Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (31 page)

“Beautiful enough for you to ride?” she queried.

He groaned, knowing full well that the thoughts flashing through his fevered mind were wrong, wicked,

and totally inappropriate. She was the daughter of his father's neighbor; a guest in his home; a person of

royal rank. He was about to tell her all that when she moved, dropping down on the hay as gracefully as

any swan gliding across Talbert's Pond.

“If the mountain will not come to Rosa-Lynn,” she said in a breathy whisper, “Rosa-Lynn will come to

the mountain."

What happened next was the stuff of any young man's fevered dreams: this beautiful, sensuous, glorious

woman seduced him. She put her hands on his flesh, massaged him, flicked open the buttons of his cords,

and drew him out to stroke. He could not have stopped her had he the desire to do so for she so

expertly manipulated him and his ego.

When he thought about it later in his bed alone, she had controlled the moment from the time she entered

the stall until she left him—weak and sated—lying on the hay. He thought he had seen admiration in her

knowing eyes when she saw him naked. He wanted to believe she found him as desirable as he found

her. He prayed that her silky words of enticement had been true.

“You are all I have ever desired in a mate, Syn-Jern Sorn,” she told him. Her fingers plied his limp flesh,

kneading it until it began to rise once more. “Your shaft is a wicked blade cutting a swath through this

lonely heart of mine."

She worked him well for over two hours: straddling him; drawing on his eager flesh; leading him to

heights he never knew existed. So intense was their sexual union, he was sore by the time she dismounted

and stood to retrieve her gown.

“You do things to me no other man ever has,” she said as she dressed. “I can not wait to have you

again."

He lay there, propped on his elbows, marveling at what she was saying. “You wish to make love with

me again?” he asked in surprise. This being his first time, he knew he had lacked the finesse that would

come with age and practice. He doubted he had satisfied her for he had seen disappointment flit through

her lovely eyes before she hid them from him.

“If I were not expected at your stepmother's tea this afternoon, Syni, I would ride you until you

dropped,” she said, grinning at his look of stunned surprise. Dressed once more, she smoothed her skirt.

“But that will have to wait for later tonight, don't you think?"

He was incapable of thought. He simply lay there, smiling like a fool when she turned, blew him a kiss,

then left with a saucy laugh trailing in her wake.

Later than night when the door to his room opened quietly and Rosa-Lynn joined him, he folded aside

the coverlet, opened his arms, and gave her his soul.

“By Alel's mercy,” Syn-Jern sighed, “I really thought she loved me."

Genny said nothing, knowing there was more. She stroked the strong arm surrounding her, giving him

time to gather his thoughts. His breath was ruffling her hair as they reclined on the window seat. She

could feel the strong beat of his heart; smell the cinnamon scent of his cologne. When he began his tale

again, she closed her eyes for there was pain in his gentle voice.

The Duke and his daughter remained at Holy Dale for two weeks. During the day, Giles Sorn and his

son, Trace, would take Gerard Montyne hunting or into Wixenstead Village to one of the waterfront

gambling dens. Rosa-Lynn was forced to sit with Syn-Jern's stepmother and carry on idle chitchat that

bored the younger woman to tears.

But when servant and master, alike, retired for the night, Syn-Jern's door would creak open and

there—framed against the pale light in the hall—would be his lover.

Into the wee hours of the morning, she lay with him, whispering love lies in his ear. Her practiced,

knowing hands roamed his eager body and taught him things he could but wonder where she had

learned.

And he believed every falsehood she told him.

“You take me to heights I have only dreamed of attaining, Syni,” she vowed. “No man will ever satisfy

me as you do."

He was fool enough to take her words as gospel truth and stupid enough to think she meant them.

“When we are wed,” she would sigh, “we will unite our lands and make for ourselves a veritable

kingdom!"

Syn-Jern loved Holy Dale, but he had no grand desire to be lord and master over all he surveyed. The

lands surrounding his home were lush and vibrant with wildlife and fertile for planting; but he had no great

wish to be the wealthiest man in Wixenstead Parish.

“Do you have no ambition, Syn-Jern?” she threw at him one night when storms were raging inland from

the coast.

He watched the lightning reflected in her silver eyes and thought he caught a glimpse of a demoness

lurking in those seductive depths.

“I have all I want, Milady.” He nuzzled her neck, unable to see the look of distaste cross her lovely face

as his lips pressed against her flesh.

She pushed him away. “But I don't,” she protested.

He smiled, thinking her pouting lips adorable. “What more do you wish from life, Milady? When we are

married, you will be mistress of Holy Dale. When Father is gone, you will be Duchess of—"

“I know all that, Syn-Jern,” she snapped. “I am not some stupid tart whose skirts you've flung over her

pointed little head!"

The venom in her words stung him. She was the only woman with whom he'd ever lain.

He was deeply in love with her—and because he was—could not see her as she truly was.

“I deserve a grand house with acres and acres of land surrounding it,” she said, her teeth clenched. “I

want fine Rysalian horses to breed and race for purses so heavy it will take a fleet of Serenian ships to

carry them! I want dozens of servants to jump at my beck and call and I want seamstresses and cobblers

there at a moment's notice should I desire a new dress or pair of slippers.” She dug her nails into his arm.

“I want handsome men dancing attendance on me at fancy balls and beautiful women envying me the fine

possessions surrounding me!"

He winced as her nails pierced his flesh. “I can not give you all that,” he said, trying to ease his arm from

her grip.

“You will!” she swore and raked his arm, drawing blood.

“My god, Rosa-Lynn!” he gasped, jerking away. He sat up, holding his injured arm and stared at her as

the strobe of the lightning flashed through the room.

“Come here, Syn-Jern,” she hissed, her lips drawn back over pearly teeth. She reached for him.

“I think not,” he said and swung his legs from the bed, intending to rise.

“I said come here!” she spat and twisted toward him, her fingers becoming talons as they arched down

his back from shoulder to hips.

The pain took away his breath as her nails raked his bare flesh. He yelped, spinning around to find her

on her knees on the mattress, her hair wild, her eyes flared with what could only be hatred.

“Are you insane?” he asked, the sting of the scratches making him flex his shoulders.

It was the wrong thing to say.

She flew at him like a were-tigress, her nails going for his eyes this time. He barely had time to grab her

wrists to keep her from blinding him. The weight and momentum of her body sent them body crashing to

the floor, hers pinning him beneath her as she struggled to ram her knee into his groin.

“Rosa-Lynn!” he gasped, struggling to get her under control. Her shrieks and wild thrashing would soon

have the entire household barging into his room if he did not quiet her.

Then he discovered the one thing that could melt Rosa-Lynn Montyne's heart.

“I hurt her,” he said and Genny could hear the shame in his voice. “I managed to roll atop her, pin her

down, getting my legs between hers to keep her from battering my shaft to pulp. I had her wrists in a grip

strong enough to break them, but still she struggled. She called me the vilest names, spat at me, tried to

sink her teeth into my shoulder. At one point, she butted me in the chin. My teeth clicked together and a

tooth was chipped. The force of the blow almost knocked her out, but still she fought me. I had long

furrows down my calves where she gouged me with her toe nails."

Genny felt her anger rising in leaps and bounds. That anyone could do that to her husband set her killer

instincts into high gear. She wished with all her might that Rosa-Lynn were there at that moment. If she

had been, Genny would have taken a dagger to the bitch's black heart, cut it out, and presented it on a

silver platter to Syn-Jern.

“It seemed the more I tried to restrain her, the worse she became until...” His voice tapered off a

moment and he was quiet for so long, Genny looked up at him to make sure he hadn't fallen asleep.

He was awake, but he was staring into the distance, seeing something that made his eyes dark with

memory. Then he shuddered, closed his eyes, and exhaled heavily. He swallowed, then opened his eyes

to stare once more at a past he surely wished he could forget.

“I began to realize she was becoming aroused by the struggle. I could smell the heat of her. When I

looked into her eyes, I could see the desire. There was such blatant need in that look, such carnal lust.”

He drew in a long breath, let it out in a wavering sigh. “And the gods help me,” he said, “I kissed her."

He jammed his mouth over hers, thrusting his tongue into the warm recess as she had taught him.

Grinding against her lower body, he jerked her arms above her head, pinned the wrists together with one

hand, and moved the other to a heaving breast. Cruelly squeezing that pliable flesh, he pinched and pulled

at her nipple until it swelled in his fingers. Even then, he continued to punish the turgid bud until he felt

slickness on his flesh. At that point, he did not care if it was sweat or blood oozing. All he cared about

was ramming his cock inside her and riding her until she screamed for mercy.

And that was what he did.

He took her in every way he could, jamming his flesh into hers with no care at all for how much he hurt

her. He pummeled her; thrusting with an abandon of which he would not have imagined being capable.

Like two wild animals, they went at one another. When it was all over and the last shudder had wracked

his body, he lay bruised and bleeding atop her, her arms and legs wrapped around his sweaty body.

“I've made a man of you at last,” he heard her say as he fell asleep atop her. “Fancy that."

Syn-Jern stopped talking. The afternoon light was fading and as the storm overtook the horizon. “We

may be in for bad weather."

Genny rubbed his arm, but remained silent, knowing there was more to his story.

“When I woke the next morning,” he continued, “she was gone. She and her father had left at the crack

of dawn for their hunting lodge.” He shifted, grunting as he positioned himself more comfortably on the

window seat. “And like an idiot, I moped about the manse all day until my libido got the better of me and

I saddled my horse and rode to Fairworth, the Montyne lodge."

An unsmiling servant who informed him the Duke was not receiving visitors met him at the door. When

he asked if the servant would take a missive to the Lady Rosa-Lynn, the man said he would not, then

shut the door in Syn-Jern's face. Accustomed to such rude behavior, Syn-Jern simply turned around,

climbed on his horse, and rode back to Holy Dale.

Two hours later, all hell broke loose.

“Syn-Jern Sorn!” his father bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Syn-Jern exited the library, his forehead crinkled with puzzlement at the furious tone of his father's voice.

“Aye, Milord?” he inquired, looking past his sire to the man's smug wife.

“How dare you?” the elder Sorn screamed, rushing to his son. “Do you have any notion of what you

have done?"

Syn-Jern was not prepared for the vicious backhand that knocked him against the wall. He hit the

doorframe and slid to the floor, his nose bleeding profusely.

“Do you know what you've done?” his father repeated, bending over him.

He knew his father was going to hit him again, but he also knew better than to try to block the blow.

Blood sprayed the wall beside him and he put a hand to a nose that was broken with the second hit.

“I could kill you, Syn-Jern!"

“Giles,” the Duchess of Winterset cautioned her irate husband. “Be careful what you say."

Giles Sorn stood there, his entire body quivering with outrage. His eyes bulged from his porcine face and

his meaty fists opened and closed at his sides. “You worthless little bastard! You have ruined us!” he

hissed.

Over the protection of his fingers, Syn-Jern saw his half-brother leaning insolently against the banister.

Trace was grinning hatefully, his eyes glistening with spite. He fingered his dark mustache, twirling one tip

around his forefinger. “You've done it now, haven't you, big brother?” he chuckled.

“Get up!” Syn-Jern's father demanded. When his son hesitated, he took a step closer, intending to kick

the boy if need be to propel him into action.

Syn-Jern scrambled to his feet, edging sideways from the deadly menace emblazoned on his father's

beefy face. “What am I supposed to have done?” he asked, his hand cupped full of his own blood.

“Delved one time too many into the sweet jar, I'd say,” Trace chortled.

Giles Sorn pointed a rigid finger at his beloved son. “Stay out of this Trace Edward or I swear before all

that's holy I will wed you to the chit!"