The Prince
Page 45
Kingsley looked up at his grandparents.
“I’m going back to Saint Ignatius.”
NORTH
The Present
Kingsley stared at Søren only a moment before shaking his head in the profoundest disgust and walking off deeper into the forest. He heard the footsteps behind him and didn’t turn back. Today Kingsley didn’t run, but he didn’t particularly want to get caught, either.
Thirty years had passed since he’d traversed this dangerous terrain with its closely packed trees that gave way to sudden cliffs. Even after so much time, his legs retained the memory of so many walks down this path. In half an hour he came to a ridge overlooking a steep canyon.
“Mon Dieu…” he breathed. After all this time…surely not. But there it was.
“It’s still in use.” Søren came to stand beside him. “They renovated it. It’s quite nice inside.”
“Our hermitage?” The old love welled in Kingsley’s heart, and he forgave Søren just enough to laugh.
“Our hermitage. It was never actually ours, you know. We only claimed it for ourselves.”
At the bottom of the canyon stood a tiny shack made of stone. A hundred years ago the first Jesuits who’d come to rural Maine had built a chapel first, then their living quarters, and finally a hermitage for Father Charles, who’d taken a vow of silence.
“Quite nice…” Kingsley repeated. “Of course they would wait until after we were done with it to remodel. Always the way. My God, what a hellhole it was.”
Søren laughed softly. “Indeed. But perfect for our purposes.”
“Oui,” Kingsley agreed. “Parfait.”
The hermitage had been their hideout when Kingsley returned to school, when he and Søren had taken up where they’d left off.
Kingsley pulled his eyes away from the small house where he’d given up his body to Søren in a thousand ways so many years ago. A hundred yards or more from the hermitage, a huge moss-covered rock loomed large. For a full minute Kingsley stared at it. Only when he felt a hand on the back of his neck—a gentle hand, a gentle touch, entirely kind and without ulterior motive—did he blink and look away.
“It was there?” Søren dropped his hand. Kingsley missed it the second it was gone.
“Oui. Right there. She landed so hard...” He stopped and swallowed. He had to blink again to wash the image of his sister’s body from his eyes. “Her face…”
“Je sais,” Søren whispered. I know.
Of course he knew. Marie-Laure had been Kingsley’s sister…but when she died, she’d been Søren’s wife.
Marie-Laure…only twenty…a ballerina in Paris.
“We killed her, mon père.”
“I’ve absolved you of any guilt long ago, Kingsley. You must learn to absolve yourself.”
“Her face was gone when they found her.” He turned to Søren. “The world imagines I am handsome, you are handsome, your Eleanor is beautiful…but we are nothing compared to what Marie-Laure was. I, her brother, couldn’t keep my eyes off her at times. All paled next to that face of hers. And when she died, when we killed her…”
She had no face. None. The impact of her fall had crushed her skull and sheered her face off. She’d been identified by her wedding band alone.
“She ran. She fell. You did not push her. Neither did I.” Søren spoke the words in a low voice as he moved closer. How Kingsley wanted to step back and press himself into Søren. Once when they were teenagers, standing in the forest staring at the night sky, Søren had wrapped an arm around Kingsley’s chest. The gesture had been simple, mindless, hardly even affectionate, only possessive. And it had saved Kingsley’s soul. To feel that again with Søren…Kingsley would treble his fortune and give every last penny away.
“She loved you,” Kingsley said. “And she trusted me.”
And she saw them.
Together.
“Come,” Søren said. “We should go back.”
“You go.” Kingsley smiled at him. “I want to stay a moment.”
Søren raised his hand and lightly gripped Kingsley’s long hair before releasing it and walking away.
“Of course.”
Alone now at the top of the hill, Kingsley’s eyes roamed from the rock where his sister had died, back to the hermitage. They should have been inside there, he and Søren. If they’d been in the hermitage, she would never have seen them. All Kingsley ever wanted was for Søren to want him as badly as he had that night in the forest. Søren never lost control like that again with him. Oh, Søren had hurt him, brutalized him, broken him. But he’d kept calm, controlled…he’d tamed his hunger, channeled it, restrained it. Kingsley longed for the fear he’d felt that first night. So he’d goaded Søren, challenged his authority. Finally, Søren had succumbed and dragged Kingsley into the woods. Jealously had brought about Kingsley’s temper tantrum. Søren had married his sister and Marie-Laure suddenly seemed to love him more than her own brother. And as a married man, Søren slept in Marie-Laure’s bed, while Kingsley once more slept alone. He had to have reassurance that Søren still desired him more than anyone. And he’d gotten it once more. Only this time the stars had not been the only witnesses.
Carefully, Kingsley made his way down the winding path that led to the hermitage. But before going to the cottage, he turned and walked to the rock.
“I’m going back to Saint Ignatius.”
NORTH
The Present
Kingsley stared at Søren only a moment before shaking his head in the profoundest disgust and walking off deeper into the forest. He heard the footsteps behind him and didn’t turn back. Today Kingsley didn’t run, but he didn’t particularly want to get caught, either.
Thirty years had passed since he’d traversed this dangerous terrain with its closely packed trees that gave way to sudden cliffs. Even after so much time, his legs retained the memory of so many walks down this path. In half an hour he came to a ridge overlooking a steep canyon.
“Mon Dieu…” he breathed. After all this time…surely not. But there it was.
“It’s still in use.” Søren came to stand beside him. “They renovated it. It’s quite nice inside.”
“Our hermitage?” The old love welled in Kingsley’s heart, and he forgave Søren just enough to laugh.
“Our hermitage. It was never actually ours, you know. We only claimed it for ourselves.”
At the bottom of the canyon stood a tiny shack made of stone. A hundred years ago the first Jesuits who’d come to rural Maine had built a chapel first, then their living quarters, and finally a hermitage for Father Charles, who’d taken a vow of silence.
“Quite nice…” Kingsley repeated. “Of course they would wait until after we were done with it to remodel. Always the way. My God, what a hellhole it was.”
Søren laughed softly. “Indeed. But perfect for our purposes.”
“Oui,” Kingsley agreed. “Parfait.”
The hermitage had been their hideout when Kingsley returned to school, when he and Søren had taken up where they’d left off.
Kingsley pulled his eyes away from the small house where he’d given up his body to Søren in a thousand ways so many years ago. A hundred yards or more from the hermitage, a huge moss-covered rock loomed large. For a full minute Kingsley stared at it. Only when he felt a hand on the back of his neck—a gentle hand, a gentle touch, entirely kind and without ulterior motive—did he blink and look away.
“It was there?” Søren dropped his hand. Kingsley missed it the second it was gone.
“Oui. Right there. She landed so hard...” He stopped and swallowed. He had to blink again to wash the image of his sister’s body from his eyes. “Her face…”
“Je sais,” Søren whispered. I know.
Of course he knew. Marie-Laure had been Kingsley’s sister…but when she died, she’d been Søren’s wife.
Marie-Laure…only twenty…a ballerina in Paris.
“We killed her, mon père.”
“I’ve absolved you of any guilt long ago, Kingsley. You must learn to absolve yourself.”
“Her face was gone when they found her.” He turned to Søren. “The world imagines I am handsome, you are handsome, your Eleanor is beautiful…but we are nothing compared to what Marie-Laure was. I, her brother, couldn’t keep my eyes off her at times. All paled next to that face of hers. And when she died, when we killed her…”
She had no face. None. The impact of her fall had crushed her skull and sheered her face off. She’d been identified by her wedding band alone.
“She ran. She fell. You did not push her. Neither did I.” Søren spoke the words in a low voice as he moved closer. How Kingsley wanted to step back and press himself into Søren. Once when they were teenagers, standing in the forest staring at the night sky, Søren had wrapped an arm around Kingsley’s chest. The gesture had been simple, mindless, hardly even affectionate, only possessive. And it had saved Kingsley’s soul. To feel that again with Søren…Kingsley would treble his fortune and give every last penny away.
“She loved you,” Kingsley said. “And she trusted me.”
And she saw them.
Together.
“Come,” Søren said. “We should go back.”
“You go.” Kingsley smiled at him. “I want to stay a moment.”
Søren raised his hand and lightly gripped Kingsley’s long hair before releasing it and walking away.
“Of course.”
Alone now at the top of the hill, Kingsley’s eyes roamed from the rock where his sister had died, back to the hermitage. They should have been inside there, he and Søren. If they’d been in the hermitage, she would never have seen them. All Kingsley ever wanted was for Søren to want him as badly as he had that night in the forest. Søren never lost control like that again with him. Oh, Søren had hurt him, brutalized him, broken him. But he’d kept calm, controlled…he’d tamed his hunger, channeled it, restrained it. Kingsley longed for the fear he’d felt that first night. So he’d goaded Søren, challenged his authority. Finally, Søren had succumbed and dragged Kingsley into the woods. Jealously had brought about Kingsley’s temper tantrum. Søren had married his sister and Marie-Laure suddenly seemed to love him more than her own brother. And as a married man, Søren slept in Marie-Laure’s bed, while Kingsley once more slept alone. He had to have reassurance that Søren still desired him more than anyone. And he’d gotten it once more. Only this time the stars had not been the only witnesses.
Carefully, Kingsley made his way down the winding path that led to the hermitage. But before going to the cottage, he turned and walked to the rock.
