WindWarrior

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "Once you have a sense of what's needed here, we'll drive into Cathair to pick out your furniture,” he told her.

  Maire blinked. “We're going to the capitol city?"

  "It's only a few miles down the road, lass,” Guy said with a grin. “It's not like we'll be traveling to the end of the country."

  She looked down at the only nice gown she had and pictured the city folk pointing and laughing at her. Her cheeks flamed and she shook her head. “No,” she said in a firm voice. “No, I'll give you a list, and you go."

  Guy's brows drew together. “Don't you want to choose your furnishings, lass?"

  She shook her head again. “No."

  Her companion opened his mouth to ask her why then realized she was looking at her gown. He clamped his lips together, deciding discretion was the better part of valor. Nevertheless, he would make sure to filch the gown she was wearing the first time they met from the hamper she'd brought along with her and take it with him to a seamstress when he rode into Cathair. Surely, he could find a few simple, elegant gowns that would suit her and perhaps a half-dozen day gowns that she would find fitting. Perhaps it was not his place to provide her with wearing apparel but the look on her face cut him to the quick as he watched her walk across the room and to the three doors that led to the other rooms on the ground floor. Staying where he was while she investigated them, he waited until she came back into the kitchen and moved to the door leading to the back porch before joining her.

  "Good place for an herb garden,” he said, pointing off to their right.

  "Aye, it would be,” she said, and he noticed her voice was subdued, a bit melancholy.

  "More rockers out here?” he inquired and at her thoughtful nod, decided to keep quiet as she moved back into the house and toward the curving oak steps that led to the second floor. In silence he followed her up the stairs where she stood gazing at the huge picture window and the spectacular vista of ocean beyond.

  "There should be a settee here so you can watch the sea when it storms,” she said quietly. “With two chairs to either side and tables."

  He said nothing—making a mental note of her thoughts.

  She viewed each of the smaller bedrooms, and sighed over the good-sized bath between them before turning to the double doors that led to the master suite. She stopped at the closed doors with her hands clenched into fists at her sides then reached for the handles, throwing the portals wide.

  "Oh, sweet goddess,” she said.

  The room was the only one in the house where the walls were any color other than whitewashed. The walls here were painted a pale blue with plush dark green carpeting underfoot. A beach scene of swaying palm trees, thatched hut, long wooden pier jutting out into turquoise waters had been painted on the wall opposite with double French doors that led onto a wide covered balcony. A pink lemonade sunset appeared on the horizon of the scene with seagulls caught in mid-flight. A lone pelican perched atop a wooden pier sticking up out of the water and after careful scrutiny, that portion of the mural was painted in such a way that it hid the door into a deep closet that ran the width of the room. However, the main focus of the painting was the full-rigged ship, listing into the wind as it made toward the viewer.

  "I had forgotten Tarnes dabbled in painting,” Guy said. “Damn if he isn't right good."

  "It is beautiful, absolutely breathtaking,” Maire said of the mural. She put out a hand to touch the spot where a conch shell lay on the sparkling white sand of the beach. “It's almost as though you are there, isn't it?"

  "Aye,” Guy agreed. “Almost makes you want to pitch a hammock ‘tween those two trees."

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  "What do you need for in here?” he asked.

  Her eyes scanned the room. “A big brass bed over there,” she said, pointing, “with a night table and lamp on each side, a desk and chair with a lamp on the other side of the balcony doors. My rocker and table on the other side of the fireplace and an armoire against that wall.” She put her thumb to her mouth to bite at the cuticle. “Is that too much, Guy? Am I asking for too much?"

  He shook his head. “Nay, lass, you are not. Dek wants you to have what you need, but he also wants to give you what you've never had. He's the wealthiest man in Tarryn, and he can afford a dozen such cottages—all furnished to the rafters—and still have enough left over to buy and furnish another keep as large as Drogh-gheay.” He smiled. “Don't be worried about breaking his purse, Maire. You won't."

  She thought about it for a moment then decided Dek would, indeed, want this house to be a true home. Drawing in a shaky breath, she told Guy they should jot down what was needed, then, starting with the upstairs.

  "I'd best find some paper and a pen, then,” he stated and left her to do just that.

  Alone in the spacious master bedchamber, she surveyed the room with a critical eye. The room faced east and west with the rose-colored marble fireplace on the north wall and the lovely mural on the south. Heavy curtains would be needed to cover the western windows to keep the late afternoon soon from overheating the room. She would angle the bed in the wide northwest corner, the armoire in the southwest corner and place the old trunk that had been her mother's at the foot of the new bed.

  "I'll make the coverlet and shams, myself,” she said, then pondered for a moment what the fabric might be that she would choose. “Something tropical, to blend with the mural."

  She moved to the balcony doors and opened them, luxuriating in the warm breeze that gently kissed her face as she walked onto the balcony. The black wrought iron railing was elegantly done with scrolls of palms and seahorses. Looking out over the vast back of the property, she spied the waterfall Guy mentioned and stood in awe as she observed it. At that moment she decided the house would be filled with all manner of things relating to the water, the sea, and the beach that ran along the bottom of the cliff.

  "Shells and sand dollars and beach glass,” she said. “It will be a true sailor's home, Mr. Tarnes.” Though she'd never met the man and wasn't likely to, she believed he would approve of what she intended for Sheidaghan. She turned to the fireplace. “And a big piece of driftwood above the mantle."

  "All right, I've got the paper and pen,” Guy said as he came out on the balcony with her. “Start listing, lass."

  "Well, besides the bed, night tables and armoire, there's the desk and chair, three lamps and a small bookcase. Out here, two comfortable rockers and a table.” Her eyes lit up. “And a swing, Guy! Aye, a swing!"

  As Guy went with her from room to room—jotting down her thoughts—he couldn't help but feel a growing love for this sweet woman. As he watched her sweep her gaze over each room, each window, his affection and respect for her grew. Everything she asked for was something that would fit the house and not be ostentatious. Each item was needed, practical, and carefully considered down to the color of the throw rugs. When he was finished with his list, he knew this house would not be a house for long but a home where Deklyn Yn Baase or any other man would feel comfortable and cared for.

  "I'll need provisions, Guy,” she said. “Dishes, linens, silverware.... “She stopped to throw her hands into the air. “It is too much, Guy. It is! Deklyn will kill me for spending so much money!"

  He ignored her outburst as he folded the note. “I'll be back with the bare essentials before sundown, but I'll send someone out with your noon meal since you barely touched your breakfast. I'll also have them bring enough for you to warm over for your supper. Come tomorrow, you can begin cooking your own meals—which I've a feeling you much prefer to do."

  "You're beginning to know me too well, Guy,” she said with a flush of heat to her face.

  Unable to refrain from doing so, he reached out to tweak her pert little nose. “You behave while I'm gone. Will you be afraid to stay here for about an hour's time or would you prefer to go back to the ship and wait?"

  "I'm not afraid here,” she said. “I'll just sit on the porch and stare at the sea."

>   "There's nothing here that will harm you,” he said. “And no one who would dare. If you feel safe, then I'd best be on my way. The well water is from an artesian spring so you won't die of thirst while I'm gone."

  "Go,” she said, shooing him with her hands. “I will be perfectly fine until you return."

  He started toward the front door. “Dek might even be here before I get back,” he said. “At any rate the lady will be arriving with your meal long before then."

  With her arm curled around one of the porch columns, she watched him drive off in the carriage—waving to him when he threw a hand up to her in farewell.

  It was so peaceful and calm there on the cliff with the screech of terns diving toward the waters, she left the security of the porch and ventured into the yards surrounding the cottage—inspecting plants, deadheading some of the flowers, deciding what other plantings she would like to make. Going around to the back, she mentally laid out her kitchen garden, herb garden and where she wanted fruit trees and berry bushes planted. She walked down to the stream and watched it bubbling but didn't have quite enough courage to walk to the end where it flowed over glistening rocks and down the high cliff. There would be—she decided—time to do that when Dek was at her side.

  "Dek,” she said, her thoughts going to the tall, handsome, enigmatic man for whom she was developing such strong, intense feelings.

  Taking a seat on the steps of the back porch, she hugged her arms around her knees and stared at the blades of grass where little red ants were busily scurrying until her eyes grew weary. Laying her head on her knees, she closed her eyelids and within minutes was sound asleep.

  * * * *

  Dek had put off returning to his ancestral home for as long as he could. He had met earlier that morning with the harbormaster regarding some pirate activity along the coast, assured the man he would send out patrols to rid Tarryn waters of the scourge, then dallied in the seaside tavern with Jules and Larson until both men began exchanging worried glances.

  "I will get there eventually,” he snapped at them. “Stop giving me those gods-be-damned annoying looks!"

  "The longer you put it off, the worse it will be,” Larson said. “You know exactly how she will react."

  "The bitch doesn't want me there!” Dek complained. “I don't want to be there."

  "Nay, but she'll not take kindly to you lollygagging here then showing up on her doorstep smelling to high heaven of the rum you've been swilling down as though it was lemonade,” Larson said, then nudged his chin toward the large clock on the wall. “And here it is not even nigh ten of the clock."

  "Leave off, Larson,” Dek growled. “I'm a grown man. I will do as I please."

  "Grown men don't need to have rum running through their backbone to stiffen it a'fore they go to meet their wives,” Jules reminded him.

  Dek cast his cousin a sour look, but he knew the man was right. There would be hell to pay as soon as he stepped a foot inside Drogh-gheay as it was. That was a given. The longer he put it off, the angrier the Black Bitch would be when he finally made an appearance.

  "Fuck,” he fumed then got to his feet—none too steady on his feet since the potent rum had gone straight to his empty belly then took a wild detour back up to his head. He dug into his pocket, grabbed a few coins then slapped them on the table. “If it ain't enough, tough shite!"

  That said he wove his way to the door, elevating a hand to the greetings of fellow drinkers at the sticky tables. His horse had been brought from the ship and was tied at the railing outside the tavern. It took him three tries to get his boot into the stirrup, but once he was seated astride the black steed, he felt well enough to make the short ride over the drawbridge and into the keep where he had been born some thirty-odd years earlier.

  "Then why do I feel like I'm in my dotage?” he asked, wiping his forearm across his brow where sour sweat had gathered. His chest ached. His head hurt. His heart was as heavy as the cobblestones over which his horse plodded. Every lift and fall of the mount's hooves added to the growing pounding between his temples. He rode as slowly as the horse would allow but that clopping echoed like cannon shot in his ears. By the time he mumbled a greeting to the guards at the portcullis, he was in agony and knew the rum had not numbed him as he'd intended that it should but rather had started one of his infamous megrims that most likely would last the entire day if not longer.

  "All the fuck I need,” he grumbled as he rode into the outer bailey then under the sweeping stone archway into the inner bailey where a servant rushed forward to take his mount's reins.

  "Welcome home, Your Grace,” the lad greeted him.

  "Home is where the heart is, boy, and that ain't here,” Dek declared as he swung a leg over his horse's head.

  Dropping to the ground with a jolt that sent blazing pain between his temples, Dek gritted his teeth and tried to walk as steadily and straightly as he could toward the steps that led up into the keep. He hurt so badly he didn't respond to the greetings of the guards who came to attention as he came abreast of them. Wincing as one leapt to open the large black oak door leading into the keep, he felt the first wave of hot bile pushing at the back of his throat.

  "So, you finally decided to come home, did you?"

  The querulous voice was loud enough to wake the dead. He put a hand to his head where the biting words had landed to bore a scalding hole into his skull. He stumbled from the agony of it.

  "And drunk as usual, I see."

  "I'm in no mood, Ynez,” he said, not bothering to look at his wife as he started for the stairs.

  "Oh, you'll not get off that easy, Deklyn Yn Baase!” she snarled at him, rushing to intercept him before he could gain the stairs. Reaching out, she grabbed the front of his shirt, and as she did, her fingers clawed into his chest, raking down the wound. He yelped—jerking away from her as a bright crimson flower appeared on his shirt.

  Ynez's eyes nearly popped from her head. Though she had bloodied her husband's nose many a time when she'd slapped him—putting the force of her slender body behind it—she had never deliberately drawn blood. To do so now terrified her. Despite Miriam's assurances otherwise, she had no illusion of how the Tarryn people felt about her. They hated her and she had hurt their beloved Black Baron—a transgression that would be widely reported before the day was out.

  "Get the Healer!” she cried, putting out a hand to Dek who viciously batted it away with a hiss. She slunk back as he started up the stairs, a hand to his chest. “I did not mean to do that, Dek.” She put her foot on the bottom stair. “Do you hear me? I didn't mean to do it. I'm sorry!"

  Dek cursed beneath his breath. The pain lancing across his chest and down his side as the blood flowed freely from his wound had completely wiped the brutal pain of his headache from his thoughts. It was all he could do to put one foot ahead of the other to climb the stairs for every step was pulling at the wound. He looked down to see blood dripping to the treads and cursed again.

  Two male servants rushed past Ynez where she stood at the bottom of the stairs staring up at her husband. “Look to him!” she ordered needlessly, pointing at him. “Look to your overlaird!"

  Both men ignored her and by the time they reached the landing, put hands out to grab their overlaird, Dek was dropping to his knees. They grabbed him before he hit the floor.

  Ynez put a trembling hand to her open mouth. Fear rooted her to the spot as the Healer bounded past her—taking the stairs two at a time in his haste. She heard him shouting orders to the servants but the blood pounding in her ears prevented her from taking in his exact words. When she felt a firm hand grip her upper arm, she turned startled eyes to the one holding her.

  "Get up there and see to your husband,” Miriam ordered her. “Now!"

  Nodding, Ynez picked up her skirts and ran up the stairs, still feeling Miriam's hard grasp on her arm though the older woman had released her hold as soon as she'd issued her command. Racing along the landing to her husband's chambers, she had to shove a ma
id out of the way to enter Dek's room.

  "Cut that shirt off him,” the healer was demanding as he placed his satchel on the night table and removed a pair of scissors. He handed them to the shorter of the two servants then glanced around at Ynez, frowning sharply, but clamped his mouth shut as though he had caught himself just before ordering her out.

  "He was wounded,” Ynez said as she came to the foot of the bed to take hold of the cross-support of the footboard. “During a battle."

  A muscle worked furiously in Healer Daragh Frazier's pale blue eyes and one of the male servants later swore he had seen the man's coarse red hair actually bristle at the Baroness’ words.

  Dek groaned as the taller servant lifted him carefully so the shorter could run the sharp blades of the scissors up the back of his pullover shirt from tail to neckline. He groaned again as the man laid him down then gently tugged the bloodstained garment from his arms.

  "Mother of the Goddess, Deklyn,” the healer whispered. “You've broken open your stitches."

  Ynez heard one of the servants say something in a language she did not speak then blanched when the healer snapped his head around to give her a savage look.

  "You did this?” Daragh demanded. “For the love of the goddess, why?"

  "I didn't mean to!” Ynez defended. “I just reached out to him and...."

  "You grabbed him, not caring if you hurt him or not!” the healer interrupted. He lifted an arm. “Get out of here before I go to the Tribunal and file a complaint, woman!"

  Bristling at the order, it was on the tip of Ynez's tongue to berate the imperious bastard, but he was one of her husband's dearest friends—and a relative, to boot—and she knew she stood on shaky ground for having harmed one hair on the Black Baron's head. With her chin high but knees feeling like water, she lifted her chin, spun around and stormed from the room.

  "One of these days she's going to wind up killing you, Dek,” Daragh told his patient.

  Dek was beyond listening. His head was thundering and the fiery ache in his chest was taking its toll. He was gasping for breath and when the nausea from the migraine struck full force, he twisted violently to the side to put his head over the side of the bed. The mug of rum he'd drunk came back up, splashing the servant's boots.