His eyes popped open. "Love?" he repeated.
He thought about that for a moment and then decided that was precisely what it was he felt for her. Even as he was being shackled to the whipping post--the flesh of his bare back shrinking against the coming lash--he concentrated on Lauryl, keeping her before him in memory if not in reality.
She had rescued him then nursed him when he fell off the horse. She had willingly given him her blood even though she did not realize what consequences that would have. She had killed two men to keep him safe. She had given of herself to him.
"I love her," he said, his voice filled with awe.
Despite the pain lancing his back, he was beginning to feel the pull of the moon as the sun sank behind the mountains. Tonight the glowing sphere would not be quite full but even so he could feel its mystical power calling out to him. He knew every member of his tribe was feeling that lure, experiencing the heady sense that Reversion always brought. At that very moment, preparations were being made to keep the non-Faolchúnnas safe until the moon had passed its cycle. Though there were few humans at Cumhacht Keep, those who were not of the tribe must always be protected from the possibility of being harmed inadvertently during the Night of the Moon.
His body was beginning to feel the coming transition. Beneath his skin, the muscles and sinews, the hundreds of miles of capillaries, veins, and arteries, the very marrow of his bones surged with electrical current. It crawled along his neural pathways, sang to him in a language older than time, beckoned him to become One with the Moon. He longed to shed the skin of his human existence and to embrace the animal side of himself that yearned to break free. He wanted to run naked in the night air with the soft wind blowing over his fur, to feel the hard ground beneath the pads of his feet, to lap hungrily at the chilled waters flowing down from Mount Romar and to throw his head back and howl his pleasure as he chased deer and brought them down to feast. He needed to be alive in the ancient ways of his tribe--to feel the part of him that could be given free rein, to throw off the conventions of his humanness and frolic with his kind.
Glade shifted against the pain that suddenly spiked in his back. His body was starting to undergo the metamorphosis that would not fully grip him until the full moon rode high in the night sky. Organs were changing. Bones were re-fashioning themselves. Muscles were elongating and becoming more elastic. The blood in his veins made his body itch with a sweet tingle. The hair on his body prickled, shifted. His teeth ached. Even the very atoms within his being were beginning to rearrange.
And his manhood was throbbing with the need to plunge into a willing female body. He longed to grip her flanks and thrust deep, his fangs buried in the ruff at her neck. He wanted to mate.
"Lauryl," he said, the name of his chosen one sweet on his tongue. He whispered her name again and his shaft leapt. Grinding it against the mattress, he rotated his hips, needing to feel the pressure, aching to know the release.
It was a torment over which he had no control and all he could do was imagine the full mating in his fevered brain. He could almost smell her, taste her juices as he lay there with the coverlet bunched in his fists. If he listened very closely, he thought he might hear her in her protected bower three floors up from where he lay in such needful agony.
"Lauryl," he said once more then gave himself over to the wicked, sinful thoughts that he knew would make matters worse for him but which he could not--did not want to--stop from becoming full-blown in his mind ....
They had left the veldt that stretched beyond the grounds proper of Cumhacht Keep and were now deep within the steamy jungle. Into the greensward where the trees were eons old and the canopy of their branches so wide, so dense, very little light could thread down from the heavens. The rush of the Drithleach cataracts was loud as they neared it and its soft mist lent moisture to the warm day as it floated on an errant wind. The ground was covered in velvety moss and there was a sweet scent of lilac and honeysuckle in the air.
Her hand was in his, their fingers laced. Her head was on his arm and the lemony smell of her hair held its own special perfume for him. With each stride, her leg touched his to send trills of expectation through his aching body.
"We're not far from the waterfalls, now," he told her, lifting her hand to place a tender kiss upon her knuckles.
"It is so peaceful here," she said.
"And private," he acknowledged.
Away from prying eyes and wagging tongues and censorious edicts that denied their relationship should exist.
She wore a gauzy white dress that clung seductively to her ripe body. The bodice plunged low to reveal the glorious swell of her lush breasts, the dark nipples barely hiding beneath the lacy neckline. The gown's short sleeves revealed her shapely arms and with each step she took, her bare toes peeked out from beneath the scalloped hem.
Clad in the black leather pants he preferred and a soft, billowy light blue lawn shirt, he, too, was barefoot and reveling in the feel of the moss being crushed beneath his weight. He had left the shift untucked, unbuttoned halfway down his chest and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Though it was very humid, he was comfortable and she looked contented there at his side.
"Over there," he said, pointing to a trail that wound through high stands of emerald green ferns and thick clumps of aerial roots snaking down from the massive limbs of a ribín tree.
There were sounds all around them. Monkeys chattering in the branches high over head as they traveled from tree branch to tree branch and swung upon the thick vines. Multi-colored birds warbled as they flitted here and there. A soft clicking sound signaled insects munching upon the vegetation. The rustle of the ferns and low-growing plants told them there were small creatures shyly lurking about. Now and again a soft hiss of irritation rose up from the undulating body of a serpent coiled about a branch or slithering up a tree but there were no venomous species of any kind residing there.
The closer they came to the cataracts, the sweeter the air became, filled with a temperate mist that hovered in the air almost all the way to the top of the towering trees. The light filtering down through the canopy came in pale yellow lambent spikes that revealed the gentle movement of the mist as it flowed about them. That mist settled like fine pebbles on their flesh and cooled their faces.
Arriving at the banks of the rushing river that cascaded down in lacy white sprays from the very heights of Mount Romar, they looked out over the wide expanse of moss-covered rocks that peppered the channel and over which the water tumbled and marveled at the exquisite beauty before them. Tree branches dipped down toward the rushing waters to provide an umbrella of shade through which birds flew and myriad varieties of butterflies winged their way. The noise was deafening here--making it impossible for her to hear him over the reverberation of falling water that resembled bacon sizzling in a pan.
He led her to a small clearing beneath a huge scáith tree and helped her to sit down. She sat with her knees to one side, the gown billowing around her legs, sweet little toes barely visible. He watched her curl her tongue along her upper lip and his groin tightened painfully.
Going to his knees beside her, he laid a trembling hand to her cheek and when she turned her lips to place a fleeting kiss in his palm, his eyes filled with tenderness.
"Do you know what it is you do to me, Lass?" he asked in a husky voice.
She lifted her head to look up into his pale green eyes. "Most likely the same wicked thing you do to me," she answered.
He arched a brow, his smile licentious. "Wicked, is it?"
"Positively depraved," she stated. "Immoral, indecent, and terribly, terribly decadent. You are corrupting me, Gladeson."
"Are you bragging or complaining?" he inquired.
Her long lashes slipped coquettishly down over the sparkling blue depths of her eyes. "A little of both, I think."
He sat and twisted around so he could stretch out with his head in her lap. The moment her cool fingers twined through his hair to stroke it, he c
losed his eyes, crossed his legs at the ankles, and laced his fingers together over his flat belly.
"Tell me," she said, her fingertips tracing a light pattern over his forehead and down his nose, "what you would like me to do to you."
"Everything, Lass," he said with a sigh. "Everything I've missed and then some."
"Like what?" she whispered and ran her fingers over his chiseled lips.
"Take me in your mouth and suck me," he said and felt his erection harden even more.
"I can do that," she said and her hand trailed down to his chest to slide beneath the fabric of his shirt until her short nails grazed over his nipple.
"Ah…" he groaned and sucked in a breath when she lightly plucked at his flesh, and began worrying it between her fingers.
"I could lick you from your balls to the head and swirl my tongue around you until your juices ooze forth for me to taste."
His entire body clenched at her words.
"Then I could press the tip into that soft little slit so he'll give up even more of his slickness." Her fingers moved to the opposite side of his chest to lightly pinch the other nipple.
Fire raced along his nerve endings and started his heart to pumping wildly in his chest.
"Circling the head, I could then draw it deeply into my mouth and draw hard upon it."
"Lass, you're killing me here," he protested, his knuckles white as he gripped his hands tightly together.
"I could use my tongue to stroke you underneath as I suckled, your cock as deep inside my mouth as I can take it while I massage your balls."
"Please," he whispered, so hard he was in acute pain.
Her hand slid down his chest and with careless ease, she began unbuttoning his pants, relating to him in that low, sultry voice what other delightful torments she had in store for him.
"When you are near to bursting, I will withdraw and…"
"No!" he pleaded, his eyes flying open. He looked up at her with such a beseeching look.
"Not for long," she was quick to tell him. "I would lave your balls for a bit--lick them well--and then pierce your ass with my finger until I have you as hard as stone."
"I'm already as hard as stone," he whined.
Her hand was inside his pants and rubbing him from head to base with slow, firm pressure.
"I would have you ready for me, my love," she said in a husky tone.
"I am ready for you," he swore and slammed a hand down upon hers, staying her stroking. "I am nigh to bursting now."
She moved in such a way he was forced to lift his head but before he could question what she was about, she was up and over him, hiking her dress up as she straddled his legs. She tugged him from his fly and held him gripped tight in her fist.
"Enter me," she demanded, rotating her bare sex upon the tip of his penis.
"I can't," he said, almost in a sob. "You know I can't."
But before he could deny her again, she slid down his hard length until he was seated as deeply inside her warm, velvet moistness as he could extend.
"Lass, no!" he cried out and tears filled his eyes.
"I want you, Glade Aeolian," she said through clenched teeth. "And by the gods, warrior, I am going to have you!"
He could do no more than lie there as she rode him hard, her hips rocking against his, her scent teasing his nostrils as he put his hands to her waist and held her as she made love to him.
Her long hair fell forward to tease his naked chest through the opening of his shirt. The sweetness of her body was a gift, a promise, a loving sacrifice and he was soon lost in the wet folds that gripped him.
He would pay dearly for this, he thought as he gave himself over to tender ministrations but--soul and body be damned--he would have her as he wanted her.
Throwing all caution to the Wind, he flipped her over so that he was thrusting hard inside her sweet heat. He grunted with each violent arch of his hips. She had pushed her hands under his shirt and was digging her fingernails into the lacerations on his back but he didn't care. He ground his cock into her, slammed it as forcefully as he could, and filled her to overflowing with his straining meat and ....
"Wake up, Gladeson!"
Glade came awake with a jolt, his head popping up like that of an ostrich from its hole. The movement brought immediate agony to his back and he gasped, arching his body against the sudden pain.
"Have you no sense at all, boy?"
It was his father's angry voice lashing out at him and he turned his head so he could look up at the irate expression that had turned King Barren Aeolian's face into that of a gargoyle.
"Was not one lashing enough to quell the wickedness within you? Must there be a repeat of the process for you to toe the line?"
"It was just a dream, Father," he defended, struggling to sit up. His stony erection had fled but he could feel the sticky wetness of his spilled emission cooling within the confines of his pants.
King Barren narrowed his eyes. "I don't care what it was you were dreaming, boy!" he snapped. "I want to know why you dared to send an assassin to Blaithmoor knowing full well that such an act is a grievous offense!"
Shock spread over Glade's face. "Assassin?" he repeated. "Father, I did not!"
"Well, someone crept into your Lady-wife's chamber last eve and attempted to cut her throat," his father informed him. "Had Rolanda not awakened in time, her life would have been forfeit and you would have been condemned to spending the rest of your life on all fours in a cage!"
Grinding his teeth to the pain in his back as he managed to sit up, Glade shook his head. "I had no hand in that. As the gods are my witness, I did not."
The King shot out a hand to cup his son's chin and anchor his face. "Did the Hag?"
"She would not have," Glade said, his gaze never wavering from his father's. "She knows what would happen to me if she were to contract for Rolanda's death."
"Then who took it upon themselves to rid you of your unwanted spouse, Gladeson?" his father demanded.
"I don't know."
Searching his son's eyes for the truth of the matter, the King relaxed and released his hold on Glade's chin. "I believe you, but someone has cost you dearly. Your Lady-wife has filed a formal affidavit of attempted murder against you."
"Rolanda has to prove I hired the assassin and she can't prove what didn't happen," Glade said. "Where is this person who tried to kill her?"
"Unfortunately he fled the fortress," his father replied. "There was not a trace of him but they have posses searching for him."
"It was a man?"
"A big, ugly man according to Rolanda," the King answered. "With a scar down the left side of his face."
"A description that fits half the warriors of Faolchúnna," Glade said with a snort.
"When the Moon leaves us, there will be a hearing on the matter," his father told him. "Your mother tells me the women of the tribe are up in arms over the situation."
"They've already condemned me without hearing my side of it?" Glade queried uneasily.
"Everything you do now is suspect, boy," his father said. "Women as a whole have no love for an adulterer."
"I did not commit adultery," Glade said.
"As far as they are concerned, you might as well have. They may not care for Rolanda but she is legally your mate," his father grumbled. His nostrils quivered. "And for the gods' sake, get up and clean that stench from between your legs. It is disgusting!"
Long after his father had stormed out of the chamber, Glade sat hunched over on his bed, his back on fire. He had no idea who had tried to kill Rolanda but he was glad the man had failed. Had Rolanda succumbed, it would have been her husband who would have paid the price--whether the assassin had been caught or not.
He was sure Lauryl had had no hand in the matter but he wished he could talk to her. Perhaps she would have some idea who might have taken it into his head to do such a thing, to help him.
But had it been meant to help him? He wondered as he eased off the bed and got
to his feet.
He stood there holding on to the bed's foot post as a wave of nausea rippled through him. He needed Sustenance but it was a long walk down the serpentine stairs to the larder.
His gaze went to the bell pull he had not used since he was an arrogant young man in his early twenties. The staff would not be expecting him to ring yet he knew he didn't have the strength--or the stamina--to make it downstairs. He was hurting worse now than he'd been when he'd originally had the wounds dressed.
Taking a deep breath, he padded softly over to the pull and tugged quickly on the embroidered sash. Distantly, he heard a bell chime. Hoping it wouldn't take long for a servant to come up to see what he needed, he gingerly made his way to the dry sink and poured water into the ewer, girding himself to bend over so he could splash water into his hot face.
Face dripping with water, back throbbing with agony, he raised his head and looked into the mirror over the dry sink.
He looked like death warmed over with his hair tousled and what looked to be a three-day growth of beard. With the oncoming Reversion, his hair was growing at ten times the rate it normally did. His eyes were bloodshot. He was pale and his hand trembled as he ran it over his wet face. For the first time it occurred to him to wonder if the transition would take away the crippling pain in his back or only make it worse. Shrugging his shoulders, he had a bad feeling the freedom to which he'd been so looking forward to would be hell, instead.
It was going to be a long three days.
Chapter Ten
Lauryl winced each time another ululating howl rent the courtyard beyond her window. The moon sailed bright as a golden coin through the midnight velvet of the skies and all about the greensward beyond the fortress and among the rolling hills, upon the crenulated walls and about the baileys, the Faolchúnna were keening to the celestial body. She had not worked up the courage yet to take a look out the window and that irritated her.
WindBorn Page 15