"We need dry clothes," he told her. "As much as I hate going back out in that deluge, we need to get to the inn."
She nodded, striving to keep her teeth from chattering. "We might as well do it now then." She pushed the bar up on the stable door, but before she could react quickly enough, the wind caught the portal and yanked it out of her hand, slamming the door against the side of the stable.
"Son of a bitch!" she yelped, shaking her hand.
"Go on," he said. "I'll get the door!"
"Bring in the saddlebags," she reminded him.
Lauryl looked out over the muddy street, found the inn with its feeble glow of light behind the shuttered windows, and took off running, splashing water as she crossed the deserted thoroughfare.
The innkeeper looked up from his desk as she came hurrying through the door. He got to his feet quickly. "Milady, whatever are you doing out in this weather?" he asked.
Lauryl heard laughter and noise coming from the common room off to her right, and the sound of jingling silverware made her mouth water--along with the wonderful smells emanating from the kitchen beyond.
"We got caught in the downpour," she explained. "My companion and me. We need two rooms," she said, "and a bath."
"There are no rooms available, Milady," the innkeeper told her. "We're full up, but I might be able to move a few of the soldiers in with some of their comrades if you and your companion can share a room."
The part about sharing a room didn't register with Lauryl. All she heard was the word that set her libido to racing. "Soldiers?" she questioned.
"A contingent of Akkadian Rangers on maneuvers," he replied. "They, too, got caught in the storm."
"Akkadians?" she said with a grin. "I've known a few mighty fine Akkadians in my day."
The innkeeper narrowed his eyes at her. "If you're a woman of the evening, you are not welcome in my…."
She came to his table and gave him a hard look. "I am a Daughter of the Night. Does that count?"
Fear shot over the florid man's face, and he stumbled back, putting up a defensive hand. "I…I…." He was too frightened to get another word out as the door opened again and a tall, muscular man entered.
"Did you get some rooms?" Glade asked, running his hand under his dripping chin. Lauryl's saddlebags were slung over his shoulder.
"We'll have them shortly, won't we?" Lauryl asked the innkeeper.
Ringing his hands, the innkeeper looked to Glade for help. "Milord, I might be able to make one room available, but two …."
"One will be fine," Glade interrupted.
"Speak for yourself," Lauryl said through clenched teeth.
"Two if you can swing it, but we need warm baths as soon as possible as well as dry clothing," Glade amended.
The man's head bobbed up and down. "I can send my son over to the dry goods store. I am sure we can find you something suitable to wear." He tried to smile but didn't quite succeed. "What sizes?"
Lauryl gave him hers then asked for food with which to break her fast. "Three eggs, bacon, toast, fried potatoes, and the strongest coffee you have. I'm starving."
Once more the man's head bobbed, and he turned to the woman's companion. "And you, Milord? What size clothing and what can my wife fix for you?"
Replying, Glade pulled up a chair and sat down. He was getting weak again and the headache was making his skull feel as though it was about to burst. "There's a butcher here, isn't there?" Glade inquired.
At that question, the innkeeper realized what his second guest was, and he paled visibly. He skirted the table beside him, putting it between him and the Hell Hag and the Faolchúnna. "Aye," he said, looking nauseous. "Do you need…." He swallowed hard. "Something to sustain you, Milord?"
"As much as the butcher has on hand," Glade said. "But the baths first."
Looking green around the gills, the innkeeper kept backing up until he was at the kitchen door. "I'll see to them, Milord." With that he scurried out of the room like a scalded rat, calling for his son.
"Who's making all the noise in the common room?" Glade inquired, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. He eased the saddlebags from his shoulders and laid them on the innkeeper's desk.
"Akkadian Rangers," Lauryl said.
A frown shifted over Glade's face. The Akkadians and the Faolchúnnas weren't exactly enemies, but neither were they friendly with one another. "Oh that's just great," he grumbled.
"Do you need more tenerse?" Lauryl asked.
He glanced up at her. "Is that what you gave me?"
"It worked didn't it?" she countered. "Do you want it or not?"
"No. Maybe once I have some Sustenance the damned headache will go away."
"Suit yourself," she said then rubbed her hands together. "As for me, I'm going to see if I can't find something to make the ache in my little head go away."
Glade watched her heading for the common room. He opened his mouth then thought better of what he'd been about to say. Clamping his jaw tightly shut--a muscle beginning to flex in his lean jaw--he took a seat on the settee flanking the window and leaned back, crossing his right ankle over his left knee, wrapping his fingers around the calf of his bent leg, stretching his other arm out along the high back of the settee. As laughter exploded from the common room, his right foot began to bounce up and down, irritation turning his pale green eyes as dark as jade. The fingers around his calf tightened, and the right side of his mouth twitched, the nostril flaring.
For twenty minutes he sat there until the innkeeper came to tell him the baths were ready. Glade swung his narrowed gaze toward the hapless man and growled at him.
The innkeeper flattened himself against the wall, holding his hands out as though to ward off the Faolchúnna's attack, but the warrior didn't move, didn't get up from where he was sitting, said nothing at all. He returned his angry attention to the door of the common room, and the innkeeper would later tell his wife he thought the warrior's hackles must have been raised as he sat there.
"He looked like he could tear something apart with his bare hands," the innkeeper remembered. "Then he got up--all calm like--and asked me to show him to the bath."
Glade swept one last look at the door to the common room then fell into step behind the trembling innkeeper as that man led him down a short hallway beside the kitchen and into one of the small rooms where baths were taken by the inn's patrons.
"T…towels are right over t…there, M…milord, along with your c…clean c…clothes," the innkeeper stammered. "Your S…sustenance is in the p…pitcher."
Nodding curtly, Glade shut the door in the man's face and began stripping out of the smelly clothes that had belonged to someone else. He pitched the shirt as hard as he could across the room and into the small cast iron fireplace that warmed the bath. The boots went flying in another direction, and the pants were all but ripped off his long legs. All the while he growled and mumbled to himself, his eyes thin slits of pure malice. By the time he immersed himself in the hot bath, he had worked his temper into high gear and was practically trembling from the force of his emotions.
"She won't," he said, snatching up the soap and the soft cloth draped over the side of the big copper tub. "She can't so she won't." He lathered the cloth viciously. "She won't because she can't."
Scrubbing brutally at his face with the cloth he got soap into his eyes, but the stinging didn't deter him. If anything it helped to remind him that life for him was just one long series of hurts. He dragged the cloth over his neck and chest and arms with such force he left red marks on his flesh, but that didn't seem to phase him, either. He was hissing by the time he got to his legs and with one lifted out of the water and being scoured roughly, the door to the bathing chamber was flung open, crashing back against the wall.
"What the fuck did you do to me?" Lauryl demanded.
He stared at her as she stood framed in the doorway with her hands on her hips, one hip cocked forward, face tight with fury.
"Couldn't do it, could you?" h
e asked as he lowered his leg into the water.
"What. The. Fuck. Did. You. Do. To. Me?" she repeated, stressing each word as her eyes blazed sapphire fire.
A slow, bitter smile tugged at his full lips, and he shrugged carelessly. "That is why I did not want to take your blood, Lass, but I was too weak to fight you. If it is any consolation to you, I will never again be able to lie with another woman for as long as you live," he said. "Choud as veeym bio."
"What? What?" she yelled. "What the hell are you babbling about?"
"You will be the only woman I will ever be able to mate with from now on. I won't ever be able to lie with another female--not even my own Lady-wife," he said.
For a long moment she just stood there glowering at him until what he'd said finally registered. Her eyebrows shot up, and her face paled. "Are you telling me I won't ever be able to lie with another man?"
"It's me or nothing," he said and felt sheer happiness drifting through his very soul. "But since I am not permitted to mate with you, it's nothing."
"That blows! I need companionship," she asserted with a frustrated whine. "Strong arms to hold me and a hot body to keep me warm." She stomped her foot. "I need a man to screw me!"
"I have strong arms and a warm body, Lass, and I'm more than willing to share them with you although I can't accommodate you with the fucking part," he told her.
She stared aghast at him. "Why the hell not?"
"It's forbidden," he said. "I'm bound legally to Rolanda and…."
"I don't care about that skanky whore!" she shouted at him. "Why can't I fuck other men?"
He shot her a chiding look. "Lower your voice unless you want the entire inn to be privy to what we can and can't do."
"I don't care who…."
"But I do," he said firmly.
Lauryl watched as he stood up in the tub then swung a leg over the side, reaching for the towel to dry himself off. Her eyes went to his cock and held for it was every bit as delectable as it had been in her dream. She longed to reach out and wrap her fingers around it as she had at the river. She ached to touch him, to have him inside her, and tears welled in her eyes for she feared he was telling her the truth.
"I tried, but I couldn't," she said, her voice breaking. "Reese and I went outside, and he pushed me up against the wall but …."
"Who the hell is Reese?" he demanded as he paused in rubbing the water from his chest.
"As soon as he touched my tit, I saw your face, and I wouldn't let him go any further. I couldn't," she said miserably. "I didn't want him." A single tear ran down her cheek. "I wanted you."
Glade groaned. He knew this would happen, and he knew it was unfair to her. He knew they would both pay for him taking her blood, but he hadn't been strong enough to turn away.
"I'm sorry," he said and meant it.
She glared at him. "Is that why the wooly won't leave us?" Her lips parted. "Did you enthrall that poor thing?"
"Nay, of course not," he said with exasperation.
"You said she wasn't afraid of you now. What did you do to her, then?"
He wrapped the towel around his waist. "There is something in Faolchúnnaian saliva that…."
Anger fled her stare to be replaced with abject misery. "Will she stay like that?"
He fidgeted. "Well, aye, but …."
"And not be able to be with a little rambling of her own?" More hot tears spilled from her eyes. Her lips actually trembled and so did his, but not for the same reason. He was striving not to laugh at her woebegone expression.
"Wench, she can have all the rutting she wants. I've not taken that from her," he said.
"But I can't!" she protested.
He sobered. "Nay, you can't, but …."
"Then why can she?" she demanded. "Why don't you have to be the only mate she …?"
"Because we're not the same species, Lass!" he cut her off. "And I've never shagged a wooly in my life, and I'm not going to start now even if she does have a cute little furry ass!"
She sniffed. "Your bitch-wife did this," she said. "She's the one responsible for all of this!"
"I'll not deny it," he agreed.
Lauryl's eyes narrowed dangerously as she swiped at the treacherous tears. "I'm going to have to kill that skanky whore," she declared and spun around to run from the room.
"Lauryl!" he shouted, suddenly afraid of what she might do.
Chapter Five
She stood beneath the inn's overhang and glared at the slashing rain. Lightning was flickering across the firmament, and somewhere another whooshing sound was making the air around her vibrate. Beyond the western edge of town the sky was pitch black and roiling. Even as she watched hail the size of wrens' eggs began to pound the quagmire of the street.
"Come inside."
She didn't look around at him. Her anger had not abated, and, as she stood there, her hands were opening and closing into fists at her sides. She wanted something to smash, to destroy, to kill, and, had she the Princess Rolanda in her grip, she would have strangled the woman with glee.
"Come inside," he said again. "That sound is getting closer, though I think it will pass us by again."
"You should have told me," she snapped.
"Had I been in any condition to deny you, I would have, and we wouldn't be having this conversation," he said and put a hand to her shoulder to draw her into the inn. Brutally, she shrugged him off, and he didn't attempt to touch her again.
"Do you have any notion what you've done?" she queried, turning to give him a bitter rake with her cold eyes. "Any notion at all?"
He didn't know how to answer that for he knew precisely what he'd done. He'd spoiled her for other men for the rest of her life, and, though it was cruel, though it was purely selfish on his part, he reveled in knowing she would never be able to tolerate another man touching her ever again.
"I enjoy sex," she said, her chin lifted, face defiant. "I like having a man's weight upon me, his cock deep inside me.
If she meant to embarrass him, taunt him, it wasn't working. All he felt was guilt.
"I enjoy coming on a stiff rod," she declared. "It was the only part of my life that gave me pleasure, and you've taken it away from me! By the gods how I hate you!"
He opened his mouth to apologize again, but she shoved savagely past him and went back into the inn, her boot heels rapping smartly on the wooden floor. Following, he saw her going through the archway that led to the bathing chambers but stayed where he was. He hoped the bath would calm her. Sighing deeply, he switched his gaze to the innkeeper who was hovering behind his desk.
"Are our rooms ready?" he asked tiredly.
The innkeeper looked as though he were about to cry. "Milord," he said, wringing his hands. "I only had the one room. I am sorry but …."
Glade flung out a hand. "Just tell me which one it is," he said. His headache was a brutal throbbing between his temples, and he wanted to lie down. He suspected the atmospheric pressure of the weather had as much to do with the intensity of his pain as the emotional complexities of his relationship with Lauryl.
"The last door on the right," the innkeeper said, pointing to the second floor. "The rooms downstairs are all taken and…."
"Upstairs is fine," Glade interrupted.
"I took the liberty of putting your saddlebags in the room," the innkeeper informed him.
"Thanks," Glade muttered. He trudged toward the staircase. Halfway there he realized he had not drunk the Sustenance the innkeeper had left in the bathing chamber for him and that was probably another reason his head was pounding so viciously. He turned back to the man. "Would you send the pitcher of Sustenance up to me?"
"Of course, Milord," the innkeeper agreed. "Will you need more today?"
"If the butcher has it available," Glade answered.
"I will send my son to ask."
Glade nodded then continued on up the stairs.
Lauryl lay stretched out in the tub without moving. She was staring at the fireplace where a che
rry fire hissed and popped and lent the small room a homey scent that helped to calm her.
Though she was a woman of action, of quick temper and quicker blade, she was not given to blaming others for things she, herself, had set into motion. Since childhood she had been taught to take responsibility for her own actions, and the longer she sat there in the cooling water, the clearer she saw things.
It hadn't been his fault that she had offered her wrist to him. He had tried to push her away, but she hadn't allowed it. In her conceit, she was determined he would accept her help whether he wanted it or not. She'd given him no choice. The man had been starved and was desperately ill, his need so great she could smell it on him. She had wanted him to be grateful to her, to need her so she could provide for him and had given no thought to the possible consequences. Had she not insisted, she wouldn't be in the predicament in which she now found herself. She was the one to blame, not him.
"Argh," she said with exasperation and sank down beneath the surface of the water to stare up through the undulating waves at the distortion of the ceiling. Holding her breath until she no longer could, she finally came up and took in a large gasp of air, shaking her hair vigorously, slinging water this way and that before the golden strands clung wetly to her neck and shoulders.
She put her hands on the rolled rim of the tub and leaned her head back. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, exhaling slowly to rid her system of the anger that rode it with brutal spurs.
Somewhere here in Nonika was a woman by the name of Sagira, an ancient Hell Hag who had broken away from the tribe many years before. She was a ninth degree adept in the Order of the Celestial Descendency but had refused to become One with the Blood thus could never be in contention for Queen of the Daughters of the Night. Instead, she had become a recluse, a woman to whom the uninitiated traveled in search of charms and spells and philters. She was a wise woman and had knowledge Lauryl found she now needed. Come morning, she would seek out the ancient one and garner the information she should have in order to deal with Prince Glade Aeolian.
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