Read Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 for Free Online Page A

murderous glare at the remaining wood
    snapping and crackling in the fireplace.
    “Well?” Gillian challenged. She continued to stare at her brother until he snatched up his coat and
    stomped heavily to the door.
    “I don't care to venture out in this muck,” Nick grumbled as he jerked the door open and plowed out
    into the hall. “It's gods-be-damned cold out there."
    “And bring back some more snow!” Gillian called out. “The water in the barrel ain't fit to drink!” She
    grinned at the nasty expletive that came back to her as Nick's heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs.
    She glanced down at her patient then blinked.
    He was staring up at her, his soul lurking just behind the dark umber of his eyes. There was an odd
    expression on his thin face and breathless wonder in the weak voice which spoke.
    “Who are you?” came the hoarse request.
    “Gillian, Your Grace,” she whispered automatically although she had been captured-and was being held
    spellbound-by the shifting motes of gold moving through his irises. “Have you forgotten already?"
    “My Gillian,” he sighed and long dark lashes slipped slowly downward to hide the fevered intensity of his
    gaze. His breathing grew deep as he returned to the netherworld in which he'd spent most of the day.
    She sat there—holding his head braced against her chest—and stared at him. Was it really him? She
    wondered as her gaze slid slowly over the taut features that were now composed in sleep. Although his
    face was flushed from the fever and his cheeks sunken from lack of proper nourishment, he was just as
    handsome as the first day she had seen him over nine years before.
    “Kaelan,” she said and trailed her fingers down his lean cheek and under his too-warm chin.
    He would be thirty-two, now, she thought, this prince of the Hesar clan, and yet he looked much older.
    No doubt the life he had been forced to live had aged him so. Anger rose up in Gillian's heart and she
    drew him closer to her, holding him, protecting him against the vile world that had made him an outcast.
    * * * *
    Nick was grumbling fiercely as he dropped the load of firewood beside the hearth. “By the gods, but it's
    turning colder out there!” He thrust his hands to the fire and rubbed them vigorously together. “And I'll
    warrant there's been another three inches of snow fallen since we came inside.” Stamping the feeling back
    into his numb toes, he turned his backside to the fire.
    Gillian glanced at her brother. “He woke for a moment and asked who I was."
    Nick chuckled. “You must have seemed like a dream to him, I suppose."
    “The fever's broken,” she told him. “But there's still a lot of congestion in his lungs."
    “Best see if you can find some medicines down below,” her brother advised. “The fever may be leaving
    him, but he could yet die."
    “He won't,” Gillian stated and Nick nodded. If his little sister said the man wouldn't die, he wouldn't.
    “I spied the sign whilst I was out,” Nick said. When Gillian turned a questioning brow to him, he nudged
    his chin toward the man on the bed. “The estate sign,” he explained. “It had been torn off the post."
    “Holy Dale,” Gillian said softly. She had always thought the name beautiful despite the ugliness that had
    become attached to it.
    “Some fool had changed it to Unholy Dale,” Nick snorted. He faced the fire again and held out his
    hands. “And I don't think it was the young prince, there, what done it."
    “Probably not,” Gillian agreed. “Do you want more stew, Nicky?"
    “Aye,” her brother said, sitting down on the hearth. “Just as soon as I thaw myself out."
    “Watch him, then,” she said, handing her brother another bowl of stew. “I'll see what I can find
    downstairs."
    Nick wrapped his hands around the steaming bowl of stew as he sat watching their patient. He smiled at
    the big dog who was still draped across his master's legs.
    “You don't go far from him, do you, girl?”