The Prince (37 page)

Wesley’s father released a slight oath and a grunt of pain as the foal stepped right onto his toe.

“Wonderful. He steps on feet.” The older man laughed and patted the baby on his tiny head.

“Well, we know what to name him, then,” Nora said, grinning at Wesley. That smile took him back to the first day they’d gone horseback riding together. Wesley had picked a big sorrel stallion named Bastinado. Wesley had thought nothing of the exotic name until Nora had asked if the horse had a habit of stepping on feet. The stable girl replied that he did, and Nora had explained that Bastinado was a fancy term for foot torture.

“Bastinado it is,” Wesley said. “Pretty damn sure that’s not in the registry.”

Nora crawled over to the foal and stroked his face. Wesley hadn’t seen a chestnut foal that cute and small in a long time. Farewell to Charms had been a little guy, too, and then had sprouted up into the longest-legged monster horse he’d ever seen.

“I love him. I’m going to keep him.” Nora kissed the horse on his nose. “In my house. It’s a big bed. He can fit.”

“Madam, that horse is worth—” Wesley’s father began.

“Dad. Joking. Nora is joking.”

“She jokes an awful lot. She ever say anything she means?”

“No,” Nora said, winking at Wesley. “And I really mean that.”

“I don’t find you particularly amusing, young lady.” Wesley’s dad glared at her.

“I don’t care if you love me or hate me. You called me ‘young lady’ and that makes you my new favorite person.”

Wesley watched his father’s face tighten with anger before he exhaled and shook his head. “How’s our girl doing, Fisch?”

Nora scooted over to Bastinado and continued rubbing him down as Dr. Fischer and his father gave the mare a once-over followed by a twice-over. Wes and Nora kept their attention on little Bastinado as he sorted out how his legs worked. Nora even found a riding crop somewhere and teased Bastinado with it as if he were a kitten and not a million-dollar Thoroughbred.

They watched for several hours, laughing at his progress, wincing at his falls, encouraging him to stand back up again when he went down into the hay.

“Poor little guy…” Nora cooed as she peeled hay off his coat. “I know it’s hard. You get enough wine in me and I can’t walk very well, either.”

Bastinado pushed his nose into her hand and Wesley could only watch them. He’d seen Nora with children on a few occasions. She was so good with them, teasing them and talking to them like adults, giving them her full attention as if no one else in the world existed but them. She was just as good with Bastinado. Something in Wesley ached at the soft, motherly tone of her voice, the radiant smile on her face.

He couldn’t help but let his mind wander into dangerous territory. Nora would look so beautiful pregnant. She’d bitch and moan the entire time about her swollen ankles and sore breasts, and yet he knew no woman in the world would make a better mother. How endlessly patient she’d been with him as a teacher, how loving and protective she’d been as a roommate. How she managed to find him in the hospital after his diabetic ketoacidosis scare still baffled him. With a child of her own, of their own, he knew she’d be ten times as diligent, as protective, as concerned. And God, to see her hold a baby in her arms? He’d sell the whole Railey empire on eBay if he had to for that. He might even sell his soul.

“You tired, Wes?” Nora asked as she reached out and squeezed his hand. “It’s almost dawn, I think.”

“A little.”

“You’re so quiet.”

“Just thinking. How’s your back?” he asked in a whisper. He still couldn’t believe he’d had sex that rough with Nora, still couldn’t believe he’d loved it so much.

“I’ll have a couple bruises. Good job,” she said, and gave him a wicked grin.

“Not bad for a vanilla twerp, right?”

“Not bad?” She whistled softly under her breath. “That might have hit my top ten.”

Wesley beamed with male pride.

“Next time I’ll shoot for top five.”

Nora started to say something in reply, but then closed her mouth and looked at his father.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, and Wesley, too, noticed the concern on his face.

“Track’s been down too long. It’s been almost four hours. Let’s get her on her feet.”

Wesley stood up and helped his father coax the mare to stand. Track Beauty whinnied in protest but made it to her feet, and Wesley exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Good girl.” Wesley’s father patted her on the nose and started to walk away. The second he turned his back, however, Track Beauty’s knees buckled and she went down again.

“Dammit.” Wesley ran his hands over her as his father and Dr. Fischer listened to her heart and lungs once more.

“We’ve gotta get her back up,” his dad said.

“What’s wrong?” Nora asked, her arm around Bastinado, holding him across her lap like a dog. “She’s tired. She just gave birth to a baby the size of a horse. Because it
was
a damn horse.”

“She has to get up,” Wesley explained. “She’s been down too long now. Horses can’t stay down. It’s deadly for them.”

Nora’s eyes widened. “That’s not good. What’s the problem?”

“Stubborn. Worn-out. Who knows? Her lungs are clear.” Wesley’s father stared down at Track Beauty as if willing her to stand. Wesley joined him and started to pull on the mare’s halter. She gave a halfhearted effort before dropping her head back to the ground.

“Shit.” Wesley rubbed his forehead. Track Beauty wasn’t just the best broodmare on the farm, she was his mother’s favorite horse. He had to get her up.

“Come on. Try again,” Wesley’s father said, giving the mare a few encouraging scratches and rubs. His voice remained calm, but Wesley could see the lines of tension in his face. Track Beauty had been insured for nearly twenty million dollars—but that was nothing compared to his mother’s happiness.

All three men put their collective muscle into the attempt to pull Track Beauty to her feet. All three of them failed. Wesley had seen this before—horses growing weary and listless, unwilling to get back on their feet for no apparent reason. Giving birth had exhausted Track Beauty beyond reason or instinct.

“We’ll have to get a sling, pull her up. Nothing for it,” Dr. Fischer said. “I’ll call for backup. We’ll have to get her in the ambulance.”

“Wes?” Nora’s voice came from behind him.

Wesley ignored it. “Is that her only option? You know she won’t stand for that,” he stated.

“Wesley?” Nora’s voice came again.

“Just a second, Nora.”

“Are mother horses really protective of their young?” she asked.

“Of course they are,” he said, and knelt by Track Beauty’s head. Her eyes had emptied out—he couldn’t find the will to live in them. Not even the ambulance, the hospital, putting her up in the sling could bring that back. “Why?”

The sound of a whimper, heartrending and tiny, sliced through the tense silence in the stall. Wesley stood and spun around. Nora had the riding crop in her hand and the miserable whimper had come not from her but from Bastinado. She lifted the crop and struck the tiny horse on the back once more. And once more the foal released the smallest, most pitiful cry of pain Wesley had ever heard in his life. The foal flinched and tried to scurry away, but his newborn legs wobbled underneath him. Once more Nora hit Bastinado with shocking force, force he hadn’t known Nora possessed. Once more Bastinado whimpered and balked, his eyes wild and dark with terror. And from behind Wesley he heard the cry answered.

Wesley had to run for it as two thousand pounds of furious mother horse hoisted herself to her feet and surged forward.

“Nora!” Wesley started toward her, but his father beat him to her. He yanked Nora out of the way of Track Beauty’s fury and pulled her from the stall. Wesley didn’t even bother going through the door; he threw himself over it. All four humans stood outside the stall, watching as Track Beauty nuzzled Bastinado’s nose. The fragile newborn had three parallel welts on his back, but Wesley saw no blood. He might have scars. But he also had his mother alive and on her feet.

“Nora?” Wesley looked at Nora and found her panting, wide-eyed and silent, clutching the riding crop in her white-knuckled hand. “Are you okay?”

She shook her head.

“I’m fine,” she said, although he wasn’t sure he believed it.

“He’ll be fine, too.” Wesley gently took the riding crop from her hand and hung it on the wall with the other horse tack. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he pulled her close. She didn’t melt into his body like usual. She only stood there, breathing and staring.

Wesley tensed as his father came up to her, a new look in his eyes.

“That was the damnedest thing I ever saw in my life,” he said, glancing between Nora and Bastinado.

“I hope he’ll be okay.” Nora slowly met the older man’s eyes.

“I suppose I should say thank-you.” Wesley’s father held out his hand to shake. Nora only looked at it before giving him a slight and dangerous smile.

“At least now you know that when I have to…I can be very serious.”

NORTH

The Past

Kingsley wouldn’t believe it until he saw her. Over a year had passed since he’d seen his sister, since their grandparents had wrenched him from Marie-Laure’s grasp at their parents’ funeral. How had Søren done it…arranged for her to come all this way to see him? Søren claimed to have money, and from what Kingsley had heard, that claim was something of an understatement. Søren’s father had married money, then taken the family fortune and with ruthless business acumen trebled it in twenty years.

Money was the least of Søren’s allure for Kingsley. Had he been poor as a church mouse, Kingsley still would have slept at his feet, kissed his hands and crawled on command across burning coals if Søren asked that of him.

It wasn’t the cost of bringing Marie-Laure to visit him that engendered such disbelief in Kingsley. During their nights together, when Kingsley knelt at Søren’s feet or lay beneath him or submitted to his discipline, Søren always told him how little he mattered, how little he was worth. Kingsley knew he was nothing but a body to Søren, a body to be used and abused and discarded when he’d had his fill. So why…why would Søren do this kindness for him?

It made no sense.

And yet…

A black car wove its careful way down the one road that led from the narrow highway to the school. Kingsley stood alone in the bitter December air, waiting for its arrival. Søren had played a thousand terrible mind games with him since their first night together at the hermitage. Some days Søren would refuse to acknowledge his existence. Kingsley would speak to him and Søren would carry on with whatever he was doing as if Kingsley were some kind of ghost trying and failing to connect with the living. Other days Søren would watch his every move, watch and criticize. Kingsley’s shoes would have to be retied, his homework rewritten in a neater hand, his clothes changed for no reason other than Søren ordered it of him. Once, at the hermitage, Søren had told Kingsley that he no longer wished to continue this game together, that he’d tired of it, tired of him. Kingsley had dropped to his knees in dismay and pleaded with Søren to give him another night, another chance. Tears lined the corner of Kingsley’s eyes until he’d noticed the subtlest of smiles playing at the corner of Søren’s lips. In fury, he had come to his feet and thrown a punch at Søren. Søren had caught it with shocking strength and deftness.

“Temper, Kingsley,” he had whispered as Kingsley had struggled to wrest himself from that iron grip.

“I hate you.” Kingsley said the words in English. They were too ugly for French.

“I know. I know you hate me. But I don’t hate you.
Hate
is far too strong a word to describe what I feel for you.”

“Why…why do you do this to me?”

At that Søren had released his hand. Kingsley rushed at him again and Søren had kicked him hard in the thigh and sent him sprawling across the floor. He’d started to stand, unwilling to give up the fight even though he knew how useless the struggle was. But Søren straddled him at the knees and pushed him back to the floor. Digging his hands into Kingsley’s hair, Søren held him immobile against the cold hardwood.

“I do it for one reason and one reason only…” Søren hissed into his ear. Kingsley’s body tensed with fury and the far more unwelcome rush of desire that he could never defeat when Søren touched him. “I enjoy it as much as you do.”

And that night, as Søren beat him and fucked him over and over again, he had done so in complete silence, even as Kingsley begged for the grace of a single word. Only at dawn had Søren spoken to him again, and then only one word.

Goodbye.

So it wouldn’t have surprised Kingsley at all if the promise of a visit from his sister had been nothing but an elaborate ruse on Søren’s behalf. Somewhere in one of the buildings, Søren stood at a window watching the scene unfold, Kingsley was certain. The car would pull up in front of Kingsley and stop, and someone—a priest, a nun, a rabbi for all Kingsley knew—would get out and look at him in surprise. And no Marie-Laure. Why he even bothered going through with the charade was beyond him. But Søren had arranged this joke and Kingsley would do anything for Søren—even debase himself by standing in the freezing cold and waiting an hour for his sister, who would never come.

The car drew nearer and nearer. Kingsley dug his hands deeper in his pockets. Glancing around, he saw faces at the windows of the classroom building, the offices, the library…his classmates, all waiting in the warmth and comfort indoors, watching him. He tried to prepare himself for the humiliation he’d feel when Marie-Laure’s visit was revealed to be nothing more than a mind game of Søren’s. Søren...Kingsley saw the face of the pianist he’d come to hate as much as love waiting in the uppermost room of the classroom building. Kingsley exhaled and wrenched his eyes from Søren’s perfect face and back to the car. It had slowed almost to a stop. But it hadn’t stopped. Not yet. And still the passenger door started to open and two small feet in black shoes with ribbons that laced around the ankles appeared.