WyndRiver Sinner

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “Then stop remembering him,” she said. “He can’t touch you again, so why let him keep molesting you in your dreams?”

  He put his free hand up to cup her face. “Have I told you how much I love you, Aingeal Cree?”

  “Not nearly as often as I’d like to hear it,” she replied. Then her eyebrows drew together. “A master at skills I was good at?”

  “Aye,” he said with a sigh.

  “Then if I was good at sex before the parasite, I’ll be even better now?”

  Shaking his head at her question, he wished they were alone in the train car. “I don’t know if I could take you being any better than you were. You near wore me out as it was,” he confessed.

  She grinned at him. “What do you say we get off at the next decent stop and spend the night in a hotel?” she asked.

  “No.” The one word was a warning from the man in charge at the Citadel.

  “Behave, wench,” he said.

  “Wouldn’t you like to?”

  He stared her in the eye. “More than you can imagine, but the HC says we can’t.”

  Aingeal’s gaze narrowed. “Did he tell you we couldn’t?”

  “Aye.”

  Knowing she could not buck the Shadowlords, though every instinct screamed at her to, Aingeal cursed beneath her breath. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable journey to the Citadel.

  Chapter Ten

  The Citadel was unlike anything Aingeal had ever seen. It had been built over the crumbling foundations of an older structure, following closely the same perimeters as the original building destroyed during the War. Fashioned in the shape of a flattened star, the edifice was an imposing brick construction five stories tall including the basement. Covering twenty-nine acres and encompassing over six million square feet, the headquarters of the High Council was an imposing site. There were ten sections—each dedicated to the defense and safety of all of Terra. There was a section for each of the seven continents that made up the planet, one section entirely for troops, another for maintenance personnel and workers, with the remaining section just for the use of the High Council and its Shadowlords.

  “Each one of the Shadowlords has an entire floor to himself,” their guide explained as he led them along the mezzanine of the High Council’s section. “I am told their individual apartments are spectacular.”

  “Only the best for our rulers,” Cynyr quipped.

  “They have earned it, mo tiarna,” the guide rebuked him.

  “Someone told me there had been records found?” Aingeal prompted the guide.

  “Oh, yes! The discovery of records in a vault buried deep beneath the basement has been a godsend to the people of Terra. There were things found there that will take the scribes a hundred years or more to decipher, but what they discovered covered the history and politics of every country in the world along with startling medical information that will save many a life in the years to come.” He beamed proudly. “It is an honor to work here with so many thrilling discoveries popping up every day!”

  Cynyr rolled his eyes, for he knew the HC would limit how much of that information would ever be made public. He suspected most of it would be destroyed as quickly as it was revealed.

  “You are a very cynical man, Cynyr Cree,” Lord Kheelan’s voice snarled.

  “I have every right to be,” Cynyr sent back at him.

  They had arrived at a large ornate desk manned by three very beautiful young women.

  “Lord Cynyr Cree,” the guide announced to the young women.

  Aingeal’s face turned to her husband and when he glanced down at her, she raised an eyebrow in query.

  “Did you think my title was honorary, wench?” he asked.

  “I didn’t even know you had a title,” she replied.

  He waved a dismissive hand. “There are many degrees of lordship among the HC,” he said. “The Shadowlords are the highest ranking with Lord Kheelan being high commissioner. Reapers are a rung below the Shadowlords, ranked by time spent as one of our kind.”

  “Where do you fit in the rankings?”

  “Third,” he answered.

  “The High Council is meeting with the Prime Reaper at this moment,” the young woman in the middle spoke up. “Please have a seat and we will call you when it is your time to meet with the Council.”

  There were very comfortable-looking chairs sitting off to one side. No one was seated there but Cynyr was too nervous to sit. He barely noted the guide’s departure. He glared at the young woman who had spoken. “How many Reapers are at the Citadel today?”

  “With the exception of Lord Bevyn, who will be arriving shortly, you are all in attendance, mo tiarna,” she replied.

  Cynyr frowned and turned away. His wife asked him what was wrong.

  “Something’s up,” he said. “At first I thought they were bringing me here to censure me for what I did, but if we are all here, something is going on.”

  “You said there were seven of you?” Aingeal questioned.

  The Reaper sighed. “Aye, wench, you know I did.”

  “Who are they? Do you know them?”

  “In order of rank they are Arawn Gehdrin, Bevyn Coure, myself, Owen Tohre, Phelan Keil, Glyn Kullen and Iden Belial. I’ve only met Tohre and Kullen.”

  Cynyr wasn’t even aware he was pacing while his lady took a seat. She was watching him but he didn’t notice. An evil notion was tumbling around inside his head and he was too involved in trying to keep it to himself to pay attention to what was going on around him.

  Gently, Aingeal tried to slip past her husband’s mental blocking but she could not find a way into his thoughts. She was a novice to psychic ability, yet she recognized a deliberate shutting out when she encountered one in her lover’s mind. She stopped trying and instead turned her attention to the three lovely young women at the desk.

  The one in the middle was blonde, blue-eyed and buxom. The one on the right had red hair, green eyes and was very tall, towering above the other two. The one on the left had hair the color and sheen of polished steel though she could not have yet reached her thirtieth birthday. She was smaller than the other two and her eyes were the same color as Aingeal’s. Each was extraordinarily beautiful with flawless skin, pert noses and full lips any man would describe as luscious. She could not help but wonder if the women belonged to the Shadowlords.

  The silver-haired woman smiled at Aingeal as though she had intercepted the stray thought. Very slowly she shook her head in denial then looked down at the paper upon which she’d been writing.

  Another guide came walking toward them and with him was a Reaper Aingeal knew at to be Lord Bevyn. He glanced at Aingeal, frowned, and then turned his attention to Cynyr.

  Cynyr had not missed the irritated look on Bevyn Coure’s face. He had read the disapproval on the other Reaper’s face and knew Coure was here because of what Cynyr had done to Aingeal. His shoulders drooped though he stepped forward to greet Coure.

  The Reapers did not shake hands but nodded curtly at one another. Since neither had met, Cynyr introduced himself. “I am Cree,” he announced.

  “I gathered as much,” Bevyn Coure drawled. He looked pointedly at Aingeal. “Your mate?”

  Cynyr raised his chin. “Aye.”

  “Very pretty,” Coure acknowledged. He nodded at the young women behind the desk then shoved his hands into the pockets of his black leather britches. “I too have a mate.”

  Stunned, Cynyr could only stare at his fellow Reaper.

  Coure shrugged. “I paid dearly for the privilege,” he said. “Just as you will.”

  “That’s why we’re all here?” Cynyr asked.

  “That’s why we’re all here,” Coure repeated.

  “You may go in, Lord Bevyn,” the blonde woman told him.

  “The gods be with you, Cree, and the Wind at your back. You’re going to need both,” Coure said as he sauntered off.

  “How many of us have mates?” Cynyr called out to him.

  Cou
re turned. “Just you and me.” His eyes slid to Aingeal for a moment then away.

  Aingeal got up and went to stand beside her husband. “Obviously he was allowed to keep his lady,” she said. “You shouldn’t worry so, mo tiarna.” She put her arm through his. “Relax.”

  He wished he could, but his insides were rumbling around and he felt sick. He couldn’t ever remember being so nervous in his life. Not even when he had awakened from a lashing at the quarry to find the priest riding him like a dispirited steed could he remember feeling so anxious. Pain had been a way of life for him at the quarry. He had learned not to expect anything other than hurt, hunger, thirst and degradation in that hellhole. He thought he had risen above all that.

  An hour went by but the High Council did not call for Cynyr. He was left to pace the floor in front of the desk and turn a mean glower on the young women seated there. For their part, the women ignored him, going about their business as if he wasn’t wearing a hole in the carpet. Now and again they would turn their eyes to Aingeal and smile encouragingly, but not once did they bestow that friendliness on the Reaper.

  Aingeal was looking at the silver-haired woman when that lady’s head went up and she tilted it to one side as though listening. Her gaze flickered to Aingeal then to the Reaper.

  “Lord Cree,” the young woman spoke, her accent very pleasing. “You are being dismissed for the day. Lord Kheelan requests you return at nine tomorrow morning.”

  Cynyr marched up to the desk and slammed his palms on the top. “You’ve got to be kidding!” he snapped.

  Aingeal was up and beside her man in a heartbeat. She took his arm and tried to pull him away from the desk. “Cynyr, let’s go.”

  “Hell, no, I’m not going anywhere!” the Reaper snapped. Anger was emblazoned on his handsome face. “Why can’t I see them today?”

  “Lord Kheelan has his reasons, mo tiarna,” the silver-haired woman said. She was looking directly into the Reaper’s furious stare. “Accommodations have been set aside for you and your lady. Giles, your guide, will show you the way.”

  The man who had escorted them to the High Council mezzanine appeared almost as though by magic. He smiled at Aingeal then held his hand out for them to accompany him.

  “So I’m supposed to go away like a nice little boy and not cause any problems, eh?” Cynyr snarled.

  The blonde spoke up. “If you wish to keep your lady, aye.” When Cynyr’s glare fell on her, she did not flinch. “That is what was decided, and you will do as the High Council bids.”

  Before her husband could explode, Aingeal jerked on his arm and pulled him away from the desk. She was hissing at him in such a low voice neither the women nor the guide could hear, but the silver-haired woman—the only psychic among the three young women—smiled.

  “Good on you, Lady Aingeal,” the silver-haired woman whispered in Aingeal’s mind.

  Aingeal looked around and winked at the pretty woman.

  * * * * *

  The fourth floor quarters to which their guide took them were luxurious. Bright and cheerful, the accommodations were elegant, its furnishings expensive and carefully chosen. A relaxing color scheme of deep burgundy, moss green and creamy beige was carried throughout the residence. Along the sitting room wall was a long bank of windows that overlooked the center court with its pristine lake. Dark green velvet drapes had been pulled back to frame the view and the windows were open to admit a cooling southerly breeze that carried on it the scent of jasmine. Plush, upholstered settees in beige moiré flanked the row of windows and two very comfortable chairs sat to either side of a large marble fireplace. Between the chairs was a lovely teakwood table with an inlaid tortoiseshell top. A desk with chair sat in the corner at the other end of the room surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookcases. On the floor was an exquisite rug done in green and beige with a large floral border in a sumptuous deep-wine color.

  “The bedroom is through that door,” the guide said, handing Aingeal the key to the quarters, for the Reaper was standing at the windows, his back to them. “The bathing suite adjoins the sleeping area. We have tried to think of everything you might need but if we have missed anything, there is the bell pull. Someone will come right away.”

  “Thank you, Giles,” Aingeal said, smiling.

  The guide was barely out of the room before Cynyr exploded.

  “The gods-be-damned hell if I’ll just sit here all night and wonder what the fuck they’re going to do to my life!” Cynyr shouted as he turned around.

  “Don’t use that word around me again, Reaper,” Aingeal warned. “Donal used to say it all the time and I find it very nasty.”

  “Do you realize they might try to take you away from me?” he asked, his face pale.

  Aingeal shook her head. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Damn straight it won’t!” he growled, and reached for her.

  Sweeping her up in his arms, he headed for the door that led to the sleeping chamber. Lifting his foot, he kicked the closed portal—splintering the doorjamb and knocking the door off-kilter.

  “Cynyr, really,” Aingeal said, her face pinched as she looked at the destruction her husband had wrought.

  He carried her to the large oaken bed and threw her down, falling on her before she had a chance to berate him for his childish behavior.

  There was nothing childish about the mouth that slanted possessively over hers, nothing childish about the hungry tongue that thrust between her lips to claim her. His left hand was on her breast, kneading her tender flesh, his leg thrown over hers. She could feel the prod of his shaft against her hip.

  “I need you,” he said, sliding his mouth from her lips to her cheek to her neck.

  “I know,” she said gently.

  Cynyr flung himself from the bed and began ripping at his uniform. The black silk shirt tore, buttons popped as he shrugged it from his wide chest. His eyes were locked with hers as he worked at his belt, unbuckling it and snapping it through the belt loops with a sinuous dragging sound that brought moisture to Aingeal’s loins. Not even bothering with the buttons on his fly, he ripped the britches open then waved his hand, ridding himself of britches, boots and socks all in one motion. No respectable Reaper would wear underwear.

  Aingeal sighed. She had to learn that trick. There she lay attired in a proper gown—her movements restricted by the multiple layers of fabric covering her. Her pretty mauve gown with its rows of lace was hiked up around her knees and she could barely move. She hadn’t wanted to wear the damned thing, but the demand had come from the attaché who had met them at the train station.

  “Madame must be attired properly,” the stiff man had informed them, “when meeting the High Council.”

  Cursing nastily, Cynyr had pulled her into an alley, waved his hand and there she was squeezed into a suitable gown. At least he had foregone the corset as well as the ridiculous-looking bloomers that fashion dictated. She did, however, find herself clad in silk stockings beneath her comfortable elastic-sided black boots and a lacy chemise that fit her like a glove.

  “Damned nuisance!” Cynyr snarled, and with a shaky curve of his arm divested his wife of her clothing.

  Lying there on her back, propped up on her elbows, Aingeal found herself flattened naked on the bed, her husband’s brawny body pressed against hers, his knees pushing hers apart.

  “I need you,” he said again.

  “Well, stop doing that and save your energy,” she said.

  “You just don’t forget anything, do you?” he said in a whiny tone.

  She enveloped him in her arms and held him, her newfound strength warring with his to keep him from taking her with the violence of which he seemed perfectly capable right then.

  “Shush,” she said, soothing him. She wasn’t about to allow him to take her in the condition he was in.

  “I won’t let them take you away from me,” he said, and collapsed upon her, the side of his face between her breasts.

  “They are not going to
, mo tiarna,” she whispered, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. Her left hand was caressing the raised scars on his back.

  “They’re going to try,” he said. He was caressing her shoulder, his thumb fanning an arc across the satiny flesh.

  “Let them try all they want,” she said. “I’ll fight them tooth and nail.”

  Despite the anger and fear in his heart, Cynyr smiled. A vision of his lady—broadsword in hand on a rolling deck slicing away at Lord Kheelan—lightened his mood. He lifted his head and looked up at her.

  “You gonna fight for me, wench?” he inquired.

  “Damned right,” she stated, and kissed him on the nose.

  He slid up on the bed until he could claim her mouth once more. His kiss this time was gentle, loving, and did not carry with it the desperation he had felt only moments before. Tenderly his lips plied hers. He softly bit her lower lip then soothed it with his tongue.

  “Evil brat,” she named him, then took his head in her hands to give him a kiss he would feel to the soles of his feet.

  Cynyr snaked his hands under her, grasped her buttocks, flipped over and then snuggled her atop him, her delightful breasts pressed to his hard chest. Their kiss was a heady experience. It rocketed through the both of them to set their hearts to pumping excitedly and sending heat curling in the lower part of their bellies. His hands roamed up her bare bottom and caressed her waist, moved up to spread along her upper back. The satiny expanse of her flesh enthralled him, underscoring his desire to possess every inch of her body. Running his palms over that smooth, warm skin, he shivered from the extent of his love for his lady.

  Aingeal’s legs lay outside her husband’s and the very core of her was poised over the steel length of his erection. She could feel the hard rod flexing against the curls at the juncture of her thighs. Rising up until just the peaks of her breasts lightly touched his chest, she pressed her lower body closer to his, grinding gently against him.

  “Ah, wench,” he said on a long sigh, closing his eyes to the delicious torture his lady was administering.