Love's Call

by C. A. Szarek

  He was trying to make his home even more lavish than Castle Aldern.

  “Roduch,” Leargan said, shaking his head, but his captain’s expression looked as if he was torn between irritation and pride.

  Roduch shrugged. “I didn’t kill him. The headache he’ll have when he wakes isn’t nearly enough justice.”

  “One drop of water in a vast bucket, I agree,” Lord Aldern said.

  “Alas, Bowen, come retrieve the scum,” Leargan ordered. “There are shackles with his name on it outside.”

  Roduch locked eyes with his captain and smirked. “Don’t trust me to take him to the cart?”

  “Not for a second,” the captain said, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips as he sheathed his sword.

  He stared at his longtime friend and fellow knight. “I appreciate your honesty.”

  Blood trickled down Leargan’s cheek, and the captain reached to wipe it away. His hand jerked, so Roduch didn’t ask if he was all right; irritation rolled off the man. It wasn’t often Leargan was taken off guard.

  Who would have thought the little shite was brave enough, anyway?

  Alasdair chuckled, hooking one strong arm under one of Tynan Mont’s.

  Bowen winked at Roduch as he grabbed the bastard’s other one, and they lifted his torso off the floor. At least they dragged him along the tile as they took him away. Hopefully they’d rip is fine breeches, skin his knees, but even that wasn’t enough.

  Gelding him right then and there might be. Roduch would volunteer his weapon and hand for that duty in about two seconds flat. No sterilization of the blade by fire, either. Who needed to stop bleeding?

  Leargan gripped Roduch’s forearm and squeezed.

  Lord Aldern stepped away, moving to the cowering steward.

  Roduch nodded thanks.

  After giving the captain a onceover, his stomach fluttered.

  Something’s wrong.

  More than the cut he’d received from Avril’s former husband.

  Despite the gravity of their mission, Leargan had been too quiet on the ride.

  “What’s wrong?” Roduch asked. “We got what we came for and no one was harmed.”

  A slight shake of his head said the captain didn’t want to talk about it, and confirmed it had nothing to do with apprehending Tynan Mont.

  He reached for Leargan’s forearm and gave him a squeeze. “Well, if you’ve need of me, I’ve two ears.”

  “Thank you.” The other knight averted his gaze, but gave a curt nod.

  Even before they could mount up, people—whole families really—poured into the small courtyard of the property, gasping and whispering. Even outright shouting as their landlord was manacled to the wooden cart.

  Their expressions held relief; their yells were of thanks, not outrage. If nothing else, that only doomed Avril’s former husband even more.

  Now most of the personal guard, as well as Lord Aldern himself, could be called witnesses against Tynan Mont’s tyranny.

  When the half-elfin duke made it to his mare, they started whispering about his presence.

  “I’ll have to address them,” Lord Aldern said to the captain.

  Leargan nodded and swung himself into Fia’s saddle.

  The duke rode toward the people, Leargan close by to protect Lord Aldern if necessary. The crowd parted and encircled them while the rest of the guard watched.

  Roduch stayed close to the cart with the unconscious bastard.

  Though Tynan Mont’s people had no love lost on him, Roduch wasn’t about to take any chances. If he woke, Roduch would make sure he stayed put. Better yet, he’d knock him out again. Two headaches were better than one.

  “Tynan Mont is under arrest,” Lord Aldern said, his voice raised and clear.

  No gasps greeted their ears. Only smiles and more relief.

  “This holding is now under the care and control of Master Harlan Pelham. He will be your temporary landlord, if you were beholden to Master Mont. However, if your contracts to that effect were because of blackmail, you are now free. You owe Master Pelham nothing more. Ever.” The duke smiled and his gaze appeared to sweep the crowd.

  Many of the men threw arms in the air. Women wept and swept children up in their arms. Couples embraced and some even kissed. Though Roduch was no empath, he could feel their relief, their joy.

  Lord Aldern cleared his throat and they settled, their gazes once again locked onto him. “I owe you all an apology.”

  Now there were a few gasps, but the duke inclined his head to the people.

  “I say that because I knew not what was going on here, and I should have. As Duke of Greenwald, you’re all my responsibility. This went on too long. I’m deeply sorry. If Tynan Mont stole from you in the way of material things, you have my permission—and understanding from Master Pelham—to retrieve these items. If he stole your coin, you will be repaid, if it’s from my own coffers. I promise you this.”

  More gasps, and the people hung on Lord Aldern’s every word.

  “There will be a trial. You’ll all have the opportunity to testify if you see fit, but no one will be forced. A messenger will inform you before the trial commences. Once again, I’m sorry this happened in my Province.”

  It was a while before they were able to take their leave. Each and every one of Tynan’s tenants wanted to thank the duke personally, and Lord Aldern obliged.

  When they were on the road again, Roduch road abreast the cart, but he wasn’t too far away to hear his captain teasing the duke. “That was well said, my lord.”

  “You think so? I’m not fond of these things. I never know what to say.”

  They went back and forth, until they both ended up laughing.

  “I bet Tristan will be sorry he missed it,” Leargan said.

  Roduch shook his head, giving into a small smile as they continued to banter.

  Alasdair added his voice as well, everyone in earshot giving into chuckles.

  Glancing at Tynan Mont’s still form, Roduch growled. He still wanted to kill the bastard. But they’d set out to arrest him and they had.

  There was a place in the dungeon ready to claim him.

  Now Avril could truly move on with her life.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Jorrin stood next to Tristan and Leargan as they watched the approach of the king and his entourage from the high wall of Castle Aldern. Even now, after almost a turn being the Duke of Greenwald, the official name change rocked him.

  For generations Cera’s childhood home had been called Castle Ryhan, her maiden surname, like all castles on the continent were named after the holding family. But she’d pushed for the official change after they’d married.

  As long as his line—starting with Fallon—held Greenwald, the castle would remain named after Jorrin’s family.

  Astonishing.

  The love of his life caught his eye, the sun glinting off her dark red locks. Her curls were loose today, swaying with the unusually warm fall breeze as she stood next to her two best friends not far from him, the captain and Tristan.

  Cera fidgeted in the gorgeous rust gown she’d donned for the king’s arrival. The dress was one the queen had given her the night they’d gotten betrothed—much to her chagrin at the time.

  It was embroidered with silver roses, the corseted bodice cut too low for Jorrin’s liking. Especially since she was nursing their son and her breasts were fuller than normal.

  Growling to himself, Jorrin wanted to go inside and find a shawl to wrap her in, but Cera would know why in an instant and fuss at him.

  Her body was even shapelier than before, delicious curves carrying Fallon had gifted her with. Although their son was only a fortnight old, thanks to Tristan, her body was able to make love with no pain, and Jorrin could barely keep his hands to himself.

  Despite fatigue from being up with a newborn every few hours overnight, his wife was right there with him.

  Handy that Tristan had learned healing magic that would prevent pregn
ancy. They wouldn’t add to their family again until they wanted to, no matter how many times they were together.

  For health reasons, the spell needed to be released every few months. After giving the woman’s cycle time to regulate—as Tristan had put it—the spell could then be replaced and last up to four months.

  Women were flocking to him from all over the Province.

  “Put your tongue back in your head,” Leargan muttered, following Jorrin’s gaze to where the three women stood.

  They too, looked down to watch the procession headed toward the castle.

  All three wolves were close by, lying next to each other. Ali napped, Trik’s head was up, looking around the battlement, and Isair appeared to be bored, giving a canine sigh as she laid her head on her paws.

  “Hey, I’m married to a beautiful woman.” Jorrin kept his tone light, but when he made eye contact with his captain, his smile faded. His magic tingled with Leargan’s dark emotions.

  Pain, regret and guilt rolled off his friend.

  Nothing had changed between his captain and the lovely Ansley, and they were both worse for the wear.

  Leargan glanced at his betrothed, but when she looked over her shoulder and their gazes met, they both averted their eyes. The captain made tight fists and pinned them to his sides.

  Jorrin’s heart ached, but he couldn’t help him now. Leargan had to help himself out of his mess.

  Cera had been glued to Jorrin’s arm, and Aimil had also been with Tristan, until about ten minutes before. When Ansley and Ali had arrived on the wall.

  The wives had left their husbands, glaring at Leargan and joined the Ansley, linking arms and exchanging smiles.

  But the Rider wilted when she’d seen the captain. Her emotions made Jorrin’s limbs ache, his fingers tingle.

  She echoed how Leargan felt, and it made his empathic magic scream.

  They both felt horrible.

  So why couldn’t they fix it?

  They only had to speak to each other.

  Jorrin’s wife had laid into Leargan the night before. The tongue lashing was good enough to make Jorrin wince and look for blood; she’d shredded Leargan so badly.

  Cera had been honest, and harsh.

  His captain had sat and taken it, head bowed, dark hair covering his face like a curtain. Uttering “I know” and “aye” from time to time.

  Jorrin’s eyes swept the approaching group and he swallowed a sigh. Whatever Leargan had planned—Blessed Spirit let the man have a plan—Jorrin was going to leave him to it.

  They had bigger things to worry about than heartbreak. Jorrin had to brief the king on Avril’s situation and get Tynan Mont’s trial handled.

  The bastard had declined all three Advocates Jorrin had recruited from Greenwald Main—one of which was the famous Atticus Brehon, a man so accomplished at the law that King Nathal had used his services to settle disputes from time to time. People sought him from all over both continents.

  Atticus was a good man, so Jorrin had been surprised he would even be interested in the case, but the duke wasn’t going to exclude the Advocate—also the head of the law school in Greenwald Main—because over all, the man was fair. Justice was in his magic and in his blood.

  Tynan Mont was an arrogant idiot.

  Jorrin had no issues with letting the trial duties fall to King Nathal. Not that he didn’t feel he could handle it, but he couldn’t remain impartial. He already cared a great deal for Avril. Wanted Tynan Mont to suffer. Would castrate him if Roduch didn’t beat him to it.

  The big knight loved the girl. Whether or not he’d told her, Jorrin had no idea, but the duke sensed love every time he’d been in the same room as the two of them. Avril felt the same way, which was a shock, considering what she’d been through, but Jorrin wished them all the happiness in the world. They both deserved it.

  If the king hadn’t already been on his way to Castle Aldern, Jorrin would have had to preside over things, but would gladly relinquish his right as Tynan Mont’s liege lord to a higher power.

  Seeing the look on the bastard’s face when the king faced off with him would be worth it, for one. Hopefully, Tynan Mont squirmed in his seat when he had to look up at King Nathal’s more than six and a half foot frame.

  Jorrin stared down at the procession as it crossed slowly made its way over the drawbridge, and into the outer courtyard of the castle grounds.

  King Nathal was visible, his large body overshadowing most of the men he rode with. “Where is the famous Sir Murdoch?” Jorrin asked.

  The captain of the king’s personal guard had been away on official business when King Nathal had helped them defeat Varthan, so Jorrin had never met the man.

  “Riding to the king’s right,” Tristan said, pointing to a huge man with long red hair and beard.

  “Blessed Spirit, he’s almost as big as the king,” Jorrin said.

  Leargan groaned.

  Jorrin bit back a smile and arched an eyebrow. “Is this man fond of you?”

  Several snickers were covered with coughs when the captain glowered at him.

  “Aye. He used to be my captain, after all. I’m fond of him, as well.”

  “Good thing,” Jorrin whispered, leaning in. “Maybe you will keep your hide intact, then.”

  Leargan glared.

  Tristan chuckled, patting the captain’s back. “Not sure about that. He’s got quite a temper, especially where his only child is concerned.”

  “I’ll tell him the truth.” Leargan’s voice was low enough for only Jorrin and Tristan’s ears and very serious.

  Regret from the healer made Jorrin’s magic prickle.

  “I’m sorry, Leargan,” Tristan whispered. “I shouldn’t tease. I know this is a serious matter.”

  “I meant to, but I’m sorry, too. Honestly.” Jorrin reached for Leargan’s forearm and squeezed. “I believe it will work out.”

  Leargan nodded. “It has to.” Pain flared in his dark eyes.

  Jorrin swallowed a wince. He and Tristan exchanged a look.

  “They’re through the gates,” Cera announced. “We should go down to the great hall. Morag should have everything set up by now.”

  ****

  Ladies Cera and Aimil walked arm and arm with Ansley in front of them as they headed down the corridor to the great hall.

  Leargan’s heart burned, speeding up, spreading pain across his chest until his arms shook. He made tight fists at his sides.

  Every attempt he’d made to speak to her had been rejected.

  Daicy guarded Ansley’s door as well as Ali could, glaring so hard it scorched no matter the distance.

  The first time, the maid had asked Ansley if she wanted to talk to him, but now Daicy wouldn’t even do that. She would stare, hands on hips, silently daring him to come closer.

  He’d never been a coward before, but the half-fear of a petite maid was cutting it close.

  Respecting Ansley’s hurt and anger was killing him. Would he ever touch her again? Perhaps the king’s arrival wouldn’t help anything. Was she lost to him?

  No. Everything would be fine.

  It had to be.

  Morag and her many maids met them in the great hall lined up and ready to serve. A fine repast already lay on well-laden tables.

  There would be a feast that night for evening meal, so the midday food was on the light side, but should still satisfy the king and his men after a long ride.

  The headwoman’s fussing about the beasts made Leargan glance in her direction.

  Lady Cera was on her in a second, cancelling Morag’s order for the three wolves to exit the hall. His lady liked her bondmate close—not that Leargan blamed her.

  Only moments later, Trikser, Isair and Ali all plopped down by the main hearth—no doubt at the bidding of their mistresses—but Leargan didn’t miss Morag’s glare of disapproval.

  His men were starting to assemble as well, each giving a curt nod as they passed. Laith, the youngest man of the personal guard—at n
ineteen turns old—winked at Meara, one of the maids.

  The fair-haired knight bowed in front of her and kissed her knuckles after she’d set two baskets of sweet rolls on the personal guard’s table.

  With a giggle, the girl blushed and twirled away, a wide smile on her face, flashing dimples. Laith regarded her with a grin and his brother, Merrick, slapped him on the back.

  Even Laith has a woman?

  Envy curled in his gut.

  Searching Ansley out against his will, his gaze collided with hers, but she looked away so fast her long, red plait jolted like a whip.

  She was clustered close to Ladies Cera and Aimil, and the Duchess of Greenwald shot him a glare before squeezing Ansley’s forearm.

  Damn, he had to fix things.

  Lady Cera had summoned him to Jorrin’s ledger room last night for a sound tongue lashing that had made him feel about five turns old.

  Leargan had sat there and taken it, because he didn’t have the guts to admit the embarrassment that had come hand in hand, or the lack of desire to speak to the Lady of Greenwald about his very personal problem.

  What was he supposed to say?

  Jorrin—the traitor—had stood in the corner, a cringe on his face the whole time. Silent.

  Coward.

  At least there hadn’t been any other witnesses.

  King Nathal dominated—by sheer size and booming voice—as he entered the great hall of Castle Aldern, a smile on his bearded face. His tawny hair was helm-mussed, but the men with him were as just as boisterous, laughter in conversation as they strode forward to meet everyone.

  The man who’d raised him was in a good mood.

  The king wore no armor, but was covered in the bright blue of Terraquist—breeches and tunic. He wore a silver doublet with his seal stitched into it. The lion was roaring, surrounded by a shield and a blue flag. He was dressed for a celebration.

  Leargan groaned.

  His wedding.

  Sir Murdoch wasn’t far behind, along with the rest of the men—which numbered about a dozen. Not all of them were the king’s personal guard, of course.

  King Nathal had left probably half in Terraquist to protect his family while he was away. Leargan would do the same, if he and Jorrin had to leave for any length of time.