Lair of Beasts [Book I in the Curse Of Blood Saga]

Chapter XVII - Christmas Kiss

Lucian stood still a moment, as if collecting his fragmented thoughts into an ordered semblance of the calm he had exhibited before Caine's interruption. I might have marveled at his extreme array of darkened emotions had I not myself been troubled by the haunting depth of this rare display. Who was this uncle that so unsettled my fiancé? I had never thought to see Lucian so distressed and...furious.

It was exceedingly contagious, the unease he exuded, and might have accounted for the tension that developed rapidly between my shoulder blades — despite the dearth of any legitimate reason for its being there. Caine had already departed, as quickly as he'd appeared, and so it was that only I remained to bear the perverse shift of Lucian's mood — from equanimity to instability. Hagan, meanwhile, continued chewing serenely on a mouthful of oats, blissfully impervious to the hostility radiating from the imposing man beside him.

"We ought not keep my uncle waiting." He took my hand and pulled me along behind him, letting it go only once we were in view of the general public's discerning eyes.

The duke had apparently already alighted his horse and entered the keep for it was only the vast company of his own household that remained milling outside, awaiting direction from Nørrdragor's stewards and marshals.

Nørrdragor, on any given day, held approximately one hundred and twenty inhabitants (not including Godwin's large retinue of armored retainers), but with the holiday period in full effect and the wedding fast approaching, the castle — massive though it was — was now near to overflowing; privacy was now a scarce commodity indeed.

We climbed the stairs, but before we passed through the colossal front doors, Lucian stopped; he did this so suddenly that I nearly slammed into his broad back as he turned to study me with an unwonted solemnity.

"I warn you," he began, "my uncle is..." he darted a furtive glance over his shoulder as though the man in question were standing there, "a cunning man. He has unconventional ways and a peculiar manner, therefore it is best you speak to him as little as possible for he is like to dissect your words, and take pleasure in rearranging them to suit his needs." I nodded dumbly, albeit wholly unsure of his vague direction. "In fact, say nothing at all unless a response is expressly required of you; and even then I caution you to use as few words as possible." We continued along the gallery and neared the hall as he added one last comment. "Far better that he think my intended a simpleton than that you should pique his interest; I would that you never arouse his curiosity — not for all the world."

I was of a mind to insist that he elaborate, but we had, by this time, stepped into view of the busy hall and its serried occupants; the time for explanations had come to an end.

There was only one man amongst the horde that could possibly be the Duke of Skådrokksvall. He was taller even than Carac — I was all astonishment at realizing this fact — and his hair was as fuliginous as coal but for the silvered streaks at his temples. He was dressed in dark, green velvet, his cinnamon aketon studded with pearls, and the mantle he wore, draped over his shoulders, was a scarlet hue trimmed in gold. He was elaborately dressed, but instead of looking the dandified lord, the accouterments and rich garb only served to add to the imposing effect he engendered.

Inconceivable though it was, his formidable mien was as terrifying to me as Godwin's and Lucian's had first been. Lucian nudged me forward inconspicuously. His uncle, having noticed that Godwin's attention had now shifted elsewhere, to us in fact, turned in our direction with flagrant interest.

"Uncle." Lucian kissed his uncle reservedly in greeting, more out of dutiful respect and a reaffirmation of fealty than outright affection, I noted.