Free PRINCE OF THE WIND by Charlotte Boyet-Compo

would set in the west, Runyon and Jacoby would do more than bathe the madwoman. Not that he cared. He had no idea who she was. Since no one had visted her before now, he hadn’t wondered at her origins. But with the arrival of the gentleman this morning, he suspected she might well have been a servant at the Northwinds keep of Vent du Nord, for the swell who asked to see the woman named ’Zanna spoke like a Northzoner.
    "Well, be about it!" The warder stepped aside as Runyon and Jacoby dragged the foul-smelling woman from the cell. He put up a hand to cover his nose, nearly gagging at the stench that had rolled off her body, and wondered how his two assistants could possibly mount her.
    * * *
    As she was propelled down the long stone corridor, with its iron-smelling water dripping from the ceiling and all manner of unmentionable detritus littering the slimy floor, Suzanna made no attempt to fight her jailers. She had learned long ago that to anger them was to receive more than her normal share of cuts and bruises. Runyon liked to use his fists on her; Jacoby was especially fond of the quirt he carried in his wide leather belt. The men enjoyed brutalizing her.
    She knew today would be no different.
    * * *
    Guy du Mer was hard pressed to recognize the thin, ghost-pale woman who was led into the warder’s office. He stared at the apparition—striving to find anything of the old Suzanna de Viennes in the pathetic creature who stood before him with head down and hands clasped in front of her.
    "Suzanna?" he questioned, taking a step toward her. He stopped when she cringed.
    The warder chuckled. "Ain’t used to visitors."
    Du Mer clamped his lips together. Despite his acute dislike of Suzanna, he would not have wished this fate on her. Obviously, she had been greatly abused. His attention fastened on the warder. "Who is to blame for her mistreatment?"
    The warder’s eyebrows shot upward. "What mistreatment, Your Grace?" He looked dumbfounded. "Ain’t nobody laid a hand to this ’un. That was the order, Milord—solitary confinement and no visitors."
    The Duke of Downsgate clenched his hands into fists. He regarded the warder with a malevolent stare. "I know abuse when I see it, man!"
    "If’n there was any abusing done, Milord, it was a’done at her own hands." He drew himself up to his full five-feet, six-inch height. "Ain’t nobody done nothin’ to this ’un."
    A muscle jumped in du Mer’s cheek. He flung a dismissive hand at the warder. "Leave us."
    The warder shook his head. "Can’t do it, Your Grace. Got orders she ain’t to never be left alone with no one."
    Du Mer grabbed the collar of the warder’s tattered jacket. He slammed the man against the wall and leaned down, his nose only inches from the other’s. "I gave you an order, fool! Disregard it at your own peril. Baybridge is within my landgrave and I have authority to dismiss you." He drew closer to the man. "Do I make myself clear?"
    The warder stared wide-eyed. "Y—you are the D—Duke?"
    Du Mer shook the man, then released him. "Aye!"
    "W—why didn’t you s—say so, Your G—Grace!" The warder slithered along the wall, staying well out of the Guy’s way. He cast a parting look at the doxy, then slipped out of the office.
    Guy waited until the man had shut the door before he turned to face Suzanna. When he found her looking at him, her dark eyes hot with speculation, he knew she’d heard and understood every word.
    "Why are you here, du Mer?" she asked, her stare steady.
    Why he felt so unnerved by her gaze, Guy couldn’t say, but the way she was looking at him made the flesh crawl along his neck. "I am afraid," he said, sweeping his hand toward a chair, "I have bad news, Suzanna. Why don’t you sit down?"
    She lifted her chin. "He is dead?"
    "Two days ago." He watched for a flicker of grief in her face, but there was none. "He died in his sleep."
    "As all good men should."
    Du Mer felt a flash of resentment at her mocking tone. "Your father