved a list from Jarl -- a menu by the look of it. Brander held out his hand and wiggled his fingers. The steward glanced at Jarl. His brother nodded and Wyborn gave Brander the paper.

  Smoked salmon. Lutefisk.

  Scallops and lobster in garlic butter.

  Leek and onion soup. Cabbage and lamb stew.

  Roasted boar. Goose with oyster stuffing.

  Jarl wasn't being tightfisted in any way; this feast was likely to be the event of the season in the small town and spoken of for years to come. It made Brander's mouth water just to read the list. He looked at Jarl.

  "Do you approve?" he asked. The expression on his face clearly stated that he didn't care a fig whether Brander approved or not. Brander handed the list back to Wyborn.

  No venison? he asked just to niggle at Jarl.

  Jarl ignored the jibe. He stood and thanked Wyborn, and the steward left the study. Then Jarl turned to Brander.

  "You wish to talk to me?"

  Brander glanced at Roald. The man showed no sign of leaving and Brander considered the ramifications of that. He immediately realized there would be no secrets between his two younger brothers, so he simply nodded and moved to Wyborn's vacated seat.

  "I was wondering if you were going to ignore me completely," Jarl jabbed as he sat down.

  Brander opened his wallet and -- so there would be no miscommunication -- wrote: Sorry. I was somewhat busy tracking and capturing our brother's murderer.

  "And celebrating with a flagon of akevitt upon your return."

  Brander understood the sarcasm even if he couldn't hear it. He responded: I suffer from migraine headaches. Sleep is the only
cure. Akevitt puts me to sleep in spite of the pain.

  Jarl's gaze faltered and he shifted in his seat. "What did you need from me?"

  Payment.

  "Of course. You do practice a trade, don't you?"

  Jarl opened a locked drawer in the desk. He dropped a leather bag of coins heavily on its worn top. Brander put out a hand to stop him.

  I wish to buy the dun gelding and the dark chestnut stallion with the white blaze.

  Jarl looked surprised. "Why?"

  So Niels and I might return to Christiania. I need tack as well.

  "Those are expensive horses," he cautioned. "So we are even?"

  Brander stifled his burgeoning anger. I'll give you seventy-five dalers for each horse including the tack. You still owe me one hundred and fifty dalers.

  Jarl pulled a face. "You insult me."

  How much then?

  "Two hundred and fifty."

  Brander allowed an amused grin. He shook his head.

  Seventy-five each plus twenty-five each for tack.

  "Two hundred and fifty," Jarl repeated.

  Brander shrugged. I'll look in Arendal, then, and take your three hundred dalers.

  Jarl shot an angry glare at Roald. When Brander's gaze followed, he saw his younger brother's face reddened with suppressed mirth. Roald swallowed his grin and Brander turned back to Jarl.

  Jarl had the money bag open and he counted out one hundred dalers in gold coins. "Take the horses and tack," he grumbled.

  Thank you. Brander collected the heavy coins and put them in his pocket. He was about to leave when Jarl stopped him.

  "Roald, would you excuse us?"

  Caught by surprise, the man's gaze bounced between his two older siblings. "Oh! Well, yes..."

  Roald stood, nodded to Brander, and left the study closing the door behind him. Brander turned back to Jarl, more curious than a kitten worrying its first mouse.

  "How well do you know Lady Kildahl?" he asked.

  Brander was stunned at this shift of topic and he hedged his answer. He wrote: I met her three weeks ago in Hamar.

  "Do you feel that you understand her personality?" Jarl clarified.