WindFall

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “Is there any way we can help, Papa?” he had asked.

  Do not board the Boreal Queen.

  Well, he couldn't; the ship was already tacking out beyond the far reefs.

  Do not go to Holy Dale!

  Never let it be said that Thècion Conar McGregor ever ignored a direct order from his monarch.

  Thècion's lips began to twitch.

  “But you didn't say Diarmuid wasn't to go, now, did you, Papa?” Thècion whispered, chuckling to himself.

  “What's up?” Diarmuid asked breathlessly as he took the steps two at a time.

  “A matter of honor,” Thècion said cryptically. Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his cords, the youngest Serenian prince skipped down the steps and began walking toward the docks, whistling merrily as he went, his childhood friend close at his heels.

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  Chapter Six

  Sated with a passion he had not known in five long years, Kaelan Hesar stared up at the cracked ceiling of his bedchamber and felt the tears easing down his temples.

  “Can't you sleep?” his wife asked.

  “I haven't tried."

  Gillian knew he was crying; she knew why. She also knew she should not acknowledge what she knew her husband would consider as a great weakness. Instead, she threaded her fingers through his and snuggled against his shoulder and arm, breathing in the special scent of him that always made her heart flutter. “Neither have I,” she admitted.

  Kaelan turned his head just a little-feeling one hot tear slid unerringly into his ear-and looked at the top of his wife's head. “Did I hurt you?"

  Gillian giggled. “Did I hurt you?” she countered.

  Despite himself, Kaelan laughed. How could he admit to the woman that she had not only hurt him with her eagerness for their mating, but that she had shocked him to the very core of his masculinity by practically raping him in the process.

  “You didn't enjoy it?” she asked, still not looking up into his beloved face.

  “Oh, I enjoyed it, milady,” he assured her in a voice that still held the wonder of the gift she had granted him. “I enjoyed it well and truly."

  “And often,” Gillian added with no little degree of pride.

  Kaelan unlinked their hands and turned toward her, lifting his arm so she could lie in the crook of his shoulder. He felt her sweet lips against his throat, her tongue tasting him still once more as though he were a treat concocted especially for her enjoyment. He settled her firmly against him and laid his cheek on her head. “Do you know I love you, milady?” he asked softly.

  “Aye, I know it,” she replied with some annoyance. “And I love you!"

  And how she loved him, he thought.

  They had barely made it up to their room before her hands were on him. She had unbuttoned his shirt and spread it open before he could stop her or slow her intent. Her fingers had splayed over his chest—her nails thrusting themselves through the coarse pelt of curls covering him—and her lips had found the hollow at the base of his throat.

  “I don't know if I can wait,” she had warned him, raking her nails over his nipples.

  “GILLIAN!” he had rasped, sucking in a harsh breath before pulling back from her and staring down into a face he recognized well as being one that was filled with lust.

  She had ignored his shock and had thrust her hands through the opening of his shirt and around his back, drawing the ragged garment out of his patched breeches.

  “Milady, you shouldn't!” He'd tried to voice his astonishment at her bold behavior, but already his shaft was rigid and full, aching for release, more than willing to break a whole quarry of rocks.

  “Be quiet, Hesar,” she'd challenged. “You talk too much.” Her fingers moved unerringly to his belt buckle.

  “Oh, god!” he'd gasped. “Don't!” His moan had been lost in her firm answer:

  “Shut up!"

  The buckle had come undone with ease. She slid it from his waist and the removal of that last bastion of safety all but unmanned him then and there.

  “Gillian, I don't think..."

  “And you think too much, as well, Hesar!” she huffed.

  As her fingers moved to the top button of his fly, he had moved to stop her, but she had batted away his hands and hushed any further objections.

  “Be quiet, Hesar!” she ordered. She made quick work of the buttons and soon the fly was open and she was spreading it open, her hands snaking over his too-lean hips to push the breeches down.

  When he opened his mouth, she looked up, locked her gaze with his. “Stand still,” she told him. “Don't speak; don't move; don't even think!"

  He swallowed and did as he was ordered, although the thinking part was harder than anything he'd ever done in his life.

  Second only to standing still as the breeches fell down around his ankles and her hand reached out to grasp the object she'd been after all along.

  He had gasped and begun to pant, unaware that he was doing so. Her eyes were fused with his as her fingers molded themselves around him. He knew the exact moment in which she understood he had surrendered to her for her eyes blazed red-hot and her mouth took on a militant firmness.

  “As sure as the sun rises and sets, Kaelan Hesar,” she had warned him, “you belong to me and me alone."

  He wasn't sure when he had finally asserted himself; taken charge; shown her the man he had once been and wanted desperately to be again.

  It might have been when he'd kicked off his breeches and grabbed her up, carrying her quickly to the bed, his shaft rigid between her quaking thighs.

  Or it might have been when he'd covered her unresisting body with his own—dragging up her skirts and thrusting his fingers—gently, but firmly—into the warm dampness between her legs as his lips nuzzled her neck.

  Could even have been the moment he had finally impaled her upon his turgid flesh, going as deep as her protesting maidenhead would allow at first, then resolutely deeper as her legs went around his waist and her nails raked the flexing muscles of his back as he pumped into her.

  But he suspected it had been at that moment when—her body filled with his seed—she had looked up into his eyes and sighed with utter contentment, fulfillment, and said the words that would bind him to her for as long as he lived:

  “I have waited a lifetime for you, milord."

  “Are you gathering wool or fuel, Hesar?” Gillian asked, bringing him back from that moment over four hours—and three lovings earlier—when he had first claimed her as his own.

  “You amaze me,” he admitted.

  “How so?"

  “Where did you come by such brazenness, woman?” he asked, hoping she didn't hear the gratitude in his voice.

  “I told you,” she said, bringing up a hand to twist a thick curl on his chest, “I have waited a lifetime for this night.” She wound the curl around and around her finger, reveling in the texture and the silkiness of it. “And I have dreamed of this very moment since the first time I spoke to you."

  Kaelan blinked. “You were rude to me!"

  She shrugged away his memory. “So? You were showing interest where I didn't want it to go."

  “I was not!” he protested, pulling away just enough so he could look down at her. “Your sisters were pretty enough little fluffs of spun sugar, Gillian, but I would never have entertained the idea of courting either of them."

  Gillian arched her brows upward. “And what did you think of me?"

  He answered before he had time to consider: “That you were a sharp-tongued brat who should have your backside heated.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, knowing his insult was bound to anger her. He was surprised when she remained silent and opened his eyes to look down into his wife's amused face; she was just staring at him, her lips pursed.

  “Well?” he finally said, reluctant to begin an argument, but unsettled by her silence.

  “Like you heated it a few minutes ago, mil
ord?” she asked.

  Kaelan's face turned a deep scarlet color.

  The last time they made love, it had been from behind for Gillian had wanted to experiment with every way there was for a man to love his woman. As she wiggled against him—trying to get him to be more forceful in his thrusting and not so gentle with trying to initiate her into this new sexual position—he lost a small amount of patience and rammed none—too gently into her. The only problem was, his shaft had not thrust into her vagina.

  Her sharp cry of pain—coupled with a sensation Kaelan knew somehow wasn't quite right and Gillian's wild bucking to rid her body of the agonizing intrusion—had brought him to such a violent climax, his wife had instantly stilled, fearing to be hurt further. His acute embarrassment and profuse apology afterwards had made her stare at him with wonder.

  “But it can be done that way?” was all she'd asked after he'd explained what had happened.

  “Aye, but..."

  “And does it always hurt so bad? I mean if you do it often enough?"

  He had been shocked, but had managed to shake his head. “No, I suppose not, Gillian, but..."

  “I suppose,” she had said, considering, “that's the way men do it to one another, huh?"

  Kaelan had nearly choked to death on his own gasp. His wife had pounded him sharply on the back until his face was no longer red and his breathing was normal.

  “Well, there's nothing wrong with doing it that way is there?” she'd demanded.

  “Gillian!” he'd protested, mortally embarrassed by her question.

  “You're such a prude, Hesar,” was her only comment.

  Looking at her now, knowing she was waiting for him to say something foolish or act like a green boy, he shook his head. “That wasn't what I meant."

  Gillian's gaze turned wicked. “Well, even if it wasn't, you heated up my backside quite forcefully, milord."

  Kaelan knew if he didn't establish some ground rules between them at that moment, the little wanton would continue to walk all over him from then on. He schooled his face into a stern parody of what he perceived to be that of a strict husband and wagged a warning finger at her.

  “I'll not ever make love to you in that fashion again, Gillian, and you are not to bring it up again. Do you understand?"

  Her eyes went wide. “Never again?"

  He shook his head. “Never again,” he repeated firmly.

  Her lips trembled a little and her forehead crinkled delicately. “But you do want to make love with me don't you, Kaelan."

  “Aye,” he said, his voice softening, “but not like that. It's distasteful, Gilly, and it hurts you."

  “But if you want to make love to me...” she stopped, her look one of immense hurt.

  “What?” he asked, wanting nothing more than to wipe away the uncertainty on her face. Had he frightened her? Made her ashamed of her sexual feelings as Marie had been? His gut twisted and he knew instant panic. He was about to tell her he would make love standing on his head if he had to, when she snuggled up against him and he felt her relax.

  Gillian sighed woefully, then reached down to wrap her hand around his shaft.

  “Kaelan?” she questioned, looking up at him so sweetly.

  “Aye, milady,” he said, his fears evaporating as his passion returned with her tender ministrations.

  “If you want to make love to me, how will you do so if I do not bring it up again?"

  For a few seconds, Kaelan stared down into that bold little face. He took in the saucy little smirk; the knowing brow arched over one perfect green eye; the feel of her hand around him, then threw back his head and laughed.

  * * * *

  Brother Herbert glanced up at the ceiling and smiled. “It appears I did not err in Joining your sister and the prince,” he said around a mouthful of bread.

  Nick answered his smile. “They have loved one another for a long, long time."

  The priest popped the last of the bread into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then frowned. “I would not wait long before leaving for Serenia, Lord Cree,” he warned the Chalean. “This Joining is not legal and you will want to make it so before the King catches up with his brother."

  Nick stopped eating; he looked cautiously at the rotund cleric. “You are not an ordained priest?” he asked.

  Herbert Welmeyer's face was devoid of both amusement and guile. “Oh, I am duly ordained, young sir. That is not the problem. Your tale of the young prince being cast out from his family salved my conscience somewhat, but I did not believe it for a moment, milord. Such is not done among the royalty of Virago.” He shrugged. “Serenia, aye; it has been known to happen there, but here?” He shook his head. “Can not be done according to Viragonian Tribunal Law."

  You knew t'was illegal?” Nick asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “Of course, I knew,” the priest admitted.

  “Yet you went and married them, anyway,” Lumley spoke up from his spot cramped next to the kitchen fire. “Why was that?"

  Brother Herbert's pudgy face flamed and he ducked his head. “The gold coins will be most useful and besides...” He looked up, his gaze on Nick. “And besides, I have had the dubious honor of meeting Burgher Justus Sinclair. He is not a man whose tales I would believe."

  “Kaelan did not kill his wife,” Nick stressed.

  “Oh, I have no doubt of that now that I've met the young prince,” the priest said, bobbing his head with agreement. “He's been sorely used is my opinion."

  “That he has!” Lumley Tarnes stated.

  Nick glanced at his timepiece and noted that it was close to four in the morning. “We'll be leaving for Serenia at first light,” Nick told the man of the gods. “It will be slow traveling for, as you noticed, my new brother-in-law is lame."

  “A terrible tragedy,” Brother Herbert commiserated. “And I can see it pains him greatly."

  Another peel of laughter rang out from above stairs and the three men grinned at one another.

  “Not too greatly, it seems,” Nick chuckled.

  * * * *

  Lars Utley glared at the sweeping drift that blocked his and his men's way. He cursed viciously beneath his breath then turned to the other two trackers.

  “Get out your shovels!” he ordered. “I ain't of a mind to make my bed out here in the open.” He jabbed his hands onto his hips, twisted, and spat into the nearly hip-deep snow.

  “There's a pond yonder,” one of the other men remarked, stabbing a finger toward the ghostly patch a few yards away.

  Utley grunted. “So?"

  “Didn't that man in Graceton say there was a pond about half a mile from the manor house?"

  The head tracker squinted. “Aye.” He looked toward the pond where steam was rising like a wraith from the surface, then turned his head up to the heavens where the moon was full and cast an eerie light through the ice crystals in the air.

  “Gonna storm again,” was Lars Utley's way of thinking. The less-frigid air pulsing against his face where the heavy woolen scarf did not cover his flesh, was an indication that more snow was on the way.

  With one last curse for his lot in life, Lars went to his horse and drew out his own shovel. It would take an hour or two—first light, at least—before they could dig a path through which their mounts could travel.

  “Well, if Lord Cree and his sister be at Holy Dale,” Lars muttered to himself as he thrust his blade into deep snow, “they ain't likely to go nowhere with a storm coming!"

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  Chapter Seven

  Nick and Lumley had not slept. While the fat priest had snored in front of the fire on the cot, Nick had dragged down from Kaelan's bedchamber, the two men had talked of sailing and ships, foreign shores and foreign women. It had not taken Tarnes long to make up his mind: when the lad sitting beside him was ready to buy a ship, he'd lend his own brand of expertise to the acquisition.

  “There are things to look for,” Lumley had explained.

  “Li
ke a First Mate who knows more about the ship than her captain?” Nick had teased.

  “That, too,” Lumley had grinned. “Most do, you know!"

  There had been a moment of companionable silence, then Nick had put forth the proposition he'd been waiting all the past evening to make:

  “Would you be of a mind to go a'pirating with me, Master Tarnes?"

  Lumley Tarnes had drawn deeply on his pipe as he considered the young man. He liked the cut of Nicholas Cree's jib, he did, and the lad was more knowledgeable about the ways of a sailing man than most of the members of Captain Nyberg's crew.

  And the lad knew his ships.

  “Why The Revenant?” Lumley had inquired of Nick's choice of names for the vessel.

  There had been no hesitation: “My great grandfather sailed with the Outlaw, himself!"

  Lumley had smiled as though he had already known. “A relation of mine was First Mate on the Windlass."

  Respect and awe had washed over the young Chalean's square-jawed face and his emerald eyes had lit up. “Norbert Tarnes was a relation of yours?” the young man had asked with something akin to adoration.

  “Aye, lad, that he was.” Lumley grinned. “Just as Caere Cree was your relation."

  “I'll be gods-be-damned!” the young man had whispered. “We're practically related, Lumley!"

  For another few moments, Lumley studied his companion then made up his mind. Through a noxious billow of smoke, he'd nodded. “A man could do worse than to go aspirating with the likes of you, Lord Cree. I'd be honored to take to sea with you."

  Over the long hours, the two men had planned. Neither noticed their tiredness nor the stiffness in their bones as they hovered close to the fire to keep warm during the cold night; there were more important things in life to consider.

  Just as the false dawn lifted her head in the east and began to shake her crimson hair, Nick stood up, stretched mightily, and groaned as his backbone snapped and popped with the movement. He was anxious to be on his way to Serenia.

  “That be where the best clippers be built,” Lumley had echoed something Nick already knew.