LONGING’S LEVANT
An Ellora’s Cave Publication, December 2004
Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.
1337 Commerce Drive, #13
Stow, OH 44224
ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-8436 -719-0
Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):
Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML
LONGING’S LEVANT © 2004 CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Edited by Mary Moran.
Cover art by artist.
Warning:
The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Longing’s Levant has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).
S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.
E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.
X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.
Longing’s Levant
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Prologue
A muscle clenched and unclenched in his lean cheek as Lord Evann-Sin sat hunched over his tankard of beer. He stared into the amber depths of the liquid, ignoring the drunken laughter around him, the raucous music, the bawdy jokes being told by the gypsies sitting nearby, and the suffocating plumes from numerous foul-smelling pipes. Though he sat only a few feet away, he was barely aware of the heat of the tavern’s roaring fire that warded off the chill of the high desert, but as preoccupied with the troubling dark thoughts that spun through his mind, he was as cognizant of his surrounds as any well-trained soldier.
No one seemed to be paying any attention to the dark-clad warrior who sat so still. The serviceable blade strapped to his broad back and the unmistakable aura of power, the undeniable essence of authority, set him apart from the other patrons of the tavern. His handsome face was creased with a savage scowl that kept those nearest him from looking his way more than once.
Seeming to shake the grim thoughts from his mind, the warrior lifted his tankard and took a long sip of the warm beer. He grimaced for the taste was bitter—bursting over his tongue with an unpleasantness that made him set the tankard aside. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he pushed the tankard across the table then looked up, catching the eye of a tavern maid. He pointed to the tankard then turned his attention to the crackling fire.
He leaned back in the chair and stretched out his long legs. Folding his arms over his chest, he stared fixedly into the flames as though the conflagration was speaking to him.
The reluctant arrival of the tavern maid with a fresh tankard of beer failed to draw his notice and so intent was his concentration, so still was his posture, the woman made no mention of the coins he owed for the brew. She set the beer on the table then turned to go.
“Wait.”
“Aye, milord?” the woman said scarcely above a whisper.
“Here,” he said, digging into the pocket of his black leather breeches. He slapped two coins down on the sticky top of the table.
Bobbing a curtsy, the woman swept up the coins and backed away. She knew better than to turn her back on him or look directly into the eyes of a warrior they knew was a nobleman.
“What fare do you have for a traveler to eat, wench?” he asked, his words halting her in mid-step.
The tavern maid plucked at the folds of her skirt. “There is mutton stew, milord, and brown bread.”
“Is it edible?” he asked.
“We are told it is the best in Nonica, Your Grace,” she answered.
“Then bring me a trencher,” Evann-Sin ordered.
“Right away, milord!” she answered, backing away.
Drawing in a tired breath, the warrior exhaled slowly and looked toward the tavern’s door. The man he had come here to meet was over an hour late and that did not bode well for the Akkadian warrior’s temperament. Punctuality was a virtue as far as Evann-Sin was concerned. An honorable man did not keep another waiting.
Sighing heavily once more, the warrior plowed a hand through the midnight thickness of his hair then lowered his head, giving in to the tiredness that was rapidly sapping his strength.
A loud commotion at the tavern’s door caused Evann-Sin to look up. Hoping it was Rabin, he was as surprised as everyone else to see seven scarlet-robed women entering the common room, laughing and joking amongst themselves.
“Daughters of the Night!” he heard someone whisper.
“Hell Hags,” a gypsy remarked and made the Sign of the Slain One.
Knowing little about the witches of Bandar other than what he had heard in outrageous tales, Evann-Sin was intrigued by their appearance there in Nonica. The women rarely ventured beyond the borders of their homeland and when they did, it was rumored they did so with vengeance on their minds and blood in their eyes. The yarns he’d heard of their warrioress’ exploits had been too fanciful to be believed, but the swords they carried slung across their backs made him wonder if there might be some truth to the tales. The women looked capable of wielding those lethal blades and from the way they seemed to take command of the room, their posture gave evidence of the authority to which they were accustomed.
Unlike the now silent patrons who were meticulously avoiding looking at the newcomers, Evann-Sin openly watched them, curious to see what they were about. He was intrigued at the easiness with which they moved and more than a little curious about their nature.
The women were taller than average and as they took seats at the far end of the room they threw back the hoods of their robes to reveal waist-length hair in every shade from bright red to gray. They wore identical gold circlets around their long, flowing tresses, the circlets depicting quarter moons with a trio of silver stars riding on the lower curve. Boots of soft black kid showed beneath the ankle-length hem of the woolen robes and a cincture of braided gold silk circled their waists. The clink of bracelets as the women settled themselves at the table said these were not members of that part of the sect who had taken vows of poverty.
“Give us your most expensive wine, tavern keeper!” the tallest of the newcomers demanded, proving they were not poor. “We have a thirst not easily quenched.”
“And desires not easily satiated!” another chuckled. “Who among you would like to be the first to soothe our desires?”
All the men in the tavern save one shot to their feet and scurried from the room amidst the noisy scraping of chairs and tables. The door was yanked open and the mass exodus of males stumbling out into the chill desert night set the women to laughing uproariously.
“Was it something we said?” the tallest woman guffawed.
“Or fear of performance?” another chuckled.
“Ah, peace and quiet at last,” another said with a loud sigh. “No
men to…” She stopped as one of her sisters pointed toward Evann-Sin.
The tallest woman arched a rust-colored eyebrow toward the warrior. “What ails you that you do no flee into the dark with your cowardly brethren?” she called out.
Evann-Sin stared at the woman without answering. She was tall but she was thick-bodied, overweight with a wide double chin and bloated face that said she embraced the habit of overeating. Her hair…perhaps once a bright color of auburn…was streaked heavily with gray and fell to her substantial waist in dull, bodiless orange strands.
“Perhaps he is hard of hearing?” one of the women suggested.
“Or mentally challenged,” another chortled. “Only a fool would remain when we’ve made it clear we wish to be alone.”
“He’s so pretty, perhaps he is just a half-male and thinks he has a right to be here with us,” another chortled and all but one of the women burst into laughter with her. “Think you he fancies himself part woman?”
“Leave him be,” a woman sitting in profile to Evann-Sin spoke up. “He doesn’t look the type to appreciate your humor, Sylviana.”
The tall woman snorted. “I bet he would appreciate a good ride, though,” she stated, and pushed back from the table.
“Sylviana, leave him be!” the woman warned again.
“By the Goddess, you are afraid of your own shadow, Tamara!” Sylviana scoffed. She headed toward Evann-Sin’s table.
Evann-Sin realized the tall woman was uglier than he’d first thought, for the closer she got to him, the harsher were the planes of her wide face. He winced when she opened her mouth in what was no doubt meant to be a seductive smile, for he got a glimpse of rotting teeth like jagged tombstones behind her thin lips. So disgusted by what he saw, he said nothing as she put her thick hands on his table and leaned toward him.
“What do you say, warrior?” Sylviana challenged. “Would you like to find a room with me and pass the time locked in a feverish embrace?”
The thought of such an act brought bile to Evann-Sin’s throat. As close as the woman was to him, he could not miss her overpowering, sour body odor, and wondered when was the last time she had bothered to wash her rancid flesh. Repelled by her leering stare, repulsed by her foul breath and appalled at her attempt at flirtation, he drew in his legs and sat up.
“Cat got your tongue, pretty boy?” she taunted him. She lowered her voice. “Would you like to ride me?” She licked her lips.
The suggestion sickened Evann-Sin. “I want nothing you have to offer,” he said.
Sylviana’s smile wavered. “How do you know unless you try it?” she asked.
“You really don’t want me to answer that,” he said.
The tall woman narrowed her eyes. “Aye, but I do. Give me your thoughts, warrior,” she said then sneered. “That is if you are capable of having thought.”
Evann-Sin smiled coldly. “All right, if you insist. I was thinking I’d rather hump a decaying corpse than take your reeking flesh to mine,” he grated.
Shocked silence settled over the room as Sylviana straightened and stood glaring down at the warrior. Her lips drew back from her teeth and she hissed as though she were a pit viper preparing to strike. “Be careful what you say to me, warrior,” she warned. “I am a ninth degree adept in the Order of the Celestial Descendency.”
“I don’t give a damn what you are,” Evann-Sin growled. “I’m telling you to leave me the hell alone, woman. Go back to your table.” His eyes narrowed. “Now while you still can.”
One of the other women left the table and hurried over. She reached out to take Sylviana’s arm, but the taller woman stepped back, shrugging away the contact. “Stay out of this, Tamara,” Sylviana ordered. “This is between me and this reckless fool who obviously does not know with whom he is dealing here.”
“He knows, Sylviana,” Tamara disagreed, “but he has no fear of you, so leave him be.”
Evann-Sin glanced up at the woman who had come to draw her companion back. He thought hers the voice of reason and was about to tell her so when he looked into her eyes and Evann-Sin’s world tilted on its axis.
Those eyes were the color of amethysts and were framed in thick, spiky lashes that fanned her ivory cheeks when she blinked. Her face was a gentle oval with high, wide cheeks and lips the color of crushed cherries. Delicate ears, a slightly upturned nose and a strong chin added to the ethereal beauty that held him captive. He could not remember ever seeing a woman as beautiful as the one looking back at him.
“We want no trouble, milord,” Tamara told him, and her voice held the unmistakable accent of the Highlands.
Stunned by the radiant beauty staring back at him, he could not seem to find his voice. Unaware his facial features had relaxed and a gentle smile came unbidden to his chiseled lips, it was all he could do to tear his gaze from her and look back into the ugly face of the tall woman who slammed her palms down savagely on the tabletop to gain his attention.
“I am the leader of our group, you stupid bastard! You will direct your attention to me, and not this sniveling coward of a girl!” Sylviana demanded.
A brutal glint turned Evann-Sin’s amber eyes to molten gold. He glared at the woman who dared to insult him as well as issue him orders. Before he could gain control of his temper, he was on his feet, his strong hand wrapped brutally around Sylviana’s arm just above her elbow.
Tamara Naibril stepped back defensively, but Sylviana’s yelp of pain as the warrior’s strong, unrelenting fingers bit into Sylviana’s flesh made the young woman reach out a pleading hand. “Milord, please do not hurt her! She’s been drinking all evening, and I fear she is drunk.”
“She is a foul-mouthed whore,” Evann-Sin grated, and increased the punishing pressure to Sylviana’s arm.
On their feet and coming toward the warrior with drawn swords, Tamara stepped between her sisters and their target. “No,” she said, halting her sisters in mid-stride. “This is between Sylviana and the warrior. Put your weapons away.” When they hesitated at her order, Tamara shouted at them to do as they were told.
Reluctantly, the women sheathed their weapons but remained standing, hands on the hilts of their swords.
Sylviana was twisted sidewise against the fierce pain clamped around her arm. Though she struggled to free herself the strength of the warrior’s fingers, his free hand on the dagger sheathed at his thigh, no doubt made her think better of attacking him.
“Release her, please,” Tamara pleaded, and after one false start laid a gentle hand on the warrior’s arm. “She has had too much to drink.”
“Do you know who I am?” he snarled, turning his head to look down at Tamara.
“Someone of high importance in Nonica I am sure, milord,” she replied in a soothing tone. “I beg you to release her and we will be on our way.” She held his sharp gaze. “This I swear to you.”
Evann-Sin cast the other women a hateful smirk. He swore beneath his breath then jerked his hand back from Sylviana, wiping his palm down his robe as though the contact had fouled him.
Staggering back, Sylviana pushed aside Tamara’s offer of help. Massaging her rapidly bruising arm, she cradled it against her, her angry glower locked on Evann-Sin. “You will regret you ever laid hands to me, you sniveling beast,” she threw at him.
“Sylviana, for the love of the Goddess!” Tamara hissed. “Leave him alone before he runs you through!”
“If she doesn’t shut her mouth, I’ll carve out her tongue!” Evann-Sin warned.
“Before or after I slice off your cock?” Sylviana screamed at him, and would have rushed him had Tamara not punched her. The tall woman went down like a felled tree to sprawl on the floor at Tamara’s feet.
“For shame, Tamara!” one of the women gasped and rushed forward to make sure Sylviana was all right. “To hit a Sister because of a male is unforgivable!”
“She’s not hurt, Sagira,” Tamara sighed heavily with a roll of her eyes. “I’d rather knock her out than have her carried home to
her burial. You and Luka pick her up and get her out of here before the warrior makes good on his threat.”
The shortest of the women hurried to Sagira’s aid and together they lifted the unconscious woman as though she weighed no more than a child. Slinging Sylviana over her shoulder, Sagira cast Evann-Sin a baleful glance then strode from the room, Luka in her wake.
“If I see that woman in Nonica again, I’ll have her arrested,” Evann-Sin snapped.
“We are passing through on the way to Ajaikabia, milord,” Tamara said. “We will stay clear of Nonica, I promise you. You’ll see no more of us here.”
Evann-Sin stepped closer to the flame-haired beauty and reached out to cup her cheek. “You, I could see every day of my life and never grow tired of the sight,” he said softly. He took her hand in his and lifted it to his mouth. Turning her wrist upward, he placed a gentle kiss on her warm flesh. “I am Riel Evann-Sin,” he told her.
“The Lord High Commander of the Akkadian Forces. I am impressed,” Tamara said, inclining her head as she withdrew her hand from Evann-Sin’s grasp.
“No need to be,” Evann-Sin told her. “It is merely a job.”
“A very prestigious job, I hear.” She smiled. “I am grateful you did not strangle Sylviana. She can be incorrigible, I fear.”
“Does that foul approach actually work with other men?” he asked.
Tamara shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had to use it.”
He grinned. “I imagine not, wench.”
She laughed. “Thank you again. I am sorry we caused you trouble. We’ll be on our way now.” She turned to go.
“Stay,” he said impulsively. “It is getting late and the next tavern is over two hours ride from here. You will be starved by then.”
Tamara shook her head. “Thank you, Lord Evann-Sin, but it is best we put distance between you and Sylviana.”
“You think I fear that one?” Evann-Sinn questioned, his eyes narrowed.
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