WindWarrior

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "Then go to bed,” she said over her shoulder as she poured herself a small glass of the pale orange liquid. “You look tired."

  "One minute earlier to bed is one minute less I can spend with you,” he said.

  She returned but instead of sitting down on the floor, she curled up on the settee with her legs tucked beneath her knowing he'd join her. He did, stretching out on his back with his head in her lap—his favorite place it seemed—then crooked his knees. He smiled as she idly ran the fingers of her free hand through his hair.

  "I can't wait until I take you to Oceania,” he said, closing his eyes to the feel of her smoothing his hair.

  "When will that be?” she asked.

  "Tonight,” he said and opened one eye. “In our dreams.” He wagged his brows suggestively.

  Her cheeks turned red but she made no comment.

  "Do you enjoy those dreams, tarrishagh, or am I intruding on your sleep?’ he asked, looking up at her with those endearing lines appearing between his beautiful green eyes again.

  She put a finger to the creases to stroke them. “Since it is the only way we can be together, I look forward to your nightly visits, milord,” she said then ran the tip of her finger over his full lips to the slight indention in his strong chin.

  "You don't feel I'm dream-raping you, do you?” he asked and his face was so earnest, so concerned, she cupped his chin and tugged.

  "No, Deklyn. I do not,” she said. “Such a thing never crossed my mind.” She realized he wanted to say something but seemed afraid to. She arched a brow. “Spit it out. There's something on the tip of your tongue. Out with it."

  "I am proud I was your first,” he said.

  Maire's breath caught in her throat. There was a time when she had cursed Deklyn Yn Baase, the Black Baron, the enemy of her people. She had bemoaned the fact that she had been so weak, so gullible that she had allowed him to seduce her, to take the most precious thing a woman had to give her husband. Now, when she thought back to that night in Ghraih, it was with a sigh.

  "I am glad you were my first, too,” she said.

  "If I knew then what I know now, if I had it to do over, I would have left you be,” he told her.

  "I have had many weeks to think about it, Dek, and I believe the gods put us together,” she said. “Surely it was Their will that threw us together again after so many years. I do not regret our having met."

  "No?"

  "No,” she said firmly. “Once of a time I did but that time has since passed."

  He reached up to take her hand and bring it to his lips, placing a kiss in her palm before he lowered her hand to his heart. It was something he did often and the steady beat of his heart against her palm was reassuring. And when he looked up at her as he did now, her entire body felt as though it would melt beneath the heat of his gaze.

  Rain beat against the cottage as though looking for a way to get inside. It drummed against the roof, pelted the window panes, and pushed at the door. The fire in the hearth—lighted to chase away the damp—sizzled and popped in time to the rain's incessant cadence. Instead of being distracting, it was a lulling sound that soon had them both dozing. When she tugged gently on his hair and told him it was time he was abed, he started to protest, but she covered his lips with her fingertips.

  "We will have other nights, milord,” she said. “This one has played out for as long as it should."

  Seeing the weariness in her eyes, he nodded, kissed her fingers then sat up, and swung his legs to the floor. He raked a hand through his hair, sighed heavily, then got to his feet with his hand out to her. She nestled her fingers in his. For a sweet, desperate moment, he took her into his arms and held her with his chin atop her head.

  "I never want this night to end,” he said.

  Her arms were around his waist, her cheek pressed to his bare chest where the shirt was open. “There will be other nights,” she repeated.

  Once more, he sighed then with an arm around her, led her to the stairs. He would escort her to her door, kiss her goodnight then spend torturous minutes until sleep claimed him aching to be lying beside her in her big brass bed.

  When he lay down on the bed in the guest room, he could hear her still moving about her own chamber. He clasped his hands behind his head, closed his eyes and wondered what it was she was doing.

  "Brushing your hair one hundred strokes, my love?” he asked softly. “Plaiting it?"

  He could picture her in the demure gown he thought she would wear—the long sleeves ending in little ruffles around her wrist, the hem touching the tops of her feet. It would be buttoned all the way up to the top button and the fabric would be soft against her body. In his mind's eye, he saw her pull the covers back, kick off her slippers and crawl into the bed, punch up her pillow, punch it again before settling down, drawing the covers up. He watched her turn to her side to tuck her hands beneath the pillow. He saw her smile and knew she was thinking of him.

  "I love you, too,” he whispered.

  Her smiled widened for a moment then slowly slipped away.

  She was fast becoming his life, he thought as he skirted the edge of sleep. He was bone tired and fighting it. His nerves felt on edge, but he didn't know why. As sleep finally overtook him, he tumbled down into a deep, deep sleep that took him to the shores of Oceania.

  Her hands were buried tightly in his hair, her legs spread wide. His hands were beneath her shapely rump as he feasted upon the sweetness between her legs. His tongue swept along the folds, darted into the warm center to lap at the cream that gathered there.

  They were lying beneath the canopy of a huge willow tree, the leafy branches of which swung softly in the breeze. Above them on a graceful branch a black-capped chickadee sang its cheerful song in serenade. In the distance the sound of waves breaking upon the black sand beach lent peacefulness to their surroundings.

  "Love me,” she whispered, and he looked up, his gaze locking with hers.

  "Always,” he answered.

  Easing his hands from beneath her, he slid his body over hers—feeling the dampness of her nether curls grazing his chest and belly. She hooked a leg over the small of his back as he guided his hard cock to her entrance. Gently, he thrust into that slick haven to bury himself deep.

  She clenched her inner muscles around him, and he hardened even more, withdrawing to slide shallowly, temptingly inside her with short, sure strokes.

  "Now you're teasing me,” she said and lifted her other leg to trap him in her sensuous embrace. Her hands went to his cheeks to bring his mouth to hers.

  As their tongues mated, he increased the depth of his strokes, the speed, and the possessiveness until they both were breathing heavily. His lips devoured hers—fusing their mouths together, their tongues swirling around one another. His cock probed hard and deep. Her cunt welcomed him with greedy pulses that came and went then became one long series of undulating quivers. Against his mouth she groaned, and he released his seed to join her in ecstasy.

  He sensed rather than saw a shadow fall over them....

  Dek opened his eyes. There was a man standing beside his bed, looking down at him with a half smile. Had he not recognized the man as being one of the AnÉilvéis mercenaries who had stood guard at his door the evening before, he would have grabbed the dagger he always kept beneath his pillow no matter where he laid his head and plunged it into the interloper's gut. As it was, he did not move, did not speak. He simply stared at the mercenary without blinking.

  "I beg your pardon for the intrusion, Your Grace,” the man said softly then blended into the shadows, moving across the room with stealth and quietness, Dek could not detect his presence until the door opened and closed behind his departure.

  It was the same man who had checked on him the night before. That he was here—had somehow managed to get into Sheidaghan when the doors and windows were locked—irritated Dek no end. He sat up, flinging the covers aside, cursing bitterly.

  Now he knew why he'd been allowed to come
to Maire. They had been watching him all along. The Patriarch had wanted to make doubly sure Dek did not spend the night in Maire's arms, did not slip physically between her thighs.

  "Son of a bitch!” Dek said. He got up from the bed and began to pace, so infuriated by this turn of events he wanted to throw back his head and howl to the heavens. Had he been alone and would not have disturbed the three other people in the cottage, he would have.

  He snatched his pants from the chair where he'd tossed them and dragged them on. Refraining from donning his shirt and boots, he left the guest room, not at all surprised to find the mercenary standing just outside his door.

  "What's your name, soldier?” he demanded.

  "Damian, Your Grace."

  "How the hell did you get in here?” he hissed.

  Damian hesitated only a fraction of a second then replied that he had slipped in earlier in the afternoon when they were all on the porch and concealed himself within the cottage.

  That enraged Dek even more.

  "You were spying on us? Watching us all evening?"

  The mercenary shook his head. “No, Your Grace. I was not watching you. I was told to stay close, to listen but not to observe."

  Dek's eyes narrowed dangerously. “And?” he growled.

  "To prevent you from doing anything that might compromise the young lady, Your Grace."

  "To prevent...?” A red haze of pure fury rippled over Dek's vision. A tic developed in his cheek. “By prevent, you mean to physically restrain me?"

  "If it became necessary, aye, Your Grace."

  Fury turned to festering rage that was moments away from exploding into mayhem. “Get out,” Dek said. “Now!"

  "I cannot, Your Grace,” Damian replied. “I am under the personal orders of the Patriarch. If I leave, you must leave with me. I was told not to leave you here alone with the young lady."

  "I'm not going anywhere!"

  "Then with all due respect, Your Grace, neither am I,” the mercenary stated.

  "Dek?"

  Both men turned to find Maire standing at her door. She was barefoot with a fringed shawl wrapped around her upper body. Her long hair hung in an untidy braid that hung over her left shoulder.

  "Who is this man?” she asked.

  "One of the Patriarch's guards,” he told her. “Sent to spy on us."

  "Do the two of you realize what time it is?” she asked. “It is three of the clock. Can't your conversation wait until a decent hour?"

  Dek went to her, cupped her face between his palms. “Tarrishagh, I am sorry we woke you. Go back to bed. I'll handle this."

  She eased her cheeks from his tender grip and looked past him to the guard. “Did you think he would be in my room?” she asked.

  "Nay, milady,” Damian replied. “I knew he would not."

  "Then why come into my chamber to make sure?” Dek demanded then hissed. “Did you go into my lady's room? If you did...."

  Damian lifted his chin. “I would not have done that, Your Grace."

  "But you would have stopped him from coming into mine,” Maire said.

  The mercenary inclined his head. “Aye, milady. I would have."

  She stepped around Dek and went to the guard. “Damian, is it?” she asked, letting both men know she'd heard most if not all their conversation.

  "Aye, milady."

  "Damian, I want you to deliver a message to the Patriarch for me,” she said.

  "Tarrishagh, I don't think.... “Dek began, but she held up a hand, the other wrapped carefully around the ends of her shawl.

  "I want you to tell him I am not Deklyn Yn Baase's whore nor will I ever be. I am his Cochianglt."

  "I am sure His Beatitude knows that, milady,” Damian said.

  "Nevertheless, I want you to tell him so for me. Furthermore, while you're at it, tell him I resent him questioning my honor and even more so the honor of the Baron. Will you do that for me, Damian?"

  "I will, milady."

  "Thank you.” She turned her back on the guard, walked past Dek and into her room. The sound of the lock made it clear regarding her feelings that the conversation was closed as far as she was concerned.

  Without another word to the guard, Dek walked past him and into the guest room, closing the door and locking it.

  The AnÉilvéis mercenary positioned himself between the two rooms, leaned his back against the wall and remained there the rest of the night.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Fourteen

  With the red robe flapping around his legs, Dek followed the seven clergymen and ten acolytes up the winding road to the Cliff of Doneen with Ynez at his side. Leading the procession was the Patriarch with the two Archbishops a few feet behind him, the Archmandrite directly behind them, followed by the Presbyter—the Archmandrite's assistant, then the two auxiliary priests who had accompanied the Patriarch to Tarryn. Between Dek and the auxiliary priests were the acolytes. Behind Dek—and in regard of their rank—were the Tribunalists, the councilmen, Guy and Jules, the wives of the dignitaries and the citizens of Tarryn. Bringing up the rear were the servants of Drogh-gheay and the soldiers who had not been left behind to guard the keep. Somewhere in that throng was Miriam Brazwellington.

  The day was overcast but warm and the wind brisk. It was considered to be an auspicious day for the Festival of the Winds. The altar had been set up according to ritual before the false dawn arrived. Everything was in readiness when the procession wound its way to the top of the cliff and the Patriarch took his place facing the pilgrims.

  Ynez was bored—as she always was at any religious ceremony. She saw no real advantage to worshipping gods who had done nothing in her estimation but make her life miserable. They certainly did not listen to her sporadic prayers and any requests she made where summarily ignored. She hated the robe she was forced to wear but hated it more that she had to stand beside the bastard who had mauled her the night before. He had been quick about it—barely spoke to her either before or after the rut—and she was grateful another month would pass before he would visit her again. His touch the evening before had been particularly loathsome and the weight of his heavy, hairy body atop hers was almost more than she could bear. A bath afterward did little to rid her of his despicable smell.

  Sensing her husband's attention wasn't on the ceremony, either, she looked up at him. She was annoyed that he was looking at the crowd that had formed a semicircle around the altar instead of directing his attention to the Patriarch. She hissed at him but he ignored her—as though that was something knew, she thought nastily. Looking over to where his gaze seemed riveted, she saw the girl and knew. She knew who she was—even had the bitch not been standing between the Yn Baase brothers.

  "I see your slut is here,” she said in a low voice and that got his notice. He looked down at her and from the anger on his face, she had hit a nerve. She smiled. “Did you think I would not know her when I saw her, Deklyn? Even from this distance I can see the brand of...."

  "Don't say it,” he snarled at her.

  "Her sweet love for you glowing on her pedestrian little face,” she finished. “How positively romantic."

  He leaned down to put his lips to her ear. “Shut. Your. Mouth,” he ordered before straightening.

  Ynez turned her nose up and moved a few paces away from him, returning her concentration on the girl across the way. Fair-haired—and no doubt fair-eyed as well—the girl was lovely. Why that bothered her she didn't know but the blonde's beauty stood out against the vibrant red robe and since custom dictated a woman's hair must not be bound or adorned in any fashion during the festival, the flaxen strands were hanging loose, blowing behind her in the wind. All around her men were surreptitiously studying her and that—no doubt—was what was causing Deklyn to breathe so heavily and look so irritated.

  Smiling at her husband's jealousy over a woman she had no intention of ever allowing him to have as his own, Ynez saw the female in question look her way. Their eyes met. Though there
was no expression on the other woman's pretty face, there was heat generating from her gaze. Her hands were clenched at her sides.

  "He is mine,” Ynez mouthed the words silently and was shocked to the very core of her soul when the whore slowly smiled—almost evilly—arched a brow then diverted her entire focus to Deklyn as though Ynez no longer existed.

  "Bitch,” Ynez whispered and was rewarded with Dek's hand grasping hers to squeeze it so brutally it was all she could do not to whimper.

  Across the way Maire watched Dek pull on his wife's hand until they were kneeling on the ground. She, too, went to her knees along with the other worshippers, although she understood nothing of the ceremony and was only mimicking those around her. Heads bowed—including Dek's—so Maire lowered her own but kept her eyes on the man she loved who was still holding his wife's hand. From the look on Ynez's face, that grip was tighter than necessary and the Baroness was striving to get free.

  For the next hour Maire rose and knelt when the crowd did, repeated the responses they repeated, shook hands, and gave her neighbors the Sign of Peace after hugging Guy and Jules, Caro and Hank in the process. She smiled greetings at those of Dek's men she knew: Andy, Strom, Rupert and a few others for she wasn't close enough to shake hands with them. As the ceremony came to a close, she realized the Patriarch was staring at her as the acolytes cleared the altar in preparation for the final blessing. She didn't know whether to smile but when he did, she gave him a tremulous one of her own before he turned his gaze away.

  As she followed the worshippers when the ceremony was over, she saw a young man hurrying toward Jules. The two stepped aside to talk and when she looked back, she saw Jules frowning. Guy excused himself and walked over to them.

  "Something's up,” Hank said.

  Maire craned her neck to see Dek and when she found him in the throng, realized he was speaking with Captain Larson Yn Zell of Dek's flagship, the Céirseach. Dek looked none too pleased by whatever was being said but nodded and made his way over to the Patriarch.

  "Has something happened?” Maire asked as Guy and Jules rejoined them.