Journey of the Wind

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  down his broad chest. In place in his earlobe was the golden hoop he was never

  without. When Rylee became aware of his presence and turned to give him a wide-eyed

  stare, he smiled slowly.

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  “You’ll turn into a prune if you stay in there much longer, precious,” he said.

  Rylee’s heart was hammering in her chest. It wasn’t just because there was a man

  looking at her as she sat there naked, but that he lounged there in the doorway—arms

  folded over his chest, one bare foot crooked over the other—looking so devilishly

  handsome in that pose.

  “Captain, please!” she managed to say, spreading the washcloth over her bosom

  although she didn’t think he could see anything other than her shoulders and head

  above the rim of the tub.

  “Supper is ready,” he said, straightening up. “Would you like me to help you out of

  the tub?”

  “No!” she practically shouted.

  He arched one thick, dark brow. “Are you sure?”

  “Very sure,” she snapped.

  “Q u’une honte,” he said with a sigh.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said through clenched teeth.

  “I said it was a shame you didn’t want me to assist you at your bath, milady,” he

  said, and his grin sent tremors through her lower body.

  It was then she realized he had shaved off his mustache and goatee. The absence of

  the facial hair made him look younger, more vulnerable, and it also revealed a deep

  cleft in his chin.

  “I’ll wait below for you,” he said, inclining his head to her.

  After he was gone—the door closing behind his exit—Rylee drew in a long, shaky

  breath.

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  Chapter Twelve

  Alsandair stood on the beach and glared at the heaving waves that rolled over his

  boots. His hands were on his hips and every inch of his posture screamed outrage and

  revenge.

  “If he doesn’t calm down, he’s going to have a stroke,” Briarly commented to the

  men sitting around the campfire.

  “I wouldn’t want to be in Corsair’s boots when Sandair gets off this damned

  island,” Kyle said.

  “That may be a while,” Captain Andelton reminded them. “Clare Island isn’t a

  likely stopover for ships passing by this sea route.”

  “Mayhap they’ll see our bonfire and come to investigate,” Bonny remarked.

  “Let’s hope so and that it’s soon,” Kyle agreed. “The longer Rylee is with Corsair,

  the harder it’s going to be on Sandair.”

  Clare Island had proved to be as hospitable as a deserted island could be. There

  were numerous fruits growing inland and a small waterfall revealed plenty of fresh

  water for drinking. As Briarly, Ruck and a few of the sailors had discovered, fishing the

  waters for food hadn’t been all that difficult and there were clams to be had for the

  picking. The evening meal had been filling although Alsandair had refused to join

  them.

  “It must be hell thinking about what might be happening to your woman,”

  Andelton said. “My heart goes out to him.”

  “If we keep him busy tomorrow helping to build shelter he can take some of his

  anger and frustration out that way,” Kyle suggested. “Otherwise he’s going to blow like

  a volcano.”

  “And I don’t want to be near him when he does,” Bonny put in.

  Ataa said something to Kyle and the gambler shrugged. He answered in the

  Midworld language then slowly repeated his words in the Jentu language the other

  men used. “Your father is not happy and we must give him time.”

  The crewmen had taken to instructing Ataa, pointing to different things and giving

  him their word for it. The child was proving to be a quick learner with an inquisitive

  mind.

  “Patience,” Ataa said.

  “Aye,” Kyle agreed. “Patience.” He had kept the little boy from bothering Alsandair

  who didn’t seem to want—or need—contact with the other men just then.

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  “Okay,” Ataa said, smiling. He sat down beside Ruck, the cabin boy. Nothing

  seemed to bother the child. His was a pleasant, sweet disposition that endeared him to

  every man there.

  Alsandair hung his head as he stood there in the frothy foam from the incoming

  waves. He was heartsick and his headache was back with a vengeance. He had no idea

  what time it was but from the position of the moon overhead, it was most likely eight or

  nine of the clock.

  “Rylee, forgive me for not being able to protect you,” he said softly.

  Had the pirate taken her already? he wondered. Had the bastard put his filthy

  hands to her? The mere thought of Rylee being ravished by Andre Corsair made the

  blood boil in Alsandair’s veins.

  Spinning around, he started walking down the beach, trying to still the murderous

  rage building within him. Until they were rescued, he had no way to go after Rylee and

  that made him even more furious. He stomped through the wet sand until his progress

  was blocked by a tall, black rock that jutted out into the water. Before he knew what he

  was doing, he had scaled the rock and was standing on it, once more glaring out to sea.

  Down the beach he could see the bonfire the men had built and from his vantage point,

  had a better view of the sea but there were no vessels in sight—only a sparkling, black

  silk sheet of undulating water festooned with a ribbon of moonlight.

  Squatting down, he continued his vigil as the pain increased in his head. He put up

  a hand to absently rub his temple and sighed with disgust. Since he’d been a boy of

  seven he’d had these brutal headaches and over the years they’d only gotten worse.

  This one was gearing up to be a beast—he recognized the signs.

  “Rylee,” he whispered. “I will come for you, milady. I will. Just don’t give up on

  me.”

  A single tear eased down Alsandair Farrell’s cheek.

  * * * * *

  The supper had been superb, the white wine sweet and dry. Andre had told her a

  bit of history about Wicklaw Cay and the men who made it their home. He’d explained

  about the natives who lived farther inland and about some of the strange animals she

  might see wandering about the jungle. He had asked her questions about her homeland

  and her family and had seemed genuinely interested in her replies. They had sat over

  coffee and lemon meringue pie and discussed some of the paintings that hung on the

  walls of the dining room.

  “I have been working on a picture of the Vengeance des Raven, my ship, for over a

  year now but I just can’t seem to get it right.” He gave her a steady look. “I would like

  to paint you.”

  Rylee looked away from the desire running through his intense gaze.

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  When it was time to retire, Rylee tensed, dreading going upstairs with her host. All

  evening his dark eyes had held her spellbound and she was fearful of what was to

  come.

  Climbing the stairs with her hand tucked in his, he said nothing until they reached

  his room. With his other hand to the small of her back, he ushered her inside then

  turned to leave. />
  “I will let you have your privacy,” he said gently. “I’ll return when you’re in bed.”

  The mention of his bed sent chills down Rylee’s spine but she had made a devil’s

  bargain with the pirate and she would uphold her end of it, for to do so was to keep

  Alsandair safe. She nodded, unable to speak, and he closed the door behind him.

  Letting out a long, ragged breath, Rylee closed her eyes and stood there in the

  center of the room, feeling lightheaded with fear. It was with moisture gathering in her

  hopeless gaze that she began to undress.

  * * * * *

  Alsandair had finally grown weary of squatting on the rock and had sat down, his

  legs crossed before him, his hands wrapped around his ankles. Though his stomach

  rumbled and his growing hunger made the headache worse, Alsandair didn’t feel like

  joining the men. He could not stand to see the pity he knew would be in their eyes.

  Somewhere out there, he thought with growing despair, was Wicklaw Cay and on

  that demon’s lair was the woman he loved. He imagined he could hear her sobbing. The

  sound cut straight through his heart.

  He lay down on his side, his head pressed painfully against the slick rock. With his

  legs drawn up in a fetal position, his hands wedged between his thighs, he stared at the

  sea until weariness and pain closed his eyes.

  * * * * *

  She was beneath the covers when the door to Andre Corsair’s bedchamber opened

  and the man himself came in quietly. She watched him beneath her lashes as he moved

  about the room—taking off his shirt and laying it aside, unbuckling his belt and

  removing it, unbuttoning his britches and pushing them down his lean hips. As he did,

  she squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling to look at his naked body. She heard him blow

  out two of the lanterns but the third he left burning. When the covers shifted and she

  felt the weight of his body dipping the mattress, she opened her eyes.

  “You are leaving the one lamp lit?” she asked in a small voice.

  “I can not sleep in the dark,” he told her, and turned on his side so he was facing

  her. “Come here, precious.”

  She drew in a quick breath—wanting to deny him, wanting to scream that denial—

  but without comment she slid closer to him. He smelled of cinnamon and it was a scent

  she found very pleasant.

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  He wedged his arm under her shoulders and pulled her to him, nestling her against

  his shoulder. She was stiff in his arms but he did not seem to notice. He simply held her

  with his chin lightly on the top of her head.

  “Sleep well, milady,” he said softly.

  Rylee pulled back and looked up at him. “You are not going to…to…”

  “Not tonight,” he said, and put his hand up so he could return her cheek to his

  shoulder. “Just sleep.”

  She wasn’t sure she could lie there in his arms and give in to sleep. She could feel

  the steady beat of his heart where her left hand was pressed against his bare chest, her

  right arm trapped between their bodies. She could feel the wash of his breath over the

  top of her head. Her left knee rested against his left leg.

  “Relax, bébé,” he whispered. “There will be no ravishing done this night.”

  Rylee could hear the laughter in his voice and pursed her lips, annoyed that he

  could be so flippant at such a time. But bit by bit, muscle by muscle, breath by breath,

  she let the tension slip from her body until she lay as easily as she could in his strong

  arms. She heard him chuckle lightly and his hold on her tightened just a little until the

  soft, rhythmic sound of his breathing told her he had fallen asleep.

  She lay there with her eyes open, staring at the wavering light across the room. He

  had turned the lantern down low but there was enough of an amber glow to keep the

  darkness at bay.

  “I can not sleep in the dark,” he had said, and she mulled that over in her tired mind,

  wondering what residual fears of his childhood had carried over into his adult life.

  * * * * *

  Alsandair was dreaming and in that dream he was whimpering. A fine sheen of

  sweat covered his face. He flinched and moaned, jerked and groaned in his sleep. His

  fingers scrambled at the rock beneath his legs. His eyes jerked back and forth behind his

  closed lids. He was caught in a nightmare.

  “Sandair!” she called out to him, her arms reaching for him. She was standing on a grassy

  hill, a broad, twisted and gnarled tree bare of its leaves crouched off to her left.

  A fierce wind whipped her gown about her legs, her long red hair about her head. Behind her

  the sky was gunmetal gray with an approaching storm and lightning zigzagged across the

  firmament, thunder rolling ominously. Birds took wing before the advancing tempest, crying out

  as they flew. The grass at her feet shifted, the ground rumbled.

  He ran to her and gathered her to him, holding her trembling body to his as the storm crept

  toward them. Bright flashes of light made her cry out and he hurried her to what little shelter the

  knotted tree provided. They sank down on the ground and huddled there as the violent wind

  skirled through the stripped branches.

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  She clung to him, her forehead pressed against his shirt, her fingers gripping the material.

  He cupped her chin and lifted her head. Stark terror had etched lines into her lovely face and her

  eyes were accented with dark circles beneath their verdant depths.

  “It’s all right, milady,” he said, and lowered his mouth to her trembling lips.

  Sweetly he kissed her to ease her fright and to take her mind from the brewing storm. She

  shivered and he brought her closer to him, molding her breasts to his chest, imprisoning her

  hands against his heart.

  “I am here, Rylee,” he whispered.

  The kiss deepened until he gently thrust his tongue into her mouth, nibbling on her full

  lower lip until she opened for his tender invasion. He tasted the honeyed recesses of her mouth

  and claimed her.

  Then the scene changed.

  The sky grew darker, more demonic as the storm raged closer. Lightning speared faster,

  louder with its fury as it sank jagged strikes into the hillside. Thunder boomed and the ground

  trembled beneath the onslaught. Overhead, the naked branches moved like the tentacles of some

  hellish beast.

  He lay atop her—their clothing gone, his shaft buried deep within her welcoming sheath.

  Her fingernails dug into his back to spur him on as his lower body moved up and down upon

  hers, his cock making a rhythmic glide into her sweetness. His hands gripped her hips. Her legs

  gripped his waist. They were wrapped up in one another as the volume of the storm increased

  and its ferocity was amplified.

  Her warmth was milking him and the sensation of her velvety moistness squeezing him with

  each stroke branded him hers. They belonged together and not even the violence of the storm

  could separate them.

  Beneath them the ground buckled and rolled. Rain came slashing from the boiling, black

  clouds to drench them in a cold, clammy blanket. The branches of the tree bent low as the

  onslaught of the storm moved directly over the lovers.

  He could feel the first p
ulses of her climax starting. The fire in his lower belly intensified and

  his cock throbbed with the need to release the seed building within it. He ground against her and

  that first faint pulse became a clutching, grasping, greedy hand vibrating around him.

  “Sandair!” she cried out as her passion came to fruition.

  He was moments from his own release, feeling the gathering deep in his sac. He shifted

  against her, lifting her hips higher so he could spill his seed into her welcoming body.

  It was then he felt the scraping of the branches against his naked back. He looked around and

  was stunned to see the tree had come alive, two fiery, glowing, red eyes set high up in the trunk

  glared at him as the thick trunk twisted and bent toward him, its limbs like arms, its branches

  like fingers. Fibrous roots came up from the ground and slithered toward him, undulating like

  pit vipers. More roots shot straight up into the air then arched downward, their whipping

  suckers sinking down into his back and drawing blood, plucking him easily from her body and

  holding him suspended high above her as the storm raged.

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  Bellowing with fear and enraged with fury, he struggled desperately against the hold of the

  roots but they were strong, reeking of the earth, smearing soil upon his body, and they wrapped

  tighter and tighter around and around him, soon making his struggles useless for he could not

  move in their entwined embrace, could barely even breathe.

  She lay there on the ground—her silken limbs stretched wide apart, her naked body

  defenseless. Her cries were lost in the boom of the rolling thunder, the shriek of the stitching

  lightning.

  It came up from the ground as the roots had and it was thick and swollen, pulsing with life,

  glistening with need.

  “No!” he denied, sensing the intent of the massive taproot that was surging in the brisk

  wind like a cobra charmed by a whistle.

  The fiery eyes on the trunk glowed brighter and the bark beneath those gleaming orbs

  stretched like that of a ravenous mouth. He could hear maniacal laughter coming from that

  strange, foreboding maw as the taproot swayed to and fro.

  She writhed on the ground, her tearful green eyes locked on the thick, swaying root moving

  above her.

  “Sandair!” she pleaded. “Help me!”

  The taproot began its slow, unstoppable descent and there was nothing he could do to