WindWarrior

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "Didn't you have female relatives, friends who discussed such things?"

  She waved a dismissive hand. “I knew the rudiments of sex, aye, from watching the goats but the feelings?” Her eyes bored into his. “How was I to know of the feelings? How was I to know of the pleasure a man's hands and body could wreak?” She blushed. “That you gave me."

  "I know that feeling well. It was a pleasure I've never experienced with any other woman,” he admitted.

  She gave him a look that said she did not believe him.

  "Not like I had that night with you,” he clarified. He tried to lift a hand to emphasize his words, but he was too weak and pain shown on his sweat-slick face. “My hand to the gods could I raise it.” When still she looked unconvinced, he tried to scoot up in the bed, speaking as he did. “Tarrishagh, the passion between bond-mates is...."

  She saw pure agony whip across his suddenly very pale face. In horror, she watched the wound in his shoulder open and blood begin to trickle from it.

  "No!” she said, tossing the sewing aside and springing to her feet. Grabbing a rag, she pressed it to the wound.

  "Oops,” she heard him mumble.

  "Foolish man,” she said. “Now look what you've done!” Blood was quickly soaking the cloth. She leaned over him, plucked his left hand from the bed and slapped it over the injury. “Hold this!” Before he could reply, she was running to the door, jerking it open and calling for Jules.

  Jules, Guy and Andrew came tearing into the room, the men coming up short as they saw the blood.

  "What did you do?” Jules snarled at her, shoving her to the side in his haste to get to the bed. Maire stumbled into the wall.

  "She did nothing. I did it,” Deklyn said. His jaws were clamped together, and he was shivering.

  "He tried to sit up,” Maire told Guy. “He broke open the wound."

  "Obviously!” Jules hissed. He moved Deklyn's hand from over the cloth and peeled the material away, wincing when he saw the gaping flesh. “This has to be sewn."

  "I will do it,” Maire said. “Your hands are too big."

  "Can't wait to hurt him, can you?” Jules countered.

  Maire's limit on just how much she could take had been reached. She came to stand toe to toe with the much larger man—her head barely reaching beneath his jutting chin. If he hit her, so be it, but she had cowered before him for the last time. She shook a finger in his surprised face.

  "Leave off, Jules Yn Baase!” she berated him. “I have lost my patience with you this night! One more word out of your nasty mouth and I promise you that you will regret it!"

  "Good for you, lass,” Guy said, chuckling. He glanced at Deklyn and saw his overlaird grinning despite teeth clamped tightly together.

  "Now, move!” she ordered, pushing him roughly aside as she bent to retrieve her sewing basket. She looked around. “Andy, was there any liquor left?"

  "A bit,” Andrew replied.

  "Pour some in a saucer to soak this length of silk thread in it,” she said, unrolling a long length of thread then nipping it with her teeth to break it. She thrust the thread expertly through the eye of a needle, tied the ends together in a quick knot, then handed it to him.

  "Jules, pour out that basin of water and get some more from the pot. I've only one clean rag left so I suggest you take the used ones, wash them then drop them in the pot to boil before we use them again."

  Guy was standing at the foot of the bed with his arms folded over his chest, his left eyebrow crooked with amusement. When her gaze fell on him, the smile slipped from his face. He cleared his throat. “What can I do, lass?” he questioned.

  "Clean the Baron's wound when Jules moves his lard-ass to do as I told him,” she snapped. “I need a few cups of that hot water before it is befouled to make more tea and to have some on hand for you to cool with the snow. Andrew? I need more water from the well."

  "Aye, milady!” Andrew replied.

  "Before you go was there any tenerse left?"

  "A tad."

  "Give it to him."

  Andrew hastened to do her bidding despite the heavy scowl on his commander's face.

  "That stuff tastes like bull piss,” Deklyn stated.

  "I thought it tasted like moldy shite,” she said and when he looked up at her with surprise, she shrugged. “Doesn't matter what it tastes like. You'll drink it all this time."

  With the men doing as she said, Maire prepared another infusion of bloodwort root tea and set it aside to cool before she gathered what she would need to suture Deklyn's wound. She was surprised her hands were no longer shaking, and that she had had the nerve to dare speak so to the Tarryn warriors. Ordering them about felt good, though, and she was unaware there was a slight smile on her face as she came to the bed.

  "Authority suits you, Maire,” Deklyn said, rolling the r.

  "I want you to lie still while I sew you,” she says. “Use some of that infamous Black Baron bravado."

  "I am yours to command, tarrishagh,” he said, smiling at her. For some reason the tenerse had done more than numb his tongue this time. His entire body felt as though it was floating a foot above the bed, and he was wrapped in a nice downy comforter.

  "His fever doesn't seem as high,” Guy commented.

  "We'll change the poultices on his feet when I finish here,” she said, taking the chimney from the oil lamp on the bedside table. “Jules, bring me the saucer with the needle."

  Though he mumbled dire threats in his native language, the warrior brought the saucer to her and stood rather meekly holding it as she plucked the needle from the liquor then ran it over the flame of the lamp.

  "Now you lie still, remember?” she asked Deklyn.

  "I'll be a good little boy,” Deklyn mumbled. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

  "It'll be the first time, then,” Jules observed.

  The Baron flinched each time she stuck the needle through his hot flesh, but he didn't make a sound. He was looking up at her with such a dreamy, childish expression it made her want to laugh.

  "You are so pretty, Maire,” he said, words slurring. “Always were."

  She worked quickly to whip the stitches together, careful to close the flesh just tightly enough for it to fuse together without overlapping and to allow the wound to seep if there was need.

  "You're very good at that,” Jules begrudgingly complimented her. “I'd never have been able to do as well."

  "I've had much practice,” she said, concentrating on her work.

  "Practice makes perfect,” Deklyn asserted then promptly fell asleep.

  "The tenerse seems to have had a better effect on him this time ‘round,” Guy said to no one in particular.

  "The bloodwort helped,” Jules told him. He gave Maire a speculative look. “But I think it was the lady's expertise in the matter that saw him through it. I'd have given odds he would fidget like a whore in church while she was closing that hole, but he barely moved."

  "Aye, well, she told him not to,” Guy reminded him. “A man always does what his lady says."

  Maire snorted, casting him a sardonic look. “I'll put another poultice on the wound,” Maire said, cutting the thread after she'd made the last stitch. She dropped the remaining thread and its needle into the bowl Jules was still holding. “You can set that down, now, Jules."

  He nodded.

  Guy followed Maire over to the kitchen work table. “I notice you did not correct me, lass."

  She didn't respond, but began cracking eggs to filter the whites for the poultices.

  "When I said you were his lady,” he clarified and when she still made no comment to his remark, he turned to lean his hip on the edge of the table, observing her as she worked. “Jules told me Dek said you were the one."

  "So I'm told,” she said, mouth tight.

  "He's dreamt of you every night since I can remember,” he told her. “In every village or town we stop, he has the women gathered while he looks for you."

  She stop
ped, staring out the window at the snow, not glancing his way. “I always heard he was searching for bed partners when he did that.” She resumed her work. “Women to ravish."

  "He was searching for you,” Guy said. At her quick glance, he shrugged. “Aye, he took some of the pretty ones as bed partners if they were willing but only if they were willing. What man wouldn't? After all, he is still a man despite Ynez telling him he's a poor excuse for one."

  "I take it there is no love lost between them,” she said.

  "Never has been; never will be. Even when they were children they hated one another. Not a good start for a marriage."

  She wiped her sticky hands on a towel. “Are you married, Guy?"

  "By the gods, no!” he said, horrified at the suggestion. “A wife is the last thing this warrior needs!"

  She laughed at his expression then yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. “I'm sorry, but this is late for me,” she apologized.

  "I'll put the poultices on for you. Take the pallet I spread. You need to rest. I'll wake you if we need your help again."

  With longing, she looked over at the pallet he had spread to the left of the hearth.

  "Go on,” he said. “I've got this covered."

  She yawned again then nodded tiredly. “I believe I will.” She started toward the pallet then turned to look at him. “You'll call me if he needs me?"

  "Aye, lass,” Guy replied. “I will call you."

  After an evaluating look at her sleeping patient, she knelt down on the pallet, adjusted the pillow and rough wool blanket then crawled into its warmth. Guy had piled enough blankets on the floor that she barely felt the hardness of the wood or the cold air wafting up through the cracks in the boards. Turning to her side, she was asleep before her head had settled into the pillow.

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  Chapter Four

  Deklyn drifted for a bit on the warm current of air beneath him without a thought in his mind. He was comfortable where he was—wherever he was—and disinclined to leave. However, as it is with his kind, his psychic senses were alerted the moment the other part of his soul entered the dream world with him, and he slowly opened his eyes and turned his head to see her floating close enough to reach out and touch.

  "Tarrishagh?” he whispered and smiled when her eyelids fluttered open.

  Maire drew a deep breath of air into her lungs then sighed. “Where are we?"

  "My people call it cheer ny h-oie,” he answered. “Dreamland."

  "How can we be here together?” she asked although for years he had been in all her dreams—and nightmares, alike.

  "Because we are two halves of the same whole,” he said. “Joined at last.” He stretched out his hand to take hers, sitting up as if there was no wound in his chest.

  "Be careful!” she cautioned, sitting up with him as they floated through a beautiful starry night where twinkling lights pulsed in the black satin of the sky.

  "Here, I have no injury,” he said. “See?"

  She leaned closer to examine his chest, her fingers tensing around his. “Aye, I do see."

  Content to hold hands and move slowly through the midnight heavens, they were soon side by side, her head resting against his shoulders, their fingers entwined between them.

  "It is so peaceful here,” she said.

  "Aye, with not a care in the world,” he replied. “I could stay here forever."

  "No war. No death or destruction.” She sighed deeply. “No bitter cold or blazing heat."

  "I like the heat,” he said. “The cold? Not so much."

  "I will keep you warm,” she said, surprising herself. She lifted her head from his shoulder and turned to face him. “Why did I say such a thing?"

  He reached out his other hand to cup her cheek. “Because it is what you want?"

  "Do I?” she countered.

  "Perhaps you have been searching for me while I was searching for you,” he suggested.

  "No,” she said. “I don't think so but...."

  "But?"

  She returned her head to his shoulder. After all, it was but a dream and in dreams you can do and say things you would never do when awake.

  "But now that I've found you, I will keep you warm."

  He unlaced their fingers and slung that arm around her shoulder, drawing her to him and for awhile they continued floating as their hearts beat in tandem, the rhythm pulsing in synchronicity.

  "Deklyn?” she asked in a soft voice.

  "Aye, tarrishagh?"

  Timidly she looked up at him. This was a dream—only a dream. She screwed up her courage, took a deep breath and said, “Make love to me."

  "With the greatest of pleasure,” he responded, eyes dancing with delight.

  One moment they were clothed and the next they were not. They stretched out on their fleecy platforms and he rolled atop her, spreading her naked thighs with his knees as he settled between her legs. He lowered his mouth to her breast to draw a nipple between his lips. She threaded her fingers through his unbound hair.

  "Such a glorious feeling,” she said. “It has been so long."

  He looked up at her. “Did he not give you such glorious feelings?"

  Maire had loved Phillip as much as she had been capable of loving any man after what she had been through at the hands of the Baron's savage friend. Her husband had been a good, loving partner, a patient man, but his approach to lovemaking had left much to be desired. She had never felt with him the overpowering wash of sheer ecstasy she had known that one and only time with Deklyn Yn Baase.

  "No,” she said honestly. “He tried but it was not to be."

  "Then I will make up for every time he tried and did not pleasure you,” he said and lowered his head to her breast.

  Maire closed her eyes to the supreme bliss that pulsed through her. His mouth was hot against her breast. His tongue was a potent weapon flicking over her swollen nipple. As he moved his lips from her breast to her belly, she opened her eyes.

  "What are you doing?” she asked, shocked as he went lower to kiss the wiry curls at the juncture of her thighs.

  "Did he never taste your sweetness, tarrishagh?” he asked.

  A hard blush stole over her cheeks. “No!” she whispered.

  "Then I will be the first to savor your nectar."

  She drew in a quick breath as his breath touched the core of her only a fraction of a second before his tongue swept along her folds. She quivered like a leaf in the wind—her belly clenching tightly.

  Pure delight raced through Maire as his tongue and lips did lethal things to her libido. He nibbled upon that special spot only he seemed able to find. He aroused her as he had on that long ago night when he'd taken her from childhood into womanhood. The heat of his breath, the flick of his tongue, the pressure of his lips as he suckled that most intimate part of her all combined to turn her inside out with delicious desire. Her hands cupped his head and when he thrust a wicked finger into her sheath as he nipped at that special spot, she cried out as wave after wave of intense pleasure rippled through her.

  "Aye, milady,” he whispered against her wet core. “That is what your man needed to hear."

  Writhing as the last pulses of delight trembled deep within her he slid his beautiful body up hers and positioned his steely cock at her entrance.

  "Lift your hips, tarrishagh,” he whispered, his lips at the base of her throat.

  She welcomed him with an arch of her back. She slipped her arms around his neck and gave herself willingly. His cock slid into her—filled her, stretched—as Phillip's never had. He touched her very depths.

  "I love you, Dek,” she said for—after all—it was but a dream and in dreams anything was permissible.

  "I have loved you for a decade,” he told her, beginning the firm, slow rhythm that she had so longed to experience again.

  Deep and shallow, gliding along her slick channel to moisten her even more, she could feel his shaft pressing against her womb with each long penetrat
ion. She squeezed his neck, nipping at his chin, licking his throat before he lowered his head to capture her mouth with his. In perfect synchronization with his thrusts, his tongue slid in and out between her lips—tasting deep, brushing her bottom lip, flicking at the corners of her mouth.

  "Deklyn,” she whispered, increasing her hold on him.

  His thrusts came a bit faster, his hips rotating as he pulled back, twisted again as he drove into her. He ran his hands under her to lift her higher, and she brought her legs up to circle his waist—something she always wanted to do with Phillip but which her husband would not allow.

  "Isn't ladylike, Maire,” he'd said in a prudish voice. “Not t'all."

  Her lover increased his thrusts until he was pumping into her with abandon. His long black hair fell over his forehead and brushed at his cheeks. Sweat glistened on his forehead and upper lip. His hands tightened on her ass as he began to slam into her fiercely, his jaw clenched as he locked gazes with her, his green eyes glowing with possession.

  She became lost in that gaze. It made her understand she was his. It shouted to her that no other man would ever lay hands to her again as long as he drew breath. His words to her proved as much—

  "Mine, Maire. You are mine and mine you will stay! I have found you at last, and I will never let you go!"

  The thrusting came faster still until he was ramming himself into her velvety slickness. He rocked her body back and forth as he drove deep. The slap of their flesh meeting, the weight of his lower body pressing down on hers—the force of it—and the building itch gathering deep inside her made Maire clamp her legs tighter around him.

  Their combined passions exploded at the exact same moment. He poured his heated juices into her, and she clenched around him like a silken glove to squeeze every last drop of cum from his pulsing cock. His growl of ownership as he spilled his seed to brand her his sent shivers of happiness cascading through her. Her soft cry of release tightened his arms around her as he dug his fingers into her rump.

  "Mine,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Forever mine."

  "Aye,” she replied, cherishing the heavy weight of him as he collapsed atop her. She spiked her fingers through his hair to hold his head to her breast. His heart was beating wildly—throbbing against hers—and his breath came in exhausted gasps. “Sleep,” she told him. “Sleep, my dear love."