Excerpt of Taken By The Prince by Christina Dodd

England, 1837

CHAPTER ONE

“So, Grimsborough, this is your little bastard.”

Eleven-year-old Saber stood on the thick rug in the middle of the big room in the big manor. He stared narrowly at the tall, elegant woman with the sneering mouth and in his native tongue, he said, “In Moricadia, I kill people who call me names.”

“What?” the woman asked. “Grimsborough, what did he say?”

The shadowy figure behind the wide, polished wood desk did not look up from his writing.

Five brightly dressed girls, ages five to twelve, stood lined up by the fireplace, and one of them, the skinny one in the middle, said in awe-stricken tones, “He’s so dirty and thin.”

Saber shifted his attention to them. Soft, silly, English girls.

They stared at him as if he were a trained dancing bear, and when he glared, the littlest’s brown eyes filled with tears and she slid behind her sisters’ skirts.

“Look, he’s tired.” The oldest spoke with authority. “He’s swaying on his feet.”

Then in unison, the four oldest smiled at him. Kindly, sweetly, as if nothing ugly or brutal ever touched their lives.

Saber hated them. He hated the lady, hated the uniformed servants standing at attention. Most of all, he hated the evil man behind the desk, the one he knew had to be the Viscount … and his father. Again in his native tongue, Saber spat, “Stupid English wenches.”

For the first time, the man spoke. “Bring him to me.”

Two of the man’s absurdly-dressed servants grabbed Saber's arms and propelled him around the desk.

Grimsborough gestured the candelabra closer, and the English lady drew in a sharp breath. Because although Saber didn’t realize it, he and Grimsborough looked alike.

Grimsborough examined the skinny, filthy, tired child as if he were a bug squashed beneath his shoe. Then he reached out a pale, long-fingered hand and slapped Saber across the face with his open palm.

The sound of flesh against flesh echoed like a gunshot.

Saber fell sideways, then lunged for Grimsborough, fists swinging.

The servants caught him, dragged him backward.

The contemptuous man waved him forward again, put his narrow, patrician nose so close it almost touched Saber’s, and said, “Listen to me, lad. You are nothing. Nothing. My bastard by a foreigner, and if I had had another son, your feet would never sully the floors of my home. But God in His infinite wisdom has blessed me with nothing from this marriage but daughters.” He glanced at the girls, so colorfully clothed, so sweet in their innocence, and he despised them. “So you will live here until you’re fit to be sent to school. And never again will you speak of your betters in that insolent manner.”

Saber shook his head, shrugged and gestured helplessly.

“Don’t pretend with me, lad. Your mother spoke English. So do you.”

Saber didn’t quite have the guts to swear at Grimsborough, but he spoke Moricadian when he said, “English is for the ignorant.”

Saber never even saw the blow coming, but it snapped his head sideways so hard his neck snapped and his ear rang.

“Never speak that barbaric tongue again.” Grimsborough’s voice never lifted.

Saber lifted his chin. “I hate you,” he said in clear, plain English.

“I hate you, sir.” Grimsborough said with chilling precision.

Saber loathed him with his gaze.

“Say it.” Grimsborough's frigid green eyes held nothing: no spark, no interest…no soul.

Saber glanced toward the elegant, sneering woman. She stood terrified, looking at her husband the way a mouse looked at a snake. He glanced at the girls. Four of them stood with their heads down. One, the middle girl, stood with her hands clasped at her skinny chest, staring at him, and when their eyes met, her lips moved in appeal. “Please.”

He looked back at Grimsborough. This man who was his father scared him — and he wasn’t afraid of anything. But he couldn’t give in. Not quite. Straightening his shoulders, he said, “I hate you, sir, but my grandfather told me I had to come and learn everything I could about mathematics and languages and statesmanship so I could go back to Moricadia and free my people from cruel oppression.”

The oldest girl stepped forward as if he interested her. “If you want to free your people, shouldn’t you learn how to fight?”

He swung a contemptuous glare on her. “I already know how to fight.”

“You’ll need an army. Do you know how to lead an army?”

“I know how to lead,” he retorted, then grudgingly he added, “But I will have to learn military tactics.”

“Then we are in accord in one thing — you will cease to be an ignorant savage and become a civilized gentleman.” Grimsborough gestured to the servants. “Take him away. Clean him. Give him over to the tutors. I will see him here in six months. Please note, I expect improvement, or I will be unhappy.”

Saber felt the shiver that raced through the room at the idea of incurring Grimsborough's displeasure.

“We will begin with a bath,” Lady Grimsborough said decisively.

At the idea of this woman seeing his naked body, Saber struggled, lunging against the grips of the servants.

The second to the oldest girl, a pale, soft, silly thing dressed in pink and ruffles, begged, “Mama, he’s so skinny. Please, can we feed him first?”

“Do you not have a nose? Can you not smell him?” Lady Grimsborough waved her scented lace handkerchief before her face.

Saber had learned to fight in a hard school, and he swung on one servant’s arm, knocked the feet out from beneath the other, broke free and raced toward the door.

The head servant, the one who was dressed in black and wore white gloves, tackled him around the knees. Two footmen leaped on top of his back, crushing him into the flowered carpet.

His father’s unemotional voice intoned, “A few good canings are in order. Thompson, I trust you’ll handle the matter.”

The man in black and white helped haul Saber to his feet, then dusted his white gloves. “Yes, my lord. Immediately, my lord.”

“Clearly, the little bastard will survive without a meal for a few more hours.” Lady Grimsborough eyed Saber as if he were a plucked chicken ready for the pot.

Grimsborough’s cold, clear, emotionless voice intoned, “As of now, his name is Raul. Raul Lawrence.”

Clearly dismayed, Lady Grimsborough asked, “Lawrence? Surely you don’t intend to —“

“Adopt him? Indeed I do. He is Raul Lawrence, son of the viscount Grimsborough, and he is to become an English gentleman. Wife, please ensure that everyone in the household realizes how quickly he or she will incur my displeasure should the boy be given the wrong name or title.”

Saber had left a land where he roamed free, and landed in hell, and his father was the prince of darkness himself.