The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

by Iris Johansen

  The door shut behind him before she could answer.

  She gazed at the door for a long time before she settled her cheek on the pillow and closed her eyes. He was difficult to understand, she thought wearily. So many hard, sharp edges and so much brutal driving force and yet his hands had held nothing but rough kindness when they touched her just now.

  And his smile had been beautiful.…

  Five

  Well, if I must face the horrors of mounting that repulsive monster at dawn, I suppose I must bid you good night.” Lorenzo pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. A faintly mocking smile was on his lips as his gaze rested on Sanchia sitting on a stool by the hearth. “A very good night. Shall I tell Letitia to take away the remains of this sumptuous repast so as not to disturb you … later?”

  “I’ll clear it away.” Sanchia jumped to her feet, eager to have something to do to relieve the tension that had been building steadily within her during the meal. “There’s no use your troubling yourself, Messer Lorenzo. I’ll be glad to—”

  “Sit down, Sanchia.” Lion’s voice was as lazy as the position of his big body sprawled in the chair opposite Lorenzo. “Tell Letitia to come and take care of it, Lorenzo.”

  “But I can …” Sanchia trailed off as she met Lion’s gaze. The room was suddenly close, airless. She quickly sat back down on the stool and looked at the reflection of the firelight in the ruby red wine in her wooden goblet.

  Lorenzo nodded as he moved toward the door. “I’ll see you at dawn.”

  The silence in the room after the door closed behind him was broken only by the hiss and crackle of the olive logs burning in the fireplace. Sanchia could feel Lion’s gaze on her face but avoided looking up to meet his eyes.

  The tension was growing, the tightness in her chest robbing her of breath. Why didn’t he speak? Then when he let the silence drag on she realized she must be the one to break it. “You should let me serve you. It is my place.”

  “I didn’t buy you to serve me at the table. Your time will come.”

  Involuntarily her glance flew to the bed across the room.

  He chuckled. “I didn’t buy you for that either. It will only be an extra delight for us both.”

  “Not for—” She broke off. It would be foolish to anger him when he seemed to be more mellow than she had ever seen him. There were answers she must have if she was to understand him. “What lies behind the door, my lord? The one that I’m to steal the key to unlock?”

  “Why does it matter to you?”

  “It’s important for me to try to know about things that have an effect on my life. You’re a very rich man. Why should you steal more?”

  Lion smiled cynically. “My dear Sanchia, haven’t you found there’s never enough wealth for some men?”

  “Yes.” A frown furrowed her brow. “I do not know you very well, but I don’t think you’re one of those men.”

  “No, but Francisco Damari is.” The wooden chair creaked as Lion leaned back and stretched his legs out before him, his gaze on the fire. “Ruling all the city-states of Italy would only whet Damari’s appetite. He thinks to reign over the world.” Lion’s lips tightened. “But he’ll not use the Wind Dancer to buy him more power.”

  “The Wind Dancer?”

  “A statue belonging to my family.” In the firelight Lion’s rugged features were softened to real handsomeness in sharp contrast to the bitter tone of his voice. “While I was away in France negotiating the purchase of another shipyard, he bribed one of my servants at Mandara, a man called Giuseppe, to steal it and bring it to him. He’s now keeping the statue at his palazzo at Solinari.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Lorenzo and I chased down Giuseppe and asked him a number of pertinent questions. He was delighted to answer … eventually.”

  Sanchia shivered and looked away from the stark brutality of his expression. “If the statue is yours, why don’t you just march in and take it? Lorenzo said you were a condottiere.”

  “It may come to that. However, I disbanded my armies two years ago and it would take a good deal of time to form another condotti. I do not wish to bring Damari, even Borgia perhaps, down on Mandara until I have a chance to refortify. Mandara is well guarded but not strong enough to withstand a thrust by Borgia.”

  “Borgia?” Her gaze flew back to his face.

  “Oh, you’ve heard of the illustrious Duke Valentino?” Lion’s lips twisted. “But of course. All of Italy knows of the great Cesare.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of him.” Who in Florence was not familiar with the name? Borgia had been eyeing Florence with greed and speculation for many years and, after his recently completed conquest of the Romagna, every week there had been a new rumor that the duke was on the march to lay siege to the city. “I’ve heard that he wishes to rule all Italy, but who is this Damari?”

  “Damari is a condottiere who is now serving under Borgia’s banner. They have similar goals and similar methods for obtaining them.”

  Sanchia didn’t have to ask the nature of those methods. The ruthless slaughter of women and children, the maiming of innocents by the captains serving Borgia had become legend over the years. “Then why do you not let him have the statue? You can buy others.”

  “There is no other statue like it in the world. It’s part of my family history.” His voice vibrated with intensity. “We guard it.” He paused. “And it guards us.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to understand. All you have to do is go to the palazzo, steal the key from the officer on guard, and bring it to me.”

  “It sounds very simple.”

  Lion’s hands closed on the arms of his chair. “We’ll make it so. No harm will come to you, I promise.”

  “I take comfort from your promise. I fear I’d not look forward to facing your Messer Damari. Men such as he don’t regard the life of a slave as having any more value than a cool drink of water.” She lifted her shoulder and let it drop expressively. “Less, if they have no thirst.”

  “Just do what I say and you’ll not even see Damari. We’ve laid a path of gold to get into the palazzo and buy the information as to the location of the store house where Damari keeps his treasures.”

  “And you’re sure Damari will have your Wind Dancer there?”

  He smiled crookedly. “Oh yes, it will be there. Damari regards the Wind Dancer as the ultimate treasure.”

  “Why?” Sanchia took a final sip of wine before setting the wooden goblet on the hearth. “You said it was important to your family, but why should it be important to him?”

  “Because it belongs to me,” Lion said grimly. “And he knows I want it back. He knows I have to get it back.”

  “But why would Borgia let himself be swayed by Damari into protecting it?”

  “The pope is a greedy man and dazzled by all things ancient and classical. Pope Alexander’s treasury grows daily with the loot Cesare brings to Rome from his conquests. As long as Cesare continues to send him such treasure Alexander will protect his clever son and give him access to the papal monies for his campaigns.”

  “And the Wind Dancer is ancient?”

  Lion smiled curiously. “Oh yes, very ancient. Damari is hoping to dangle the Wind Dancer before Cesare and Alexander and possibly gain a dukedom from the pope.”

  Sanchia’s eyes widened. “But they would surely not give so much?”

  “They might. Alexander is superstitious and there are many legends about the Wind Dancer.”

  “What kind of legends?”

  Lion shrugged. “Power. Legend says the Wind Dancer can give any victory to the one who possesses it.”

  “But you don’t believe it.”

  He was silent a moment. “I don’t know. The lives of my family have always been too intertwined with the Wind Dancer for us to look at it objectively. If the statue does possess power, we’ve never tried to use it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Kinship,” Lio
n said simply. “The Wind Dancer is of our family. We of the Andreas family may not be shy about manipulating others to suit us, but we stand together. We will not use each other.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “But a dukedom for a statue …”

  “What’s a dukedom in Italy today? Cesare gathered a parcel of little states into his basket this year alone.” His lips twisted. “For that matter, what is Italy today? Genoa and Milan are gone, Naples torn between the French and Spaniards. Florence is licking at the French boots and still out to pluck Pisa. All the rest of the signories are maneuvering to survive and not be swept by the pope and Rome into the empire Cesare is trying to create for himself. While France, Spain, and England have finally become unified and have strong national armies, we still hire mercenaries who have loyalty only to the highest bidder. I don’t wonder Borgia considers all of Italy ripe for conquest.”

  There was an indifference in his tone that surprised her after the passionate intensity with which he’d spoken of his family and the Wind Dancer. “You don’t care? It’s your country, after all. Is it not important to you?”

  He shook his head. “Mandara is my country. I have no interest in what the rest of Italy becomes as long as they leave me and my people out of their petty bickering.” He tilted his head to look at her curiously. “Is it important to you?”

  She thought about it. “A slave has no country, I suppose.” She paused. “But I think I’d like to feel as if I belonged somewhere. It would make me … warm.”

  His gaze narrowed on her face. “You accept being a slave so meekly?”

  “I don’t remember ever being anything else.”

  “And yet you have courage. I would have thought …”

  She looked at him inquiringly.

  “I couldn’t stand it,” he said with sudden violence. “I’d want to kill someone or run away to a land where I could be free. Haven’t you ever wanted to do that?”

  “I’ve never thought about it. From the time I was a tiny child my mother kept telling me I must accept my station in life and make the best of it.” She smiled tremulously. “And I’m not really very brave. Sometimes it was hard just to live from day to day. I have had little time to think about what it might be like to be free.”

  “But you should have thought about it,” he said fiercely. “Giovanni had no right to—Gran Dio, what am I saying? In another moment I’ll be talking you into running away from me.” He stood up. “Don’t try it. I warn you that I’d find you and be most annoyed. And don’t mistake a temporary madness brought on by the warmth of the fire and those huge eyes gazing at me for anything enduring. Your mother was right. Accept that you’re mine and will stay mine.”

  She was bewildered. “But I have accepted—Where are you going?”

  “To look to the horses.” He was already at the door. “Antonio’s son is a cowardly lout. The last time I was here he was too afraid of Tabron to unsaddle him.”

  “So you’re going yourself to see if he’s been taken care of?”

  “A horse can be the difference between life and death to a man. It doesn’t denote softness to see that an animal is well cared for.” He scowled. “What are you smiling about?”

  She quickly wiped any trace of amusement from her face. “Nothing, my lord.”

  “No? I’m getting very weary of being thought a weakling,” he said with menacing softness. “First Lorenzo and now you. I think I must put an end to it.” He paused. “I was stupid not to take what I wanted in the beginning and I’ll wait no longer. When I come back I want to see you sitting on that stool wearing nothing but firelight. You understand?”

  “Yes.” The air in the room was suddenly charged with the same stormy intensity as earlier. She moistened her lips. “I understand, my lord.”

  “Good.” He slammed the door shut behind him.

  Sanchia started to speak quickly as soon as Lion entered the room. “Letitia came and took the trenchers and left fresh wine. Was Tabron well?” Her hands were locked together on her lap and she flexed her fingers nervously, her gaze fixed on the fire. “Will we go straight to Solinari tomorrow or must we stop at another—”

  “Stand up. I want to look at you.”

  Sanchia tensed and then rose slowly to her feet. She turned to face Lion, but still would not meet his gaze. “You’ve seen me before. In the bath. There’s nothing more to see.”

  “I disagree.” His gaze ran over her naked body, lingering on the soft thatch guarding her womanhood. “There’s always something more to see and … appreciate.”

  A wave of heat tingled through Sanchia that had nothing to do with the fire burning in the hearth. Her nails bit into the flesh of her palms as her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She welcomed the sharp pain; it pierced the rigidity attacking her every muscle. “Shall I kneel on the floor now?”

  “No!” The sharpness of his voice caused her gaze to move to his face. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt as if she were suffocating. Lion’s dark eyes were fierce, and the flesh drawn tight over the broad planes of his jaws hollowed his cheeks as if he were being consumed by a terrible hunger. “When will you learn I’m not Giovanni?” He took a step forward and she caught the clean scent of hay, soap, and crisp spring night clinging to him. “My name is Lion. Say it.”

  She could feel the heat his body was emitting though he hadn’t touched her yet. The muscles of her limbs felt suddenly heavy, weak, unable to support her weight. “Lion.” The name trembled uncertainly from her lips. “My lord.”

  “Just Lion.” He reached out a gloved hand to caress her slender throat.

  She inhaled sharply and a shiver ran through her.

  He stopped with his hand still encircling her throat to gaze at her searchingly.

  “The leather is cold,” she said quickly, seizing wildly at the first excuse that came to mind for her moment of revealing weakness.

  “Is it?” His smile was purely sensual. “Then we must do something to warm it, for I cannot trust myself to touch you without them right now.” He turned to the fire and held out his gloved hands to the flames. “Do you know what I thought when I came through the doorway and saw you sitting naked on your stool?”

  Her gaze was fastened in helpless fascination on the heavy, scarred gauntlets he held before the warmth of the fire. They came almost to his elbows, the brass rivets shining in the firelight, each finger now limned in blue-orange flame. “No, my lo-Lion.”

  “I thought what a stroke of fortune it was that brought me to Giovanni’s shop.”

  “It wasn’t fortune; it was Caprino.”

  “And that I want you to be like this always. I want to think of the fire shimmering on your flesh and shining on your hair while you wait for me to come to you.” His gaze remained on the burning logs. “Come into you.”

  Her heart gave a jerk and then began to pound wildly. Her thoughts were an incoherent jumble and she was only conscious of the raw vulnerability of her own nudity, the dominance of Lion’s fully clothed body, the violence she sensed beneath those garments.

  And, most of all, the power of his leather-gauntleted hands held out before the flames …

  “You’re very small.” His gaze was still on the fire. “It will hurt you the first time.”

  She didn’t answer. She almost wished he would touch her and end the maddening tension between them. She felt as if the next breath she drew would shatter her composure.

  “I’ll try to proceed slowly but—” He stopped and was silent a moment before continuing haltingly, “My appetites are great. Sometimes it’s like a frenzy, a madness. You must not fight me or I might injure you. I don’t want that to happen.”

  “I will not fight you.”

  Lion’s hands closed slowly into fists. “I know. You will yield because I own you.” He smiled recklessly as he turned to face her. “And why not? It’s the way of the world.” His gloved hands reached out to encompass her breasts. “Why do you gasp? The leather is no longer cold. I made
sure of that, Sanchia.”

  The leather was warm, almost hot, she thought hazily. The hard, seamed leather was strangely seductive against the smoothness of her flesh.

  His hands were cupping her, squeezing her gently while his gaze studied her face. “My hands are even warmer,” he said softly. “But I dare not take off these gloves yet. The texture of your skin excites me and if I touch your flesh I will need you at once … and I will take you at once. It will go easier for you if I do not.” His left hand slid down her abdomen to the thatch of curls surrounding her womanhood and began slowly to rub back and forth. “Such a pretty nest.” His voice was hoarser, his nostrils flaring as he looked at her. “I want to move into you and feel those curls brushing against me. Part your limbs now, Sanchia.”

  She was trembling so badly she wasn’t sure she could move. His hand stroking her was igniting a strange burning sensation between her thighs.

  “Sanchia.” The softness of his tone failed to veil the underlying command.

  She obeyed him, her gaze fastened blindly on the lacings of his leather jerkin.

  “Wider.” Her gaze moved up to his strong brown throat, and she watched in fascination as the pulse in the hollow abruptly accelerated. “Ah, that’s right. Now stand very still.”

  His hand moved down between her thighs and she felt the warmth of his hand through the gauntlet as his palm moved against her, caressing, stroking. Everywhere he touched left a trail of that same moist burning sensation that was close to pain. She closed her eyes, swaying helplessly as sensation after bewildering sensation tore through her. “It … hurts.”

  “No.” His palm cupped, squeezed, released. “It’s not pain, Sanchia. Hunger.” His voice was uneven. “It’s hunger.”

  “I don’t think so.” She reached out to clutch desperately at his upper arms.

  He stiffened. “Don’t touch me.”

  She jerked her hands away. “I’m sorry, my lord, I didn’t mean—”

  “Lion,” he cut in through clenched teeth. “It’s too soon for you to touch me. I can’t hold off, if you do.” He lifted her in his arms and started across the room toward the bed. “There are many kinds of hunger.” He laid her down. “This is the best.” He parted her thighs, his index finger searching. “And the worst.”