WindWarrior

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "Should I leave then?” she asked, hanging onto the edge of the portal, shooting him a teasing grin.

  "You forgot all about me today,” he complained, closing the book without marking his place then tossing it aside. “I've been stuck in here with nothing to do and no one to talk to."

  "To argue with, you mean,” she countered, coming all the way into the cabin. She went over to his desk, pulled out his chair and carried it to the bunk where she sat down primly with her legs to one side and her hands folded primly in her lap. “Are you going to be a brat, Baron Yn Baase?"

  "If I want,” he asserted. “I am entitled. I am a wounded warrior, milady. Take pity on me."

  She waved a dismissive hand, rolling her eyes at his woebegone expression. “You're a brat,” she decided.

  "How goes the voyage?” he inquired.

  "We're making good speed,” she said, her eyes bright and shining with excitement. “And the dolphins have been shadowing us for several knots now."

  Dek grinned. “Nautical miles, tarrishagh,” he said. “A knot is how fast the ship is going."

  "Oh,” she said and then shrugged like a little girl. “Whatever.” She looked around. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?” She looked back at him. “Can I get you anything?"

  "All I want is right before me,” he said in a husky voice. He held his hand out to her. She took it, searched his eyes for a brief moment then frowned before looking away. He cocked his head to one side. “What was that look?"

  She shrugged. “Sometimes I do too much thinking,” she said in a low voice.

  "And you were thinking about what just then?” he asked.

  Once more she shrugged but her shoulders slumped lower there at the end.

  "Maire?” he coaxed, drawing out her name.

  She inhaled deeply before lifting her gaze to his. “I was thinking of your lady-wife."

  He frowned. “What of her?"

  Her lovely face creased. “It's that I know how I would have felt if Philip had been untrue to me,” she said. “If he...."

  "Did you love him?” he interrupted.

  Maire's brows drew together as though the question somehow hurt her. “Our marriage was complicated,” she admitted.

  "Did. You. Love. Him?” he repeated.

  Her gaze lowered. “I respected him,” she hedged. “I was a good wife to him. We...."

  "But you didn't love him."

  She shook her head. “Not in the way you mean, no. I had feelings for him, though. He was a good man, a decent, hardworking, honest man."

  "Yet not the kind of man that would instill unbridled passion in a young woman's heart,” he suggested.

  A slight smile tugged at her lips. “No, Philip was a homely man but he was sweet with an endearing laugh and gentle spirit. He was a good husband to me."

  "I'm glad,” Dek said, “but Ynez has not been a good wife to me nor me a good husband to her. There has never been any love or respect or liking between us, Maire and there never will be."

  "But when a woman has her husband's oainjyr...."

  "You are neither my mistress nor my whore!” he snapped, tightening his hand around hers. He knew the Geddynian language as well as his own and found that particular word offensive. “You are my Cochianglt, the other half of my soul!"

  "So you have said,” she replied softly.

  "Do you doubt it?” he queried, his voice equally as soft but filled with hurt.

  "No, but...."

  "Ynez and I have been married for eight years, five months, and thirteen days,” he stated. “In that time she has sent over three dozen women—young and beautiful women—to my bed in the hopes I'd take one as my mistress, so I would no longer come to hers. She has brought the most highly trained courtesans, stunningly sensual harlots, and the most willing virgins into Drogh-gheay thinking they would lure me, tempt me, and many of them did. Nevertheless, not once have I slipped between the thighs of any of them more than once."

  Maire's face turned bright red at his callous and earthy words. She ducked her head, unable to look at him.

  "I'm a man, tarrishagh,” he said, his voice now filled with pleading for her to understand. “I have needs. It is not within me to remain celibate until this farce of a marriage of mine is put aside. Ynez doesn't expect it of me and sure as hell doesn't care how I spend my seed so long as it is not in her uncaring, unfeeling, unwelcome body. She'll not give you a second thought. If anything, she'll be relieved I've taken a lover."

  Maire raised her head. “But we are not true lovers, milord,” she protested. “I cannot—nay, I will not—lay with you until we are legally wedded. I have said as much and...."

  "And I will abide by that, Maire,” he said with exasperation. “I have said as much, myself!"

  She looked at him with sad eyes. “But will it be enough for you?"

  "It will have to be,” he answered and his words had the ring of truth to them.

  For a long moment, she stared into his eyes then at last took a long, hitch of breath, her decision made.

  "Then I will say no more of my concerns, milord,” she said. “If you tell me your lady-wife will have no objection to our friendship, then I believe you."

  "She won't,” he declared.

  Maire slipped her hand from his. “We'll speak no more of it,” she said then got up to fetch the chess set from the desk, returning to the bunk to place it on the mattress beside him. She pulled up her chair.

  * * * *

  It was Jules who came to get her not long before the sun set. He rapped gently upon the door, calling out to Maire that if she would like to see her new home, they would be passing it in a matter of minutes.

  "Go,” Dek encouraged her.

  Following behind Jules, she felt her heart thumping with excitement in her chest and when she reached the rail and looked to the cliff that they were approaching, she drew in a sharp breath.

  "That's it?” she said, eyes wide and mouth hanging open after her query.

  "Aye,” Jules replied with a sharp frown. “Are you disappointed then? Were you expecting a mansion, wench?"

  Maire barely spared him an annoyed look as she turned back to look at what Dek had told her was a cottage. To her way of thinking, it was a palatial estate. “'It is small enough for you to take care of on your own yet large enough that it would be comfortable for when I can come to visit',” she mumbled, her hands tight on the teakwood railing. “If that is his idea of small enough for me to take care of on my own, I'd hate to see what he thought I couldn't take care of on my own!"

  "Then it will do?” Jules asked.

  "Jules,” she said, stamping her foot. “That is not a cottage! That is a villa!"

  "No,” Jules said, drawing out the denial. “That is what we call a cottage in Tarryn. A villa is much larger and requires staff.” He pointed. “That is a cottage. ‘Tis only four rooms each floor, wench. You could easily clean it in a day, couldn't you?"

  Turning her attention back to the cottage, she felt the blood rushing to her head. It was a fieldstone treasure with four huge mullioned windows on the first floor and four more on the second but between those was an even larger expanse she knew was called a picture window.

  Jules leaned on the railing. “That big window is in what they call the gallery area. There are two bedrooms on one side and the master bedroom and bath on the other with the gallery in between. There's only half the floor there, though, for you can look down into the great room and kitchen from the landing."

  "Landing,” Maire repeated, shaking her head. “Gallery? Master bedroom?” She looked up over at Jules. “You said there were four rooms on the first floor?"

  He nodded. “Kitchen and great room are really just one big open room,” Jules said. “There is a room Tarnes built to be his tackle room, but I suppose that would be a good place for you to do your sewing.” He reached up to touch his throat. “I suppose one of the two other smaller rooms could be used for your ointment making and the like.” He shrugged. “The re
maining one? For whatever you want. An office, perhaps?"

  "Office?” she shrieked, giving him an owlish look.

  "Well, I don't know what you'd want to use it for, wench,” he grumbled, straightening up and turning his back on the cottage they had now passed. “Use it for that gods-be-damned nanny goat for all I care!"

  Maire returned her attention to the place where she would be living. In the lowering sun, it was ablaze with color, the fieldstone a rosy hue, the last rays of light sparking off the window panes, the stone fence that enclosed the back of the property barely visible. She spied a barn and a small hut off to one side. That hut was five times larger than the one in which she had been living these past few years.

  "It is too much, Jules,” she said, her lips trembling, eyes filling with tears. “I don't deserve such an abode."

  "He thinks you do,” Jules said and once more touched his throat. “And so do I.” He strolled off with his hands jammed into the pockets of his pants.

  The sun set at that moment, plunging the cliff into total darkness, so she could no longer see her new home.

  "Oh, sweet merciful goddess,” she said, staring at the cottage until it disappeared from sight. “What in the world am I going to do with it?"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Eight

  Though the ship had docked in the Drogh-gheay slip in the harbor that ran in a semi-circle before the great keep, Dek had preferred to spend the night on board rather than inconvenience his people. Word had been sent that their overlaird had returned and asked no special considerations be made other than the preparation of his personal quarters at the keep.

  "He wants to put off having to see that termagant of a wife of his for as long as possible,” Guy whispered to Maire.

  "Won't she expect him to come home this evening?” Maire inquired.

  "No, lass,” Guy said. “She'd just as soon he never comes home."

  When she laid down that night, she expected there to be another seductive dream sent by her spectral lover but no such dream came. What she felt coming from him was anxiety, his soul in turmoil and that touched her heart deeply. She sensed him tossing and turning—grunting as his wound reminded him it was still there—so that by the time she finally fell asleep, she was exhausted and fell into a hard slumber.

  When Seannie tapped lightly at her door at first light, she was already up and re-braiding her hair. In her bare feet, she went to the door to accept the cup of coffee that was compliments of the captain.

  "His Grace is up and getting dressed,” Seannie reported. “He says to tell you he won't be having breakfast but for you to go ahead and take as long as you want. Sir Guy will take you on up to the cottage and His Grace will be heading for the keep."

  "He should eat,” she said.

  Seannie lifted his hands. “I don't think he has the stomach for it, milady. He just wants to get it over and done with, I suppose."

  "Seeing his lady-wife,” she said.

  "Aye,” Seannie agreed. “Seeing and having to deal with her is my guess.” He lowered his voice. “Always gives him a sour stomach, it does."

  She tilted her head to one side, realization setting in. “He doesn't want to see me this morning, does he?"

  Seannie shook his head. “I think it would hurt him too much, milady. He says he'll come by the cottage later in the day."

  She looked down at the cup in her hand, knowing now why it had been brought then turned a gentle smile to the young cabin boy. “Then I'll stay here until he's off the ship. Will you come to get me then?"

  "Aye, milady, that I will."

  * * * *

  As the carriage in which she was riding with Guy moved over the long, serpentine oyster-shell driveway toward the cottage, Maire moved constantly from one side of the bench to the other to get a view of the landscape. Beyond the silvery expanse of split rail fencing bordering each side of the wide driveway grew lush green grasses, stately willow trees, and a myriad assortment of flowering shrubs. Honeysuckle curled around the weathered wood rails of the fence to lend its delicate beauty to the early morning. Overhead, seabirds swooped across the bright blue sky where no trace of cloud hovered.

  "I believe Dek said there are sixty acres of land with the cottage,” Guy told her. “You can just barely see the stream flowing through the back of the property. I believe it to be the best feature since it flows all the way to the cliff then over the side in a small waterfall."

  Maire snapped her head toward him. “I didn't see that last eve!"

  "You can't see it from the water side,” he explained. “The rock sort of curls around it but you can hear it from the cottage and see it clearly from the balcony outside your bedroom window."

  "There is a balcony?” she asked in a breathless voice.

  "And a porch on the back just off the kitchen door."

  "Oh,” Maire said on a long note. She returned her attention to the land over which they were passing. “It is so beautiful, Guy."

  If Maire had thought the cottage palatial from a distance, seeing it up close made her knees weak. The nearer the carriage came to the fieldstone edifice, the more impressive it seemed. The dark cinnamon color of the rolled slate tiles basking in the warmth of the sun gave it a homey feel but the immaculately placed and expertly cared for shrubs, flowers, and evergreen plants belied the coziness. The atmosphere instilled within her a sense of having arrived at a graceful country estate.

  "Oh, Guy, this is too much,” she said, her voice breaking.

  "He wants to make you happy, Maire,” Guy told her. “What are you going to name it?"

  She gave him a blank look. “Name it?” she echoed.

  "Every cottage must have a name, lass,” he said with a laugh. “The sailor never got around to naming and Dek never cared to so the chore has been left up to you. What will you call it?"

  The carriage had come to a stop in front of the cottage where the driveway curved in a beautiful white arch before traveling on around the southern side of the building to loop back into the main part of the drive. She sat staring at the long sweep of porch that stretched across the front of the cottage, the stone steps leading up to the massive oak door, and the gleaming windows looking out across the end of the cliff to the swell of the blue-green waters of the Bay of Eannal.

  Guy opened the carriage door, stepped down then turned to hold out his hand to her. She took it and he helped her down the steps. A gentle breeze lightly touched her face—stirring the loose hairs of her braid—and she inhaled the scent of sea air, drawing it deeply into her lungs.

  "Sheidaghan,” she said softly. “I will call it Sheidaghan."

  "The windy place, eh?” Guy asked, translating the word. He nodded. “It suits, lass."

  "There should be a curving flagstone walkway from here to the steps,” she said, “with windflowers growing on either side in welcome."

  "I'll have a man out here to lay the stones before the sun goes down,” he told her.

  "No, I want to do it,” she said.

  "Then I'll get the stones for you,” he said, grinning.

  Maire wasn't really listening for she was moving across the thick grass toward the porch, her gaze sweeping from one end of the cottage to the other. “And trumpet vine growing up the porch columns so the hummingbirds will come to feed.” She lifted her skirt as she climbed the five steps up to the porch, which was bare of furniture. “And we need rocking chairs, Guy. At least four but mayhap six, one for each of us."

  "Each of us?” Guy repeated.

  "Dek and me,” she said. “You, Jules, Larson and his lady-wife or Seannie when the lad comes to visit.” She looked around at him—her eyes alight, joy filling her face. “Or Strom or Andy or Rupert or Giles or anyone else who drops by. We'll sit and look out at the ocean and feel the wind on our faces!"

  "That would be wonderful,” Guy said. He felt a catch in his throat and had to clear it. “I'm glad we'll be welcome here, and I know the men will be honored you expect them to
come calling."

  "Always!” she insisted. She went to the door, reached for the handle but pulled her hand back, biting her lip as she looked to him to do the honors.

  "Allow me,” he said and moved past her to push the portal open.

  A cool wash of air flowed out of the empty house to waft over her. Her hands were twisted in front of her—clutching the skirt of her gown—as she moved over the threshold and into the bright interior of the cottage where it was cheerfully sunny with the yellow morning light.

  "Guy,” she whispered reverently as she took in the whitewashed walls, the highly polished oak flooring, and the immense fireplace that separated what she thought to be the sitting room from a kitchen with enough cabinet space and countertops to do a fine restaurant proud.

  "There are fireplaces in every room,” Guy told her. “It doesn't get cold that often in Tarryn but when it does here on the ocean side, it can be downright unpleasant. I'll see that you have plenty of firewood, lass."

  As though in a dream, moving through the sitting room into the kitchen area, Maire could not believe her eyes as she took in the beauty and functionality of the open room. A deep, oversized soapstone sink with a gleaming copper water pump sat beneath a wide window just begging for a window box of herbs to be growing there. Tall cabinets bracketed the window to either side. Ranged beneath the side was a long base cabinet with ten doors. That cabinet continued in an L along the southern wall where more wall cabinets were hung. In the center of the kitchen floor was a large table made of heavy timbers Guy explained had come from a ship upon which the former owner had sailed and bore a thick marble top.

  "Makes a good workspace, doesn't it?” Guy inquired. “He made it, himself, and even routered out a place to stick your knives to keep them at hand. See?” He showed her the long groove cut into the wood at the end of the table.

  Maire nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. She ran her fingertips lightly over the marble counters, pictured gingham curtains on a bay window that had been built into the very corner of the room. It was a spot that cried out for a table and chairs, a hanging copper chandelier overhead.