A Father’s Regret
880 Words
A Father’s Regret~
Brynmohr o’Berwyn
Dundarien, Aleron
Ochmoon, 4399
Jenna stood on her toes at the balcony rail. With her youthful face and dyed brown hair, the chances of anyone recognizing her were slim. It was far more likely someone in the crowd below would notice Prince Brynmohr of Twelvestones standing beside her. He consented to tying back his hair and wearing a wide-brimmed cavalier to shade his face, but he refused to hide behind a more elaborate disguise.
He might not be an invited guest, but he had every right to be there.
“You chose the perfect room.” Jenna slipped her arm through his. “We can see the chapel clearly from here.”
“They’ll say their vows outside because of the large crowd,” he said. “A select few will go inside to see the marriages blessed.”
“You’re an expert on Rhynn weddings now?”
“I read up.”
Clouds hinted at an afternoon shower, but the ceremony should conclude in ample time. The wedding party would make it back to Dundarien for feasting and dancing that would last all night.
The crowd parted, and he pointed her attention to the street below.
“There they are.”
An elegantly dressed man escorted the two young brides toward the chapel. Calum was taller than Brynmohr remembered, but the coarse features and stormy coloring of his sire were unforgettable. In telling contrast, his sisters were as delicate as their mother.
Brynmohr swallowed the resentment that would forever leave him bitter. They were the daughters the patterns denied him.
Isobel and Rosalee wore their long hair in loose curls. Circlets of roses framed their faces. Trains of satin ribbons streamed from gowns of the palest lilac silk. Calum had spared no expense.
“That’s Rosalee on his right,” whispered Jenna.
“Are you sure? Shouldn’t Isobel be the taller one?”
“Yes, but Rosalee’s hair was a darker auburn, closer to my color.”
They couldn’t tell their own daughters apart. How had it come to this? He blamed Dowan Iverach. He blamed Rotharia and her Dawnguard, and King Berwyn of the Firstborn, but not nearly as much as he blamed himself.
“The last time I saw them, they were frightened little girls.” Jenna’s tears brimmed. “Oh, Bryn, if only we could have taken them with us.”
He draped his arm around her shoulder. Wishing couldn’t undo what was done.
“Tell me what you know of the men.”
“They’re from chieftain lines. Clans Callan and Buchanan,” he said. “Second sons, but what men aren’t?”
“But are they honorable men? Kind?”
“I would’ve intervened if I thought otherwise,” he said. “They built a bit of a reputation as youthful adventurers, but nothing too troubling. Calum was particular in his choosing. An alliance with Clan Aleron will benefit him.”
Jenna gave him a sharp look. “He chose for his own benefit?”
“I didn’t say that. I said he was particular. He saw to it Isobel and Rosalee would live near one another. The estates are comfortable but quiet.”
Their daughters left Calum’s arms and took their places beside the Aleron men.
“They seem handsome enough, from here,” she said. “I hope some fondness grows between them.”
“At the moment, neither can take his eyes off my daughters.”
Jenna smiled. “You’re all like that in the beginning.”
He couldn’t hear the entirety of the vows, but each must have recited their parts sufficiently. The couples waved to the crowd and disappeared inside the chapel.
“What happens in a few years, when there are no children?”
“By then, those two Alerons will love their beautiful wives so dearly it won’t matter,” he said, having no idea whether it would be true. “Second sons are less obligated to produce heirs.”
“Will you be able to keep watch over them? Will you know if they’re well treated?”
I’ll watch closely. I’ll be prepared if…
He stopped himself. He’d never been able to tell just how much she knew of his mind.
“I’ll know,” was all he said.
Brynmohr’s daughters emerged from the chapel as the wives of men. The procession wound through the village, making its way back toward Dundarien. His breathing grew ragged as the girls passed beneath the balcony, so close he could almost reach out and touch them.
Brynmohr watched in silence as his daughters walked away.
In the crowd of revelers, silken white hair drew his notice just as the face looked up at him. Brynmohr took an involuntary step back. Then he reached up and took off his hat.
Yes, I am here. You know they are mine.
A man stepped between them. No, not a man. The nene-man glanced at Lord Nigel Willoughby, up to the balcony, and then back. Nigel gave Brynmohr a subtle nod, motioned the nene-man to move on, and resumed walking with the procession.
“Someone recognized you,” she said.
“No one of consequence.” He circled her in his arms. “We had a nice excursion and saw our girls wed without anyone making a scene.”
“Thank you, Bryn.” She laced her fingers behind his neck. “Thank you for bringing me.”
He claimed her with a slow kiss and drew her back inside the room. Having her away from Twelvestones stirred the reckless yearning he’d felt the first time he saw her. They made love with the urgency of their early years together. Satisfied and damp with sweat, they nestled together as the afternoon waned.
Jenna sighed. “Do you ever have regrets? About us?”
Did he regret his jealous rage? He rekindled a centuries-old conflict between nenes of the Firstborn and the Dawnguard. All because of his irrational feelings for a woman. But he’d accepted their truce. He’d kept Jenna and the baby, and he’d left Isobel and Rosalee in the care of their brother.
No, it was too late for regrets.
“None,” he said. “None at all. Dress now, my dear. It’s time to go home.”
Chapter 23
- Writer
