Читать книгу Royal Weddings: The Reluctant Princess / Princess Dottie / The Royal MacAllister - Christine Rimmer, Lucy Gordon - Страница 10

Chapter Five

Elli didn’t pack. Her father had agreed to give her till Thursday and, for the time being anyway, she was keeping that option open. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was simply because, with Hauk shadowing her every move, it felt like the only option she had.

She went to the spare room, where she kept her computer. Hauk sat at attention on her futon while she surfed the Net for a while and fiddled with e-mail. Then, for an hour or so, she made a valiant effort to get a little reading done.

But it was no good. She kept feeling those cool, careful eyes on her. She couldn’t concentrate on a book.

They had lunch at one. By then she was aching for a little ordinary conversation. Over BLTs she tried to engage him in a nice, friendly chat.

He was the master of the one-line reply. He’d get it down to a single word if he could, or better still, a low, unpromising sound in his throat. She got a number of curt noes, a lonely little yes or two and a whole lot of gruff grunts.

Finally, she asked him about his family. “Do you have brothers—or sisters?”

“No.”

“And your mother and father?”

He just looked at her.

“Your parents, are they still alive?”

“No.”

“Both gone?”

“That’s correct.”

Well, she couldn’t say she was surprised. It seemed hard to picture that he’d ever even had a father or a mother. With his huge, hard, smooth chest and his infomercial abs, his deadpan expression and his lightning-bolt tattoos, Hauk FitzWyborn seemed someone not quite mortal—someone who had never been something so vulnerable as a little boy with parents who loved him. He seemed more like a creature sprung from the Norse myths, like Odin, Vili and Ve, brought into being out of ice.

“Um, your father? Tell me about him.”

He gave her the lifted-eyebrow routine.

She tried again. “What was your father like, Hauk?”

“I told you. My father is dead.” He’d finished his sandwich. He stood, carried his plate and empty glass to the sink, rinsed them both and put them in the dishwasher.

She refused to give up. “I’m sorry, Hauk—that he’s gone. Do you…miss him?”

He reached for the towel, dried those big hands. “He’s been dead for almost a decade.”

“But do you miss him?”

He hung the towel on its little hook beneath the cabinets. “You behave like an American.” He made it sound like some crushing insult.

She sat up straighter in her chair. “I am an American.”

His sculpted mouth curved. Too bad it was more a sneer than a smile. “In Gullandria, the lowliest of the low will know which questions should never be asked. In Gullandria, we do not presume to ask after the dead loved ones of people we hardly know.”

Wow. Two whole sentences. The man was a chatterbox, no doubt about it. And he also had a truckload and a half of nerve, to imply that she was presumptuous, when he wouldn’t let her make a call without listening in on her speakerphone.

She kept after him. “So. You’re sensitive on the subject of your father. Why is that?”

He stood there by the sink, big and broad and silent, looking at her. But she was becoming accustomed to his eagle-eyed stare. She stared right back. And she waited.

At last, he shrugged. “My father was a Wyborn. My mother was not.”

She was getting the picture. “They weren’t married when you were born?”

“That’s right. They were never married. I am a fitz. For future reference, during your stay in Gullandria, when you hear that a man’s name begins with Fitz, you will know that man is a bastard. You might think twice before asking after his family.”

“Thank you.” She gave him the most regal of nods. “I’ll remember that.”

“The prefix Fitz,” he informed her in scholarly tones, “is one known to many lands. A child of King Henry the Eighth comes to mind. You’ve heard of Henry the Eighth, second of the Tudor kings of England?”

“Yes, Hauk,” she said dryly. “Even rude Americans take history in school.”

“A barmaid gave King Henry a son. The barmaid named the child for his father. Henry FitzRoy. The literal translation of Fitz is son of. Thus, Henry, son of—”

“—the king,” she finished for him. Her mother had told her many things about her homeland. But not this painful little detail. “Is there some reason, now, in the twenty-first century, to…label a person that way?”

“In Gullandria, we treasure the family. Life can be hard and short—not so much in recent decades, since we discovered we are rich in oil and have a valuable commodity to trade for the comforts of the modern world. But it was not always so.

“Over the generations, we have learned to count on one another. Loyalty and honor always come first. Marriage is a sacred trust. Once his wife has given him children, a man cannot divorce. With so much value on the family, it is seen as an offense against the continued survival of our people to bring children into the world without the sacrament of marriage. Certain doors are always closed to bastard children.”

“But why? It’s not the child’s fault that his parents weren’t married.”

“It’s nothing to do with who is at fault. There’s an old saying. Don’t bicker over blame while the house burns.” He came toward her. “You have finished your meal?”

She stared up at him, feeling, for the first time, a certain softening toward him. “What doors are closed to you, Hauk?”

He asked again, “Have you finished?”

She looked down at the bit of uneaten sandwich. “Sure, I’m finished. With lunch.”

He took her plate and her glass to the sink, dumped the crust in and ran the disposal. Then he rinsed her dishes and put them in the dishwasher with his.

“Hauk?”

He turned to her and folded his huge arms over his chest. The early-afternoon sun slanting in the window made his hair shine as though it were spun from real gold.

“What doors are closed to you?”

Now, instead of staring her down, he seemed to be studying her. She knew a certain feeling of warmth inside as she saw that she had found it, the key to having an actual conversation with him. If they spoke of Gullandria, if he thought he might impart to her things she would need to know as the daughter of his king, he was willing to talk.

He asked, “Do you understand the rules of Gullandrian succession?”

“I think so.” She repeated what her mother had told her long ago. “All male jarl—” she pronounced it yarl, as her mother had taught her “—and jarl means noble, both singular and plural—are princes, technically eligible to claim the throne when the current king dies or is no longer capable of ruling. When that happens, the jarl convene in the capital city of Lysgard and each casts a vote. The winner is the new king. The vote itself—as well as the ceremony surrounding it—is called the kingmaking.”

Hauk dropped his hands to his sides. She could have sworn he almost smiled. “Very good. You have it nearly right.”

“Nearly?”

“Not all male jarl are princes. Only all legitimate male jarl.”

“You’re saying that you, Hauk FitzWyborn, could never be king.”

“That’s correct. Not that I would get any real chance to be king—let alone even want to be king—were I legitimate in the first place. But were I not a fitz, to be chosen king would at least be a theoretical possibility.”

“What about your children?”

He looked rather pleased. “Good question. As far as my children go—and still, remember, speaking the-oretically—everything can be different for them.”

“You mean, if you marry, then the sons your wife gives you would be eligible when the kingmaking comes around again.”

“That’s right—given that my wife is jarl herself.” It suddenly occurred to her that he might be married right now. That shocked her, for some reason. Nothing personal, she hurried to reassure herself silently. It wasn’t about being… interested in him, as a man.

No. Of course not.

It was only that he didn’t seem married. Just as she couldn’t picture him as a vulnerable little boy with parents who took care of him, she had trouble seeing him with a wife, with children of his own.

She couldn’t resist asking. “Are you? Married?”

“No. And I have no children, either. I will never have children, unless I first have a wife. That is the lesson a fitz always learns and thus, in Gullandria, bastard children are rare.”

“So then,” she said gently, “you’ll never be king. But your children might.”

“They might. But again, it’s not likely. Families hold tight to ground they have gained. The sons of kings tend to become kings. They are groomed from birth with the throne in mind. Your brother, Prince Valbrand…” Hauk paused, fisted a hand at his heart and briefly bowed his head in what was clearly a gesture of respect for someone greatly valued and tragically lost. “Your brother was born to rule. He was wise beyond his years, a good and fair man. Gullandria would have prospered under him as she has thrived under His Majesty, your father.” Something had happened in Hauk’s cool eyes. For the first time, Elli saw that he did have a heart and that he had admired—even loved—her brother.

Her own heart contracted. “He was…good? My brother?”

“Yes. A fine man. The Gullandrian people felt pride that someday he would rule. Jarl and freeman alike knew a steady confidence in the future he would make for us all.”

“And my other brother, Kylan?”

Hauk shrugged. “He was a child when we lost him. Barely in his fifth year.”

“But…did you ever see him? Do you remember anything about him?”

After a thoughtful pause, he said, “Young Prince Kylan was strong and well made. He had the dark hair and eyes of the Celts—as did Prince Valbrand, as does His Majesty, your father.”

Strong and well made, dark hair and eyes…

It was all so sad. Both of them, her fine, strong, dark-eyed brothers, lost now, one to a fire, one to the sea the Gullandrians loved. Lost to Elli and her shattered family. Lost to the country they might have ruled and ruled well.

Hauk approached her again. She looked up at him. “So sad…”

“Yes. A great double tragedy. For your family. For our land.”

His words had so exactly echoed her thoughts. She gestured at the chair across from her. “Sit down. Please.” He took the chair. “Tell me more. About Gullandria.”

Hauk talked for a while, quietly. He told her that the North Atlantic drift made Gullandria’s seacoasts warm for that latitude. He spoke of the famous Gullandrian horses, with their flowing white manes and long, thick white coats to protect them against the northern winters.

Elli asked, “And with my brothers gone, who do you think will be the next king?”

Hauk spoke then of a man who had been her father’s friend since childhood, the man second in power only to King Osrik himself: the Grand Counselor, Medwyn Greyfell. Medwyn was several years older than Osrik, and unlikely to live to succeed him. But Greyfell had a son, Eric. The younger Greyfell was the most likely choice.

“Still,” he added, shaking that golden head, “none can say with certainty how the jarl will vote when the kingmaking again comes around.”

They left for her mother’s house at a little after six in Elli’s BMW. Hauk filled the seat beside her. His knees were cramped against the dashboard and his head touched the ceiling. They’d reached a sort of understanding in the past few hours. At least they’d found something to talk about: the land where he would soon be taking her, the land that he loved.

But looking at him, sitting there in the passenger seat, she was struck all over again with that feeling of extreme unreality: Elli and her Viking bodyguard, on their way to dinner at her mother’s house…

The house where Elli had grown up was three stories, Tudor in style, on a wide, curving street lined with gorgeous mature oaks and maples. As a child, Elli and her sisters had sometimes lain on the emerald slope of the front lawn and stared up at the thick canopy of leaves overhead, smiling at the blue sky beyond, watching the clouds up there, drifting by.

The driveway was on the west side. Elli drove under an arching porte cochere to a back parking area. She stopped at the farthest door of the four-car garage.

“We’ll go in the back way. I have a key, if we need it.”

Hauk frowned. He looked almost comical, crammed into her sporty little car, hunching those massive shoulders so that he could fit. “It would be wiser, I think, to go to the front door, to knock.”

“Oh, please. I was raised here. I don’t have to knock.”

“But I do.”

She sighed. “Listen. I don’t intend to explain everything. If my mother hears how you broke into my apartment, how you tied me up and planned to kidnap me, how Father has set you on me as a round-the-clock guard, she’ll hit the roof. So we’ll let her think you’re my guest, okay? I can always bring a guest home. My mother would never object to that.”

“I am a stranger here. A wise stranger enters by the front door.”

Elli threw up both hands. “Will you save the platitudes? You hardly entered my house by the front door—and if you were really so damn wise, you would have let me come here on my own, because we both know that explaining you is going to be almost as difficult as convincing my poor mother to accept where I intend to go.”

“I have told you, my orders—”

“I know what your orders are. And I’m telling you, I’m no stranger and you’re with me, so there’s no reason we can’t just—”

He showed her the lightning bolt in the heart of his hand. “Someone comes.”

The door to the back service porch opened and her mother’s housekeeper emerged.

“That’s Hilda Trawlson,” Elli told Hauk. “Hildy’s been with us as long as I can remember. She came back with us from Gullandria.” Elli rolled down the window on Hauk’s side. “Hi, Hildy!”

Hilda came down the steps and up to the car. “Elli.” Her dark gaze flicked once over the Viking in the passenger seat. Then she looked again at Elli. “You’ve brought a guest.” Her voice was flat.

“Hildy, don’t be a sourpuss. This is Hauk.”

The housekeeper and the warrior exchanged cautious nods.

Elli could see that Hilda already suspected Hauk had not come from Cleveland. So she announced, “Hauk is here from Gullandria.”

Hilda took a step back.

Elli leaned on her door and got out of the car. “We have some things to talk about with Mom.” She kept a smile on her face and her tone light. The whole idea here was to make her mother—and Hilda—believe that the coming trip was completely her choice.

And it was her choice. They didn’t need to know that choosing not to go wasn’t an option.

Hauk took his cue from her and pushed open his own door. Swinging those powerful legs out, he planted his big boots on the concrete and unfolded himself from the passenger seat. Hildy was giving him the evil eye. He stared back, stoic as ever. Neither deigned to speak.

“Can we just go in?” Elli asked wearily.

“Certainly.” Hilda turned sharply on her crepe heel and headed toward the back door. She led them across the big service porch with its terra-cotta floor and profusion of potted plants, and from there, through the wonderful old kitchen where the green marble counters gleamed and the cabinets were fronted in beveled glass and something good was cooking, down the central hall to the family room.

“Your mother will join you shortly,” the housekeeper said as she ushered them into the room.

“Is she still at work?” Elli’s mother owned an antique shop downtown in Old Sac.

“She came in a few minutes ago. She only went up to change. Is there anything I can get you before I go?”

“Oh, Hildy. Will you stop it? Don’t I even get a hug?”

Hildy’s stern face softened slightly. “Come on, then.” She held out those long arms. Elli went into them, pressing herself close to Hildy’s considerable bosom, breathing in the housekeeper’s familiar scent of Ivory soap and lavender, thinking that those smells, for all her life, would remind her of home.

“Everything’s fine, honestly,” Elli whispered to the woman who was like a dear aunt or a grandmother to her.

Hildy said nothing, just gave her an extra squeeze before letting her go. “I’m in the kitchen, if you need me.”

“I think what I need is a drink,” Elli muttered as soon as Hildy had left them. “And don’t give me that look.”

Gold brows drew together over that bladelike nose. “Look?”

“Yes. There. That one.” She turned for the wet bar on the inner wall. “It’s almost like all your other looks, since pretty much your expression doesn’t change. But there are…minute shifts. The one I just saw was the disapproving one.” She found a half-full bottle of pinot grigio in the fridge and held it up. “You?”

“No.”

“Now, why did I sense that was what you would say?”

“You are distressed.”

She turned to look for a wineglass. “Yep. Distressed is the word. This is not my idea of a real fun time, you know? My mother is not going to be happy about our news. And I wish she had told me that my father had called, that he’d asked for my sisters and me. And I…” She let her voice trail off and shook her head. “You’re right. Wine is tempting, but overall, a bad idea.” She put the bottle away and then lingered, bent at the waist, one hand draped over the door to the half fridge, staring down into the contents. “Hmm. Diet 7UP, Mug root beer. Evian. But the question is, where are my—”

“Your Clearly Canadians are in the back, second shelf.” It was her mother’s voice, smooth as silk, cool as a perfectly chilled martini. She was standing in the open doorway to the hall.

“Hi, Mom.” Elli flashed her mother what she hoped was an easy smile. “Hauk? What can I get you?”

“Nothing. Thank you.”

Elli pulled out the tall pink bottle, shut the refrigerator and stood, her smile intact. Her mother, tall, blond as her daughters and stunningly beautiful in a crisp white shirt, a heavy turquoise necklace and black slacks, did not smile back.

“Mom, we were just—”

Ingrid wasn’t listening. “Who is this man?”

What to do? How to handle this? There was just no right approach to take.

Elli gestured with her bottle of fruit-flavored sparkling water. “This is Hauk FitzWyborn.”

Hauk whipped his big fist to his chest and lowered his head. “Your Majesty.”

There was an awful moment of total silence.

Then her mother said, too softly, “Hildy was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs. She told me. But I refused to believe it.” Ingrid was looking at Elli again, blue eyes gleaming dangerously. “Let me guess. A warrior, right? One of Osrik’s goons, his… Viking berserkers?”

“Mom.” Elli set the unopened bottle on the bar and went to her mother. “Come on.” She took Ingrid’s elbow. “Let’s not—”

“Don’t.” Ingrid jerked free. “I want to know what’s happening here. I want to know why you’ve brought one of your father’s thugs into my house.”