Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (30 page)

for they were not brooding, melancholy silences, but rather were of the reflective and introspective kind.

His quietness was a good indication of something bothering him for usually he was sparring either verbally

or physically with Paddy or Weir. He had a wonderful sense of humor and loved to tell jokes that were

not always suitable for mixed company. Possessing a beautiful singing voice to accompany a remarkable

ability on the guitar, it was not unusual to hear him singing or playing to the children gathered outside the

solarium for their morning lessons. Much of the time he was either laughing and joking with the men of

Weir's crew or teasing the servants until the entire Imperial Palace rang with laughter.

So when he became silent, Genny knew he was troubled.

She also knew he would broach the subject of what was pestering him in his own good time. But she

wasn't prepared for what he had to say.

“Her name was Rosa-Lynn,” he said quietly.

Genny turned on the seat and gave him her full attention. “Who?” she asked, her heart doing a funny

thump in her chest.

He was looking out the window, his head against the wall. ‘The woman in Virago.” He closed his eyes.

“My betrothed.” When his wife made no comment, he turned to her. She was staring back at him with a

carefully blank expression.

“Go on,” she said after a moment or two had passed and it seemed he needed to be prompted.

He could not look at her as he told the tale; he was too ashamed. So, he returned his gaze to the

window and the light rain that was beginning to plink against the pane. He lifted his left hand and touched

the glass with the knuckle of his index finger, traveling the path of a raindrop as it fell down the pane.

“Did you love her?” she queried, not really wanting to know the answer to that question, but

understanding she had to ask.

“With all my heart,” he said softly. He drew in a long, shaky breath then exhaled slowly. “And I thought

she loved me.” He gave a small, self-deprecating snort. “Shows how much I knew women back then."

Genny could not resist. “And you think you know us now, Milord?” she asked in a light, teasing tone.

“No, Genny,” he said, shaking his head. “And no man ever will."

“Humpf,” was his wife's reply to that. She stood and walked to the window seat, then sat in front of him,

wrapping her hand around his calf. She rested her cheek against his knee. “So,” she said, “tell me of this

vixen who didn't have sense enough to keep the treasure Alel cast her way."

Syn-Jern put his hand on her head and stroked the midnight silk of her hair. “Do you know how much I

love you?” he whispered.

The demoness that exists in every woman's soul answered him: “More than you loved this Rosa-Lynn

person, I hope."

He threaded his fingers through her hair and anchored her head as he searched deep green eyes in which

jealousy ran rampant. “More than my own life, Milady,” he swore to her. He stretched out his legs and

pulled her onto his lap, settling her against his chest as he enfolded her in his arms. He kissed her hair then

rested his chin atop her head.

“I will tell you the whole of it, Genny,” he said seriously. “All I ask it that you say nothing until I am

done.” He craned his neck to look down at her. “Is that a deal?"

She nodded, unwilling to speak for fear the green-eyed monster would issue a challenge of its own.

He was quiet for a bit, then drew in a long breath, exhaled, and began to tell her things of that he had not

spoken in over ten years...

“She was the eldest daughter of Gerard Montyne, Duke of Delinshire, and Shanell Du Mer, the sister of

the Chalean King. Her beauty was so exquisite, it took away my breath: hair the color of an autumn

sunset, eyes that were gray one moment and, in a different light, a shimmering silver blue the next. She

was tiny, her hands and feet like those of a porcelain doll. So delicate and fragile-looking, she brought

out the protective instinct in me. Her voice was husky and sensual, eliciting thoughts I knew I should not

be having. When she touched me, I felt powerful and capable of doing anything I set my mind to; and

when she allowed me to lie with her, I thought I knew what it was to be a man.

“Montyne had inherited a hunting lodge from a maiden great aunt and the land bordered Holy Dale.

Although not as beautiful as Sorn land, it was ripe with wildlife and there was a wide stream that fed off

Talbert's Pond to the north of the Sorn manor house. The land was valuable, but Montyne was not

satisfied. He wanted to incorporate the lands surrounding the lodge and make for himself a demesne that

would outshine Innis Hesar's.

“At first he tried to buy the lands from my father, but father refused to even discuss the matter. It wasn't

so much that he wanted to keep Holy Dale as it was to thwart Duke Gerard. There has always been bad

blood between the Montynes and the Sorns simply because the Montynes were friends with the Hesars.

The bad blood between the Sorns and Hesars started over a century ago.

“When his offer to buy Holy Dale was rejected, the Duke set out to take the land anyway he could get

it. After learning I was to inherit, he thought he saw a way by connecting our two families in marriage. I

will believe till my dying day that he ordered his own daughter to seduce me, the son of his enemy, simply

to get his hands on Holy Dale.

“I was a lonely child, growing up without the love of either parent. I became a lonelier young boy

shunned by most of the staff and hated by those who were forced to care for me. By the time I reached

puberty, I had such low self-esteem; I often entertained the thought of joining a monastery. My reasoning

was simple: I was leading a life of monastic depravation already. Why not take the necessary steps to

remove myself from everyone's way? No one wanted me; no one loved me; no one wanted me around. I

had almost convinced myself to apply to the Order of St. Regis or else take a blade and end my own

miserable existence.

“But then Rosa-Lynn came."

“You are Lord Syntian, are you not?” the young girl asked.

“Syn-Jern,” he corrected, surprised by the question. He had been on his way to the stables to saddle his

nag when the girl stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

“Syn-Jern,” she repeated, seeming to savor the pronunciation. She smiled. “I like it."

Syn-Jern ducked his head. “Thank you.” He stepped around her, but glanced sideways to find her

staring boldly as she fell into step alongside him. Unnerved by the saucy grin she tossed his way he

looked away again.

“I am Dorrie,” the girl informed him. “I am Lady Rosa-Lynn's maid."

He knew the Duke of Delinshire had arrived that morning with his eldest daughter, though he had yet to

meet either of them. While his hunting lodge was being renovated, the Duke and his daughter would stay

at Holy Dale. Begrudgingly, Syn-Jern's father and half-brother, Trace, would entertain the Duke; his

stepmother would surely plan a party of some kind for the Duke's daughter simply to put on a show.

But he knew he would not be invited to attend any more than he had been asked to be there to help

receive Holy Dale's guests.

“Where is your mistress?” he asked, wondering why the little chit was running around on her own.

“Waiting for you by Talbert's Pond,” she giggled.

“Not me, Mam'selle,” he denied, shaking his head. “My brother, perhaps, but not me."

“Aye, it was you she sent me to fetch, Milord,” the girl responded and her knowing look was not lost

even on an inexperienced lad such as Syn-Jern.

“She does not know me,” he said. “Why would she send you to fetch me?"

The girl cocked her head to one side. When Syn-Jern also stopped and looked around, he was stunned

to the toes of his scuffed boots as her gaze crawled over him.

“Have you looked in a mirror lately, Milord?” she drawled, then shocked him even more as she licked

her full upper lip.

Syn-Jern felt his cock leap at her action and her words drove like steel spikes into his brain. He stared at

her, amazed at the lascivious look that had settled on her young face. She was assessing him as though he

were worthy of her attention—and since this was the first time any female had looked at him in such a

way, he was instantly aroused. Feeling the rigid tumescence of his shaft bulging against his breeches, he

hastily covered his crotch with his gloved hands.

“Do not hide it, Milord Syn-Jern,” the wench whispered. She walked to him, her young hips swaying

like those of a much older, experienced female. When she stood before him, she smiled coyly, then

boldly reached out to push his hands away.

“Mam'selle, you should not...” he began only to gasp in shock when she molded her fingers over his

crotch and rubbed slowly.

“When Milady has had her fill of you,” the girl said in a throaty voice, “come find me, Milord, and I will

let you ride me until you are well satisfied."

He jumped from her scorching touch. The chit could be no more than thirteen years of age if she were a

day. Barely out of the cradle and here she wanted to hop into a man's bed!

Not that he was really a man, yet, he thought. He was all of twenty and one, but he was not a man in the

sexual way. A virgin, he thought to remain one into his dotage since no maid or even tavern whore had

ever looked at him like this saucy baggage.

“What's wrong, Milord?” she taunted and reached for him again, but Syn-Jern moved out of her way,

shaking his head in denial of her intent.

“You are a child,” he protested although every part—especially the one throbbing so desperately

beneath the fabric of his cords—urged him to accept what she was offering.

“I've had many a man, Milord,” the girl chuckled. She looked at him through the fringe of her eyelashes.

“I've made many a man, as well."

Her words made his manhood harder than ever and he backed away, his hands cupped protectively

around his privates. “Go away, Mam'selle,” he ordered. “You are playing with fire."

She grinned in challenge. “Do I stoke your fires, Milord?” she asked. “Have I started a flame in your

loins.” She licked her lips once more. “I will gladly quench those flames with the juices of my—"

“Be quiet!” he said. Her voice was driving him insane with need and her bold statements had him on the

verge of shaming himself. It was all he could do to turn and walk away as fast as his rigid shaft would

allow.

“She waits for you by the river, Milord!” the girl called after him.

“She can wait all the gods-be-damned day,” Syn-Jern said under his breath. His teeth were clenched for

he was in acute pain. The pull of the corduroy on his aroused cock was both pleasurable and irritating at

the same time. By the time he reached the sanctuary of the stables—relieved to find no one else

there—he could do only one thing to alleviate the pressure. He went into one of the stalls, shut the door,

released his bulging shaft, and took matters into his own hands. When he was finished, he was ashamed

of himself.

Slumping to the floor, he sat there with his head in his hands. He didn't even glance up when the door to

the stall opened. “May I please have some privacy?” he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut.

“You may have whatever you desire, Milord."

Syn-Jern opened his eyes and lifted his head. Very slowly, his gaze traveled from the hem of a pale

green gown, past a tiny waist, behind that two alabaster arms were clutched. His attention moved over a

high-thrusting bosom to a slender, swan-like neck framed with tendrils of titian curls. When at last he saw

her face, he drew in his breath and held it, so taken by the loveliness of her delicate face, he could not

breathe.

“I sent for you, Syn-Jern,” this glorious vision said. “I am not accustomed to being kept waiting for my

men. Have you no care for a lady's desires, Milord?"

He couldn't have answered her if his life depended upon it.

“You should not make a lady come to you, Syni,” she said in a throaty purr. She placed her hands on

the laces of her bodice. “Nor should you allow one to be left unattended.” Her fingers plucked at the

laces that held her gown over her bosom.

He sat staring at her as she disrobed. His eyes wide, his body trembling, he could do no more than that.

When all that separated her from the air was a thin silk ribbon circling her slender neck, he began to

sweat.

“So,” he heard her say. “Do you like what you see, Milord Syni?"

She was more beautiful than any painting adorning the walls of Holy Dale manse. Her flesh appeared

more luscious than a strawberry shortbread cake plumped high with mounds of fresh cream. The

curvaceous body before him was more enticing than a cool pond on a scorching summer's day. She was

everything he had ever dreamed in a woman: an ideal he never expected to see much less possess.

“Is this a habit you will always have, Milord?” she inquired on a long sigh.

“What?” he managed to ask, his heart thudding so hard in his chest, he was sure she could hear it.

“This propensity to keep a woman waiting for you to pleasure her?” she replied and lifted her arms. She

spread her hands wide so that her perfect breasts arched high against her chest. “Do you not like what

you see, Milord?"

His mouth was as dry as a stone quarry, although his palms were slick with sweat, itching to mold her

breasts. He licked his lips. “Aye, Milady,” he whispered. “You are most beautiful."