The Traitor's Daughter (Complete)

Part 22-The Past

 Luke was shaking with the force of his anger, but Nan stood her ground. Gripping the edge of the chair in front of her, she took a deep breath.

"Your majesty," she started, her voice full of scorn, "I knew Sophia since before her marriage. I was her lady's maid and companion. Martin was her closest friend. They cared for each other. Of course, Sophia was madly in love with your father....."

"Shut up," Luke cut her off, raising a hand in an angry gesture. "You don't know the half of it, Nan. Leave now, before I do or say something which I'll regret later."

Nan stared at him sadly for a moment.

"I'm sorry to say, Your Highness, that you're no longer the son I raised. The past has made you bitter beyond redemption and you're not ready to hear the truth."

Having said that, the old lady left without a backward glance at the man standing with a stubborn look on his face.

"What did you say? He has called me at this hour?" Zena asked the maid, confounded. What did Luke want with her at this time? He usually called her at night, sometimes quite late, but never in broad daylight. Would he now pester her even during the day? This was her own time when she rested or read or just walked the grounds. A mistress was, at least, entitled to that.

"That's what His Majesty said. You're to go immediately."

Zena walked with heavy footsteps, her mind whirling with troubled thoughts. Did his hunger know no bounds? It was heartbreaking to lie with him every night now when she had loved him wholeheartedly. His cruelty was too much to take, and her heart cried out at the loss of that love that she had experienced for such a short time. How could she forget those happy days and nights spent with him? It was too painful to watch the man she loved, change so much, almost beyond recognition. The Luke she had known for the first few weeks in Blackwood Manor, had been the very antithesis of this ruthless man.

Gingerly, she knocked on the chamber door, then waited, her palms becoming clammy. She wasn't ready for a session of pleasing him in bed. She was tired and wanted to sleep.

The door opened and Luke stood there, grim-faced. Zena walked in, feeling sick to her stomach. He was fully dressed. Was she supposed to help him undress now?

She stood with her head bent, staring at the ground, while he looked at her face searchingly. When the silence stretched, she spoke up.

"Couldn't you have waited till night? I'm exhausted," she said in a caustic tone, as her hand went to the ribbon tying her dress together.

A hand went out immediately and caught a handful of her golden locks. He tugged at her hair painfully, his eyes glowing with rage.

"How dare you to complain to Nan about me?"

"Let me go, first...." she shouted, uncaring of the consequences.

He let her go at once, with a slight push so that she lost her balance and clutched at an occasional table for support.

Righting herself, Zena took a deep breath to control her own anger. He was, after all, the prince, and her manner amounted to lese-majeste.

"I never said anything to Nan. I swear on my honor, Luke."

He laughed, a contemptuous laugh.

"Your honor? Do have any left?"

She chose to ignore that.

"Nan had called me to tell me about the annual ball. We had tea together, nothing more. You can ask her," she said, trying to calm him down. If he took her in this mood, she trembled to imagine it.

"She came to me today, complaining about your bruises. Only you could have shown her those."

Zena held out her slender wrist, where a bruise was clearly visible on her pale skin.

"Everyone can see, Luke, but only she cares enough to speak to you."

He stared at the small patch, fascinated as if he was seeing one for the first time.

"Go," he whispered through stiff lips.

Zena bowed, as was customary, and left the room, thankful that the matter was at an end.

Luke sank down on the bed. The image of the thin wrist, with its ugly bruise, still troubled him. The fact that it was his handiwork, was even more disturbing. In the past, he had never laid even a finger on any woman in anger. Why was it that he could not control his rage around her? One look at her face and he was reminded of her father, the man he loved to hate.

Luke walked over to the bookcase in his study and fingered through the books. At the end of the shelf, hidden from view was a slender volume of poetry. His fingers stopped on it, caressing the cover. Slowly, he drew it out, then sat down in his chair.

Gazing fondly at the book, he turned the first page. His name was written there in his mother's flowing hand, and she had signed her own name at the bottom. It had been a gift for him on his tenth birthday, the year she had died. It was her last gift to him.

Luke held out a finger and touched her name as if by doing so, he could feel her, be near her once more.

That morning, a clear, sunny day, he had risen with such happiness in his heart. He was turning ten that day. He was a child no longer, but a young man. His mother had promised to spend the day with him, and he couldn't wait to see her. Quickly, he dressed up in his best outfit, a new one that his father had sent for him. His father was at the royal palace in St. Helene, while he had accompanied his mother to Blackwood Manor, where she loved to spend her time.

She had greeted him with a kiss and a pat, which he had been too shy to acknowledge. Wasn't he too grown up for that?

She had, then, handed him the book. They had sat for some time, side by side, while she read him a few pieces from it in her beautiful voice. Just then, a maid had broken into the peaceful morning.

"Lord Victor Martin to see you, Your Highness," she had announced, and Luke had felt distaste at the words.

Martin had walked in, as handsome as ever, dressed in clothes that suited his tall, lithe figure. He had smiled at him, holding out his hand.

"Happy birthday, Luke," he had wished him.

Sophia had pushed him forward to take that hand, watching indulgently, as Martin took out a rolled piece of canvas.

"My daughter has sent this for you," he said.