Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (32 page)

Syn-Jern's heart did a funny little flip in his chest. “Are you speaking of Rosa-Lynn, Father?” he asked,

not daring to hope there would be a union between them.

“You have gone and plumped her full of your vile seed, you thankless whelp!” his father threw at him.

“She is with child and Montyne is demanding satisfaction!"

“We are lucky he isn't calling you out,” the Duchess sniffed. “As ‘tis, all he wants is for you to marry the

little tart."

The pot calling the kettle black, Syn-Jern thought as he looked into his stepmother's bold eyes.

“You do not fit in here,” the Duchess remarked, sensing her stepson's thoughts. “You never have. It will

be a blessing to have you gone from this manse."

“Aye,” Giles Sorn snarled. “Getting rid of him is not the problem!"

“I think you need to explain in language the dolt can understand, Papa,” Trace taunted.

“From the looks of him, he is lost in the ether!"

It was true: Syn-Jern had no idea what was happening. Obviously his father was irate. Any father would

be to learn his son had impregnated an innocent girl. But he knew, all too well, there was nothing innocent

about Rosa-Lynn Montyne. If truth were told, he suspected she could teach his lascivious stepmother a

thing or two. Yet, having to marry the beauty was not such a terrible thing. So what was the problem? He

was willing to marry her. Apparently the matter had been settled at Fairworth and, even if Rosa-Lynn

was not accommodating to the plan her father had put forth, at least she would do as she was told.

Just as Syn-Jern would do as he was told in the matter. So he asked himself again: what was the

problem?

“The conniving bastard wants land as dowry!” Sorn shouted, his face red with fury. “And Holy Dale as

recompense for the rape!"

“Rape?” Syn-Jern repeated, stunned. “What rape?"

“The gal is only fifteen, big brother,” Trace said, clucking his tongue in mock dismay. “You soiled a mere

child now you'll have to pay dearly for it."

Syn-Jern blinked. Fifteen? How could that be? She seemed older; she looked older.

Hell, she acted far older than his twenty-one years! And, inexperienced as he was, he had known she

was no virgin when he took her the first time.

“Montyne is willing to keep quiet about your perfidy,” Syn-Jern's father spat, “but he will do so at a

great price to Sorn holdings!"

“You had better pray the Tribunal does not get wind of it,” Trace remarked, “else you'll have their whip

applied most diligently to your tender back Syn-Jern."

“Shut up, Trace Edward!” Sorn shrieked and his wife rushed to his side lest he have a stroke.

“Giles, please!” the Duchess pleaded. “Calm yourself! The situation is not as bad as it seems at the

moment.” She cast her stepson a vicious look. “He will marry the bitch and that will be the end of it."

“Montyne is taking my land, Alicia!” Sorn whined. “He is taking my beloved Holy Dale."

Syn-Jern wanted to tell his father the land was not his anyway. The land belonged to Syn-Jern's

grandmother, Monique, though if the Viragonian Tribunal saw fit, they could take it at any given time. As

his maternal grandmother's only living heir, he, and he alone, was entitled to the land.

“We have Tern Keep,” the Duchess reminded her husband. “We will have the Saur lands to add to our

own before the week is out. What more do we need?"

“But I like it here!” the Duke whimpered. “I want Holy Dale!” Syn-Jern's father said, stomping his foot

much like a young boy denied a toy would do. He glared at his oldest son. “I have you to thank for being

put off my own property, you vile little demon!"

“Tell him when the Joining is to be and let us end this unpleasant conversation, Giles,” the Duchess

suggested. “I grow tired of seeing his ugly face.” She cast Syn-Jern an insulting look.

Even as the details of his impending marriage were spelled out to him in scathing, sarcastic language,

Syn-Jern merely stood there, cautioning himself not to let his joy show. That he would have Rosa-Lynn

as his wife was well worth all the vitriolic aspersions hurled his way this day. He had to school himself not

to grin like an idiot as the Joining plans were made.

Within two weeks, he would be husbanded to Rosa-Lynn Montyne in the traditional midnight ceremony

that would make them one.

“I was looking forward to the Joining,” Syn-Jern recalled softly. “I honestly believed I could make her

happy."

“You really thought she loved you, didn't you?” Genny asked.

He didn't answer for a bolt of lightning streaked across the darkened sky. “Let's not sit here and tempt

fate, okay?” he muttered.

They went to the settee. Genny sat at one end, Syn-Jern at the other, facing one another. He held out his

hand and she entwined her fingers with his along the settee's tall back.

“Aye,” he said, squeezing her fingers. “I did believe she loved me.” He smiled wistfully. “But then, I did

not know what love truly was until I met you."

“And now you do,” his wife stated with certainty.

“And now I do,” he repeated. He waited for her to say something else and when she did not, he moved

so he could lay down, his head in her lap. Her fingers threaded through his thick golden hair and he

sighed with pleasure.

“Would you like to take a nap?” she asked.

“Not sleepy,” he said, his yawn betraying the lie.

Genny smiled and continued to massage his scalp, luxuriating in the silky feel of his blond curls. She

glanced to the window as light flared then thunder shook the glass panes. Even as she watched, the rain

began to pound against the window with force.

“It rained the day before the Joining,” he said, drawing his wife's attention back to him. “It rained as

though the gods and their ladies were crying for us."

Given strict instructions that he was not to make matters worse by presenting himself to his future

father-in-law, Syn-Jern stayed at Holy Dale for the entire two weeks of his engagement. The banns had

been announced at the Temple at Tempest Keep, the capitol of Virago, so both the Viragonian Tribunal

and King Innis Hesar officially sanctioned the engagement. According to tradition, there was to be a

party on the eve of the Joining so members of the royal court could congratulate the couple and offer

gifts. Several days before the party, the Duchess traveled to Fairworth to lend her considerable talents

toward making sure only the best food and beverages were served at the Joining supper.

Since Duke Montyne's wife was in the family way herself, and restricted from traveling to Virago for the

Joining, Alicia Sorn took over the duties of surrogate mother to her future daughter-in-law and helped the

girl pick out a suitable pattern for a wedding gown. All the arrangement had been made by the time Giles

Sorn informed his son it was time to leave for Montyne's hunting lodge.

“Do you realize what an insult this is to the Duke to have to give his daughter into marriage from a

hunting lodge!” Syn-Jern's father snapped as the carriage taking them to Fairworth bumped along the

rocky road.

“Don't see why he didn't have it at Delinshire,” Trace grunted, casting his half-brother a repulsive look.

“The chit is with child, is why!” his father responded with a hiss. “By the gods, she might even be

showing by now!"

“I don't think—” Syn-Jern started to say, but his father's angry kick cut him off.

“No, young sir, you did not think!” Giles Sorn growled, his jowls wobbling with anger. “Had you

thought, we would not be at this very moment on our way to that reprobate's lodge to hand over the keys

to Holy Dale to him and his slattern offspring!"

“Should have kept the old Cyclops in your breeches, old man,” Trace snickered.

“Pray do not be vulgar, Trace Edward,” their father reprimanded.

“Your apology, Father,” Trace said, bowing his head in recognition of his father's authority. He glanced

at his brother and grinned maliciously.

Upon arrival at the lodge, the Duke and his beloved son were shown overzealous respect from the

servants. Their luggage was carried with haste to their assigned chambers. But Syn-Jern was left to his

own devices, following in his kinsfolk's wake as they climbed the stairs to the guest quarters.

“Who the devil are you?” the steward asked, putting a hand out to keep Syn-Jern from going up the

stairs. Before Syn-Jern could answer, the old man turned him around and pointed him back the way he'd

come. “No servants allowed above stairs,” he said with a sniff.

“I am...” Syn-Jern tried to say, but the old man would have none of his backtalk.

“Do as you are told and fetch your master's belongings. Hop to, now. Do not keep me waiting or I'll

take a strap to your backside!"

“I say, Syni, but are you having a rough time of it already?” Trace called from the balcony.

Syn-Jern looked up to see his father and brother smirking. “Will you kindly tell this gentleman who I am,

Father?"

The servant blinked, then turned his attention to the balcony.

“He's the groom,” Giles Sorn said with an audible sigh.

A pair of wintry gray eyes shifted from the balcony to Syn-Jern's embarrassed face and held. “Oh, I

see,” was all the steward said. His gaze crawled down the length of Syn-Jern and up again before he

pivoted on his heel and, without an apology, walked back the way he'd come.

“Don't think he likes you, Syn-Jern,” Trace laughed and elbowed his father, who joined in the mirth at

his eldest son's expense.

Syn-Jern stood where he was, looking up at his father and brother. He was humiliated and felt the

censure of eyes regarding him as Montyne's servants flitted to and fro. He made no move to climb the

stairs, not even when his father and brother turned their backs on him and left the railing, their laughing

taunting him.

Digging his hands into his pockets, he hunched his shoulders and remained there at the foot of the stairs,

hoping someone would take pity on him and show him where he needed to go. His defensive posture

was lost on the servants for they ignored him.

For fifteen minutes or so, he stood watching the bustling servants escorting guests up the stairs. No one

paid any attention to him, so he finally sat on the bottom step, partially in the way, but even then, servant

and guest stepped around him, barely glancing his way. No doubt, he thought with a sinking feeling in the

pit of his gut, they knew who he was and were snubbing him.

After an hour had passed and no one had come to show him to his room, he stood, sighed, and began to

climb the stairs in search of his father.

“You!"

The single word—spoken with an explosion of rage—brought Syn-Jern to a stop and he turned, his

hand on the stair rail. He saw his future father-in-law glaring at him.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing his head in greeting.

“I want a word with you, boy!” the Duke of Delinshire snapped before spinning on his heel and stalking

away.

Syn-Jern turned and hurried down the stairs, craning his neck to see which way the Duke had gone.

When at last he caught sight of the man's coat tails disappearing in a room down the long corridor that led

from the entry, he ran to catch up.

“Shut the gods-be-damned door!” Duke Montyne growled as Syn-Jern came into the room.

The Duke was an imposing man with a thatch of thick white hair. His black eyes were small, but intense,

peering from a face set now with a heavy scowl. Tall, and exceptionally handsome in his youth, he was a

virile man with numerous bastard offspring flitting around his keep at Delinshire. As he stood by the

fireplace, tapping a leather quirt against the palm of his right hand, he cocked his chin toward a chair,

indicating Syn-Jern was to sit.

Syn-Jern seated himself, knowing better than to say anything. He waited expectantly, his eyes wary.

“On the table beside you,” Montyne said, pointing with the quirt, “you will find the papers my tribunal

lawyer drew up regarding the transfer of ownership of Holy Dale and its surrounding acreage from you to

my daughter, Rosa-Lynn. The ownership will be relinquished to her upon the blessing of your Joining this

eve. Do you understand?"

Syn-Jern nodded. It didn't matter whose name was on the paper for according to Viragonian law

property must pass from mother to child.

“Well, are you are as stupid as you look or is it you do not know how to sign your name?” Montyne

snapped.

“I know how to write, Your Grace,” Syn-Jern answered.

“Then do it!” the Duke shouted, striking the hearth with his quirt.

He took the paper, started to read it, but jumped when Montyne's quirt whistled through the air and

landed with a slap against the paper, pinning it to the table. He looked up quickly to see his future

father-in-law glaring at him with such a venomous glower, he drew in his breath.

“Are you questioning my honesty, Sorn?” the Duke demanded, pressing the quirt to its breaking point.

“No, milord!” Syn-Jern answered.

“Then sign the gods-be-damned thing and get the hell out of my sight!"

Syn-Jern did as he was told.

“You've no backbone at all, have you?” Montyne insulted him.

Syn-Jern flinched, then looked the man in the eye. “I've never been allowed to have one, Your Grace,”

he replied.

Montyne stared at him for a good long while, then snorted with disgust. “Get out of my home until it is

time for you to do right by my daughter. Your presence offends me."