Chains of Fire (40 page)

“What?” The woman frowned, angry and alarmed. “Grimsborough, what did he say?”

The shadowy figure behind the wide polished desk did not look up from his writing.

Five brightly dressed girls, ages five to twelve, stood lined up by the fireplace, and one of them, the skinny one in the middle, said in awestricken tones, “He’s so dirty.”

“And skinny,” said another.

Saber shifted his attention to them.
Soft, silly English children.

They stared at him as if he were a trained dancing bear, and when he scowled, the littlest’s eyes filled with tears; she popped her thumb into her mouth and slid behind her sisters’ skirts.

“Look, he’s tired.” The oldest spoke with authority. “He’s swaying on his feet.”

Then, in unison, the four biggest girls smiled at him. Kindly, sweetly, as if nothing ugly or brutal had ever touched their lives.

Saber hated them. He hated the lady, hated the tutors assembled to meet him, hated the uniformed servants standing at attention, hated them all. Most of all, he hated the evil man in charge, the man behind the desk, the one he knew must be the English viscount . . . and his father.

Again in his native tongue, Saber spat, “Stupid English wenches.”

“What did he say?” Again the sneering English lady looked between Saber and the viscount. “What did he mean?”

For the first time, the man spoke. “Bring him to me.”

Two of the man’s absurdly dressed servants grabbed Saber’s arms and propelled him around the desk to face the man.

Grimsborough gestured the candelabra closer, and when the light played across his face, Saber thought he looked like the older woman. Not in his features, which were sharp and strong, but in his attitude: in the aristocratic lift of his chin and contemptuous curve of his mouth.

The English lady drew in a sharp breath. Because although Saber didn’t realize it, he and Grimsborough looked alike, also.

Grimsborough examined the skinny, filthy, tired child as if he were a bug to be squashed beneath his shoe. Then he reached out a pale, long-fingered hand and slapped Saber across the face with his open palm.

The sound of flesh against flesh echoed like a gunshot.

At the impact, Saber fell sideways.

One of the girls gasped. One whimpered.

The woman smiled in satisfaction.

And cheek stinging, Saber lunged for Grimsborough.

The servants caught him, dragged him backward.

The viscount waved him forward again.

The servants didn’t let go of his arms this time.

Grimsborough brought his narrow patrician nose so close it almost touched Saber’s, and his soft, deep, menacing tone raised prickles of fear up the back of Saber’s spine. “Listen to me, lad. You are nothing. Nothing. My bastard by a foreigner, and if I had had another son, your filthy feet would have never sullied the floors of my home. But God in His infinite wisdom has blessed me with nothing from this marriage but
daughters
.” He glanced at the girls, so colorfully clothed, so sweet in their innocence, and he despised them with his gaze. “Five
daughters
. So you will live here until you’re fit to be sent to school. And never again will you speak of your betters in that insolent manner.”

Saber shook his head, shrugged, and gestured helplessly.

“Don’t pretend with me, lad. Your mother spoke English. So do you.”

Saber didn’t quite have the guts to swear at Grimsborough, but he spoke Moricadian when he said, “English is for the ignorant.”

Again Saber didn’t see the blow coming, but the impact of Grimsborough’s palm against his cheek snapped his head sideways so hard his neck cracked and his ear rang.

“Never let me hear you speak that barbaric tongue again.” Grimsborough’s voice never rose.

Saber lifted his chin. “I hate you,” he said in clear, plain English.

“I hate you,
sir,
” Grimsborough said with chilling precision.

Saber loathed him with his gaze.

“Say it.” Grimsborough’s frigid eyes held nothing: no spark, no interest . . . no soul.

Saber glanced toward the elegant, sneering woman. She stood terrified, looking at her husband the way a mouse looked at a snake.

Saber glanced at the girls. Four of them stood with their heads down. One, the middle girl, stood with her hands clasped at her skinny chest, was staring at him, and when their eyes met, her lips moved in appeal. “Please.”

He looked back at Grimsborough. This man who was his father scared him—and he wasn’t afraid of anything. But he couldn’t give in. Not quite. Straightening his shoulders, he said, “I hate you,
sir
, but my grandfather told me I had to come to this damp, cold island and learn everything I could in your savage schools about mathematics and languages and statesmanship so I could go back to Moricadia and free my people from cruel oppression.”

The oldest girl stepped forward as if he interested her. “If you want to free your people, shouldn’t you learn how to fight?”

He swung a contemptuous glare on her. “I already know how to fight.”

“You’ll need an army. Do you know how to lead an army?” She looked him right in the eyes, not at all impressed with his bravado.

“I know how to lead,” he retorted. Then grudgingly he added, “But I will have to learn military tactics.”

“Then we are in accord in one thing: You will cease to be a little beast and become a civilized gentleman.” Grimsborough gestured to the servants. “Take him away. Clean him. Give him over to the tutors and tell them to use any means necessary to teach him what he needs to know. I will see him here in six months. Please note: I expect an improvement, or I will be unhappy.”

Saber felt the little shiver that raced through the room at the idea of incurring Grimsborough’s displeasure.

Picking up his quill, Grimsborough turned back to his desk and his papers, and ignored the servants, his wife, his daughters, and Saber.

“We will begin with a bath,” Lady Grimsborough said decisively.

At the mere idea of this woman seeing his naked body, Saber struggled, lunging against the grips of the servants.

The second-to-oldest girl, a pale, soft, silly thing dressed in pink and ruffles, begged, “Mama, he’s so skinny. Please, can we feed him first?”

“Do you not have a nose? Can you not smell him?” Lady Grimsborough waved her lace handkerchief before her face.

Saber had learned to fight in a hard school, and he swung on one servant’s arm, knocked the feet out from beneath the other, broke free, and raced toward the door.

The head servant, the one who was dressed in black and wore white gloves, tackled him around the knees. The two footmen leaped on top of his back, crushing him into the flowered carpet.

His father’s unemotional voice intoned, “A few good canings are in order. Thompson, I trust you’ll handle the matter.”

The man in black and white helped haul Saber to his feet, then dusted his white gloves. “Yes, my lord. Immediately, my lord.”

“Clearly, the little bastard will survive without a meal for a few more hours.” Lady Grimsborough eyed Saber as if he were a plucked chicken ready for the pot.

Grimsborough’s cold, clear, emotionless voice intoned, “As of now, his name is Raul. Raul Lawrence.”

Clearly dismayed, Lady Grimsborough asked, “Lawrence? Surely you don’t intend to—”

“Adopt him? Indeed I do. He is Raul Lawrence, son of Viscount Grimsborough, and he is to become an English gentleman. Wife, please ensure that everyone in the household realizes how quickly he or she will incur my displeasure should the boy be given the wrong name or title.”

Once again that shiver rattled the room. These people—the wife, the daughters, the servants—were afraid of their master.

Saber had left a land where he roamed free, and landed in a hellish nightmare of hunger, pain, cold, and fear.

And his father was the devil himself.