Read Online PRINCE OF THE WIND by Charlotte Boyet-Compo - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charlotte Boyet-Compo
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shy?" Riain’s mother had demanded and cast her son a protective look.
"No, Your Majesty," the man said, shaking his head somewhat sadly. "Shy, the little one is not." His grin was infectious as he looked at Riain. "She and your son will make a glorious match, for she has the same fire in her eyes as does he!"
"Does she argue with her parents?" Christina Cree asked.
The man’s smile faltered only a little. He spread his hands. "She debates with them."
"Does that mean she is argumentative?" Aidan inquired.
"Not at all, Majesty," the man quickly assured them.
"Let it drop, Aidan," the queen had advised. "They’ll get along fine."
Now, pushing himself up from the bed, Riain stared out the window and wondered if his mother was right. Would they get along as well as Tiernan and Rebecca? Innis and Flanna? Riordan and Ancelin? His own parents? Duncan and his Glenna?
Since old enough to notice and understand such things, he had seen the wonder of what a good married life could be. He had witnessed the devotion and the fierce loyalty, the fleeting looks and casual touches that conveyed more than words ever could, the accidental brushing of one body against another, which usually signaled the impending disappearance of both parties. He had listened to the way his brothers spoke to their women and the way his sisters-in-law responded. He had watched love grow and lives settle into a comfortable, safe pattern. All these things made him want his own marriage to be like that—content and happy.
He had been brought up to lend his protection and support to the weaker sex, his sword arm to the glory and preservation of his way of life. He had been taught to be fair by his father, gentle by his mother. Never to lie, never to cheat, never to covet what was not by rights his.
He was a Chalean first and a warrior second.
"But you must always put your family first, unless by doing so you neglect your duty to Chale," his father had once said.
"Neglect your family," his mother had amended, "and you destroy the very fabric of Chale."
His wife would have to come first in his life, Riain thought as he padded barefoot to the window. He gripped the heavy velveteen curtain and gazed over the rich emerald green hills of his homeland.
Would she like living here? he wondered as he swept his gaze from the lush hills misted with rain to the crashing waves of the Chalean Sound, then to the high gray cliffs far to the north. Or would she miss her fairy-tale land of perfect gardens and opulent palaces?
Riain knew he would do everything he could to make his wife happy. That, too, was his duty as he saw it. Even if he were to never fall in love with her, he would attempt to make the most of the marriage his parents had so lovingly and thoughtfully arranged.
But deep in his heart, he felt a siren call that had plagued him since his stay at Vent du Nord, a mysterious, seductive song that had wakened him from that long bout of red-hot fever. He had sensed a presence somewhere in that great pile of stone, a comforting presence that had called to him, had brought him back from the brink of death. He thought he had once known her name, but it was long gone. He had once called her name.
Or had he?
He mentally shook himself and threw open the window. Leaning into the fresh mist, he breathed in the scent of heather from the moors beyond Briarcliffe and the tang of saltwater. It helped to clear his head of the memory of a tantalizing liaison that would never be.
"I wonder what she looked like," he said to a cormorant gliding by overhead.
Somehow he knew the mysterious woman who had saved him from succumbing to the darkness was as beautiful as the voice that had sang to him.
As beautiful as Suzanna had been ugly.
The sudden intrusive thought of Gunter de Viennes’ psychotic daughter sent a shiver down Riain’s spine. He stepped back from the window and closed it, then jerked the drapes across the glass, for it was almost as though he could feel her
"No, Your Majesty," the man said, shaking his head somewhat sadly. "Shy, the little one is not." His grin was infectious as he looked at Riain. "She and your son will make a glorious match, for she has the same fire in her eyes as does he!"
"Does she argue with her parents?" Christina Cree asked.
The man’s smile faltered only a little. He spread his hands. "She debates with them."
"Does that mean she is argumentative?" Aidan inquired.
"Not at all, Majesty," the man quickly assured them.
"Let it drop, Aidan," the queen had advised. "They’ll get along fine."
Now, pushing himself up from the bed, Riain stared out the window and wondered if his mother was right. Would they get along as well as Tiernan and Rebecca? Innis and Flanna? Riordan and Ancelin? His own parents? Duncan and his Glenna?
Since old enough to notice and understand such things, he had seen the wonder of what a good married life could be. He had witnessed the devotion and the fierce loyalty, the fleeting looks and casual touches that conveyed more than words ever could, the accidental brushing of one body against another, which usually signaled the impending disappearance of both parties. He had listened to the way his brothers spoke to their women and the way his sisters-in-law responded. He had watched love grow and lives settle into a comfortable, safe pattern. All these things made him want his own marriage to be like that—content and happy.
He had been brought up to lend his protection and support to the weaker sex, his sword arm to the glory and preservation of his way of life. He had been taught to be fair by his father, gentle by his mother. Never to lie, never to cheat, never to covet what was not by rights his.
He was a Chalean first and a warrior second.
"But you must always put your family first, unless by doing so you neglect your duty to Chale," his father had once said.
"Neglect your family," his mother had amended, "and you destroy the very fabric of Chale."
His wife would have to come first in his life, Riain thought as he padded barefoot to the window. He gripped the heavy velveteen curtain and gazed over the rich emerald green hills of his homeland.
Would she like living here? he wondered as he swept his gaze from the lush hills misted with rain to the crashing waves of the Chalean Sound, then to the high gray cliffs far to the north. Or would she miss her fairy-tale land of perfect gardens and opulent palaces?
Riain knew he would do everything he could to make his wife happy. That, too, was his duty as he saw it. Even if he were to never fall in love with her, he would attempt to make the most of the marriage his parents had so lovingly and thoughtfully arranged.
But deep in his heart, he felt a siren call that had plagued him since his stay at Vent du Nord, a mysterious, seductive song that had wakened him from that long bout of red-hot fever. He had sensed a presence somewhere in that great pile of stone, a comforting presence that had called to him, had brought him back from the brink of death. He thought he had once known her name, but it was long gone. He had once called her name.
Or had he?
He mentally shook himself and threw open the window. Leaning into the fresh mist, he breathed in the scent of heather from the moors beyond Briarcliffe and the tang of saltwater. It helped to clear his head of the memory of a tantalizing liaison that would never be.
"I wonder what she looked like," he said to a cormorant gliding by overhead.
Somehow he knew the mysterious woman who had saved him from succumbing to the darkness was as beautiful as the voice that had sang to him.
As beautiful as Suzanna had been ugly.
The sudden intrusive thought of Gunter de Viennes’ psychotic daughter sent a shiver down Riain’s spine. He stepped back from the window and closed it, then jerked the drapes across the glass, for it was almost as though he could feel her
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