Lucien's Khamsin

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Grumbling to himself, Ari slammed into the guardhouse, kicking a subordinate thrall out of his way. “Don’t bother going to bed,” he snapped. “We’ve got to take food out to the lake.”

  “Why?” the thrall whimpered, rubbing his shin.

  “Because your prince ordered it,” Ari ground out.

  “Must be some diseased ones out there,” one of the thralls commented. He had slept all night and was fresh, just then coming on duty.

  “Then we’ll give them rancid meat,” Ari snorted. “What difference will it make to them? They’re half-dead anyway.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Pavli,” someone said. “You know what happened to those guards just yester eve when Lord Petros found out they had not been giving the herd adequate provisions.”

  “No one need know,” Ari shot back. He swung his angry eyes about the room. “Who’s going to tell Petros?”

  No one replied. The other thralls feared Aristotle Pavli and wanted no trouble with the burly guard.

  Ari smirked at the men. “Be ready to ride out at first light. Peleus and Nestor, go load the wagon. I’ll drive it to the lake, myself.” He stomped from the room, his shoulders hunched and fists clenched.

  “His days are numbered here,” Peleus remarked. “Lord Petros won’t stand for such behavior.”

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll load rancid meat on that wagon,” Nestor said. “I saw what Lord Petros did to those guards yester eve and I’ve no desire to follow them to an early grave.”

  “Throw a few pieces atop the pile so Pavli will smell it. I’m with you. I’ll not do anything to set the Revenants on my ass!” Peleus asserted.

  * * * * *

  Khamsin was asleep on his settee when Lucien returned. His footsteps were heavy, lethargic, but he walked past his beckoning bed and went to stand over her. He smiled, for she presented such a sweet picture of naiveté and beauty. Her hands were clasped together and pressed beneath her cheek. Her knees were drawn up, her pale hair flowing over her left hip in wayward curls. She was sleeping so soundly he hated to wake her so he laid his hand lightly on her head and closed his eyes, willing her into a deeper sleep that would allow him to pick her up and carry her to his bed undisturbed. When he thought her under as far as he’d sent her, he bent over, and scooped her up into his arms and carried her to his bed. Gently he laid her down, stripped off his shirt and britches, and then stretched out beside her.

  He lay there for a moment, thinking. Khammie was too innocent yet for her to wake and find a naked man lying close to her. As much as Lucien hated the underwear he was wearing, he had to admit to himself that it did serve a purpose now and again. He cradled Khamsin in his arms and allowed the lulling effects of the rising sun to put him to sleep.

  It was the heat of something heavy draped over her waist that woke Khamsin a few hours later. She felt weighted down, unable to move and when she lowered her hand to the weight pressing against her, she realized it was a man’s hairy arm. For the space of a moment, she froze like a deer in a bright light but then memory crept back to her and she realized whose arm it had to be. Carefully, she turned over and found herself almost nose to nose with Lucien.

  She stared into his face and was fascinated by his sheer male beauty. His dark hair was tousled attractively around the slight oval of his features. Long, sweeping eyelashes any woman would kill to possess fanned his high cheekbones. Full lips, a slight cleft in his chin, tiny groove lines to either side of his mouth where she knew dimples appeared when he smiled, and a nose that was the perfect size for his face added to the attractiveness. A mole on his right cheek caught her attention and she thought it made him look vulnerable and more human.

  Her gaze moved lower to take in the chiseled muscles that bulged on his biceps and chest, and striated his abdomen. His chest was matted with curly hair that stretched from manly breast to manly breast then down a smooth line to below the deep indention of his belly button. The wicked scars—very white against his darker complexion—were half-hidden beneath the arm she had removed from atop her. His hand looked so strong with long, tapered fingers and very short nails that were clipped short and were clean. Dark hair grew on the back of his hand and she found that endearing, catching herself before she reached out to touch it. Looking down, she saw his long, muscular legs were likewise pelted with just the right proportion of fine dark hairs.

  She lay there and watched him sleep for quite some time but nature’s call finally invaded and she scooted carefully from the bed. Going into the bathing chamber, she realized the candle she had placed in the dark room had gone out and she couldn’t find the toilet. There was no window in the bathing chamber so she had to fumble her way until she found the porcelain stool. Sighing, she hiked up her gown and sat down, bracing her chin on the heel of her hand as she considered her situation.

  That Lucien would not allow her to leave him was a given. He had staked a claim to her and she knew he considered her his possession. Though the thought of any man having such a hold on her rankled, she had to admit that he was a handsome—if demanding—man and she thought perhaps he would be good to her.

  “You could have it worse,” she mumbled to herself as she groped for the toilet paper.

  Not knowing just how soundly her captor slept, she did not flush the toilet when she was finished. She stumbled to the sink, washed her hands, and then went back into the bedchamber. The candle on the bed stand was now almost out and the room too dark to read any of the books Lucien had been kind enough to have sent to her when he left the evening before. Standing there—chewing on her bottom lip—she finally decided she would ease the door open and ask one of the omnipresent guards if she could go have something to eat downstairs.

  As luck would have it, it was the same guard who had tied her to the chair. When she saw him, her heart sank but before she could close the door, he put a hand out to prevent her.

  “Milady,” he said softly, “I wanted to thank you for interceding on my behalf. By right, you could have had me flogged.”

  Khamsin’s eyebrows drew together. “You were only doing your job.”

  “Aye, milady, but I should not have laid hands to my prince’s woman,” he confessed.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “We’ll just forget it ever happened.”

  Briton O’Neil removed his hand from the door panel. “I am your servant for life, milady,” he said, bowing his head. “If you need my help, all you have to do is ask.”

  Khamsin hesitated then asked if he would escort her downstairs so she could eat.

  The guard frowned. “Nay, milady, I can not do that but I can get food brought up to you.”

  Sighing deeply, Khamsin asked if he would also bring more candles for she wouldn’t be able to see once the bed stand candle sputtered out.

  “Why don’t you just open the curtain, Khammie?”

  Khamsin jumped for Lucien’s sleepy voice sounded right behind her. She swung her head around and realized he was staring at her. The wavering light from the dying candle reflected in his green eyes.

  “I’ll get your breakfast, milady,” Briton said and reached out to pull the door shut.

  Khamsin turned and stared at Lucien.

  “Open the curtain. There’s no reason you should sit in here in the dark. I’ll hide my head under the pillow,” he said, reaching for the pillow upon which her head had recently rested.

  She padded over to the bed. “The light won’t hurt you?”

  “Only if I stare into it,” he said, dragging the pillow over the side of his head. “It would give me a bitch of a headache.”

  “It won’t kill you?” she asked.

  Lucien peeled the pillow back and looked up at her. “Oh,” he said, humor twitching at his lips. “We’re back to the old vampire legends.” He laughed. “No, wench. Sunlight doesn’t turn us into flaming torches. It just makes us very tired and we have little strength. We can even walk out in it but we walk very slowly.”

  “Then I wouldn’t have
killed you if I had flung the drapes open?” she pressed. She heard him laugh and felt her cheeks turn red.

  “Do you think they would have left you in here alone if it could have?” he asked with a chuckle.

  The candle flickered then went out, casting the room into near total darkness. Khamsin could see nothing at all but she could hear the rustling of the bedclothes.

  “Go open the drape,” Lucien said.

  Khamsin put her hands out and felt her way over to the window. She bumped into a chair and almost fell but finally made her way to the window. She reached up, took hold of the panels, and then looked behind her, knowing he could see her as clearly as though she were in a spotlight.

  “You’re sure?” she asked.

  “Very sure,” he said and she realized he was right behind her. He put his hands over hers and spread the drapes aside.

  Bright sunlight flowed into the room, causing Khamsin to squint. As uncomfortable as the bright invasion made her, she knew it had to be worse for Lucien. She would have shut the panels but he kept his hands over hers.

  “See?” he said, bending his head so his forehead touched her shoulder. “I am not a scrambling, staggering brand with my hair on fire and my flesh melting.”

  “The sunlight isn’t deadly to you,” she said with awe.

  “No, it isn’t. The only thing that kills a Revenant is fire. Set one ablaze with some kind of incendiary and he’ll burst open like an overfed tick.”

  He was keeping his face from the bright glare and when Khamsin turned, she saw his eyes were closed.

  “Get back in bed,” she said. “You’ve proved your point and you don’t need another migraine.”

  Nodding, he turned around and slowly made his way back to the bed. He flopped down on the mattress and flung her pillow over his face just as a light knock came at the door.

  Khamsin hurried over and opened the portal. She smiled at Briton, for he had a huge tray of very enticing-smelling food cradled in his hands. “Man, that smells so good!” she said.

  Briton grinned, cast a quick look at the bed, and then took the tray to the table. “Do you need anything else, milady?”

  “Since all is well between the two of you,” Lucien mumbled. “Why don’t you take her for a walk later this morn. Keep inside the bailey.”

  Briton’s mouth dropped open. “You trust me with your lady, Your Grace?”

  With a heavy sigh, Lucien peeled the pillow from his face once more and speared the guard with a stern look. “I am entrusting her to you and you alone, Briton. See no harm comes to her.” He pulled the pillow tight against his face.

  “I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” Khamsin said, taking a seat before the mouthwatering repast.

  “She’ll be ready in twenty,” Lucien corrected. “Take your time, wench. The bailey will be there when you’re finished.”

  Briton and Khamsin grinned at one another then the guard turned to go.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Khamsin whispered.

  “Twenty,” Lucien stated.

  “Twenty, Your Grace,” Briton agreed, shrugging at Khamsin as he closed the door behind him.

  “Go back to sleep,” she said, cutting into the omelet on her plate.

  “Be careful,” he said, his voice muffled and drowsy.

  As Khamsin chewed the fluffy omelet, she heard Lucien moaning in his sleep. She laid the fork down and listened for a moment, her heart aching at the grief that came from the sounds he made. She pushed back her chair and went to the bed, placing a hand gently on his shoulder.

  “Dream of me,” she whispered. “Dream of Khamsin. Dream sweetly, Lucien. No more bad dreams now.”

  Her touch seemed to heal the pain in his soul for Lucien quieted. He snuggled down in the bed with the pillow clutched over his face, and began to snore lightly.

  Going back to her meal, Khamsin ate slowly, relishing the excellent fare and when she was finished, lit a fat candle Briton had placed on her tray. When the flame ignited and a small circle of light was cast upon the ceiling, she went to the window and closed the drapes tightly. Before she exited the room, she gently removed the pillow over Lucien’s face and laid it aside, smiling as he sighed in his sleep.

  “He’s getting to you, Khammie,” she said, shaking her head.

  A third guard was standing beside Lucien’s door when Khamsin opened it. Briton was leaning against the far wall while the other two flanked the door. All three snapped to attention when she appeared.

  Khamsin giggled. “You make me feel like royalty,” she said.

  “You are royalty, milady,” Briton said. “You are the prince’s mate.”

  The smile slid from Khamsin’s face. She wasn’t accustomed yet to being thought of in that manner but to hear the guard say it, she realized she would have no choice in the matter.

  And she realized she was beginning to accept the situation and that bothered Khamsin to a degree.

  Together, she and Briton walked down the long curving staircase that led to the great hall. The opulence of the paintings on the walls, the gilt, the plush carpet and obviously expensive wallpaper was not lost upon Khamsin and when they turned right beside the staircase and ventured toward the huge oak double doors, she caught a glimpse of the dining room and stopped dead in her tracks.

  “Oh, my,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

  Briton stayed where he was as the prince’s lady walked into the dining room. He had seen the mural on the wall many times, yet it always stirred something deep in his soul.

  “Where is this?” Khamsin asked, standing before the sweeping mural, taking in the splendor.

  Briton came up behind her. “It is the castle from Queen Sibylline’s home world,” he replied.

  The castle soared into the clouds from beside a sparkling sapphire blue lake. Spectacular towers were topped with snapping banners that looked almost as though they were waving in a stiff breeze. High cliffs of ragged stone provided a backdrop for the castle and between the twin barbicans and the outer wall of the bailey a deep green moat ringed the castle’s perimeter. A wide-plank bridge arched gracefully over a portion of the lake and led to the barbicans.

  “They say the bridge there didn’t have to be retracted like ours does, for there were no enemies of Queen Sibylline’s race,” Briton explained. “That’s why the bridge is down and the portcullis rose.”

  “And they could cross running water?”

  “Aye, well, that lake isn’t really running water, now, is it?” Briton replied.

  “And they had a moat,” she observed.

  Briton nodded. “The king kept alligators as pets and that is why the moat is there, milady. It wasn’t a security measure, just a fanciful treat for His Majesty.”

  “And no doubt where the idea for a protective measure came from for our world to use?”

  “I imagine so,” Briton said, scratching his head. “I don’t know too much about human history.”

  “I know a bit,” she said, reaching out to touch the magnificent mural. “Can you imagine the work that went into this?”

  “It took over a year for the artist to paint it,” Briton said. “He had to work from the queen’s memories and she had to put them in his head first.”

  Khamsin turned away from the gorgeous painting. “How did she get to our world?”

  Briton cocked a shoulder. “You’ll have to ask the prince, milady. I have no idea.”

  With one last fleeting look at the painting, Khamsin and Briton left the Great Hall. Outside, the sun was bright but the air was cold though it was mid-July. Though the wind skirled around the battlements and through the crenulations with an eerie sound, it was nice to be outside anyway.

  “Are you old enough to remember the world as it was before the war?” she asked.

  Briton frowned. “I was ten when the first attack wave hit London,” he replied. “The States had already been hit several times before that. All I remember was the sound of the explosions and people screaming. Buildings w
ere falling down around us we ran down into the metro. I guess it never occurred to any of us that the tunnels might collapse atop us.” He ran a hand over his face. “I don’t like thinking of those times.”

  Khamsin looked away. “I understand.”

  “Things changed for the worse,” Briton said. “It’s best not to be thinking of the way it used to be. Makes a man too sad.”

  They were near the pens and the sight of the locked enclosure bothered Khamsin. Pale faces stared back at her through the barbed wire and a few of those inside the corral hissed at her.

  “Don’t pay any attention to them, milady,” Briton advised. “There’s nothing you or them can do about your situation. Some of the women wish they were in your shoes.”

  “Conditions are better for them now, though, aren’t they?” she asked.

  “Lord Petros made sure of it.”

  “Are there any other special ones here?”

  Briton nodded. “Just one other than you. He’s most likely down with Lady Christina in her lab. He works with her.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “In what was the old dungeon,” Briton answered. “I’ll take you down there if you’d like.”

  Her heart heavy with guilt, Khamsin looked back over her shoulder as Briton led her back into the keep. The men and women from the pens were glaring at her, their eyes filled with hatred.

  “Doesn’t it bother you, Briton?” she asked.

  “Used to,” he admitted. “But you get accustomed to things when you start remembering you could have it worse than what you got. We could be in Prince Stavros’ keep and that doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  “Long before I was brought here, I’d been hearing tales of Stavros Constantine. They say he’s the worst of the four princes.” Khamsin rolled her shoulders, grimacing.

  Briton stopped and looked at her. “Are you all right, milady?”

  Khamsin put a hand to her chest. “I’m just bruised is all.”

  A dark scowl shifted over Briton’s face. “Did I do that?” he asked.

  “No,” she was quick to deny, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. “It wasn’t you. That son of a bitch who caught me when I was trying to escape mauled me like I was a piece of fruit.”