WyndStones

by Wyndstone (lit)

  “Ask and I will allow him to come to you,” the voice said once more.

  She had no delusions about being able to stave off the Joining tonight. As surely as she lay on McGregor’s bed Daniel would be there to make sure the wedding was done not only as was custom among the Tabor clan on the Hill but would no doubt say the binding words of their religion over her—tying her to Cailean for all time.

  Once more she cut her eyes to the bathroom door. The splashing had stopped so Cailean had no doubt finished his bath. The moment she heard him whistling, she surprised herself by growling—her teeth drawn back over her lips—like an enraged werebeast. Her fingers arched on the covers, plucking at the knobby material, wishing she could scratch out his eyes.

  “The choice is yours, Lorna. Be a slave or be the master of your own fate.”

  Those words were spoken forcefully in a harsh feminine voice and were filled with a finality she did not miss. She had to choose. Either she would accept the servitude expected of her or she would not. She lifted her chin.

  “All right, my lady,” she said quietly. She took a deep breath. “Chrysty, I need you. Come.…”

  The door to the bathroom opened and Cailean came out. He had a towel wrapped around his lean hips and his hair was wet, hanging in thick curls around his face. He glanced at her, halted in mid-stride when he found her watching him.

  “Are you at yourself now, sweeting?” he asked.

  “Tell him aye then smile,” the feminine voice instructed.

  “Aye,” she said with a hard rigor of displeasure on her face.

  He breathed an audible sigh of relief but made no move toward the bed. She thought, perhaps, there was still a vestige of hatred glimmering in her unblinking eyes.

  “I am relieved,” he said, his own wavering smile passing quickly to a hard swallow. “I’ll have the women come in to help you dress.” He went to the closet and took out a black shirt and pair of pants. It was the clothing of an Elder, a man of respect on the Hill, clothing given to him on his thirtieth birthday in preparation for his election into the Council.

  “How long will you be gone?” she made herself ask.

  “Until sunset tomorrow,” he said. “The induction is a long affair.” He looked around as he dropped the towel, no doubt gauging her reaction to seeing him naked.

  She stared openly at the juncture between his legs until she saw a dull flush creep over his face and down his neck. He turned hastily away, stepping into the pants. A brittle smile touched her lips for she knew she had shamed him with her bold look.

  “Tomorrow night, we will be Joined,” he told her as he slipped on the black shirt. He turned back to her while he buttoned it. “We will be man and wife.” He tucked the shirt into his pants.

  “Lower your eyes. Do not allow him to see the hatred blazing from them,” the mysterious feminine voice advised and Lorna did as she was ordered.

  “I will make you a good husband,” he said, buttoning his cuffs. He cleared his throat. “As long as you are a good wife.”

  Lorna raised her eyes to look at him. She said nothing—hating him with all her being—and as the moment dragged out, she watched him fidget beneath her unwavering stare.

  “Ah, I’ll be going now.” He took a step toward the bed then apparently thought better of it. He simply nodded then took two long strides to the door, opening then closing it behind his departure.

  She heard him talking to Maggie then heard the front door open and close. Within a few moments she heard hoof beats and knew finally he had gone.

  “What about the women?” she whispered.

  “They will be seen to,” the phantom voice replied. “Call him now and he will come to you.”

  Lorna took a deep breath. “Chrysty, I am ready.”

  A soft flicker of light formed in the corner of the room then—like a firefly—began to flit along the ceiling. Where it traveled, it pulsed just like the little lightning bugs weaving through the tall corn on a hot July night.

  The bedroom door opened and Lorna looked away from the ceiling to see Sadie framed in the opening.

  “Are you hungry yet, dear?” Sadie asked. She didn’t seem to notice the firefly as it flitted around the room, finally landing on the bedside table.

  Lorna shook her head.

  “Well, Maggie and I are going to sit on the porch until we’re ready for bed,” Sadie said. She smiled. “Would you like to join us?”

  Again Lorna shook her head then turned over, showing her back to the other woman. She could feel Sadie standing there, hesitating, and then the door closed softly with a gentle click.

  She felt his hand on her shoulder then the bed dipped as he sat beside her.

  “I am here, sweeting,” he said quietly. “They’ll not bother us again.”

  She craned her neck around to find his handsome face looking down on her. His grip on her shoulder was firm and for one wild moment she wanted to shrug it off. She had always wanted to be her own woman, to never belong to any man. Kurt Sprague had spoiled any girlish dreams of marriage and a home shared with a loving husband.

  “Trust me, Lorna,” Chrysty said. “I will get you through this.”

  He was her only hope of salivation, she thought as she turned to her back. His hand slid away from her shoulder to cup her cheek.

  The Book was suddenly there in her lap. It was a heavy leather tome at least three inches thick and when the pages were ruffled open by an unseen hand, the smell that wafted from them was musty and perfumed with a dark, dangerous note that made her skin crawl. The page upon which she looked was yellow with age and blank.

  “I want it spelled out,” she said, lifting her eyes to Chrysty. “What is expected of me and what is expected of you.” She put a trembling finger to the bare page. “Right here. I want everything in writing.”

  “As you wish,” he said and took his hand from her cheek to fan it over the page. Writing—old-fashioned script with flourishes fashioning the letters—appeared. The ink was a dark rust color.

  “I want to read it before I sign,” she said, lifting the weighty volume.

  “Of course.” He folded his hands in his lap and looked away from her as she read.

  It was all cut and dried, she supposed. In exchange for her soul, she would gain knowledge and power of the dark arts of the Sisterhood. She was guaranteed the ability to wield enormous magic at command, to influence her enemies, to use Chrysty as her vessel for vengeance. She could call upon otherworldly entities such as Nightwinds and have them do her bidding if she could get them to sign their allegiance to her family. She would have power over Chrysty and—should he fail her or cause her irritation—send him back to the Abyss. She looked up at him.

  “Have others of your kind been sent back to the Abyss because they annoyed their mistress?”

  He nodded without looking at her. “I know of only one and soon he will be free again.” He turned his head. “I pray I never do anything to cause your ire, Lorna. The Abyss is an odorous place to spend eternity.”

  She stared into his amber eyes—feeling herself falling into a bottomless pit of despair—and shook her head to clear it. “I imagine it would be a truly horrid existence,” she said. “As long as you do as I bid, I doubt I will have reason to punish you, Chrysty.”

  “Once the Book of Shadows is signed, I am yours to command and will do all I can to see your wishes fulfilled. I would but ask one thing of you.”

  Lorna frowned. “And what would that be?”

  “I would caution you to temperance,” he said. “Go slowly in this matter of seeking your revenge on the men of the Taber clan. Let them believe they have won then—when the time is right—yank the rug out from underneath them.”

  “Go slowly,” she repeated. “Why?”

  “Vengeance is best served cold,” he answered. “That is an old, old saying but it still bears remembering. There is far more heat in a flash fire than in a smoldering one but a smoldering one does more damage.”

  “
Ah,” she said, seeing the wisdom behind his words. She looked down at the Book.

  “Bide your time,” he cautioned. “Swallow a little pride. Tolerate a little discomfort. Endure a little humiliation. In the end—when you take your revenge—the retribution will be all the sweeter for having waited until just the right moment.”

  “In other words, suffer Cailean McGregor’s filthy hands on me until I can lop those hands off at the root,” she said in a low voice filled with reprisal.

  “Aye,” he agreed. “Exactly.”

  She stared at the writing for a long time, then shrugged away any misgivings she might have. No matter whether she signed or not, she was stuck with McGregor. If there was a way to even the score with him and the menfolk of the Hill, so be it.

  “Where do I sign?” she asked.

  A quill materialized in his hand. He extended it toward her, raised his wrist to his mouth and sank long, deadly fangs into his flesh.

  Lorna winced, her eyes wide as she stared at the crimson that flowed from the puncture wounds. Her heart pounding, her hand trembling, she dipped the point of the quill into the blood welling on his wrist then hastily scribbled her name to the page.

  He took the quill from her, loaded the point with his own blood then—with bold strokes—added his name below hers. The quill disappeared along with the blood coating his upturned wrist.

  “It is sealed,” he said softly and the Book vanished, as well.

  They were quiet for a long while then Chrysty sighed loudly. He looked down at her.

  “There is one more thing.”

  She knew. She had read the wording carefully—several times over—that said she was required to secure the bargain by giving her body to the demon. He needed to claim her as his own. Her damnation would then be complete.

  “He hurt me,” she said. “Kurt. Cailean.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I .…”

  One moment he was fully clothed as he sat there beside her and the next he was naked.

  As was she.

  Lorna clutched the covers to her chin, wide-eyed and trembling. Beneath the covers, her body was shaking so badly her teeth began to chatter.

  “No, love,” he whispered and suddenly the covers went to whatever mysterious realm had taken the quill and Book. His powerful body gleamed in the light from the oil lamp; his eyes held a spark that drew her down into them as though she’d stepped into quicksand.

  Shivering, heart thundering in her chest, she stared at him. He was so handsome, so muscular. There wasn’t a spare ounce of flesh on his body and his hair shone like a raven’s wing. The hair nestled between his pectorals beckoned to be touched and as he straddled her—sitting back on his haunches upon her lower thighs—she reached up a hesitant hand to run her finger through.

  “Aye, my lady,” he whispered. “Touch me.” He covered her hand with his, pressing it to his chest. “Touch me wherever it pleases you.”

  His chest hairs tickled the palm of her hand and beneath them she could feel his heart beating. That puzzled her—causing frown lines to appear on her worried face.

  “I am as alive as you are, Lorna-love,” he told her. “I breathe. I bleed. My heart beats.” His voice went low, sultry. “I can climax.”

  She felt the heat rising in her cheeks and tried to jerk her hand from under his but he would not allow it. Instead, he ran it down his belly and onto the plane of wiry hair at the juncture of his thickly-corded thighs.

  “Oh!” Lorna gasped as he curled her fingers around a steely erection that caused her eyes to nearly pop from her head.

  “He’s all yours,” he said in that low, whispery, seductive voice.

  “You’ll tear me apart!” she protested, her trembling worse.

  He shook his head. “No, love. I won’t.” He held her eyes with his. “I will stretch you, aye, but I will not hurt you.” He put his free hand over his heart. “I swear on my honor as your Nightwind. It is not within me to ever hurt you.”

  Lorna’s tongue felt thick in her suddenly dry mouth. She broke out in a cold sweat, dragging in great gulps of air so quickly she felt lightheaded.

  “Easy, my lady,” he said and before she could protest, he stretched his tall body over hers, sliding down her like a soft, suede blanket—covering her completely.

  “No, Chrysty. No, please,” she pleaded, trying to pull her hand from between their bodies. It was trapped around his thick shack. She could feel the pulse of his blood running through that enormous organ and it terrified her.

  “Shush,” he whispered. “I’m just going to lie here until you are familiar with the feel of me weighing you down.”

  It was his weight that scared her so deeply. First Kurt and then Cailean had held her down, ravaged her and the sensation of Chrysty’s masculine heaviness pressing her into the mattress sent spirals of panic rushing through her body. She imagined the ripping of his large shaft tearing her, hurting her, stabbing deep to give her even more pain.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “No, that isn’t going to happen.” He put his other hand to her forehead to smooth back her hair. “I will give you great pleasure, Lorna-love. Pleasure such as you can not imagine.”

  His cock had not decreased in size, she though wildly. If anything, it seemed to be growing beneath her touch. It felt hot to her palm and there was a drop of his fluids that had fallen to the crease of her hand between her thumb and index finger.

  “Relax,” he whispered.

  She froze as he lowered his mouth toward hers. Her breath caught in her throat. Perhaps that was a good thing—she thought—for the silken feel of his lips claiming hers would have taken her breath away anyway.

  Hard yet soft. Unyielding yet pliant. His lips devoured hers. His tongue flicked deep into her mouth. He held her head steady for his tender assault—not allowing her to turn away from his kiss. That kiss deepened until all thought fled her fevered brain. All she could feel was the warmth of his breath on her cheek and the wet heat of his invading tongue. She groaned as he swept the tip of his tongue between her upper lip and teeth. Instinctively, her hand tightened on his rod.

  She heard him growl—low and deep in his throat—then he was kissing his way from her mouth to her cheek to her chin to her neck, sliding down her as he worked his hot mouth to the hollow of her throat.

  “Chrysty,” she sighed.

  He lifted his head and looked up at her through the long dark sweep of his lashes.

  “Aye, my lady?”

  “I…” Once more she became lost in his heated gaze. She could feel her body drifting slowly down into those amber orbs—being trapped there.

  His hand moved from around hers to the folds of her sex.

  Lorna thought she would faint. The tip of his finger was parting her, pressing into the wetness that had blossomed between her thighs.

  “Trust me, Lorna-love,” he said.

  It had to be, she thought. To fight it would be useless. She knew he sensed the moment she gave in and stopped resisting for a slow, knowing smile stretched his beautiful lips. He eased his lower body from hers so she could draw her hand from between them. His, he kept at the entrance to her sheath. She clutched at the sheet beneath her hips.

  “Relax,” he said, drawing the word out.

  Very gently he slipped his finger inside her and Lorna bucked. Her eyes flew wide. A shuddering breath wracked her body but when he began to slowly withdraw that thrusting digit then ease it in again, she stopped breathing altogether.

  “You like that?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he shifted his body so he could press the pad of his thumb to her clit. The moment he touched her there, she made a strangled, whimpering sound and squeezed her eyes tightly closed, pulling so hard at the sheet it ripped in her hand.

  It wasn’t pain he was giving her, she thought wildly, but something so intense, so unbelievably powerful she could hear the blood rushing through her arteries. It wasn’t irritating but it was concentrated and it made her wr
ithe against him. The combination of his slowly driving finger and the abrading of her clitoris was sending potent sensations rocketing through her lower body. Her womb clenched and her vaginal walls clutched at his finger.

  He stopped with that strong tightening—his finger deep inside her.

  “Lorna, open your eyes and look at me,” he commanded.

  She had no will of her own. Her eyelids fluttered open and she stared up into his beautiful male face, her eyes fused with his.

  “I am going to make you come,” he said.

  She knew what he meant though she had never had an orgasm. She had always been very careful in not touching her body in what she thought of as inappropriate ways for she had been brought up to believe that was wrong. There were fleeting memories of strange feelings overtaking her during sleep but she had no reference point from which to analyze those phantom sensations. She knew what it felt like to become aroused and had tamped down such feelings whenever they had arisen. Now, she was free to experience it all but that did nothing to alleviate the fears that had been with her since late childhood.

  “Let your body relax,” he said. “Concentrate on my finger inside you.”

  She whimpered again, his words bringing heat to her face but she couldn’t look away. His gaze held her riveted as he continued to ease his finger in and out, in and out. The moment one finger became two, then three, she tensed like a coiled spring.

  “Relax,” he whispered. “Let me pleasure you, sweeting.” His thumb began to stroke downward across her clit with each inward pass of his fingers.

  Something was building inside her and Lorna’s breathing became labored. It was all she could do not to grab handfuls of the sheet. Instead, she plastered her palms to them, pressing down, becoming aware that she was arching her hips with each and every stroke of his hand. She stilled but he shook his head.

  “No, that’s what you should do,” he told her and she allowed her body to regain the upward motion.

  Heat curled in her lower body, concentrated in the area between her legs. Sweat dripped down her temple and into her ear. His free hand moved from her forehead down her face and over her shoulder, onto the mound of her breast.