The Wolf and the Sparrow

by Isabelle Adler

  There’d been all those rumors about Callan. Ivo had warned Derek about them; even Macon, in his less than sympathetic way, had done so. Perhaps he should have heeded them instead of letting himself be swept away by feelings that had clouded his judgment. After all, where there was one dead spouse, there could easily be another.

  But no. Callan couldn’t have anything to do with it. Whatever game Bergen was playing, Callan wasn’t a part of it. This Derek knew with a certainty that outweighed his outrage. Had Callan wanted him dead, he wouldn’t have come to his aid, risking his own life and sacrificing that of his lifelong friend. Derek lacked experience when it came to love, but he’d met with enough dislike and indifference to realize Callan’s feelings toward him were genuine.

  But were they enough?

  The door opened, and Derek jumped, startled out of the frantic cycle of his thoughts.

  “A servant told me you were waiting for me here,” Callan said, closing the door behind him and leaning against it with a lazy smile. “To be honest, I hoped you’d be much less clothed by now.”

  This time, Callan’s teasing failed to send the familiar thrill down Derek’s spine. He said nothing, and Callan’s smile slipped, becoming a frown as he took in Derek’s agitation.

  “What happened? Are you all right?” he asked, taking a step toward him. Derek drew back, and Callan halted, a puzzled expression on his face. “Derek?”

  “I heard something I wasn’t supposed to.” His voice sounded foreign, as if someone else was pushing the words out of his mouth.

  “What is it?”

  Derek took a deep breath. There was no easy way to say this to the man he’d do anything to protect. But there was no hiding something like this from Callan, even if it caused pain and confusion.

  “Your father was the one who arranged for me to be taken by those pirates. Kidnapped and killed. And it’d look like the Danulf did it. And what’s worse, he’s still keen on having it done. I chanced upon Medwin as he was paying the intermediary. Your father wants me dead.”

  “What? That makes no sense. My father was the one to push for this marriage. It was I who wanted nothing to do with it at first.”

  Derek bit his lip. Callan’s reluctance to marry him was hardly a revelation, but hearing him admit it so casually hurt almost as much as the notion of his father-in-law wanting to be rid of him.

  “It’s true,” he said, clamping down on a flare of resentment and making an effort to sound as calm as possible. This was a much more serious matter than petty slights. “I heard it all myself.”

  He told Callan brusquely of the meeting he’d witnessed behind the sheds next to the little forgotten garden. The Sansian’s words still rang in his ears, and though he hadn’t seen his face, there was no doubt whatsoever as to who it was, what part he’d played in Derek’s abduction from Bryluen, and what the duke’s intention was even now.

  As he spoke, Callan’s hands tightened into fists and flexed again. His face was devoid of any expression after the initial shock, his blue eyes betraying no emotion. The wall between them, the one that had taken so long to disassemble, one brick of scorn and distrust at a time, was back again in full force.

  A heavy silence hung in the air when Derek finished his account, so complete that the crackling of the fire in the hearth seemed as loud as thunderbolts. He’d never thought moments of quiet could be so thick and suffocating, as if the silence itself was filling his lungs like water, chilling his heart.

  “You can’t accuse the Duke of Mulberny of such a grave misdeed based on nothing but conjuncture,” Callan said finally.

  “Conjuncture?! Do you think I’m lying?”

  “No, I don’t.” Callan raised his hands in a pacifying gesture, which, conversely, made Derek angrier, as if Callan was implying he was being hysterical or unreasonable. “But you might have misheard or misunderstood. Think about what you’re saying. My father, conspiring with rogue Agiennan pirates and outlaws against you, and, by extension, Camria? That’s preposterous. Even if there is some kind of plot afoot, which I doubt, you have no proof he’s involved in it.”

  “I know what I heard!” Derek’s voice rose, coming dangerously close to shouting, and he made a conscious effort to calm down, even though Callan’s cold impassiveness infuriated him further. “I know what I saw. If you question Medwin, you’ll understand I’m right. Or better yet, ask Bergen.”

  Callan shook his head. “This is absurd. I’m not going to insult my father by giving these insinuations credence.”

  Derek bit his lip. The small amount of pain was infinitely better than letting himself betray the depth of his hurt.

  “If my word means so little to you,” he pushed out, “then there is nothing more we can say to each other. There can be nothing more between us.”

  Callan sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes momentarily going wide.

  “That’s not what I meant. Derek, you…you must know how I feel about you.”

  “Do I?” Derek asked, dropping his voice. “If I’m right—if it comes to choosing between me and your duty to your father and fiefdom, which would you choose?”

  Callan didn’t answer immediately, and the pause told Derek everything he needed to know.

  Ivo, Macon, even his mother—they all had been right. He shouldn’t have forgotten where he belonged, and with whom. And apparently, it wasn’t here in this rough land that he’d been foolish enough to believe could welcome him. He should have known better than to trust the tender emotion he’d allowed to grow inside him. He should have known better than to allow himself to fall in love with Callan—or to believe that Callan could possibly love him in return.

  Callan made a step forward, reaching for him again, but Derek stepped back.

  “Don’t. I’m leaving,” he said, surprised at how level his voice sounded despite the ache that seized his throat, making it hard to breathe. Tears welled in his eyes, distorting his husband’s chiseled face.

  “Leaving?” Callan repeated, as if he didn’t comprehend the meaning. He looked so stricken that, for a moment, Derek’s resolve wavered.

  But it wasn’t something he could let slide simply because he didn’t want to upset Callan. Callan, who apparently cared enough for him to not want to see him leave, but not enough to actually investigate his claims. Derek was in mortal danger, and in this murky political game, his family (if not his husband) needed him alive.

  “Yes,” he said, blinking away the tears. “As soon as I pack my things.”

  “It’ll take time to have all your retinue ready. At least give them time to prepare—and for yourself to reconsider,” Callan said, a note of pleading entering his voice. Derek shook his head.

  “I’m not staying here a minute longer than necessary. I can’t. If my men aren’t ready, they’ll catch up to me on the way.”

  “You can’t go alone! What if someone is after you? You won’t be any safer on the road.”

  “Well, if something happens to me, it’ll save Duke Bergen the trouble of trying to have me assassinated all over again.”

  For one awful moment, Derek was sure Callan was going to hit him, but instead, his face twisted into something Derek hadn’t seen even when he had been nearly tortured by the Agiennans.

  “Derek. Please.”

  “Goodbye, Callan,” he said quietly.

  He was half expecting Callan to block his way as he brushed past him, but his husband made no attempt to stop him. Without looking back, Derek crossed the threshold between their rooms and let the door swing shut behind him with a resounding bang.

  Chapter Sixteen

  CALLAN STARED AT the closed door, fists bunched by his sides and his thoughts churning like tidal waves at the bottom of the cliffs.

  What the hell had just happened?

  There was no answer to that question which would satisfy him, only a kind of furious astonishment. Where did this outrageous notion of Derek’s even come from? Callan knew him to be rash at times, but to insist that Callan’s f
ather had hired assassins to kill him was simply beyond the pale. And for him to believe Callan would in any way consider the accusation was nothing short of insulting. And making Callan choose… It simply wasn’t fair. How could he choose between the man he loved and family loyalty—especially when, as far as Callan was concerned, there was no need to weigh the two bonds against each other?

  That was the problem, wasn’t it? He loved Derek with the kind of depth and intensity of emotion he’d believed his heart incapable of anymore. He thought it’d died the night Idona had drawn her last breath. But Derek, by some incogitable magic, had awoken it again, like a fairy-tale prince rousing his lover from an enchanted sleep. Callan didn’t know when exactly he’d fallen in love with his husband, but now, he was well past the point of no return on the path to another heartbreak.

  He should never have let his heart take over his senses. It was both foolish and dangerous, and brought about nothing but pain. Everything in Callan’s experience had taught him that, yet he’d been stupid enough to believe this time was different. That Derek was different. That what they’d shared could cross out years of ache, guilt, and disappointment.

  Apparently, he’d been wrong. Callan stalked across the room into his study and slammed his palms against the desk with a thud, making the array of colorful glass inkwells atop it rattle precariously. How could Derek fall so readily for so vile a slander? Callan’s throat constricted, a red haze momentarily clouding his vision.

  But he needed time alone to cool off before making any sort of move. He’d fought enough battles in his life to know no good resolution had been born out of anger, and now too much was at stake to make the wrong step.

  Callan made himself relax and take a deep breath, stepping away from the desk before he could make more of a mess. There was still work to be done if they were to depart tomorrow. Even if Derek wouldn’t be going with him, he had to return to Bryluen as soon as possible if he wanted to find out what was behind these attacks.

  As much as Callan tried to conceal his foul mood behind his usual mask of bland inscrutability, the guards and household staff apparently weren’t fooled. Everyone ducked out of his way as soon as they caught a glimpse of his face as he descended into the main courtyard. Callan gritted his teeth and set out to find Rema again. Perhaps he was being a stickler to the point of disruptiveness, but minding the minutia of equipping a troop for a hard ride north was infinitely better than seething helplessly in his rooms, separated from Derek by a single door and a chasm of hurt.

  But before he could head off to the stables, a large carriage, drawn by four horses and accompanied by five armed riders, came through the main gate and pulled up to a stop. A small cart, covered with a tarp, was attached to the back of it.

  Callan’s stomach twisted unpleasantly with premonition when he spotted Lord Morgan’s crest on the side of the carriage. The guards in the yard, roused by the unusual sight, gathered round, their weapons at the ready despite the display of friendly colors on the riders’ uniforms and on the banner atop the carriage roof. In the wake of Callan’s capture, it was small wonder the Irthorg contingent was suspicious of everything out of the ordinary.

  He flexed his hands again, tensing in anticipation despite his best efforts at tranquility, but schooled his features, waiting while the stable hands took the reins and a servant in dark clothing jumped down from the back of the carriage to pull out the folding step. There was a shuffle inside, and then the door swung open, revealing the occupants.

  “Lady Elsie,” Callan said, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice despite his attempt at reserve. “What are you doing here?”

  Elsie, accompanied by an attendant, was seated at the back of the carriage, her delicate frame wrapped in thick wool blankets against the chill. Her shrewd dark eyes met his, and the awful sense of foreboding intensified. Whatever had driven Lady Elsie to travel all this way in person, it couldn’t have been good news.

  “I have something of great importance I wish to discuss with His Grace. But perhaps it’d be best to speak with you first, all things considered.”

  “We’re heading to Bryluen tomorrow,” Callan said. “But I see you’ve anticipated us.”

  A loud moan came from the direction of the cart, and everyone in the yard turned their heads in alarm.

  “What’s that?” Callan asked. At first, he’d thought the cart might house Elsie’s wheeled chair and other baggage, but it appeared he’d been mistaken.

  “An Undin prisoner,” Elsie said calmly.

  Callan frowned. The Undin were the ones who’d kidnapped them at Bryluen and later delivered them to the Danulf. He opened his mouth, but Elsie forestalled him with a raised hand.

  “I think I’d better speak with you first. Alone,” she added with emphasis.

  “Of course.”

  Together with Elsie’s servant, he unstrapped the crate with her chair from the back of the carriage and helped her sit down comfortably. He led the way up the side ramp into the keep, with Elsie and her attendant following.

  He chose one of the smaller drawing rooms on the main lower level. His late mother, and to a lesser extent, Adele, used these rooms when receiving guests, but they were still kept in immaculate condition, despite the slightly outdated furnishings. Soon, a fire was burning in the hearth, and tea and refreshments were brought while Callan paused outside to instruct an urgently summoned Gella to take Elsie’s prisoner into the dungeons as quietly and discreetly as possible.

  “I was very glad to hear of your safe return,” Elsie said once they were both seated, and her attendant had poured them tea before taking her leave. They faced each other over a dainty side table set out with confections, for all the world as if this were a casual social call and the palpable tension in the air didn’t exist. “I confess, for a while, it seemed like a hopeless business.”

  “I must credit my husband for making our escape possible,” Callan said.

  There was no doubt he owed Derek his life. His heart clenched with a mix of gratitude and regret as he recalled the moment when his grim resolution in the face of a horrible death had been replaced with an impossible hope at the sight of Derek creeping determinedly around the pillory. A wave of shame rose inside him at the memory. No matter how infuriated he’d been by the accusations, he shouldn’t have spoken so dismissively to Derek. He didn’t deserve Callan’s contempt, not after proving time and time again how deeply he cared about him. Of that, at least, there was also little doubt in Callan’s mind. Derek loved Callan just as much as Callan loved him.

  Elsie made a noncommittal sound.

  “Why are you here, Elsie?” Callan asked, changing the subject to more pressing matters. “Who is this prisoner you’re escorting?”

  “Next time you’re dashing off to attempt a daring rescue, do notify someone, or at least take more than one person to accompany you,” Elsie said dryly. “It took a while to notice you were both gone from Bryluen, and to begin to guess what had happened. But once you and your husband’s absence was discovered, my father sent men after you. Thankfully, you managed to leave enough dead bodies behind for us to realize who was responsible for your kidnapping—and by that point we were praying to all the gods it was only a kidnapping and not something more sinister—and to track them down and capture some of them.”

  “I’m impressed. It must have been no easy task, considering the culprits.”

  Elsie nodded, but she was watching Callan with a strange expression as she sipped her tea. He shifted, growing more uncomfortable in the face of her somber mood.

  “What did they have to say?” he asked.

  “They gave us the name of the person who arranged the abduction.”

  “Aegir?”

  “Duke Bergen.”

  Callan went very still. For a moment, he thought he could hear the roar of the distant sea, but it was only the blood rushing in his ears.

  “That’s ludicrous,” he said at last, his voice sounding foreign, detached from the whirlw
ind of conflicting emotions that threatened to choke him. “My father would never have arranged my kidnapping.”

  “Not yours,” Elsie said. “But your new husband’s. No one counted on you going after him and disrupting the Undin rogues’ plans. And when they had you, it was a simple choice between adhering to their previous bargain with His Grace or surrendering you to Aegir for a much greater profit.”

  Callan stared into his untouched teacup, not really seeing it.

  “The Undin must be lying,” he said, but he already knew it was a hopeless attempt at denial. This new information fell in too neatly with what Derek had been trying to convince him of earlier. These were parts of the same riddle, one he didn’t care to solve.

  Could Derek be right? Could the duke actually be trying to rid of him? But why would Bergen do that? What purpose could Derek’s death possibly serve? Callan knew for a fact his father cared nothing for Camria. Whatever his reasons were, they had nothing to do with annexing a fiefdom weakened by the death of its ruler—even if Derek feared it to be the case.

  “It’s a grave accusation, but I’m inclined to believe it,” Elsie said. “The prisoners would gain nothing by implicating the Duke of Mulberny himself in this matter unless they knew it to be true. This is why I came here with such urgency—to find out exactly what part you and His Grace played in this scheme, and, well, to control any possible damage. But I see now you had no knowledge of it.”

  “No,” Callan said, his voice carefully controlled. “No, I didn’t.”

  There was a short pause.

  “No one knows of this save for Lord Morgan and me,” Elsie said, focusing again on her tea and avoiding his gaze. “And the interrogators, of course, but they know their job too well to let such information slip. Rest assured that our loyalty lies with His Grace.”

  “Yes,” Callan said thickly. “I appreciate your discretion.”

  He stood up abruptly. There were so many things he had to do, but first and foremost, he needed answers. And there was only one person who could give them.