Forever Moore (Forbidden Love #2) Read online

  “Yes,” Ansil replied.

  “That leads to my chamber. I am a light sleeper. You won’t make it ten feet before I hear you. If you would like books, Thalia or Arya will provide them. Paper as well if you prefer to write or draw. And a proper bed to lay your head. No more chains.”

  “Thank you, Huntsman. I… What of my knife? I use it to whittle away at wood and make different shapes. It keeps my mind focused, and I am missing it.”

  Orien closed his eyes, felt in his chest the heart he had forgotten was there. The boy had protected Doc. That meant much to him, more than he could ever express. “I won’t risk Thalia, Arya, or Doc, but if you earn it, you can carve while I am in the room with you.”

  Without another word, Orien stalked toward the door.

  “Huntsman! Wait,” Ansil called out.

  He endeavored to ignore him, but something wouldn’t allow him to. Damned boy.

  “What?” Orien gritted out.

  “Why? Why are you giving me a proper chamber, a bed?”

  Back still to the lad, Orien replied, “You protected Doc when you did not have to. You could have run. You have honor, young Ansil.”

  Then…then he walked from the room, locking the door behind him, wondering what in the world he was doing.

  8

  Ansil

  Ansil stood motionless in the center of the room. He felt as if he were living in some sort of dream. Nightmare might’ve fit better. Except it could’ve been worse. He was being held captive, but the Huntsman hadn’t beaten or killed him. Or bedded me. His entire body flushed at the idea of the Huntsman placing his roughened hands on him where no one had ever touched him before.

  “I will hunt you down and kill you with my bare hands.” That reminder helped snap him back to his senses. His mind was obviously playing tricks on him. Just because the Huntsman’s laugh was so unexpected, so dazzling, did not mean he wasn’t a monster.

  Ogre. He couldn’t stop the small grin from forming again.

  His gaze passed along every surface of the room, from the cream walls to the worn wooden floors. The chamber contained only a bed, small table, chair, and wardrobe and was much smaller than his room at the castle. Most likely it’d been used as a servant’s quarters because of the connecting door. The Huntsman would be so close as he slept. Terror raced through him, mixed with a tingling in his arms and legs that made him shiver.

  “I am a light sleeper. You won’t make it ten feet before I hear you.”

  Did the Huntsman sleep with one eye open? Would he be listening for Ansil’s every movement? He swallowed the lump in his throat as he softly padded to the door between their rooms and quietly twisted the knob. It was locked from the other side. There was no way for Ansil to secure it himself if the need arose.

  “I’m not here to bed you.”

  So why did he suddenly feel so nervous—flushed, feverish?

  It reminded him of the time when he was only a knobby-kneed adolescent and he’d accidentally sneaked up on the head groomsman in the stable as he washed down the horses. Those muscles in his shoulders entranced him as he moved the heavy bucket of water near the horse’s flank. It’d been the first time he’d admired the male form, imagined running his hand down the man’s smooth spine, and though it was wrong—deviant—to extend his thoughts any further, he had heard rumors of men lying with men in houses of ill repute or on the fringes of proper society.

  The only explanation he could think of why his stomach felt so off-kilter around the Huntsman was because he admired the Huntsman’s impressive stature, his massive strength, as he’d done the groomsman’s at the stable.

  Would the Huntsman change his mind about his intentions and burst into Ansil’s chamber in the middle of the night to have him do his bidding? Ansil gasped, his breaths quickening as he imagined the Huntsman forcing him to his knees. It was wrong.

  Those large hands could choke the life out of me.

  Pulse thrashing, he strode to the chamber door and tried to yank it open, hoping the Huntsman had somehow forgotten to secure it. He could escape by skulking into the hallway and listening for voices before bolting through an exit.

  As his fingers gripped the handle, his shoulders dropped. No such luck. Frantic, he marched to the window…and breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed no locks or nails securing it; it could be easily thrown open. On his tiptoes, he looked down at the ground, calculating how far the jump might be.

  The idea of falling and hearing the crunch of a broken limb made his stomach revolt. Where would that get him besides back in the dungeon with a splint setting his leg? Surely, he couldn’t limp through the forest, even if he did make it that far.

  All of a sudden a small blue swallow fluttered its wings against the glass as if seeking entrance. “Hello, little bird. I wish I could feel your soft feathers.”

  In the blink of an eye, his feathered friend flew away, and Ansil was once again left to his own devices.

  He swallowed back the sting of tears as he turned toward the bed. It looked comfortable enough and was much better than being shackled while he slept. Would he ever see his room at the castle again? He’d taken so many things for granted in his short life.

  Closing his eyes, he sent a wish on the wings of the blue swallow that he’d be able to see his home again. If he ever got the chance to be back in the village, or on the castle grounds in front of his favorite tree, he would never complain again about how his stepfather shunned him. Now that he’d been shackled for days on end, putting up with Reginald’s rejection seemed like nothing in comparison. Ansil longed to see his mother, the staff, and the horses. To visit the marketplace. To hold his knife with the pearl handle. He looked down at his hand, imagining the cool metal resting in his palm.

  “If you earn it, you can carve while I am in the room with you.”

  That was Ansil’s only option. He would have to bide his time. If he was able to have his knife back, he might think of a better plan to slit the Huntsman’s throat. Though if he botched the opportunity and was overtaken, his punishment would be more severe. The Huntsman might even plunge the blade straight into Ansil’s heart. He needn’t be foolish this time.

  A knock on the door startled him, and he froze as the key turned in the lock and Doc greeted him. The color was back in the man’s cheeks, and Ansil blew out a breath in relief.

  “I came to thank you,” Doc said.

  “No need,” he replied. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  Doc stepped farther inside the room, his expression hesitant. “You could’ve escaped. Why didn’t you?”

  Ansil glanced out the window, remembering how he’d acted on pure instinct. When Doc passed out, he flew into a state of panic. “I…was afraid you might die. I could not live with myself had that happened.”

  Doc’s eyes softened a fraction as he gripped the chair in the corner of the room to steady himself, then gingerly sat down. At least Ansil’s hands were now free to help him should he pass out a second time.

  In the dungeon, one of Ansil’s arms had remained shackled, the other freed from the restraints so he could eat on his own—something the Huntsman had finally allowed. After Doc slumped to the floor, he had just enough slack to reach for the keys Doc had rested beside him on the pallet. He’d unlocked his other cuff and then the door, calling out to anyone who might hear him before trying to rouse the elderly man himself. To no avail.

  During his stay in the dank room, he’d imagined the scenario quite differently at other times in the middle of the night. How he might catch Doc unawares, sneak the keys, and escape—but not when Doc was lying unconscious and vulnerable. His father had lain just as defenseless as he neared death, and he could not bear to endure that feeling of helplessness again.

  “What could I have done differently, say it were to happen again?” He hoped Doc wouldn’t think he was being presumptuous.

  “Protect the patient’s neck and head—their most vulnerable points—and try to resuscitate them
by gently shaking them awake or using smelling salts if you had them on hand,” he replied, looking thoughtfully at Ansil. “Do you have an interest in medicine?”

  “No…well, maybe, if I wasn’t so cowardly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He winced. “When the Huntsman slaughtered a boar in the forest, I could not bear it and lost my lunch in the bushes.”

  “Ah, I see. Not all medicine requires you to have a strong stomach, my dear lad. Just a good heart and a strong mind for solving a mystery—a puzzle, if you will—then coming up with a solution to help the patient.”

  When put that way, the idea of it appealed to Ansil. His attention to detail might help as well.

  “In another life, perhaps,” Doc added, patting his knee. “You chose not to leave me helpless, after all. You showed me compassion.”

  “It wouldn’t have been right. And besides, I wouldn’t last long in the forest anyway. Not on foot.” He shivered. “There are wild boars out there. Wolves.”

  He once even thought that perhaps he could steal a horse from the stables and find his way home. Lofty ideas.

  “Well, your kind actions won favor with the Huntsman,” he said, motioning around the room. “You’ll be more comfortable here.”

  He nodded. “I am grateful for the better accommodations.”

  Though he still did not know why he was here. Frustration bubbled inside him, but he knew the question would fall on deaf ears if he uttered it aloud.

  “I told you, he is hard on the outside, but soft on the inside.” Then Doc’s eyes clouded with a faraway look. “But do not underestimate him, my lord. Heed his warnings.”

  Ansil’s breath hitched. There was a story there—or possibly many—that Ansil would be curious to hear but frightened to as well. Although, it might give him more insight into why the Huntsman was holding him captive. “I understand.”

  “Are you hungry?” Doc asked. “You were in the middle of eating when I fainted. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

  “I’m just glad to see you’re well,” Ansil replied, and then remembered Doc admitting to not eating all day. “Perhaps we both could use some food? We can keep an eye on each other.”

  Doc sighed. “I suppose I’m a stubborn old man and should listen better. I’ll ask for a tray to be sent up.”

  9

  Orien

  Orien frowned at the sound of laughter coming from the boy’s room. He had heard it off and on for days. Sometimes it would be with Doc, but mostly it was Thalia or Arya. What could be so damned humorous all the time? He was being held captive, for Christ’s sake.

  In many ways, it made sense. The lad was similar in age to the twins. Still, it didn’t sit right in Orien’s gut. He did not believe Ansil would try to take advantage of the girls—and Arya would likely hit him if he did—but they didn’t have experience with males their age. Herry was the closest at only a few years older. They had been with Orien for years. Obviously, they were of age to be interested in males…and the boy was nothing if not beautiful. The rumors didn’t do him justice. They didn’t describe his lithe physique, the softness of his skin, or the striking angles of his bones, which were somehow both sharp and gentle.

  He shook his head in an attempt to bury the foolish thoughts. Why was he thinking about the boy’s bones? It was…not something he had ever thought about in a person—female or male. Attraction and beauty were not topics Orien ever truly thought of at all. He lay with women because that was what a man did, but even those moments had been few and far between. And they had been…less than inspiring.

  How did he get to the subject of bedding at all?

  He frowned as Ansil laughed again. What could possibly be so funny? And the joy in the gentle tone of his voice… Orien couldn’t make sense of it. How could he be happy? It was the sound of delight…which he had never felt himself.

  Without much thought, he found himself moving toward the door, unlocking it, and pulling it open. Ansil and Thalia sat on his bed, chatting. The girl jumped to her feet, her cheeks tinged red at the sight of Orien.

  “Oh…hello, Huntsman. We were just chatting,” Thalia said.

  “It is fine,” he said. “I asked Dimitri to get you berries from the market. He should be back by now.”

  She smiled, running to him and wrapping her arms around him in a hug. Orien froze, uncomfortable with the show of affection. He always was, but it didn’t keep him from allowing them to give it.

  “I love berries! Cadence is teaching me to make a pie! If she will ever wake up from her nap, that is. You know how she always needs her rest. Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome. Why don’t you run down and see if Dimitri has returned?”

  “I shall. Thank you. I’ll see you soon, Ansil.” Was it Orien, or had her cheeks flushed when she’d spoken to Ansil?

  Without another word, Thalia unlocked the door and slipped out. It was then that Orien’s eyes settled on the lad again. His head was cocked slightly, his raven’s-wing hair falling over one eye. The red had returned brighter to his lips.

  “You are close,” he said, as though it surprised him. “They have all told me of your kindness, but just now I saw it…the berries for her.”

  Orien shrugged it off. “Maybe it’s simply because I enjoy eating berry pie.”

  “Or maybe it is because you care for Thalia and knew she yearned to learn to bake one.”

  “You take liberties and make great assumptions, Little Lord.”

  Ansil flinched, but then moved a book off his lap and to the bed before standing. “I am trying to make sense of you…of this. Why am I here?”

  Orien hated that his respect for the boy grew. He could hear the fear in his voice, the uncertainty, yet still he attempted to question Orien.

  “Why have you not killed me?”

  “That can be arranged.” Ansil stumbled backward, and Orien felt a foreign stab of guilt in his chest. It wasn’t an emotion he was accustomed to. “You’re here because I feel it is the right thing to do. That is all you need to know.” Why had he come in there? He had no business chasing Thalia out and no reason to speak with Ansil at all.

  “What was so funny?” Orien found himself asking.

  “What do you mean?” The boy shook his black hair from his eyes.

  “I hear you laughing often.”

  “Oh.” His cheeks flushed a pretty rosy pink. “Well, Thalia was making me laugh a moment ago. Sometimes I laugh at myself…when I attempt to draw. It really is a funny sight, but I enjoy it so. And other times the books I read make me laugh. This one truly is funny.” He plucked the book from the bed and walked over to Orien, holding it out. “Have you read it?”

  “I don’t read,” he spit out with more anger than he’d intended.

  “Oh,” Ansil replied softly. Then another, “Oh,” as if he understood that to mean that Orien didn’t know how.

  Orien’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer. The moment he did, Ansil moved backward, but that didn’t stop Orien from pacing closer to him again. “Do not feel sorry for me, Little Lord. Does it look like I need to read? I can fight, I can hunt. I can kill. Those things will be of more use to me than words on paper ever will.” Why had he admitted his deficiency?

  He turned and swept from the room, locking the door behind him. His chest was heavy. He needed out of Thornwell. He needed to ride. He had been cooped up there since bringing the boy home, as he didn’t want to leave him.

  Orien stormed down the stone stairs, past the painting of Larkin that always made his heart squeeze. Gaius came inside just as he did so.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Gaius asked.

  “Watch him,” Orien replied, then went to the stables, straight to Valkyrie, needing the wind in his face and the open world around him.

  He didn’t know how long he rode. Hours, likely. He couldn’t put his finger on why he was so upset, what it was about what the lad had said that was like a punch to the gut.

  He saw Ansil’s slender
fingers as he brushed the hair from his forehead. The fear igniting in his sky-blue eyes. The red of his lips. The sound of his laughter.

  The pity with which he’d looked upon Orien.

  It all became a tangled web in his brain that he couldn’t figure out. He thought again of how Ansil had helped Doc, but didn’t know why anything about the lad helping Doc should bother him at all.

  He just knew that the sooner the boy turned twenty and one, the better.

  Orien made his way back to the manor. When he arrived, Herry approached. “I’ll take her.”

  Orien nodded and dismounted just as Herry sneezed. Orien couldn’t help it; he chuckled.

  “Stupid fuckin’ hay. You know what it does to me,” Herry said. It was a bit of a joke, Herry’s sneezing when he had been around hay. Orien had told him to steer clear, but Herry thrived working outdoors, with his hands, so he didn’t listen. Doc had attempted a few concoctions to help, but none had taken yet.

  “Thank you.” Orien watched as Herry and Valkyrie made their way through the snow to the stables. It was then that Orien felt eyes on him. Without looking, he knew who they belonged to. Still, he glanced up at the window facing the back of the house, and saw Ansil there, watching him.

  Their eyes snagged one another’s, held on. Orien broke the trance first, still feeling the stare as if it were a touch.

  “Huntsman!” Arya made her way toward him, wearing a hooded coat. “Thalia is coming with her pie. I love my sister dearly, but it is horrible! I wanted to warn you.”

  Just then, Thalia exited the wooden door, plate in hand but no jacket on.

  “You’ll catch a cold,” Orien told her. “You shouldn’t come out without a coat.”

  “Oh, I know,” Thalia replied. “I just wanted you to taste this. See what I did with your berries!”

  He glanced at Arya, who looked as though she felt sorry for him. He took the plate from Thalia and used the fork to dig in with a large bite, and yes, Christ, it was horrible. Still, he chewed and swallowed it all down. “You’re a natural! It is the best berry pie I have ever eaten.”