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WindBorn

Page 14

by Windborn (lit)


  "I only gave him what she would not," Lauryl whispered.

  Glade's mother seemed to be struggling against another bout of crying. She swallowed hard then tried to smile. "Be there for him, child," she said. "For now, that is all you can give him."

  Chapter Nine

  She was not allowed to go to the courtyard where the man she loved was to be punished. Nervously wearing a pathway in the rich carpet upon which she paced, she never paused as she reached up to wipe the angry tears from her eyes. With each circuit she made, she made a low, keening sound that would have been pitiful to anyone who might hear it. But Lauryl Coedil was alone in her despair and her imagination had flown to horrific places she wished she had never ventured.

  "Fifty lashes," Breck had informed her and Lauryl had stared wide-eyed at him.

  Once he left her to accept that tribal edict as she must, she had dropped to the floor, squatting there with her hands covering her face, striving not to let loose the scream of denial as she rocked back and forth.

  It had been over a week since she had last seen him and he had looked well enough--though she would have preferred he still be weak and unable to face the sentence that had been passed upon him. Had it been left up to her, she would have kept him ill until she could find a way to stop his punishment altogether.

  That had simply been a wishful dream she knew only too well could never come true.

  Lowering her head to her knees, she squatted there in such abject misery she did not hear the door open until he spoke.

  "What are you doing on the floor, Lass?"

  The sound of his voice--though weak and strained--was so heavenly she leapt to her feet with a joyful cry and would have run to him but he shook his head slightly and she stilled, skidding to a stop. The two guards flanking him looked formidable and both wore a hateful expression that left no doubt in her mind how they felt about her.

  "Are you alright?" she asked, her eyes flying over him.

  "I've felt better," he said, "but I'm fine."

  He wore a white shirt that was opened at the throat and hanging free of his black leather pants. The shirt's sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he was barefoot--which seemed very strange to her.

  "Is it …? Have they …?" She knew the hour for his punishment had come and gone. "Is it over?"

  He nodded then smiled tiredly. "Mother thought you would want to know I survived."

  Lauryl took a few steps toward him, wanting desperately to put her arms around him, but the guards moved slightly ahead of their prince, making it clear to her she was to come no closer.

  "I have to go, now," he said and stepped backwards toward the door. "I just wanted you to know I was okay."

  "When will you be back?" she questioned.

  "Not for several days," he said, still walking backward.

  "Several days?" she gasped.

  "It is nearing the full moon, Lass," he said. "We will all be Reverting--the entire tribe--and it isn't safe for you here." He glanced at the guard on his right. "Klaus will take you to a place of sanctuary where you will be installed until the Reversions have ended. He will make sure you have what you need to be comfortable." He was almost out of door.

  "Glade, wait!" she called out.

  "Guard her with your life, Klaus," Glade ordered and then half-turned before he disappeared down the corridor. But not so quickly that she missed the crimson stains on the back of his shirt.

  She would have run after him but Klaus stepped directly in her path, his stony face without a flicker of compassion. His hand rested upon the dagger at his hip and there was no doubt in her mind that he would draw it on her--use it if the need arose--despite his prince's order to keep her safe.

  "You will follow me," Klaus told her.

  "Where?" she demanded, chin high. She didn't trust this man.

  A nasty grin pulled at the guard's hard mouth. "Where you won't be likely to cause His Grace anymore trouble until he is well enough to handle it," he growled. He shot out his hand and curled his fingers around her upper arm and tightened the grip until she knew it would leave a bad bruise. He leaned into her--that predatory grin hateful and full of menace. "Give me reason to hurt you, Hag."

  Though she knew she could take him, the second guard was still in the room with them. He had not followed his prince and was standing there with his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His glower was no less threatening than was Klaus'. Between them, she knew they could conceivably do her damage.

  "What's it to be, bitch?" Klaus asked and squeezed her arm even tighter.

  A slow, deadly smile appeared on Lauryl's face. "You want to dance, Fur Back?" she challenged. "Let's do it. Just me and you."

  Something finally flickered in the cold, merciless eyes of the guard. He glanced quickly away then released his grip a fraction. When he looked back at her, there was less fierceness in his glower.

  "Come on," he said and jerked her around, striding purposefully past the second man.

  Believing it might cause Glade more problems were she to balk at the highhandedness of her escort, Lauryl didn't fight him though every warrior instinct within her screamed at her to pulverize the bastard. She marched along beside him, hating the feel of his hand upon her, and thought of all the ways she could bring suffering down upon his arrogant head when this was all over.

  "He didn't deserve what you caused him," Klaus snarled through clenched teeth.

  "Let it go, Klaus," the other man warned.

  Klaus twisted his head around to glare at the man behind him. "He had his blood shed for a Hell Hag? Did you see his back?"

  Lauryl flinched at his words.

  "Aye, you should feel guilty, you whoring cunt," Klaus ground out. "He'll have scars the rest of his life because of you!"

  "For the love of Alel, Klaus. He'll heal," the other man said with a sigh. "There won't be any scars."

  "Aye there will!" Klaus snapped. "They dredged the lash through a steeping of wolfsbane so there would be a reminder of the punishment. Even if they'd not done that, do you think he will ever forget the pain?"

  Lauryl clamped her mouth shut for tears were stinging her eyes and she would rather have her fingernails pulled out at the root than allow these two to see her cry. She kept silent all the way up to the top floor of the keep where a special chamber had been provisioned for her use.

  "Lock yourself in and stay your ass here unless you want to be eaten!" Klaus warned as he shoved her into the room and slammed the door behind her, his last words ending on a chortle of evil laughter--"And I don't mean in a way you'd enjoy, either!"

  Stumbling into the well-lit room, Lauryl spun around and would have jerked open the thick iron door until she saw something that brought her up short.

  There were five heavy-duty barrel locks ranging up and down the door--the top one that would have required a ladder to reach for someone shorter than her. Adding to the security of the portal was a thick iron bar that was meant to be dropped into place between two u-shaped stanchions forged into the door's lentil. As if that weren't enough protection, an iron wedge meant to be positioned beneath the door's handle lay propped against the wall. It would take a very determined Faolchúnna to even put a dent in the thick door with its arsenal of hardware.

  Whistling beneath her breath, she turned away from the door--thought better of it and turned back to run the locks. That done she began her examination of her velvet-lined prison where she'd spend the next three days or so.

  It was a luxurious room that had been put together with great care and an eye for her comfort. There was a large, soft bed flanked by dual bedside tables and lovely crystal oil lamps on one wall, an armoire, bookcase, desk and chair on another, and along the third wall was a wide sweep of mullioned windows in front of which had been placed two oversized chairs and a small table, and on the third wall was a large stone fireplace ablaze with a cheerful fire. The fourth wall held a beautiful parquet screen behind which was a large oaken barrel filled with fresh water,
a dry sink with pitcher and ewer, and a dressing table and a door leading to the garderobe.

  "All the comforts of home," she mumbled, spying baskets of apples, oranges, pears, bananas, and figs. There was also a wheel of cheese, two loaves of bread, jerked beef, and an assortment of cookies, buts and candies. Further inspection revealed a couple of bottles of wine--one red, one white--and a jug of apple cider. Water could be heated in a large kettle that hung on a moveable rack attached to the fireplace and coffee could be made in the blue enamel pot that sat on the hearth.

  Though the fare was simple, it would be more than enough to keep her for the three to four days the keep's inhabitants would spend in their wolf-like states.

  Going over to the bookcase, she was happy to see there were many titles she had never read. Though she wasn't an avid reader, now and again she'd pick up a book on history or politics or warfare and devour it. The chairs in front of the window looked like a good place to curl up and crack open a book.

  She went to the window and pulled the heavy damask curtain aside. The view of the inner bailey was interesting but the vista beyond the battlements of Cumhacht Keep was breathtaking. She could look across the Sea of D'athraigh to the Isle of Cinnteacht upon which it was said the mysterious realm of World's End could be found. The shimmering expanse of island drew her eye and held it. She could almost feel the mystical being who resided there calling out to her, bidding her come.

  "Thank you for the invitation, Windweaver," she said, "but I've no desire to visit a land from which I could never leave."

  World's End, she thought and almost shivered. It was a legendary place where warriors went to rest, yet where sinners were punished in a manner that befit their crimes. It was the abode of the Keeper of the Loom who wove tapestries into which many an evildoer had been captured for eternity. Once entered, there was no escape and the traveler was lost to this world forever.

  A soft wind seemed to wrap around Lauryl though no door or window was open. With it came a sigh then a gentle scent of lavender before it disappeared.

  "I will keep it in mind," Lauryl promised, knowing the offer that had been made was not extended to just anyone.

  She started to turn away from the window when a thought struck her and she turned back, staring intently at the island.

  "But could I bring someone else there, though?" she asked. "Someone who would vanish without a trace yet not die?"

  Once again the wind wafted around Lauryl and seemed to touch her lovingly upon the face.

  A slow, evil smile stretched the lips of the Daughter of the Night and she nodded. "Then perhaps I just might come to visit your beautiful land, Milady," she whispered. "And bring along a hateful, unwanted bitch for you to tame."

  Glade sucked in a breath as his sister Dell eased the shirt from his body. All three of his sisters were in his chambers, sent there by their mother to care for the bloody gashes that stripped his back.

  "I hope she was worth it," Meadow said tightly.

  "Leave him be, Meadow," Moor told her older sister. She dipped the soft cloth she had brought with her into the mild soapy water then set about bathing her brother's wounds.

  "There was no one there to wash Kheper's body when his life was carelessly snuffed out," Meadow snapped. Her gray eyes bore into Glade with anger.

  A weary sigh pushed from Glade's lips but he did not rise to the bait his sister dangled before him. He had hated the Dabiyan Prince who had been Meadow's husband for only three short months. In that short span of time, the darkling bastard had beaten Meadow into unconsciousness twice and broken both her wrists before Glade had gone after the coward. Tracking him down in the company of one of the many doxies Kheper had kept on the side, the two men had fought and Glade had ran him through, leaving the Dabiyan for the hyenas.

  "If it comforts you to remember that heathen turd fondly, by all means, please do so but the rest of us have no illusions about either his character or what would have eventually happened to you had Glade not intervened," Moor said.

  "Gladeson should have let the darkling break every bone in her stupid body," Dell mumbled under her breath as she handed Moor the salve the Healer had insisted must be applied three times a day.

  "Kheper loved me!" Meadow declared. "We were happy together until Glade murdered him!"

  Trying not to wince as Moor gently applied the salve to his lacerated flesh, Glade kept his jaw tightly clenched and his hands coiled into fists on his thighs. He knew better than to get embroiled in any argument raging between his sisters--not even to defend his actions against a man he knew would have wound up killing Meadow before all was said and done.

  "Why don't you just get the hell out of his room?" Moor demanded. "Glade doesn't need you here and neither do we."

  "Fine!" Meadow hissed. She flicked her skirt and stormed over to the door, jerking it open and departing with a humph of disgust for those left behind.

  "That woman would give Rolanda a run for her money in the bitch department," Dell commented.

  "Rolanda is ten times worse, Sweeting," Glade told her.

  "Then no wonder you took the Hag as your lover," Dell replied.

  "Have you met her?" Moor asked, glancing over at Dell.

  "No, have you?"

  Moor shook her head. "Not yet, but after the Nights of the Moon, I plan to make her acquaintance."

  "I've heard she is near as tall as our brothers and very handy with a sword," Dell remarked.

  "Well, that's how she earns her way, isn't it?" Moor countered. When Glade gasped as she worked the salve in one particularly deep cut, she apologized to him. "I'm sorry, Gladeson."

  Dell lowered her voice. "I heard it said she'd known the arms of many men before Glade enthralled her."

  Moor's head came up. "How many men?"

  "Dozens of them!" Dell answered.

  "Dozens?" Moor gasped.

  "Maybe more."

  Glade looked from one sister to the other as they spoke of Lauryl as though he weren't even in the room. He shook his head.

  "And you know about the woolly," Moor asked.

  Dell shrugged. "Aye, but he didn't shag it. He…"

  "Enough!" Glade barked, making his sister's jump. His face was beet red as he waved them out of his room, shooing them like a gaggle of geese to which he likened them.

  Slamming the door in their surprised faces, he trod heavily over to his bed and flung himself face down. The pain rippled over his back in fiery waves to make him claw handfuls of the soft fur coverlet beneath him. Gritting his teeth until the discomfort passed, he finally relaxed, letting out a relieved breath.

  "Women," he growled.

  A memory of his grandmother switching him when he was a toddler rose up to remind him that all his life he'd been at the mercy of one woman or another. His Grandmere Irena had taken great delight in whipping his bare legs--all in the guise of insuring he'd been an honest, upright boy--with a peach tree switch. His mother had carried on the tradition by smacking his butt with her hand whenever he broke one of her ironclad rules. His Aunt Mai'Dred seemed to enjoy slapping his cheeks when the mood hit her and his father's sister, Aunt Churada, was particularly fond of pulling his ear until he whimpered with the pain. Meadow had pinched and kicked him when they were children and had even tried to drown him on the morning of his fifth birthday.

  At the tender age of six, he'd been turned over for his education to the good Sisters of Múinteoireacht who had delighted in chastising him with ruler and wooden paddle--one applied vigorously to his outstretched palm while the other had been laid down with glee on his bare ass in front of the entire assemblage of nuns.

  First one girl then another led him a merry chase as he began to exercise his manhood in and about Cumhacht Keep. He'd gotten a crack in his heart from one girl, a dose of an itching disease from another, and a black eye from the brother of a third--all before his fifteenth birthday. By the time he was thirty, the notches he'd carved on the inside of his armoire numbered over a hundred--one fo
r every girl he'd nailed with jovial delight.

  And then he'd been served to Rolanda des Grieves on a silver platter, his manhood forced into an early retirement.

  "Bitch," he called his Lady-wife and deliberately forced the thought of her from his mind.

  The things she'd done to him over the seven years of their marriage would not be thrust so easily aside. He thought of the nights of loneliness, of aching need, of simply wanting companionship. He remembered the purgatives she'd slipped into his food to cramp his belly, the drugs that had given him agonizing hives, and the tainted dishes that had brought explosive vomiting and near-crippling headaches.

  She had tormented him, tortured him, and then laughed in his face for she knew there was nothing he could do about it. One slap from his hand would have been tantamount to having the lash laid to his back.

  "Give me what I want and all this will stop," she'd told him.

  But he knew the Power in her hands would not only have been unwisely wielded, it would have been dangerous.

  So he suffered in silence, ashamed to let his family know just how badly he was being mistreated though he suspected they knew all was not well between him and his Lady-wife.

  Then the day had come when Rolanda had decided she'd had enough of his refusing her and had ordered him taken to Blaithmoor. Rendered unconscious by another of the wicked drugs with which she liked to experiment, he had awakened chained to the wall of a wretchedly cold cell with rats scampering over his bare feet. Had it not been for Lauryl, he might well have been plunged into madness in that hellish dungeon.

  "Lauryl," he said, unaware her name brought a smile to his lips. He closed his eyes, the better to see her.

  Picturing her in his mind's eye, his heart swelled with love for her. It was more than just her lovely face and shapely body. More than the striking sapphire blue eyes and golden tresses, the large firm breasts that overfilled his palms and the smooth, supple length of her long legs. More than the sultry voice that sent shivers down his spine and her skills with that delicious mouth that had given him the first true pleasure he'd known in years. It was her warrior ways that had garnered his attention and held it, allowing that attention to shift into admiration then respect and finally love.

 

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