Desire's Sirocco (9 page)

Deep, almost painfully, his organ pushed into hers. She could feel the tip of it pressing against her womb, endeavoring to penetrate as far as her body would allow. That fleshy weapon was huge and rock-hard, giving as much pleasure as it seemed to be reaping. When it exploded inside her, she tightened her clasp around his hips and arched her lower body up to his. It was only a second or two before her orgasm commenced like tiny fingers gripping and releasing, gripping and releasing his penis repeatedly until his bellow filled the Chamber.

“Mine!” he shouted.

“Yours,” she dared to say.

“Mine,” he whispered as he collapsed atop her.

She stroked his damp cheek as he laid his head upon her breast. Through the contact of their sweaty bodies, she could feel the rapid tattoo of his heartbeat. His breathing began to slow almost immediately and she knew he was falling asleep.

Almost as soon as the thought entered her head, she felt hands insinuating themselves between the Master’s body and hers and his weight was lifted from her. A cool wash of air moved over her flesh and she sighed.

“I will be back for you,” she heard Brother Qutaybah say in a petulant tone.

Boot heels scraped against the stone floor as the Conclave moved away, one of their Brothers carrying the Master to his rest. She wondered if it was into Dagan’s arms they had laid him.

She was not left alone for long. Qutaybah returned as he said he would and tossed her gown at her. Half asleep, she jumped as the material hit her chest and she sat up, more annoyed than fearful of the Master’s chancellor.

“I don’t have all night to wait for you, woman,” Qutaybah snapped.

“Where is Dagan?” she asked as she pulled the gown over her head.

“That is of no concern to you,” Qutaybah sniffed. “Be quick, now. I am weary and I believe I am coming down with a cold.”

It was on the tip of Jameela’s tongue to tell him she hoped he was and that he would succumb to the illness. Her world would be a much brighter place without the bad-tempered chancellor and his barely concealed dislike of her.

“Why do you dislike me?” she asked as she slid down from the table, knowing he’d not offer to come to her aid.

“Impertinent chit,” Qutaybah spat. “Keep your questions to yourself!”

Jameela reached up and dragged the blindfold from her eyes. She would soon be the Master’s legal wife and in that position, she knew she would campaign to replace Brother Qutaybah with a Brother who exhibited a more acceptable demeanor.

“I did not give you permission….” Brother Qutaybah began but Jameela cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“I am the Master’s concubine but I will soon be his Lady-Wife. Perhaps it would be wise for you to show me the respect such a station deserves, Brother Qutaybah,” she said firmly.

The lanky man sputtered, his beady eyes as wide as they would go at her audacity. His mouth opened and closed like an eel’s—an amphibian to which she had come to liken him—oily and slippery, and sneaky.

“Have you heard of pillow talk, Brother Qutaybah?” she inquired as she headed for the doorway.

“P…pillow…?”

“When a husband and wife discuss things in the secrecy of their marital bed,” she explained. “Many a job, a position…” She turned to look back at him. “Even a head, has been lost due to pillow talk.”

Brother Qutaybah gaped at her. As understanding set in, he blinked several times, holding her stare as his brow crinkled with concern.

“Think on it,” Jameela said and turned back around. She left the scarecrow of a man standing in the Chamber, blinking.

Chapter Five

“What did you say to Brother Qutaybah last eve to make him so quiet this morn, Wench?” Dagan asked when he, instead of Brother Qutaybah, came to escort Jameela to the Hall for the breaking of their Fast.

“I but reminded him that I will be the Master’s Lady-Wife and that pillow talk can be a very dangerous thing,” she said quietly.

Dagan grinned and reached out to clasp her hand. He brought her knuckles to his lips and placed a light kiss. “I tossed his scrawny ass into the bathing pool yesterday. He wasn’t feeling very well after swallowing so much water else he would be here escorting you,” he chuckled. “Wasn’t the Beanpole’s day, was it?”

Jameela stopped still in her tracks, her eyes going wide. “You won’t get into trouble with the Master for that, will you?”

The warrior shook his head. “The Master has a sense of humor, Wench. He’d have to in order to deal with the Conclave.”

Only somewhat relieved to hear there would be no repercussion for Dagan’s behavior, Jameela sighed. “I don’t know what the Master feels about Brother Qutaybah but…”

“The Master detests him,” Dagan told her.

“Then why keep him on?”

Dagan shrugged. “There is none other among the Conclave with Brother Qutaybah’s abilities, unfortunately. I don’t suppose it would be hard to train one, but the Master tends to be lazy and…”

“Shush!” Jameela gasped, spinning around to place her fingers against Dagan’s lips. “Be careful what you say about him!”

Taking her hand from his mouth, Dagan brought her palm to his chest and held it there. “He’s just a man, Wench,” he said.

“He is your Master!” she stressed. “Was it not your Master who had you…” She blushed. “You know.”

“Castrated?” he asked.

That cruel word brought tears to Jameela’s eyes and she threw herself against Dagan, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her cheek to the spot on his chest where he had held her hand. “I can not stand the thought of what was done to you.”

“Then don’t dwell on it,” he said gruffly. “I don’t.”

Jameela pulled her hand free of Dagan’s grip and went to her knees. She covered her face with her hands and wept, rocking back and forth in her grief.

For a moment, Dagan stood there, shock stamped on his handsome face. He seemed lost, incapable of knowing what to do. His hands opened and closed at his sides then he knelt down, putting his arm around Jameela’s shoulders. He pulled her against him and clumsily patted her head as though she were a beloved pet.

“Shush, now,” he whispered, unnerved by the volume and the intensity of her weeping.

“I hate what they did to you!” she cried. “I hate him!”

“No!” Dagan was quick to say, knowing full well whom she meant. “Never say that!”

She raised her tear-swollen eyes to him. “I love you,” she said forcefully. “With all my heart and all my being, I love you.”

Dagan groaned then pushed quickly to his feet. He took her arm and helped her up none too gently. “Come,” he said and started down the corridor.

“W…where are we going?” she asked but her escort did not answer.

It was to her chambers he took her and though she bid him come in with her, he opened the door and pushed her inside.

“Dagan…”

“Stop tempting me, Wench!” he snarled. “Tomorrow is your Joining Day. Be glad for it!”

“But Dagan…” she began but he closed the door on her and she heard the lock snick in place. Pounding her fists on the portal she called his name again but he did not answer.

Hunger made her stomach rumble but it was the ache in her heart that controlled her. Flinging herself down upon her cot, she let the tears pour from her. So violent was her weeping, the cot shook beneath her. Though the door opened and she heard the rattle of plates upon the small table in the corner, she did not stir. She lay where she was; her hands clenched in the covers, her face buried in her pillow, and released the grief that ate at her soul.

* * * * *

Dagan lunged at his opponent, striking quickly, plunging his blade to the hilt in the man’s belly. Ripping the sword viciously to the left, he withdrew it as hot, steaming entrails poured on the rocky ground and his enemy shrieked in agony.

Turning away, Dagan went after his next challenger and the next until not one foe stood against him. The barren expanse of roadway was littered with five bodies either dead or dying and the dirt was spongy with spent blood. Overhead, the sky filled with circling vultures attracted to the hot, coppery scent.

Leaning against a tall boulder, Dagan lowered his sword and hung his head, breathing raggedly from his exertion. He was covered with the sour sweat smell of bloodlust and his heart was thundering in his chest. Though expertly skilled with the blade he held loosely in his scarlet-stained hand, he had known a moment or two of fear when the robbers had dared to attack him. Even knowing the outcome of the fight was bound to be in his favor, he had worried that he would not return to Lalssu Keep. What would happen to Jameela if he were not there to protect her? He worried.

Tomorrow was her Joining Day and he must be there, as she became the bride of the Master.

Squatting, he hunkered down with his back to the boulder. He was bone-tired and feeling the weight of the responsibilities that weighed upon his shoulders. All he wanted to do was stretch out on the sandy ground and sleep and the midday sun was beating down brutally on his uncovered head, giving him the beginnings of a wicked headache.

In the middle of nowhere, having ridden mindlessly for over an hour in an attempt to rid himself of the forbidden thoughts of Jameela, Dagan knew he was courting disaster if he remained where he was. The area was rife with robbers and murderers and as tired and weak as he was at that moment, he knew he would be hard-pressed to defend himself if attacked again.

Getting wearily to his feet, he looked around him and upon spying his mount, let out a piercing whistle that brought the steed cantering over to him with a flick of its head and a snort.

“Aye, you’re pissed but then so am I,” Dagan chuckled.

The stallion pawed at the ground as though insisting his rider get a move on.

Dagan got to his feet and thrust his blade into the sheath slung over his back. Wiping his blood-slick hands on his britches he grimaced. He glanced at the water skin hanging on the pommel of his saddle and sighed. The skin was empty.

With another sigh of frustration, Dagan walked to his mount, gripped the pommel and pulled himself atop. The animal sidestepped, prancing hard for a moment until his rider took firm control.

“Don’t give me any shit and I’ll see you get the best feed available when we get home,” he bargained. “Okay?”

Nodding in agreement, its trappings jingling, the horse stopped its shenanigans and allowed its rider to kick it into motion. Sensing the man on its back was as anxious to get back as it was, the horse took off with long, mile-swallowing strides.

* * * * *

Brother Qutaybah was waiting in the stables when Dagan returned. The prim Chancellor stood with his hands clasped in front of him, his slit of a mouth turned down with disapproval. His foot tapped out an impatient rhythm as Dagan dismounted.

“Where have you been?” Brother Qutaybah demanded.

Dagan had a great desire to plow his fist into the scrawny man’s face but chose to walk past him to the horse trough and thrust his sticky hands into the water instead.

Wincing at the sight of the stains on Dagan’s britches and hands, Brother Qutaybah shook his head. “You have been fighting again.”

“I assume you wanted something or you wouldn’t have been waiting out here amongst the common folk. What is it, now?” Dagan asked, accepting a coarse rag from the stableboy to dry his hands.

“You can’t keep running off when things don’t suit you,” Brother Qutaybah replied. “You have obligations and…”

“Does he need me?” Dagan asked.

Brother Qutaybah’s thin lips pursed tightly.

Dagan raised a thick brow. “Did he send you to fetch me?”

“Your presence is required in the Grand Master’s chamber immediately,” Brother Qutaybah sniffed.

“Smelling like a charnel house?”

“He said immediately!” Brother Qutaybah snapped.

Dagan shrugged. “If he doesn’t mind the stench, neither do I.”

Gritting his teeth, Brother Qutaybah spun on his heel and started off, not bothering to look behind him to see if Dagan was following. With back ramrod straight, bony shoulders pulled back, the Grand Master’s Chancellor led the way into the keep.

Walking through the corridors of Lalssu Keep never failed to depress Dagan. The walls adorned with lush tapestries woven by the Artisans of Silun, a community of monks who made their living weaving. Depicting hunts as well as war scenes, the twenty-foot high, ten-foot wide tapestries featured death and mutilation, savagery and brutality. There was nothing relaxing about the scenes and instead gave the viewer a glimpse into the violent world of the Conclave.

Though he had grown up inside these forbidding walls, Dagan had never accustomed himself to the acts of cruelty woven into the tapestries. Not averse to shedding blood when there was call for it, he did not glory in the act.

“That woman is already causing great trouble at Lalssu Keep,” Brother Qutaybah remarked as they neared the Grand Master’s chamber. “He would do well to sell her and…”

One moment Brother Qutaybah was walking primly in front of Dagan, the next the snotty little man was laying in a crumpled heap on the floor in front of the Grand Master’s door, Dagan standing over him with fists doubled.