Return of the Guardian-King by Karen Hancock Read Free Book Online
Authors: Karen Hancock
Tags: Ebook
and cursed and railed against him. Why did he always slap her down? Everyone else he blessed. Why was she alone left out?
Foolish, self-absorbed, small-minded questions, she saw now. For eventually Eidon had broken through her darkness in the same way as this morning’s sunrise had broken through the gray dawn, beams of light spearing across the heavens, glorious heralds of a new day.
Conal shifted in her arms, drawing her gaze to him. His eyes were closed, long auburn lashes splayed against apple cheeks, his tiny hand resting on the swell of her breast. His thatch of fine auburn hair had shocked them all when he’d been born. Red hair! Who’d have thought? None of her other children, the ones who had died, had had red hair.
She stroked it, smiling as he sucked erratically, falling in and out of sleep. She hadn’t expected him to be so beautiful. Hadn’t expected her heart to swell with this much love. It still amazed her, especially after all the months she’d spent preparing to hate him. Yet he was as much a victim as the rest of them. More than that, he was hers . Strong and healthy and thriving. “A Kalladorne,” Abramm had said. “And bastard or not, he will be raised a Kalladorne. . . .”
But in the end, even that had been transformed into something greater. For two days after they’d escaped Kiriath, the Duke of Northille had asked her to marry him, and she had astonished herself by agreeing. It was what Abramm had told them he wanted them to do. What he hoped they would want to do, and of course Trap had complied. As he always did.
When Conal was born a week later, Trap had taken him as his own: Conal Abramm Felmen Meridon. Indeed, with his red hair, the only ones who knew for certain he was not Trap’s own offspring were his parents.
An act of grace for them all. Now here she sat, safe, comfortable, the child of her dreams in her arms. Sometimes the marvel and the gratitude simply took her breath away.
She heard the door open and close behind her, a sound she’d been awaiting, and her pulse fluttered with anticipation as the familiar footsteps approached. Trap came around the far side of the empty chair beside her and set his tray of jug and cups on the low table before them, his eyes flicking to Conal and away. “Good morning, my lady,” he said softly, averting his gaze as he straightened. It was the same every morning. The same greeting, the same ritual, the same strained politeness.
As always, she pulled the blanket up over Conal and her shoulder to cover herself, disappointment bitter in the back of her throat as she said her part: Good morning, sir. I trust your day has gone well thus far.”
“Very well, thank you.” He turned to face the window, where he would wait, as he always did, until she finished with Conal. “
She was, in fact, finished now, but she made no move to transfer the babe, pleased to sit here, holding him close and looking at the man she’d somehow managed to fall in love with, despite knowing her love was not returned and likely never would be.
Savior and protector, Infidel and First Minister, her dead brother’s best and most loyal friend, a man of inestimable integrity and strength, who loved Eidon as few ever did. She loved his soul first, and most fiercely. But lately, she’d found her eyes roving hungrily over his form, as well—whenever she thought he wouldn’t see her—taking pleasure in the way the red hair curled on the back of his neck, in how his shoulders filled out the silk doublet so splendidly above a waist still trim despite the approach of middle age, and in the freckled, sword-scarred hands whose tender touch she longed to feel.
Their marriage was one of duty and protection, though, and they had both agreed to it. Except for an occasional peck on the cheek, and the obligatory arm offered in escort, he was careful never to touch her. She’d been happy with that at the start. But she knew now she’d not been thinking clearly. Shocked by
Foolish, self-absorbed, small-minded questions, she saw now. For eventually Eidon had broken through her darkness in the same way as this morning’s sunrise had broken through the gray dawn, beams of light spearing across the heavens, glorious heralds of a new day.
Conal shifted in her arms, drawing her gaze to him. His eyes were closed, long auburn lashes splayed against apple cheeks, his tiny hand resting on the swell of her breast. His thatch of fine auburn hair had shocked them all when he’d been born. Red hair! Who’d have thought? None of her other children, the ones who had died, had had red hair.
She stroked it, smiling as he sucked erratically, falling in and out of sleep. She hadn’t expected him to be so beautiful. Hadn’t expected her heart to swell with this much love. It still amazed her, especially after all the months she’d spent preparing to hate him. Yet he was as much a victim as the rest of them. More than that, he was hers . Strong and healthy and thriving. “A Kalladorne,” Abramm had said. “And bastard or not, he will be raised a Kalladorne. . . .”
But in the end, even that had been transformed into something greater. For two days after they’d escaped Kiriath, the Duke of Northille had asked her to marry him, and she had astonished herself by agreeing. It was what Abramm had told them he wanted them to do. What he hoped they would want to do, and of course Trap had complied. As he always did.
When Conal was born a week later, Trap had taken him as his own: Conal Abramm Felmen Meridon. Indeed, with his red hair, the only ones who knew for certain he was not Trap’s own offspring were his parents.
An act of grace for them all. Now here she sat, safe, comfortable, the child of her dreams in her arms. Sometimes the marvel and the gratitude simply took her breath away.
She heard the door open and close behind her, a sound she’d been awaiting, and her pulse fluttered with anticipation as the familiar footsteps approached. Trap came around the far side of the empty chair beside her and set his tray of jug and cups on the low table before them, his eyes flicking to Conal and away. “Good morning, my lady,” he said softly, averting his gaze as he straightened. It was the same every morning. The same greeting, the same ritual, the same strained politeness.
As always, she pulled the blanket up over Conal and her shoulder to cover herself, disappointment bitter in the back of her throat as she said her part: Good morning, sir. I trust your day has gone well thus far.”
“Very well, thank you.” He turned to face the window, where he would wait, as he always did, until she finished with Conal. “
She was, in fact, finished now, but she made no move to transfer the babe, pleased to sit here, holding him close and looking at the man she’d somehow managed to fall in love with, despite knowing her love was not returned and likely never would be.
Savior and protector, Infidel and First Minister, her dead brother’s best and most loyal friend, a man of inestimable integrity and strength, who loved Eidon as few ever did. She loved his soul first, and most fiercely. But lately, she’d found her eyes roving hungrily over his form, as well—whenever she thought he wouldn’t see her—taking pleasure in the way the red hair curled on the back of his neck, in how his shoulders filled out the silk doublet so splendidly above a waist still trim despite the approach of middle age, and in the freckled, sword-scarred hands whose tender touch she longed to feel.
Their marriage was one of duty and protection, though, and they had both agreed to it. Except for an occasional peck on the cheek, and the obligatory arm offered in escort, he was careful never to touch her. She’d been happy with that at the start. But she knew now she’d not been thinking clearly. Shocked by