WindSeeker (50 page)

"I love her," he sobbed. "With all my being, I love her, and look what I have caused with that love! You

should give her to Brelan and be done with it!"

"It isn’t Brelan she wants, Conar."

"And it isn’t me she should have!"

Her heart broke for the man whose life had been filled with one agony after another. She knew there

was nothing she could say that would make things better. He would have to come to terms with his grief

in his own way. She put an encouraging hand on his shoulder then left, her own pain scarring the planes

of her beautiful face.

Conar dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, pushing until the pain made him whimper. He dropped his

hands into his lap and sat staring at the floor.

Kaileel’s words rang in his memory: "I’ll give you more pain than you can endure if you defy me!"

He buried his face in his arms.

* * *

Brelan knelt beside her bed and brought her cold fingers to his lips. "Milady?" he whispered, smiling as

her lids fluttered open and she turned her head on the pillow. He pressed her hand against his unshaven

cheek. "How are you, Sweeting?"

Liza was tired, so very, very tired, and her heart was dead. She felt hollowed out, a part of her missing,

never to be replaced. There was a lightness to her being, her head feeling weightless. She felt drained,

depleted, never to be filled again.

"Oh, Liza," Brelan said, lowering his head. His forehead went to the mattress where he buried his face,

and his tears, in the silken softness. "I am so sorry."

"Has anyone seen to Conar?" she asked, weakly. "Has he been told?"

Brelan lifted his head. "Don’t worry about him."

"I have to. He is my husband." Her trembling hand caressed his cheek.

There was deep, bitter resentment in Brelan Saur’s voice. "He’s been told about the babe."

"About his son," Liza corrected. She searched her friend’s sad face. "How did he take it?"

"I’m told he blames the right person for what happened. But we all know where the blame lies and it

isn’t just with him."

Liza turned away and withdrew her hand. "I’m tired."

He bent over her, his left hand on the headboard. "Is there anything I can do, Dearling?"

Liza shook her head.

"Elizabeth, I—"

"I’m tired," she repeated, closing her eyes.

Brelan ached for her loss. If it were within his power, he would move heaven and hell to set things to

rights. Her pain was his pain and he felt it keenly. He rubbed his hand down his thigh, feeling again the

miracle of her lost babe throbbing against his palm when he had earlier touched her belly. A soft whimper

escaped his closing throat, for the memory of her child—alive and vibrant, reaching out from the womb

to greet him—was a forceful reminder of how quickly happiness can be snatched away. How easily life

can be snuffed out and how terrible the consequences of anger.

"I take responsibility, too, Elizabeth," he whispered. "It was my…"

"Go away, Brelan," she said on a long whimper. "Please, just go!"

For the rest of his life, he knew he would blame himself for the loss. It was his jealousy, his pride that

had started the fight between him and Conar. Though Conar bore a portion of the guilt, Brelan felt the

greater part, for he had been with a woman he had no business coveting. It was his sinful lusting that had

caused the babe’s death.

"Brelan, go!" Liza cried and lifted her head to give him a look that would have quelled the staunchest

warrior. Her face was devoid of any semblance of feeling for him and twisted with such grief it was

almost ugly.

He wanted to beg her forgiveness, to accept the burden of her censure, but she turned her back to him,

and pulled the covers over her head.

"I love you," he whispered and turned to go. He paused at the door and looked back, took in the way

she just lay there, her frail body so vulnerable, so weak. He ached to lie beside her and take her in his

arms, hold her, stroke her, ease her hurt, but he knew he did not have the right.

And he knew he never would as long as Conar McGregor lived.

* * *

The rich smell of lemon oil filled the room. The aroma from the bayberry candles burning beside the

casket brought back memories of winter festivals and snow that had turned Boreas Keep into a

wonderland in his childhood.

Now, he would always associate the smells with terrible pain and darkness.

And retribution.

On a satin bed of deep lavender hue, the little body lay as though the boy child was in slumber. Conar

had to strain hard to dispel the notion that the small chest rose and fell beneath the burial gown. The ecru

sleeves and dress covered much of the tiny body, but the hands, so perfectly formed with their tiny oval

nails, and the sweet round face with its rosebud lips, broke Conar’s heart as he gazed into the casket at

his son—Liza’s firstborn.

Their firstborn.

Little wisps of yellow fuzz peeked out from under the lace cap. Although the delicate eyelids were

closed, Conar knew beyond a doubt that those eyes were as green as his mother’s. He wondered what

heavenly sights his son was seeing at that moment.

"Take care of him, Mama," he prayed. "Show him the love you always gave me."

Going to his knees beside the casket, the Serenian Prince laid the backs of his fingers along the cold, still

face. A tender smile, sad and fleeting, played over his lips. He turned his head to one side and felt the

unbearable pain welling up inside him.

"I am so sorry, little one. I am so very, very sorry."

Letting his head fall to the satin-covered casket rim, he felt the great agony of his son’s loss leap up at

him, filling his soul and bursting forth like the postulation of a festering wound.

No one came to comfort him.

No one came to take him away from this material source of his guilt.

Not one person came to offer a kind word or an understanding shoulder on which to ease his sorrow.

Accusations shot through his mind like molten lava. He flinched, understanding exactly what it was he

had done, what he had caused, what he had set into motion by his arrogance and greed.

He had killed not only this child, but Gezelle’s.

The overwhelming guilt might well destroy him.

"Alel, forgive me," he whispered, tears flooding his cheeks, "for I will never forgive myself."

He slumped to the floor and wrapped his arms around his chest. A low keening broke the room’s

stillness as he hunkered beside the casket, rocking back and forth on his heels. He wondered who was

crying, then realized the sounds were coming from his own throat. The keening became a wavering moan,

then a hitching sob that turned into staccato bursts. As his heart broke, the sounds became a prolonged

whimper of utter grief, and he dropped to the stone floor and curled into a ball as hot tears scalded him.

His entire body shook with the force of his sorrow. He dug clasped hands between his knees, tucked his

chin against his chest, and wished with all his heart that he could die.

* * *

Gezelle found him in the crypt the next day, his hand stroking the stone marker with his son’s name

carved into the black marble.

He looked terrible. Sleeplessness had made his eyes dark with shadow, his mouth hard with hurt. His

blond hair was tousled, his shirt unlaced and hanging free from his breeches, splotched with dark stains

she realized must be blood. There was a three-day growth of stubble on his lean jaw, his upper cheeks

streaked with tear tracks and dirt.

No one had seen him at the funereal earlier that morning. Looking at him now, Gezelle couldn’t help but

wonder where he had spent the night. His men had looked for him, as had the Oceanian Prince Chand.

He had not been found. The horse he had ridden into Seadrift was still in the stables and no other horses

were missing. Wherever Conar had passed his time between the morning before and now, it had been in

lonely solitude.

Sensing her presence, he gazed blankly at her. His voice was tired with fatigue, grating with hoarseness,

devoid of emotion. "How is she?"

"Asking for you, Milord." She stood beside him, aching to touch the sagging shoulders beneath the

rumpled and smudged shirt, aching to stroke the bowed head. "She needs you."

He raked a hand through his hair. "Perhaps it would be best if I didn’t go to her just now. The sight of

me might upset her."

"She doesn’t blame you for what happened. It could have happened at any time."

Gezelle placed a light hand on his arm. She almost withdrew her fingers, for he had tensed at her touch,

but he didn’t give her time. He reached up to cover them with his own.

His heart lurched at the first real contact he’d had with gentleness since it all began. He ached inside to

feel a touch of friendship, but his guilt prodded him with the feeling of unworthiness.

"The gods have punished me, Mam’selle." He hung his head. "Punished me for what I made you do. It

was wrong what I did, you know that."

Watching the blond head bowed beneath the weight of pain and guilt, Gezelle knew nothing she could

say would alter his feelings. A part of her felt heart-breaking pity for him, but another part—a rebellious,

unkind, renegade and greedy part of her—rejoiced that he now knew just how painful the loss of a baby

could be. He now had some measure of understanding of her own pain when he had forced her to abort

their child. A child she could have cherished as being a part of the man she loved so dearly, so utterly.

Not that he had experienced such pain at the loss of the son he had sown within her body. Her son had

not mattered to him. The child he had given her had been a nuisance, an unwanted by-product of his

insatiable lust. But not for her—no, not for her—or her heart. She wanted their babe more than anything

else in the world.

Conar looked at her. She had not denied his guilt over the murder of their child. He had not expected

her to, but he had expected some words of comfort, some act of forgiveness from her. Looking into her

green gaze, he knew she would never forgive him.

And he understood.

He couldn’t look at her anymore. "I am sorry, Gezelle."

She had the power within her to ease his torment, to grant him absolution for the great crime he had

committed against her, but she couldn’t. Not in this lifetime. Despite the love she bore him, such

forgiveness would have to come from Those higher than herself.

"Go to your lady, Milord. She needs what only you can give her."

He shook his head. "I think not."

"For once in your life, think of someone other than yourself!"

He caught the brief glint of dislike. She stared at him, her face unkind, her patience gone.

"Can you not put aside your own pain and ego to go to her?" Gezelle snapped. "The lady needs you.

Only you. Do you not know she blames herself, too?"

Conar angrily shook his head. "It was the fight between me and Brelan."

"Aye, but she knows she was the cause of it."

"Brelan and I have…" he began, but she didn’t allow him to finish.

"Get your ass in the keep, Milord! Else His Highness will have you dragged there!"

He looked at her, a sad smile twitching at his lips. "His Highness will or you will, ’Zelle?"

She lifted her nose. "Will you go?"

"Against my better judgment. Aye, I will." He moved to leave, but stopped and fixed her with a contrite

look. "I am sorry for having made you—"

"I don’t want to talk about it no more. It is done and over with."

"No, Mam’selle. I’m afraid it is just beginning."

* * *

Brelan Saur and the eldest Oceanian Prince, Grice Wynth, stood together near the stables and watched

Conar walk from the crypts to the side entrance of Seadrift Keep. There was anger on both their faces

and murder in both their hearts as they watched him ascend the steps.

Grinding his teeth, Grice spat on the ground, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "If it were up to

me, I’d send him back to Serenia in a coffin!"

A hard rumble of thunder shook the ground. Both men glanced toward the west. Dark clouds boiled

against the horizon. Lightning zigzagged toward the far dunes.

"I can’t believe your parents are going to allow her to go back with him," Brelan mumbled, shaking his

head.

"My parents are old-fashioned. They think she should be with him. That’s her place, they say. She loves

him, they say. She needs him, they say. She wants to be with him, they say!" He pounded his fist against

the stable wall. "Well, I say I’d rather see him dead before letting him live out the rest of his worthless life

with my sister!"

Once more the heavy crack of lightning ripped across the countryside and a blast of chilly wind swept

over the men. Already the air was ripe with moisture.

"I wish the skies would open up and suck him out of her life forever," Grice growled.

"Conar is like a bad penny. He’d keep turning up no matter how you tried to get rid of him."

Grice thrust his hands into his pockets and glared at the lowering sky. "I’ve thought of hiring mercenaries

to cart him to the nether regions of Diabolusia and keep him there!"

"There is another way," Brelan said, gaining Grice’s immediate attention.

"How?"

"Let me take her with me. There’s a place I know where he can’t follow. A place I found by accident.

The mistress there wouldn’t permit me to enter the keep unless I was willing never to leave, but she

promised me that one day I would come there to live with her." His eyes took on a faraway look. "With