Lucien's Khamsin

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  * * * * *

  The woman heard that pitiful moan and it touched her heart. She turned her head—her hands still upon the drapes—and looked toward the bed. When she heard sobbing, her shoulders sagged and she lowered her hands. Turning, she padded slowly to the bed, never taking her eyes from the one lying there.

  Lucien flipped over in his tormented state so he was facing toward the woman. The candlelight fell on his shadowy features, illuminating the tears.

  “Oh,” the woman whined. Manly tears had always touched her in a strange way and even if those tears came from a creature she feared, she could not help reaching out to place a hand on his tousled hair.

  Almost instantly, the moaning stopped and the creature turned so his cheek was resting in her hand.

  “Magdalena,” he sighed. His lips moved over the woman’s palm in a soft kiss and before she could pull her hand away, he had captured it and pressed it over his heart.

  Feeling the dampness of his sweat beneath the crisp dark hair on his chest, the woman’s heart skipped a beat. It was as though she was touching a live wire for a gentle electric current traveled from her palm to her breast. The tingling journeyed lower until it settled in the lower part of her belly, causing her to suck in a quivering breath.

  “Get away from him, whore!”

  The woman’s head jerked up as the guard came striding purposefully toward her. His face was ugly, his hand out like a claw as he reached for her. She snatched her hand from the creature and stumbled back, crossing her arms over her face for fear the guard would beat her.

  Snarling a curse, the guard grabbed the woman and shook her. “If you have hurt my prince…”

  “No!” she said. “I did nothing to him!”

  The second guard was bending over the man on the bed and told his partner the prince was sleeping quietly, that he was all right.

  “Bring me that chair!” the first guard hissed in a low voice. He unbuckled his belt and demanded his partner do the same.

  They lashed her to the chair with the belts—arms behind her, ankles to the chair legs—then gagged her with a handkerchief belonging to the second guard. They made sure her arms were pulled tight behind the chair back. She whimpered with pain as the buckle cut into her wrist.

  “If you had hurt Prince Lucien, Lord Petros would have flayed you alive, bitch,” the first guard snapped, spittle spraying from his mouth.

  They left the room but did not shut the door this time.

  The woman felt tears gathering in her eyes but refused to allow them to escape. She had been in worse situations than this since the Great War had destroyed the world as she knew—and understood—it. What was one more night of discomfort?

  Chapter Three

  Sunset came to Modartha Keep at a little past six of the clock. Outside the fierce wind that had swept the planet since the Great War ended howled and battered the windowpanes with violent gusts. In the pens, the herd shivered in their worn and tattered clothing and huddled together for warmth.

  Lucien’s eyes snapped wide open at the exact moment the sun slipped behind the crest of Mount Duáilce. He lay there for a moment staring at the ceiling, hearing—and smelling—a strange presence in his bedchamber. Although he had been engulfed in acute pain when the woman had been brought to him, he knew who it was that touched his senses. He remembered as well what Petros had told him about her.

  Slowly sitting up—dreading what he would see—he looked to the foot of the bed and frowned. Following the heavy chain that was hooked to the bedpost, he blinked when he saw the woman slumped in a chair, her head lowered to her chest. Realizing she was bound to the chair, Lucien snarled and flung the covers from his legs. He had just put his bare feet to the floor when a knock came at the door.

  “Come!” he bellowed.

  The thunderous shout woke the woman and her head jerked up. Behind the gag she shrieked, her eyes wide as she stared at the man coming toward her.

  Lucien came to a stop and roared with fury. The sight of the woman—helpless and gagged—offended him so greatly he cursed a blue streak. Stomping to the chair, he reached down, took hold of the chain, and pulled it apart, flinging the broken links against the footboard so savagely, the metal took a chunk out of the eight-inch thick wood.

  “Briton!” Petros shouted for the guard as he came into Lucien’s room. “Get your ass in here. Now!”

  Straining as far aback in the chair as her bonds would allow, the woman was breathing heavily as the man from the bed bent over and snapped the belt holding her ankles to the chair leg as though it were paper. Likewise, the thick shackle that encircled her ankle was pulled apart and thrown viciously across the room.

  “What the hell is the meaning of this?” Petros asked as the guard came into the chamber. He was quickly untying the handkerchief rolled between the woman’s jaws.

  “Milord, the woman…”

  “I want this man flogged!” the prince ordered.

  “No!” the woman grated, shaking her head. “He was only doing his duty.”

  Petros bent over to unbuckle the belt binding the woman’s wrists and winced as he saw the livid bruises on the fair skin.

  Lucien glared down at the tiny blonde woman looking back at him with fear rampant in her pale blue eyes. She was shivering, her teeth clicking together, yet she shook her head again.

  “Please don’t punish him,” she said hoarsely. Her gaze fell upon the wicked scars striped across Lucien’s chest then quickly looked away.

  “I thought she was trying to hurt you, milord!” Briton offered.

  Lucien flung his hand out to indicate both his displeasure and his command for the guard to leave. He hunkered down at the woman’s feet and reached out to touch the dark bruises on the tops of her ankles. The flesh was abraded and she flinched as he put a hand on her instep.

  “Send for Christina,” Lucien said.

  “I will be fine,” the woman said and tried to swallow. Her hand trembled as she rubbed at her throat.

  “Get her some water!” Lucien ordered.

  Petros ran to Lucien’s bedside table and grabbed up the carafe and goblet, pouring as he hurried back and squatted down to offer the tepid water.

  Watching the woman drink greedily, Lucien cursed again. He was so angry he was grinding his teeth, the sharp points of his canines cutting into his bottom lip. “Too much will cramp your belly,” he said, grabbing the goblet from her. “When was the last time you had something to drink?”

  The woman reached up a trembling hand to wipe at her lips. “A day. Two. I don’t remember.”

  Lucien’s eyes widened. “When did you last eat?”

  “We found some rats on Monday,” she answered. “What is today?”

  Lucien looked at Petros. “That was four days ago!”

  “I’m on it,” Petros said and hopped up to run from the room.

  “Wench, I offer you my sincerest apologies,” Lucien said. “We treat our herds better than this.”

  The woman’s chin lifted. “I am sorry, milord, but that has not been my experience with your herders.”

  Lucien blinked. Few women had ever dared talk back to him and he was shocked that one from amongst the herd would have such courage.

  “In what manner were you mistreated by the herders?” he demanded and cast his gaze downward as she lifted the hem of her gown for him to see the scrapes on her shins.

  “That they did in bringing me to you,” she said.

  “You fought them,” he accused. “You brought that on yourself.”

  “Don’t you know how badly the herds are treated?” she asked.

  “Explain,” he snapped.

  The woman’s face puckered for a moment but she rushed on. “It is freezing cold outside, milord, yet we humans are ill-clothed and poorly fed at best. Our rations are leftovers the guards either don’t want or of which they’ve had their fill. The huts are riddled with holes and the cold air flows in unchecked. We…”

  Lucien held his hand up.
“All things I will address as soon as Lord Petros gets his sorry ass back here,” he mumbled. “Have you seen the guards harm a human?”

  She held up her arms where the bruises shown dark against her pale flesh. “These are love taps compared to the things I have seen in the last few days. We started out with seventeen people. Only thirteen of us made it here alive. The others died of their mistreatment.”

  The prince’s eyes narrowed. “You swear that to be true, wench?”

  “Why would I lie?” she countered. “You have but to check, milord.”

  Lucien delved quickly into her mind and what he read there stiffened his spine and brought a thunderous look to his features.

  Petros took that precise moment to come hurrying in with a tray of food. He glanced at Lucien then went to the small table by the fireplace and set down the tray. He noticed Lucien’s deep scowl and asked if something was wrong.

  “Nothing gets past you does it, Petros?” Lucien snapped.

  A frown mirroring Lucien’s, Petros looked to the woman. “What lies have you been telling him, wench?”

  “She says the food is inadequate to sustain them, the living quarters are cold and draughty, and their clothing is little more than rags,” Lucien answered for the woman. “What do you have to say about that?”

  Petros shrugged. “If any of it is true, I was not aware of it, but I will certainly check.” He cast the woman an annoyed look. “That gown she has on is clean. I can vouch for that for I saw them put it on her.”

  Thunderclouds started to build in Lucien’s green eyes. “You saw them put it on her?” he queried.

  “Well, aye,” Petros replied, digging his toe into the carpet like a small boy.

  “And how—pray tell—was she dressed prior to having that gown put on her, Petros?”

  Petros flinched. “Not very well as I recall.”

  “See!” the woman said. Her eyes slid to the tray of food and she licked her lips.

  “Eat,” Lucien commanded and his brows shot up as she flung herself at the tray and started gobbling food, shoving it into her mouth, cramming it in, and grunting as she consumed it.

  Petros sighed deeply. “I’m on it,” he said, not waiting for Lucien to say anything.

  “And how about sending me something?” Lucien shouted after his friend, jumping up, and going out into the hall. “Petros?”

  Petros turned.

  “What is her name?” Lucien asked.

  Petros shrugged. “She hasn’t said.”

  Lucien went back in his chamber and sat down on the foot of his mussed bed. He watched the woman snatch at a loaf of bread, tear off a hunk and stuff it into her mouth, chewing nosily. He was amazed at how much like an animal she looked and the observation drove deep.

  “You don’t have to wolf it down, wench,” he said quietly. “No one is going to take it from you.”

  The woman stopped with her mouth full, cheeks distended and blushed. Very slowly—with her eyes cast down—she masticated for what seemed an inordinately long time then swallowed hard. Very primly, she took the napkin some thoughtful soul had added to the tray and daintily wiped her greasy lips then her fingers. With graceful movement, she took up the goblet on the tray, looked down at it, sniffed, and then took a small sip.

  Lucien almost smiled as he saw the woman close her eyes as though having a religious experience. She drew in a deep breath then exhaled slowly, her eyes still closed.

  “What was in the goblet?” he asked curiously.

  “Ice-cold milk,” she whispered. “Sweet, ice-cold milk.”

  The prince snorted softly.

  When she was finished with every morsel of food on the tray and every drop of milk had been drank, she sat back in the chair and turned grateful eyes to Lucien. “Thank you, milord,” she said quietly.

  Lucien nodded. While she had been so engrossed in devouring her meal, a guard had brought the prince a large goblet. As he watched her, he sipped from the goblet, relishing its contents as greatly as she did her vittles.

  “What’s your name, wench?” he asked, tilting the goblet to drain it.

  She looked away for there was little doubt what the goblet held. “Khamsin,” she said.

  “That is Arabic, is it not?” he inquired, setting aside the goblet.

  She cocked one shoulder. “I don’t know. The people at the orphanage gave it to me.”

  “And where was this?”

  “Aboard an old cruise ship,” she said. “It was docked a mile off the shore of what used to be Florida.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I know the one you mean—the Queen Mary II. How long were you there?”

  She glanced down at her dirty fingernails, winced, and then tucked her hands under her thighs to hide them. “I have no memories of any other place so I must have been very young when I was taken there. I could have been born there for all I know.”

  “I would put your age at—what?—thirty-two, thirty-three?” At her shrug, he said, “The Great War was over thirty years ago. Perhaps you were taken there then.”

  She nodded. “I have often thought so but no one could say for sure.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “Six years ago,” she told him. “I hid in a supply ship under a tarpaulin. Now, I wish I’d stayed.”

  “Things weren’t as bad on the ship as what you found on land,” he said.

  “We couldn’t weigh anchor and they had lost all reserve power long before I was old enough to know what that meant. But two of the swimming pools had been turned into hydroponics gardens so we had fresh vegetables almost year round. Another pool had been turned into a chicken coop so we had eggs and the occasional chicken stew when one of the birds died. Soup and bread was the main fare but it wasn’t bad. The crews from the supply ships ventured all along the eastern seaboard and brought back what they found—clothing, canned and boxed goods, water—anything that hadn’t been contaminated. They made runs nearly every day.”

  “The supply ships were sailing vessels?” he asked, curious.

  “There wasn’t any fuel for motorboats,” she replied. “They were brave men and sometimes we lost a few to the Revenants.” She glanced up at him then away.

  “And now you are here.”

  She lowered her head again. “Aye, now I’m here.”

  There was a long moment of silence then the prince stood, drawing Khamsin’s gaze to him.

  “Well, what will it be? Would you prefer marinade or would a plain white sauce do?” he inquired, his head cocked to one side.

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at her sternly. “We can’t just spit you over the fire without something to tenderize your flesh, wench,” he said. “Personally, I prefer marinade but Petros is partial to white sauce. Oh, and do you have a preference of how we should carve you up? We do that while you are alive so…”

  Khamsin’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. She began shivering uncontrollably and when he started toward her, her eyes rolled up in her head and she pitched sideways, unconscious.

  Chapter Four

  Petros came through the opened door in time to see the blur of his friend flowing toward the woman. Before she could hit the floor, she was in Lucien’s arms.

  “Too much food?” Petros asked.

  “Too much tomfoolery,” Lucien snapped as he swung Khamsin up against his chest. “Make yourself useful and straighten the damned sheets.”

  “They stink,” Petros said, wrinkling his nose.

  Lucien narrowed his eyes. “Then strip them, fool! I can’t stand here all night with her in my arms.”

  “She couldn’t weigh much,” Petros commented. He glanced around at his friend. “She was right about the conditions in the pens. I detected a rank odor when I went to fetch her but paid little attention to it. That was a mistake, Lucien, and I apologize for my lack of consideration for the herd. We’re minus a couple of guards, by the way.”

  Lucien
grunted. “What are you doing about the conditions?”

  “I’ve set some of the human men to patching the holes in the women’s huts. They can do theirs tomorrow. As for the food, I’ve had the cooks sent back to the kitchens and they are preparing edible repasts. Clothing? Well, that’s something we’ll have to look into. I learned two of the women can hand sew.”

  “If the conditions were that bad, how come you ignored it, Petros?”

  “It won’t happen again,” Petros said, knowing no excuses would be good enough to wipe the anger from Lucien’s face.

  “It had better not,” Lucien said, shifting Khamsin’s weight against him.

  “I don’t know what to do about the lice.”

  Lucien’s lips parted. “Lice? They have lice?” He looked down at the woman and frowned.

  “She doesn’t have them but as for the others, they have head lice, crabs, and unless I miss my guess, fleas, too.” Before Lucien could explode, Petros promised he would “see to it”.

  The sheets were off the bed and bundled. Petros went to the door and handed them to the guard. He looked around. “Where are your clean ones?”

  “How the hell would I know?” Lucien snapped. Once more, he shifted Khamsin against him. “By the Abyss but for a small woman, she’s damned heavy!”

  Realizing no comment was needed Petros left the room, went across the hall and stripped the covers from a guest room bed. He brought them back and began making the bed more efficiently than Lucien would have imagined him capable.

  “You’ll make someone a good househusband one day, old friend,” Lucien teased.

  Petros sniffed but remained silent as he stuffed the plump pillows into their cases. “You can lay her down now,” he said, not looking around. “Unless you’ve grown fond of cradling her as though she was a china doll.”

  Lucien grinned. “I intend to cuddle with her, that’s for a certainty.”

  As the prince laid Khamsin down gently, he sat beside her and pushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek.

  “She looks so much like Magdalena,” Petros said.