Strangers
1470 Words
Strangers~
Sethlyan Callan
Dundarien, Aleron
“Throw two strangers together. Tell them to marry and make the best of it.” He shakes his head at the notion. “Why would anyone ever consent to such an odd arrangement?”
“Being born to privilege is a boon,” I try to explain. “Privilege and duty are two sides of a coin. Deny one and forfeit the other.”
“So you bound your life to someone you barely knew. Why?”
“For the good of the clan. Because my father expected it of me.”
The dull ache in Seth’s head and scratchy burn in his eyes bore the hallmarks of a night of Aleron revelry.
Not my bed, his sleepy mind noted. He stretched and yawned. His foot brushed another’s. Soft and warm. Not alone. The realization brought him fully awake.
This was no typical morning after. He had a wife.
He rolled to his side and gave the notion a chance to settle. Dawn herded shadows into the corners of the room as he studied the beauty asleep on the pillow beside his.
So lovely. So quiet.
The boisterous Hawks and their exuberance at last night’s celebration seemed to overwhelm her. She’d relax once he got her to Glenayre. He reached to stroke her arm.
Isobel’s eyes flew open. Slumbering angel turned fighting hellion in an instant. Slow on the dodge, he let out a yelp when her fist clipped his lip. He rolled off the bed to escape her flailing. When he got to his feet, his bride was sitting upright and panting for breath, with the blanket drawn up tight.
A brush of his hand across his stinging mouth came away b****y. Isobel’s cheeks colored. He snatched up a crumpled tunic and dressed.
“Forgive me, my lord.” Her tiny voice whispered at his back. “I am sorry I struck you.”
“See to our packing,” he said brusquely. “We leave for Glenayre when I return.” He stopped at the door. “I’m sorry if you found last night…distressing.”
She didn’t answer. The door slammed harder than he intended, and he stalked off for the practice yard.
The yard was empty but for a few servants going about their early morning chores. He approached a sturdy, well-used pell. The chime of steel against scabbard sounded overly loud in the quiet morning. He loosened his shoulders with wide, arcing swings, relishing the warmth of muscles awakening to use.
A capable swordsman uses his entire body. The words echoed from his father’s earliest training. In the years since, Seth had spent countless hours at the pell, coordinating feet, arms, and hands.
Focus each strike with accuracy. Controlled swings build strength. His father’s instruction faded as he immersed himself in the drills. After a while, a different voice began urging him on.
Get up, pup. Dig a little deeper. Show them what a Callan’s made of. The other voice from his childhood carried unspoken confidence Seth could tap a reserve, could push past tired and get to what he wanted. Rogart’s rough tousle of his hair followed every time he proved his brother right.
“Odd way to spend your first morning of wedded bliss.”
Rogart’s voice shattered his focus. Seth stumbled shoulder-first against the pell.
“You’re up early,” he said, recovering his balance.
“Little choice but to be,” said Rogart. “It’s the misfortune of having a room a few open windows away from the White Hawk and his lady dove. When they started at it again this morning, I gave up trying to sleep. She’s ticklish, you see.”
“Gaven? How is he—”
“Faring better with his Iverach than you are with yours?”
Heat rushed to his face. Rogart had a knack for sniffing out his shortcomings.
“She’s scared of me,” he said, then winced at the opening he’d offered for any number of retorts.
“You’re a stranger.” Rogart passed up the opportunity for a taunt. “An intimate stranger.”
Seth didn’t dare a response.
“You did manage to consummate your marriage, little brother?”
“She bore it, yes.”
“She bore it?” Rogart grimaced.
“It was late. I think she was tired.”
“Come on now. The Fire Hawk knows how to satisfy a woman. At least, rumor says he does.”
“Don’t start.”
“Doesn’t explain why you’re out here this morning.”
“It’s safer than in there. One touch and she wakes flailing in terror. My sweet wife throws a mean punch.”
“Ouch. That bad.”
“That bad.”
Rogart scratched the stubble on his chin. “I’ve heard tales, you know. Can’t help but pity the girl. Dowan Iverach was a mean one.”
“I’m not him.”
“Give her time to know that. Be patient. She’s the one leaving all she’s ever known behind.”
“Patience. That’s your wise counsel?”
“Patience. Marriage takes some getting used to.” Rogart yawned and patted his shoulder. “You’ve got plenty of time. Wives stick around long after the party’s over.”
Rogart wandered off in search of a quieter bed and left him alone. All right, so maybe he did let pride get the better of him. It was early still. He could give it another try.
Seth tramped back to the great hall, ready to begin practicing his patience. He pulled up short at the sight of Isobel perched on a bench, pretty and prim, with all their trunks piled around her.
“What is this?”
“My lord bid me see to our packing,” she said, sitting straighter. “We were to leave at his return.”
“That was barely an hour ago. I haven’t even had a bath.” He eyed his trunks with dismay.
“Shall I unpack so my lord may refresh before his journey?” A flicker of challenge lit those riveting green eyes.
“No.” He resisted another glance at the trunks. “No, you did as I asked.”
He’d done more commanding than asking, but she’d rattled him. He raised an involuntary hand to his sore lip. She winced at the reminder of their bout.
“I am truly sorry, my lord. It wasn’t you—”
“Isobel, stop. A Hawk’s woman calls him by his name. My name is Seth.”
She blinked at him for a moment.
“I want to go home, my lord.”
“Seth,” he repeated. “And you might give me more than a day—”
“—to Glenayre.”
Leaving all she’s ever known behind. There it was, trust offered in a hesitant hand.
“As it happens, so do I,” he said. “Good of you to have thought of packing.”
She sacrificed a smile. It was a start.
# # #
The lead rider moved out with the heavily laden packhorses. Seth tightened a cinch and whistled for the collies. He led Gambit and a docile mare to the steps outside the great hall. Isobel waited for him there, the image of gentility and grace. Seth offered his hand to help his bride get astride her mount.
Isobel paled. “I don’t ride.”
Nonsensical words circled back and demanded attention.
“You what?”
“I do not ride,” she said, drawing it out as if he were dimwitted.
Who doesn’t ride? He frowned and considered her. She was serious.
“Then how do you get about?”
“Calum will let us borrow the Monaughty carriage,” she said, skirting the question.
“Carriage? A carriage won’t make it to Glenayre.”
“It’s a sturdy carriage. It made it to Dundarien.”
“On a trade road between two of the largest estates in Rhynn. Glenayre is a day’s ride on pack trails through mountain passes. A carriage isn’t an option.”
Isobel bit her lip and regarded the mare doubtfully.
“Isn’t there another way?”
“A longer route, zig-zagging through valleys. Farmers manage it with auroch carts. Your brother hired a few to take your larger trunks to Glenayre.”
“A cart, then.”
“Isobel, only the old and sick travel in carts. And cabbages. You aren’t a cabbage.”
If she chewed that lip any harder, she’d draw blood. He got around to noticing she was in a gown, not even a riding skirt.
“Come on,” he said. “Time to start making you into a Hawk.”
He took her hand and hurried her inside. She ran to keep up as he crossed the great hall, took the stairs to the second floor, and led her down a corridor in the guest wing he knew best. He knocked at one of the dozen doors.
“Mum, need your help out here.”
“You’re waking your mother?”
Isobel caught his hand mid-knock. He discovered she could deliver one hell of a scolding frown.
“Get us out of here,” she said.
The latch clicked, and the door creaked open.
“Too late,” he shrugged.
Mum slipped out to the hallway, tying on her robe.
“What damned fool is bothering us at this hour?” His father’s gruff complaint followed her.
“Go back to sleep, Symon.” Mum pulled the door to behind her. “What’s wrong, dear? Good morning, Isobel.”
“Pardon us, my lady,” Isobel whispered. “We shouldn’t be bothering—”
“I need a riding skirt,” he said.
“You need…” Mum leaned her head back and sighed. “Of course. I should have thought. Wait here.” She patted Isobel’s arm and disappeared inside the guest room.
“You mean to put me on a horse.” Isobel started backing away.
“I’ll set you on Gambit, and I’ll ride the mare. There’s no cause for—”
She bolted. She was quicker than he would’ve guessed. He caught her with an arm around her middle and swung her off her feet.
“Sethlyan Callan, put her down,” came his mother’s hushed reprimand. “You’ll wake the entire castle.”
“I am faster,” he whispered into his wife’s hair. She stopped squirming and huffed a sigh, so he set her on her feet.
“Gambit goes where I go,” he said. “You don’t even need to hold the reins.”
“I’d rather take a cart,” she said stubbornly.
“The Lady of Glenayre does not travel behind an auroch.” Mum patted a skirt of soft brown suede draped over her arm. “A few tucks at the waist, and you will ride as befits your station.”
Mum didn’t wait for capitulation. She latched onto Isobel’s wrist and tugged her away. Isobel yielded, but over her shoulder, she shot him a green glare that could peel the bark off a tree.
Never mind patience. He could come to like her.
Chapter 24
- Writer
