WINDKEEPER Read online

  Conar was keenly aware of the man’s predicament. Some devilish imp inside him reared its ugly little head and he simply sat with his hands crossed over the pommel of his saddle and stared at the man with one golden brow raised in challenge.

  Liza was shivering with the cold and knew precisely what Conar was about. She wasn’t amused, and as she gazed at the poor man kneeling before them in a puddle of mud, she was not pleased with Conar’s unconcern for the fellow. "Milord. I am getting soaked!"

  Shrugging, Conar inclined his head. "See to the lady." Throwing a leg over his horse’s neck, he slid to the ground. His boot heels squelched in mud and he looked down, frowning. The instep of the brown leather was beneath the mud. Looking up, he saw the Master-at-Arms regarding him.

  "You have ruined your boots, Your Grace." The man smiled as he put his hands up to Liza’s waist and lifted her down.

  Conar’s eyes narrowed in speculation as the two gazed deeply at one another, grinning, before the burly man lifted her to the plank walkway that led into the inner bailey. "But you won’t mind seeing to them, personally…will you?" Conar smirked.

  Cocking has head in obedience, the Master-at-Arms turned a solemn face to his Overlord. "It would be my pleasure to clean your boots, Your Grace."

  Conar grinned. This man was sharp. He liked him. He might be one of Galen’s toadies, but the chap had a wry sense of humor that matched his own. "Have I interrupted something?"

  "No, Your Grace!" The Master-at-Arms jerked, his head snapping around to face his Overlord. "You have interrupted nothing." Guilt flared across the scarred face.

  "That’s good," Conar said and saw the man visibly relax. His thoughts went to Galen and he wondered just what the stupid fool was up to this time.

  "If it pleases you, Your Grace," the man spoke, "I will show you to your rooms."

  Chapter 5

  * * *

  "What is your name again?" Conar asked the Master-at-Arms as they were led to the curving stairway that led to the sleeping chambers.

  "I am Belvoir, Your Grace." The man’s deep green eyes strayed to Liza and he answered her gentle smile with a reluctant one of his own.

  "And I am Liza, Sir Belvoir," she told the man and held her hand out to him.

  "Mam’selle Liza," Conar corrected, not liking Liza’s easy familiarity with the knight. He followed Belvoir’s lips to the slender hand within the knight’s own.

  "Mam’selle Liza," Belvoir said in a soft, throaty voice as he released the girl’s hand. "It is my pleasure to serve you."

  "And is it your pleasure to serve me?" Conar snapped.

  Belvoir turned to face his Overlord. "It is my destiny to serve you, Your Grace." There was a direct and honest look on the man’s face. "As was written long ago, Sire."

  "It is your destiny, but not your pleasure."

  Belvoir’s chin rose a fraction in the air. "I didn’t say that, Your Grace."

  "You didn’t have to!" Conar snarled and gripped Liza’s hand. "I know where the chambers are. You don’t have to put yourself out because of me." He started off with a startled Liza in tow.

  "That was abominably rude!" she hissed as they climbed the stairs. "He meant you no insult, Milord."

  Conar’s snort was hateful. "Oh, Galen’s people never insult me directly to my face. They know better. But I always wind up madder than hell every time I step foot in this gods-be-damned ugly keep!"

  "Perhaps if you were more courteous?"

  "Let it drop!" he spat and dragged her behind as he stomped up the stone staircase, his boot heels tattooing a hard rhythm on the steps.

  Liza turned her head and looked down the stairs to where the Master-at-Arms stood. His gaze was on her and she felt a prickle of unease run down her spine. Every inch of the man spoke of consummate villainy, but she didn’t fear him. If anything, his presence in this place put her fears to rest and she looked him over closely as Conar stopped to bark orders to a passing servant.

  Belvoir was a tall man. His height certainly rivaled that of the Elite Guard Captain, Rayle Loure. His face was set in a grimace of humiliation, for he was no doubt upset with himself for being a problem for the one he was sworn to protect; his eyes on Liza were full of apology. A livid, red scar split his face from his right cheekbone, across a nose that had obviously been broken many times, down the left cheek, and ended in a thicker scar on the edge of his jawbone. It was the kind of wound a man would receive in a fierce battle. His hair was thick and as black as Liza’s and was worn long in coarse waves to below his broad shoulders. One thin braid hung on each side of his face and each braid was adorned with silver wrappings of ribbon threaded through the hair.

  He appeared to walk with the rolling gait of a sailor, his legs wide apart as though braced against a stormy sea. His stance was full of authority, his spine straight, his shoulders squared. He seemed to favor his left leg and Liza couldn’t help but wonder if some old battle wound did not bother him in weather such as this.

  Her gaze swept down to his boots and then snapped back to his face. She saw him slightly shake his head and she blinked, wondering at the man’s carelessness. Her lips parted and she broke eye contact with him as she nervously turned her head to look at Conar. When she looked back down the stairs, Belvoir was gone. She craned her neck, but still she couldn’t catch sight of him. Conar’s angry retort brought her attention back to him.

  "Now!" he shouted at a hapless servant who was scurrying away to do his bidding.

  Liza frowned. "Why must you be so uncivil? And loud? You give me a headache with all your blustering, Milord."

  Conar’s left brow crooked. He was appalled the girl would dare speak so to him. Her sweet face, locked in a grimace, did nothing to alter his vicious mood.

  "It has always been my experience with Galen’s servants that, what I tell them, they pretend not to hear. What they do hear goes in one ear and out the other if they bother to listen at all. You have to shout to get their attention. What little they have!"

  "Perhaps if you tried kindness instead of churlishness—"

  "I am not churlish!" he bellowed. He lowered his voice to a grating whisper. "I am not churlish, Mam’selle."

  Liza ignored his outburst. "They might hear you better. Did it ever occur to you that perhaps your brother’s retainers are always treated the way you treat them? Men and women so abused have little to gain by being accommodating. You can catch a fly’s attention better with honey than vinegar, Milord." She tipped her pert nose up in the air and walked away, her spine taut under his furious gaze.

  "I am not churlish," he snarled as he followed. "Firm, but certainly not churlish."

  "Churlish and rude," Liza admonished, not bothering to look back as she climbed.

  Under the canopy of the overhanging balcony, the Master-at-Arms slipped into a rare smile.

  "Like mother, like daughter," he said and chuckled. He shook his head, looked down at the black crystal dagger tucked into the top of his boot and frowned. He drew out the dagger, hid it inside his tunic, then went about his duties, his mind on the coming punishment he expected.

  Once they gained the semi-circular antechamber from where the sleeping quarters were positioned, Conar and Liza could see servants racing frantically about, carrying linens and water for the visitors. None of the busy servants glanced at either of them as they sped to ready chambers for the travelers. Their heads were bent, their eyes on the carpeted runners at their feet. Doors opened, doors closed, and the stomp of feet was the only sound the servants made.

  There was no idle chitchat, no hushed, excited whispers commonplace in most keeps when royalty came visiting. There were no furtive glances at the Prince Regent, no curious side looks at the lady with him. It seemed as though the rushing servants were more concerned with getting the work done and getting away from the two people who had intruded upon them.

  Conar felt his unwelcome more keenly than ever in his brother’s home. He could sense the charged atmosphere his sudden appearance had
caused. There was a tight, malicious, and somewhat hurt grin on his handsome face as he watched the servants ignoring him.

  "They don’t like my coming to call," he said, but even though the words were spoken with a lilting laugh, there was a current of pain in them.

  "I can’t imagine why," Liza sniffed, still smarting from his cavalier attitude on the stairs.

  "I’ve put them out." There wasn’t the slightest iota of contrition in his twinkling eyes as he turned to Liza. "I should be sorry."

  "But you aren’t."

  He grinned. "No, I’m not."

  "Then don’t expect them to be happy when you disrupt their lives."

  "Don’t you tell me what to do in my own keep!" he snapped, his grin fading at her reprimand. "Don’t."

  Liza followed his gaze to a small set of stairs leading off one of the far rooms. She was completely aware of Conar’s sudden stillness; his immediate pallor; his held breath. His pale blue eyes had glazed as though in terrible pain and she saw his hand go up to his chest as though something hurt inside. She was about to ask what ailed him when a swath of color began to float down the stairs toward them. Her attention once more on the stairs, she failed to see Conar shudder as though with the ague.

  A man of medium build, thin and cadaverous-looking, dressed in the red robes of the higher orders of the priesthood of the Serenian Wind Warrior Society, glided on bare feet down the stairs. His thin, skull-like face was set in closed lines of disapproval as his pale gaze shifted over Liza. That penetrating perusal, coming from black-rimmed sockets, was shadowed with anger so intense it was palpable. His shoulder length white-blond hair was braided in one thick queue that fell from the crown of his head to below his waist. His lips, two thin, pale slits of flesh, were pursed tightly together and his hawk-like beak of a nose was held high in the air, seeming to quiver with disdain as his attention swept away from Liza and settled fiercely on Conar’s bent head. Wide nostrils flared as though a stench had entered the keep.

  "My Prince," the man said as he passed them. As he reached the turn in the semi-circular stairway, he glanced over his shoulder and his hateful stare met Liza’s, going through, and beyond, her.

  Liza shivered as though she had been blasted with a gust of frigid air. The rune stone around her neck pulsed against her flesh and she reached up to touch it.

  "A friend of yours?" she joked, for Conar’s face was devoid of color. She felt his hand tighten. She knew he had forgotten her presence, for he turned to her with a blank, stricken look on his face.

  "What?" His face was gleaming with sweat.

  "Are you all right?" she asked and when he didn’t immediately answer, she put her hand on his arm. He jerked so violently from her touch, she took a step back. "What’s wrong with you?"

  He looked at her—really looked—seeming to see her for the first time. His brows drew together in puzzlement as he saw the lines of worry on her face. He shook his head. "I’m fine." He looked back at the staircase of the main hall where the High Priest had disappeared. "I’m fine, now," he whispered as though to himself.

  "Who was that man? That priest?"

  "Tohre," he answered in a voice so low she had to strain to hear. "Kaileel Tohre."

  "What is…?" she started to ask but was shocked by the sudden rush of motion toward them.

  A young servant girl fell to her knees before Conar, her head to the carpet, her arms straight out. She did not speak, but her breath came in loud gasps of nervousness.

  Conar frowned at the girl and for some reason her position at his feet greatly angered him. His lips pulled back over his teeth and in a snarl of rage, he shouted at the already frightened girl, "Get the hell up, woman!"

  Scrambling to her feet, the young girl would not raise her head. Her hands were gripped tightly together in front of her, the fingers running over one another in agitation. She was trembling violently as she stood there.

  "What the hell do you want?"

  "Milord!" Liza warned in a steady voice. "You are frightening her more!"

  Conar would have bellowed at Liza, but she was looking at him with challenge and he felt like a fool. "I don’t like people falling at my feet!"

  "No more than they like doing it, I would imagine."

  He clenched his jaw, but managed to lower his voice as he spoke to the servant girl. "Don’t just stand there. Tell me what you want."

  "With your permission, Your Majesty," the girl stammered in a husky whisper, "we have one of the rooms ready for you. Can the lady wait until her room is done or will you be giving her yours?"

  "What the hell are you bothering me with this for?" he thundered, calming only as Liza hissed another warning. He tossed the thick gold of his hair. "Let her have the gods-be-damned room. I’ll use my brother’s until mine is ready."

  A wild look of intense terror passed over the young servant’s face, and in her fright, she forgot her training and raised her voice to her Overlord to gain his attention. "He won’t like you going into his room, Your Grace!" She opened her eyes wide with fear as the young Prince impaled her with the full force of his fierce, direct blue gaze.

  Conar’s voice wasn’t a shade warmer than the glaciers of his homeland as he spoke. "I am just as much his Overlord as I am yours, Mam’selle! If I wish to make use of his rooms, that is my right! Do you understand?" He took a step toward her, his hand fisted.

  It looked as though the girl had suddenly turned to jelly, for she collapsed to the floor in a heap, her arms thrown over her head to protect herself from her Prince’s wrath. With her slight form shivering so badly—Liza could actually hear the girl’s teeth clicking together—the poor servant huddled on the floor and began to sob hysterically.

  "Now look what you’ve done!" Liza snapped.

  "What did I do?"

  Liza knelt beside the trembling girl and would have put her arms about the heaving shoulders, but with a leap of sheer terror, the girl jerked away, her hands coming up to cover her sobbing face. There were thin white lines on the girl’s hands and forearms. Liza looked to Conar for help. "Look, Milord!" she demanded as she lifted one of the girl’s hands for the Prince to see.

  Something dark and painful crossed Conar’s face as he stared at the marks on the girl’s pale flesh.

  "Milord, please! Do something!"

  He seemed to come out of some distant reverie and shook his head to clear it of whatever vile memory had claimed him. He swallowed, tasting bile in his mouth.

  "Conar?" Liza inquired.

  He looked at Liza’s pleading face and then at the girl’s bent head. He seemed to gather himself and then let out a ragged breath. Hesitant to further upset the servant, he knelt on the floor beside Liza.

  "Milord?" Liza’s whisper was like a calming breeze after the roughest storm.

  With infinite care, Conar held out his hand to the servant girl, but didn’t touch her quivering body. "Mam’selle?" he whispered, his voice breaking. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Mam’selle, may I help you to your feet?" When she didn’t answer, he took a deep, wavering breath and let it out slowly, speaking to her as quietly and as reassuringly as he could. "I am not angry at you, Sweeting."

  Liza watched the girl shrink further into herself. Speaking solely to the girl, Liza lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I don’t think you realize what it is you’ve done, Mam’selle." She saw the girl flinch and hurried on. "You have done something no one ever has before. You have brought the mighty Prince Conar McGregor to his knees. You had best take advantage of his momentary lapse of churlishness and take his hand, else neither of us will ever hear the end of it."

  The girl hesitantly raised her head and she briefly met Liza’s smile, her gaze skipped away and then returned for a moment, searching, pleading. What she saw in those beautiful green depths, almost the same shade of green as her own, made the girl stop shaking. Moistening her lips, she held Liza’s warm, gentle gaze.

  Conar could feel the girl’s intense fear like a sentient l
ife form invading his soul. Towering rage welled up inside him, for he knew the girl was accustomed to ill treatment, probably at the hands of his own twin, that she expected blows and beatings with every sharp word. He felt a great pity building inside as horrible memories surfaced in his mind, and he leaned down, putting his lips close to the girl’s ear, even though she tensed like a steel spring as he neared.

  "If you persist in behaving as though I am a beastie from the pits, Mam’selle, how will I convince this lady that I am a sweet-tempered and malleable knight? How will I win her heart, then? If she will not have me, I shall surely pine away, and you will be the one to blame for my untimely demise. You will be the one who will cause my insomnia, my loss of appetite, my hair loss, my gout, my…" He saw a tiny, flickering smile on the girl’s lips. "My admission to an institution for the terminally suicidal and perhaps, ultimately, my celibacy." He saw her flinch with astonishment.

  "Not that, Milord!" the girl whispered, her lips twitching.

  "Most assuredly that, Mam’selle," he informed her, his hand over his heart. His soft, deep voice broke with feigned misery. "Would you be the cause of that?"

  "I would be hounded to death by every female in Serenia if that were to happen, Your Grace," she whispered back.

  "And rightly so, Mam’selle, should you deny so many, so much!" He smiled broadly.

  "Conceited buffoon," Liza snorted.

  He glanced at Liza. "Don’t belittle what you haven’t seen." He grinned at the red flush that quickly spread over Liza’s face.

  The servant giggled, her lilting laughter sounding like summer puffs of wind; but a loud noise from below stairs made her cower again, her laughter vanish, and her trembling fingers cover her face.