Wyndmaster 1 - The Wyndmaster's Lady

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Sierran saw the young woman’s face pale and as she slowly turned her eyes back to him, he could see moisture gathering in their lovely blue depths. His attention went to her lips to see them quiver.

  “I am so sorry,” she whispered.

  "It's all right." He felt the need to say to take the pain from her eyes.

  “I’ll see to your back, too, then,” she said before clamping her mouth tightly shut.

  The suturing was an agony he could ill afford and Sierran had to struggle not to groan as the needle wove in and out of his tender flesh—made even more so by the vicious cuts. He twisted the sheet in his fists, dug his heels into the bunk’s mattress, and kept his eyes locked on the ceiling beam overhead.

  “I’m almost finished,” he heard her say.

  “I’m still here,” he managed to respond. “Where did you learn to sew up a man’s wounds?”

  Celeste looked away from the last suture to glance at him and when she did, his gaze jerked from the ceiling to hers. They stared at one another for a second or two then away. “I have never sewn a man’s wounds before but I have completed quite a few tapestries and samplers. The stitching isn’t that different although there is more pull with human flesh than with fabric.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Right.”

  “Give him the bottle, Vargas,” she said as she cut the thread on the last stitch then gently ran the palm of her hand under Sierran’s neck to lift his head once more.

  Vargas extended the whiskey to Sierran. “It’s good stuff, Commander,” he commented.

  Burning a way down his throat, the whiskey was righteous as Mac was fond of saying. It was potent but he knew it would take more than a slug or two to put him in a mellow mood and at least half of it to blot out the pain burning on his chest and arms.

  “What else do you need, milord?” she asked him when he lowered the bottle.

  “A real bath,” he said with a sigh as he handed the bottle back to Vargas. “I fairly reek.”

  Celeste turned to Vargas and arched a brow in query.

  Vargas blushed. “Aye, milady,” he said with a sigh. “I can bathe him if he wants me to.” He squared his shoulders. “Is that what you want, Commander?”

  “I’d rather she does it but I’ll settle for you,” Sierran stated.

  She removed her hand from under his neck. “Behave,” she ordered, but her lips twitched. Before she could pull her hand away, he took it in his and brought it to his lips.

  “Thank you, wench,” he said softly. “I am in your debt.”

  “Celeste,” she reminded, feeling that kiss all the way to her toes. “My name is Celeste.”

  "Celeste," Sierran repeated and half-smiled. "Not wench."

  "Not wench," she agreed, returning his smile. She looked momentarily flustered, then cleared her throat. “I…I will see to your back once you have finished your bath,” she said. “Be careful with him, Vargas.”

  “Celeste, have you eaten?” Sierran asked as she started for the door, stumbling against the rolling pitch of the ship.

  She looked back at him. “Why do you ask?”

  “Your stomach is rumbling,” he said then glanced up at Mac. “Get her something to eat.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Mac said. He set the basin of water on the night stand bolted to the floor by the bunk then ushered Celeste from the cabin.

  “A right pretty lady,” Vargas observed.

  “She is,” Sierran agreed.

  “Be a shame to spoil something as fresh as her, wouldn’t it?” He put his meaty hands on the waistband of Sierran’s pants and began tugging them down, avoiding looking at his commander’s privates.

  Sierran frowned. “You think that’s what I’m intending to do?” He ground his teeth to keep from groaning.

  “Don’t know what you’re intending,” Vargas said. “Just making a comment, Commander.”

  “A comment based on your opinion, which is…?”

  “Well, now since you asked,” Vargas said as he slipped the pants from Sierran’s feet and folded them before laying them aside, “I’m thinking it strange a young woman of her age ain’t married or in the least betrothed.” He turned to the washbasin to soap a cloth.

  “How do you know she isn’t?” Sierran closed his eyes for Vargas began running the warm washcloth down his hips.

  “You know me and Mac wouldn’t have broken into that castle without knowing everything about it and the people in it that we could learn,” Vargas said. “I believe it was you who taught us that.”

  “So what did you learn?”

  “The lady was as much a prisoner in that evil place as you were. The Dungeon Master did not allow suitors to come courting her and she was never allowed to be alone with any male save himself. He chose her clothes for her, what books she could read, how she could spend her idle time, and even picked what food she could have to eat. It was reported he once told a crony that he wanted to keep his daughter as pure as the day she was born, unsullied by any man’s touch. He has made arrangements for his daughter to be taken to St. Carolus Convent when he dies and I know you’ve heard rumors of that vile place.”

  Sierran opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. “Aye, I’ve heard it is more a prison than a convent.”

  "Aye, well the estate will go to the daughter with the nuns having the run of it to keep the daughter well taken care of."

  "As if they'd care what happens to her once they have their greedy hands on such a rich holding," Sierran commented.

  “Lord Charles never intended for his daughter to have any kind of freedom and as I see it, we’re doing her a favor by removing her from under his care.”

  “No wonder he was screaming his head off at her being near us,” Sierran said. He closed his eyes again as Vargas washed that part of him that sent chills of discomfort through his entire body.

  “I can just imagine what he thinks we’re doing to her,” Vargas said with a chuckle. He was staring at the wall and not at where his hands were.

  “And you’ve no doubt encouraged those thoughts of his,” Sierran said.

  “He tortured you so we’re torturing him. Can you ease over to your stomach, Commander, so I can wash your back?”

  It took some doing, but Sierran managed. The pain wasn’t quite as bad with the deeper cut closed and the dried blood washed away from the wounds so the caked blood did not pull on his flesh.

  “By the gods, those bastards marked you bad,” Vargas said as he laid the warm, soapy rag on Sierran’s back to loosen the caked blood. “I’m wishing I could dig up Thurston and that gods-be-damned ta’zeer and kill ’em again.”

  “You took out the ta’zeer, as well?” Sierran asked, remembering well the whips-man's expertise with the Cat.

  “He enjoyed his work that day just a little too much for my tastes,” Vargas said with a sniff. “If’n he hadn’t been bragging about it in the pub, he wouldn’t have met his end.”

  When Vargas had washed Sierran’s back and legs, he bent closer over the lacerations and proclaimed them healed well enough. “Though,” he said, “they are going to leave some brutal scars, Commander.”

  “Help me sit up,” Sierran asked. “Is there any way you can wash this greasy mop of hair of mine? It feels like an army of lice are crawling around up there.”

  Vargas thought about it as he helped Sierran to sit up, carefully pulling the covers over his leader's bare legs. “I’ll need someone to hold the washbasin or I can hold it if the lady will do the washing. I imagine she’d been gentler than me.”

  Sierran smiled. “You’re determined, aren’t you, Vargas?”

  “Don’t know what you mean,” Vargas said. He picked up the washbasin and headed for the door. “I’ll get some fresh water and the lady to help me wash your hair.”

  Feeling much better now he was clean, Sierran barely noticed the roll of the ship as he sat in the middle of the bunk. The bank of windows over the massive desk at the stern of the ship continued to strobe harsh white light int
o the cabin from time to time and the rain lashed at the glass. He no longer heard the plink of hail hitting and that was a relief. No sooner had that thought entered his mind than the ship stopped rolling, the rain ceased, and the wind stopped howling. Frowning, he knew they had entered the eye of the tempest and the worst part of the storm lay behind them and was slowly coming toward them.

  “Let’s hurry this up before the ship starts bobbing around again,” Vargas said as he and Celeste came in.

  “Vargas said it’s going to get worse,” Celeste said, her expression revealing her fear. She was carrying a thick towel and a pitcher.

  “We’ll ride it out, milady,” Sierran said, flashing Vargas an accusatory look.

  She put the pitcher on the nightstand then turned to drape the towel over his bare shoulders. “Scoot down a ways in the bed then let your head drop back over the basin, milord,” she said as she retrieved the pitcher and Vargas moved so his commander could do as she asked. “We’ll be as quick about this as we can.”

  The feel of warm water flowing over his hair made Sierran groan with the pleasure of it but that feeling was nothing compared to the soft hands that rubbed shampoo into his curls and began gently massaging. “Sweeting, I’ll give you ’til dawn to stop that,” he mumbled.

  “Dawn’s not that far away, Milord,” she said as she dug her fingernails lightly against his scalp.

  “Did you eat?” he asked.

  “I had some broth, cheese, and bread,” she said. “It was surprising good for ship’s fare.”

  “This isn’t the first time you’ve been on a ship?” he asked, surprised since Vargas made it sound as though she’d never been allowed away from Dragonmoor.

  “Yes, it is,” she replied. “But I’ve read about shipboard life.”

  “You’re living shipboard life, now, milady,” he said as she smoothed his wet hair back from his forehead, rinsing the suds from the thick curls.

  “I know,” she said on a long sigh, then began toweling his hair dry. “It’s so exciting.”

  Relaxing beneath her gentle ministrations, Sierran wanted it to go on forever. She smelled of gardenias—just as her petticoat had—and it was a scent he’d always enjoyed on a woman.

  “Let me see your back,” he heard her say as she removed the towel from his hair.

  It took some doing but he managed to twist around so he could do as she bid.

  "How can any human being do such evil to another?" she asked.

  "It's some men's job and some enjoy it," Vargas replied.

  Sierran felt self-conscious with the two of them staring at his marked back and he would have given anything to see the expression on Celeste’s face as she viewed what he knew must be a gruesome mess.

  “Do we have any salve on board?” she asked in a matter of fact tone of voice.

  “Aye, but I imagine it would sting like the very demon,” Vargas replied.

  “Then we’ll just have to wait until I can brew something for him when we go ashore,” she said.

  “You can do that?” Vargas asked before Sierran got the chance to.

  “I’ve read many books over the years,” she replied. “One of them was on homeopathic medications. Although I’ve never brewed such a salve, I do remember the ingredients and instructions on how to do so.”

  “You’ve a good memory, then,” Sierran remarked as he ran his fingers through his wet hair.

  “I am like an elephant,” she said. “I never forget.”

  “A what?” Vargas asked.

  “It’s a large beast with a long nose with which it sucks up its food and water. He has huge floppy ears. It can weigh over five tons and stands higher than ten feet,” Celeste said.

  Vargas shook his head. “Don’t reckon I’d like to meet up with one of them.”

  Celeste noticed Sierran yawning and put a hand carefully on his bare shoulder. “Perhaps you should lie down now, milord,” she suggested.

  “Aye,” he said and clenched his teeth as he stretched out. As he did, the wind began howling again and rain pelted the stern windows. He tugged the covers further up his chest, a bit uneasy being completely naked beneath the sheet.

  “Here it comes again,” Vargas said as the ship began pitching once more. “I’d best go make sure everything’s battened down up top.”

  The soldier’s words were nearly drowned out by the crack of lightning overhead and the steady boom of thunder.

  Covering her ears at the next shriek of lightning, Celeste started to run back to the settee but she felt Sierran’s hand on tugging at her skirt.

  “Come lie down beside me, milady,” he said. “I’ll keep the storm beasties away.”

  She hesitated for only a moment and as another shrill shriek rent the air, she climbed up on the bunk. “I don’t like storms,” she said. "I don't, I don't, I don't."

  “So I’ve noticed,” he said with a chuckle. He threaded his fingers through hers and lay there on his back with her forehead pressed against the curve of his bare shoulder. He could feel her trembling and wished he could put his arms around her to comfort her but he knew doing so was bound to cause him pain he didn’t care to feel.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, trying to blot out the ferocious noises bombarding the ship.

  “My home on Zykanthos,” he replied. “It’s an island off the coast of Argonne.”

  “Does it storm like this there?” she asked.

  “Occasionally.”

  The ship was rolling brutally from side to side, bow to stern and would drop down into a trough with no warning. Such movement could sicken the sturdiest sailor and someone unaccustomed to the motion could get seasick quickly and that was the case with Celeste. What little food she'd consumed decided to make a return trip.

  Sierran jerked as she yanked her hand from his and flipped to her side, leaning over the bunk to relieve her belly of the meager meal she’d forced down earlier. He scooted over on his hip to her and put his right hand on her arm to keep her from falling off the bunk as she retched. His left arm was above her head and he could feel her hair touching his cuts but he tried to ignore the discomfort.

  “Oh, god!” he heard her moan.

  “I’ve got you,” he said, tightening his grip on her.

  The sour stench of vomit filled the cabin and the smell was making him queasy. He had to swallow hard to keep the bile from surging up his throat. Laying his forehead against her back, he took deep breaths in through his mouth to quell the nausea.

  “Ah, milady,” Vargas said as he came hurrying in. He rushed to the nightstand, took up the basin, and ran out with it. Where he dumped the contents was a mystery but he came back to hold the basin under Celeste’s chin. Sierran could hear him bellowing for Mac to bring a fresh pitcher of water and a cup.

  “Is everything okay on deck?” Sierran asked.

  “We lost a crewman to the sea but the cap’n said we can ride it out. It’s a bad one, Commander,” Vargas answered.

  Mac arrived and poured Celeste a cup of water. “Here you go, milady,” the Solarian said. “Rinse your mouth out for us.”

  Celeste cheeks were flaming as she fumbled for the water and brought it to her lips.

  “We’ve been blown way the hell off course,” Mac told him. “We won’t make Zykanthos before late afternoon tomorrow now.”

  “My father,” Celeste managed to say as Vargas ran a cool washcloth over her heated face. “Is he all right?”

  Mac’s lips twisted. “Aye, milady. I checked on the Dungeon Master, myself. As luck would have it, he’s still chained to the wall but at least his shouts have died down to hissing now.”

  Celeste nodded and moved to lie back down. She heard Sierran’s gasp and knew she’d bumped into his chest. “Milord, I am so…”

  “Don’t say it,” he warned, moving back from her so she could stretch out. “Never apologize to me.”

  She turned her head and looked at him. He was so unbelievably attractive lying there on his side facing her. His dark
hair was once more falling over his forehead and she longed to push back the silky curls. In a flash of light from the windows, she could see his eyes had a honey gold cast to them. In all, he was one devastatingly handsome man and the sight of him was wrecking havoc with her senses.

  “Fetch me some soapy water to clean this up, Mac,” Vargas ordered as he hunkered down on the floor to mop up the vomit with a discarded towel that had been used to dry Sierran’s hair. Mac went to do as he was asked.

  “When you get done with that, have the captain come see me,” Sierran told Vargas.

  Vargas’ eyebrows drew together at the request but he didn’t question it. “Aye, Commander.”

  After Vargas and Mac left the cabin—the floor cleaned and smelling slightly of pine—Sierran finally lay down beside Celeste. She was as rigid as a board but he didn’t think that was because she feared him as much as she feared hurting him.

  “Milady?” he questioned softly. The rain had finally stopped and the wind was no longer skirling like a berserker around the ship.

  “Aye, milord?”

  “You asked what I intended for you and your father,” he reminded her.

  Celeste was already tense as she tried so hard not to come into contact with his injured body. “Aye?”

  “I’ve not decided about him as yet but I have decided about you.”

  Her heart was hammering wickedly in her chest and she eased a hand up to her throat. Before she could ask what his decision was, there was a light knock at the door.

  “Come!” Sierran called out.

  Captain Petros Kynth was a big, burly man. When he entered the cabin, he appeared to dominate the berth he’d given up to his passenger. “You heard about my crewman?” he asked.

  “I will pray for his soul,” Sierran acknowledged.

  “It was his first time out,” Petros said with a shake of his head.

  “Give Vargas his family’s address and I’ll see they get compensated for his loss.”

  Petros thanked him. “Was there something else, Commander?”

  “Aye,” Sierran said. “This is Lady Celeste Allen.”

  “Milady,” Petros greeted her with a touch of his finger to his temple.