Forever Moore (Forbidden Love #2) Read online

  “You have many admiring eyes,” Curtis said with a hint of amusement as they passed a group of ladies, who seemed to have amassed to gawk at Ansil. “It would be nice to have a woman as fine as your mother by your side when you step into your role at twenty and one years.”

  He couldn’t tell Curtis that a woman had yet to light a fire in his loins. When he inherited his father’s title and fortune in a few months’ time, he would certainly remain a bachelor. His mother had always called him a late bloomer, and that suited him fine. Though he pushed the more uncomfortable truth down, where it slowly festered inside him.

  “Better hurry along,” Curtis urged. “You’re expected for lunch.”

  Ansil continued through the market, focused on what he was searching for until he finally found the booth with the elderly gentleman who sold uniquely carved pocket knives. He felt nearly giddy. His own tool had dulled from frequent use.

  Hand in his pocket, his fingers traced his latest carving of wood taken from the cypress at the edge of the forest flanking their property. It was a hobby he enjoyed, and he hoped to spend some time that afternoon completing his newest piece with a sharper-edged knife.

  He took his time studying the collection despite Curtis clearing his throat to hurry him along. His eyes were immediately drawn to a blade with a white opalescent handle, so he asked to feel its weight in his hand.

  “Of course, my lord,” the man said with a bow.

  Purchase made and selection safely tucked away, he and Curtis made haste. Over the hillside, through the castle wall, and past the second guard, they arrived just in time for lunch. Thankfully, dinner was the only formal occasion of the day, so he could appear at the table in the same attire he’d worn into the village. His boots were a bit worse for wear, but the only one who seemed to notice was Reginald, who looked him over with a raised eyebrow. Reginald’s waistcoat was less ceremonial for lunch, as was his ascot, which he adjusted against his neck as if to bring attention to his superior selection.

  Reginald definitely preferred finer things, and his mother tended to rebuff his suggestions to redecorate certain rooms in the house, though Ansil suspected her reasoning was more sentimental. His father never put on any airs and disliked any pomp and circumstance, and Reginald seemed the exact opposite. He supposed his mother preferred things the way they were, the memories of her life with his father still close to the surface.

  “Mother.” She beamed upon seeing him, and he kissed her cheek with affection.

  Ansil glanced in his stepfather’s direction, but his attention was now buried in the day’s news.

  “Reginald.” He greeted him as a formality, but the man merely grunted in his direction.

  “How was your morning?” his mother asked.

  “Lovely,” he replied after swallowing a bite of his bread. “I went into town with Curtis.”

  “I’m sure you were quite a spectacle.” She reached over and smoothed a strand of hair from his eyes. “Always so handsome.”

  Ansil bowed his head as a blush crawled across his cheeks.

  “You spoil him, Rosalie,” Reginald remarked in a chastising tone. “His father would’ve disapproved of how much he’s coddled.”

  Ansil’s blood boiled at hearing his father’s name used alongside a reprimand. He wanted to shout at Reginald and tell him he didn’t know his father at all, but such an outburst would upset his mother.

  “I’m permitted to shower my own child with praise,” his mother responded in a terse voice as she briefly squeezed Ansil’s hand. She’d always been the buffer between them, and Reginald normally acquiesced to her whims. His stepfather scowled and returned to reading the paper.

  He’d also wondered if his stepfather lamented the fact that he couldn’t produce an heir of his own. His mother had always struggled with pregnancy, and it saddened Ansil, since he knew how much she enjoyed children. It explained why she participated in so many activities in the village involving youngsters, though she always teased it kept her youthful.

  After lunch, Ansil made his way toward the edge of the meadow near the forest. The cypress trees yielded the best kind of timber for his hobby. That meant slipping through the gap he’d found in the stone wall surrounding the property. He looked for the guard patrolling the castle but didn’t see him. Ansil was sure to be scolded for leaving unattended if he did not make haste.

  As he searched the ground for a solid fallen branch, he heard a noise in the snow behind him. Snapping his gaze up to investigate, he felt a blunt force to the back of his head. His world went dark.

  His head lolled when he came to. He blinked rapidly as his skull throbbed and his mind swam in confusion. His immediate sense was that he was on horseback, wedged against a large body and strong limbs tightening on the reins. A rag was tied tightly against his mouth, and his hands were bound behind his back. His arms ached, and he struggled to breathe through his nose.

  Blinking wider awake, he looked side to side, assessing his surroundings. He was in an unfamiliar part of the forest, it was nearly dusk, and he wondered how many hours they had traveled.

  Panic rose inside him, and he thrashed against his binds, even knowing he might fall and get trampled by the horse. A large, meaty forearm increased pressure on his chest as a deep, raspy voice grunted in his ear.

  “If you struggle, I’ll kill you outright,” the man said with a growl. “If you remain still, I might spare your life for a while longer. Your choice.”

  Ansil shuddered, processing the threat. He slowly strained his neck to throw a cursory glance at the man holding him captive. Long brown hair, short beard, and hard, dark eyes stared back at him. A scream got trapped in his throat, but it would be no use. Even if his mouth had not been bound, it was likely nobody would hear him anyway.

  The forest felt as desolate as the tree branches, as barren as his throat. His eyes itched with unshed tears, but he refused to allow this savage to see him cry.

  His mind spun erratically, imagining all the reasons he might be held captive by such a boorish man. The motive he landed on seemed most logical: the man meant to extort money from his mother, perhaps already left instructions for her.

  His heart felt hollow and abandoned. But no, he mustn’t lose hope yet. His mother would never give up on him so easily.

  He adjusted himself in the saddle, startled to feel the edge of his new pocketknife against the fabric of his trousers. Suddenly a plan formed in his brain. He would wait for the right moment and then cut the brute’s throat.

  3

  Orien

  Orien knew the boy must be hungry or at the very least, thirsty. He did not care for his comfort, really. It was not as though Ansil would care for the comfort of others. Those who had did not worry themselves for those who had not. They only cared for themselves, taking what they desired, no matter the pain it caused. It had happened to his mother, after all.

  Ansil would be no different, but Orien could not risk the boy falling ill because he did not keep him hydrated.

  He tugged Valkyrie to a stop beneath the heavy branches of an evergreen. Without a word, he dismounted and reached for the boy, who nearly fell from Valkyrie as he jerked away, folding in on himself.

  Orien caught the boy and tugged him down, pushing his small, lithe body against the tree trunk. “I am going to remove your gag, but if you scream, I will cut out your tongue. Do you understand?”

  Ansil’s blue eyes stretched wide, panic flaring to life in their depths. The spoiled boy had likely never had anyone not bow to his every whim. He was in for quite the surprise with Orien.

  “Do. You. Understand?” Orien asked again, feeling frustrated. He would have made it home more quickly without the boy.

  Ansil nodded, his small body trembling.

  With impatient hands, he removed Ansil’s gag. “I have water—”

  “I’m not thirsty. Set me free at once!”

  The urge to laugh rumbled in Orien’s chest. “Valiant attempt, but your words quiver with f
ear, and I do not obey anyone, least of all you.” He would never allow himself to be forced by the hand of another the way his mother had been.

  A stray tear fell from Ansil’s right eye, rolling down his pale cheek before touching his red lips. “Please…my mother, she will pay your ransom.”

  Orien frowned. “It is always about money, is it not? What if I told you I care not for money? Power? Those would not be words you understand, because you’re just like them.” He spit out the word.

  “Who…who is them?” The tremble in the boy’s voice was even stronger then.

  Orien didn’t have time for this. His home, which was close to seven hours’ horseback ride from Ravenswood, was still a good two hours away.

  He unhooked his canteen from Valkyrie and thrust it toward Ansil. It took him a moment to realize the boy could not drink.

  Ansil squeaked when Orien pulled him close. With one swift slice of his knife, he set Ansil’s bound hands free. He bent close, his mouth beside the boy’s ear. “If you attempt to run, I’ll hunt you down and kill you with my bare hands.”

  Ansil’s knees buckled, and Orien had no doubt Ansil would have fallen if he hadn’t held him.

  When Ansil was steady, Orien took a step back. “Drink.” He shoved the canteen at the boy again. Ansil fumbled it, almost dropped it as he brought the container to his lips, and took long swallow after long swallow. His slender throat worked as he did so, his pulse beating rapidly against his skin at the hollow spot in his neck.

  He reeked of fear, of privilege, which burned through Orien, reminded him of thoughts he tried to purge from his brain.

  “Who…who are you?” Ansil asked. His tongue sneaked out, and he licked his lips. They were the color of red roses, his skin like fresh-fallen snow, and his hair black as night, just as the rumors stated.

  “You may call me Huntsman.”

  “Call you Huntsman until you kill me?”

  “Yes,” Orien replied, though he had no plan to kill the boy. No, he was far too useful to him alive. “Drink more. We will not stop again.”

  “Why…why should I drink if you’re going to kill me, Huntsman?”

  “Because I demand it,” he growled, and Ansil stumbled backward. The boy was scared witless, but a small part of Orien respected him for his attempt to appear brave.

  Ansil followed his orders. When he finished, Orien found another rope to tie his hands, but Ansil attempted to pull away. “Please…don’t. I will obey.”

  “It is not an option. Give me your hands, or I’ll force you.”

  Orien reached for him, but Ansil shook his head. “Wait. I must…” His cheeks flushed close to the color of his full lips.

  “Relieve yourself?” Orien questioned.

  “Yes, Huntsman.”

  Orien wrapped a hand around his arm and dragged him toward a snow-covered bush. “I am faster and stronger than you. Do not make me hurt you yet.”

  Ansil nodded, and Orien stepped back, giving him as much space and privacy as he could to do his business. He heard the boy fumble with his trousers, then empty his bladder in the snow. A moment later he whispered softly, “I…I am finished.”

  Orien turned, and the moment he did, the smaller body charged at him, a blade tight in his fist. Orien caught him easily, wrapped his arms around the boy, feeling his heart pound beneath his skin and into Orien.

  “What did I tell you about trying to escape?” he gritted in Ansil’s ear.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

  Orien jerked the white-handled knife from his hand and dragged his light, kicking body back toward Valkyrie. He made quick work of tying Ansil’s hands behind his back once again. Just as he plucked the gag from where it sat, he heard a noise behind him.

  “Help!” Ansil cried, but before the boy could shout another word, Orien had him back in his arms, hand against his mouth.

  “Shh. It is no one that will help you. It’s a boar.” He knew the sound of wild boar as well as he knew his own voice.

  Ansil went slack against him, tears running down his face, over Orien’s hand. Fear lit a fire in him again, making Ansil’s eyes darken as Orien let him go, putting a finger to his mouth to quiet him.

  Ansil nodded, and Orien slipped his sword from his belt a moment before the large, fat, brown animal charged at him. Orien had slaughtered hundreds of wild boar in his time. With one slice of his sword, he cut the animal’s throat.

  It was perfect really, because he had been keeping an eye out all day, yet now it had so easily fallen into his lap.

  Plucking his dagger from his belt, he went for the animal’s chest, cutting it open and removing its heart for his dear, hateful brother. With the animal’s sacrifice, Orien’s plan would be set in motion.

  As he pulled the heart free, his eyes caught on Ansil, whose skin was whiter than usual, his face filled with panic. He was staring at Orien, and Orien noticed there was more than panic behind Ansil’s gaze. There was sadness.

  The strange urge to tell Ansil he was not a wicked collector of animal hearts teased at his consciousness, but he quickly shoved the thought aside. There was not a bone in his body that cared what the spoiled boy thought of him.

  Ansil opened his mouth, and Orien thought he would scream again, but he did not. The boy bent over, vomiting in the snow. When he finished, he fell backward onto the ground and cried.

  Orien felt as though his feet had grown roots. He didn’t know what to do. The last thing he wanted was to comfort the boy, but the thought to do so played tricks with him. He cared for the life of a wild boar? It was meat, food. But he had doubts the boy had ever seen one killed himself.

  “I’ve never seen… Kill me now. Take my heart like you did the boar, you murderer.”

  “How do you know I am a murderer?”

  “Because I’ve just seen it, and you swore to kill me as well.” His voice was soft then, resigned. It was a strange feeling, hearing Ansil speak of the boar’s death as though it were murder.

  “Do you not eat meat?”

  “Yes, but I don’t…I don’t kill it and take its heart!”

  No, because he did not know what it was like to live a life where you were forced to hunt your own food, or you would not eat. That was not Ansil’s world. He did not know what it meant to suffer, to go without, to be cast out and survive on your own. “Let that be a lesson to you,” he spat, wrapping the heart and placing it in his bag. Afterward, he cut the usable meat and wrapped it as well so they could take it for food. When he was finished, he washed his hands with the remaining water.

  Ansil flinched when he approached, but Orien ignored it, using his second canteen to clean the boy’s mouth. “Rinse,” he ordered, and Ansil did so.

  He tied the gag over the boy’s mouth again.

  He had wasted far too much time already. To make the final leg of his journey home easier, Orien took the butt of the sword to the back of Ansil’s head, putting him to sleep for the second time. He gathered the boy in his arms, mounting Valkyrie with him. His body rested against Orien’s, head on Orien’s chest, his breathing soft.

  He gave himself one moment to question if what he did was the right thing. When he thought of his brother, of Reginald’s plan for the boy, his quest for power…when he thought of their mother…Orien knew he did.

  The remainder of the ride home was swift. It was after dark when Valkyrie led him toward the stone manor he had inherited from Larkin. The man had saved his and his mother’s lives, had taken them in, given them a home when they had nothing. Orien would be grateful to him until his dying day.

  The manor—Thornwell—was secluded the way he desired, tucked away behind thick, dense trees, in an area of the forest not often traveled.

  It only took a few moments for Orien to carry Ansil inside. He descended the stairs leading to the rooms beneath his home, carrying the boy down the narrow hallway—along which Gaius had lit torches—into the second chamber on the right, and laid him down on a pallet. He replaced the rope with man
acles attached to the wall, which gave Ansil limited leeway to move about, then removed his gag.

  Moments later, he had locked the door, returning outside. It had begun snowing again.

  A figure stepped toward him. “Orien?”

  “Gaius.” They hugged. Gaius was the only one in the manor who knew of Orien’s plan, though that would unfortunately have to change soon.

  He took the heart from his satchel and handed it to his friend.

  “Are you sure this is the correct path to take?” Gaius asked.

  “It is in motion now, regardless. Will you still help? No matter what transpires, I will protect you. You are needed at Thornwell.” Gaius always had his back, yet holding the future duke hostage might be one step too far.

  “You know I will.”

  “Be quick and safe. You know what to do.”

  They hugged again, and Gaius disappeared into the night with what was supposed to be Ansil’s heart in tow.

  4

  Ansil

  When Ansil opened his eyes, a scream caught in his throat. His entire body felt on fire, different parts tender and achy. His head, especially, was throbbing, his brain foggy. The room he lay in was lit by only one torch on the dingy concrete wall across from him, and from what he could gather, there wasn’t much else to the space. Only the pallet beneath him and a few boxes in the corner.

  He concluded he was being kept in some sort of dungeon, and it all came crashing back to him. How he’d been abducted by a brutish man double his size, who’d knocked him out—twice—and he had the lump on the back of his head to prove it. He remembered riding on horseback for hours, wedged against the man’s body. His limbs large, his muscles rock-solid, and it had been stupid of him to try and overtake him with a meager pocketknife. If he’d just bided his time instead of acting on impulse, he might’ve gotten a better opportunity later to catch him unawares.