Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (19 page)

thought she might have a chance of outrunning the bigger women. Cursing herself for making such a

stupid mistake, for coming out into the jungle alone, she plowed past Nell, felt the woman's fingers snag

her sleeve, but kept going even as the material tore.

“Get that bitch!” Meggie roared.

Crashing through the slick plants, feeling them lashing at her cheeks and arms as she ran, Genny could

hear the women running after her. She dodged the thick trunks of the banana trees, jumped over

protruding roots and fallen logs. Glancing back once, she saw Bridie close on her heels and was stunned

to know the Chalean could move that fast.

Digging her feet into the lush matting of undergrowth, Genny increased her speed until she found a clear

path through that she knew she could make good time back to the camp. If she hadn't looked back

again, straining to see how close her pursuers were, she would have seen the air root that snaked across

the path. As she ran into it, felt it catch across her shin, she knew she was going to trip, saw the ground

coming up to meet her.

Bridie lunged, threw her entire one hundred and seventy pounds full length on the younger woman who

was trying to scramble up from the ground. She heard the breath whoosh out of Genny Saur and, despite

the pain in her own midsection where it had hit the smaller girl's wiggling rump, gave a whoop of victory.

“Hold her, Bridie!” Nell ordered.

Genny clawed at the ground, wriggling furiously in her effort to get free. Bridie's meaty arms were

clamped around her waist, the woman's weight pinning her down. She felt hands on her ankles, kicked

out, and heard Cherie's bellow of rage as her foot connected with the older woman's arm.

“Hold her!” Cherie shouted.

Shrieking like a mad woman, Genny cursed them, bucked in their rigid grasps even as her legs were

pinned to the jungle floor along with her upper body. She tried reaching behind her, to grab a handful of

Bridie Roderick's coarse red hair, but found her wrist caught and held in Nell's strong, washerwoman's

grip.

“Let go of me!” Genny screeched, barely able to breathe for Bridie was crushing her into the softness of

the decaying leaves. A snarl of pure fury exploded from her throat when she felt hands in her hair,

dragging the heavy mass upward. “No!"

Meggie squatted over her victim, shears ready, and was about to slip the blades around that thick black

hair when, with an ‘oomph’ of surprise, she was lifted free of the ground, turned around and set heavily

down on her feet. She opened her mouth to bellow her rage, when she found herself staring into two

unforgiving, ice-cold midnight eyes.

“What you waiting for, Meg?” Bridie grunted as she pressed her weight on the wiggling woman beneath

her.

Fear shot through Meggie Spaulding as she stared into Syn-Jern Sorn's set face. She backed away, the

tales of what had happened to Patrick Kasella slithering through her mind like a pit Viper.

“Didn't mean no harm, Milord,” she whispered, dropping the shears as though it was a red-hot coal. She

wiped her hand on the bodice of her dress and continued backing away from the anger she was seeing.

“Just having a little fun."

Nell had been so intent on holding Genny's hands, she hadn't seen the long leather-clad legs that were

almost touching her shoulder. As she finally realized the dusty boots she had glanced back at could not

possibly be Meggie's rundown castoffs; she slowly lifted head and looked up. Her face paled and she

snatched her imprisoning hands away from Genny Saur. “Oh!” she mouthed, scrambling up and out of

the way of the angry man glaring back at her.

“I'll gut you, Bridie Roderick!” Genny squealed, arcing her hand back to try once more for a handful of

her enemy's red hair.

Bridie, not realizing what was happening, shifted her weight on Genny in an attempt to stop her wiggling.

The older woman was grunting with the effort, sweating, and couldn't understand why it was taking so

long to cut the little bitch's hair. “Get on with it, Meg!” she panted. “I can't hold her forever!"

Nell was already up, her Oceanian sixth sense having alerted her to the change in the other. When she'd

glanced up, found Meggie standing fearfully beside Lord Sorn, her mouth had dropped open and she'd

sprung up from the ground like a puppet whose strings had been jerked.

“Go,” he said and the one word was so soft, so deadly threatening, it was like the boom of thunder in

the women's ears.

Cherie bowled Meggie out of her way as she made for the pathway back to camp. Nell, walking

backward, afraid to let the infuriated warrior out of her sight, tripped and fell over another air root,

scrambled up, holding her hand out to stave off his vengeance, and then ran pell-mell back the way they'd

come. Meggie's mouth opened once, twice, and she had almost found her voice when Syn-Jern raised

his hand and pointed at her fleeing accomplices.

“Go!” he grated out, the word only a fraction louder than the first command.

Meggie made a mewling sound and then turned to run as fast as her bulk would allow.

Unaware of what was happening around them, Genny and Bridie continued to struggle on the ground.

Vile threats and vulgar name calling filled the air along with grunts and pants and screeches of fury until

Bridie felt an iron band wrap itself around her waist and she was plucked off Genny Saur.

Bridie grunted, bucked in the all-too obvious male arms she thought belonged to her husband for there

wasn't another man on Montyne Cay who could lift her so easily. She tried to butt him with her head, but

found herself sailing through the air, flung away as easily as though she were a mere babe in arms. As she

scrambled to her feet, eyes blazing with self-righteous fury, a tiny squeal of surprise was the only sound

she could make as she realized her attacker was Lord Syn-Jern Sorn.

Genny shot up once she was free of the weight that had been holding her down. She stood there, breasts

heaving, glaring at Bridget Roderick. Her heart was thundering in her chest, her face filthy from sweat and

the detritus strewn on the jungle floor, and her fists clenched tightly at her side. Instinct told her to jump

on the older woman and do her damnedest to claw her eyes out, pull every last strand of ugly red hair out

of her head.

“Calm down, Genny,” Syn-Jern warned her, reading her thoughts.

“Do you know what those bitches were going to do?” she yelled at him.

“Aye,” he answered. He locked his angry attention on Bridie. “And I know they'd damned well better

not try it again."

“No, Milord,” Bridie managed to croak. She was backing away from the retaliation she saw forming on

Genny's face.

“You stay where you are!” he snapped, pointing at Bridget.

“Yes, Milord!” Bridie gasped.

Genny took a step forward, every nerve in her body goading her to attack. Her fists had unclenched and

her fingers were drawing into wicked claws.

“Don't,” Syn-Jern warned her, swinging his gaze her way and impaling her where she stood. “I'll handle

this."

“This is between me and her!” Genny snarled.

Syn-Jern ignored her outburst and walked to the Roderick woman. He stood there, towering over her,

and glared down into her frightened face. “Do you know what I did to Kasella?” he grated.

Bridie's face blanched white as snow and she began to tremble so violently her teeth clicked together.

“Do you, woman?” he growled.

Bridget Roderick nodded, too afraid to speak.

“And do you realize that whole incident came about because he made me mad?"

Another nod. A soft whimper.

“That I wasn't even aware I was doing it?"

The whimper became a groan of terror.

Syn-Jern bent over her, almost nose to nose, and fused his gaze with hers. “Can you imagine what I

might be capable of, if I set my mind to it, to someone who makes me really angry, Madame Roderick?"

Bridie thought her knees would buckle, but she managed to hold her ground. Shake her head.

Lord Syn-Jern Sorn straightened up, folded his arms, and continued to regard the pirate woman with

unwavering intensity. “What I did to Kasella was done to protect myself.” He cast a quick glance at

Genny, then returned that glower to Bridie. “What I'd do to anyone foolish enough to harm that woman

over there doesn't bear thought."

Bridie's eyes flared wide. “She is under your protection, Milord?” she questioned. She looked at Genny

with newfound respect.

“Aye, Madame Roderick,” he replied, his gaze narrowing dangerously. “She is."

Genny stared at him, her lips parting with shock. His words drove through her lower body like summer

lightning and set her belly to quivering. She found herself once more impaled by those blue-black orbs as

he turned his head and looked at her.

“Isn't that so, Mam'selle?” he asked.

Genny blinked, felt the heavy pounding in her chest, and then nodded slowly. “Aye, Milord Syn-Jern. I

suppose it is."

Syn-Jern drew in a long breath, exhaled slowly, then turned his attention once more to Bridie. “You tell

your friends, Madame Roderick, that should any one of them ever feel the need to bedevil this lady again,

they'll have me to answer to.” His brows drew together fiercely. “Is that understood?"

“P ... perfectly, Your Lordship,” Bridie assured him, dipping a quick curtsy.

“And you tell them for me that since I can't seem to trust them to behave in a civilized manner toward the

lady, she will be accompanying us on the voyage."

“I will?” Genny gasped.

He didn't look her way, but kept glaring at Bridie. “You will do that, won't you, Madame Roderick?"

“Aye, Your Lordship,” Bridie agreed. “I will tell them what you said!"

He cocked his head to one side. “Then what are you waiting for?"

Bridie curtsied again and then hurried away, her head down and her plump legs pumping as fast as they

could under her soiled gown.

Silence settled over the place where Syn-Jern and Genny stood. Even the jungle birds and beasts were

still, seeming to hold their breaths for what was to come. When at last Syn-Jern looked at her, Genny

saw uncertainty in his gaze.

Gone was the warrior authority he had shown the women. Gone was the deadly glower that had put the

fear of the gods’ in their hearts.

“Did you mean it?” Genny asked.

“About you going with us?"

“Aye."

He thrust his hands into the pockets of his leather breeches, hunched his shoulders. “Do you want to

go?"

“Very much,” she told him.

He shrugged. “Then, you can go."

Genny bit her lip, watched him, surprised that he didn't look away, or that she couldn't. Finally, she

made up her mind.

“And the part about me being under your protection?"

His face turned hard. “What of it?"

Blood was pounding in her temples. “Did you mean that, too?"

“What if I did?"

Genny smiled shyly. “It would please me."

“Consider it so, then,” he said softly then turned to go back to the village. When he realized Genny was

not walking behind him, he stopped, smiled, then held out his hand.

Genny's smile widened and she hurried to him, settling her hand snugly in his.

* * * *

The pain had scarred him deeper than the cut of any lash; it had seared him with a sting that had mutilated

his flesh upon the placing of the Maze tattoo on his left wrist. It had destroyed a part of his soul, and the

man he had been, along with it. Constant, relentless pain over the years he had been incarcerated in the

Labyrinth had nearly driven him to madness. Fear of his captors, terror of the threat they posed, had

nudged him toward a bottomless pit of despair from which he'd striven hard to escape. When he had

been captured the first time, fear had catapulted him to the very brink of the Abyss. With the second

capture, he'd been flung so close to the flames of utter destruction he had barely been able to pull back in

time.

As he walked back to the camp, he made a vow to himself—one he meant to see kept: never again

would he allow the vagaries of fate to shatter his world and bring him to his knees. When he finally had it

set a'right, tilted correctly on its axis, he intended to see it stayed that way.

He knew there were obstacles. One walked closely beside him. Another two waited in camp. In Virago,

there were several more that would, for the moment, have to wait their turn. But one thing was certain in

Syn-Jern Sorn's mind: Each one of the obstacles standing in his way to happiness would be overcome.

Starting with the one walking closely beside him.

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Weir risked another look at his sister's content face and shook his head in frustration. “She's being too

good,” he remarked to Patrick.

Paddy agreed. “Two days out of the Cay and I've yet to hear the first argument from her.” He pretended

to shudder. “It's unnatural Saur."

Norbert Tarnes chuckled. “It's to be expected. She's put herself on her best behavior, I'll warrant."

A frown drew Weir's thick brows together. “For what?” he questioned.

“Not for what, Cap'n. For who!” Jarl Stevens replied.

“Syn-Jern?” Weir asked dryly.

“Who else?” Tarnes returned.

“He hasn't spared her hardly a glance since we weighed anchor,” Weir protested.

“Hardly even acknowledges she's on board."

“Oh, the lad's aware of her, Cap'n,” Stevens grunted. “Can't take his eyes off'n her."