Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (27 page)

head. “Do you know I love you, milady?” he asked softly.

“Aye, I know it,” she replied with some annoyance. “And I love you!"

And how she loved him, he thought.

They had barely made it up to their room before her hands were on him. She had unbuttoned his shirt

and spread it open before he could stop her or slow her intent. Her fingers had splayed over his

chest—her nails thrusting themselves through the coarse pelt of curls covering him—and her lips had

found the hollow at the base of his throat.

“I don't know if I can wait,” she had warned him, raking her nails over his nipples.

“GILLIAN!” he had rasped, sucking in a harsh breath before pulling back from her and staring down

into a face he recognized well as being one that was filled with lust.

She had ignored his shock and had thrust her hands through the opening of his shirt and around his back,

drawing the ragged garment out of his patched breeches.

“Milady, you shouldn't!” He'd tried to voice his astonishment at her bold behavior, but already his shaft

was rigid and full, aching for release, more than willing to break a whole quarry of rocks.

“Be quiet, Hesar,” she'd challenged. “You talk too much.” Her fingers moved unerringly to his belt

buckle.

“Oh, god!” he'd gasped. “Don't!” His moan had been lost in her firm answer:

“Shut up!"

The buckle had come undone with ease. She slid it from his waist and the removal of that last bastion of

safety all but unmanned him then and there.

“Gillian, I don't think..."

“And you think too much, as well, Hesar!” she huffed.

As her fingers moved to the top button of his fly, he had moved to stop her, but she had batted away his

hands and hushed any further objections.

“Be quiet, Hesar!” she ordered. She made quick work of the buttons and soon the fly was open and she

was spreading it open, her hands snaking over his too-lean hips to push the breeches down.

When he opened his mouth, she looked up, locked her gaze with his. “Stand still,” she told him. “Don't

speak; don't move; don't even think!"

He swallowed and did as he was ordered, although the thinking part was harder than anything he'd ever

done in his life.

Second only to standing still as the breeches fell down around his ankles and her hand reached out to

grasp the object she'd been after all along.

He had gasped and begun to pant, unaware that he was doing so. Her eyes were fused with his as her

fingers molded themselves around him. He knew the exact moment in which she understood he had

surrendered to her for her eyes blazed red-hot and her mouth took on a militant firmness.

“As sure as the sun rises and sets, Kaelan Hesar,” she had warned him, “you belong to me and me

alone."

He wasn't sure when he had finally asserted himself; taken charge; shown her the man he had once been

and wanted desperately to be again.

It might have been when he'd kicked off his breeches and grabbed her up, carrying her quickly to the

bed, his shaft rigid between her quaking thighs.

Or it might have been when he'd covered her unresisting body with his own—dragging up her skirts and

thrusting his fingers—gently, but firmly—into the warm dampness between her legs as his lips nuzzled her

neck.

Could even have been the moment he had finally impaled her upon his turgid flesh, going as deep as her

protesting maidenhead would allow at first, then resolutely deeper as her legs went around his waist and

her nails raked the flexing muscles of his back as he pumped into her.

But he suspected it had been at that moment when—her body filled with his seed—she had looked up

into his eyes and sighed with utter contentment, fulfillment, and said the words that would bind him to her

for as long as he lived:

“I have waited a lifetime for you, milord."

“Are you gathering wool or fuel, Hesar?” Gillian asked, bringing him back from that moment over four

hours—and three lovings earlier—when he had first claimed her as his own.

“You amaze me,” he admitted.

“How so?"

“Where did you come by such brazenness, woman?” he asked, hoping she didn't hear the gratitude in his

voice.

“I told you,” she said, bringing up a hand to twist a thick curl on his chest, “I have waited a lifetime for

this night.” She wound the curl around and around her finger, reveling in the texture and the silkiness of it.

“And I have dreamed of this very moment since the first time I spoke to you."

Kaelan blinked. “You were rude to me!"

She shrugged away his memory. “So? You were showing interest where I didn't want it to go."

“I was not!” he protested, pulling away just enough so he could look down at her. “Your sisters were

pretty enough little fluffs of spun sugar, Gillian, but I would never have entertained the idea of courting

either of them."

Gillian arched her brows upward. “And what did you think of me?"

He answered before he had time to consider: “That you were a sharp-tongued brat who should have

your backside heated.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he groaned and squeezed his eyes

shut, knowing his insult was bound to anger her. He was surprised when she remained silent and opened

his eyes to look down into his wife's amused face; she was just staring at him, her lips pursed.

“Well?” he finally said, reluctant to begin an argument, but unsettled by her silence.

“Like you heated it a few minutes ago, milord?” she asked.

Kaelan's face turned a deep scarlet color.

The last time they made love, it had been from behind for Gillian had wanted to experiment with every

way there was for a man to love his woman. As she wiggled against him—trying to get him to be more

forceful in his thrusting and not so gentle with trying to initiate her into this new sexual position—he lost a

small amount of patience and rammed none—too gently into her. The only problem was, his shaft had not

thrust into her vagina.

Her sharp cry of pain—coupled with a sensation Kaelan knew somehow wasn't quite right and Gillian's

wild bucking to rid her body of the agonizing intrusion—had brought him to such a violent climax, his wife

had instantly stilled, fearing to be hurt further. His acute embarrassment and profuse apology afterwards

had made her stare at him with wonder.

“But it can be done that way?” was all she'd asked after he'd explained what had happened.

“Aye, but..."

“And does it always hurt so bad? I mean if you do it often enough?"

He had been shocked, but had managed to shake his head. “No, I suppose not, Gillian, but..."

“I suppose,” she had said, considering, “that's the way men do it to one another, huh?"

Kaelan had nearly choked to death on his own gasp. His wife had pounded him sharply on the back until

his face was no longer red and his breathing was normal.

“Well, there's nothing wrong with doing it that way is there?” she'd demanded.

“Gillian!” he'd protested, mortally embarrassed by her question.

“You're such a prude, Hesar,” was her only comment.

Looking at her now, knowing she was waiting for him to say something foolish or act like a green boy,

he shook his head. “That wasn't what I meant."

Gillian's gaze turned wicked. “Well, even if it wasn't, you heated up my backside quite forcefully,

milord."

Kaelan knew if he didn't establish some ground rules between them at that moment, the little wanton

would continue to walk all over him from then on. He schooled his face into a stern parody of what he

perceived to be that of a strict husband and wagged a warning finger at her.

“I'll not ever make love to you in that fashion again, Gillian, and you are not to bring it up again. Do you

understand?"

Her eyes went wide. “Never again?"

He shook his head. “Never again,” he repeated firmly.

Her lips trembled a little and her forehead crinkled delicately. “But you do want to make love with me

don't you, Kaelan."

“Aye,” he said, his voice softening, “but not like that. It's distasteful, Gilly, and it hurts you."

“But if you want to make love to me...” she stopped, her look one of immense hurt.

“What?” he asked, wanting nothing more than to wipe away the uncertainty on her face. Had he

frightened her? Made her ashamed of her sexual feelings as Marie had been? His gut twisted and he

knew instant panic. He was about to tell her he would make love standing on his head if he had to, when

she snuggled up against him and he felt her relax.

Gillian sighed woefully, then reached down to wrap her hand around his shaft.

“Kaelan?” she questioned, looking up at him so sweetly.

“Aye, milady,” he said, his fears evaporating as his passion returned with her tender ministrations.

“If you want to make love to me, how will you do so if I do not bring it up again?"

For a few seconds, Kaelan stared down into that bold little face. He took in the saucy little smirk; the

knowing brow arched over one perfect green eye; the feel of her hand around him, then threw back his

head and laughed.

* * * *

Brother Herbert glanced up at the ceiling and smiled. “It appears I did not err in Joining your sister and

the prince,” he said around a mouthful of bread.

Nick answered his smile. “They have loved one another for a long, long time."

The priest popped the last of the bread into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then frowned.

“I would not wait long before leaving for Serenia, Lord Cree,” he warned the Chalean. “This Joining is

not legal and you will want to make it so before the King catches up with his brother."

Nick stopped eating; he looked cautiously at the rotund cleric. “You are not an ordained priest?” he

asked.

Herbert Welmeyer's face was devoid of both amusement and guile. “Oh, I am duly ordained, young sir.

That is not the problem. Your tale of the young prince being cast out from his family salved my

conscience somewhat, but I did not believe it for a moment, milord. Such is not done among the royalty

of Virago.” He shrugged. “Serenia, aye; it has been known to happen there, but here?” He shook his

head. “Can not be done according to Viragonian Tribunal Law."

You knew t'was illegal?” Nick asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Of course, I knew,” the priest admitted.

“Yet you went and married them, anyway,” Lumley spoke up from his spot cramped next to the kitchen

fire. “Why was that?"

Brother Herbert's pudgy face flamed and he ducked his head. “The gold coins will be most useful and

besides...” He looked up, his gaze on Nick. “And besides, I have had the dubious honor of meeting

Burgher Justus Sinclair. He is not a man whose tales I would believe."

“Kaelan did not kill his wife,” Nick stressed.

“Oh, I have no doubt of that now that I've met the young prince,” the priest said, bobbing his head with

agreement. “He's been sorely used is my opinion."

“That he has!” Lumley Tarnes stated.

Nick glanced at his timepiece and noted that it was close to four in the morning. “We'll be leaving for

Serenia at first light,” Nick told the man of the gods. “It will be slow traveling for, as you noticed, my new

brother-in-law is lame."

“A terrible tragedy,” Brother Herbert commiserated. “And I can see it pains him greatly."

Another peel of laughter rang out from above stairs and the three men grinned at one another.

“Not too greatly, it seems,” Nick chuckled.

* * * *

Lars Utley glared at the sweeping drift that blocked his and his men's way. He cursed viciously beneath

his breath then turned to the other two trackers.

“Get out your shovels!” he ordered. “I ain't of a mind to make my bed out here in the open.” He jabbed

his hands onto his hips, twisted, and spat into the nearly hip-deep snow.

“There's a pond yonder,” one of the other men remarked, stabbing a finger toward the ghostly patch a

few yards away.

Utley grunted. “So?"

“Didn't that man in Graceton say there was a pond about half a mile from the manor house?"

The head tracker squinted. “Aye.” He looked toward the pond where steam was rising like a wraith

from the surface, then turned his head up to the heavens where the moon was full and cast an eerie light

through the ice crystals in the air.

“Gonna storm again,” was Lars Utley's way of thinking. The less-frigid air pulsing against his face where

the heavy woolen scarf did not cover his flesh, was an indication that more snow was on the way.

With one last curse for his lot in life, Lars went to his horse and drew out his own shovel. It would take

an hour or two—first light, at least—before they could dig a path through which their mounts could

travel.

“Well, if Lord Cree and his sister be at Holy Dale,” Lars muttered to himself as he thrust his blade into

deep snow, “they ain't likely to go nowhere with a storm coming!"

[Back to Table of Contents]

Nick and Lumley had not slept. While the fat priest had snored in front of the fire on the cot, Nick had

dragged down from Kaelan's bedchamber, the two men had talked of sailing and ships, foreign shores

and foreign women. It had not taken Tarnes long to make up his mind: when the lad sitting beside him

was ready to buy a ship, he'd lend his own brand of expertise to the acquisition.

“There are things to look for,” Lumley had explained.

“Like a First Mate who knows more about the ship than her captain?” Nick had teased.