From somewhere deep inside him, he felt the climax building. It was so powerful, so violent, he began shaking as soon as the ache spread over his groin. He pushed up, clashed with her pummeling body as she came down hard on his belly. He thrust up into her, bellowing behind Sern's hand as the first wave of semen shot from him. He tried to jerk free of Sern's hand, tried biting the filthy flesh, but the man's fingers were strong. The second burst of semen nearly caused him to lose consciousness, and the third elicited such a violent spasm that his body shuddered so hard, the bed trembled.
"Fill me!" she ordered, pressing her flesh as hard as she could against him. "Fill me with your seed!"
The fourth rush of heat spat from him like shot from a cannon, and, in that instant, he knew what he'd done. Even as the last spurt escaped him, even before she bent over to whisper in his ear, before the words left her lips, he knew. He groaned, his eyes welling with tears.
* * *
"Let him go," she said.
Sern eased his fingers from Conar's mouth, not surprised to see the flesh already bruising. He smoothed a sweat-slickened lock of hair from Conar's forehead, amazed that his own hands were trembling.
The woman looked him with pure hatred. Shocking Sern to his foundation, she spoke to him fluently in his native tongue.
"He won't remember who I was when this drug wears off. He will remember only that he had a woman he ravaged so badly you were forced to send her away before he could pay her. You will tell him no different. And you will say nothing to him, ever, of me being here."
Sern could do no more than nod upon viewing the deadly intent in her dark green eyes.
"And you will destroy the remainder of that potion and never again give it to him. Understand?"
He nodded and swallowed convulsively.
"If you do," she said, her voice low and lethal, "I will make you rue the day you ever slimed from between your whoring mother's thighs!"
"He…he will want a drug to take with him, to…"
"Give him what you've been giving him! Flavor it with mango juice—he'll not know the difference. He wanted it, let him have it!" Her spiteful face calmed, easing into a seductive smile before she turned to Conar. He was gazing at her with fear, for he obviously could not understand the desert dialect. "He deserves it."
"You have a grudge against him?" Sern queried, wanting to understand why this lovely woman would want to torment Conar so brutally.
"No," she answered, gaily, switching easily from Sern's mother tongue to Serenian. "I just find that it pleases me to see that he can be humbled." She stroked Conar's cheek, ignoring his flinch, the turning away of his face. "And addiction does humble a man, doesn't it, Milord?"
* * *
"Leave me alone," Conar whispered in a hoarse, grating voice. "You've gotten what you came for."
"As did you," she said, smiling into his narrowed eyes. She eased from him, his limp flesh sliding down her thigh. She laughed at his grunt of disgust. "Despite yourself, you enjoyed what I did for you, my Prince."
He didn't answer, but instead turned his face
"You could not help it, Milord," she teased. Her fingernails raked over the manacles binding his ankles. "You were my captive this time. Just as my daughter was once yours."
Her words stung like the jab of a poisoned dart. He swung his head around, his voice thick with hate. "Don't ever mention her to me!" he shouted, straining against the manacles. "Even hearing you speak of her is an evil beyond belief!"
"Oh, come now, Milord! It's not as bad as all that. After all, she is of my flesh and blood. Can not a mother share with her daughter such pleasure as you have given me this day?"
"Go to hell, Raphaella! Go to hell and stay there where you belong!"
Her hand cupped his flaccid flesh. "And shall I take you with me when I go, Conar McGregor?" Her fingers tightened. "I will one day, you know…take you with me!"
He screeched with madness, frustrated to the point of lunacy. He thrashed against the chains, cursing Sern, spitting like a cornered cat, until she closed her hand over his mouth.
"When you are tired of this world, my sweet Prince of the Wind, when the gods have given you every possible trial and tribulation They can muster, when you are weary of life and aching to know peace, you will come to me." He tried to shake his head, but she held his head steady. "Oh, yes you will come to me, and you will ask to enter World's End. You'll beg to be allowed to live the remainder of your life in solitude. Just you and me and the child you have seeded inside me!"
He managed to yank away his head. "Get away from me, Raphaella. I'll fry in hell before I come anywhere near you of my own accord!"
Again, she laughed, her voice a tinkling of bells. As she stepped back from the bed, a throbbing glow seemed to hover around her, cover her from head to toe. The air grew thick, chill, an alien wind coming from out of nowhere to whip the rushes and extinguish the oil lamp.
"Remember what I tell you," she whispered into the darkness. "You will come to me one day, Conar McGregor. And you will be mine forever!"
A piercing wind howled through the hut, shook the walls. A bright light burst inside the room, and then all was still. In the air lay the heavy scent of lilac. She was gone.
* * *
"Lord Conar?" Sern whispered, fumbling in the dark for the lamp. His fingers brushed velvet, pulled away. Tentatively, he picked up the woman's cloak and thrust it away from him with fear. "Lord Conar?"
There was no answer. Sern found the lamp and lit it, his hands shaking violently on the flint. He held up the lamp and looked at the bed.
Conar was lying still, his wrists and ankles free of the chains. There was no bruising around his lips where Sern had pressed so feverishly to keep him quiet. There were no marks on his wrists and ankles.
"Lord Conar?" Sern whispered, catching the slight, rhythmic cadence of his Overlord's breath. He knew the young man was deeply asleep.
Sitting in the hut's only chair, Sern ran a trembling hand over his face. Sweat rubbed away from his oily flesh, and he ran his hand down his burnoose. He focused on the wall, watching shadows flicker.
"Do you know what she is, Milord?" he whispered to the sleeping man.
World's End, the woman had said. Sern had heard of it. Who hadn't? Once a man entered that keep, he would never return. It was kept by the woman they called The Weaver. She had another name, one not spoken that night, but Sern could not remember what it was nor where he had heard it.
"All the Holy Ones help you, Milord. The Holy Ones help you, for that witch has claimed you for her own."
Chapter 13
* * *
Conar shifted on the bed, burrowing into the covers, pulling the pillow over his head to blot out the light. He drew up his knees and curled his toes, wishing the beating drum inside his skull would cease. He moaned, turned onto his back, dragging the pillow over his aching face, then took a deep breath to still the nausea.
"Shit!" he hissed as the stench of the pillow invaded his nostrils. He threw away the offending thing, gasping with the pain the movement caused.
"Lord Conar?"
The voice boomed like an explosion in his ear. He clamped his hands over his ears and curled into a fetal position to block out the agony.
"I have something that will help." Sern gently touched his Overlord's shoulder.
Conar flinched. "For the love of Alel, Sern, don't hit me!"
"I wasn't hitting you, Lord Conar. Here, sit up and drink this."
"I don't want any more of your brews!"
"This will help the headache, Milord. Come now, you must drink this."
"I don't want it." His voice was peevish, childish.
Sighing, Sern tightened his grip on Conar's shoulder. "You must or you'll be sick the entire day."
"Day?" Conar looked at the nomad.
"You were here all night, Milord."
Astonishment, self-disgust, and dismay took turns crossing Conar's mind. He tried to scoot up in the bed, but his
limbs felt like rubber and the motion brought tears of agony.
"What the hell did you give me?" he gasped, feeling as though an entire regiment of soldiers had used him for boxing lessons.
"A much too powerful elixir, I fear," Sern answered apologetically. "I shall have to reduce the ingredients if you want it again."
"Did I enjoy myself yesterday?"
"I would say you rather did not."
Conar's groin ached. He felt and, unfortunately, smelled dried semen clinging to his thighs. "Did I have a woman?"
Sern nodded.
"Where is she?"
A shadow fell over Sern's face and he turned away. "You…well, I paid her and sent her home."
A suspicion leapt across Conar's fogged brain, a vision of violent lovemaking, of powerful thrusts that had brought screams that had to be stifled. "Did I hurt her?"
Sern shrugged.
Conar could remember nothing about the woman he had obviously savaged, but somehow his mind remembered hurting her. Not that it mattered; after all, a whore was to be used. That was what he paid them for. He thought he remembered cries of pain as he drove unmercifully into her body, but somehow he didn't think she had minded. Again, he tried to conjure her face, but couldn't. She had simply been a vessel for his seed.
"I did hurt her. Did you pay her well?"
"I would venture to say she got what she wanted, Milord," Sern answered cryptically.
A heavy knock at the door made Conar gasp. He shot up in the bed, his back plastered to the iron headboard. When the knock came again, he covered his ears, the sound driving into his aching brain like iron spikes.
Sern hurried to the door and opened it.
"Move aside, little man!" Bent thundered, pushing aside the nomad and ducking to enter the room. His shaggy head snapped from side to side until he spied Conar. "Lord Conar, are you all right?"
Conar could only stare with agony as the giant stomped to his bedside, his footsteps rattling the windows. He looked into Bent's face, gentled with concern.
When he knelt by the bed, Bent lowered his voice, as if sensing Conar was not in the best of health, and that normal tones would cause his Overlord distress. "Has this son-of-a-desert-jackal harmed you?"
"I'm fine," Conar managed to mumble.
"You smell," Bent stated, his pug nose twitching.
"I know."
Bent turned to Sern. "Have you nothing for him, you desert scum?"
Sern's lips tightened. He pointed at the glass of brew he had been trying to get Conar to drink. "He won't take it."
Bent scowled, picked it up, and sniffed it. He nodded, thrusting the glass toward Conar. "It's like the lady's brew. Drink."
There wasn't a question of saying no. Bent put the rim of the glass to Conar's lips and he drank as ordered. The faint, sweet taste was better than the bitter gall in his mouth. He swallowed, expecting immediate relief from the lavender potion.
"I will get your horse," Bent said, standing.
"I don't think I can ride," Conar answered, but felt his headache dissolving.
"I will get a wagon, then." Bent turned, pushed the nomad out of his way, and ducked out of the doorway.
"I need something to take with me, Sern. Something less potent, I think."
Sern hesitated and looked toward the door.
"Before Bent comes back, Sern."
The nomad walked to his cabinet, extracted a small bag of powder, and slipped it into Conar's boot. "I shall leave more in the Grotto."
Conar rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, amazed at how vibrantly he could feel the texture of his skin. He lowered his hands, looked at them, and frowned.
"The sensation will last a few days, as will the rash," Sern told him.
"What rash?"
Before the nomad could answer, Bent returned. He reached down and tossed the covers from Conar's legs.
"What are you…?" Conar stopped as the giant easily hefted him up. "Damn it, Bent! Put me the hell down!"
"No!" Bent walked briskly to the door, carrying his burden into the bright morning light.
"Sweet Alel!" Conar turned his head into Bent's broad chest, for the glare of the brilliant sunlight sent shafts of pain through his head. He felt himself laid down, smelled an overpowering muskiness of straw, and knew he was inside a wagon. The texture of the straw brought him immense discomfort; it felt like iron spikes. When Bent's bulk dipped the wagon to one side as he climbed into the seat, Conar groaned as the world tilted. The soft cluck of the giant's tongue to start the horses sounded like the pop of lightning, and Conar winced, rolling over to bury his face in the straw.
"Stay inside for a few days!" Sern called as the wagon began to lumber away with a mighty squeaking of springs and the clatter of hooves. "You'll feel better by then!"
* * *
After he was helped from the wagon, Conar immediately headed for the baths. He smelled keenly of the hovel and the filthy covers on which he had lain. As he walked up the steps of the Temple, he marveled at the sharp and clear images all around him. He looked at the intricate carvings of frieze along the rooflines; smiled at the intensity of the gilt adorning the columns; stood awed by the elaborate swirls spiraling up the marble.
Sound was brought home to him with such clarity he could listen to a conversation several hundred feet away and hear and understand every word. And he could feel, he thought, as he rubbed his fingers together, touched things he passed. Even the quiet coolness of the bathing chamber seemed to touch his flesh.
Although he stumbled a bit, he thought that a small price to pay for the intensities of sight and sound and touch he now possessed. When being tumbled around in the wagon, he had lost what little contents were in his stomach, but Bent stopped and wiped his face, gave him a cool drink of watered wine to settle his belly. The headache had not entirely dissipated, a niggling rash spotted his arms, chest, and neck, but it didn't overly concern him. It was more nuisance than worry.
Once inside the bathing chamber, he took a robe from the sacristy and carried it to the pool. He knew he'd never again wear the clothes he now wore, for no amount of washing would ever remove the stench clinging to them. Dropping the offending garments on the floor, he stepped gingerly into the steaming waters and sat, sighing with contentment as the lapping waves washed over his chest and shoulders.
Closing his mind to the chamber's beauty, the greenery flowing from the ceiling, the copper pots filled with blossoming flowers, the latticework and stone half-walls, he ducked under the water. He came up, smiling with pleasure, and reached for the cake of chamomile soap. His brain reeled with the sharp perceptions he experienced when he soaped his body. The feel of his hands was stimulating, erotic, and he let one hand trail to the juncture of his thighs. He cupped himself, smiled at the sensual pleasure. Though he was sore, he sighed with satisfaction and gently stroked the length of himself, leaning his head along the pool's rim.
"If you need a woman, I can find you one," a mocking voice said.
Conar felt the color rise to his face when he glared up at Brelan. Like a little boy caught masturbating, he released himself. "I was hoping for privacy," he snapped.
"I'd want privacy, too, if I needed to play with myself." He dropped the robe he was wearing and ventured into the water.
"I wasn't playing with myself!"
"A bit testy this morning? Bent said you had a companion yesterday. I would think you'd be in a better mood. Was she not to your liking?"
Conar threw his soap at him. "I am growing overly tired of your spies! Have the courtesy to keep their findings to yourself. I don't need hearing second-hand what I do!"
The smile left Brelan's face. "It's for your protection, little brother. You put guards on everyone else. You'll have to live with those placed on you."
"I don't need guards!" In a rush of water, Conar stood and left the pool. He flung his robe around him, belted it, then retrieved his clothing. When he caught their rancid smell, he promptly dropped them.
"A bit ripe, huh?" Brelan teased, wrinkling his nose. "What have you been in to?"
Conar glanced up from scratching his arm. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"The rash. I noticed it on your chest and shoulders."
"Mangoes."
Brelan's brows shot up. "I never knew you to be allergic to—"
"There's a hell of a lot you don't know about me!" Conar shouted, then forced himself to calm down when Brelan's shocked expression finally registered. He ground his teeth and spun on his heel, escaping his brother's company.
As the day progressed, Conar's temper and mood deteriorated until he snapped and growled at everyone. From the guards outside the keep's main doors, to the servant girl who was ordered to bring him fresh clothing, to Sadie MacCorkingdale. He reviled them with a shrewish bite and sent them scurrying like the demons of hell were on their heels. All except for Sadie, who stood her ground, snapped back in the same vicious tone, and sent him stomping off with a vile curse on his lips. He managed to make himself as unwelcome a visitor in the keep as had ever stepped foot inside Boreas.
* * *
Conar seemed to be looking for mischief, especially when Liza entered the kitchen in search of Gezelle. His eyes glowed devilishly bright, his lip curled, and his hands clenched into fists. At first, recognizing his bad temper, Liza toyed with the notion of not speaking to him. But she also knew he would not let her go unchallenged.
She also looked at the cowering servants and a plate of food that had been dumped on the floor. "Have you nothing better to do than intimidate servants and waste good food?"
"They are my servants," Conar said with arrogant disdain.
Liza's spine stiffened. She decided to take him to task, then and there. "I see. And does this mean you have finally decided to be master of this keep?"
He frowned, sauntering toward her with contemptuous nonchalance. "If I choose."
"Then I would expect you to treat them in a worthy manner as befitting the master of this keep. They are all freemen, not slaves, Your Grace."
The servants began to disappear like morning mist, all except Sadie, who stayed where she was.
WINDREAPER Page 28