Run-away mate

*Killian* I stride past the silent sentinel standing in the hallway without giving the oak inlaid clock much thought. I had been six when I first learned that the hands are supposed to move, that the clock’s purpose is to mark the passage of time. But with the death of my mother, at least for my father, time had come to an abrupt standstill. When a child doesn’t know any differently, he accepts what he knows as the absolute truth for how things are done. I believed the only rooms that servants of any household ever tidied were the ones in use. At our castle, they straighten the bedchamber in which I sleep, the small dining room in which I eat, the chambers occupied by my father, and the library in which my father sometimes works at his desk. The remaining rooms are mysteries shrouded behind locked doors. Or they had been before the Alpha of Ashebury and the Alpha of Greyfur, along with their Mates, were killed in a horrific railway accident. Shortly afterward, their young sons were brought here to become the wards of my father. With their arrival, so too had arrived all manner of knowledge, including the confirmation that my father is stark raving mad. Now I enter the small dining room and come to an abrupt halt at the sight of my sire sitting at the head of the table, reading the newspaper that the butler dutifully irons each morning. Normally, the older prince takes his meals in his chambers. More astonishing, his usually disheveled white hair has been trimmed and brushed, his face shaven, and his clothes pressed. I can’t recall another time when my father has taken such care with his appearance. On the rare occasion when he wanders out of his sanctuary, he more closely resembles a scraggly scarecrow. With my arrival, the butler pours coffee into a delicate bone china cup before departing to retrieve my plate. As customarily, I am the only one to dine in this room, so I keep my meals simple and small. There are no sideboards with assorted offerings from which to choose. Just a plate bearing whatever fare Cook is of a mind to prepare brought up from the kitchens. My father has yet to notice me, but then he tends to spend much of his day and night absorbed in his own private world where memories of happier times flourish. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” I say as I take my seat, striving to shake off my lingering concerns over the castle’s dwindling finances. My apprehensions have roused me before dawn and resulted in my sequestering myself in the library for more than two hours searching for an answer that continues to elude me. I’ve decided sustenance is needed to sharpen my mind. “What prompted your change in routine?” My father turns the inked page, rattles his newspaper, then straightens it with a snap of his wrist. “Thought it best to get up and moving about before my bride arrived.” With my cup halfway to my mouth, I slam my eyes closed. My father’s memories have become increasingly foggy of late, but surely he is not sitting there awaiting my mother’s arrival; surely he doesn’t believe it is his wedding day. Opening my eyes and returning the cup to its saucer, I study this odd fellow whom I love in spite of all his eccentricities. He looks like any other Alpha prince beginning his day. Unlike any other prince, however, he believes his dead mate haunts the moors. The butler returns and sets the plate heaped with eggs, ham, tomatoes, and toast in front of me. Before he can return to his station at the wall, I look up at him. “Gilbert, did you assist my father in dressing this morning?” “Yes, my prince. As he has no valet, I was more than honored to handle the duties.” He leans down and whispers, “He insisted upon bathing as well, my prince, and it’s not even Saturday.” He raises his white bushy eyebrows as though that is grand news indeed, then straightens his spine, seeming rather proud of the fact that he has bathed the Alpha prince midweek. “Do you know why he went to such bother?” I ask. “Yes, my prince. He’s getting married this afternoon. Mrs. Dorset is preparing the wedding feast as we speak, and Mrs. Barnaby was up early cleaning the front parlor, since the vows are to be exchanged there. It’s a splendid day indeed, to once again have a princess taking up residence within these walls.” Only there is no princess, except in my father’s twisted and demented mind. “Has she a name?” “I’m rather certain she does, my Prince. Most do.” I have long ago learned that patience is required when dealing with the few staff members who have remained through the years. Positions are never replaced with newcomers, but as deaths or retirements occur, others have moved up in rank. Nevertheless, perhaps it is time to consider hiring a younger butler, except it is difficult to envision this place without Gilbert at the helm. He had been the under-butler before taking over when the previous butler passed in his sleep nearly twenty years ago. Besides, few are better suited to working with and accepting the strangeness that goes on within these walls. “Would you happen to know what it is?” Madeline Corntail, perhaps? My mother? “If you want to know about my bride,” my father snaps, folding up his newspaper and slapping it down on the table, “why don’t you ask me? I’m sitting right here.” Because I don’t relish the sorrow that would overtake my father when he realizes the truth of the matter: his bride has been gone for thirty years now. She perished the night she fought so valiantly to bring me into the world. “When does she arrive?” I ask indulgently, out of the corner of my eye watching Gilbert retreat to his corner. “Around two. The wedding will take place at four.” He lifts his hand, wiggling his gnarled fingers. “I wanted to give her a bit of time to get to know me.” Odd that. My parents met as children, fancied each other from the start, at least according to my father. I arch a brow. “So you don’t know her?” He lifts a slender shoulder. “We have corresponded.” It occurred to me that there could be something remarkably more upsetting than my father believing he is residing thirty-odd years in the past and on the cusp of marrying my mother. “Pray tell, what is her name?” “Mrs. Tia Goldpaw.” I can’t help but stare. This development is worse, far worse, than I had anticipated. “A widow, I presume.” “No, Killian, I’m taking to she-wolf a mate who already has a husband. Think, boy. Of course she’s a widow. I don’t have time for skittish pups who require patience and educating. I want a she-wolf who knows her way well around a man’s body.” I can scarce believe that I am having this ridiculous conversation with my father. “If s****l gratification is what you are seeking, I can bring you a she-wolf from the village. Why go to all the bother of marriage?” “I need an heir.” He says. Although it is unseemly for a prince to drop his jaw, I do so anyway. “I’m your heir.” “With no plans to marry.” He points out. “I never claimed I wouldn’t marry.” I insist I will never love. Knowing my father had descended into lunacy after losing the love of his life, I have no desire whatsoever to give any she-wolf my heart and risk traveling the same path. “So where is she, this she-wolf you will wed?” my father asks, looking around as though he expects her to materialize in a corner at any second. “You reached your thirtieth year two months ago. I was married at twenty-six, a father at thirty. Yet you’re still out sowing wild oats.” Not as much as I once had, and if I take my responsibilities any more seriously, I am likely to go mad as well. “I will marry. Eventually.” “I can’t take that chance. I require another heir. I will be damned if I’m going to let my greedy cousin Robbie and then his drunkard of a son inherit. I won’t have my title traveling down that branch of our family tree, I promise you. And neither is this castle. You will inherit first, yes, but when you draw your last, your brother, at least thirty-some-odd years your junior depending upon the fertility of this she-wolf’s womb, will be around to step in. Hopefully he won’t have your aversion to marriage and will already have the next heir lined up.” My father is breathing heavily as though he had run around the room while delivering his diatribe. I come to my feet. “Father, are you ill?” He waves his hand dismissively. “I’m tired, Killian, I’m simply tired, but I must secure my legacy. I should have married before now, provided a spare. But I was encumbered by grief.” He sinks against the back of the chair as though little strength remains to him. “Your mother, bless her, should have gone on to her just reward instead of waiting around here for me.” Statements like that one always tears at me, making dealing with my sire that much more challenging. My mother isn’t out on the moors waiting. My father simply refuses to let her go. “I will marry, Father. I will provide an heir. I won’t let your titles or your castle go to Cousin Robbie. I simply have to find the right she-wolf first.” A she-wolf with a churlish disposition I could never, ever love. “Mrs. Tia Golddfur could be the one, Killian. I daresay, if you like her when we meet her, I shall be a gentleman, step aside, and give you my blessing to marry her this very afternoon.” As though I am open to that happening. Unfortunately for Mrs. Goldpaw, when she arrives, I will be showing her right back out the door.