WINDREAPER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "Good eve," he said to the men gathered at the crude plank tables. He swung his gaze about the room, but found no hostile faces.

  Heads dipped, fingers went to forelocks, and mumbled greetings followed. The men looked at him with recognition, respect, and just a touch of fear.

  "Bad night, eh?" he asked an old gentleman sitting near the door.

  "Aye, Lord Conar. That it is." The man's gaze shifted away as though he were afraid his regard would insult the man standing before him.

  "Here's a table for you, sir!" one of the barmaids said, her voice filled with awe. "A good one, right here." She pointed a trembling finger to a dilapidated plank table in the far corner.

  "Thank you, mam'selle."

  Isolated in the deeper shadows of the room, the table looked as lonely as Conar felt. He knew they were offering him a place to himself, but at the moment, he wished they would not ostracize him, even if it was unknowingly done so with high regard.

  He was about to fling his cape over a chair when the barmaid took it from him. She folded the sopping material close to her bosom and gazed at him with complete fascination. He was about to admonish her about wetting her clothing, when the door opened behind him. Instinct making him defensive, he reached for the dagger at his back and half-turned.

  "Uh…good eve," Sentian mumbled as he and Thom looked into their Overlord's annoyed face.

  Consigning them to the devil, Conar stomped to his table with more anger than he knew was good for him. He rather rudely ordered an ale from the barmaid and plopped into a chair, his back to the room.

  Just after the barmaid brought his ale and left, another figure appeared at his side, bowing deeply at the waist. Conar glanced up, frowned, then flung a hand toward the chair opposite him.

  "You stink, Jamar," Conar grumbled.

  "I apologize, Lord Conar." Sern Jamar seated himself. His loose fitting burnoose was soaked around the hem and the sleeves gave off an odor like that of a wet dog. "This horrible Boreal rain is something I can not quite accustom myself to."

  Conar studied the man. Jamar's black hair seemed shaggier than usual, his thick beard more unkempt and greasier. His nose was running, a thin stream dripping from the left nostril, and his deep olive complexion seemed far dirtier than Conar could remember.

  "Do you ever bathe?"

  The shaggy head bobbed. "On occasion, Milord." He looked around, then leaned forward. "Perhaps we should take our business elsewhere, sir."

  "You're safe with me, Sern."

  His eyes darted over Conar's shoulder toward the door. "It's your men I fear. If I give you this—"

  "They fear me, Sern!"

  The man nodded. He reached inside the loose sleeve of his burnoose as though striving to relieve a itch along his arm. When he withdrew his hand, he put a packet of powder on the tabletop, using his spread fingers as camouflage. He smiled, leaning forward. "A little pleasure, Milord. Shall I cut it with some of the opium?"

  Conar's gaze locked on Sern's hand. He knew Sern was waiting for him to answer, to make a sign that he was ready. Conar licked at the right corner of his mouth. Slowly, he looked up and gave a slight nod.

  Smiling with delight, Sern removed a blade from one of the many pockets sewn into his burnoose. "How much do you wish, Milord?"

  Conar's right hand was cupped around the candle sitting beside his mug of ale. Absently, he tipped the candle from side to side, melted wax dripping in silent patters to the planking. "All of it."

  The smile drifted from Sern's face. "Are you sure, Milord? This powder will be powerful."

  In reply, Conar gave him a deadly expression.

  Sern's lips twitched in what was likely meant for a smile, but the gesture came across as a nervous pull of the man's mouth. He slipped another packet from his clothing and spread its paper wide. After also opening the initial packet, he used his knife to scoop a blade-edge full of the second powder to mix with the first. When he had combined the powders to his satisfaction, he folded the package containing the mixture and hid it under his palm once more.

  "Will you desire a woman this night, Milord?" he asked, flicking his tongue over dry, chapped lips.

  Conar shook his head.

  "I have a Necromanian lady who has untold delights. She would be dark to your light. As I recall with my precious—"

  "I told you no! I have no need for a woman!"

  Sern shrugged and slid the packet across the table. Conar snaked out a hand and laid it across the nomad's, pressing the fingers to the hard planking. Conar felt Sern quiver in sudden apprehension.

  "Make up enough to last me the month and leave it where I showed you. Your money will be there."

  Sern nodded.

  Conar slid the packet along the table, over the edge, and down into the top of his boot beside the dagger, the entire time keeping his gaze on Sern. He nodded toward the second packet, still on the table. "I'll have some of that now."

  "I would prefer not to give you anything here, Milord."

  "And I prefer that you do!" Conar took up the powder, poured the contents into his ale, swirled it, then started drinking.

  "Milord, be careful! This is powerful. It can have devastating effects on your body."

  The bitter taste of the opium made Conar shudder as he swallowed. Wiping the back of his hand across his wet lips, he settled his unwavering gaze on the nomad. "Could it kill me?" he asked in an inquisitive tone.

  "When taken unwisely, aye, it can."

  "Good."

  Conar stood, turned, and exited the tavern, not even glancing at his two men sitting at a table watching him.

  * * *

  Thom Loure frowned deeply. "What was that all about?"

  Sentian turned his attention from the door closing behind Conar to the nomad at the far end of the room. "If what Marsh suspects is true, that bastardly snake over there may be from where Conar's getting the drugs." He glanced at Thom. "Go follow Conar. I want a talk with our smelly friend."

  Thom shrugged. "Be careful, Heil. Those desert rats can be dangerous."

  Sentian stood. "So can I," he answered in a steady, even voice.

  * * *

  Liza smiled as Sentian wound his way through the crowd toward her. She held out her hand to her Sentinel, drew him forward, and lightly kissed his cheek.

  "Did you forget us, Milord?" she whispered.

  "Not at all, Milady." He grinned, letting go of her hand. "Your husband had me out in this lovely weather."

  Liza's brow rose. "May I ask why?"

  The smile left Sentian's face. "Thom and I were told to follow someone."

  She didn't need to ask who. "What was he doing out on a night like this?" At the look on Sentian's face, she held up her hand to forestall the answer. "Never mind. I'm just glad you're here now."

  "I think we should speak of it, Milady." Sentian looked toward Legion. He smiled at his King, then returned his gaze to his Queen. "Later, though. When we can be alone."

  Liza knew her husband was watching them. Whatever Sentian might tell her, she felt sure Legion would not want her to hear. But Sentian Heil's first obligation, after his supreme loyalty to Conar McGregor, was to her, not his King.

  "Can it wait 'til morning?" she asked.

  Sentian nodded.

  "Then meet me in the stables at nooning. I will assure our privacy." She smiled as he bent over her hand, placing a kiss of affection in her palm. "Now, go find Sherind before she begins to suspect our motives!" she warned him playfully.

  * * *

  Thunder boomed almost as soon as Liza found herself alone in the front hall of the keep. She jumped, her nerves tinkling along her taut spine. She heard the steady onslaught of rain driving against the high windows and glanced up as a flare of lightning caressed the trembling panes.

  She sucked in a hasty breath, but not because of the storm, but because of the man she spotted when she looked up.

  Conar was sitting on the wide edge of the gallery balcony, which curved around the top
of the hall. His left leg was crooked at the knee, the other stretched out along the length of the railing. His left wrist rested on his bent knee in a gesture that was almost second nature with him when he sat, mindless of both propriety and manners. His right hand lay on his outstretched leg, his long fingers wrapped around a silver goblet.

  Liza's heart beat erratically, while her breath came in short spasms of anticipation. She hadn't seen him in more than six months, but the hot anger in the depths of those remarkably blue eyes, alien eyes, she knew she would never get used to seeing. She felt chained to the spot where she stood, unable to move, to speak, to acknowledge him, to look away.

  He lifted the goblet and took a long drink, then his lips stretched into a smile that reminded her of a panther mesmerizing its prey. His black shirt was opened to the waist. A hanging brazier, directly behind him, lit his golden blond hair like a shining beacon and reflected off the sheen of his black leather boots. As he again raised the goblet to his lips, a flash of silver fire arced from the metal and lit his face, a face that had all the predatory scorn and power of a jungle beast etched on its hard planes. When he lowered the goblet, he licked his lips, his eyes still holding hers. Liza felt the power of that gaze flit through her belly like wildfire.

  By the smug turn of his lips, the knowing smirk on his finely chiseled mouth, the bored look in his expressive eyes, he obviously knew he held her in his power, and seemed to be enjoying her trepidation. Liza felt her knees shaking. It seemed he was draining her, sucking the life from her body, and she put out a hand as though to ward him off.

  The instant she did, understanding lit up his face. One tawny brow lifted slowly in acknowledgment of her predicament.

  "Don't," she whispered, beseeching him.

  Conar gave her a vengeful smile. The blue heat from his arrogant, hateful gaze impaled her, violated her. For a fleeting moment, those blue orbs sparked with a fire that leapt out at her, as though he were reminding her of his previous ownership, his right to her body, his place as her master.

  "Milady?"

  Liza jumped, her head snapping around at the soft voice.

  Storm Jale reached out a hand. "I'm sorry, Milady! Did I frighten you?"

  It was all Liza could do to shake her head in denial. She wasn't even sure she could find her voice.

  "Is something wrong? Can I get you something?"

  "No," she managed to answer, her neck burning from the intense gaze she could feel aimed her way from the balcony. "I…it's just the lightning."

  Storm let out a long breath. "Your husband is looking for you, Milady."

  When Liza glanced toward the balcony, she discovered Conar had disappeared.

  Chapter 8

  * * *

  Rain battered the keep for three more days. Tempers flared; nerves frayed. The inhabitants of Boreas Keep kept to themselves as much as possible to avoid the clashes such a storm could cause.

  No one saw Conar except for Bent. He had encased himself in the lower part of the keep, making it plain he did not care for visitors.

  Now, lying on his cot in the damp dungeon cell with his hands beneath his head, Conar glared fitfully at the midnight ceiling of his chamber.

  The ebbing effects of the opium had began to wear away the peace in his world. He sat up, frowning at Bent's heavy snoring from the cell across the way. Running a trembling hand through his hair, he tugged at the mass, annoyed he had not been able to sleep through the entire night, to find the drug-induced solace he had tried so hard to force upon himself. The bottle beside him stood empty, the brandy pressing on his bladder with an urgency that he suspected had awakened him. Swinging his legs from the cot, careful not to awaken the sleeping giant whose smacking lips and grunts echoed through the stone corridors, Conar got up and relieved himself.

  Something skittered across the floor, dove under the bars of the cell, and padded down the hall, sharp nails clattering.

  "Damned rats," he hissed, fumbling in the dark for his breeches. He stepped into them, buttoned only three of the pearl studs, and padded from the cell.

  The stone steps leading up to the keep proper were frigid, numbing to his bare feet as he took them two at a time. He felt a draft on his naked chest and shivered, clenching his teeth, cursing himself for not having put on a shirt. He entered the main hall and hastened to the library door, knowing he could pilfer a bottle or two of brandy to finish off his evening.

  He wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him.

  Liza was standing by the window, her hands clutching the draperies, staring out at the harsh flashes of lightning. Her long black hair fell almost to her knees, her bare feet peeking out from the hem of her white nightgown. A fringed shawl was draped over her shoulders and back. As the lightning flashed, Conar saw the outline of her body beneath the white silk.

  Feeling a tightening in his loins, an urgency in his manhood, he wanted nothing more than to flee the room, flee the sight of her. But he held his ground, some perverse imp within him wanting her to turn, willing her to know he was there. When he saw her head lower, her hands fall to the edges of her shawl to pull it close, he knew her sorceress' instincts had warned her she was no longer alone. Slowly, she turned, her face a blur in the unlighted room.

  "Good eve, lady."

  * * *

  "Good eve," Liza said softly, her heart skipping beats. Lightning flared, revealing his naked chest, the thick hair nestled at his breast. Her womb tightened and her blood began to pound in her ears. She remembered well the feel of that hard chest and the strong arms that had once held her. She swallowed, feeling sweat oozing over her top lip.

  His body blocked the doorway. There was no other way out of the room except through the garden with its blistering rain and deadly lightning. She found her legs shaky, her palms sweating, and she knew now was not the time to confront him with what Sentian had told her in the stables a few days before. Hoping with all her being that he would let her pass without incident, she moved toward the door.

  As she reached him, he put out a hand, bracing his arm across the door, barring her departure. She wouldn't look up at him, but only stared at his arm, her chin raised in defiance.

  "Why are you always in such a hurry whenever I'm near, Milady?" he crooned, amusement in his voice.

  Her gaze shifted to his, and she was stunned she could clearly see his sapphire-colored eyes. "I want no fight with you, Conar."

  At the use of his name, fire leapt in those dark blue eyes. She flinched and looked away, unable to bear the contempt that had automatically spread over his lips.

  "Conar McGregor might have let you pass without challenge," he snapped, his voice bitter. "But I won't."

  "I didn't come looking for you," she said, hearing the defensiveness in her voice, wincing at the tone that hinted that was exactly what she had done.

  "No?" he asked in a silky voice.

  "No." She could have clawed out his eyes when his mouth lifted in a cocky grin that said he didn't believe her. His gentle snort made her want to scream. Instead, her words were too brittle, too defensive. "Just what is it you want from me?"

  "Is there something I want from you, Queen Liza?" The smile left his lips. "Or is it something you want from me?"

  "I don't want a damned thing from you!" Liza tried to push away the obstruction of his arm, but feeling the rigid muscles, she withdrew her hands.

  "No, I don't suppose so! You had the best of me, and what's left isn't worth bothering with."

  Her lips parted in shocked dismay. "That's not what I meant."

  His hand released the door, his rage and frustration apparent in the taut lines of his body as he moved toward her. Only inches from her bewildered face, he snarled down. "As long as I keep myself out of your sight, you're fine, aren't you, Queen Liza? 'Out of sight, out of mind'—isn't that what they say?"

  "It's you who keeps yourself detached from those who once cared for you. You prefer to be alone than be with your family."

  "I am not alon
e by choice!" he shouted, coming almost nose to nose with her. "I have your husband to thank for that!"

  "Don't blame Legion for your loneliness, Conar." She backed away from the surge of fury the name brought once more. "Can we help it if you thrive on your own inconstancy?"

  His voice filled with astonishment. "My inconstancy?"

  "Aye! One moment you're snarling at everyone, keeping them away, the next you ignore them, barely being civil when they speak to you. Then you disappear for months on end, only to return to cause still more dissension in this keep. No wonder the people within these walls don't want to be near you. You won't let them be near you without reminding them who and what you have become!"

  His jaw clenched. "That being what, Milady Queen?"

  "A son-of-a-bitch!"

  Trying to move past him, she gasped when he grabbed her shoulder. He spun her around, pushing her none-too-gently against the doorjamb.

  "The ex-lover-of-a-bitch, don't you mean? It was not I who was inconstant, Madame! It was not I who flitted from one man's cock to another!"

  Her hand came up to slap him. She would have, had he not knocked it away.

  He held both her shoulders in a hard grasp. "You've slapped me one too many times. I ain't letting you do it this time!"

  "Then don't insult me!"

  "Brelan! Galen! Legion!" With every name, he shook her hard enough to make her teeth click together. "What do you call it if not inconstancy?"

  "Is it so inconceivable to you that there was reason? I have told you about Galen—"

  "Aye, you told me!" he interrupted, his teeth clenched over his words. "And I can even forgive you that, considering why you say you slept with the bastard." His fingers dug painfully into her arm. "I can even stretch that forgiveness to Brelan—after all, you were a widow again, weren't you?" His voice went low, deadly thick. "But I can't make that forgiveness bleed over to Legion A'Lex, no matter how hard I try!"

  "You know Kaileel Tohre forced us to marry! Brelan, himself, told you."