The Duchess Inheritance (Jordinia Book 2) Read online

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Duchess Inheritance, Jordinia: Book 2. Copyright © 2015 by C.K. Brooke.

  Edited by Denise DeSio. Cover by Amanda Matthews of www.amdesignstudios.net.

  All rights reserved including the right to manufacture in any format, sell, or distribute copies of this book or portions of this book. For information, visit http://www.48fourteen.com.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-937546-41-0

  ISBN-10: 1937546411

  For you, my readers:

  the only joy greater than writing is the gift of your readership. Thank you.

  THE VILLAGE INN’S FRONT DOOR burst open, and a young woman bounded forth. Jon Cosmith’s heart trembled to see Eludaine Ducelle jogging toward him, her short black hair delightfully disheveled. But she darted straight past him to the ebony stallion, Spitfire.

  With affection, she threw her arms around the beast’s neck. “Dear Spitfire, if only I could keep you for myself,” Cosmith heard her whisper. “But Bos and Selu must take you home now.” She lifted her head, catching the man watching her. “One of my fondest memories of you is riding together upon this horse,” she admitted shyly.

  He grinned at her. “My fondest memory of you did not take place upon any horse.”

  “Jon.” The young woman blushed, although the corners of her mouth were upturned.

  He was pulling her into his arms when their companions’ voices drifted nearer. Regretfully, Dainy slipped from his hold and made her way toward them, joining in their chatter.

  “Your hat, Cosmith.” Seluna Campagna tossed the familiar brown cowman’s hat across the threshold. He reached up and caught it.

  “And your satchel.” Boslon Visigoth held out the tan bag, and Cosmith thanked him, receiving it.

  “Well.” Selu craned her neck to look up at the giant. “Time to say goodbye to the Emperor’s children, then?”

  Cosmith started. This was a rather odd way of referring to Macmillan and Dainy, although the violet-haired woman was entirely accurate. He was simply unaccustomed to the notion that Marley Macmillan and the Duchess of Jordinia shared the same father: Jordinia’s former Emperor, Dane Ducelle. Not to mention, Cosmith now knew that he and Macmillan shared the same mother.

  He wasn’t one for farewells, so he lingered by the borrowed steeds—Storm, Folly Silver, and Spitfire—whom Bos and Selu planned to return to their owner in southern Häffstrom.

  Dainy squeezed Bos around his enormous middle. “It’s not goodbye forever,” the giant assured her. The girl wiped her eyes, and Cosmith watched her, longing to take her into their room and comfort her as soon as the others were gone.

  “That’s right.” Selu smiled. “You’ll certainly be invited, should there be any,” she cleared her throat, “upcoming celebration of sorts.”

  At first, Dainy beamed at the insinuation of Bos and Selu’s matrimony. But slowly, her fair countenance fell. “Oh. Well, I’m not sure if we’ll be around here for much longer.” At their curious expressions, she reached into the folds of her frock and extracted the silver triangular key they’d recently unearthed. “This was in the little box we found in my treasury vault,” she divulged.

  Selu held the object up to her oblong eyes.

  “Jon thinks it’s from Asiotica,” explained Macmillan. “We intend to travel there, and find what it goes to. Dainy’s inheritance—”

  “Our inheritance,” she corrected him.

  He smiled at her. “Our inheritance,” he amended, “may not be lost, after all.”

  “You’re going to Asiotica?” Bos and Selu appeared taken aback. “But when?”

  “I know not.” Dainy shrugged. “Perhaps soon!”

  The giant frowned. “I should accompany you. It shall be a tremendous voyage from here to the Great Continent. You’ll need a grander escort than merely Cosmith and Macmillan.” The other two men glared up at him, indignant, but Bos only grunted. “No offense.”

  “Oh, no.” Dainy shook her head at once. “I’ll not make that mistake again. Uncle Pascale did not live to see his wedding day, because he insisted on escorting me here first. Nay, you mustn’t come with us, Bos. Stay here, and begin your life with Selu.”

  Bos made to object, but Macmillan asserted himself. “You know full well the Duchess shall be perfectly safe with me. I am her brother, after all.”

  Selu placed a hand on her partner’s hulking arm. “We must heed Macmillan, dear,” she reminded Bos. “As Dainy’s elder brother, he speaks for her now.”

  At this remark, Dainy furrowed her brow, while Cosmith—Dainy’s intended—slowly clenched his jaw. He had not thought of that…

  Bos reluctantly relented, and at last, he and Selu departed with the horses. Pulling down his hat to shield from the sun’s glare, Cosmith hitched his satchel over his shoulder and turned back to the inn. They were still exhausted from the journey behind them and the trying events of Dainy’s uncle’s betrayal and her subsequent rescue in the previous days. All they wished to do was rest in preparation for their next voyage. Which, Cosmith noted, had better be soon, before autumn should fall, bringing hurricanes with it.

  Although the sun still shone, he led Dainy to their rented chamber. Patiently, she waited as he pulled down the shades and slid off his boots.

  The door rolled open behind them, however, and Macmillan stepped in, yawning and stretching his arms. “Can you believe my feet still hurt from walking through the Bainherd Plains?” He collapsed onto the mattress unceremoniously, hazel eyes staring up at the rafters. Dainy cast Cosmith an uncertain glance.

  “Mac.” Cosmith beckoned him.

  The lad looked up, puzzled.

  “Is it not time you rented your own room, brother?” suggested Dainy carefully.

  Macmillan looked between them, eyes narrowing. “Oh,” he said at last, an unpleasant smirk creeping across his features. “I see what you two are intending. And I’ll not hear of it.” He lay back on the bed, sprawling out his limbs with a contented sigh. “You are not to lie with my little sister again, Cosmith. Not on my watch.”

  Cosmith tensed.

  “This isn’t funny, Mac.” Dainy frowned.

  “I’m not jesting,” he contended. “You heard Selu. As your elder brother, I speak for you now. And I say you two may not share a bed until you’re wed.” He shrugged. “It’s only proper.”

  “Unbelievable,” muttered Cosmith, as Dainy looked to him imploringly. Flustered, he steered her back to the door.

  Macmillan sat up. “Where’re you going?”

  “The Duchess and I have better things to do than hang around with you,” Cosmith snapped, guiding Dainy from the room.

  IN THE RURAL VILLAGE OF Solomyn, Häffstrom, Selu and Bos found a quiet farm for sale, resting peacefully between two streams, with brown hens strutting through the tall grasses and a milk cow lowing in the barn. The wooden house was sturdy and comfortable, a fine place to share a simple, peaceful life together.

  With a portion of the gold winnings that Cosmith and Dainy had generously given them, they purchased the property. Each day, Bos felled trees and crafted furniture from the wood. Selu marveled at his capabilities, never having realized her beloved was such an artist.

  On their first night in their new home, she made to share his mat. But Bos gently pointed her away. “We are not yet wed.”

  “What do you take me for? A virgin?” She laughed. “You know I’m a widow. Not to mention…” Her voice faded at the dark memories of her youth in Jordinian prison, where she and her mother had suffered the rebel soldiers’ abuses.

  “Still,” he insisted. “It is not right.”

  “We’ve shared a mat before,” she argued. But even as she spoke, she knew that occasion had been different, as nothing of an intimate nature had transpired between them.

  Bos smiled, blue eyes glowing. “I shall build us a bed for our wedding night,” he promised. “Which,” he reached into his pocket, “may be as soon as you wish.”

  Selu’s breath caught to see the delicate wooden bracelet resting in his enormous palm, as he lowered himself onto both knees and presented it to her in the traditional way. He slipped the band around her left wrist, and Selu admired the meticulous rose- and leaf-like designs carved in the wood.

  Examining the base, she noticed he’d etched a succession of runes, spelling out two unfamiliar words: Hazja Lӕnde. “What does this mean?” she asked, brushing her thumb against the foreign engravings.

  “It is Old Jordinian, meaning eternal love. Do you like it?” He suddenly looked apprehensive. “I made it myself. If you prefer, I could buy you someth—”

  “It is the most magnificent nuptial bracelet I’ve ever seen.” She took the brawny man into her arms. “And I’d not trade it for the world.”

  He wrapped her in his mighty embrace. “Write to your mother, then. Invite her to be a witness to our matrimony, and to live with us here in Solomyn.”

  Selu could not restrain the single tear that leaked from her eye. This was a kindness she’d not anticipated. She nodded against his massive shoulder, overcome with gratitude.

  “
WHAT’S THE WORD TODAY, BETINE?”

  The older woman scowled. “Don’t look so cheerful, Carlo.”

  The boy laughed. “It’s that bad, then?”

  Bet Toustead handed over the parchment she’d torn from Capitol Square. Carlo looked merely amused, blond curls falling over mischievous blue eyes. “An article about lumber shortage? And this is newsworthy how?”

  Bet sighed, rolling up the parchment and swatting his head with it. “Are you such a fool, boy? Jordinians are already hungry and cold. If wood becomes a commodity, things are only going to worsen around here.”

  The young man chuckled darkly, indicating his fellow urchins peddling stolen wares in the streets. “It can’t get much worse.” He shrugged. “And besides, is there not the entire Knights’ Forest from which to harvest plenty of wood?”

  “And you think the other nations of West Halvea shall simply permit us to seize the forest for our own?” Bet shook her violet head. “Mark my words, Carlo DiGyle, there’s going to be another war.”

  “Over wood?”

  The woman tucked the post into her ragged skirts, following him down an alleyway as he stalked a half-eaten pear. “Without wood, how will Jordinians light their hearths, cook their meals, warm their homes?”

  “I expect they’ll have to cough up more coin for their resources,” muttered Carlo, picking up the abandoned fruit. “Which leaves even less for the likes of us.”

  “Exactly,” said the woman, relieved he was finally catching on. She declined as he offered her a bite of pear, although her stomach groaned.

  “But onto some real news, Bet.” The boy spoke with his mouth full. “What’s this I hear about Marten Hoste visiting Häffstrom last moon? Something about the Ducelle girl—?”

  “Shh!” Bet glanced over her shoulder, fearful. “Do not say that name here. Are you mad?”

  Carlo took another bite of pear.

  “Besides.” She tightened the ragged shawl about her bony shoulders. “That is just a stupid rumor.”

  “Heard from your daughter lately?”

  Bet shook her head.

  “Well, I’m off,” the lad decided. “There’s got to be an odd job somewhere in the grand capitol city of Pierma this morning.”

  “No picking pockets,” Bet advised him.

  Carlo grinned impishly.

  The woman glanced around to ensure no one was watching before swiftly tracing a circle on his brow. “May the Eternal God bless and keep you today,” she murmured. “May you find wages to earn, bread to eat, and shelter under which to take rest this night.”

  Carlo embraced her, and Bet watched her young friend round the dingy corner.

  DAINY BADE THE TAILOR FAREWELL, clutching her bundle as she departed the dressmaker’s shop. “Thank you, Mac,” she sang.

  At Jon’s suggestion, their mutual half-brother had exchanged his gold bars for coins, and given a bag to each of them. Dainy had finally purchased a new wardrobe, and was thrilled to no longer have to wear the pink frock and wooden shoes she’d been borrowing from Hessian Gatspierre’s maids.

  Dressed comfortably at last, she made off down the narrow streets of Omar Village, arms interlinked between Mac and Jon. As they strolled, she noticed Jon studying the horizon. “What is it, my love?” she asked him.

  He looked thoughtful. “The autumnal equinox cannot be far off.”

  “Ah.” She nodded. “The rainy season.” She had, after all, been raised by the seashore on the coast of the Beili Dunes, and knew the equinoxes brought the rainfalls with them.

  “You mean hurricanes?” Mac spoke from her other side. “Is it a bad time for sailing to the Great Continent, then?”

  “Not if we leave soon.” Jon by-stepped a group of small boys as they ran past, chasing after a rolling hoop. “It’ll take nearly two moons to reach Asiotica from Häffstrom’s coast.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Dainy beamed, steering her companions through the jostling crowd as they passed an aromatic patisserie. “Why not head to the coast?”

  “I daresay,” grinned Jon, appraising her. “But my little firecracker is becoming quite the adventurer.”

  “GOOD MORROW, CAPTAIN. THE USUAL?”

  Captain Hans Kramerik nodded as he took his seat by the bulletin, glancing up to read the latest posts. The waitress shortly returned with his hot cup and saucer. “And I added a shot of honey, just how you like.” She gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder before bustling off.

  Kramerik grinned, unfurling his maps. His men had been loading cargo onto his freighter since dawn, and he planned to set sail that evening. The portside café in Pikosta was always his choice location for rest and review before a long journey ahead.

  At somewhere around his third cup of tea, he began to doze. At the jangling of bells above the café door, however, he jolted with a snort, just in time to see three new patrons stepping inside. The captain looked down and straightened his blazer, resuming examination of his maps.

  “Spectacular,” one of the newcomers was saying abrasively. Kramerik glanced up again to see a black-haired lad confronting his companion, a sturdy-looking fellow wearing a cowhide hat. “We ride all the way to the coast, and there isn’t a single passenger ship at port.”

  Curious, Kramerik watched as a pretty girl with a curvy figure remained by the door, looking between them uncertainly.

  “Where else would you have had me take us?” snapped the man in the hat. “A port is a port. How was I to know—?”

  “Good morrow,” the waitress interrupted cheerily. “What can I get you three?”

  “A tall whiskey,” declared the hatted man.

  “Jon,” chided the curvy girl, though her voice was rather bell-like and pleasing to the ear. “It’s only noon.”

  “Just a pitcher of water, please.” The black-haired chap slumped down into a chair, and the others took their seats across from him. “What now, then? The furthest any of those ships is headed is only to East Halvea.”

  “You don’t know that.” The other finally removed his hat to reveal a head of tousled brown hair and a rather handsome, if unshaven, face. “We didn’t interview every single captain.”

  “Might as well ‘ave,” grumbled the first, as the waitress returned with three glasses and a pitcher.

  The comely girl spoke again. “Perhaps we ought to take a boat to East Halvea, then,” she suggested evenly, pouring her companions a drink. “And maybe someone can carry us to Asiotica from there.”

  At this, Kramerik rose, bumping the table in his haste. “Excuse me.”

  They turned.

  “Forgive me, but I couldn’t help but overhear… You seek passage to Asiotica?”

  The youths nodded.

  “My merchant vessel is set to leave for the Great Continent this eve,” Kramerik informed them. “She is small, but I’ve a spare cabin or two for extra passengers. I should be happy to have you aboard.”

  “You’re sailing to Asiotica?” asked the black-haired bloke.

  “No, but we’re docking in Jophlin. At least that would get you onto the Continent.”

  “How much?” inquired the other man, brown eyes intense.

  The captain shrugged. “Four gold apiece? An even dozen for the three of you?”

  They nodded, their expressions considerably brighter. “That is reasonable,” agreed the brown-haired man, standing to his feet.

  “Hans Kramerik, Captain of the S. S. Evangela.” He shook their hands.

  “Jonwal Harrington Cosmith.” He gave Kramerik an impressively firm handshake before swatting the other lad on the shoulder. “This is Marley Macmillan. And the lovely lady is his kid sister.” He indicated the lass. “Miss Macmillan,” he introduced her, after a slight pause.

  The girl blinked. Kramerik took her fair hand in his weathered one, holding it to his bristling beard. He couldn’t help but delight in the simple pleasure of kissing her hand; although, of course, he was old enough to have sired her. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Macmillan.”

  She gently released his hand.