Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (26 page)

his son's eyes were boring into his with the light of battle blazing in the pale blue depths.

“No,” Drayton said, emphatically, spitting the word out like a pit from a prune. He twisted around in his

chair. “You will not!"

Thècion's pale brows jumped up into the mop of tawny hair that fell in tousled waves around his face.

Despite his twenty-nine years, the young man looked far younger—and far too innocent—as he met his

father's stare. “What, Papa?” the prince questioned.

The king's gaze became twin slits of paternal and monarchical warning. “You will not board that ship and

try to find out who they are going after, Thècion!"

“Who are going after what, Majesty?” came a gruff voice from the far end of the room.

Drayton gritted his teeth. Despite the numerous times he had chastised his eldest son for using the title,

Blasdin ignored him. The king snapped his head around and fixed the Heir-Apparent to the throne of

Serenia with a murderous glower, but before he could berate his son still once more, his youngest boy

intruded.

“Those Tribunal guards sailing on the Queen,” Thècion replied.

Blasdin hated his brothers—both of them—but despised the younger of the two more. Most of the time,

he ignored the brats. When forced to engage in conversation with them, it was all he could do to be civil

and then only when in the company of either of his parents.

“You mean Noire and his bully-boys,” Blasdin quipped, casting a quick look at his father; he saw

warning on the old man's face, but ignored it. “They're going after the Hesar's black sheep."

The king had opened his mouth to stop his son from speaking—knowing Blasdin would have made

himself privy to the goings on of the Tribunal—so that Thècion would not find out the name of the man

Occultus was after. At the mention of their life-long enemies, the Hesar clan of Virago, Drayton stilled.

“Why?” the king whispered. He knew of the marriage between Justus Sinclair's only child and the

youngest Viragonian prince. As a close friend to Prince Sean Brell of Chale—who had an ambassador at

Tempest Keep—he had been kept apprized of the goings on at the Court there.

Blasdin shrugged with contempt. “Well for one thing, the man murdered his wife."

“I seriously doubt that,” his father snapped. “I never heard anything bad said about the boy up until he

married Justus Sinclair's daughter."

“That is beside the point, Majesty,” Blasdin argued, knowing his use of the word would needle his

father. “There were witnesses to the lady's murder."

Drayton's jaw clenched, as did his hands on the arms of his chair. “Or so Sinclair says,” he grated. He

squinted fiercely at his son. “That was five years ago. Why are they just now going after the man?"

A look of amusement rippled over the eldest McGregor brother's face. “The demented fool put a curse

on the village at Wixenstead and...."

“Is that where he lives?” Thècion interrupted, ignoring his brother's snort of disgust at both his

interference in the conversation and his ignorance.

“The man lives at Holy Dale,” Blasdin replied haughtily. “If you knew your Viragonian history, you

would also know that Wixenstead was where..."

“The Outlaw was based,” Thècion finished. “I know my Viragonian history well enough, Blast It."

Blasdin's lips peeled back from his teeth and he actually snarled. If there was one thing he hated more

than the disrespect both Ronan and Thècion bore him, it was his brothers’ use of that vile nickname. “Do

not call me that, Thècion,” he warned.

The king sighed. “So he cursed the village,” he stated, sighing again. “If what I have heard is true, the

man had just cause to do so."

“You have only that drunken sailor's words to go by, and that when you, yourself, were far gone in your

cups!” Blasdin sneered, walking to the display of armor that lined the south wall of the Court. He missed

the anger that flushed immediately across his father's face. “I would be suspect of anything heard under

such conditions!"

Drayton pushed himself slowly from his throne and stood glaring at his eldest son's back. He waited until

Blasdin—made uneasy by the sudden silence that had invaded the room—looked around at him. The

Serenian king lifted his right hand and pointed a rigid finger at his successor, then lowered his arm until his

index finger pointed to a spot at the base of the throne's dais.

Blasdin risked a quick look at his younger brother and saw dark amusement lighting Thècion's pale blue

eyes; there would be no help from that quarter. The Heir-Apparent swallowed nervously, squared his

thick shoulders, then walked with seeming nonchalance to the spot to which his father-and king-pointed.

Thècion tucked his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down tightly to keep himself from laughing.

Blasdin might think he was hiding his fear of their father behind his careful facade of non-concern, but

there was no hiding the trembling of his hands, nor was the man aware that he was beginning to sweat.

“Aye, Your Majesty?” Blasdin questioned.

The king looked to his youngest. “You may be excused, Thècion."

Forcing himself not to snicker, Thècion nodded respectfully to his father, then with less politeness to his

brother and future king. He backed away from the duo, then turned—his face breaking into a wide

grin—and started from the throne room.

“And Thècion?” his father called after him.

Thècion quickly wiped the humor from his face and turned around. “Aye, Papa?” He almost lost it when

he saw Blasdin stiffen at the use of the endearment, knowing full well the pompous ass would never deign

to be so familiar even with his own father.

“Do not board that ship, my boy,” Drayton warned with a stern look. He nodded as an afterthought.

“The Boreal Queen, Thècion.” He wanted to be as precise as possible with this most recalcitrant of his

legal sons and bastard offspring; Thècion had a habit of sidetracking rules and orders if one were not

absolutely precise in their issue.

“No, of course not, Papa,” Thècion agreed.

Drayton didn't like the look in his son's eyes. The boy was a rebellious little bastard and a hellion of the

first order. “And do not go to Holy Dale, either!"

“Wouldn't dream of it, Papa,” Thècion promised, his hand to his chest in pledge.

There should be another order, but Drayton could not think of it at the moment since his anger at his

eldest son—who was smirking up at him with high rancor—took precedent. With a final warning for his

youngest not to get into mischief, he turned his full fury on Blasdin's slowly slumping shoulders.

Once outside the keep, Thècion poised on the steps and looked down toward the docks. The Boreas

Wind was in the harbor for loading; she would be sailing not long after the Queen.

A slow smile began to ease over the young prince's face. The Queen was a cargo ship; the Wind was a

clipper. It would take the Boreal Queen four days to reach Wixenstead Harbor for she would have to

stop first in Chale to off-load whatever cargo was going there. More than likely the Wind was going

straight across the Boreal Sea to Ionary, taking home that gods-be-damned Montyne ogress the King of

that arid land had sent over to give Ronan a once-over.

Thècion shivered. Thank the gods, he thought, it hadn't been him they were after to link the two

kingdoms. Blasdin was shackled to Hestia Diaz from Diabolusia and that marriage had surely been made

in hell. If his eldest brother's Joining, and Ronan's seemingly irreversible engagement to the Ionarian

princess, was any indication, Thècion feared for his own peace of mind and freedom.

“The women of Virago are wild!” his friend, Prince Diarmuid Brell had related after a visit there the

summer past. “I would not mind being tied to any one of the ladies I met at Tempest Keep; they are

beautiful and they love to do it!"

“But are they accommodating in other matters?” Thècion had wanted to know. He needed a woman

who would at least be as much a partner to him as a mate; unlike Hestia and that damned rude Ionarian

whelp, who sought to rule Blasdin and Ronan and who were as ugly as a horse's arse.

“You can find whatever you want there!” Diarmuid had promised. “Why, there are some who are as

meek as those little Chrystallusian maids of your mother's!"

Diarmuid, he thought as he watched the Boreas Wind preparing to follow in the wake of the Queen

which was already well out to sea. Now there was a man who liked adventure and whose father was not

as strict and forbidding as his own.

And the middle Brell boy was in town for the Festival of the Winter Solstice come day after tomorrow.

His thoughts were interrupted by a plaguing memory: “Torture is what it is!” he heard his father say.

“I met him,” he remembered Diarmuid saying once. “Kaelan Hesar? He's Seamus’ age-five years older

than me-but he let me come with him to watch him race that hell-steed of his down to Hellstrom Point

and back."

The Chalean prince had frowned mightily. “I don't believe a gods-be-damned thing they say about

Kaelan! I'll tell you here and now, Thècion McGregor, he didn't murder that manhater of a wife of his.

I've heard rumors of how they abused him afterwards and I'll tell you..."

Diarmuid's voice had become thick with anger and his black eyes glowing with the berserker passions of

his ancestors as he spoke of the man he had once known at Tempest Keep.

“Torture is what it is."

Thècion's vision clouded with compassion as he took in the lines being tossed off from the Boreas Wind.

He had an allegiance to one of his own breed of royal sons—of which he had no doubt Kaelan Hesar

was one though he'd never met the man—and an intense desire to thwart the machinations of the

Brotherhood of the Domination. His Serenian blood began to pulse with the need for action and he called

out to a pair of passing groomsmen.

“Bradley?"

The men turned and looked at him; they smiled warmly liking this young prince far better than his royal

siblings. “Aye, Your Grace?” one answered back.

“Will you go down to the docks and tell the Captain of the Wind I'd like a word with him before he

shoves off and I'd be obliged if you'd hurry?"

The shorter of the groomsmen arched a finger respectfully to his forelock and took off running to do his

prince's bidding.

“Know you Prince Diarmuid Brell of Chale, Henry?” Thècion asked the other groomsman.

“I do, Your Grace.” He jerked a finger over his shoulder. “He's down to the stables looking at Prince

Blasdin's new fold. Want me to fetch him for you, Highness?"

Thècion winced at the title. “Aye. Tell him it's a matter of life and death!” He smiled as the groomsman's

head bobbed once in acknowledgment and the lanky man began loping toward the stables.

Chewing on his lip, the young Serenian waited until he saw Diarmuid coming out of the stables at a

near-run. Once he knew the Chalean had seen him, he let the memories plague him again.

“Is there any way we can help, Papa?” he had asked.

Do not board the Boreal Queen.

Well, he couldn't; the ship was already tacking out beyond the far reefs.

Do not go to Holy Dale!

Never let it be said that Thècion Conar McGregor ever ignored a direct order from his monarch.

Thècion's lips began to twitch.

“But you didn't say Diarmuid wasn't to go, now, did you, Papa?” Thècion whispered, chuckling to

himself.

“What's up?” Diarmuid asked breathlessly as he took the steps two at a time.

“A matter of honor,” Thècion said cryptically. Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his cords, the

youngest Serenian prince skipped down the steps and began walking toward the docks, whistling merrily

as he went, his childhood friend close at his heels.

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Sated with a passion he had not known in five long years, Kaelan Hesar stared up at the cracked ceiling

of his bedchamber and felt the tears easing down his temples.

“Can't you sleep?” his wife asked.

“I haven't tried."

Gillian knew he was crying; she knew why. She also knew she should not acknowledge what she knew

her husband would consider as a great weakness. Instead, she threaded her fingers through his and

snuggled against his shoulder and arm, breathing in the special scent of him that always made her heart

flutter. “Neither have I,” she admitted.

Kaelan turned his head just a little-feeling one hot tear slid unerringly into his ear-and looked at the top

of his wife's head. “Did I hurt you?"

Gillian giggled. “Did I hurt you?” she countered.

Despite himself, Kaelan laughed. How could he admit to the woman that she had not only hurt him with

her eagerness for their mating, but that she had shocked him to the very core of his masculinity by

practically raping him in the process.

“You didn't enjoy it?” she asked, still not looking up into his beloved face.

“Oh, I enjoyed it, milady,” he assured her in a voice that still held the wonder of the gift she had granted

him. “I enjoyed it well and truly."

“And often,” Gillian added with no little degree of pride.

Kaelan unlinked their hands and turned toward her, lifting his arm so she could lie in the crook of his

shoulder. He felt her sweet lips against his throat, her tongue tasting him still once more as though he were

a treat concocted especially for her enjoyment. He settled her firmly against him and laid his cheek on her