The night's dew mist outside the window slowly began to cling to the glass as coldness settled around them. Brand's gaze followed the glistening beads. He appreciated moments like such when the weather kept most folks to their homes and families, when the lords and ladies would return to their mansions, when the world grew still enough for him to hear his thoughts. Moments when he could allow himself to be without a single one. But alas, it was not to be so.
Turning from the droplets, which made their way to the unknown bottom of the glass, he regarded Ramsay, who sat steadily still, waiting for his reply.
"America, Yes?" The other man nodded, "I shall see to your purchase myself."
Ramsay released a heavy breath. "My thanks. You are a noble prince, a good man and a mightier friend."
"I would like to believe the latter ones outrank the former, even the very first."
Ramsay gave a low, easy laugh. Then, "I will set my affairs in order and depart two days hence. Before which I'll send another of my ships behind yours. To collect."
Brand nodded, dragging the cognac bottle to himself. "Godspeed, then."
"Upon my return," Ramsay called after him, "we must race the oceans. It has been far too long."
"Certainly. But prepare your heart for defeat as you are certain to entertain one."
"Your title does not frighten me."
"Good." He said with a smile, knowing he would hate for his title to present a barrier.
They remained in the room, conversing now on matters of less sterner hold.
An hour later, Brand walked out of the private room, through the open salon and out into the cold street. It was already as quiet as he had guessed, even though a number of people remained. His carriage remained by the street where he had alighted.
"Maincroft Castle now." He commanded.
"Yes, sir." A whip, a whinny and they were on their way. As the driver chauffeured them through the now quiet streets, he made a mental note to have a missive sent to Lawrence by the morrow of their sudden change in destination.
Leaning against the inside of his carriage, he lost himself to thoughts of Ramsay's loss. The vessel surely was not of great fortune even as a member of his fleet, but it was as expensive as was allowed. It was a goodness, he thought, that they were yet bound for America and not from, with their purchase. What a mighty loss, and pain, his friend would have recorded.
The sea remained ever hungry for more goods, more ships, and painfully, more lives.
Unwillingly, his thoughts trailed to one of the conversations he had shared with his brother when Alexander determined that the greatest pain was one caused by love. Without reasoning, Brand's eyes opened, scorning the notion. He had lost his rescuer to the cold waters and love posed the greatest pain? He scoffed.
Love? What was it but an exalted lie? The pain it caused could certainly not be compared to the pain of the loss of an entire vessel along with the goods and nearly the lives of the crewmembers entrusted to one's command. The pain love caused was nothing compared to the loss of one's dear friend. Love itself was nothing but a fallacy used by fools to decide their derision. A fallacy that kept them happy only for a moment. A fallacy that he was too wise to indulge in.
A foolishness exalted by mad men.
***
The sound of boots hitting against the floor echoed through the quiet halls. It was the only company of the man who walked through them, his knife swinging freely at his hip. It was well past eleven, and the castle was almost silent with most of her staff retired for the night, leaving only the sentries stationed at the outer gates. The man frowned in annoyance when a few maids, going about their final errands, passed by his left. He had not heard them coming. They bowed to him as they passed.
The night sky had thickened with the moonlight pouring through the arched windows, casting a pale, streamed light upon the walls. The warmth of the candle lights caused long, flickering shadows to appear on the stone walls. Brand strode down the corridor, with a sharp posture, moving quite gingerly, going to his brother.
Four years of captivity, and even more time at sea, had made the walls of his home a somewhat stranger. Its imposing stone walls and endless corridors felt confining. He held no resentment toward Mainecroft Castle, or toward Mainecroft Hall – his own estate – but he could not deny the lingering preference for the open sea and the freedom his ship, The Rescuer, offered. He reckoned that someday he might be obliged to dwell on land for long, but he was not so inclined to the thought.
As he neared the heavy mahogany doors of the Spring Room, the soft murmur of voices drifted to him and he accosted the king to not be alone. Alexander was always with his kingsman, but Brand doubted the latter to be the other conversationalist. As often as naught, the kingsman did not speak much. He bored Alexander, of which Brand found amusing, but he was loyal, which had kept him by the king's side all these years.
Pausing for a moment, Brand listened closely, realising the second voice belonged to a woman. He imagined who she was. When he reached the slightly ajar door, he stopped at the threshold. The warm glow of the fire, and the candles set all about, cast an inviting light upon the room.
Inside, seated opposite each other by the hearth, as he had imagined, were the king and the queen, leaning slightly forward over a chessboard. They were deeply engrossed in the game at hand. Brand leaned against the doorway, watching them with quiet amusement. He found it always a pleasure to witness his brother and the queen in these unguarded moments.
Alexander smiled, glancing up from the board. "You are distracting me," he accused in a sing-song voice, moving a black rook with a casual flick of his wrist.
The queen, Lady Gwen, giggled softly, replying in the same manner. "I am not." With a practised hand, she moved her knight, capturing his rook in one swift motion. Alexander groaned, and her soft laughter filled the room. "You only seek to blame me for your loss, my dear, but I will not have it so." She leaned forward. "Shall I gloat now, or would you prefer to suffer the shame in the light of day?"
Alexander reached out, brushing a strand of her hair from her face. He lightly held her chin. "Do not rejoice yet. I may yet turn this game in my favour."
She sat back properly. "Certainly not. Unless I permit it, as I always do."
When Alexander gasped in mock horror, appearing aghast, a faint smile crossed Brand's face.
"An accusation and an insult," his brother said. "You insult your king. A duel, Guinevere, to correct your ways."
Lady Gwen laughed. "I accept your challenge, Your Majesty. Have your heart prepared for you shall be properly obliterated."
"I think not."
This time, Brand chuckled quietly. Alexander was never one to concede defeat easily—he'd sooner lose an arm than admit to a loss in any competition. Perhaps that fierce pride was part of what made him a great king. And surprisingly, he would lay it down for a greater good—to protect all that mattered to him.
Edmund, the kingsman, noticed him in the doorway and quickly bowed. Then, "Your Majesties," he announced. The royal couple raised their eyes. "His Highness, the prince has arrived."
Lady Gwen's gaze raised and her expression shifted, moving from a playful smile to an easy one. "Your Highness!" she called fondly. "How pleasant to see you."
"Pleasant," Alexander said as he sat back, drawing upright with a restrained smile, "would be him not interrupting our peace."
"Do not say that," Lady Gwen reprimanded, tapping lightly on her husband's knee. "I know for certain that you hold no regard for your words. You, more than anyone else, have missed him terribly."
Alexander touched her cheek. "Your words give him great importance, my love."
"As they should, for he is."
Brand found himself smiling. Ancient times would have deemed their relationship erroneous. It was not formal and certainly not proper, nothing before him was, but somehow it was right. The couple before him had made it right and perfect for themselves, changing the laws to suit their affections and damning all else.
Rebellion was their second nature.