Forever Moore (Forbidden Love #2) Read online

  Foolishly, he now lamented the knife. Wondered if the man had kept it for himself or discarded it on the path somewhere in the woods. He felt defenseless without it, and again cursed himself for such a poorly planned attack.

  But what chance did he possibly stand? The man had slaughtered a wild boar and cut out his heart right in front of him. Bile crawled up the back of his throat, and he gagged, swallowed the acidic taste back down. It would be disgusting to throw up on his rumpled clothing and have to endure the acrid smell all night long. No way would the man allow him to wash himself. Besides, there was no basin in sight.

  It was enough that his bladder screamed for release, but after the trick he’d pulled in the forest, he’d probably be told to piss himself, anyway. And that smell might be worse.

  He breathed sharply through his nose, commanding himself to calm down and at least be thankful his mouth was no longer bound. He glanced down at himself, focusing on his torso and limbs, glad he seemed intact, if grimy and unkempt.

  He shifted, and his arms felt heavy and achy against the restraints. Angling his head, he saw he was chained to the wall behind him, like some sort of beast. His eyes stung with tears, and he willed them back.

  When he heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like scratching and scuttling, he shuddered. Were there rats living in the walls? He clenched his jaw and tried not to retch again. Besides, it was probably his imagination getting the best of him. Again.

  You will be brave, Ansil. Keep your wits about you.

  Throat parched, he died for something—anything—to wet his cracked lips. He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, or when the brute might make an entrance again.

  Desperate, he shut his eyes and wished with all his might that he wouldn’t remain here long. That his mother would pay the ransom and he’d be released to her care. Certainly his stepfather would take pity as well—if not for him, then for his mother.

  Now something else niggled in his brain, something the Huntsman said to him on their journey here.

  “What if I told you I care not for money? Power?”

  He shook his head almost violently. No. Surely that had to be the reason the Huntsman had brought him here. It couldn’t possibly be some sort of sick game. He gasped, his pulse thundering in his ears. Did the Huntsman enjoy torture? Did he want Ansil to do his bidding? Was he meant to be his slave?

  A shudder raced through him, and he tugged hard at his manacles, but it was no use. He was hopelessly stuck in this dank dungeon. Unless perhaps the Huntsman had neighbors? Someone who might hear his screams?

  “Help!” he yelled at the top of his lungs over and over again until his voice was hoarse and his throat on fire. He felt defeated. No one would hear him. A rescue would surely not happen.

  Having exhausted himself, he drifted in and out of sleep until he heard the echoing click of the lock. His eyes sprang open, his breath releasing in shallow pants as the door swung wide and in walked the Huntsman.

  The man was such a powerful, imposing figure, he took Ansil’s breath away. The Huntsman could easily crush him with his bare hands as he once threatened in the woods.

  Holding a tray, he looked Ansil over from across the room. For one brief moment, uncertainty crossed his features before he blinked it away. Did he regret his decision or feel sorry for Ansil? Maybe, somehow, Ansil could appeal to that softer side of him, if it even existed. Most likely, it had only been his imagination.

  “You must be parched,” the Huntsman said in a gruff voice as he approached his bedside. “All that yelling and carrying on.”

  Was that a smirk Ansil detected as he set the tray down on the end of the pallet?

  Ansil merely nodded this time, making himself look as small as possible so there was no retribution for his earlier actions.

  The Huntsman lifted a cup from the tray and brought it toward him. His first instinct was to recoil, but the allure of refreshment commanded him to lie still and wait. The Huntsman’s large palm cupped the back of his neck to angle his head, and he tilted the water toward his mouth. The first taste was pure heaven, and he gulped the cool liquid down as if he were dying in the desert. He gagged as he guzzled, water sliding down his chin to his neck. He was sure he looked like some uncivilized creature, but he cared not in that moment. Who knew when he’d have another chance.

  “Take it easy, lad,” the Huntsman warned, pulling back a little.

  Ansil breathed heavily through his nose as he finished the remainder of water in the cup, then licked his lips to chase the cool sensation. The Huntsman had called him lad as if he were some silly boy he had encountered in the woods.

  “You do not call me lord,” he said in wonder before he had a chance to take the words back. He had not meant to say them out loud, and he hoped there would not be repercussions.

  The Huntsman’s eyes grew dark, and Ansil drew back in fear. “You are not my lord.”

  “I am also not a boy,” he said insolently, but the only response was another smirk.

  Ansil’s heart rate spiked as he dared look the man over. His hair was worn to his shoulders and tied back from his sharp cheekbones, his beard trimmed close to his jaw. The man might’ve been handsome if not for the disdain in his eyes.

  Did he really have such hatred in his heart?

  When the Huntsman brought the tray forward, something wonderful hit his nostrils and made his stomach growl, though he was immediately suspicious of what looked like slices of meat on the plate. “What is that?”

  “Wild boar,” he snapped, and a vision of him slaughtering the beast in the forest returned instantly. If this was the same animal, he felt relieved that the Huntsman did not only kill for sport. “Hopefully it will be to the little lord’s liking.”

  He was poking fun at Ansil, and a growl caught in Ansil’s throat. He wanted to hiss and curse at the Huntsman. But he was afraid the food would be removed from his reach. So he kept his mouth shut and waited, his nostrils flaring.

  He watched warily as the Huntsman unclasped his wrists from the manacles, an unspoken threat in his eyes. “If you attempt to run, I’ll hunt you down and kill you with my bare hands.”

  The pain was immediate, and Ansil gasped as the muscles in his arms instantly cramped and numbed from being in one position for too long. He tried to grasp the utensil, but it slipped from his fingers as easily as water. He whimpered, his cheeks flushing hot.

  This time the Huntsman did not poke fun at him. He simply stabbed at the meat and lifted it to his mouth. He let the brutish man feed him and felt sick about it, even as he gulped the delicious meal down.

  He chewed more slowly, hoping not to choke. He wasn’t certain that the Huntsman wouldn’t just leave him to die in his own vomit.

  Once he’d finished, the Huntsman removed the tray and stepped from the edge of the pallet. “If you must relieve yourself, there’s a bucket in the corner.”

  He almost refused, but his bladder was screaming for release. He limped from the bed and pissed into the dirty pail, his numb fingers barely able to aim his prick in the right direction. But if he missed, the Huntsman might think him even more filthy and disgusting than he already felt. As if that mattered. Yet somehow it did. He wanted to at least keep some dignity intact.

  He hoped to move his muscles a bit, but knew he would be told to lie back down. He meandered a minute longer, looking around the space, seeing nothing different than he did from his supine position. It was dusty and dank, and he hoped he didn’t catch a chill. If he grew sick and feverish, the Huntsman would surely put him out of his misery sooner rather than later.

  Reluctantly, Ansil sat on the edge of the pallet and stared up at the Huntsman. When the man nodded pointedly, he finally lay back down. But when the man lifted one hand toward the restraints, he acted on pure instinct and fought his grip. “Please, it’s so painful to keep my arms in such a position.”

  When the Huntsman ignored him, effortlessly clasping his arm back, he tried a different tactic, born of a natural f
ear rising to his throat. “I thought I heard rodents in the walls. What if they eat my eyes while I sleep? I have no way of defending myself.”

  “Rodents,” the Huntsman scoffed, and Ansil could see the idea offended him. So it must’ve been his imagination. A simpering grin lined the Huntsman’s lips as he easily lifted his other arm. “Perhaps living in a castle has softened you. Real-world experience will do you good.”

  Arms bound again, he resigned himself to his fate. His eyes filled with tears, and fat drops fell to his cheeks even before the Huntsman made it to the door with the empty tray. “Rodents,” he heard him grumble again.

  He cried softly and sniffled, momentarily thankful the chains had just enough slack to allow him to wipe the tears away. The Huntsman’s steps faltered only briefly before he closed the heavy door behind him without a backward glance.

  5

  Orien

  Orien had not slept a wink all night.

  He rarely managed deep, restful sleep for hours, but he had learned to function off a few hours’ time, and to force himself to at least find that much. Last night had been different. He had spent hours pacing his chamber, considering the boy, what Orien had done, and his brother. It was the right thing. In a way he was protecting the lad, even if his method of doing so was questionable. Had he not agreed to kill Ansil, his brother would have found another who would have.

  Though he didn’t much care for saving the boy’s life. His end game had always been revenge on Reginald.

  That admission was when he had found himself underground, in the hallway outside Ansil’s cell, listening to the lad cry until sleep claimed him. It was there, on the hard stone flooring, that Orien had spent the night, same as the boy. It wasn’t the worst place Orien had slept.

  Sometimes he looked around the monstrosity that was his home and despised himself for staying. It was not a castle like Ansil was accustomed to, but the large stone manor was more than Orien needed for himself. He wasn’t one for frivolous things. He only required what he needed to survive, but then, the manor had been useful. He was not the only one to rest his head here. Seven others shared his home, and he had them to think of—especially with the Ansil affair. If not for Thornwell Manor, they would have nothing.

  Orien’s eyes snapped up when he heard a shuffling on the stairs. He pushed to his feet, knowing there were only two people he could expect to come to the underground rooms—Gaius or Marcel, whom they called Doc. The others would not, unless Orien asked them to.

  When he saw the short, older man with wild gray hair wobble around the corner, Orien sighed. “It is not good for you to take the stairs, Doc. If you required me, you could have sent Gaius, Dimitri, or Herry.” Gaius and the stable hands would have gladly trekked below so Doc did not have to.

  “I am not helpless, and you’ll do well to remember that. I am older, wiser, and tougher than you, no matter what our bodies may say.” Doc looked up at him. The man was even shorter than Ansil, though much rounder. He also was not one to ever back down to Orien. He could always count on Doc or Gaius to knock him down a peg or two.

  Orien tried to bite back his smile. He loved the old man, though he would never tell him that. “Is there something you needed?” Orien queried.

  “No, but I believe there is something you need. There was commotion last night when you arrived home. Gaius won’t speak of it, and no one else knows. You’re in the dungeon. You would have no reason to be here unless you brought another with you.”

  Orien sighed. His age didn’t matter. Nothing got past Doc. He had lived at Thornwell longer than Orien himself, when it belonged to Larkin. Pain pierced Orien’s chest at the thought of him.

  “There is a prisoner, which you apparently already know. I need you to examine him.” Doc knew medicine. He had helped Orien care for Larkin before Larkin passed away from an infection. It had felt like Orien had lost his father…the one he truly cared about rather than the one whose blood ran through his veins.

  “Did you not gripe at me for the stairs you yourself were going to ask me to climb down?”

  He couldn’t hold back his smile that time. Damned the old man for entertaining him. “Yes, but I would have helped.”

  “Would you like someone to help you down a flight of stairs?” Doc countered.

  Orien grimaced.

  “I didn’t think so. Open the door and let me in.” For the first time, Orien noticed that Doc carried his medical bag with him. If Orien believed in that foolishness, he would think Marcel was an oracle himself. He often saw things Orien required without him having to say the words.

  Orien moved in front of the door. “He is not…” How did Orien say this? It was not that he made a habit of taking prisoners. He had from time to time, when he had been paid a bounty, but few and far between. When he did, those Orien hunted were criminals. Ansil was not the typical prisoner, and Doc would likely question his sanity.

  “Open the door, Orien.”

  “You take liberties with how you order me around.” Orien did not listen to anyone.

  Doc did not back down. “Open the door.” When Orien didn’t budge, the old man sighed. “I have watched you grow from an angry, petulant young man who hated the world, into an angry, misunderstood, but noble man. Whoever you have in that chamber, I know there is good reason behind it. I trust you, Orien. We all do. We are waiting for the day you trust us as well.”

  Orien sucked in a sharp breath. It was not often he was spoken to in that way. People didn’t trust him, didn’t like him. And if they did, they did not tell him.

  He tasted gratitude on his tongue, considered letting the word free, but could not force himself to. He was not good with words, with emotions. He had never had reason to be. “But I am still angry?” he asked.

  “Yes, you are still angry.”

  He couldn’t deny that. He was angry about everything. Orien gave him a brief nod, pulled the keys from his belt, and unlocked the door. Ansil scrambled against the wall, as though he did not know what to expect. His black hair was wild, his skin paler than usual, and his pretty, red lips cracked.

  Pretty? The thought made Orien stumble. He had never truly thought that about anyone. He knew what an attractive person looked like, of course, but it was not something he ever considered. It was not something he had ever given much thought to, even on the few occasions when he’d chosen a woman. The fact that he had thought it now, the word floating through his sleep-deprived brain, was…odd, to say the least.

  “Who…who are you?” Ansil asked.

  “You will have to forgive O—Huntsman. He is ill-tempered and lacks manners to properly introduce us. I am Marcel, but most everyone here calls me Doc. Would you consent to me examining you?” Doc approached but did not allow himself too close to Ansil.

  Orien quietly appreciated Doc’s levelheadedness in not using his name, but was angry at himself for not thinking to tell Doc…and he wished Doc had not shared his own name either.

  “You are a healer?” Ansil asked.

  “Yes.”

  Ansil nodded, and Doc hurried over. Orien didn’t move from his spot by the door as he watched Doc examine the boy. He checked his head and his eyes before moving to his extremities.

  “You…you talk to him that way?” Ansil whispered, his eyes darting to Orien.

  “He is not as bad as he seems. Hard on the outside, but soft on the inside,” Doc replied.

  Orien feigned ignorance. He did not want the lad to know he had heard.

  “Can…can you help me? Please.” Fear clung to Ansil’s words, a dagger in Orien’s chest. He did not thrive on the fear and pain of others. Still, he grunted in warning.

  “Do not grunt at the boy, Huntsman,” Doc told him, returning his attention to Ansil. “My loyalty will always lie with the Huntsman.”

  A foreign emotion swelled beneath Orien’s breastbone. He did not deserve such an honor—not from Doc, or anyone.

  “For God’s sake, Huntsman. He needs fluids. He’s dehydrated. He
needs more food and drink. And send Arya and Thalia down to help bathe him and provide fresh clothes. He will need a chamber pot as well.”

  “Doc…” Orien growled. He would not be ordered around. He’d also hoped to keep Ansil from anyone other than Doc and Gaius. The less who were involved, the better.

  “If you don’t do it, I will.” To Ansil, he said, “Oh, stop looking as though I have a death wish. I told you he is not as bad as you think.”

  He was going to kill Doc with his bare hands. He wasn’t doing Orien any favors. “I need a word with you in the hallway.”

  “Oops! Now I’ve done it. I will return, my lord.”

  Lord. He wasn’t surprised Doc had recognized Ansil. Even in his current state, it was clear the rumors of his beauty were true. It took one look at him to see who he was.

  Beauty… What was wrong with him?

  A moment later, he and Doc were in the hall. “He is supposed to fear me.” How would he keep the boy under control if he did not?

  “If you don’t think the lad is scared out of his mind, you don’t have eyes in your head.”

  Orien winced. “I do not want to risk the others. He sees no one except us.”

  Doc reached out and placed his hand on Orien’s. “We are already at risk. He’s here. There’s nothing we can do about it now. We will take care of him. We trust you.”

  Orien jerked back. It felt as though a hand squeezed his throat. He could not breathe, could not speak. They trusted him. He cared for them—and he had put them in danger. “If…” he managed to grit out. “If this does not go as planned, we will arrange it so you and the others turn me in. We will say I forced you. I won’t allow you to be hurt by this.”

  Doc nodded. “Do you think we do not know that? The seven of us owe you our lives.”