WinterofThorns (21 page)

* * * * *

Vindan was growing worried. His concern for
his wife had taken him to their bedchamber to check on her. Upon not finding
her in the bed or in the bathing chamber, anger bubbled in his throat.

She had not wanted to come to Dungannon.
Did not want to suffer—as she so succinctly put it—the congratulations of the
ton
who had come to celebrate the announcement of the impending birth of a new
royal, the firstborn of their prince.

“It is a lie,” she said. “The babe is not
yours!”

“Don’t say that again,” he had warned.
“Don’t even hint it. Think of the child, Jana. It matters not what your
feelings are for me, think of our child.”

“My child,” she’d thrown at him, eyes
flashing. “Mine and—”

“
Don’t say it,
” he had shouted at
her.

He checked the closet, their luggage, but
everything she’d brought with her was in the bedchamber. The only things
missing were the nightgown and robe and the bed slippers he had watched her
servants packing two days earlier.

Now traipsing through every place he
thought she might conceivably be, he knew she couldn’t—wouldn’t—go far in her
nightwear. The longer it took to find her, the angrier he became. He feared she
was hiding from him and reached up to rub at the back of his neck for he
thought he could feel someone watching him.

No one he encountered, spoke to, had seen
the Lady Jana. They all gave him strange looks that puzzled him. Did they know
more than they were saying? Did they know where she was and were either too
afraid or too disloyal to the crown to tell him? Or had she bribed them to keep
her whereabouts secret? Was someone helping her to avoid him?

That thought brought him up short.

Had she met someone here who might help her
to escape?

“Fuck!” he snarled and spun around. He
marched back to the kitchen where there were many servants to question.

As he passed the library, a flash of green
caught his attention and he looked that way to see his wife sitting in a chair.
He skidded to a stop and stared at her. She looked back at him with unblinking
eyes, her hands curled over the arms of the chair, her chin up as though daring
him to chastise her for not being where she was supposed to be.

He entered the room. “Where the hell have
you been?” he demanded.

“Right here,” she said.

He took several steps toward her, close
enough to see a vein pounding hard in her neck.

“That’s a lie. I checked this room
earlier.”

“Mayhap you did not check closely enough,”
she said. She licked her lips—a tell if he’d ever seen one.

“I’ll ask you again, Jana. Where have you
been?” He was five feet from her but it felt like a thousand miles. The
coldness in her eyes, the stillness of her face made his heart ache.

“I’ll tell you again, Vindan. I have been
where you see me,” she said.

He clenched his teeth. They needed to talk
but they did not need to be where servants or a passing guest of the Duke could
hear them.

“We’ll take this to our bedchamber,” he
said. “Come.”

Her head came up. “I am not a dog that you
can command me in that tone, Vindan.”

A brief thought of the silliness he and the
Lady Millicent engaged in when they were on good terms flitted across his mind
and he almost relented and would have had it not been for the distant,
indifferent way she was glaring at him.

“Come here, Jana,” he ordered. “Now!”

“Go. To. Hell,” she said.

In two long strides he reached her and bent
over to grab her left forearm where it rested on the chair. It was at that
moment he caught the scent. As he did, he felt an invisible dagger plunge into
his heart. His grip on her arm became brutal as he jerked her from the chair.

“You’re hurting me!” she said as he turned
and began pulling her behind him from the room.

“Not yet, but the evening is young!” he
hissed through his teeth.

Unmindful of her stumbling along in his
wake, he kept his hold on her arm though she tried to pry it loose. He glanced
down and realized she was barefoot. That infuriated him beyond measure and he
marched to the first door he found, flung it open then dragged her inside,
kicking the portal closed. Thankfully the room was a storage chamber of some
sort and no one was within.

“What is wrong with you?” she questioned,
her eyes wide.

“Shut up!”

He spun her around, pushed her against the
nearest wall then reached down, pushed the robe apart, snagged his hand in the
hem of her gown and jerked it upward. Despite her desperate attempts to keep
him from doing so, he shoved his hand between her legs, his fingers into her
cunt then pulled them out. The tale-tell moisture that clung to his fingers
made him want to vomit. There was no mistaking the odor of spent semen nor the
slick feel of it as it coated his skin. He stared at it for a moment then
slowly raised his eyes to hers.

“Whose pond scum is this?” he demanded. When
she didn’t speak, he put his hand to her mouth and smeared the filth over her
lips.

If he thought in the doing it would shock
her, shame her, cause her acute embarrassment, it didn’t. As he watched, she
flicked out her tongue and licked her lips.

Uncontrollable rage drove through him like
a spike and before he knew what he was doing, he drew back his arm and
backhanded her. Her head snapped to the side with the imprint livid on her pale
flesh. Her soft cry of pain hurt him but the thought of another man’s cum on
her tongue—gladly taken into her mouth—twisted the blade piercing his heart.

“Whose?” he asked and heard the way his
voice broke.

She slowly turned her head to face him.
There was triumph in her green eyes.

“Whose do you think it is?” she asked.

“He is here?” he questioned. “He is here in
the keep?”

The leisurely smile she gave him was filled
with victory. “He was,” she replied.

He whirled around and ran to the door,
jerking it open even as he shouted for the guards.

“You’re too late!” she yelled after him.
“He’s long gone by now!”

Her laughter followed him as he ran down
the corridor.

“Did the little brat have’m fun this eve?”
Dyson inquired. He was sitting by the campfire peeling an apple with the black
dagger he kept strapped to his thigh. He grinned as he cut a chunk of the fruit
then popped it into his mouth.

Seyzon grinned. “Where is he?” he asked of
Lord Bray.

“Turned in for the night,” the border
lord’s 2-I-C replied. “He has megrims and one came calling with a vengeance.

“I can sympathize. I have them too,” Seyzon
said. He hunkered down beside the fire and held his hands to the warmth. “I
wanted to thank him for this night.”

“He’d been planning it for some time,”
Dyson told him. “You’ve helped him. He wanted to help you.”

“I am grateful,” Seyzon said. “More than
you know.”

“She is well, your lady?”

“She is.” He lowered his ass to the cold
ground and crossed his upraised knees, corralled them within the span of his
arms. “She swears he treats her well.”

“Given her condition, I would hope so,”
Dyson replied.

Seyzon lifted his head. “Her condition?”

The other man’s eyebrows shot up. “Did she
not tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Dyson clamped his lips together and his
eyes shifted away from Seyzon’s.

“Tell me what?” Seyzon repeated.

The answer came from beyond the campfire.

“That she’s pregnant.”

Seyzon looked around. The border lord was
standing in the shadows. Though all that could be seen were those vivid-blue
eyes with the flames from the fire dancing within them, for the first time he
was without his ever-present mask.

“Pregnant?” Seyzon whispered.

“I’m surprised she did not tell you,” Lord
Bray said. He crossed his arms over his chest—a stance that seemed to be second
nature to him.

Thinking back on the many times she’d said
they needed to talk, that she had something to tell him, made Seyzon groan.

“She is carrying his child,” he said, agony
ripping through him.

“Either his or yours.”

Seyzon jerked. “Mine?”

The border lord shrugged. “Could be. Not
likely, but it could be.”

Seyzon shook his head, feeling the pain of
the situation burrowing into his heart. “Were it mine, she’d have told me
straightaway.”

“Probably so,” Lord Bray agreed. He cocked
his head to the side. “Does it make a difference in how you feel about the
girl?”

“Of course not!” Seyzon said. “It isn’t her
fault he got her…” He couldn’t say the words.

“We would have thought you less a man had
you admitted that it made a difference,” Dyson said quietly.

“I love her.” Seyzon felt the sting behind
his eyes. “More than my own life.”

“Trust me, lad,” the border lord said. “I know
it hurts to have the woman you love carrying another man’s child but it makes
me proud that you can look beyond it.”

“Takes a good man to do so,” Hawkins spoke
up from where he lay outside the light of the campfire.

“You’ve got a lot to think about,” Lord
Bray said. “Best hit the rack, now. We’ll be moving out at first light.”

Seyzon nodded. “Have you formulated a plan
to get her out that bastard’s clutches?”

“Still working on it,” the border lord
replied. “But don’t worry, lad. I swear to you we will.”

Later as he lay under the cold canopy of
the black night, staring unseeingly at the sky, Seyzon felt as though his heart
was in a vise and the screw was slowly being cranked tighter. There was a lump
of hurt lodged in his throat but the momentary anger he’d felt at hearing the
news of Jana’s pregnancy had given way to concern for her safety. Childbirth
always carried with it dangers—for mother and child—and that worried him. His
first wife, Jacqueline, had died giving birth and she had been a robust woman.
Jana was a small woman with very narrow hips. Birthing a child was painful and
the thought of her suffering even one labor pain made him break out in a cold
sweat.

He turned to his side—unable to get
comfortable on the hard ground. A rock was digging into his ribcage but he
welcomed the discomfort. He kept him from screaming in frustration.

They had to get Jana away from Vindan. That
was now more imperative than ever. There was no way he could have her giving
birth to the babe while still with Vindan. She had to be where Seyzon could
take care of her, be with her, hold her hand and wipe her brow as she struggled
to bring the child into the world. It didn’t matter whether that babe was his
or Vindan’s.

“It’s his, isn’t it, milady?” he asked
quietly so as not to disturb the other men. “Were it mine, you would have told
me first thing.”

He wished to the gods it was his. The
thought of the woman he loved giving him a child of their precious union
brought tears to his eyes.

The thought that child was Vindan’s made
the tears fall.

* * * * *

Jana sat quietly on the window seat with
her hands in her lap and stared out at the rain cascading down the glass pane.
She was alone and terribly lonely for companionship. A servant had brought her
breakfast under the hawklike glower of two armed guards but the woman had not spoken
to her. Neither did the guards speak. No one had spoken to her in over a month.
No one was allowed to.

Nor had she seen Vindan since the early
morning hours after they had left Dungannon. When he could not find Seyzon or
any trace that his former friend had been at the keep, the prince had ordered
his entourage to make ready to return to Wicklow. In the dead of night she had
been forced into her husband’s carriage and spirited away under a doubly heavy
guard of Vindan’s men augmented by Duke McGivney’s.

Upon arriving at Wicklow, Vindan had
shackled her wrist and all but dragged her from the carriage and into the keep,
up the stairs to the tower. He’d said not a word to her the entire time. There
was no need. The look on his face, the squint of his eyes, the rigidity of his
body said more than words could have. He no longer trusted her. She had been
thrust into the role of his captive and though the tower had been made
comfortable for her, it was still a prison.

A crack of lightning made her jump. Putting
a protective hand to the growing mound of her belly, she rubbed absently. She
had yet to feel the babe kick and was looking forward to it. The quickening
should begin any day now.

The healer made frequent visits to look in
on her but no matter what she said to the man, no matter what questions she
asked, he remained mute, his lips pursed. She could tell he wanted to speak to
her but had been prohibited to do so. This being her first pregnancy she had so
many questions. Not for the first time did she wish her mother were still alive
or that the Lady Millicent would be allowed to visit her.

Any
woman
who had given birth be allowed to visit her.

She’d been provided e-books on pregnancy
for her vid-pad—at least Vindan had made sure of that—but there were things she
wanted to ask that the books didn’t cover.

Sighing heavily, she eased her swollen feet
from the window seat and went to the small writing desk in the corner of the
room. A shelving unit held discs for the vid-pad that had been provided to keep
her entertained. Music vids, e-books, movie vids occupied her time as did the
crocheting and embroidery materials a servant had brought. An easel and set of
watercolor paints sat beside the window opposite the one in which she sat most
of the time. They were things to prevent her from going stark raving mad and
she supposed she should be grateful for that small concession.

What had thrilled her the most was to learn
she could use the vid-pad to venture beyond the walls of Wicklow to eavesdrop
on the rest of the world. She could receive news of what was going on and that
was helpful. Though she couldn’t send or receive emails, had no way of
contacting anyone outside Wicklow, at least she knew the Reivers were winning
in their guerilla war against Meiraman. Hopefully it would not be long before
they were in charge and she would be freed.

* * * * *

“So now we have bio matter retrieval
capability thanks to the Burgon,” the border lord told Seyzon.

“What does that mean in terms of our
campaign against the Meiramanian?” Seyzon inquired.

“Glad you asked,” Lord Bray said. Above the
mask his blue eyes were merry—as they almost always were. “We can put that
handy-dandy little transport unit aboard my shiny new Fiach and pluck whomever
we have DNA from smack out of their chairs.”

Seyzon’s eyes widened. “You can
dematerialize someone then rematerialize them inside the craft?”

“Indeed I can,” the border lord
acknowledged. “And will.”

“You can retrieve Jana?” Seyzon questioned.

“Do you have a DNA sample of hers?” Lord
Bray asked.

“Ah…”

“A hair brush? Toothbrush? Lock of hair
braided into a bracelet?”

Seyzon’s brow furrowed. “No, but—”

“Then no, I can’t retrieve her, lad. Wish
to the gods I could but without a DNA sample to feed into the bio matter unit,
no.”

“Had there been anything of hers left at Lavenfeld,
that would have been a different story,” Dyson said.

“What of her things at Riverglade?” Seyzon
asked eagerly.

“Unfortunately Riverglade was destroyed by
the Meiraman Army when they found out Lord Reynaud was aiding us, or did you
forget that, brat?” Dyson asked.

“I feel bad about Alden losing his home,”
Seyzon said. “I never thought he’d take sides with us.”

“Which he wouldn’t have done were not his
sister a virtual prisoner in Wicklow,” Hawkins said. “The prince ain’t treating
her right.”

“Don’t mention that bastard to me,” Seyzon
snapped. He shook his head as though trying to rid himself of whatever thought
had intruded. “So who’s the target you want to snatch? Assuming you have his or
her DNA? Can you target someone of importance enough to do our cause some
good?”

Dyson scratched his stubbled chin. “Ah well
there’s a problem with transporting targets from certain structures.”

“Like Blackhall for instance,” Lord Bray
said. “The palace and all government facilities—as well as quite a few of the castles
of the upper class—have a network of resistors embedded within the foundations,
roofs and walls to keep anyone from being able to snatch the high and mighty.”

“But with some materials, those resistors
don’t work. There is within the building blocks of certain types of stone or
metal that is thought to block retrieval. As a matter of fact, copair acts as a
conductor for the transport beams.”

“Making it easy to extract bio matter from
a structure that was built primarily with that material,” Lord Bray put in.

Seyzon frowned. “The only castle I know that
was built from copair is Wicklow. Can you get to Vindan, then?”

“What good would it do to snatch him?”
Dyson asked.

“I could beat the living shit out of him,”
Seyzon stated.

“Would that get you your woman back?” the
border lord questioned.

“Mayhap not but it would make my fucking
day to break his fucking neck.”

“What if…” Lord Bray began then lifted his
leg to put his muddy boot on a rock. “We could retrieve the kingy-poop and
replace him with an imposter.” He crossed his wrists and laid them atop his
raised knee. “Have that imposter set your lady free and sign the paperwork to
have you reinstated in the Meiramanian army as his Commandant of Forces. You
and the imposter could rule Meiramanian and set to rights all the wrongs Nolan
and his rotten son Vindan have perpetrated against your country.”

“Aye, and why not take a side trip to
Diabolusia while we’re at it to watch the warthogs fly,” Seyzon scoffed.

“Oh ye of little faith. We have the DNA of
the kingy-poop himself,” the border replied. “Is he of enough value to do us
some good?”

Seyzon gaped at him. “You have the DNA of
King Nolan?”

“Aye, we do,” Lord Bray said with a nod.

“But if you can’t get to him at Blackhall—”

“The kingy-poop is at this moment on his
way to Wicklow to see his rotten son who is—by all accounts—gravely ill,” the
border lord told him.

“Ill?” Seyzon repeated. “What’s wrong with
him?”

“Do you care?” Dyson asked.

“Of course I care,” Seyzon said.

Lord Bray’s eyes bored into the younger man.
“Why?”

“Why?”

“Did I stutter?” the border lord inquired.

“Didn’t appear to me that you did,” Hawkins
mumbled. He’d been quiet for most of the meeting.

“He may have wronged me,” Seyzon said. “But
he was a friend for a great many years. I thought of him as a brother. Of
course I would care that he is ill. I want to know from what?”

“A rather nasty dose of a drug the Burgon
provided us that won’t kill but will make him wish the Gatherer would take him
sooner rather than later,” Dyson said with a chuckle.

“He’s in no danger of dying but the healer
has predicted that he will. Has warned the kingy-poop that if he ever wants to
see his son alive again, he should come now,” Lord Bray stated.

“A healer who owes his allegiance to us?”
Seyzon asked.

“Not so much to us as the Burgon but that’s
neither here nor there. As long as he helps us, that’s all that matters,” Lord
Bray responded.

“All right,” Seyzon said. “I’m not going to
ask how you got the king’s DNA. I assume someone at Blackhall provided it but
what about the imposter?”

“You know the king has many look-alikes,”
Dyson said.

“Doppelgangers is what they are,” Hawkins
put in. “Strange word that.”

“Most despots have political decoys. Better
one of them gets assassinated than the dictator himself,” Dyson added.

“They bear a striking resemblance to the
bastard or they’ve had plastic surgery done to make them look like him,” Lord
Bray said. “They are schooled in his mannerisms, the way he walks, his speech
patterns.”