eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd. 512 Forest Lake Drive Warner Robins, Georgia 31093 The Wyndmaster’s Lady Copyright © 2007 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Cover by Anne Cain ISBN: 1-59998-241-2 www.samhainpublishing.com All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: February 2007
The Wyndmaster’s Lady Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Dedication
To my precious Buddha Belly, who has always been the wind beneath my wings.
The Wyndmaster’s Lady
Prologue
Lord Charles Henry Allen of Dragonmoor was considered to be the pinnacle of evil in his day. Since he was a member of the Justonian Royalty—brother to King Edmond—his peculiarities were rarely discussed even though his strange predilections for murder, mayhem, and mutilation were well documented. Few people knew he was so wellconnected to the royalty and the ones who did kept that information to themselves. For those aspiring to be classified a human monster, his was the pattern from which the wretched garment was cut. Possessing not one shred of compassion in his cold black heart or even a single drop of consideration in his malevolent marrow, his pale white hands—long fingers tapered elegantly—were often coated with the blood of his enemies. Beneath his immaculately groomed fingernails, a tell-tale crimson stain was left under the index finger of his right hand to remind him of the pleasures of his day past. Just as the sight of that fleck of red soothed him; likewise were the bloodcurdling screams of his victims' sweet music to Lord Charles’ ears. Upon viewing a broken spirit, a lacerated soul, the pitiful wretchedness of a man and—in the odd moment, woman—cast forever into the bowels of Dragonmoor Keep, the Dungeon Master would sigh with utter contentment. In his element amidst the various ghastly instruments of torture, he preferred to be hands-on with his prisoners, taking an active part in their prolonged anguish. Those who had foolishly opposed his iron will, who rebelliously had gained his undivided attention or garnered his unceasing ire, were given special care in the dungeon beneath Dragonmoor Castle.
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Only one avenue of escape was offered the forgotten prisoners buried within the craggy walls of Dragonmoor and that was at the skeletal hands of the Grim Reaper who came to call on a regular basis. Situated far beneath the rocky soil of the Allen ancestral estate, the dungeon had never been breached nor had a prisoner ever escaped the dank, dismal cells whose walls sweated rank water and were as frigid as a tomb concealed under the northernmost tundra. No light ever shone within the cells of Lord Charles’ internees. His captives were consigned to the dark, the only sounds penetrating their wretched four foot by four foot cubicle being the squeal of rats, the constant drip-drip-drip of the foul water oozing from the privies above them, and the occasional moan—perhaps even a horrific scream—torn from the inmates’ throats. Tall, lanky and with a cadaverous face that was as pale as buttermilk, Lord Charles could often be seen walking the battlements of Dragonmoor in the evening. Dressed all in red with a voluminous scarlet wool cape thrown over his thin shoulders for warmth, he would pace the wall walk, stopping to peer over the parapet to the moat far below where beasts snapped and splashed in the teeming water. Occasionally he would toss down a meal to the beasts, smiling gleefully as a helpless body crashed into the water and reverberating screams broke the country stillness as giant jaws crunched flailing limbs and turned the murky water crimson, whipping the waves to pink foam. No one came to call at Dragonmoor and none of its servants ever left. Their own lives nearing their ends either by advancing age or having gotten on the wrong side of Lord Charles’ temper, the inhabitants of the keep knew there would be no decent burial for them, no gentle retirement in a cottage by the winding stream on the east side of the estate. They—like the hapless victims who rotted away in the dungeon— would end up in the bellies of the beasts that guarded the moat. There was but one thing Lord Charles held more precious than his ability to break a strong man’s will or to send a haughty woman screeching into madness. Only one treasure was held dear by him and it was guarded as zealously and as obsessively as the Dungeon Master applied red-hot pinchers to a victim’s testicles. Only a select few ever 6
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looked upon Lord Charles’ priceless possession and not a single one of those carefully chosen, keenly watched guardians was allowed to touch that one thing held by the lord to be more sacred than life itself. Under penalty of the most excruciating agony, the most exacting anguish applied vigorously would a protector allow harm to come to the Allen crown jewel. That prized jewel was Lady Anna Celeste Allen, Lord Charles’ only child and the one weakness that made him even remotely human. The sun rose and set upon her golden head and the light of his world shone from her pale blue eyes. In her frail, soft hand she wielded a power far greater than that of any king or queen for she could command the most powerful man in Aravar and bring him to his knees with love. As evil as Charles Henry Allen was, as wickedly malevolent, he was putty beneath the gentle smile that turned his daughter’s lovely face from beautiful to exquisite. Save her freedom to venture beyond the walls of Dragonmoor, he could deny her nothing for he had wrapped himself around her little finger and there bound himself for as long as he lived. She was his precious child, his heir, his every wavering breath and he loved her as he had never loved even the woman who had brought her into his world. To him, she was everything and a wealth to be kept pure and unsullied, as innocent as on the day she had been born. Let no man ever dare lay hands to Anna Celeste for in the doing, the Dungeon Master, the Keeper of the Gallows, the Lord of Agony, would descend like the Hound of Hell upon the poacher and the Abyss would open up to spew forth a fury and retribution the likes the world had never known. Woe be unto he who might cast a seductive glance upon the Lady of Dragonmoor.
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Chapter One Pain was something Sierran Morgan knew all too well. He’d endured more than what he considered was his due over the last twenty-nine years. From his mother’s cherry laurel switch applied to his bare legs to the grouchy slaps of his sisters, from his father’s razor strap laid heavily on a bare ass to the enraged fists of his brothers, he knew what hurt meant. But no matter how many times his mother had cut the blood from his legs or his father’s leather had come down unsparingly on his backside, nothing could have prepared him for the cat-o-nine that striped his back from left shoulder to right hip then from right shoulder to left hip in a perfect X. When the third lash came to bisect him from ribcage to ribcage, he could not stop the grunt that tore from his throat. The fourth through the seventh blows slammed him brutally against the wooden beam to which he was shackled. It was all he could do not to cry out, so he buried his forehead against the splintery wood and clamped his jaw tightly shut, unwilling to let another tell-tale sound of agony escape him. He was vaguely aware of the other soldiers behind him as his sentence continued. His men were shuffling their feet but not a one of them dared to open his mouth to protest their commander’s punishment. They had been assembled to watch his disgrace but he knew there wasn’t a one among them who agreed with the penalty. Having lost count after the twelfth blow, Sierran dug his nails into the wood and, with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, silently endured. His back felt as though a caldron of fire had been tossed upon it and the muscles of his arms were quivering, sweat pouring down his face. The nine knotted cords with the brass barbs at the end sliced deeply into his
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muscles with each pass of the cat. When he was barely conscious, his blood dripping to the ground at his feet, the blows finally stopped. Sierran sagged against the manacles that held his wrists tight to the whipping post. He sensed someone coming to stand beside him and cringed, praying whoever it was would not touch his ravaged back. “Perhaps now you will think twice before disobeying me, boy!” General Thurston hissed in his ear. The general stepped back. “Take him down and slap his ornery ass in a cell. I’ll deal with his insubordination later.” Stamping down the urge to groan at the general’s words, Sierran wondered what other punishment the madman intended to mete out. “Keep your mouth shut, lad,” the executioner cautioned as he and his helper came quickly forward to unlock the shackles holding their prisoner’s wrists. “Don’t you make a peep or he’ll have you back up here again tomorrow.” The shackles off his wrists, excruciating pain lanced through Sierran’s back as his legs gave way and the two men had to fumble to hold him up. The muscles in his back screamed in protest as they pulled him away from the whipping post. He couldn’t stand on his own and as they started toward the prison with him, his feet dragging along the ground, he passed out, unable to take the agony pulsing in his body. When he came to late that evening, he was lying on a smelly blanket on the rock hard, cold stone floor of Wardsgate Prison in the capitol city of Placida. His cheek was pressed to the rough wool of the blanket, his arms above his head. He could smell the harsh odor of astringent and thanked the gods he hadn’t been awake when it had been applied to his back. He had first-hand knowledge of how badly the brew stung when applied to lacerated flesh. Trying to lift himself up just enough to test the level of pain in his back, he drew in a quick breath and lay perfectly still, striving hard not to groan. The level was intense but he knew he had to sit up for the longer he lay there, the weaker he would get. With his jaw firmly set, he tried again as tears formed in his eyes. It took every ounce of his
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concentration, his willpower, and strength to push to his knees and when he managed that, paused with his forehead on the cold stone floor and his ass in the air for several minutes before gathering the courage to heave his upper body to a kneeling position. “Gods!” he couldn’t stop himself from gasping. Liquid fire was running down his back and he began to shudder, his teeth clicking together. On his knees with his hands planted firmly on his thighs, he stayed that way for a long time, breathing quickly though shallowly, his head lowered, eyes tightly shut against the ungodly agony pulling at his flesh. By the time the guards came to bring his meal of brackish water and moldy bread, he was sitting in the middle of the floor, his legs crossed beneath him, soles touching. “Blimey, you’re a tough one, Commander,” one of the guards remarked as his partner unlocked the cell. “Most men wouldn’t be sitting up so soon after such a beating.” Sierran ignored the man. Sweat was running down his face as he concentrated on a spot on the wall across from him. His hands were cupped loosely in his lap—thumbs and first three fingers pressed together. With the pain engulfing his body, he had not been able to assume the full meditation position his instructor had taught him many years before but what he had been able to do was cut the pain in half then in half again as he contemplated the blemish on the wall. “Your men send their support, sir,” the guard whispered as he bent over to place the cup of water and hunk of bread on the blanket. “We all do.” Tearing his attention from the wall, Sierran looked up as the guard straightened up. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “My pleasure, sir,” the guard mumbled as he shuffled out of the cell. The cell door squeaked as it was closed behind the guard’s departure and the hollow clunk of the lock engaging sounded loud as it echoed through the long stone corridor outside the cells.
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“You’re a good man, sir,” the other guard said as he and his partner left. Alone once more in the semi-darkness of his cell, Sierran looked down at the pitiful sustenance he’d been given then returned his gaze to the wall. Although his mouth was cotton-dry and he felt feverish, he had no intention of drinking the water in this vile place. He knew without doubt it would make him sicker than he already was. “A good man,” Sierran said to himself. He lifted his head a bit higher. And where had that gotten him? Fighting with the Ibydosian Forces against a people who had long since been subjugated beneath the iron boot of Ibydosia and who no longer had the will to fight back. For almost fifty years, the two warring factors in Emardia had fought for control of the country. The Ibydosians lived in the southern portion of the lands. They were under the leadership of the Federation which was loyal to King Edmond and Queen Tatiana of the Justonian Throne. The Emardian Guards living in the northern portion of the country fought for a democratic government ruled entirely by the people and without the yoke of a monarchy. Many of Sierran's own family—staunch loyalists of the king—had been slain at the hands of the Emardian Guard. He was the last of his bloodline left in Emardia—his parents, brothers, and three sisters having long ago fled the war-torn country to settle in Argonne, an island country held by the Justonian throne. When he died, there would be no one to mourn him and he courted that death with every breath he took for he knew he was living on borrowed time. It was just a matter of the when and how of his death that he didn’t know. Letting his rigid shoulders relax, he winced at the fiery pull on his torn flesh. His hatred of Felix Thurston became a burning coal in the pit of his gut. He had good reason to despise Thurston and to wish for him the same fate the insane man had decreed upon one of the northernmost Emardian villages.
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“Take a battalion of men and eliminate the whole of Quintain,” Thurston had ordered. “I don’t want anything living in that village when you are finished!” It had been a reprehensible order given by a man who had lost all reason over the course of the last five years. Sierran was convinced Thurston—having witnessed the savage destruction of the general’s own family—had become unhinged, a snarling, foaming-at-the-mouth incompetent. Most of his orders were outrageous and many of his junior officers found ways to circumvent them while striving to bring the matter to the attention of the governing members of the Ibydosian Federation, the governing body who now controlled Emardia as well as its own lands. Sierran knew it wouldn’t be long before someone—and now he thought it might well be him—would put a dagger into the general’s evil heart. “No, sir,” Sierran had told Thurston with an emphatic shake of his head. “There are no rebels in Quintain. They are nothing more than a village of women, children, and the aged. To kill them would be sinful. I won’t do it.” "That is beside the point. They are Emardian! They must die!" "No, sir. I will not commit such a crime against the innocent." "You are a WyndMaster!" Thurston bellowed. "You must obey me without question!" "A WyndMaster does not war on those unable to protect themselves, sir." Thurston’s face had turned crimson at Sierran’s refusal to carry out the order and he had drawn back a doubled fist to strike his subordinate. That the intended object of that hit caught the general’s fist in a steely grip and had stared levelly into the general’s eyes without flinching had infuriated Thurston even more than had Sierran’s rejection of his order. “Twenty lashes!” Thurston had screamed. And thus Sierran had ended up with his uniform shirt ripped from his back and his body stretched to the whipping post at the mercy of Thurston’s own ta’zeer or whips man. 12
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As he sat there the remainder of the night, Sierran could not stop himself from wondering what further punishment Thurston had planned for him. That it would be brutal and unjust he had no doubt. He only hoped he’d be man enough to take it.
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Chapter Two Anna Celeste Allen sighed loudly as she watched the scullery maid and her lover as they met beneath the oak tree just beyond the kitchen gardens. She was sitting in her window seat with her chin resting on the backs of her crossed hands, doing what her father would no doubt chastise her for were he to find out. It had been by chance that Celeste spied the lovers as she glanced out the opened window and her attention had been caught and held as the lad pulled the maid into his arms. Such a thing was unknown to her so she had stopped to watch, ashamed at her illicit spying but unable to look away. The sight of the handsome young man embracing his lady then placing his lips to hers had made Celeste’s heart beat faster and she—like any impressionable teenager—had begun to daydream. But then the lad had put a hand to the doxie’s breast to caress her through the coarse material of her woolen gown. “Oh, my!” Celeste said, feeling her face burning. She was shocked into utter stillness—her eyes nearly as wide as her mouth—and when the lad’s hand had delved down the maid’s bodice, she had nearly choked as she gasped. Unable to step back from the window for she was rooted to the spot with shock, Celeste watched as the maid and her lover sank to the ground. The maid lay sprawled on her back as her lover tossed her skirts up to reveal long legs bare of stocking, garter or… “Oh!” Celeste gasped. The maid wore no underthings at all and the juncture of her legs was thrown wide for her lover to caress—and caress he did with a feverish intensity that stunned Celeste.
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Tearing her eyes from the vulgar display of the maid’s near nudity, Celeste stared at the woman’s face as her lover continued to knead her busily between the legs. The woman’s lips were parted, her eyes closed, her hands buried in her lover’s dark blond hair. With the bodice of her gown pulled down over one breast and the fiery triangle practically gleaming in the morning sun, surely the woman was headed straight for the fires of hell! Though she did not see what the young man pulled from his pants as he fumbled at the front of them, Celeste nearly cried out with mortification as the woman threw her legs around her lover’s hips and arched up to meet him, her ankles crossed over his waist. Thrusting his lower body hard between the maid’s thighs, the young man slid his hands under the maid and lifted her higher. Only then did Celeste look away, hurriedly getting up and moving away from the window, putting distance between her and the temptation to see what else the brazen lad would do. Fanning herself, Celeste fled to the safety of her bed and sat down. She was breathing so quickly she felt lightheaded and reached out to wrap her hands around the tall mahogany four-poster column. “Oh, my,” she whispered again. Was that what all men and women did together? she wondered. How would she ever know when no one could—or would—explain to her what went on behind the closed bedchamber doors of a man and his lady? Celeste had never known her mother—Lady Alinor had died giving birth to her only child—and those women with whom she came into daily contact rarely spoke to her unless Celeste initiated the conversation. The women certainly never answered the questions she asked. The healer her father had hired to care for her over the years was a woman and it had been from her Celeste had learned of certain taboo subjects about which her parent otherwise would not have spoken. Had it not been for Madame DeAnce, Celeste would have believed herself bleeding to death the day her menses had begun.
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“It is natural, child,” the healer had said with a tsk-ing sound. “Do not be afraid. It happens to all women of your age.” “My chest is getting bigger, too!” Celeste had complained. “As it should,” Madame replied. “Soon, there will be hair where hair has not been before. Do not be alarmed. That, too, is natural.” Forbidden to speak of certain topics—such as what made women different from men and how children came into being—Madame DeAnce could not answer many of the questions Celeste had. What she had done, though, was hint that there were things that were natural to the world that Celeste’s father thought inappropriate for his daughter to learn. “He would keep me a child forever!” Celeste had complained to the healer. “Aye,” Madame had agreed. “I believe that is so.” “Is it wrong for a man and woman to be together?” “No, child,” Madame stated. “It is a beautiful thing between the right man and the right woman. Love is a wondrous gift given to us by the gods.” And so Celeste stayed ignorant of many things her father did not deem decent for her to know. He kept her a virtual prisoner in a satinlined tower and away from all that might corrupt her. Her suite of rooms—one floor up from her father’s—occupied the massive tower with its sweeping three hundred and sixty-degree view of the surrounding countryside. Restricted to that room, Celeste was only allowed down the stairs when accompanied by her father—which of late was infrequently the case for he was often away on Federation business since the war with Emaria had deescalated. Her meals were eaten in her luxurious suite but she dined alone, aching for company and something more she could not rightly define. On rare occasions, her father would take her riding in his buggy for a breath of the sweet country air and especially so when the leaves upon the trees on the mountains were changing color. Even then, she neither saw the groomsmen who had readied the buggy nor the guards at the gate who allowed them to pass over the drawbridge. 16
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“Where are the guards, Papa?” she’d once asked. “You have no need to see such coarse individuals, Anna Celeste,” her father answered. “Nor do they have the right to see you.” Not once in her eighteen years had she ever spoken to any man other than her father. Though from time to time she’d spied the male servants going about their business on the estate, she knew her father would not approve of her intently watching them and she had not, until today. She lifted her head and looked at the window beyond which temptation was drawing her. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her hands shaking as she slid down from the bed and made her way slowly, hesitantly, to the window. With her lower lip tucked between her teeth, she climbed up on the window set and cautiously looked down. Fascinating by what she was seeing—although she knew it was wrong and should she be caught, punishment was a certainty—Celeste knelt there on the window cushion and watched. Her heart was pounding so furiously in her chest, she was getting a headache from it but nothing could have torn her away from her spying. She knew in some untutored part of her mind that she was observing what men and women did with one another and the revelation was exciting. When the lad shuddered then collapsed upon the maid, Celeste held her breath, waiting for what might come next. She was unprepared when the lad rolled off his paramour, his lips pulling free of the maid’s bare breast. Gasping, Celeste nearly fell from the window seat as she scrambled away from that sinful sight. Had the lad been suckling at the maid’s breast? Surely not! Was that not an animal thing? Had she not observed one of the stray cats feeding her brood in that fashion? Her eyes moving back and forth as she thought about what she’d just seen, Celeste crept back to the window but did not climb up on the window seat. Her face was hot, her breath coming in ragged little gasps of nervousness. She hovered there with indecision for a long time so that by the time she dredged up enough courage to take another look, the lad and the maid had vanished.
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Relieved—yet oddly disappointed—Celeste went back to her bed and lay down. Her head was throbbing unmercifully and she prayed she wasn’t getting one of her brutal migraines. Putting a hand up to rub her temple, she could not get the image of the lad pulling away from the woman’s teat out of her mind. Some part of that image gave her the strangest feeling and each time the picture flitted across her mind’s eye, she would feel a tightening in the lower part of her belly and an odd heaviness between her legs. “Stop this, Celeste! You should not be dwelling on such sinfulness,” she cautioned herself and turned over to bury her heated face against the silk of her pillow sham. That what she had seen would be a sin in the eyes of her father she had no doubt. Many had been the time over the years when she had sat through his lectures on the evil of men and to what base depravities they could sink. “Get down upon your knees and thank the gods that I love you as I do, Daughter,” he had often said to her, “for I shall never let such evil lay hands to you!” Of what depravities her father spoke she had no idea and when she would timidly venture to ask, his eyes would bulge, his lips would peel back from his teeth, and he would extend his lecture to include wayward children who dared to question their fathers. She had learned to never ask lest she be forced to endure another hour or two on her knees as her father continued his tirade against the baseness of the male gender. Only once had she dared ask her father what would become of her when he left this world. Who, then, she’d asked, would protect her from the evil of men? “I shall not leave this world without you being cared for in a manner in which I approve,” her father had declared. That declaration did not bear thinking on so she had pushed it from her mind. Lying there as her headache subsided a little, she turned over on her side and stared at the wall, her gaze searching for the small imperfection
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in the plaster that seemed to comfort her when she felt lonely and alone. For hours she would stare at that flaw—the only thing that dared to not be perfect in her room—and focused on peacefulness she did not feel. “Why can’t I be like other girls?” she asked so quietly no one save the gods could have heard. “Why can’t I live like other girls?” Other girls were courted by gallant young men who swore eternal devotion to them, who went down upon one knee to ask for their lady’s hand in Joining. Joinings were performed in elaborate ceremonies presided over by impressively dressed priests and the marriage was sealed with a gentle kiss. Had she not read of such happenings in the books she had managed to sneak out of her father’s library—hiding them beneath her skirts or tucked down in the bodice of her gown? Did she not know of knights and their sumptuous castles, of such gallant warriors being ready to die for the hand of their love? Was not a life of living happily ever after the conclusion of such things? Sighing heavily and feeling emptiness deep inside her that hurt her to the depths of her soul, Celeste wished fate would intervene and send to her such a knightly man to free her from her bower.
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Chapter Three Though the guards had informed him several of his men had tried to gain access to him during his imprisonment, Sierran saw no one save the two men who were his jailers. No letter was ever delivered to him even though he’d been told one had been attempted. “They crucified him, Commander,” the guard told him. “For daring to try to contact you.” “Who?” he’d asked, heartsick at the thought of one of his men dying for such a reason. “Barnes, he was,” the guard replied. “Barnes?” Sierran had echoed. “Frederick Barnes?” “Aye, that might have been it!” Grief drove straight through Sierran for Freddie had been his secondin-command and a lifelong friend. To know the man had died in such a loathsome way hurt more than the lash of the cat. After the guard had left him with the maggoty bread and foulsmelling water he was allowed, the commander of the Ibydosian Force broke down and cried. It was not for his own predicament he wept— although that was bad enough—but for the loss of a good man whose only guilt had lain in wanting to comfort his friend. “I’m sorry, Freddie,” he said, tears cascading down his stubbled cheeks. “I beg your forgiveness.” Each day passed as wretchedly as the next with news of more men under his command having met a gruesome fate at the hands of the fanatical general. The bodies of men alongside whom Sierran had lived and fought for ten years littered the roadway into town. Left hanging to
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rot upon the wooden crosses to which they’d been nailed, as still living food for the carrions circling overhead, those brave men had met an unjust end simply for having been close to Sierran. “Enough!” he’d screamed to the gods who had forsaken him. “Take me! Not them! Kill me! I deserve what you do to me. They don’t!” But surcease from his torment did not come. The pain only worsened to the point where tears would no longer suffice and he spent his waking hours praying for the souls of the dead and his nightmarish nights walking amongst the Shades, begging for their forgiveness. He was lost, alone, and living in a hell not entirely the creation of the man who had sworn to break him. A portion of that hell he had designed and built for himself and he resided there in a kind of numbing limbo that would not allow him to take his own life—though he tried that once. Because he had, his jailers had been given no choice but to shackle him wrist and ankle to the wall at Thurston’s order. Death was not to be an option for Sierran Morgan. Well into the second week of his captivity, the guards arrived at his cell door with four other men, one of them holding heavy wrist and ankle shackles. “They have sent for you, Commander,” the guard who Sierran had learned was named Crotchet informed him. “It’s time for your sentencing.” A wry snort came from the prisoner as Crotchet and his partner, Abrams, unlocked his shackles and delivered him into the hands of the other two guards. Sierran had sagged against them, causing one guard to backhand him across the face, bloodying the prisoner’s nose “Can’t the bastard walk?” one of the new men asked with a hiss. “Does it look like he can?” Crotchet shot back. “He’s been hanging on that fucking wall for nigh on a week!” The man with the shackles had snapped them into place on Sierran’s wrists then hunkered down to attach them to his ankles, the bands so tight they pinched his flesh.
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So they had dragged him from his cell, his bare toes scraping over the rough stone of the walkway. He had been limp in the guards’ rough hands, unable to even lift his head as he was carried along. As they took him past windows, he had shied away from the brightness, his eyes no longer accustomed to such intensity. The guards halted and he opened his eyes to stare down at the floor below him. From the corner of his eye he saw the boots of other guard and flinched when one said “By the gods, he reeks!” A door was unlocked and he was pulled down another long chamber. His shoulders and back were cramping and his head swimming but he kept his jaws tightly locked closed, unwilling to make a sound to let them know they were hurting him. “All rise!” Sierran heard someone say. The three-member Judicial Panel was seated already when Sierran was brought into the law hall of Wardsgate Prison. He was weak from lack of food and sick from having broken down and ingested the tepid water that had been his only nourishment during his incarceration. His face was gaunt, his glazed eyes watering as he tried to stave off the watery pain that gripped his belly. He did not fear the pronouncement of his punishment—that was a given for two of the members were related to General Thurston and the third was a friend of the general's. What he feared was that he would soil himself in front of the panel. He knew without a doubt such humiliation would surely break what will he had left. Casting a surreptitious eye around him at his surroundings, he knew something wasn’t right. No trial would ever be held without spectators or a defense lawyer to represent him. As his troubled gaze swept the room he saw General Thurston there and beside him was a tall, cadaverouslooking man in a long red robe. At the sight of that crimson-clad specter, Sierran’s blood ran cold for he knew who the man was and what his appearance at the sentencing meant. He closed his eyes slowly, knowing he was doomed. This was no legal trial sanctioned by the Federation but a condemning bought and paid for by Thurston.
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“Commander Morgan,” the man sitting in the middle position upon the Judicial Panel spoke. “Did you or did you not disobey a direct order given to you by your superior office, General Thurston?” There was no way to deny the truth of the situation and Sierran wouldn’t have even if it would have benefited him. “Aye, milord,” he said hoarsely. “I did.” The end had come swiftly and without any further debate. “You give us no choice, then,” the Primary Judge said. “You are hereby remanded into the custody of His Lordship the Dungeon Master of Dragonmoor until such time as you take your last breath.” The sound of a gavel punctuating the Judge’s words cut off all hope Sierran had that there might be justice for him in this world. He should have known better—and did—but hope died quickly and brutally that day for him as he was dragged back out of the law hall and out into the blinding light of day. Squinting against the hot, glaring sun, his bare toes stumbling over sharp rocks, he was thrown into the back of an iron box on wheels, unable to keep the whimper from his lips as the flesh of his bare arm and feet touched the metal—heated by sitting hours beneath an unseasonably hot November sun. He knew as hot as the box was during the daylight, it would be just as cold in the frigid evening winds that swept across Placidia’s plains. “Do what you wish with him,” he heard Thurston say. “He’s stubborn and needs to learn his place.” “Oh, that I shall, General,” Lord Charles, the Dungeon Master, replied. “I like nothing more than a stubborn man with whom to while away the hours.” Sierran was too sick at heart and body to even react to the vicious laughter that greeted those words. As the wagon began to roll and the iron-clad wheels jolted hard over what had to be every rock in the road, he lay there wishing himself dead for he knew death would be preferable to the vile things Lord Charles Henry Allen would do to him.
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Long before the sweltering iron box had gone a mile, Sierran lost consciousness from the super intensity of the heat pressing in upon him, searing every breath he took. Sierran came to some time later, thrust rudely into consciousness as water rushed up his nose and into his mouth. He had been been pulled from the box, drenched in sweat, barely breathing, and the guards had shoved him face-first into a water trough to revive him. His feeble struggles weren’t enough to make a difference as the guards held him under, laughing as he strove to come up for air. He clawed at their hands until he realized this was one way to end his wretched existence and he opened his mouth to take in the liquid death. Realizing his prisoner’s intent, Lord Charles stepped forward, slamming a fist into one guard’s shoulder. “Pull him out!” Brought up coughing and sputtering, Sierran felt the vicious hand that buried itself in his dripping hair and yanked his head back. He could not stop himself from groaning. “You’ll not die so easily or so quickly, Morgan,” Lord Charles warned. “I have many years to peel the flesh from you inch by inch before I allow you to leave this world!” The hand gripping his hair twisted sadistically then slammed Sierran’s forehead into the rim of the water trough. Once more the welcoming arms of unconsciousness reached up to take him and he slid thankfully down into its black embrace. “Take him below. Garton, light their way,” Lord Charles demanded, dusting his hands together with distaste. The stench of the prisoner was on his flesh and that was one thing the Dungeon Master could not abide. Dragging the limp man from the trough, the guards grunted under his dead weight as they pulled him across the lower bailey and then through the door of the gatehouse, down the long, serpentine steps that led beneath the keep into the very bowels of Dragonmoor. Ahead of them, a third guard held a burning torch, its feeble light doing little to dispel the thick gloom. “It ain’t right,” one guard said, shaking his mane of unkempt hair.
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“You keep on saying that and you’ll be joining this one on the Slab,” the other one snapped. “This man is a national hero,” the guard mumbled. “Aye, well, even heroes can fall. Best you do as Roberts says and shut your mouth,” the man with the torch warned. “These walls got ears.” “Do you think the Federation knows where he is?” the guard persisted. “Shut your mouth! He wouldn’t be here if they did!” There was no need for guards on the lower levels of Dragonmoor. The cells were well underground and the doors there kept locked night and day, the prisoners never allowed outside unless taken to the dungeon at Lord Charles’ bidding. Those who had reason to venture past the heavy ebony door that led from the bailey down the rough stone steps, made the trip to the cells quickly then left hurriedly for the lightless, dank and stench-filled area was enough to make even the stoutest of heart uneasy. Some even said the cells were haunted by the ghosts of those tortured and slain in the dungeon and that might well be the case for unnatural sounds abounded near the cells, and cold unlike anything known to man permeated the wretched chamber. Dropping their prisoner into a cell at the far end of the row of small units, the guards made haste to leave, Garton pushing them ahead of him as they came out of the cell. Locking the door behind them, the three practically ran up the stairs for a low moan had started up the moment they’d turned away from the commander’s cell and it had not come from the hapless man’s throat. *** Sierran lay where they had left him. He had awakened as he was pulled over the stones and his shin ached with the abrasions. The heavy shackles on his wrists and ankles were still attached—dragging at his limbs—driving home the point he was no longer his own man but someone else’s. As weak as he was, he could not have moved even had
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he the heart to do so. Before him was unrelieved darkness and he knew that was what his world was to be from now until he was allowed to die. That Lord Charles would keep him alive for as long as he could was like a sharpened sliver of wood being driven under the fingernail of Sierran’s soul. “Why?” he whispered but the gods had turned a deaf ear to him. *** Sergeant Vargas DuMond was as angry as a man could get and not suffer a massive stroke. His face was as red as a beet, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had bled of color, and his teeth were gnashing against one another as he tried to keep the howl of fury from erupting over his men. “I’ll see that bastard roasting o’er a slow spit before this is done!” Vargas’ younger brother, Seth, roared, his sword thrusting into the air along with the shouts of those around him. “The first course of business is to find Sierran,” MacDougal said in a calm voice. Vargas swung his shaggy head toward the Solarian and glared at him. No one knew from what part of that small country the man had come nor his first name. He was an enigma to all of them save their commander. What they did know was that he was a brave man, a methodical, steady fighter, and had no compunction about killing their enemies. “You think?” Vargas growled, his emerald eyes flashing. Mac shrugged. “That we slaughter those who have hurt our leader is a given, DuMond. That we be quick in rescuing him is, as well, but we have to find him before we can do the rest.” “There is no record of him ever having been arrested,” Seth said. “How can we find him without knowing where the fuck he was taken? As far as the Federation knows, the commander was punished for failure to comply with Thurston’s order and that he was flogged. They might not have agreed with Thurston, but they had to uphold the punishment.”
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“Aye and that’s as far as it should have gone,” Vargas snapped. “There is foul play at foot here, men!” “You think?” Mac drawled, throwing Vargas’ words back at him. “So what the fuck do you suggest, Solarian?” Vargas bellowed. MacDougal’s thin lips split into a merciless smile. “We go after Thurston and strip the skin from his fat gut until he tells us what we want to know.” Vargas blinked. “Aye, and then we’ll hang for…” “Who says the bastard needs to survive our visiting him?” Mac inquired softly. “All it will take is two of us to go to his tent tomorrow night and we overpower him. As I see it, it’s the only choice we have.” Seth frowned. “Why tomorrow night? Why not tonight?” Mac folded his arms over his stocky chest. “Because he’s got company tonight.” “Two of them pretty-boy hookers from town,” Vargas said, then turned his head and spat on the ground, leaving no doubt how he felt about anything that would lay down for the general. “Can’t we attack anyway?” Seth asked. “How much resistance will a pair of whores give us?” “Think, brat,” Vargas said, flashing his brother an annoyed look. “If there are two boys there, that means Thurston will have invited another half-man from amongst the battalion. That would be three we’d have to take out quietly before ever reaching the general. That’s like sending an engraved announcement unless you think it could be done with no notice or noise.” “I want Thurston’s balls for what he did to the commander,” Seth mumbled. “Well, come tomorrow night, we will have them,” Mac stated. “And when that madman dies while he’s being questioned—his heart having given out on him due to the stress and all or maybe even from having accidentally suffered a puncture wound of some kind…” His smile was vicious. “Who will care about the loss of that crazed son-of-a-bitch?”
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Chapter Four There were no words Sierran knew that could describe the agony that was being visited upon his body. He lay stretched out, spread-eagle, upon a cold stone slab—waist height on Lord Charles—with his wrists and ankles locked under wide iron bands. Naked as the day he’d come into the world, he was shivering not only from the intense cold of the dungeon but from the all-engulfing pain that was slicing at his flesh inch by bloody inch. A thick gag had been wedged between his teeth and the cloying feel of its wetness from his own saliva made his stomach revolt. Pulled tightly, the gag had split the corners of his mouth and he could taste the saltiness of his blood from time to time. “Such excellent muscle tone,” the Dungeon Master said, running a hand along Sierran’s quivering abdominals. “You are quite the specimen, Commander. It seems a shame to ruin such perfection but that won’t be for a month or two yet, so not to worry.” Another slow, shallow slice dragged across Sierran’s stomach to join the dozens of others already there. Some cuts had closed and were healing, but most still oozed. Lying in a pool of his own blood, tensing as each new, methodical, and precise incision opened his flesh, Sierran could feel the Dungeon Master making his way down his belly and dreaded the moment when the razor-thin blade would begin its work on the most sensitive part of his anatomy. As though he had intercepted that fearful thought, Lord Charles straightened up and tilted his head to one side. “Oh, no, Commander. I always save the best for last. Next, I will begin on your left thigh at the crease. After that, we will turn you over and I will begin at the top of your right arm and work my way down. We’ve many, many wonderful hours to
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spend together, my boy, and then we have the bottoms of your feet, between your toes, before I ever lay hands to your cock.” It was all Sierran could do not to whimper. Though relieved to know his manhood would be saved such pain for the time being, he could not keep the muscles of his legs from tensing. “Feel free to groan, if you like,” the Dungeon Master said. “I shall think no less of you if you do.” Another slow, agonizing cut slid across Sierran’s flesh, just above his pubic hair and the pain was so intense, he had to squeeze his eyes tightly shut to keep from crying out. He didn’t know how much longer he could remain silent under the systematic incisions. For the last week, Lord Charles had concentrated his efforts first on his prisoner’s right arm and then his left. From shoulder to wrist on the underside of the arm, small, defined cuts were inflicted with care. Then the torturer had moved on to Sierran’s chest, scoring slice after slice— not too deep, not too wide—but with an expertise that made the prisoner feel as though he were being filleted. “Your pectorals are so well formed, so hard, Commander,” the Dungeon Master had observed as he ran his palm over Sierran’s cringing muscles, threaded his fingers through the crisp mat of hair covering his captive’s chest, before beginning to mar that smooth flesh. “You are, no doubt, a much disciplined man, eh?” It was the unexpected heat and strength of the hand that wrapped around him that made Sierran gasp. His eyes flew wide open and he stared with horror at the Dungeon Master. “Surprise, Commander,” Lord Charles said with a smirk. Sick to his very soul, humiliated by the feel of the torturer’s fingers gliding over him—tugging gently upward, rotating softly downward— Sierran hissed behind the gag. “Do you recall,” the Dungeon Master said as he ran the tip of his finger over Sierran, “how the general offered you the comfort of his embrace, and you spurned him?” He squeezed softly. “That was a mistake, don’t you agree?” www.samhainpublishing.com
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Sierran’s head whipped back and forth and the material of the gag sucked in and out of his mouth as he panted at the foul touch. “Is it the degradation of this position that causes such fear in your eyes, Commander, or is it the anticipation that I might slice this offending shaft from your well-honed body?” A slow, merciless smile stretched over Lord Charles’ thin lips. “Or is it that you fear I’ll turn you to your belly and introduce you to something you fear more than the removal of your shaft?” Straining to ignore the pleasure and pain that traveled up and down his shaft, Sierran locked his eyes on the rough stone ceiling overhead. “Such a manly weapon,” the Dungeon Master observed, increasing the rhythm of his manipulations. “I am sure you’ve pleasured many a whore in your day, haven’t you?” Despite the enforced restraint binding him to the Slab—as Lord Charles fondly referred to it—the bleakness of his situation, the threat of worse pain yet to come, Sierran could feel his cock hardening beneath the Dungeon Master’s tight grip. Blood was rushing into that treacherous tool and although he tried to will it otherwise, he began to burn for release—a release he knew would shame him and give his tormentor even more control over him. “Feel the juices wanting to spurt, Commander,” Lord Charles said in a soft, mesmerizing voice. “You want the relief. You know you do.” It was more than just the humiliation of his position, of a total stranger putting hand to his private parts that sickened Sierran. It was that he could do nothing to stop the outcome that was sure to mortify him. Tears gathered in his eyes and ran down his temples into his hair. His chest was shuddering in his effort to hold the climax at bay and when he realized he could not, that the man stroking him would win, his tears increased, flooding his eyes to make his lips quiver behind the gag. “That’s it, Commander. Let go,” Lord Charles ordered gently, his hand moving quickly, fingers tightening and letting go, sliding and dragging down. “Release your juices.”
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When it came, the climax nearly shattered Sierran’s sanity. He hated it with every ounce of his being and he hated the disloyal shaft that had allowed him to be abused, to be manhandled in such a base way. “See?” the Dungeon Master said, releasing him. “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” Sobbing like a child, Sierra was so ashamed, he turned his head away. “There, there,” Lord Charles said, patting his shoulder in a fatherly, consoling way. “I’ll give you a few moments before we begin on your thigh. You rest now.” His tormentor moved away, the sound of his footsteps climbing the steps the only relief Sierran knew he’d find that night or day—he had no idea which it was and had only a vague sense that a week had passed. Loathing himself, hating the man who had shamed him, brought him to such utter disgrace, Sierran lay there and cried, hearing nothing but the plop-plop-plop of water dripping in the recesses of the dungeon. *** Celeste looked up from her embroidery as her father entered her room. She smiled, her eyes glowing at the sight of him, and laid the tapestry in her lap. “Are you ready for supper, Precious?” her father asked, holding out a hand to her. “Aye, Papa,” she said and secretly rejoiced that she would not have to spend another night alone in her room eating her supper. She got up and took his hand. Lord Charles brought his beloved daughter’s hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “You are the very light of my day, Anna Celeste,” he said, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm. “And you have made mine with your presence,” she said. She laid her head on her father’s shoulder.
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Escorting her from the room and down the long, gracious stairs to the dining room where he had ordered the cook to prepare all of his daughter’s favorite foods, Charles Henry Allen was in a very good mood. He had undertaken a very successful day and though he had thought to return to his task after the meal, he decided he would much prefer having Celeste play the pianoforte for him to while away the hours until bed time. “How was your day, Papa?” Celeste asked as her father held her chair for her. “Very productive,” her father replied. “I accomplished a great deal today.” “I am happy to hear it,” she said as he seated himself. “Yes, I believe I had a major breakthrough with my patient today,” Lord Charles said. He shook out his napkin and laid it gracefully in his lap. “It is so rewarding to make noticeable headway.” Celeste believed her father worked in the ill and was very proud of him. messengers came to the door to awaken though she hated that his rest was thoroughly dedicated to his profession.
a clinic in town, ministering to Many were the nights when him, to ask his assistance and disturbed, she knew he was
“May I ask what ails him?” she asked. “So many things, my dear,” her father said with a heartfelt sigh. “I really didn’t know where to begin when I started. Sometimes, you just have to let the body tell you.” The servants came in quietly to place the food upon the elegantly appointed table. “Is he very ill?” Celeste inquired as her soup was ladled into the bowl before her. “Not so much ill as stubborn,” her father answered. “He refuses to accept his situation and that always makes my job so much more difficult.” He glanced at her as he sprinkled salt into his own bowl. “Though rewarding when all is said and done, and I’ve sent the patient on his way.” 32
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“What of his family?” she asked, her eyes lighting up as she sipped a spoonful of the rich broccoli and cheese soup, her favorite. Her father sighed. “He’s an orphan, I was told. No family left to worry over him.” He shook his head. “Such a sad situation. I fear I might well be the last to see him…” He was interrupted by the sound of many voices raised in anger and then came heavy pounding that shook the rafters overhead, causing the crystal chandelier to vibrate, its dangling prisms clinking together. “What the…?” the Dungeon Master began but then something heavy hit what might have been one of the gatehouses, and the sound of splintering wood and falling stones made the dining table shudder. The screech of the portcullis being lifted was easily identifiable. “What’s happening, Papa?” Celeste asked with her eyes wide. “Are we under attack?” “We’d better not be!” her father snarled. “I pay the military a goodly sum to protect my estates!” Lord Charles pushed his chair back—the dainty piece of furniture crashing to the floor—and then stood, tossing his napkin to the table as he strode angrily out into the hallway beyond the dining room. “Fredericks!” he bellowed. “What is that racket?” Celeste got shakily to her feet, her entire body trembling as she heard screams and shouts. A loud thump sounded and then the thunder of horses’ hooves pounding over the drawbridge. She backed away from the table—her hands over her ears—as the shouts intensified and the screaming began. Her father came running into the room, his eyes wide. “Come, Celeste!” he shouted with a hand outstretched toward her. “We must flee!” “Papa, what’s going on?” Celeste asked as she took her father’s hand and he drew her toward a tapestry hanging on the south wall. “Barbarians, thieves!” her father snarled from between clenched teeth. He reached up with his free hand to snatch the tapestry from its hanging rod to reveal a door in the wall Celeste had not known existed. www.samhainpublishing.com
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Just as he put his hand on the heavy round iron pull, a crossbow bolt shot past his shoulder to bury itself in the wooden portal. “Stay where you are!” a booming voice shouted. Lord Charles fumbled with the door handle, scrambling to open the secret passageway and get his daughter inside. But just as he pulled the massive door toward him, a dagger sang through the air, narrowly missing Celeste. “The next one goes in her back!” Spinning around like a cornered animal, the Dungeon Master hissed, jerking his daughter behind him. “Leave her be! She is an innocent child!” Celeste peered around her father’s shoulder to see the room becoming overrun with warriors, all fully armed with swords and daggers. They were a lethal-looking sight with angry faces that made her heart quiver in her breast. “Where is he?” one man demanded, stepping forward with his sword held out in front of him. “I have no idea to whom you are―” Celeste gasped as the man with the sword lunged forward and the tip of the weapon was pressed to her father’s throat. She felt his hand jerk in hers. “Thurston is dead,” the leader snapped. “He told us you have our commander here.” He increased the pressure on the sword point until a fine stream of blood oozed down Lord Charles’ neck. “Where is he?” Trembling violently, Celeste had pushed herself close to her father’s back. Her teeth were chattering and she was terrified. As cosseted as she was, she was not accustomed to such violent behavior. Not once in her life had she ever heard her father raise his voice in anger until this night nor had he ever shown any indication he was capable of the aggression being exhibited by the intruders. Her idyllic world was crashing down around her ears and she was having a hard time coping with the drastic change.
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“I don’t know of whom you are speaking,” Lord Charles stated, his chin raised. He swallowed hard—flinching at the stinging pain touching his flesh. Vargas DuMond turned flinty eyes to the young woman hiding behind the back of the lord of the manor and he smiled nastily. “What say you we ask your doxie, then?” “How dare you?” Lord Charles shrieked, eyes flaring. “This is my young daughter you slander, you animal! Speak with respect of her or I’ll―” “You’re no longer in charge here, you bastard,” Vargas snarled. With his free hand, he tapped the pocket of his jerkin. “I have the authority of the Federation backing me up. Hand over the Commander or by the grace of the gods, I’ll snatch up that tasty morsel behind you and throw her shapely ass to my men for their pleasure!” Celeste whimpered. She had no idea what that meant but from the stiffening of her father’s body, it was something horrific. “My daughter is an innocent girl,” Lord Charles said, his lips quivering. “She has never known―” “She’ll learn quickly enough,” Vargas interrupted. “Won’t take much doing on her part to lie on the table with her legs spread.” Gasping, Celeste thought she would faint from the vulgarity of the man’s words. She could feel her father’s body trembling with rage and his hand tightened on hers. “Leave my girl be and I’ll take you to him,” the Dungeon Master said. The leader stepped back, taking the sword point from Lord Charles's throat. “Then do it before I hike her skirts up o’er her head.” Releasing his daughter’s hand with some effort―for Celeste did not want to relinquish the only safety she felt―her father took her by the shoulders and looked into her terrified eyes. “Be brave, child,” her father said. “I’ll allow no harm to come to you.” “Papa, I don’t understand. What’s happening?” she said as tears fell down her pale cheeks. “Who are they looking for?”
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Lord Charles put a hand to his daughter’s cheek. “Stay here. I’ll―” “She comes with us,” the leader snapped. “No!” the Dungeon Master thundered, spinning around to direct a steely glower at Vargas. “She is too young and innocent to see―” “Then it’s time she grew up and took a good look at what her sire is, don’t you think?” MacDougal interrupted. “I will not have my child subjected to―” “Bring her,” Vargas said, snaking out a hand to grab Lord Charles’ upper arm and jerking him forward. “No! I beg you! She should not see―” Celeste flinched as the leader backhanded her father into silence, leaning toward him and saying something that bled the color from her parent’s features. “Do we understand one another, milord?” the leader sneered. Seeing her father lower his head in submission frightened Celeste even more and she could not even begin to imagine what evil thing her father had been threatened with to render him as meek as he turned and led the men out of the dining room. The young man who strode up to her had a stern, hard expression on his face but he made no attempt to put hands to Celeste. He simply cocked his head in the direction the others were going and she stumbled away from him, wringing her hands at her waist as she walked, her steps hindered by the tears wavering in her eyes. It was out of the main hall, down the steps and across the nightdarkened lower bailey her father led them. The air was crisp and she shivered as the cold air wafted over her shoulders. Looking around her she saw armed men on horseback holding her father’s people at bay, a few of those she thought might be Dragonmoor guards lying face down on the ground, their hands behind their heads. Other than accompanying her father to certain rooms of the main building such as the dining hall, the chapel, solarium, and library, Celeste had never been inside the outer buildings. She knew the name of each structure on her father’s estate and thought the upper floors of the 36
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keep were where most of the castle’s retainers lived thus a place she had no reason to visit. But when her father took a key from his trouser pocket, unlocked the massive door to the keep then took a burning torch from the wall to light their way inside, she realized the place must be off limits to most of the staff for there were cobwebs festooning the inner guardroom and the smell of mold and decay was overpowering. “If the Commander has caught lung fever from being in this vile place…” Vargas began but MacDougal put out a hand to restrain him. Dank and dismal, malodorous and as cold as an artesian spring, the room through which Lord Charles led them had the feel of death about it. It was an overpowering sensation that had the men shifting their shoulders and Celeste putting a trembling hand to her mouth to hold back the whimper of fear that threatened. When he unlocked a second door and started down a long curving stairway, it was all Celeste could do not to beg her captors to allow her to stay above ground. Although her fright grew in leaps and bounds, she was even more afraid of the burly men who kept sending her hateful glances so she meekly followed the others, keenly aware of the man behind her bringing up the rear. For what seemed like half an hour the group descended into the dampness of the keep. The lower they went, the colder it became and the stronger the scent of decay. Absently putting her hand on the stone wall beside her, Celeste jerked it back, grimacing at the slime that came away on her palm. She ran her hand down her skirt, feeling sick as the feel of that unknown substance seemed to cling to her flesh. When at last the group reached the bottom of the stairs, her father held his torch to another unlit one flanking the door then unlocked the portal. He paused, turning to look at the man he thought to be the leader of those who had invaded his home. “I beseech you do not allow my daughter to see what is beyond this door. She is only a child with a tender heart. She―” “Has no idea who and what you are,” Vargas snapped. “It’s high time she learned.” “If you have any decency, don’t do this,” Lord Charles pleaded.
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“I’m about as decent as you are compassionate. Move, Dungeon Master!” Celeste frowned at the term. She had no idea what it meant though she knew what a dungeon was. There were references to such places in many of the fantasy books she read. But her father was a physician, not a man who ran a jail for miscreants. Surely these men had come to the wrong man, had mistaken her father for someone else. Vargas shoved Lord Charles into the pitch-black room beyond, the Dungeon Master’s torch sputtering as he stumbled forward, the light from the flames illuminating the various vile appliances scattered about the room. “It’s a bloody torture chamber!” the man behind Celeste hissed. “Where the hell else did you think he’d be, Seth?” another man asked. “Where is the commander?” Vargas ground out. “Through there,” Lord Charles said, arching his chin toward a darkened doorway. “He’d best be alive,” Vargas warned and snatched the torch from the Dungeon Master’s hand. Barely cognizant of the fingers that had wrapped themselves around her upper arm, Celeste found herself moving toward the doorway through which the tall, burly leader had passed. “No!” her father shouted, trying to get between her and the doorway. “She should not see this! Do not let her see! He is unclothed and―” Those men who had entered the doorway beyond, and who were now ringed about something in the center lit by the torch in the leader’s hand, were strangely quiet as her father scuffled with two other massive warriors who restrained him. His furious words, his demands that she be spared whatever gruesome sight lay beyond made Celeste cringe as she was pulled steadily forward until she stood behind the backs of the men who formed a barricade in front of her. “Bring her here,” she heard the leader say in a husky voice.
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“No!” her father shrieked. “Celeste, no! Do not go in there!” The men in front of her turned to look back at her with fierce, brooding eyes then—like a silent wave—shuffled aside, fanning back in an arc to each side to allow her a view of what lay beyond. “See what your father has done,” Vargas spat.
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Chapter Five When he had heard the noise coming down the stairs, Sierran had thought it was his torturer coming back. He had been unable to stop the fear that pushed at his throat. The mere thought of more pain, the prolonged sting of the slow, deliberate slices into his flesh set his insides to shaking. At the moment he heard Vargas’ unmistakable bark of a voice, he thought he was dreaming, but then he’d realized his men had come for him and he closed his eyes in thanksgiving to let fresh tears streak down his temples. Slowly turning his head toward the harsh glare of the torch that lit up the room, his narrowed gaze fell on Vargas and the agony in that man’s stunned eyes hurt more than any cut that had come from the Dungeon Master’s blades. “Bring her here,” he heard Vargas say and wondered who his man meant. What woman should see the awful things done to him? He was looking into Vargas’ green eyes—pleading silently with him for understanding—as a young woman was drawn forward and he shifted his attention from the soldier to her in surprise. “See what your father has done,” Vargas told her. At first there was nothing to see save the man bound to the high slab but as a drop of blood fell over the side of the gray stone to plop to the floor, her lips parted in shock. “Take her away!” Lord Charles screamed. “Do not allow her to see this!” “Move your little ass, wench,” Vargas said. “We want you to take a damned good look.”
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Her legs feeling like stone, Celeste reluctantly came closer to the slab. Very slowly her attention shifted upward from the crimson stain on the floor to the ghostly pale face of the prisoner. She saw dark brown wavy hair falling over the man’s sweaty forehead. She saw livid bruises on his face then as full horror set in, she saw the scores upon scores of cuts on the flesh of his arms and chest. She came to an abrupt halt—hearing her father’s protests coming from far, far away, all sound slowly fading to silence—her horrified stare locked on the grisly sight of the man’s myriad cuts. Once more her gaze lifted to his wounded, amber-colored eyes and something dark passed between them only a fraction of a second before her eyes rolled up in her head and she began to fall. Vargas leapt toward the girl, cursing as he did, and grabbed her in a rough embrace before she hit the floor. Swinging her up in his arms, he looked to Sierran for help. Sierran was unable to speak for the gag between his teeth. MacDougal hurried forward to the head of the slab and bent over to slit the bloody material with his knife. His commander looked up at him for a moment as Mac gently pulled the material from Sierran’s mouth. “Commander?” Vargas asked over the enraged shrieks of the Dungeon Master whose eyes were bulging and who was practically foaming at the mouth. Shifting his attention to Lord Charles, watching the man buck and twist in an effort to reach the woman, Sierran knew he had a way to hurt the Dungeon Master in ways far beyond the physical. He tried to clear his throat and with effort spoke to Vargas. “Take…” he whispered. “Take them with us.” Vargas shifted the slight weight of the unconscious woman against him and nodded quickly. He looked to Mac who was gently unlatching the shackles that held Sierran’s badly bruised wrists. “Get a wagon prepared. The commander will never be able to sit a mount.” “Seth!” Mac called out. “Unlock his ankles.” “B…box,” Sierran managed to say and Mac leaned over him. “Iron box for the gallows keeper.”
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“What iron box?” Mac asked. “I saw such a contraption out by the stable,” Seth said as he came to the slab and began undoing the restraints on Sierran’s left ankle. “It’s used for transporting prisoners.” “The sweat box?” Vargas said, his eyes narrowing as he met Sierran’s eyes. “You were in that?” Sierran nodded wearily. “Drag that bastard out of here and throw him in the box,” Vargas snarled. He whistled for Mac as that man started past him. “Take the lady with you.” “Don’t put her in the box,” Sierran whispered. “He won’t.” Sierran watched as Vargas gently laid the unconscious woman into Mac’s arms and tensed. The thought of his sergeant touching him on his lacerated back—or even moving him for that matter—sent waves of unease down his spine. He clenched his teeth as Vargas came to stand by him. “I’ll apologize in advance,” Vargas said then very slowly and with great care slid his arms under Sierran’s back and beneath the prone man’s knees. “Do you want a blanket thrown on you?” “No!” Sierran managed to reply. The very thought of his cuts coming into contact with anything brought tears to his eyes. Brutish pain shot through his chest, arms and back as Vargas lifted him from the table. With his eyes squeezed shut against the stinging agony, his breath coming in shallow, rapid drags, it took the last of his strength to drape an arm around Vargas’ neck. The cuts on the underside of his forearm stung like a hive of bees were attacking him. He let his free arm hang down beside Vargas’ hip, too weary and hurting too badly to attempt to pull it up. The climb up the stairs was slow and infinitely excruciating. Wounds that had closed were opened up to seep into the wool material of Vargas’ tunic and drip blood down Sierran’s limp arm and from his fingers. It was a relief when he was taken outside and the cool night air washed 42
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over his nakedness. The cold seemed to numb the pain and he welcomed it as Vargas carried him to a waiting wagon. All around the lower bailey, the Dungeon Master’s servants stood in silent fear of the armed men whose weapons were thrust toward them. Guards whose wrists were now bound behind them stared at the group with resignation and it was evident to the slowest man in Sierran’s troop that the guards would not lift a hand to help Lord Charles as that man yelled and pounded upon the insides of the iron box into which he’d been cast. A set of thick boards had been propped against the back of the wagon to form a walkway up which Vargas carefully trod. From somewhere a feather mattress had been procured and lay in the middle of the wagon which had been lined with a thick carpet of straw. Blankets and quilts were folded to one side. As he was being lowered to the mattress, Sierran forced himself to look around him. “W…where is the girl?” he whispered. Vargas frowned. He had lain his commander down and was hunkered there by the mattress with one knee in the straw. He turned to look over the tall bed of the wagon. “Where’s the woman?” Mac came striding forward, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s in the stable. I didn’t know what to do with her. She’s still out.” “Damned female vapors,” Vargas complained then looked down at Sierran. “Where do you want her, Commander?” “Here,” Sierran said, flexing his fingers against the bare mattress, weakly scratching at the material. Vargas’ eyebrows shot up. “On the mattress with you?” “Aye,” Sierran said then closed his eyes. His head was splitting open with the beginnings of a migraine and he was shivering from the cold. Vargas frowned and took up one of the blankets. Very carefully, he unfolded it and laid it over the lower part of Sierran’s body, covering his legs and waist. “Bring her here, Solarian,” he ordered Mac.
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The Dungeon Master recommenced screeching to the high heavens for no doubt he’d heard the order through the small air holes in the top of the windowless box. “Do not touch her, you fiend!” he bellowed. “He’s calling me a fiend?” Vargas grumbled as Mac came striding up the platform with the unconscious woman draped over his arms. He stared at the girl as she was laid carefully beside Sierran. “Something tells me he don’t know what one is yet.” Sierran ground his teeth as the wagon started forward with Vargas sitting off to one side of the mattress and Mac and Seth sitting on the tailgate with their legs dangling. Pain constantly shifted through him as the wagon appeared to hit every rut and bump in the road. He managed, through tightly clenched jaws, to ask Vargas where they were headed. “We’ve your ship lying at anchor in Bowsted Harbor, Commander. We’re going to take you home to Zykanthos until you’ve healed.” “Did the Federation give you permission?” he asked, his eyelids heavy. “Didn’t need none,” Vargas said with a sniff. “We told ’em what we was going to do when we found out where you was and they didn’t say nothing. They ain't happy about Thurston's doings.” “Stop your posturing, Vargas. We got permission, Commander, and then we took leave,” Mac put in. “All of you?” “Aye, sir,” Mac agreed. “Every man jack among us.” Despite the agony he was experiencing, Sierran smiled. He was tired—his lacerated back paining him even more than the cuts on his chest and arms, and he longed for sleep. It had been days since he’d slept soundly yet he could not seem to drift off as he lay there. Instead, he turned his head and looked at the woman lying beside him. Her face was turned toward him and it was perhaps the loveliest he’d ever seen. A complexion that looked as soft and fresh as pale honey made the dark sweep of her long hair—curling gently around her shapely hips—appear to be even darker. Twin crescents of artfully shaped eyebrows and long, thick brown lashes intrigued him and if he had been 44
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able, he would have reached out to touch their feathery length with a fingertip. With high cheekbones, a pert little nose, and full lips that beckoned a man to have a taste, the young woman moved something in his heart that he had not felt in many years. “Vargas,” he croaked and his man bent over him. “Aye, Commander?” “Take a blanket and cover her. Her arms have chill bumps on them.” Vargas nodded and reached over to pick up one of the blankets. He stood—bracing himself against the roll of the wagon—and straddled Sierran so he could gently lay the blanket over the woman. The woman stirred then her eyelids fluttered open. For a moment she lay there staring into Sierran’s eyes—her own narrowed in confusion. Then as memory no doubt returned, she blinked and sat up hurriedly as though she’d been zapped by lightning. Scrambling to the head of the wagon, she sat there trembling with her knees drawn up into the protection of her arms, staring at the men who were watching her. “Where am I?” she asked in a wavering voice. “You’re safe, wench,” Sierran told her, having to crane his neck to look over at her. She glanced down at him and he saw her wince as her gaze lit upon the vicious cuts on his chest. He heard her moan. “It’s all right,” he said, feeling an overpowering need to soothe her. “My father,” she said and shuddered. “He’s behind us, milady,” Vargas said in a gentle voice none of the other men had ever heard him use. "In that iron box in which he brought the commander here." She looked behind them and tears formed in her eyes. She made a keening sound that made the hair on the men’s arms stand up. Sierran’s head was throbbing unmercifully and he lowered his head for he no longer had the strength to continuing looking up at her. He closed his eyes, a frown forming as the pain in his temples seemed to increase. “You got one of the megrims?” Vargas asked.
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“Aye,” Sierran acknowledged. Vargas stretched out his leg and fumbled in the pocket of his breeches. He pulled out a blue glass vial, uncorked it, and then moved to squat down beside Sierran. “Here you go. Something told me you might need this.” With care he slid his rough hand under his commander’s neck and lifted gently. Sierran hated the taste of the brew that helped to control his headaches but at the moment, he needed rest. He winced as Vargas tilted the strong cherry-flavored drug into his mouth. “Is that tenerse?” he heard the woman ask. “Aye,” Vargas replied, glancing over at her. “You familiar with it, are you, milady?” She nodded. “Only too familiar,” she replied. Sierran wanted to tell her he sympathized with her if she, too, suffered from the debilitating headaches but almost as soon as the drug slipped down his throat, his world began to canter off to one side—if not pleasantly, at least soothingly. He closed his eyes and shuddered from the vile taste then lay as still as he could so the brew could work quickly. “Shouldn’t you cover him?” she asked, pulling the blanket that had fallen to her lap when she’d sat up to her chest. “He hurts too bad for the weight of it,” Vargas said. “And it would be too scratchy, I’m thinking.” The young woman was looking down at Sierran. She pushed the blanket away and reached down to hike up her gown. Vargas exchanged a look with Mac as the young woman began removing her petticoat. “What are you doing, milady?” Vargas asked. She didn’t answer until she had pulled the silk from under her gown. She met his look of puzzlement as she extended the garment toward him. “Will you cut it in half? It’s not much but we can cover him with it to block out the wind.” Sierran forced his heavy eyes open at her words. He saw Vargas’ arm reaching across him, heard the sound of fabric being rent then he felt something light and satiny laid softly over his chest and arms. The faint 46
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scent of gardenia wafted under his nose and the garment still had a hint of her body heat clinging to it. “Does that hurt, milord?” the girl asked him in an anxious tone. “Nay, wench,” he managed to say and was grateful for the blocking of the chilly night wind over his cuts. “Thank you.” “It is the least I can do, milord,” she said quietly. “I am so sorry.” “Don’t,” he said, his eyes closing. “Never apologize to…” His voice trailed off. Vargas smiled as his leader fell into a deep sleep from the drug. He glanced up at Celeste and winked. “Tenerse does him in every time,” he told her. Celeste nodded. “Me, too,” she said quietly. She picked up the blanket Vargas had given her and swung it around her shoulders. “I don’t like the way it makes me feel but it does help with the pain.” “We’ll be to the ship in about an hour, Milady,” Vargas said. “There’s a settee in captain’s cabin. You can sleep there.” The thought of being in a bedchamber—even one aboard a ship—with a man she didn’t know sent a shiver of unease down Celeste’s spine, but upon lowering her gaze to the sleeping man, she knew there wasn’t much chance of him molesting her. She wasn't sure about the other men. “What will become of my father and me?” she asked, still looking at Sierran. Vargas shifted, shrugging his broad shoulders. “I don’t know, milady. I reckon that’s up to the commander.” “Who?” “The commander,” Vargas said, pointing at the unconscious man. “I don’t even know his name,” she said. “Commander Sierran Morgan, milady,” Vargas said. "He is a WyndMaster with the Ibydosian Force." "I am not familiar with that term," she said. "What does it mean?" "The commander was knighted by King Edmond. He took his commission directly at the request of the king." www.samhainpublishing.com
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"I take it that is an honor?" "It is, and the commander is a national hero in Emardia," Vargas said. "The King's own champion, if you will." “And you?” Vargas tipped an imaginary hat to her. “Sergeant Vargas DuMond, Milady, and the young one there is my brother, Seth. He's a private. The ugly one is Corporal MacDougal but we just call him Mac.” Seth and Mac nodded politely to her from their seat on the tailgate. “Thank you for treating me respectfully, gentlemen,” she said. “I do appreciate it.” “We don’t know no other way to treat a lady, ma’am,” Seth assured her. “And believe me, he’d take us to task were we not respectful of you, milady,” Mac put in, nudging his chin toward his leader. Sierran groaned and Vargas laid a cautioning finger to his lips for everyone to be quiet. Leaning her head against the tall side of the wagon, Celeste closed her eyes. She wasn’t so much cold as she was uncomfortable with the jolting ride and hard wooden planking of the wagon’s bed the thick mound of hay could do nothing to cushion. Her belly was rumbling for she’d only taken a few spoonfuls of soup before the men had barged into her home. In her mind’s eye, she replayed those terrifying moments but the soldier’s intrusion had been nothing compared to the horrific sight she’d seen in the dungeon torture chamber she had not known existed. There had been the blood dripping on the floor, the naked man shackled to the stone slab, his body covered with cuts, and those images would surely stay with her for the rest of her life. Snapping her eyes open to keep from seeing those awful images, she stared at Sierran, instead. In the bright moonlight overhead, she could see his features well enough and with his pain erased for the time being, his face relaxed, she realized what an incredibly handsome man he was despite the bruises on his cheekbone and chin.
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Swarthy in coloring with dark wavy hair, a cleft in his chin, he had long eyelashes and a bold nose. He was long of leg and broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, flat of belly, and his arms looked well honed. His chest was wide and nicely muscled, finely pelted with dark wiry curls that were matted with blood from the myriad of cuts. She sighed heavily. He was the kind of man—minus the savage wounds—she’d dreamed of having scale the walls of Dragonmoor to rescue her from her tower, taking her on his big black destrier to his luxurious castle high up in the mountains where they would live happily ever after. Her father’s screams of fury jolted Celeste from her imagining and she looked at the black iron box on wheels as it rolled along behind the wagon in which she rode. She could not imagine someone being thrust into that awful contraption in the heat of the day. How unbearable it must have been if the commander had endured such on his way to Dragonmoor. Returning her gaze to the sleeping man, she knew he would exact payment in one form or another for the torment he had endured. She only hoped the punishment he meted out would not end her life before she’d even had a chance to live it.
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Chapter Six Lightning speared viciously down from the heavens and the ship rocked savagely upon the sea, thrown up one heaving wall of water then crashing down into the trough with fierce waves rising high aboard the tallest masts. Thunder boomed, lightning cracked and the wind howled. It was a demon’s lethally charged music that set the nerves on edge. Celeste lay huddled on a velvet settee with her hand over her mouth to hold her crying at bay and with her pillow pulled down tightly over her head to try to shut out the ferocity of the storm. She had always been terrified of bad weather and was trembling so violently the settee was vibrating beneath her. With each shrill zap of lightning and every brilliant glare of harsh light, she jerked, keening to herself in her fright. It was as one particularly sharp cracking discharge broke across the firmament that Sierran came awake, groggy still from the tenerse but thrust rudely out of sleep by the brutal intensity of the storm. He could feel the heaving of the ship, the rocking motion as it was pitched upon the waves and became aware of the groaning of the timbers above him. Rain was slashing at the windows so loudly he knew it must be hailing. The fierceness of the wind made him uneasy for he had some knowledge of waterspouts and with the seas as unsettled as they were this night, such a thing was highly possible. Sitting up with some effort, for his chest and arms stung cruelly, he lifted a hand to plow his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. He grimaced; the oily feel disgusted him. It had been weeks since he’d had a bath and he was acutely aware of his own ripe body odor. He had refused to allow his men to tend to him when they’d brought him to the bunk—groggy still from the tenerse and in too much
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pain. All he’d wanted was to sleep where it was warm and soft. Wincing, he sucked in a breath and swung his legs off the bunk, hoping Vargas had thought to leave a pitcher of water in the cabin. He had to hold onto the bunk with one hand as he struck a match to light the swinging oil lamp on the wall beside the bunk. As the soft mellow light blazed into life to cast a wavering glow on the wall, he heard a muted whimper and turned. For a moment he was puzzled at seeing the covered figure lying on the settee. He stared at it for a moment—knowing full well Vargas or Mac wouldn’t be making such a sound—then memory came back to him and he knew it must be the Dungeon Master’s daughter trembling beneath the thick wool blanket. “Milady?” he called out and was rewarded by complete stillness on the cot. He almost smiled as the blanket came down a few inches to reveal a pair of wide eyes staring back at him with fright. “Aye, milord?” she said. “Are you all right?” he asked. "No," she whispered. The ship rolled heavily to starboard and Sierran was thrown to the bunk. He gasped as his chest slid along the bedcovers and grabbed handfuls of the sheet to keep from being slammed into the wall opposite the bunk. “Gods-be-damn it!” he hissed, feeling the cuts on his belly pulling opening. Mindless of the fury cracking above her and the shrieks of the lightning slashing beyond the stern windows, Celeste threw the blanket back and hurried to Sierran. He was struggling to get up on the bunk so she took his ankles to swing him up, cringing at the cry of pain that escaped his throat. She stepped back from the bed, her attention caught by the soft-looking black pants he was wearing. The sight of them fired her imagination and sent a wave of hot feeling to the pit of her stomach. She vaguely remembered his men dressing him as she lay huddled beneath her blanket to block out the sight. www.samhainpublishing.com
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Sierran flipped to his back to take the pressure off the cuts on his chest. Thrusting his hands into his hair, he grabbed his head, his face screwed up with pain, his knees bent so the flesh of his belly and chest wasn’t pulled taut. In the wildly swinging lantern light, Celeste could see the blood seeping from his wounds and looked about her, searching for a cloth to staunch the flow, to wash the lacerations. When she saw nothing she could use, she made her way to the door—stumbling against the violent pitch and roll of the ship—to try to pull it open. She crashed against the wall, almost fell to the floor twice before she managed to jerk open the portal. She stuck her head out and yelled for Vargas at the top of her lungs. As soon as she heard running feet, she stumbled her way back to the bunk. Vargas burst into the cabin, his hair standing on end, his eyes wild. “What?” he bellowed. “I need water to wash his wounds, more water to bathe him, and cooler water for him to drink,” Celeste ordered. “Get soft clean cloths, soap, a bottle of whiskey, and a sewing kit.” “A bottle of whiskey and a sewing kit?” Vargas repeated, confusion running rampant over his coarse features. “Some of those wounds need suturing,” she told him without missing a beat as she reached out a steady hand to touch Sierran’s stomach. “I need the whiskey to sterilize the needle and thread.” Only half awake, Vargas stood there trying to make sense of the woman’s orders. “Do what she says,” Sierran ordered through clenched teeth. He had his jaw clamped tightly shut and was breathing raggedly. He didn’t know what hurt more—his chest or his back. Without another word, Vargas spun around and sprinted out of the cabin as the girl strove not to be thrown onto the bunk with Sierran. “Sit down, wench, before you fall on top of me. I don't think I could bear that just yet,” Sierran warned. He wasn’t looking at her but could sense her hovering there. 52
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“I am not a wench,” she said. “My name is Lady Anna Celeste Allen.” Cautiously she sat down on the edge of the double bunk, holding on to the handhold on the wall beside the berth. “You may call me Celeste, if you wish,” she mumbled as she was jostled back and forth. “Formalities seem a bit unnecessary, given the circumstances, and we might be blown away at any moment. I don’t like storms. I don’t like storms.” Sierran couldn’t help but smile at her litany. She sounded like a little girl. Despite the agony it caused him, he held his hand out to her. “Come here, Celeste,” he asked. Celeste slipped her hand into his. “What if the ship capsizes?” she asked. “What if it doesn’t?” he countered and watched her brows draw together. “Then we’ll make land,” she replied. “I imagine Captain Kynth has every intention of making sure that happens,” he told her. "Don't you?" “You’re probably right,” she agreed. “He’s always right,” Vargas said as he came back with Mac in tow. “Just ask him and he’ll tell you.” Celeste met Sierran’s eyes. “Is that true, milord? Are you always right?” She eased her hand out of his. “Ninety-nine percent of the time, wench,” Sierran replied. “Aye and it’s that other one percent that usually gets his arse into trouble,” Mac said with a grin. “But he don’t count that, you see.” “That’s because other people do it for me,” Sierran muttered. Bracing himself against the bulkhead wall, Mac held a basin of water as it sloshed back and forth with the movement of the ship. Over his shoulder were hung strips of cloth. Vargas was carrying the whiskey bottle under his arm, a pitcher of water, and under his other arm, what appeared to be a sewing kit. “This water’s warm, milady,” Mac said. “And I’ve got a bar of chamomile soap in my pocket.”
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“Pour him some of the cool water, please,” Celeste said. She lifted Sierran’s head gently with her free hand and tipped the tumbler to his lips, waiting until her patient had downed an entire tumbler before asking Vargas to thread a needle then run the needle point over the lantern’s flame. “Is there something you can lay the needle and thread in to pour the whiskey over them?” “Seems a good waste of whiskey,” Sierran commented when Vargas told Celeste he’d brought a cup in which to drop the thread to sterilize it. “Now that your thirst has been eased, I advise you to take a few big pulls on the whiskey bottle, then, milord,” Celeste advised Sierran. “I’m good at embroidery but I’ve never sewn flesh before.” Sierran winced. “Aye, well, I’ve never had my flesh sewn before. It’ll be a first for us both.” “Don’t hurt all that bad,” Mac reported, fishing the soap out of his pocket. “Stings a bit.” He handed the soap to Celeste, who took one of the cloths and dipped it in the water. When she had the cloth soapy, she tucked her lips between her teeth and looked at Sierran. “I need to cleanse your wounds, milord.” He nodded, bracing himself for the pain he knew would come. “Do what you have to,” he said. "I'm all yours." Sierran was grateful her touch was softer than he would have imagined possible, as gentle as down touching the cuts. The warm water felt good, though the soap stung his lacerated flesh. He watched her face and could see her concentration as she moved from one wound to the next—taking her time to thoroughly cleanse away the dried blood. Her pearly white teeth were clenched upon her bottom lip as she worked. Though it seemed to take forever for her to work her way down his chest to his belly and he was sweating profusely by the time she asked quietly for the needle and thread, he was reluctant for her to stop touching him. “I see four cuts that need suturing,” she told him. “When that’s done, I’ll look to your arms.” “How ’bout his back?” Vargas asked.
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Celeste turned her head to look at the soldier with shock. “My father made cuts on his back, as well?” “Nay, milady,” Vargas said with a shake of his head. “Them cuts came from the cat-o-nine when he was lashed at Wardsgate Prison.” Sierran saw the young woman’s face pale and as she slowly turned her eyes back to him, he could see moisture gathering in their lovely blue depths. His attention went to her lips to see them quiver. “I am so sorry,” she whispered. "It's all right." He felt the need to say to take the pain from her eyes. “I’ll see to your back, too, then,” she said before clamping her mouth tightly shut. The suturing was an agony he could ill afford and Sierran had to struggle not to groan as the needle wove in and out of his tender flesh— made even more so by the vicious cuts. He twisted the sheet in his fists, dug his heels into the bunk’s mattress, and kept his eyes locked on the ceiling beam overhead. “I’m almost finished,” he heard her say. “I’m still here,” he managed to respond. “Where did you learn to sew up a man’s wounds?” Celeste looked away from the last suture to glance at him and when she did, his gaze jerked from the ceiling to hers. They stared at one another for a second or two then away. “I have never sewn a man’s wounds before but I have completed quite a few tapestries and samplers. The stitching isn’t that different although there is more pull with human flesh than with fabric.” “Oh,” he said. “Right.” “Give him the bottle, Vargas,” she said as she cut the thread on the last stitch then gently ran the palm of her hand under Sierran’s neck to lift his head once more. Vargas extended the whiskey Commander,” he commented.
to
Sierran.
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“It’s
good
stuff,
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Burning a way down his throat, the whiskey was righteous as Mac was fond of saying. It was potent but he knew it would take more than a slug or two to put him in a mellow mood and at least half of it to blot out the pain burning on his chest and arms. “What else do you need, milord?” she asked him when he lowered the bottle. “A real bath,” he said with a sigh as he handed the bottle back to Vargas. “I fairly reek.” Celeste turned to Vargas and arched a brow in query. Vargas blushed. “Aye, milady,” he said with a sigh. “I can bathe him if he wants me to.” He squared his shoulders. “Is that what you want, Commander?” “I’d rather she does it but I’ll settle for you,” Sierran stated. She removed her hand from under his neck. “Behave,” she ordered, but her lips twitched. Before she could pull her hand away, he took it in his and brought it to his lips. “Thank you, wench,” he said softly. “I am in your debt.” “Celeste,” she reminded, feeling that kiss all the way to her toes. “My name is Celeste.” "Celeste," Sierran repeated and half-smiled. "Not wench." "Not wench," she agreed, returning his smile. She looked momentarily flustered, then cleared her throat. “I…I will see to your back once you have finished your bath,” she said. “Be careful with him, Vargas.” “Celeste, have you eaten?” Sierran asked as she started for the door, stumbling against the rolling pitch of the ship. She looked back at him. “Why do you ask?” “Your stomach is rumbling,” he said then glanced up at Mac. “Get her something to eat.” “Aye, Commander,” Mac said. He set the basin of water on the night stand bolted to the floor by the bunk then ushered Celeste from the cabin. “A right pretty lady,” Vargas observed. 56
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“She is,” Sierran agreed. “Be a shame to spoil something as fresh as her, wouldn’t it?” He put his meaty hands on the waistband of Sierran’s pants and began tugging them down, avoiding looking at his commander’s privates. Sierran frowned. “You think that’s what I’m intending to do?” He ground his teeth to keep from groaning. “Don’t know what you’re intending,” Vargas said. “Just making a comment, Commander.” “A comment based on your opinion, which is…?” “Well, now since you asked,” Vargas said as he slipped the pants from Sierran’s feet and folded them before laying them aside, “I’m thinking it strange a young woman of her age ain’t married or in the least betrothed.” He turned to the washbasin to soap a cloth. “How do you know she isn’t?” Sierran closed his eyes for Vargas began running the warm washcloth down his hips. “You know me and Mac wouldn’t have broken into that castle without knowing everything about it and the people in it that we could learn,” Vargas said. “I believe it was you who taught us that.” “So what did you learn?” “The lady was as much a prisoner in that evil place as you were. The Dungeon Master did not allow suitors to come courting her and she was never allowed to be alone with any male save himself. He chose her clothes for her, what books she could read, how she could spend her idle time, and even picked what food she could have to eat. It was reported he once told a crony that he wanted to keep his daughter as pure as the day she was born, unsullied by any man’s touch. He has made arrangements for his daughter to be taken to St. Carolus Convent when he dies and I know you’ve heard rumors of that vile place.” Sierran opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. “Aye, I’ve heard it is more a prison than a convent.” "Aye, well the estate will go to the daughter with the nuns having the run of it to keep the daughter well taken care of."
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"As if they'd care what happens to her once they have their greedy hands on such a rich holding," Sierran commented. “Lord Charles never intended for his daughter to have any kind of freedom and as I see it, we’re doing her a favor by removing her from under his care.” “No wonder he was screaming his head off at her being near us,” Sierran said. He closed his eyes again as Vargas washed that part of him that sent chills of discomfort through his entire body. “I can just imagine what he thinks we’re doing to her,” Vargas said with a chuckle. He was staring at the wall and not at where his hands were. “And you’ve no doubt encouraged those thoughts of his,” Sierran said. “He tortured you so we’re torturing him. Can you ease over to your stomach, Commander, so I can wash your back?” It took some doing, but Sierran managed. The pain wasn’t quite as bad with the deeper cut closed and the dried blood washed away from the wounds so the caked blood did not pull on his flesh. “By the gods, those bastards marked you bad,” Vargas said as he laid the warm, soapy rag on Sierran’s back to loosen the caked blood. “I’m wishing I could dig up Thurston and that gods-be-damned ta’zeer and kill ’em again.” “You took out the ta’zeer, as well?” Sierran asked, remembering well the whips-man's expertise with the Cat. “He enjoyed his work that day just a little too much for my tastes,” Vargas said with a sniff. “If’n he hadn’t been bragging about it in the pub, he wouldn’t have met his end.” When Vargas had washed Sierran’s back and legs, he bent closer over the lacerations and proclaimed them healed well enough. “Though,” he said, “they are going to leave some brutal scars, Commander.” “Help me sit up,” Sierran asked. “Is there any way you can wash this greasy mop of hair of mine? It feels like an army of lice are crawling around up there.” 58
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Vargas thought about it as he helped Sierran to sit up, carefully pulling the covers over his leader's bare legs. “I’ll need someone to hold the washbasin or I can hold it if the lady will do the washing. I imagine she’d been gentler than me.” Sierran smiled. “You’re determined, aren’t you, Vargas?” “Don’t know what you mean,” Vargas said. He picked up the washbasin and headed for the door. “I’ll get some fresh water and the lady to help me wash your hair.” Feeling much better now he was clean, Sierran barely noticed the roll of the ship as he sat in the middle of the bunk. The bank of windows over the massive desk at the stern of the ship continued to strobe harsh white light into the cabin from time to time and the rain lashed at the glass. He no longer heard the plink of hail hitting and that was a relief. No sooner had that thought entered his mind than the ship stopped rolling, the rain ceased, and the wind stopped howling. Frowning, he knew they had entered the eye of the tempest and the worst part of the storm lay behind them and was slowly coming toward them. “Let’s hurry this up before the ship starts bobbing around again,” Vargas said as he and Celeste came in. “Vargas said it’s going to get worse,” Celeste said, her expression revealing her fear. She was carrying a thick towel and a pitcher. “We’ll ride it out, milady,” Sierran said, flashing Vargas an accusatory look. She put the pitcher on the nightstand then turned to drape the towel over his bare shoulders. “Scoot down a ways in the bed then let your head drop back over the basin, milord,” she said as she retrieved the pitcher and Vargas moved so his commander could do as she asked. “We’ll be as quick about this as we can.” The feel of warm water flowing over his hair made Sierran groan with the pleasure of it but that feeling was nothing compared to the soft hands that rubbed shampoo into his curls and began gently massaging. “Sweeting, I’ll give you ’til dawn to stop that,” he mumbled.
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“Dawn’s not that far away, Milord,” she said as she dug her fingernails lightly against his scalp. “Did you eat?” he asked. “I had some broth, cheese, and bread,” she said. “It was surprising good for ship’s fare.” “This isn’t the first time you’ve been on a ship?” he asked, surprised since Vargas made it sound as though she’d never been allowed away from Dragonmoor. “Yes, it is,” she replied. “But I’ve read about shipboard life.” “You’re living shipboard life, now, milady,” he said as she smoothed his wet hair back from his forehead, rinsing the suds from the thick curls. “I know,” she said on a long sigh, then began toweling his hair dry. “It’s so exciting.” Relaxing beneath her gentle ministrations, Sierran wanted it to go on forever. She smelled of gardenias—just as her petticoat had—and it was a scent he’d always enjoyed on a woman. “Let me see your back,” he heard her say as she removed the towel from his hair. It took some doing but he managed to twist around so he could do as she bid. "How can any human being do such evil to another?" she asked. "It's some men's job and some enjoy it," Vargas replied. Sierran felt self-conscious with the two of them staring at his marked back and he would have given anything to see the expression on Celeste’s face as she viewed what he knew must be a gruesome mess. “Do we have any salve on board?” she asked in a matter of fact tone of voice. “Aye, but I imagine it would sting like the very demon,” Vargas replied. “Then we’ll just have to wait until I can brew something for him when we go ashore,” she said. 60
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“You can do that?” Vargas asked before Sierran got the chance to. “I’ve read many books over the years,” she replied. “One of them was on homeopathic medications. Although I’ve never brewed such a salve, I do remember the ingredients and instructions on how to do so.” “You’ve a good memory, then,” Sierran remarked as he ran his fingers through his wet hair. “I am like an elephant,” she said. “I never forget.” “A what?” Vargas asked. “It’s a large beast with a long nose with which it sucks up its food and water. He has huge floppy ears. It can weigh over five tons and stands higher than ten feet,” Celeste said. Vargas shook his head. “Don’t reckon I’d like to meet up with one of them.” Celeste noticed Sierran yawning and put a hand carefully on his bare shoulder. “Perhaps you should lie down now, milord,” she suggested. “Aye,” he said and clenched his teeth as he stretched out. As he did, the wind began howling again and rain pelted the stern windows. He tugged the covers further up his chest, a bit uneasy being completely naked beneath the sheet. “Here it comes again,” Vargas said as the ship began pitching once more. “I’d best go make sure everything’s battened down up top.” The soldier’s words were nearly drowned out by the crack of lightning overhead and the steady boom of thunder. Covering her ears at the next shriek of lightning, Celeste started to run back to the settee but she felt Sierran’s hand on tugging at her skirt. “Come lie down beside me, milady,” he said. “I’ll keep the storm beasties away.” She hesitated for only a moment and as another shrill shriek rent the air, she climbed up on the bunk. “I don’t like storms,” she said. "I don't, I don't, I don't." “So I’ve noticed,” he said with a chuckle. He threaded his fingers through hers and lay there on his back with her forehead pressed
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against the curve of his bare shoulder. He could feel her trembling and wished he could put his arms around her to comfort her but he knew doing so was bound to cause him pain he didn’t care to feel. “Where are we going?” she asked, trying to blot out the ferocious noises bombarding the ship. “My home on Zykanthos,” he replied. “It’s an island off the coast of Argonne.” “Does it storm like this there?” she asked. “Occasionally.” The ship was rolling brutally from side to side, bow to stern and would drop down into a trough with no warning. Such movement could sicken the sturdiest sailor and someone unaccustomed to the motion could get seasick quickly and that was the case with Celeste. What little food she'd consumed decided to make a return trip. Sierran jerked as she yanked her hand from his and flipped to her side, leaning over the bunk to relieve her belly of the meager meal she’d forced down earlier. He scooted over on his hip to her and put his right hand on her arm to keep her from falling off the bunk as she retched. His left arm was above her head and he could feel her hair touching his cuts but he tried to ignore the discomfort. “Oh, god!” he heard her moan. “I’ve got you,” he said, tightening his grip on her. The sour stench of vomit filled the cabin and the smell was making him queasy. He had to swallow hard to keep the bile from surging up his throat. Laying his forehead against her back, he took deep breaths in through his mouth to quell the nausea. “Ah, milady,” Vargas said as he came hurrying in. He rushed to the nightstand, took up the basin, and ran out with it. Where he dumped the contents was a mystery but he came back to hold the basin under Celeste’s chin. Sierran could hear him bellowing for Mac to bring a fresh pitcher of water and a cup. “Is everything okay on deck?” Sierran asked.
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“We lost a crewman to the sea but the cap’n said we can ride it out. It’s a bad one, Commander,” Vargas answered. Mac arrived and poured Celeste a cup of water. “Here you go, milady,” the Solarian said. “Rinse your mouth out for us.” Celeste cheeks were flaming as she fumbled for the water and brought it to her lips. “We’ve been blown way the hell off course,” Mac told him. “We won’t make Zykanthos before late afternoon tomorrow now.” “My father,” Celeste managed to say as Vargas ran a cool washcloth over her heated face. “Is he all right?” Mac’s lips twisted. “Aye, milady. I checked on the Dungeon Master, myself. As luck would have it, he’s still chained to the wall but at least his shouts have died down to hissing now.” Celeste nodded and moved to lie back down. She heard Sierran’s gasp and knew she’d bumped into his chest. “Milord, I am so…” “Don’t say it,” he warned, moving back from her so she could stretch out. “Never apologize to me.” She turned her head and looked at him. He was so unbelievably attractive lying there on his side facing her. His dark hair was once more falling over his forehead and she longed to push back the silky curls. In a flash of light from the windows, she could see his eyes had a honey gold cast to them. In all, he was one devastatingly handsome man and the sight of him was wrecking havoc with her senses. “Fetch me some soapy water to clean this up, Mac,” Vargas ordered as he hunkered down on the floor to mop up the vomit with a discarded towel that had been used to dry Sierran’s hair. Mac went to do as he was asked. “When you get done with that, have the captain come see me,” Sierran told Vargas. Vargas’ eyebrows drew together at the request but he didn’t question it. “Aye, Commander.”
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After Vargas and Mac left the cabin—the floor cleaned and smelling slightly of pine—Sierran finally lay down beside Celeste. She was as rigid as a board but he didn’t think that was because she feared him as much as she feared hurting him. “Milady?” he questioned softly. The rain had finally stopped and the wind was no longer skirling like a berserker around the ship. “Aye, milord?” “You asked what I intended for you and your father,” he reminded her. Celeste was already tense as she tried so hard not to come into contact with his injured body. “Aye?” “I’ve not decided about him as yet but I have decided about you.” Her heart was hammering wickedly in her chest and she eased a hand up to her throat. Before she could ask what his decision was, there was a light knock at the door. “Come!” Sierran called out. Captain Petros Kynth was a big, burly man. When he entered the cabin, he appeared to dominate the berth he’d given up to his passenger. “You heard about my crewman?” he asked. “I will pray for his soul,” Sierran acknowledged. “It was his first time out,” Petros said with a shake of his head. “Give Vargas his family’s address and I’ll see they get compensated for his loss.” Petros thanked him. “Was there something else, Commander?” “Aye,” Sierran said. “This is Lady Celeste Allen.” “Milady,” Petros greeted her with a touch of his finger to his temple. “Thank you for getting us safely through the storm, Captain,” Celeste said, feeling very strange lying in the bunk as the massive man towered over them. “My request is concerning Lady Celeste,” Sierran stated. Petros tilted his head to one side in query.
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Sierran took a deep breath then said, “I want you to marry us.”
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Chapter Seven Celeste sat up so quickly she nearly passed out. Her mouth had dropped open and her eyes flared wide with disbelief. She stared down at the man lying beside her, unable to make a sound. “We’ll need two witnesses,” Petros said. “I’ll get Vargas and Mac.” “What are you doing?” Celeste managed to squeak. “Effectively killing at least two birds with one stone,” he replied. With effort, he pushed himself up on his elbows. “I’m giving you your freedom to have a normal life―plus I’ll drive your father insane when he learns he’s not only lost you to another man but one he fully intended to torture to death.” He grinned. “There are other benefits involved here as well.” She could do nothing but stare at him, arching a brow in question for him to continue. “Well,” he said, forcing himself to a sitting position beside her. “You get a man who’s fairly well off and who has an estate not unlike the one from which you gained your freedom and in the doing, I get a lovely woman to grace my home.” He shrugged. “I’d say those are two pluses to the solution.” “How can you marry a woman you don’t even know?” she countered. “It’s time I married and settled down,” Sierran said. “I’m tired of living alone and I fully intend to resign my commission so there will be no more need to disobey a direct order to slaughter innocent people. I’m sick of war and I’m due retirement.” “But you don’t know me!” she protested. “I could make a terrible wife!” “I doubt that,” he said.
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“You don’t know, though, do you?” she asked and brushed at tears that had suddenly formed in her eyes. “I know all I need to just by your touch,” he said. “You are a kind and gentle woman with a capacity for great compassion. I saw the hurt in your eyes when you took a look at what your father had done to me.” “I didn’t know what he was doing,” she said, shame filling her. “He told me he was a physician and I believed him.” “I believe you,” he said. “My father owes you a debt I could never repay,” she whispered. “Pay it by marrying me,” he said. Celeste nibbled at her lower lip. “I swear to you that I will do my damnedest to be a good husband to you,” he said. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you and I will provide well for you should something happen to me. You won’t ever need to worry about having money or a roof over your head or having to live with a group of hateful nuns.” Petros rapped lightly at the door and came into the cabin with Vargas and Mac, both of who were frowning sharply. “What ails you, Vargas?” Sierran inquired. “You know,” the soldier mumbled. “I’m making an honest woman of her,” Sierran said. “What more could you want?” Vargas lifted his chin. “You make it sound like you’ve compromised her already, Commander, and we know you ain’t done that.” “Yet,” Sierran said and saw Celeste’s face turn bright red. “I’m waiting for the ravishment to be legal.” “Milord!” Celeste protested, hiding her face in her hands. “You ought not to be forcing her to…” Mac began but his commander held his hand up. “Milady?” he asked. “Am I forcing you?” She shook her head, unable to lower her hands.
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“Did I threaten you in some way?” “No,” she was able to whisper. “Did I threaten to peel the flesh off your father piece by evil piece―though it would give me the greatest of pleasures to do so―if you refused my suit?” Celeste sighed. “No, you did not.” Sierran looked away from her and locked gazes with Vargas. “What else do you men think I should ask her so your sense of propriety will be satisfied?” “Do you want to marry him, milady?” Vargas demanded. “That’s the only decent thing to ask.” Celeste was looking at the handsome profile of the man sitting beside her. She might be making a devil’s bargain but if she was, she’d endure it to be with Sierran Morgan. “Well,” she said. “It beats a sharp stick to the eye. I could do worse, I’m thinking.” “Indeed you could,” Sierran agreed with a grin. “Think well on it, milady,” Vargas insisted. “This being your first time out and all.” He was staring at his commander. “And there are many a fish in the sea. You don’t have to reel in the first one what nips at your bait.” Celeste smiled. “I appreciate your advice, Vargas, but I am satisfied with what I’m doing.” She looked into Sierran's eyes. "Quite satisfied." “Then let’s be at it,” Petros said with a grin.
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Chapter Eight As rough as the seas had been during the storm, they were now becalmed and the Austru’s sails were hanging limp against the masts. Not a breath of a breeze stirred. Alone in the captain’s cabin, Sierran and his new wife were lying—he under the covers and she outside them—with their fingers entwined as he told of her of his life before joining the Army of the Federation. “Despite having a family when growing up, you sound as though you were nearly as lonesome as I,” Celeste commented. “It was a tough childhood,” he admitted. “I was the youngest and I always felt I had been an afterthought.” “A what?” "The last child of my parents before my mother could have no more," he explained. "A sort of oops." She smiled. "An oops," she repeated. "You have such a flare for description, milord." "Sierran," he corrected. "Sierran," she stated. They were quiet for awhile, listening to the activity on deck above them. "Are you going to do it now?" she asked softly. Sierran frowned. "Do what, sweeting?" Her face flamed. "You know." She fanned her free hand. "It." A moment passed before he realized what she meant. "Oh," he said, his cheeks turning red. "That."
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"Aye, that," she whispered and turned so she was looking at him. "Are you?" "Do you want me to?" he countered. "We could wait until we reach my home." She tucked her lower lip between her teeth. consummate the matter as soon as possible?"
"Shouldn't we
Sierran blinked. "Are you in a rush of some sort?" Celeste wanted to blurt out that, aye, she was, and that she was nearly jumping out of her skin with wanting him to touch her as she'd seen the maid's lover pleasuring the maid. She wanted to know what it was like to be the object of a man's desire but she thought, perhaps, that would be a bit brazen to tell him so and—more to the point—shameful on her part. "Well, we are man and wife," she reminded him. "And it is your right." It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he was in no condition to exercise that right but one portion of his anatomy seemed to be having a mind of its own and was hardening at a prodigious rate. "Just tell me what to do and I will," she was quick to say. He swallowed hard for suddenly making love to her seemed to be the most important thing on his agenda, never mind the pain lancing through his body with every move he made. "Well, ah, you have to be…" He winced as his voice broke like an untried youth's. "You should be…" "Naked?" she suggested with an eagerness that left him staring at her. "Aye, but…" He stopped for she was already unbuttoning the bodice of her gown. All he could do was watch her while every inch of his flesh tingled and other parts of him throbbed. Celeste swung her legs off the bed and stepped out of her gown, kicking off her slippers as she neatly folded the gown and laid it aside. Clad only in her chemise, stockings, and garter belt, she turned to look down at him. "Completely naked, milord?" she wanted clarified.
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Sierran nodded, unable to utter a sound. His eyes flared when she pushed the chemise over her shoulders and wriggled out of it, her back to him. As his gaze settled on the wispy garter belt and the opaque white stockings—the only things she wore—he had to bite his tongue to keep from groaning. Her bare back looked as soft as silk and the rounded mounds of her buttocks made his mouth water. When she unhooked each stocking and peeled it down her legs—presenting him with a delectable view of her sweet rump—he drew in a harsh breath. "Are you naked beneath the covers, milord?" she asked, turning around to face him. One slender arm was arched over her breasts to cover them while her hand was splayed out over the wiry curls at the juncture of her thighs. "Aye," he said and had he had the ability to do so would have kicked himself for the way his voice sounded like that of an adolescent boy. "All right, then," she said and reached out for the covers. Before he could do or say anything, she was climbing into the bed and settling beneath the covers with him, her satiny leg pressed close to his. "I've never lain naked in the bed before," she said then giggled. "Or anywhere else for that matter." Her eyebrows drew together. “I rather like the way it feels.” Sierran had to snap his mouth shut for he was damned well drooling! Not inexperienced with women, he nevertheless felt bumbling as she turned to her side to face him. "Am I being shameless, Sierran?" she asked, her lovely face crinkling. "No," he said then had to repeat the word for he had nearly choked on it. "No, milady, you aren't being shameless. Just…" He shrugged helplessly. "Curious, I suppose." She put her thumbnail to her lips for a moment. "I don't think my father ever meant for me to get married," she said. "So I've been told," he said, aching to touch her. He wanted to run his fingers over her pretty face. www.samhainpublishing.com
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"He's going to be so angry," she said. "Let him," he said and shifted so he could lie facing her. He held his breath for the pain was worse than he expected. "No," she said and sat up, gently putting her hand to his shoulder to press him down flat again. "That puts too much strain on your wounds." The sheet slid down to his hips—barely covering the thick hair at his thighs. He was unaware the material had tented up around his erection until he saw her gaze drifting downward. "May I look?" she asked, color flooding her cheeks. He couldn't have answered had his very life depended on it. All he did was nod. Hesitantly, she picked up the edge of the cover between her thumb and index finger and carefully lifted it. He saw her eyes widen. "Oh, my," she said, letting the sheet drop. She slowly swiveled her gaze to his. "Is it supposed to look like that? I mean be stiff and hard looking like that?" Sierran groaned. "Milady…" he began. She lifted the sheet again and took a longer look. "And it seems to be leaking something from the tip. Should it be doing that?" "Milady!" he hissed, snatching the sheet shouldn't…you can't…." He felt his face burning.
from
her.
"You
Celeste frowned. "Well, how am I to know these things if you don't tell me?" she asked. "You are my husband, after all. You should be instructing me, shouldn't you?" Sierran was grinding his teeth together. His cock was as rigid as a steel bar and aching so fiercely he forgot about the other pains plaguing his body. He was clutching the covers as though he were a virgin, himself, and hiding from the lecherous view of a young woman intent on seducing him. That she was seducing him with every look, every whiff of her sweet body, every movement she made as she lay there turned toward him, her gaze wandering over his chest like a velvet glove, was evident to him if not to her. "Milady, please don't look at me like that," he whined.
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"Like what?" she asked. "Like you're about to make a meal of me," he complained. "Well, pooh, Sierran," she exclaimed. "How am I supposed to look at you, then?" She flopped to her back, folding her arms over her chest. "Would you prefer me to be a simpering miss afraid of her own shadow as well as your dangly?" "Dangly?" He nearly choked on the word. "That's what it's called, isn't it?" she asked. "I once heard the scullery maids discussing a man's parts and she called them danglies and droopies. Once I watched the scullery maid and her lover when they were making love." A crease formed on her forehead. "Are droopies those things hanging down beneath the dangly?" That was simply all he could take. He was staring at her with his mouth open, his eyebrows lifted. She was staring up at the ceiling and some wild, savage little imp made him toss the covers back. "Look all you like, wench," he said around a clenched jaw. Celeste grinned and sat up. Sierran thought he would come from just seeing her lush breasts. Pert and full, they drew his eye like a magnet and he had to tear himself away from ogling her when he realized she was looking down at his cock. She stared unabashedly at him—taking in everything from the mat of dark curls at his thighs to the dangly standing at attention before his two soft-looking—though wrinkled—droopies. Her eyes went down his long legs then snapped back to that which interested her the most. She glanced up at him. "May I touch it? Please?" "By all means," he said, his teeth locked together, his hands gripping the sheet beneath his hips. His gaze had gone back to the coral nipples that were beckoning him like a siren's song. Tentatively pointing a finger to his manhood, she just poked it—once, twice—pushing it to one side.
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"Oh, for the love of Alel. It isn't a dead snake, madame!" he snapped. He reached out and took her wrist. "Wrap your fingers around it!" A pout on her pretty lips at his rude tone, Celeste did as he said. A strange look came over her face and she looked up at him. "It is soft," she said, "but hard at the same time." She cocked her head to one side. "How can that be?" "He is engorged," Sierran said, hating talking about his cock as though it had an identity of its own. "Engorged with what?" she asked innocently. He didn't have an answer for that—or at least something he could say to an innocent woman like his wife. "Stuff," was the best he could come up with on such short notice. "Stuff," she said and when he let go of her wrist, she ran her hand lightly up and down the rigid length. "And that stuff comes out when you…" She cocked a shoulder. "You know." "Aye, wench, I do know," he said. "But do you?" She slid her thumb up to the moist droplet that clung to the tip of his cock. "This is the stuff. It's what makes babies, isn't it?" She unhanded him and brought her hand up to look at the moisture clinging to her thumb. When she sniffed at it, that was his undoing. "For the love of Alel, Celeste!" he said. "You are killing me here!" She met his gaze. "How am I killing you, milord?" "Look at it!' he said. “He wants you and you're sitting there with your beautiful tits teasing me and your lips all full and…" He whimpered. "I want you, Celeste!" "You want to put your dangly inside me?" she asked. "Oh, gods, do I want to put my dangly inside you!" he replied fiercely. "All right," she said brightly, completely unafraid of what might come. She lay down and spread her legs for him. "I am to wrap my legs around you when you climb atop me, aren't I?" she asked. Sierran didn't think his face could turn any redder but at her words, he thought the flesh would slough off from the heat infusing it. "How the
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hell did you…?" He shook his head. "Never mind," he said, remembering that she had told him about her father’s servants. "The scullery maid." She giggled. "I watched from my window." "And she and her lover were a veritable font of information, eh?" he snapped. "They seemed to be enjoying themselves," she said with a comical hitch of her shoulders. He realized he was quivering from head to toe and it wasn't merely from the wild lust that was driving him. He was acutely afraid of lying atop her and pressing the cuts that her father had sliced into him. When he hesitated, she seemed to read his mind. "Oh, Sierran," she said, sitting up again, her breast jiggling in such a way he thought he'd explode wanting to suckle the rosy tips. "You can't lay on me!" "Why not?" he demanded. If it killed him, he was going to have this tantalizing chit—one way or another! "I'll have to climb atop you," she said in a matter-of-fact tone and before he could stop her, she'd raised up and straddled him, giving him enough of a view of the crisp curls between her legs to make his balls feel as though they'd explode. "Can't I stuff it in me like this?" He never got a chance to answer for she grabbed hold of him and impaled herself upon him. His eyes went as wide as hers did. "Ouch!" she cried out. "Ouch, ouch, ouch! That hurt!" She would have peeled off him but his hands slammed down to her hips to hold her still. "It's supposed to hurt a bit, wench," he said, grinding his teeth. "It won't ever hurt again." She wriggled on him, her face showing both her displeasure and her uncertainty. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Oh, gods, I am so sure," he said, groaning as her sheath clamped around his rigid rod. "It will only feel good from now on."
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She lifted herself just a little—seemed to be testing what he said— then settled down on him again. She smiled tentatively. "If you say so, Sierran." Her hips beneath his palms were like warm silk and he caressed her, looking up at her beautiful breasts and aching to run his hands over them. She cocked her head to one side. "What do I do now?" "Just sit there," he said in a husky voice as he slid his hands up her ribcage and onto the lush mounds that beckoned him. "Oh, yes," she said, nodding. "I remember he touched her like that. Are you going to suckle me, too?" He could not have imagined his cock could get any harder but at her innocent question his shaft leapt inside her. "Ooh," she said, her eyes widening. "Do that again!" As he ran his trembling hands over her breasts, he made his rod pulse once more and he heard her sigh with contentment. "I like that, Sierran," she said and shifted her hips upon his. "Wench," he said with a warning growl. "If you don't stay still, I'll come and you won't get the pleasure I want to give you." "Come?" she said innocently. "Come," he said with exasperation. "As in releasing my….stuff!" "Oh." She stopped wriggling against him. He ran his thumb over her nipples and he could tell it was all she could do to remain still. Her head fell back—thrusting her breasts fuller against his hands—and she groaned. "You like that?" he asked. "Oh, aye, Sierran," she whispered. "I do, indeed, like that. I see now why the scullery maid was making all those noises and…" He lightly pinched her nipples between his thumb and middle finger and she nearly shot off his rod.
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"I feel…" she said, lowering her head to stare at him with eyes as wide as saucers. “It’s itching down there and there's this thing…" Her mouth opened. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" Her climax rippled around him so unexpectedly he barely had time to clamp his hands to her hips to hold her steady upon him. "Sierran!" she cried out, her hands slamming down to his wrists as she bounced on her knees, pumping her lower body instinctively up and down his rigid shaft. He watched her breasts jiggling, saw the red flush that spread over her upper chest and felt her tight little sheath milking him. There was no way for him to prolong his own release and didn't even try. The moment her husband's shaft bucked within her and she felt him jammed as far inside her as he could go, an intense sensation rocketed through her that threatened to take the top of her head off. She was vibrating around him and he was squirting inside her and she was clawing at his wrists, pressing down against him until the last spasm shook her. "Oh," she whispered, breathing heavily, her entire body quivering. Her head was thrown back, her eyes closed, her hands wrapped around his wrists. Sierran lay there watching her and began to feel the strangest sensation flittering through his heart. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Her lush body fit his as though they had been fashioned from the same mound of clay, meant to be together, and created as one. "Can it happen that quickly?" he asked. Celeste's eyelids fluttered open and she lowered her head. "Don't you know?" she asked. "You should know more about such things than I." He shook his head. "I don't mean the orgasm, sweeting. What I am feeling I have never experienced before and never thought to." Her sweet face broke into a gentle smile. "Are you falling in love with me, Sierran?" she asked. "Aye, Celeste," he said, marveling at the tender emotion that was flooding him. "I believe I am." www.samhainpublishing.com
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"Then I suppose it can happen that quickly for I have a very strong feeling toward you, too," she stated. She eased off him and lay down, stretching out beside him, careful not to touch the tortured flesh on his chest. She turned so she could look at him. "You are all I could have wished for in a man." Sierran chuckled. "And what was it you wished for, milady?" Her eyes roamed over his face. "Well, he had to be handsome and you are that." She laced her fingers through his. "He had to be strong and virile and powerful. I believe you fit those requirements. He had to be determined enough to take me from my father and you certainly accomplished that." "For perhaps the wrong reason at first," he admitted. She shrugged. "Perhaps but you had every right to want to punish him for what he did to you." Her lashes lowered over her vibrant eyes. "I no longer have any illusions about what my father is. All he ever did was lie to me. I had no idea he was such a monster." His hand tightened on hers. "He never had any intention of ever allowing you to live a normal life, Celeste. If I never give you another thing, at least I gave you freedom." She lifted her gaze to him. "And imprisoned my heart in the doing," she said quietly. He had yet to kiss her and that sweet temptation of a mouth with its full, coral lips drew him like a bee to honey. Turning with some effort toward her, he pushed himself up on his elbow and leaned over her, slanting his mouth gently over hers. Celeste did not know what to expect from a man's kiss so she did not open her lips when his covered hers. His tongue was hot as he probed at her mouth but she had no idea what she was supposed to do. When he began nibbling on her bottom lip, she giggled, and as soon as her lips parted, his tongue swept inside, impaling her as his dangly had slipped between her legs. Sierran put his hand to her breast and began kneading the satiny flesh, increasing the depth of his kiss as he did. The fingers of his left 78
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hand were threaded with the fingers of her right but she reached up to rake the fingers of her other hand through his hair, instinctively pressing his head toward her, deepening the kiss even more. When he heard her little groan of pleasure, he inwardly smiled. He pulled back, releasing her lips but her hand stayed in his hair. "You are a quick learner, sweeting," he said gruffly, feeling his cock growing hard all over again. "I have a lot of time to make up for losing," she said, grinning at him. "What now?" Her eyes widened. "Will you suckle me as the scullery maid's lover did her?" His gaze dropped to her sweet bosom and he sighed. "I would like nothing better, milady, but my chest is…" "Of course!" she said. "Lie back down. I am such a terrible woman!" Her gaze fell to his paps. "Do women suckle men even though there is no milk?" Sierran felt his shaft leap. "Aye, but many women like to suckle…" He blushed. "A man's dangly." Her eyes flared. "You can do that?" She looked down at his cock, turning her head to one side as if contemplating such a strange notion. "Well, I can't, but you could if you are of a mind to," he answered. "If a man could suckle his own dangly, there would never be any work done." "Or wars started?" she asked, a twinkle in her eye. "Most likely not," he agreed. "Let me show you something." Celeste was eager to try anything new—especially with this gorgeous man who had practically fallen into her lap. She drew in a slow breath as his hand trailed down from her breast, over her belly and into the curls between her legs. "Umm," she said as he gently stroked those perky little hairs. "That feels good."
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Sierran was making slow, lazy little circles around her silky bush but then dipped the tip of his fingers downward against her clitoral hood and she practically jumped out of the bed. "Sierran!" she hissed, arching her hip up against his hand. "Yes, Sierran. Yes!" His fingers dipped lower until he was softly rubbing her folds, smiling at the purr that was coming from deep within her throat. She lay there with her hips rotating in a timeless rhythm of which she was completely unaware. Her full lips were parted, her eyes closed, her face filled with passion. He could feel her body tightening, becoming as sweetly strung as a new bow and when she clamped her hand on his, lifted her hips high and came for him, he gently slid the tip of his finger inside her. "By the gods, yes!" she shouted, quivering like a leaf in a fresh breeze. Marveling at the good fortune that had come from such a wicked, evil beginning, he stilled his hand upon her moist mound—that tip still pressing into her throbbing sheath—and met her surprised gaze as her eyelids fluttered open and she looked at him with wonder. "I had no idea," she said in a breathless whisper. "There is more, milady," he said. "Much, much more and when I am able, I will take you on a journey of discovery that will delight you." She was stroking his hand, reveling in the feel of him touching her in such an intimate place. The wiry hairs on the back of his hand delighted her for the feel of them beneath the pads of her fingertips was supremely male. "I will make you a good wife," she said. Sierran smiled. "Of that I have no doubt." They fell asleep looking at one another within a silence that was gentle and peaceful and filled with growing affection.
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Chapter Nine Vaughn Morgan was very annoyed. He had been pacing the pier, watching for the arrival of the Akinos for several hours. When at last the sails of the Orulesian ship were sighted, he slapped his riding crop against his buff britches in agitation. "This is unacceptable," he told his servant. "Completely unacceptable." "Aye, milord," the beleaguer man replied with a sigh. Sierran's eldest brother had never been a patient man and his patience had worn even thinner the longer he had waited. Pacing the pier, he glowered at the approaching ship, his handsome face set in a perpetual frown of disapproval. "Uh, oh," Vargas said. "That looks like the commander's brother." Mac sniffed. "Looks like trouble to me," he mumbled. "I'd best go warn him," Vargas said, turning away from the rail. *** Sierran was relieving himself when the light rap came at the cabin door. He hurriedly stuffed himself into the britches Vargas had left for him and rushed to answer the knock before whoever it was could wake Celeste. Glancing at her to make sure she was covered with the tangled sheet, he quietly opened the door. "Morning, Commander," Vargas said. "I'm afraid I've got news that ain't going to set too well with you." Letting out a long breath, Sierran motioned Vargas to move back. He joined his sergeant in the corridor. "What's happened?" www.samhainpublishing.com
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Vargas shifted uncomfortably before the commander. "It's your brother, sir. Lord Vaughn is waiting for you on the pier and from the looks of it he's brought a whole retinue with him." Sierran rolled his eyes. "That's all the hell I need," he grumbled. "Is he the only member of my family here?" "As far as I could tell. I got a glimpse of that fancy sloop of his docked at our pier but didn't see no one else loitering about it." "All right," Sierran said, raking a hand through his hair and wincing at the pull of the cuts on his chest. "He'll make a beeline over the gangplank as soon as it's dropped. Keep his ass on deck. I don't need him down here bothering my lady." Vargas nodded. "Aye, sir." Being as quiet as he could, Sierran went back into the cabin and started looking for a shirt. He was loathe to put it on over his wounds but to meet Vaughn not properly dressed was to invite a lecture he didn't want to get. "What are you doing, milord?" Celeste asked, sitting up. She was stretching, her arms crooked to either side of her head, and the sheet fell away to display her lush breasts. Sierran drew in a sharp breath at that lovely sight. She was so easy with her budding sexuality, completely uninhibited and that was something he found fascinating. "I'm looking for a shirt," he said at last. Celeste frowned. "Why?" she asked, tossing the sheet aside and climbing out of the bunk, her long legs looking as smooth as freshly whipped cream. "Don't you think that would hurt?" He had to shake his head to clear it of the carnal images those shapely limbs had conjured in his mind. "I…uh…I can't go around barechested, my love," he told her. "I suppose not," she said, sighing. She dragged the sheet from the bed and wrapped herself up in it. "It is a might cold." She pursed her lips. "Where is the…?"
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He pointed to the screen on the far side of the cabin. "There's a close stool," he said. Celeste smiled at him then came over to stand in front of him. "Good morning, husband," she said and stood on her tiptoes to give him a chaste kiss on the lips. The kiss was short—almost perfunctory—but the look in Celeste's eye sent shudders of desire rippling through the warrior. He just stood there watching her disappear behind the screen and had to mentally thump himself on the head to remember what he'd been doing before she had climbed out of his bed. "Shirt," he said. "I was looking for a shirt." He was struggling to put on the cotton shirt when Celeste came up behind him. She had pulled on only her chemise and he could see her bare toes peaking out from beneath the muslin hem. "Here, let me help, dearling," she said. Sierran blinked at her use of the word as she held the shirt for him to slip his other arm into the sleeve. No one had ever called him any form of endearment—not even his own parents—and it rocked him to his very foundation. Though the pain in his back multiplied a thousand times as the material touched the whip marks, he barely felt it for his heart was surging with feelings so completely outside his experience he couldn't even thank her for her help. "I'll button it," she said, coming around in front of him and putting her hands to the shirt to pull it carefully closed over his chest. Although she didn't look up at him, he sensed the frown on her face. "I'm all right, milady," he said. She glanced up at him. "Yes but covering these wounds with this scratchy cloth must to be agony for you. I would just as soon you not attempt putting a coat on over this shirt." He had to stop himself from shrugging—knowing that would make the hurt worse. "Whatever you think best." Carefully buttoning the shirt front, she told him he was not to try tucking it into his pants, either. www.samhainpublishing.com
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"Aye, milady," he agreed, feeling lightheaded with the affection he was feeling for her that was growing in leaps and bounds. It was so far beyond his realm of familiarity for someone to give a care about his comfort he could feel tears building behind his eyes. "How far is it to your home?" she asked. "Less than half a mile," he replied. "I built it upon a rise to have a better view of the sea." She smiled. "That should be lovely." "It is," he bragged. "We'll take a coach," she said. "Or a wagon. No horses for you for awhile." His heart ached at her care for him. "Whatever you think best." Celeste met his gaze. "Sierran, I am not accustomed to having my words accepted," she said. "Nor am I accustomed to being asked my opinion or being expected to do anything save nod and agree. If I am behaving in a bossy manner…" He reached out to put his palms against her cheeks, tipping her face up gently. "No one has ever cared enough about me to make sure I'm looked after, Celeste. Boss me all you will." She blushed. "You may regret saying that," she warned him. "I think not," he said in a husky voice and bent forward to claim her lips—something he'd wanted to do since she awoke. Celeste opened her lips to his gentle assault and met his thrusting tongue with her own, sweeping past his to flick across the arch of his mouth. Sierran pulled back, hiked one dark brow, and grinned. "Madame, you and I are going to…" The knock that came on the cabin door before it was rudely thrown open stiffened Sierran's body and the angry look that passed over his face made Celeste's eyes open wide with fright. She stared up at him as his attention shifted furiously from her to whoever had dared enter the cabin uninvited.
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"Sierran, I should have known you had a doxy in here! No wonder you've kept me waiting!" Celeste whipped around. "Why you…!" she began but Sierran pushed her gently but firmly aside. "You've the manners of an ass, Vaughn," Sierran stated. "And if you ever call this lady a doxy again, I'll break your gods-be-damned jaw!" Vaughn Morgan's eyebrows shot up. "The devil you will, you little whelp! I'll beat you black and blue for―" He started forward only to have the woman beside his brother block his path. "You lay a hand to him and I'll scratch your eyes out, you unspeakable boor!" she said, hands planted on shapely hips, her bosom heaving. Sierran put his hands on her shoulders to move her out of the way but she shook him off. "Get the hell out of our cabin," Celeste shouted. "Who is this termagant, Sierran?" Vaughn demanded, taking a step back for the woman in question had actually tried to kick him. "I am…" Celeste began but her husband slipped a hand over her mouth and pulled her back against him, wincing at the contact of her back against his injured chest. "Just go up top, Vaughn, and we'll be along as soon as my lady is dressed," Sierran said, gritting his teeth against the pain he was experiencing. "Don't you dare dismiss me, Sierran," Vaughn snapped in a gruff voice. "I―" "Go!" Sierran yelled. "Now!" So amazed his younger brother would dare raise his voice to him, Vaughn took another step back but retaliation darted through his dark brown eyes and he lifted his chin. "You will regret speaking to me in that manner, Sierran DeLyle Morgan!" he hissed and spun around to stomp out of the cabin.
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Celeste dug her elbow into her husband's stomach to make him release her. He gasped as his hands fell away from her shoulders and when she turned around, the front of his shirt had red streaks staining the material. "Oh, Sierran, no!" she said. She put her hands out to him but he stumbled back. "Don't," he said, holding up a hand to stop her. Her elbow had connected with the stitch she had taken in his flesh and the wound had broken open again. "I'm so sorry," she said, tears flooding her eyes. “Oh, Sierran, forgive me.” Despite the pain throbbing in his chest, he grinned. "My brother has it right, sweeting. You are a termagant when you're riled." "That man can’t be kin to you," she gasped. "My eldest brother," he said. He plucked the shirt away from his chest and flinched. "I have three others but he’s the worst of the lot." Vargas suddenly appeared in the doorway of the cabin. "I tried to stop him, Commander, but you know how he can be," he said. "That cur doesn't matter. Help me get him out of this shirt, Vargas," Celeste said. "He's bleeding." The sergeant's face hardened. "Did his brother do that to him? If he did I'll have his arse…" "I did it," Celeste admitted. "And you can beat my arse for it when we've seen to him." "No man will lay a hand to you save me, Celeste Morgan!" Sierran stated. He gave Vargas a look as cold as ice. "She didn't mean to do it. It was an instinctive thing." "I'm sure she didn't," Vargas agreed. He was watching the lady unbutton his leader's shirt. "And cur is a right good name for that man." Celeste groaned when she realized she would need to re-sew the wound. Her eyes lifted to his. "I am so sorry," she apologized again.
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"Milady, just do what has to be done," Sierran said. "I'm freezing here half naked." *** By the time Sierran, his lady, and Vargas came up on deck, Vaughn Morgan was in high temper. It was apparent he had been pushed well past his ability to cope. He was pacing the deck, his riding crop repeatedly hitting the calf of his leg. As soon as he saw his brother, he strode forward with fury stamped across his lean face. "How dare you keep me waiting like this, Sierran! I know our mother taught you how to behave in the company of your betters and―" "Betters!" Celeste shrieked and would have gone after the snarling man had not her husband snaked out a hand to stop her. She stilled instantly, unwilling to do him any more hurt but her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Who the hell do you think you are, you pompous fool?" Vaughn opened his mouth to tell her but Sierran beat him to it. "Milady this is my brother, Lord Vaughn Morgan, the Viscount of Brayton. Vaughn this is―" "Viscount? How quaint." Celeste sniffed. "My father is a lord." Vaughn's gaze narrowed. "Lord of what?" he sneered. "The Lord of Whoremongers?" Sierran reacted before he thought and stepped forward to plow his fist into his brother's face. He hit the man so hard, Vaughn crashed backwards, falling to his rump on the deck. His teeth clicked together and he grunted as he landed. He sat there, stunned, staring up at his brother. "Lord Charles Allen, Laird of Dragonmoor," Sierran snarled the rest of the introduction as he shook his hand, amazed he hadn't broken it. At that name, Vaughn's face paled and his mouth dropped open. "You can't be serious," he whispered in apparent disbelief.
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"Aye, I am," Sierran said and sighed for he felt the warm trickle of blood easing down his chest a second before his wife saw it blossoming on the front of his shirt. "Oh, Sierran," she groaned. "You're bleeding again." "Bleeding?" Vaughn repeated and his attention dropped to his brother's shirt. Celeste took her husband's arm. "Come back below and let me see to it." Sierran cast Vaughn an arch look then allowed his lady to lead him back toward the companionway ladder, Vargas right behind them. Vaughn shrugged off the help of one of his retainers and got to his feet. He didn't bother to pick up his riding crop but headed straight for the ladder. He stomped into the cabin as Vargas was helping Sierran out of his shirt yet again. "What the hell has happened to you, Sierran?" he demanded. "Make yourself useful and thread this!" Celeste said, shoving a needle and thread at Vaughn. Vaughn would have balked but as soon as he saw the myriad cuts on his brother's chest, he gasped. " What the hell happened to you?" "Thread it or get out!" Celeste ordered. She was pouring water from the pitcher onto a cloth. She looked at her husband. "Sit down and Vargas, go fetch him another shirt." "Aye, milady," Vargas replied and pushed past Vaughn none too gently. "What happened?" Vaughn repeated. He was trying his best to get the thread through the eye of the needle. "A slight run-in with the Dungeon Master," Sierran said. Vaughn flicked a cursory glance at Celeste. "What did you do? Compromise his shrew of a daughter?" Sierran didn't answer for his lady was gently cleaning the oozing blood from his wound. "I shouldn't have hit him," he said with a sigh.
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"No," Celeste said. "You should have allowed me the honor. I would have kicked his dangly." “My what?” Vaughn gasped. "I think I tore something open in my back, too, sweeting," Sierran admitted. "Your back?" Vaughn exploded, stepping forward so he could look behind his brother. As soon as he saw the mass of crisscrossed gashes, he sucked in a harsh breath. "Sierran! What did you do?" Before her husband could answer, Celeste reached over and shoved Vaughn hard enough to make him stumble. "Don't assume he did anything wrong, you idiot!" she snapped. "Woman, if you do that one more time I will…" Vaughn began only to have his younger brother shoot to his feet and grab the front of his coat, dragging Vaughn almost nose to nose with him. "Touch her and it will be the last thing you ever do, Vaughn," Sierran said from between tightly clenched teeth. He, too, shoved Vaughn then sat back down in his chair, glaring at his brother, daring him to say anything else. "Give me the needle so I can sterilize it," Celeste grumbled, holding her hand out to Vaughn. Vaughn clamped his jaws shut and said not a word as he placed the threaded needle into Celeste's palm. He watched in silence as the woman sewed his brother's injury. He winced when Sierran did but kept his mouth shut. He just stood there and watched as Celeste finished sewing the cut on his brother's chest then lightly dabbed it with a cloth which had been dipped in whiskey. "I never thought to use whiskey as a disinfectant," he said grudgingly. Celeste ignored him. She looked past him. "Did you find something for him to wear?" Vargas came in with a shirt he had sent Seth to purchase on the waterfront. "'Tis silk, milady. It shouldn't hurt him so bad." "Although it won't be all that warm, it will be better than that rough cotton," Celeste said. "Thank you, Vargas." www.samhainpublishing.com
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"My pleasure, milady." "He has broken open a large gash on his back," she said. "It, too, will need sewing." She handed Vargas the needle. Vargas set about re-threading the needle. "Who did that to you, Sierran?" Vaughn asked again. "General Thurston had a slight problem with me disobeying an order," Sierran replied, gritting his teeth as Celeste set about closing the wound on his back. "Well, then…" Vaughn began but Vargas cut him off. "The commander refused to slaughter a village of women, children, and old folks where there wasn't even the first warrior about," he said. "Thurston is crazed," Vaughn suggested. "Thurston is dead," Vargas stated. Vaughn nodded. "Saves me from having to do it." "Why are you here, Vaughn?" Sierran asked, taking a deep breath as soon as Celeste was finished with her work. "Father sent me to fetch you," his brother replied. "For what?" Sierran asked, bending over to take up his socks and put them on. Vaughn lifted his chin. "It is a family matter, Sierran, and not to be bandied about before outsiders." "Neither Celeste nor Vargas are outsiders, Vaughn," Sierran said. "Vargas is more a brother to me than you, Peyton, Fallon or Dyllon have ever been and Celeste is my―" "How can you say that?" Vaughn interrupted. "We are your family and to equate someone like this man here…" "Go back to Argonne, Vaughn," Sierran said in a tired voice. He picked up one boot and pulled it on, wincing as he did. "I am in no mood to argue with you." He put on the other boot then placed a hand to his temple. "Have you another headache?" Celeste asked, squatting down beside his chair. 90
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"Aye," he admitted. She looked up at Vargas who nodded and fished in his pocket for the vial he was never without. "Is that tenerse?" Vaughn demanded, giving the purple bottle an arch look. "Father does not want him to have narcotics. He was never allowed to have narcotics when he was growing up. Father would―" "Your father can go to hell and take you along with him," Celeste said, getting to her feet to face down a man to whom she had taken a very strong dislike. She took a cup of water from Vargas who had added a healthy dose of tenerse to the liquid. She handed it to her husband. "You heard Sierran. Go back to Argonne and leave him be." "I'll not leave until my business here is finished, wench," Vaughn told her. "Then stay out of the way and let your brother get over this headache. He doesn't need anything else to plague him," Celeste ordered. She turned her back on Vaughn. "Vargas, please round us up a wagon like the one we took him to the ship in. Make sure it's well padded and if you can scrounge up some silk coverlets to cover him, I would be much obliged." "Whatever you wish, milady," Vargas said and started out of the cabin. "So she controls your men, does she?" Vaughn said with a snort. "I never thought to see the day, Sierran." "Sierran, have you ever considered you might be adopted?" Celeste asked. Trying not to laugh at his wife's question, Sierran got shakily to his feet. The tenerse had made him pleasantly numb and lightheaded. He held his hand out to her and drew her close—although not close enough for their bodies to touch—more for the physical contact with her than a need for support. He turned to his brother. "What does Father want with me, Vaughn?" he asked, his fingers laced with Celeste's.
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Vaughn glanced down at the joined hands then took a deep breath. "I have been sent to fetch you home for your bride." Sierran stiffened. "What bride?" he fairly barked. A tight, smug smile shifted over Vaughn's face. "The one Father has already Joined you to by proxy."
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Chapter Ten Staggered by the news, Celeste looked up at her husband's furious face and shied away from the anger she saw blazing there. Unaware he was crushing her hand in his until she whimpered from the discomfort, he let go of her fingers with a quick apology. "You certainly can't take this woman home with us," she heard Vaughn saying. "I don't know what you will do with her but―" "Where I go, she goes!" Sierran shouted, nearly passing out as the tenerse shot through his system along with the vast amount of adrenalin his anger dredged up. "You know better than that," Vaughn snapped. "Father and Mother will not have one of your paramours…" "Damn you, you bastard! Celeste is not a paramour. She is my wife!" Sierran spat. He had to reach out to brace his hand on the wall to keep from falling. "Wife?" Vaughn repeated. "Sierran, surely you haven't…" "We were duly married by Captain Kynth," Sierran said. Celeste moved closer to him and slipped her arm around his waist, careful of his injuries. "Come lie down, Sierran, before you collapse." "Leave, Vaughn," Sierran said. "And tell Father I'll not have him manipulating my life as he has yours and the others." Vargas and Mac appeared at the door. "We've got the wagon ready, milady," Vargas told her. "Sierran, the Joining was performed three weeks ago," Vaughn said. "I don't know when you were trapped into marrying this shrew, but I'm
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sure your Joining to the Lady Beatrice supersedes the one performed on ship." "Who?" Sierran asked. "Lady Beatrice Summerall," Vaughn snapped. "Of Patterly." Exchanging a shocked look, Vargas and Mac crowded into the room, forcing Vaughn to step aside. "We'll see to him, now, milady," Vargas said, easing into position beside Celeste to relieve her of her husband's weight. "You go on ahead. Seth will help you into the wagon and we'll bring him right along." "You aren't taking him anywhere!" Vaughn disagreed, putting out a hand to stop Celeste. "He is to be taken to my ship." She shrugged off his hand. "Don't touch me," she said and practically ran out of the cabin. "I demand you take him to my sloop!" "Ain't going to happen, milord," Mac said as he took Sierran's other arm. "You want a fight, just start one and our men will gladly put your fancy arse down." Vaughn's eyes widened. "Do you know to whom it is you are speaking, you lackey, you? I will have you arrested if you do not do as I command!" Sierran was rapidly losing consciousness to the drug invading his system. He tried to speak but found he couldn't. His body was all but hanging between Vargas and Mac and the strain on his torn flesh was making him sweat. "You are on Zykanthos, milord," Vargas reminded Sierran's brother. "The commander owns this island and everything on it. He is the law here so you can take your complaint to him when he's feeling better." Pushing Vaughn aside with his shoulder, Mac was already walking Sierran toward the door. Vaughn attempted to block their exit of the cabin but two burly sailors appeared out of nowhere to crowd him back inside the cabin. "Milady said we might be needed," the largest of the two men said.
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"Keep that fancy pants here," Vargas told the men. "He ain't to be allowed to leave until you know damned well we have gotten the commander home." "Aye, Sergeant Vargas," the sailors agreed. "And see that him and that little boat of his leaves Zykanthos," Mac suggested. "We don't need or want him and his kind here." "It'll be our pleasure, Mac," the smaller of the two men stated. "You can't do this!" Vaughn complained, keeping well back from the brawny sailors who were giving him intimidating looks. "I demand you step aside and allow me to escort my brother home to Argonne!" "You can demand all you want," Vargas said. "We ain't listening." *** Celeste was sitting on the mattress that had been placed in the back of an oversized wagon. She was huddled inside a thick wool overcoat provided by the captain but the sea air was chill and she was shivering from the cold. As her husband was carried up into the wagon, she folded aside the thick satin coverlets so Mac and Vargas could lay him down. "Celeste?" Sierran managed to whisper. "I'm here, dearling," she said and took his hand. "Don't leave me." "Never," she said, leaning over him to look him in the eye. She smoothed the hair back from his forehead. He smiled and gave in to the darkness that was flowing toward him. *** It was midmorning when got her first glimpse of Sierran's home and she was staggered at its size. It was half again as large as her father's estate.
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"The commander patterned the keep after one he saw in Plinth when he was stationed there," Vargas told her as they rolled over the drawbridge and under a massive portcullis. Celeste marveled at the beauty of the keep. Built from a pale colored stone it fairly glistened in the sunshine and the conical roofs had been cast in copper that reflected the sun’s rays. "He named it Vista del Mar," Mac chimed in. "It is his pride and joy." "It is stunning," she whispered as the wagon rolled into the outer bailey and past a second upraised portcullis into the inner bailey. The people who were about the inner bailey crowded around the wagon as it came to a stop before a wide set of stone steps. They were eager to know the condition of the commander for never had he come home to them in the back of a wagon. "One of his megrims," Vargas announced. "Nothing to worry about." Though curious eyes flicked to Celeste, no one asked who she was and they politely curtsied or bowed to her, gave her pleasant smiles as she was helped from the wagon by Seth. Because Sierran was sleeping soundly, Vargas climbed out of the wagon and stood waiting for Mac to lift Sierran and bring him to the end of the wagon, leaning over to lay him gently in Vargas' brawny arms. With Celeste just behind him, he carried his commander up the steps and into the magnificent expanse of Vista Del Mar. Ogling her surroundings like a peasant girl come to town for the first time, Celeste followed Vargas up a winding wrought iron staircase to the second then third floor of the estate. She marveled at the beauteous tapestries and paintings they passed and life-like statues of the gods and Goddess of the Argonnese Pantheon. "The commander is a religious man even though his family be little more than heathens to my way of thinking," Vargas explained. "Only time they invoke the gods is when they want something they ought not to have."
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Vargas carried Sierran to a spacious room where the draperies had already been drawn by two maids who also had folded back the covers on his bed and were waiting to help if needed. "I can see to him, girls," Vargas said as he laid Sierran down on the high mattress. The maids curtsied gracefully, gave Celeste timid smiles, and then quietly left. "They are wondering who I am," Celeste said as she came up to the bed. "But they are too well trained to ask," Vargas said. "The commander is a private man and he values a strictly-kept tongue in his servants." Between them, they soon had Sierran down to just his pants. "He, ah, always sleeps without clothing," Vargas said, heat staining his high cheekbones. He shrugged. "That's just his way." "And he'd be more comfortable like that," Celeste agreed. She turned away so Vargas could relieve her husband of his pants. That done, Vargas showed her to a room situated next door where he told her she could rest but she went directly to the wide sweep of windows that overlooked the ocean to admire the view. "It's something ain't it?" Vargas asked. "Lovely cannot begin to describe it," she said softly. She pointed to a ship tacking eastward. "Is that his brother's boat, do you think?" "Most likely," Vargas said. "But it ain't going the right way." Celeste looked up at him and saw his jaw was clenched. "They are circling around?" "Aye, indeed they are," he snapped. "Excuse me, Milady. I've something to see to." She turned to watch him stalking off and spoke to him before he exited the room. "Make sure he doesn't come back on this island, Vargas," she said. "He won't," Vargas said from between clenched teeth.
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Wondering if there were other rooms on the third floor which would afford her a view of the other side of the island so she could keep watch on her husband's brother she went out into the corridor. Another stairway led up and she climbed it, coming to a large circular room with tall windows completely circumnavigating the room. The ceiling was conical in shape and done entirely in glass. It was a magnificent solarium and plants grew lushly in that spectacular expanse with its breathtaking view of the ocean. Here and there was chaise lounges, chairs, settees and a large copper tub filled with water. Though she wanted to explore this unique space and take a good look at some of the plants she'd never seen before, she was more concerned with what Vaughn Morgan was up to and went to the windows, keeping an eye on his sleek little sloop as it made its way eastward. She was still there an hour later, watching the sloop leaving Zykanthos and heading out to sea. A grim smile teased her lips for she imagined her husband's brother did not like leaving with his tail tucked between his arrogant legs. "I've set guards to watching," Vargas told her when he finally joined her as she was inspecting a strange plant that he told her was called donkey's tail. "Wherever did he find a plant like this?" she marveled. "It is very striking." "I don't recall, Milady, but everything in here is something he brought to Vista Del Mar." She sighed, looking about her at all the plants she'd never seen before. "I see the brother is gone." "Like a scalded dog," Vargas said. "But he'll be back and next time with several ships if I know him." Celeste chewed on her lower lip for a moment then asked if there was a lawgiver on the island. "Aye, there is but he stays to himself," Vargas said. "He retired many a year ago though he's not all that old." "Do you think he would come have a little talk with me?" she asked. 98
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"I can't guarantee it but I will send Seth to ask, but, milady…" He paused, shifting from foot to foot. She turned to look at the older man. "Yes?" "Well, I know what you might want to ask him and I can tell you that under Argonnese law, the commander is allowed to have more than one wife." Celeste's eyes widened. "You are joking!" "No, milady," Vargas said. "The problem is the first wife has more authority than the others." Her eyes narrowed. "Is that so? And do you know this woman Beatrice?" she asked. Vargas shook his head. "I never even heard of her before today and I doubt the commander had, either, but I know of Patterly. It's been in a right desperate state since its liege lord, Sir Angus Summerall, died of lung fever last summer. Lady Beatrice must be Lord Angus' widow. If that's the case, I'm thinking Lord James—the commander's father—has made the match to gain the Patterly estates." "And Sierran's father can just marry him off to her without a by-yourleave from his son?" "I guess so," Vargas said. "I'll send for the lawgiver, though. Maybe he can shed some light onto this." "Was my father brought into the keep?" she asked softly. "He is…" Vargas cleared his throat. "Below." She closed her eyes for a moment. "In the dungeon?" "Vista del Mar doesn't actually have a dungeon, milady," Vargas replied. "It wasn't built with one but there is a store room into which we put him until other arrangements can be made." "Thank you, Vargas," she said, bowing her head. "Would you see that he has supper taken to him?" "Aye, milady," Vargas replied. "I'll see to it now." For a long while, Celeste stood at the windows—the mysterious and beautiful plants ignored—and stared out to sea. Her agile mind was www.samhainpublishing.com
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working over the problem of being in competition with a woman she'd never met but knowing it was she Sierran wanted and not the Lady Beatrice. As the sun set, she was still there watching the scarlet globe sink into the west. "Milady?" She glanced around to find Vargas standing in the doorway. "Yes, Vargas?" "Supper is ready, milady, and the lawgiver has arrived. I extended an invitation for him to sup with you if that's all right." "Perfectly all right, Vargas," she said. "Will you, Mac and Seth join us?" Vargas nodded. "If that is your desire. We are accustomed to taking our meals with the commander." She smiled. "I figured as much. Is he still asleep?" "Like a babe in his blankie," Vargas replied with a grin. "Most likely he'll sleep through the night. I gave him a fairly strong dosage." He ducked his head. "I didn't want him thinking on his brother's meanness." "I quite agree," she said and walked over to him. She threaded her arm through his. "Lead on, my friend. I find I am starving." *** Lawgiver Brent LeMoyne was standing before the fireplace in the study with his forearm braced on the mantle as he stared down into the crackling flames. It was rare he was asked to venture from his cottage on the north edge of the island but when he'd seen Sierran's men assembling along the shore as a sloop dropped anchor in the harbor there, he knew something was amiss. From his bedchamber window, he had watched the Argonnese sloop lower a jolly boat into the water and he was fairly sure he recognized one of Sierran's brothers sitting stiffly in the prow. When the jolly boat was turned back—that brother shaking an irate fist at the gathered troops—he figured Sierran would be sending for him in his lawgiver capacity soon enough. 100
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However, he had not expected the summons to come from the new mistress of Vista del Mar rather than his old friend Sierran. "Sierran married," he said aloud to the leaping flames. "It had to happen, I suppose." "Would you prefer that it hadn't?" Brent flinched at the melodic voice that interrupted his musing. He dropped his arm from the mantel and turned around to find himself staring into the beautiful face of a woman who would make any Goddess jealous. It was a moment before he could speak for her overwhelming beauty was totally unexpected. "Milady," he said, coming toward her with his hand outstretched. "Most certainly not!" Celeste placed her hand in his and when he bowed to place a gentle kiss on the back of her hand, she felt a jolt go through her—one she knew he felt, as well. Brent straightened up—his gaze locked with hers—unable to look away. A tingle went all the way up his arm and when she eased her hand from his, that tingle disappeared in the wink of an eye. "I am Celeste Allen Morgan," she said softly. "Vargas did not tell me your name." "Brenton," he replied. "Brenton LeMoyne. My friends call me Brent." She smiled. "And I hope we will be friends," she stated. "I am sure we will,” he told her. "Supper is awaiting us," she said and when he offered her his arm, she took it. She was not surprised he knew where the dining hall was and led her to it. "Do you spend much time at Vista del Mar?" she asked as he held her chair out for her at the head of the table. "No," he answered. "Both Sierran and I value our privacy but now and again he invites me." He took a chair beside her. "He isn't home all that much actually."
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"I believe he will be henceforth," she said. "He mentioned resigning his commission." "I sincerely hope he does," Brent said. He took up his napkin and laid it in his lap. "The war with the Emardians is winding down and peace is on the horizon. He's been fighting since he was in his mid teens." "Has it been that long for him?" she asked. "I didn't know." "As a younger son, it was either soldiering or the priesthood and I doubt Sierran would make a good religious," he said with a grin. "I agree," she said, a faint hint of color invading her cheeks. "Where did the two of you meet or may I be so bold to ask?" he inquired as Vargas, Mac, and Seth arrived. "There you are!" Celeste said. "I wondered where you were." "We had to clean up a bit before coming to your table, milady," Mac spoke for them. He took a chair across from the lawgiver. "Good eve, Lord Brenton." "MacDougal," Brent acknowledged. He nodded at the other men. "When Vargas came to fetch us he was in his top sergeant capacity snapping at us to hurry," Mac told Celeste. A maid came in carrying a tray with bowls of steaming soup and placed the fragrant fare before each diner. The butler poured a rosy-hued wine for each of the diners. "Gilda's best soup," Brent said. "Potato and ham. It is sheer heaven." "That it is," Vargas agreed. The men were watching Celeste and she arched her brows in question. "The commander says grace over the food," Vargas informed her. "Oh," she said. "My father always did that." She extended one hand to Brent and the other to Mac. "Will you join hands gentlemen?" No one saw Sierran standing at the far end of the watching as Celeste bowed her head and gave thanks for the meal she was about to enjoy. His heart filled with emotion for the five people sitting at his table were 102
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the only five people in the entire world for whom he held any kind of feeling. He had known Vargas since they were new recruits and had befriended Mac in the midst of a pitched battle that had nearly claimed the Solarian's life. Seth had been around for only a few years but Brent he'd known since childhood. It had been at his suggestion that the lawgiver had retired to Zykanthos six years earlier. Leaning against the wall just staring at those closest to him added to the mellow feeling left behind by the tenerse. "I am dying to try this wonderful smelling concoction!" Celeste said, taking up her spoon after the blessing. "I've never had potato and ham soup." "Gilda is a superb cook," Brent told her. "I've never had anything that wasn't cooked to perfection." "Aye, well, there was that casserole she fed us New Year's Day last year," Sierran spoke up and every eye snapped to him there in the shadows at the far end of the room. "Milord!" Celeste said, her face beaming with delight. "How are you feeling?" Sierran pushed away from the door. "Like I'm walking on a stack of mattress but otherwise fine," he said, waving away Vargas and Seth who were starting to get up from the table. "Sit down. I can make it to the chair." A maid hurried out and back again to place a setting before him. She dipped a curtsey at his polite thank you and stepped aside for the butler to pour a goblet of wine for his master. “Wine, Sierran?” Celeste asked then shook her head. “Perhaps not,” he said. “A glass of lemonade would not be amiss, Gilda.” The maid nodded and hurried off, taking the goblet of wine with her. They waited until he was seated in the chair reserved for the lord of the keep before the other men took up their water goblets. "To Sierran and Celeste!" the four men toasted.
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Sierran met Celeste's look and smiled proudly at her. "To Celeste," he agreed, lifting his water goblet to her. "My only true wife." Brent's eyebrows drew together as he drank the toast. When he set the goblet down, he turned to Sierran. "Have you more than one?" he asked. "It seems I have one in Argonne whom I've never met," Sierran replied. "One I don't want and with whom I certainly have no intention of ever living." "Ah," Brent said. "Your father's been arranging lives again, I take it. Which brother was that I saw scurrying away with his fist in the air?" "Vaughn," Sierran replied, the name sounding like a bitter brew on his lips. "I should have guessed," the lawgiver said. "Was he sent here to fetch you then?" Sierran nodded. "To take me back to consummate the Joining by Proxy," he said. "I will not do it." He shifted in his seat, his wounds starting to remind him they were there. "Who is the woman in Argonne?" "Beatrice Summerall," Sierran answered and when Brent winced, he stopped with his spoon in mid-sip. "You know her?" Brent frowned. "Unfortunately I've had the displeasure of meeting her. Summerall was at least twice her age and with one foot in the grave when he Joined with her ten years past." He glanced at Sierran. "You remember Lord Angus Summerall of Patterly." At first Sierran shook his head then memory came flashing back and his mouth dropped open. He stared at Brent. "Not, Angus the Bull?" he asked. "The one and the same," Brent replied. "Buried five wives before him—each one younger than the last. I believe he was close to ninety when he passed on." He shook his head. "Never did get an heir though that was certainly his intention."
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"Something was obviously wrong with his dangly stuff," Celeste said innocently. The men choked on whatever was in their mouths at that statement. Their faces turned red more from embarrassment than the liquid going down their gullet the wrong way. She looked from one to the other. "Did I misspeak?" she asked. "Not really, sweeting," Sierran said, wiping his lips, and trying not to cough. "We just don't discuss such things in mixed company." "Oh," she said, shrugging. "All right." She continued eating. Brent sat back in his chair, a wide grin on his face. “Sierran, you have struck gold here, man." Sierran was looking into his lady's eyes. "From the greatest of travails came the most wondrous of gifts." "Travails?" Brent questioned. Sierran glanced at Brent. "It was at Dragonmoor that I met this beautiful woman." Brent drew in a harsh breath. Everyone knew no one visited Dragonmoor unless they had been imprisoned there. "My God, Sierran," he whispered. "Where is Lord Allen now?" "Installed in a locked room in the farthest reaches of this keep," Vargas said. "Where he will stay," Sierran said, looking away from his wife. "Until other arrangements can be made." Everyone was quiet for a moment then Celeste asked softly about what other arrangements he had in mind. Sierran sighed deeply. "I do not expect him to live out his life below ground like a mole, dearling, but I will not have him out and about where he can hurt anyone else." "I understand that," she said. "There is a room on the ground floor of the keep that can be reinforced into a quite comfortable containment facility," Sierran said,
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deliberately not using the words jail or cell. "He will be able to look out and you can visit with him through bars that will be placed in the wall." "I have no desire to visit with him, milord," she said, lowering her head. The other men turned to look at her but no one said anything to her admission. "Nevertheless, if you wish to, you may," Sierran said and at her silent nod, turned to Brent. "So tell me, lawgiver. What do I do about the bitch who has been foisted off on me?" Brent snorted. "Stay as far away from her as you can," he advised. "As long as the Joining is unconsummated, there is little your father can do. Zykanthos is your estate and he has no authority here. May I ask who sent you to Dragonmoor?" "It wasn't my father if that's what you're thinking although I wouldn't put it past him," Sierran told him. "It was Thurston." "Ah,” Brent said. "I should have known. And where is the fanatical general now?" "Dead," Vargas stated. "That's the best news I've heard all day," Brent said with a laugh. "I would like you to draw up a letter for me so I may resign my commission," Sierran said. "I have several of my men with me here—they took leave to help out—and I would like to buy their early releases. Can you handle that?" "The Ibydosians are forever in need of money," Brent said. "I've no doubt they would be happy to sell your men's releases. How high should I go in setting a price?" "Whatever it takes to get them cashiered out," Sierran said. "How many are we talking about here?" Vargas spoke up. "Nine in all what came with us and another three back at the Force compound." "Twelve then?" "Aye, milord," Vargas agreed. 106
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"You've enough money in your coffers to handle this, Sierran?" Brent asked. "There is money at Dragonmoor if he doesn't," Celeste spoke up. "I can tell you where my father’s strongbox is and how to open it." Sierran's eyebrows shot up. "You are privy to such information, sweeting?" Celeste shrugged. "I know the strongbox is in his bedchamber in a niche behind a tapestry of the goddess Caluna. The key to that strongbox is never off the chain he wears around his neck." She took up her goblet of wine. "I imagine there is quite a large sum of money in the strongbox since he does not believe in banking establishments." "That would be stealing though, wouldn't it?" Mac inquired. "I am the lady of Dragonmoor and with my father out of the picture, the estate reverts to me," she said. "Not exactly," Vargas said. "He left a will giving the estate and all it entails to the Sisters of St. Carolus Convent to look after you when he is gone." "The telling words there are after he is gone," Celeste said. "He isn't gone. He is very much alive and will remain so—I believe—for many years to come." She set aside her goblet. "I care not what happens to the estate and have no desire to ever step foot inside it again but there are certain things in my bedchamber I would like to have retrieved along with the strongbox and other valuables scattered about—things that belonged to my mother, for instance. I would venture to say his will is in the strongbox and that can certainly be misplaced." She smiled sweetly. “I assume you are his only child?” Brent inquired. “I am.” “Then even should the will go missing, the estate will revert to you unless it is encumbered with debt.” “I don’t believe that is the case,” Celeste said. “My father does not like to owe anyone for anything.”
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"Make a list of what you want and I'll send the men to fetch it," Sierran said. "I assume I shouldn't set foot in Emardia again any time soon." "If ever," Brent agreed. "And certainly not Argonne." "That is a given," Sierran agreed. "I've no desire to let my father get his greedy hooks in me ever again." *** Celeste was sitting at her vanity, running the brush through her long brown hair when her husband finally came upstairs to join her. Her blue gaze met his amber ones in the mirror and she smiled. "You have concluded your business, milord?" "For now," he replied, coming up behind her. He took the brush from her hand and ran it down the silky length of her thick tresses. "You have glorious hair, sweeting." “Thank you for noticing,” she said. “What do you think of my lawgiver?” he asked. "I like him," she said. "He's been a friend since we were in knee pants," he told her. "He is very much enamored of you." She cocked her head to one side. "When I touched him, I felt a tingle all the way up my arm." Sierran smiled as he looked down at her hair. "He said the same thing happened to him." He glanced up at her in the mirror. "Should I be jealous of the two of you?" "Silly man," she said. "You know better and if he mentioned it to you that should tell you he has no intention of acting upon the feeling." "I know," he admitted and laid the brush on the vanity. Turning away, he went to the bed and sat down to remove his boots. "Let me," she said. She got up and came to him, squatting down to tug off his boots.
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"All that sleep I got today and I'm still tired," he said. "You need to rest," she said, taking off his stockings as well. "Your feet are like ice, milord!" "Cold feet, warm heart," he said as he put out a hand to help her get up. He pulled her between his legs, lassoing her slim waist within the span of his arms, and bringing her against him. "Be careful of your wounds," she warned. "They hurt but it's worth it just to hold you like this," he said. She cradled his head against her chest, smoothing her hands through his hair. "Who did you send to Dragonmoor to fetch the strongbox?" she asked. "Mac will go in the morning and take along a contingent of men just to be on the safe side. I doubt the servants at your father's estate will protest or put up a fight but I'd rather be sure of my men's security." His hand dipped down to the sweet upturn of her rump and she giggled. "I know where you're mind has gone, milord," she said. He eased back so he could look at her. "And where is that?" "To your dangly," she said. When he shook his head in disagreement she asked where, then, had his thoughts gone. "To your sheath," he said in a husky voice. "I develop this problem between my legs every time I think of it." Celeste felt her blood thicken and pool between her legs. She moved her hands to either side of his face and lowered her lips to his, placing a sweet, heated kiss to his mouth. When she released his lips, she smiled. "Why don't you finish undressing, milord, and let's see if we can't get down to the root of that problem," she whispered as she moved back from the bed. Sierran stood up to tug his shirt from his britches. Making quick work of the buttons, he kept his gaze locked on his lady, taking in her tempting beauty as she stood there in her soft nightgown, her bare little feet peeking from beneath the hem.
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"I love your toes," he said and felt like an idiot. "Is that normal?" she giggled. "Some men have foot fetishes," he replied, stripping off his shirt and tossing it aside. "They love to suckle a woman's toes." She wrinkled her nose. "I hope those toes are clean when they do that," she commented. Peeling off his britches, he kicked them aside and held his hand out to her. "Come here, bantling, and let's begin that discussion of my problem." Celeste glanced down at the problem as it presented itself and sighed. "It's a rather big one, milord," she said, coming closer. "Aye, so it will need a lot of discussion, don't you think?" he parried as he took her hand in his. "A lot of discussion," she agreed as she climbed up on the bed with him, not once relinquishing her hold on his hand. Sierran scooted halfway across the thick mattress, tugging her along with him. His back felt raw and his chest prickled with pain but nothing was going to stop him from claiming his woman as he had wanted to since their Joining. "Be careful," she warned as he pulled her closer. She was eyeing his chest and the stitch that she'd had to re-sew. When she saw him wince, she put a staying hand to his shoulder where there was no cut. "No. You lie down." "Celeste…" "Lie down, Sierran," she ordered and then she sat up, pulling at her nightgown, raising her shapely little ass until she could lift her nightgown over her head. She tossed it over the side of the bed. Her husband's eyes were shooting amber sparks of desire as his gaze slid over her lush bosom then down to the dark triangle between her legs. He would have reached out to her but she shook her head. "Lie there and let me handle this problem of yours," she said. “It looks to need a bit.”
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Though he would have liked nothing more than to slide between her legs, lay outstretched upon her sweet body, he knew he'd most likely do himself damage if he did. Instead, he did as his lady ordered and reached up to grab the rungs of the brass headboard as she knelt between his legs—nudging them further apart. His back was a mass of burning pain but he said nothing. It relieved his back to lie on his side but lying on his side put pressure on the cuts on his chest so it didn't seem to matter how he lay. Something was going to hurt. At the moment, he was more concerned with the burning, throbbing ache in his cock than the burning, throbbing pain on his back. Celeste took him between her hands and gently massaged the hard silk of his shaft. She ran her fingers over his sac and along the insides of his thighs. "Is that enjoyable to you?" she asked. "Aye," he said, his breath coming in gasps for her tender, innocent touch was playing havoc with his control. She looked up at him. "Tell me how best to suckle you so you will find pleasure in it." Just hearing her say those words was a pleasure unto itself. Her statement drove straight into his aching desire and it was all he could do to lie still. Unconsciously he lifted his hips in invitation. "Kiss him," he whispered breathlessly. Celeste scooted down in the bed so she could bend over his cock. The moment her lips touched the head, Sierran shuddered, his legs quivering. "You like that, too?" she asked. "Aye." He started to tell her what to do next but her mouth closed over his straining flesh and all thought fled. Celeste's lips were locked around the head of his rod and she was licking the moist slit with the tip of her tongue. Suckling was the last thing on her mind at that moment for she was marveling at the salty taste of him. Instinctively, her hand went under him to cup his balls and
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as soon as she did, his lower body arched up and his cock went down her throat, gagging her. "Oh, dearling, I am sorry!" he apologized, lowering his hand from the headboard to reach out to her. "I didn't mean to…" Celeste was staring at him. "Do you realize your dangly can go almost all the way down my throat?" she asked. Sierran winced. "Aye, but I didn't…" "Let's see how far it will go if I relax my tongue!" Before he could stop her, she was bent over him again and her lips were down to the very base of his shift, his cock nestled in the warm, moist haven of her mouth. Stunned at her willingness to try something most women found unpleasant—save for the whores who made a living from it—Sierran didn't dare move. He was afraid he would frighten her, disgust her, or hurt her in some way that she wouldn't want to do this with him ever again. He lay perfectly still with his hands clamped like vises around the rungs of the headboard, and endured the most wonderful pleasure he had ever known. Celeste was experimenting with squeezing his cock with her tongue in such a way she would not gag again. When she began suckling him, she heard him groan and pulled back. "Did I hurt you?" she asked anxiously. "Nay, wench!" he said, shaking his head from side to side. He was on the verge of coming and he was having trouble controlling the urge. "Get on me. Now!" Celeste didn't question his order. She straddled his hips, reached down to take him in her hand, and settled her warm channel over him. "Oh, gods!" he hissed. He could no longer hold his orgasm at bay and his hands came down to her clamp her thighs as he arched up and poured himself into her. "Yes," Celeste said and began wriggling on that sweet rod. She was beginning to experience that wild itch that came each time her husband put his cock or finger inside her and she bore down on his length while it
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was still stiff, giving in to the release that brought a trill of pleasure from her lips. Staring up at his lady as she came for him, Sierran felt his heart swell and his throat clog with emotion. She was so open to him, so unspoiled and he wanted desperately to keep her that way forever. He slid his hands to her breasts and held her, his thumbs stroking the hard little nipples as though he were worshipping at the altar of her body. She came again then again as his hands kneaded her, each release as strong as the first until she was practically bouncing up and down on his thighs, pulling him deeper inside her, riding him, milking him until she felt his flesh softening, easing free of her warmth. A little pout formed on her lips when she realized he had slipped out of her. "Oh, Sierran, your problem dissolved," she complained. "I'm sure it will pop up again," he breathed. “I sincerely hope so,” she said. She slipped down beside him and lay facing him, her face relaxed and soft from spent passion. "I love you, Sierran," she said. Those four little words rocketed through him as nothing ever had. They slammed against his heart and wiggled inside to take root. No one had ever said that to him. No one had ever felt love for him. He found himself on the verge of bawling like a babe and had to bite down on his tongue to keep from doing so. "I really do," she said, putting a hand to his cheek. "With all my heart." "How…" He had to swallow before he could go on. "How do you know, dearling? We've not been together that long and…" "I know," she stressed. "Women know these things." She caressed his face. "The gods put us together, Sierran, and the gods best protect anyone who tries to pull us apart!" He turned on his side to face her. "Celeste, I would mutilate anyone who attempted such a thing," he said earnestly. "I would turn them to so much bloody mush."
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“And I would in turn stomp on that mush until it soaked into the ground,” she swore. She leaned forward to kiss him. It was a sweet kiss but it held all the promise of many nights and many discussions of problems to come.
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Chapter Eleven Lord Jameson Morgan was fit to be tied. His face was as red as an apple and his piercing black eyes glistened with malice. With his fists opening and closing as he stalked from one end of his office to the other, he was cursing a blue streak his sole companion found very entertaining. It had been two days since his eldest son had returned empty-handed from Zykanthos and Lord James had been stewing ever since. "Do sit down, Jamie," Beatrice Summerall commanded the man who had been her lover for nearly ten years. "You are fair pacing a hole in the carpet." "How dare he disobey me?" James shouted. "The impudence of the little bastard is appalling!" "And you shall duly reprimand him for upsetting you but before you push yourself into a stroke, pray do sit down and relax. Nothing will be accomplished with you striding about like a caged bear." James shot Beatrice an angry look but he stopped and threw himself into a chair, his fist pounding the arm in frustration. "I will not have one of mine acting in such a disrespectful manner, Bea! What unmitigated gall!" "I understand, my love, but until you can bring him to heel, nothing can be done." "No wonder Thurston had him remanded to the Dungeon Master," James fumed. "It's a good thing Thurston is dead else one of us would have been honor-bound to kill him for daring to order a Morgan horsewhipped!" His lips twisted. "Although by disobeying orders, the
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brattling deserved to have his back torn to shreds. Sierran does tend to bring out the very worst in people." Beatrice had schooled herself never to frown for such actions would eventually mar the perfection of her smooth brow. At forty-two, she prided herself in the softness of her complexion and the lack of wrinkles on her beautiful face. She had learned to take very good care of herself for her lush body and fine, unspoiled features were her only true assets. "And this is the man you have foisted off on me?" she inquired, mentally frowning as she patted her silky blond hair. "'T’was Judith's notion, not mine," James said as he referred to his wife of fifty-eight years. "I say again I believe she suspects you and I are involved and it was her way of putting an end to the affair." "Nothing will put an end to our arrangement," Beatrice said, lifting her chin. "Aye," James said. He began picking at a loose thread on the chair arm. "That is true. The only good thing about your being Joined to Sierran is Patterly. I want Patterly under my control before the year is out, Bea." "That is less than a month away, Jamie," she reminded him. "I'll have Sierran here well before then," her lover stated. "All he need do is sign over Patterly to me and be on his way, free to go back to his little whore." "There is the matter of the Joining being consummated, first," she said, a hint of disgust in her soft voice. "According to Argonnese law, we must be true man and wife for him to inherit my husband's estate. You know the old saying of leading a horse to water but being unable to make him drink." James cursed. "If I have to tie him butt-naked, spread-eagled to the bed and have you crawl over his cock and impale yourself, the Joining will be consummated, my love," he snapped. He glanced at her. "Once that is done, you'll not have to ever touch the little bastard again." "I should hope not," Beatrice said. "If he's anything like your other sons…" 116
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"Worse," James snapped. "He's much worse than the others and he takes after his mother." He shuddered. "He's as gods-be-damned ugly as that old witch!" Beatrice shivered delicately. "Pray come and wipe that brutal thought from my mind, James." She held out her arms to him. "I want a strikingly handsome man to comfort me in this trying time." James grinned. "Strikingly handsome, eh?" he chuckled. "A veritable Argonnese god," she cooed, batting her cornflower blue eyes. The Morgan patriarch got up from the chair, ever eager to do her bidding when it came to sharing her body. Already he was hard and ripe for her. *** Vaughn, Dyllon, Fallon, and Peyton Morgan had spent the night before in the seaside town of Edgeville where each of their personal ships was berthed. It was there the four brothers kept a plush set of apartments that overlooked the harbor and to which their lady-wives— and certainly not their parents—were never invited. Though their father knew about the apartment, he dismissed it as being a necessary evil where his randy sons could go to relieve the boredom and staleness of their marriages. "The old man was beside himself, eh?" Peyton observed as he joined his siblings at the breakfast table where a duo of shapely maids had just set down huge platters of scrambled eggs and crisply fried potatoes to join the bacon and toast already laid out. "Livid," Vaughn replied. "My ship had barely docked before he was all over me demanding to know why I had not returned with that idiot brother of ours." He slathered marmalade over his toast. "One would think he had been prowling the harbor waiting for me to land." "He had," Dyllon said. "I saw him out there pacing just as the sun was setting."
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"He's tupping the widow Summerall," Fallon reported. "Did you men know that?" "He's been tupping her for years!" Vaughn snapped. "That's no secret." He took a big bite of toast. "Not even to our saintly mother." "Saintly, my hairy arse," Peyton snorted with a roll of his eyes. "You can't tell me the head stableman hasn't been tupping her since long before I was born." "I daresay Sierran is most likely a by-blow of that stableman," Fallon quipped. “Looks a bit like him, I’d say.” "That would explain a lot, now, wouldn't it?" Vaughn said dryly. "Our mother and the randy stableman. What a fitting pair to produce a bastard like our youngest sibling!" The brothers laughed. Not a one of them cared a whit for the woman who had bore him and not one ounce of respect was ever sent her way. "I must admit the woman he married on the Austru is quite lovely, though a harpy of the first order," Vaughn related. "If she were mine, she'd damned well learn her place." He bit off a piece of bacon. "Well, Sierran need not set her aside if that's the case," Fallon said. "He can go back to her once he has slimed old Bea's slippery cunt." Vaughn thoughtfully chewed his bacon. "She is really quite lovely," he repeated. “Bea?” Fallon gasped. “Hell, no!” Vaughn snorted. “Sierran’s doxy.” "Do you want her, Vonnie?" Dyllon asked. The eldest Morgan brother cocked a shoulder. "Wouldn't mind breaking her to saddle but I'd have to gag the bitch in order to ride her." "What was it you said Sierran told you?" Fallon asked. "Something about where he went, she went?" "He said 'where I go, she goes'," Vaughn answered in a whiny voice. "Well, that's it in a nutshell, then, isn't it?" Fallon asked. Vaughn's brow slashed together. "What do you mean?"
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"Father wants Sierran here," Fallon said as though speaking to the village fool. "Sierran doesn't want to be here but if his tart were, don't you imagine he'd follow after?" "I know he would," Vaughn said. "But how do we get her to come here?" Dyllon stopped scooping eggs into his plate and looked at his eldest brother. "We snatch her, of course," he said. "Precisely," Fallon said. "And just how do we do that?" Vaughn demanded. "That DuMond bastard has guards all over the place. Not even a mouse could get into Vista del Mar to make off with the strumpet." "Well, now, that will need thinking on," Fallon said. "But between the four of us, I'm sure we can find a way to get Sierran's whore here and our little brother into father's grasp." Dyllon snapped his fingers. "Jillian!" he stated, referring to the youngest of their three sisters. "If we send Jillian there, Sierran won't turn her away. He’s too much of a gentleman to do so. Of us all, he has a bit of affection for Jilly even though she hates his guts." "All three of our sisters hate Sierran," Fallon drawled. "Jilly could befriend the little whore and somehow get her down to the seaside where we will be waiting with a boat to whisk her away! 'Tis only a two hour sail from Zynkanthos to Edgeville Bay." "What part of ‘DuMond has guards all over the place’ did you not understand, Dyllon?" Vaughn snarled. "There…are…guards…all…over…the…place!" "Watching for your sloop," Peyton commented. "Would they be looking for a fisherman's boat tying up near LeMoyne's place, do you think? A brace of natives from Guernsey perhaps?" "A fisherman's boat rowed out from your sloop," Fallon suggested. "The sloop would have to be far enough out that DuMond's guards can't spy it," Vaughn said. "That's a long row."
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"What do you care?" Dyllon asked. "You won't be the one doing the rowing." "But how will we get Jillian there?" Fallon asked. "I can take her in my sloop," Peyton said. "I doubt they'll allow me to come ashore with her but they won't dare turn Jillian away. One of my men can row her ashore in the jolly boat. They'll take her up to Vista del Mar, mark my words." "Do you think she'll go along with this?" Vaughn asked. "Jilly hates Sierran as much as we do," Fallon replied. "If it means doing something to piss him off, she'll be all over it!" *** Lady Jillian Morgan-Rhys was only too glad to help her brothers when they rode out to her estate later than morning. All she asked in return was to be allowed to watch her youngest brother's crippling downfall at the hands of their father. "I want to watch him go down once and for all, the snotty little bugger," she growled. "We'll all be there," Dyllon said. "The more the merrier to witness Sierran's humiliation." Jillian nodded. "It's high time Father put him in his place!" "All right," Fallon said. "This is what we do…" "Poor old Sierran," her husband remarked as he sat smoking his pipe beside the fireplace while his wife and her brothers hatched out their scheme. "He'll never know what hit him." *** The only thing that Lady Judith Morgan enjoyed―save the devoted attention of her stable master―was embroidering. Sitting for hours with cloth and thread in hand, she could wile away the hours quite pleasantly
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without interruption by either staff or onerous husband. Eagle Grove— the estate ruled over by the iron hand of a husband she despised and coveted by his four eldest sons whom she equally detested—practically ran itself with a well-chosen and excellent staff who rarely bothered Lady Judith with decision making. When she was in her solarium, no one dared to intrude unless it was a matter of life or death and that was rarely the case. So it was that on that late November afternoon when she looked out her solarium window to see her arrogant sons riding up the drive, she paused with needle pulled up through fabric and frowned. "Melissa!" Lady Judith called out to the servant girl who sat out in the corridor awaiting her mistress' pleasure. "Aye, milady?" the girl replied, hurrying to the doorway but not stepping foot over the threshold unless invited to do so. “The brats are here. Find out what those little twerps are about," Lady Judith commanded, pushing the needle through the material in her hand. "Be very cautious but report back to me everything that is said as soon as they leave." "Aye, milady!" Melissa did not need to ask which little twerps she was to spy upon. The girl curtsied and hurried away, tripping lightly down the stairs with her skirts held up, and blended in with the other servants who were seeing to the young masters' riding gloves and coats. "Where is Lord James?" Lord Vaughn inquired of Jenkins, the butler. "In the library, milord," Jenkins replied. "Shall I announce you, sir?" "Not necessary," Vaughn snapped and he and his three brothers trooped toward the library. Melissa sidled down the corridor behind them. She motioned away another girl who would have followed the Morgan brothers into the library in case they required refreshment and slipped unseen and ignored into the room, pressing herself close against the wall with her hands folded demurely at her waist—as invisible as all the other servants scuttling about Eagle Grove. As usual, none of the men noticed her as she hovered there.
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"We have been thinking on this problem with Sierran, Father," Lord Vaughn began. For nearly an hour Melissa listened to the conversation between father and sons and noted every word spoken and who had said it. When the brothers had finished their business with their father and were trooping back out of the room, not a one of them glanced her way. She was a part of the furnishings and garnered just as much notice. "Get me a sandwich and a glass of lemonade, Mel," Lord James ordered, not even bothering to look up at the girl who was about to slip quietly from the room. "And be sure to inform my wife that it was Fallon's idea for Jillian to go to Zykanthos and not mine." "Aye, milord," Melissa said with a deep curtsey. Reporting her news to Lady Judith after carrying her master's snack to him, Melissa asked if there was anything else she could do for the mistress of Eagle Grove. "No, that will be all," Lady Judith said as her nimble fingers plied the needle through a series of intricate knots. Melissa bobbed another quick curtsey then went back to her uncomfortable chair in the corridor. As soon as she was alone again, Lady Judith laid her embroidery down in her lap and turned to stare out the window. The skies were gunmetal gray and it looked as though snow would finally come to Argonne. She liked the snow for it covered the land in a crisp, pristine blanket that hid all the imperfections on the ground. If there was one thing Lady Judith hated more than her overbearing, cheating husband was imperfection of any kind. A perfectionist, her embroidered creations were perfect in every way and she would accept nothing less even if it meant ripping out hours of stitching until the piece was flawless. Because the offspring of her loins were not perfect and never would be, and because they each had faults Lady Judith found nearly unbearable, she kept as far away from them as possible. That a woman such as herself could produce imperfect children wounded her very soul. 122
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She could not even find it in her to lay hands to the creatures once they had slithered from her womb. Looking forward to the day such abominations would cease being foisted off on her by her hated spouse it had been with acute displeasure she learned she was carrying her last unwanted and unloved child. "Sierran," she said aloud and her eyes glazed over with distaste. Right from the start the pregnancy had been difficult. Where no morning sickness ever had been with the other seven confinements, now it never seemed to end. Heartburn, weight gain, bloating, and many additional conditions she had not experienced with her other children, she was forced to endure with the last one. From the moment he had come squalling into the world, she had loathed the squirming child. As she had with her other children, she had handed him off to a wet nurse and turned her back to him. "Get that thing out of my sight so I may rest!" she had ordered the midwife. Not once in his entire life had Lady Judith laid a hand to her youngest son except to switch his bare legs when he was a small child or to brutally slap his face when he was older. No motherly arms had ever been thrown around Sierran DeLyle Morgan. No gentle maternal eye had ever looked upon him. No caring, gentle voice had ever spoken his name within the walls of Fallwich, where the unwanted brat had been born. Nor had he been spirited away in the dead of night to Argonne when the rest of his family had fled the war-torn soil of Emardia, but rather he had been left behind to fend for him self at the tender age of thirteen. "Sierran," Lady Judith said again, and the word was followed by a long sigh. Mentally calculating how old the boy would be now, she realized it had been sixteen years since last she'd seen her youngest. She wondered if he looked like her or if he more resembled his father. When he had been left behind in Emardia, he was undergoing that gawky in between stage where he was all arms and legs, thin as a rail. There had been
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nothing even remotely handsome about the gangly boy. He was, after all, the runt of the litter and therefore expendable. But now? she thought. What of now? What was he like now? News of her youngest son's exploits during the war with Emardia had managed to reach her, though she tended to dismiss much of the rhetoric where he was concerned. Apparently he had risen quickly up the ranks of the Ibydosian Forces and had been awarded many medals for honor and valor. His daring was well documented and his brilliant successes were spoken of with high respect by those who erroneously believed the Morgans would be all too happy to hear of their son's accomplishments. He was considered a national hero by the Federation and had amassed a fortune in bounties from the Ibydosian High Commission. But what was he really like? "Quite the lady's man is your Sierran, Judi," one of their old acquaintances had reported a few years back. "Has chits running after him wherever he goes." "Like father, like son", Lady Judith had snapped at the time. "Morgan men are all alike. They can't keep it in their britches!" Yet not one hint of scandal had ever been associated with her younger son's name—unlike her older sons' predilections for debauchery and depravity that were the talk of Argonne. There were no bastard offspring of Sierran's running around as there were with Vaughn, Dyllon, Fallon, and Peyton. Not one hint of dishonor had ever sullied the young man's name and no rumors or gossip of bad conduct had been linked to him. Even her daughters—for whom she had an even stronger dislike than she did for her sons―had scandal associated with their names on occasion but not once had anyone spoken ill of Sierran. Her embroidery forgotten, Lady Judith laid her head on the tall back of the chair and closed her eyes. "Are you the only perfect one among them, Sierran?" she asked softly. "Did I produce one nearly flawless specimen after all?" 124
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She rather doubted she had.
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Chapter Twelve When several weeks passed without someone from his family attempting to contact him about his forced Joining to Lady Beatrice Summerall, Sierran began to breath a sigh of relief. Perhaps, just perhaps—he prayed—they had decided to forget about him as they had for the past sixteen years. Though he'd ran into Vaughn and Peyton in Placida a few times over the last year since the Ibydosian Forces had all but squashed the Emardians, their meetings had been in passing and not long enough to discuss family matters—which he was sure neither Vaughn nor Peyton would have done anyway. Those chance encounters had left a bad taste in Sierran's mouth and a mean look in the eyes of both Vargas and Mac who despised their commander's older brothers. He'd said little of his family to Celeste, giving her only rudimentary information about his brothers and sisters as he remembered them from his childhood. He had absolutely no knowledge of the spouses of his siblings or how many times over—if at all—had he become an uncle. Of his parents, he said barely anything except to express his belief that he had been unwanted by both. Since both sets of grandparents had been long gone before his birth, all he could say of the rest of his family was that many of them—uncles, aunts, cousins—had met their deaths at the hands of the Emardians. If there were any left outside his immediate family, he was unaware of their existence. Having grown up an only child, Celeste could feel the loneliness she heard in what her husband did not say. She began to realize he had grown up virtually on his own without the help or support of his family. Raised by the staff, he had not been given the opportunities or indulgencies his brothers and sisters had enjoyed and had instead been
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given only what was left over and that seemed precious little in Celeste's estimation. The more she heard of his family, the less she liked them and was more determined than ever to be the family he had never really had. On the day another Morgan sloop appeared on Zykanthos Bay, it was bitterly cold and the fancy ship sat half-hidden by curtains of falling snow. A cry went up along the dock and word soon reached Sierran that there was a ship in the harbor. Taking the stairs two at a time up to the solarium, the owner of Vista del Mar stood staring at the ship as it dropped anchor in his bay. "Is it your brother Vaughn?" Celeste asked as she joined him at the glass. "That isn't his sloop but it carries the Morgan colors of gold and green on the flag," he said around clenched teeth. He nudged his chin toward the boat. "You can't tell from here but there's a sable gryphon rampant on the gold shield." Celeste had seen his family crest on the gold ring he wore on the little finger of his right hand. She looked up at him and saw a muscle grinding in his cheek. "Will they dare to come ashore?" "They'd best not," he snapped and spun around to stalk back the way he'd come. When he got to the landing, he leaned over the railing to yell down at the man who had run all the way to the keep to inform him of the ship's arrival. "Franco, go back to the docks and tell Mac he isn't to let any of my brothers come ashore. Tell him I said for them to get their asses out of my waters or I'll blow that fancy sloop into so much driftwood!" "Aye, milord!" the man replied, tugging at his forelock then hurried off. "Sierran," Celeste said. "They are lowering a boat into the water." Spitting out a stream of vulgar words, Sierran strode back into the solarium and straight to the window where his wife was still standing. Through the gently falling snow, he could see three people in the jolly boat being lowered from the port side of the ship. "Is that a woman sitting between the rowers?" Celeste asked. www.samhainpublishing.com
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Sierran stiffened. "If they sent that diseased hag to me, I'll cut her into little pieces and send her back to them in a vat of brine!" he snarled. "You'll do no such thing," she said and when he swiveled his head around to glare at her, she raised her chin. "I'll do it for you." He grinned for the militant look on his lady's face was precious to him. "I'll leave such things to your tender mercies, then, but if that is the Summerall bitch, she'll never see the inside of Vista del Mar." He put a hand to her cheek. "You'll have to kill her down at the docks, and pray not in one of your good gowns, either." Celeste tilted her face into his palm. "You are so good to me, husband." She batted her eyes at him. His ill humor vanishing beneath the onslaught of his lady's bantering, he bid her stay there until he could find out who it was that had braved the wintry sea to come calling. "It could be my mother, the gods forbid," he said though Celeste had heard a slight hint of hope in his gruff voice. From the solarium, Celeste watched her husband go into the stable and come back out sitting astride his huge buckskin stallion, Churada. Riding bareback with his black great cape fluttering behind him, her husband was something to behold. The sight made her very proud of her warrior as he clattered over the planks of the drawbridge and toward the harbor. *** Sierran was pacing the dock by the time the jolly boat entered the shallows and two of his men went to help the rowers pull the ship to shore. He squinted against the cold invasion of the snow crystals clinging to his eyelashes, trying to get a glimpse of the woman sitting all bundled in a dark green wool full length cape—the hood of which was pulled low to protect her face—in the middle of the jolly boat. When one of the men would have lifted her from the boat, the woman balked. "Only my brother is to touch me, you oaf!" he heard her snap.
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A portion of the expectation that had been building in his chest dissolved when he realized it was not his mother who had come after all. It was one of his sisters—or sisters-in-law—but he did not recognize the voice. Of course it had been many years since he'd heard or seen them and doubted he had ever met any of the women whom had married his brothers. Frowning, he strode toward the boat and once there held his arms out to the woman standing with the hood down even lower over her head. "Milady," he said. "Do be careful, Sierran," she said, allowing him to sweep her into his arms and carry her toward the boardwalk. She smelled good, he thought as he carried her through the sand. Nearly as light in weight as his wife, she appeared to be taller than Celeste. When he set her down on the boardwalk, he realized she was so tall, she nearly equaled him in height. Since his two older sisters had been short, he reasoned this must be the youngest, Jillian, and when he spoke her name, she tilted her head back, and he saw her face for the first time since they were children. "You bruised my ribs, I believe," she complained. It was a petulant face he beheld but lovely, though lines were beginning to bracket the corner of her mouth. Slightly oval in shape, her striking green eyes—an inheritance from their mother—peered at him with the haughtiness he remembered all too well and he saw lines developing there, as well. Her cupid bow lips were pursed into an unforgiving line, her cheeks red from the cold, and her determined chin held high as she regarded him. "Well, now. You are not as ugly as Vaughn said you were," she stated, sweeping her gaze down him. "Why are you here?" he asked, her hateful words striking his heart. "But just as rude as ever, I see," she said. "Are you going to keep me here in the cold while I state my business with you, Sierran?" It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to state her business and be gone but some tender part of him relented and he turned to the men who www.samhainpublishing.com
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had rowed the jolly boat ashore. "Put her luggage on the boardwalk then go back to the ship." He looked at Jillian. "How long do you intend to stay?" His sister waved her hand regally. "At least a few weeks. We've so much catching up to do." Sierran winced. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to his sister but of the three, she was the only one for whom he had held even a smidgen of affection. There was no doubt in his mind why she was there but some renegade part of him hoped to learn something of his absent family. "Tell your captain to leave my waters," he told the sailors. "I'll send word when you need to return to pick her up." Before the men could push the boat back into the frigid water, he asked to whom the sloop belonged. "It's the Argyle, Peyton's piece of trash," Jillian said. "The lack of amenities on that floating barge boggles the mind. Now Fallon's sloop…" "You can tell me about all that later," Sierran said. expecting her to follow him.
He turned,
When she saw the horse, Jillian came to an abrupt stop. "Surely you don't expect me to ride that beast bareback!" she hissed. "You can walk if you've a mind to," he told her. Jillian's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I don't know what kind of women you are accustomed to dealing with, Sierran—although I can make a good guess. I am a lady and a lady does not ride astride." "She does if she doesn't want to hike through the snow," he said, grabbing a handful of mane and vaulting onto the back of his steed. He sat there controlling the beast with his thighs, looking down at his sister with ill-disguised laughter. "You coming?" "You will regret treating me in this manner, Sierran," she said, holding her hand up to him. She gasped as he swung her up onto the horse as though she weighed little more than a child. Having no other choice, she threw her arms around his waist and held on as he dug his
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heels into his mount's side. The beast took off so abruptly, the hood of her cape flew back and away from her carefully coiffed hair. *** "I don't think that's either your mother or the hag," Celeste mumbled as she watched her husband racing his horse back toward Vista del Mar. She took a deep breath and started downstairs to meet who she knew had to be one of Sierran's sisters. *** Jillian had barely been civil to Celeste when they were introduced. Sierran's sister acknowledged his wife with a flick of her blazing eyes, a curt how do you do? before taking herself over to the first fireplace she saw and holding her gloved hands to the heat. She was shivering and her hair was a disaster, putting her in a very unpleasant frame of mind. "Nadia, would you have a bath drawn for Lady Jillian?" Celeste asked one of the maids. "I am sure she would like to refresh herself." "That is an understatement," Jillian said haughtily, not even bothering to look around at her hosts. She jerked off her gloves. "I am most uncomfortable in these wet things." Sierran's face was devoid of expression as he stood there with his hands dug into the pockets of his britches. His hair, too, was tousled but on him it looked attractive—and Celeste had to admit, sexy as hell— where on his sister it looked unkempt and blowsy. He gave his wife a staid look, rolled his eyes, and sauntered off. "Where is he going?" Jillian demanded, catching his departure out of the corner of her eyes. "I imagine to change his clothes," Celeste replied. "He is still not recovered fully from his stay in prison and…"
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"Ah, yes," Jillian interrupted. "I remember Vaughn mentioning something about that." She craned her head around. "Wasn't there something else about your father having tortured him?" Celeste's face turned red. "Yes, that did happen." "Poor Sierran. He does get himself into all kinds of mischief," Jillian said but there was no sorrow in her tone; rather,to Celeste, she sounded nearly gleeful. "Having his back torn open with a bullwhip certainly should teach him a thing or two, wouldn't you think?" Celeste asked, her jaw set and her eyes shooting blue fire. "I should hope so," Jillian said, completely oblivious to her hostess' ire. "And what do you think about him having had his chest cut to ribbons by a madman?" Celeste questioned, taking a step toward her husband's sister. Jillian picked up on the hostility accompanying that question and half turned around. "Is that what your father did to him?" "Yes," Celeste said as she dug her fingernails into her palms to keep from slapping the woman. "My father took a knife to Sierran's chest and carved over three dozen gashes on it. One gash I had to sew closed." She narrowed her eyes. "Twice." Sierran's sister shuddered delicately. "I am sure it was a hard lesson for my brother to learn but perhaps he has profited from his ordeal." Celeste was so angry she couldn't speak. A part of her wanted to jump on the woman and rip her hair out while another part wanted to run her through with one of the crossed swords hanging over the mantelpiece. Before she could give in to either temptation, she pivoted on her heel and stormed off. "Now where are you going?" Jillian called out, stamping her foot in vexation. "Where I can't do any damage," Celeste muttered.
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*** Sierran had just come down the stairs when he spied his wife hurrying out of the great hall. From the set of her shoulders and the militant look on her lovely little face, he knew Jillian had said something to set Celeste off. He sighed, shook his head, and turned into the Great Hall, reluctant to face Jillian but curious to know why she'd been sent. Jillian had taken off her cape and was standing with her back to the flames, the skirt of her gown lifted to warm her cold legs. When she saw Sierran, she dropped the gown with a faint blush tinting her cheeks at doing such a common thing but when she saw he was clad only in a white shirt and black pair of denim pants—and the shirt having been left untucked and him barefoot at that!—her mouth dropped open and her green eyes widened. "Is that how you dress for your guests, Sierran DeLyle?" she demanded. "I am in my home and I am comfortable, Jillian Kay," he replied. "You can hike your skirt back up and bare your arse to the flames for all I care. I don't give a gods-be-damn about supposed polite social behavior." "Obviously," she muttered, smoothing her mussed hair. "Is my room ready yet? Is the bath prepared?" He shrugged as he took a seat in his favorite chair and hooked his leg over the arm and his arm over the back. "To tell you the truth, I didn't ask. You can go up to the second floor and check, if you like." Jillian stared at him. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been a mere boy five years her junior. Thin and lanky—more arms and legs than anything else—she and her friends had made fun of him. His hair had been a nondescript shade of mousy brown and though his eyes had been that strange golden color, they had certainly not been framed by the long dark lashes that now bracketed them. Today, he was tall and muscular with hair that was thick and a glossy dark brown that looked almost black. Through the carelessly buttoned front of his shirt, she could see a matt of dark hair growing but even from where she stood, she could see
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the faint red lines that must be the cuts of which his strumpet had spoken. He was a very handsome man with just enough sun crinkles at the corners of his devastatingly beautiful eyes to let you know he was older than you first imagined. And there was power and authority to him that both surprised and alarmed her. "Am I that ugly, Jilly?" he asked. His sister shook her head. "You are not ugly at all, Sierran," she grudgingly admitted. "You look more like our father than I had expected." "That was an insult you really didn't need to hand me," he mumbled. He flexed his bare foot in irritation. "Aren't your feet cold?" she asked, experiencing the strangest sensation in the pit of her stomach as she watched his dangling leg and the soft-looking skin of his foot. "No," he replied. Jillian looked away. "Would you be a gentleman and escort me to my room?" Sierran just sat there and looked at her for a long moment then heaved himself out of the chair. "Sure, let's go." He led her out into the corridor then indicated the winding stairs. "After you." Acutely aware of her brother behind her, Jillian gracefully lifted the skirt of her gown and began the climb up the stairs. She missed nothing as she inspected the paintings on the staircase wall and the fine carpet underfoot. When they reached the landing and he moved around her to lead her to her room, she could not look away from his broad shoulders and long legs, mentally having to shake herself to keep from entertaining the forbidden thoughts that were going through her head. Sierran stopped at a door and opened it, sweeping his hand across the threshold. He stepped aside so she could enter the room. "Oh, my," Jillian said, taking in the beauty of the room. "This is lovely, Sierran." He leaned against the doorjamb. "If you need anything, just ring. A maid will come up to attend you."
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She had gone to the window and pushed aside the draperies. "The view is spectacular." "Glad you like it," he said and turned to go but he stopped and looked back at her. "Jillian?" His sister swiveled her head around. "Yes?" "There is something I want you to remember while you are here," he said with no expression at all on his handsome face. "This is my home. Celeste is the mistress of my home. She is my legal wife―" "Your second wife," Jillian interrupted. "The wife of my heart," he stated. "She is the love of my life and I will defend her in every way I can. If you insult her or cause her the first moment of embarrassment or unease, I will personally escort you to the docks and you will never again be welcome in our home." His eyes narrowed. "Is that clear?" Jillian lifted her chin. "Am I welcome now, Sierran?" she asked. A slow, deadly smile crept over his mouth. "You are being tolerated, Jillian," he said then turned away. *** He found Celeste in the solarium as he knew he would. Over the last week, they had spent many a soothing hour in the lush room with its vibrant plants or whiling away moments in the warm water of the hot tub—of which she was particularly fond. By now she knew the name of every exotic plant he had brought to this room and had studied volumes on that plant's properties. She knew which ones were of medicinal value and had spent quite a bit of time brewing poultices and salves for him and other members of his household. The solarium had become her favorite place at Vista del Mar. "She isn't a likeable person, is she, dearling?" Celeste asked as he strolled into the room, his hands in his pockets—a sure sign he was annoyed.
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"None of my family are likable, milady," he grumbled. “It bothers me that Jillian seems to dislike you,” she said. He shrugged. “They all dislike me, Celeste, but of them all, Jillian was less hateful to me when we were children. I suppose that’s why I can tolerate her better than I can the others.” A wry smile peeled back his lips. “And most likely why they sent her rather than another.” He came over to her where she was carefully clipping a bonsai tree. "That looks much better." "Did you know Lucas Gilbert makes miniature furniture for his daughter's doll houses?" she asked. Sierran shrugged. "I know he whittles a lot. Why?" "I've asked him to make me a little village to place around this plant." She looked up at him. "I thought it would be quaint." He smiled. "It would be," he agreed and took his hands out of his pockets to slip his arms around her. "I know something else that would be quaint." He rubbed himself from side to side against her. "Is that all you think of?" she asked with mock exasperation. "My back is as healed as it will ever be and my chest doesn't pain me that much anymore," he said, lowering his head so he could nibble at the side of her neck. "I've yet to claim you as I want to since you kept insisting on climbing atop me and riding me like a prized steed." She pursed her lips. "But it feels so good to ride you like that, Sierran." "Mayhap yet I know other things that will feel even better," he whispered against her cheek. Her hands were trapped between them, her palms flat to the hard muscles of his chest. "Better than your dangly thrusting into my sheath?" she giggled. Sierran stepped back and before she could protest, lifted her into his arms, swinging her up high against his chest. "Should you be doing this?" she asked, concerned for his wounds. True, they were healing—thanks to the salves she'd been slathering all
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over him—but she wasn't fully convinced he was healed enough to be exerting himself. "Hush, wench," he said. He carried her to the small daybed he had purchased for the room. They had spent many a glorious moment there watching the sun set over the waters of Zykanthos Bay. Laying her on the bed, he went to the solarium door and shut it, twisting the lock he had had Seth install for him. Celeste propped herself up on her elbows and grinned at him. "Strip, slave," she said haughtily. "I wish to view what I have purchased." It was only one of the games they played when they were alone— taking turns being the love slave of the other. When she was in her mischievous mode, she was at her most creative. "I am a warrior," he said. He came over to the daybed and stood there with his legs spread, his hands on his hips. "I am no slave!" "Oh," she said, pressing a hand to her chest. "And I am but a poor, defenseless maiden you've torn from the loving arms of her family and stolen away for your wicked sport." "That you are," he said as he arched a dark brow. "Now lie down 'ere I tie you down." Celeste flopped down on the bed with her arms and legs spread wide. "Do with me as you will, you evil man. I have not the will to fight you." Slowly he unbuttoned his shirt then shrugged out of it, never taking his hot gaze from her. He removed his britches to stand there with his cock jutting forth like a well-honed blade. "Evil man," she repeated. She flung an arm over her eyes and sighed loudly. "You will despoil me with that wicked weapon." "Aye, wench," he agreed and placed his knee upon the daybed's mattress. "That I will." Sierran settled his naked body between her thighs, pushing the skirt of her gown up. "Damn, woman," he grumbled. "How many petticoats do you have on?" He pushed up two before sliding the hem of her chemise up to reveal her garter belt and stockings.
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"I wasn't planning on being ravished today," she reminded him. "You can plan on being ravished every day," he shot back and put his warm hand on her bare thigh where the stocking met the garter belt. His fingers trailed over her for a moment before he unhooked first one stocking then the other, alternately lifting her legs to his shoulders so he could peel the silk from her shapely legs. He reached up to tug the garter belt over her hips and Celeste accommodated him by arching her lower body up to help. "You are supposed to be fighting me, wench," he complained. "Not aiding me." "Oh," she said. "I forgot." She let her arm fall behind her head. "Oh, stop! Stop! You vile little man!" Sierran looked up at her. "Little man?" he questioned and stretched out atop her, allowing her to feel the hardness of his cock between her spread legs. "Does that feel little to you, madame?" Celeste put her tongue out to slowly lick her upper lip as he hovered there above her. The weight of him pressing down on her was heavenly and it was causing havoc with her lower body. She could feel the moisture gathering in her vagina. “I must admit it doesn’t feel all that small now that you mention it,” she replied. His gaze went to that little pink tongue moistening her lip and growled deep in his throat. He shifted his weight so he was leaning on his left elbow and he brought his right hand up to cup her breast through the velvet fabric of her gown. He squeezed her gently then lowered his mouth to hers, thrusting his tongue into her sweet mouth. Encircling him within the perimeter of her arms, Celeste moved her legs so they anchored his down and as his kiss deepened and his cock stirred between her thighs, she met his dueling tongue with her own. He kneaded her breast firmly through the material then insinuated his palm inside her bodice so he could touch her bare flesh. He plucked at her nipples—smiled around the gasp of pleasure that came from her— and ground his lower body against her. 138
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Celeste pulled her lips free of his. "If you don't take me right now, Sierran, I am going to…" He wriggled between her thighs. "Then move your legs, wench, if you want me in you." She quickly unhooked her legs from over his. The moment his shaft entered her, she quivered from head to toe. It was glorious—the feel of him lying upon her, the heaviness of him, the attitude of powerful possession that feeling elicited within her, and the hardness of him thrusting deep. "Wrap your legs around my hips," he whispered and she didn't hesitate to do as he bid. His cock went deeper into her velvet softness. Sierran had waited so long to take her in that way. He had spent many a night dreaming of lying between her sweet thighs and ramming into her with sure, strong strokes that would bring her untold pleasure. At that moment, he was having a hard time controlling his cock for it wanted to release its juices into that warm, tight channel. Her hands were buried in his hair, her teeth nibbling at his chin and he was strung as tightly as a new bow. "Come for me, little one," he said, his voice thick with passion. "Come for me." Celeste felt that strange itching that always preceded the delight Sierran visited upon her. It was a building, tingling sensation that made her arch her hips higher and grind her body along his. She craved this man like an addict his dependence. He felt the first ripple on the tip of his cock and pressed tighter, harder into her. He increased the speed of his thrusts and when that second ripple came—like an undulating wave that clutched him from tip to base—he stilled within her as those ripples became a crashing wave. "Sierran!" she called out and slid her hands from his hair to his shoulders, grabbing at him, thrusting her hips closer to his.
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With his lady being pleasured, there was no need for him to hold off any longer and he gave into the release. He dug his fingernails lightly into her buttocks and poured himself into her. Burst after burst of intense pleasure washed over Celeste and she tightened her legs around him, hearing him grunt, knowing he was experiencing as much gratification as she. When he collapsed atop her, his cock flexing one last time before he lay still, she held him tightly, listening to his panting breath, feeling his pounding heart, loving him with every inch of her soul. "I love you," he whispered. Celeste smiled. It was the first time he'd said those words, though he had shown her his love in a thousand ways since they'd been together. "I love you, too," she whispered back. He tried to move off her but she would not allow it. "I like the feel of you on me," she said. "I'm heavy," he protested. "Yes, you are, but I love that heaviness, milord." Her arms were velvet bands anchoring him to her. She felt his cock slide out of her and groaned. "There that problem goes dissolving again." "Bad problem," he said. "Bad, bad problem." They lay like that for quite some time until Sierran insisted on moving to her side. She complained but he told her his chest was hurting. That wasn't true but it was the only thing he knew to say to make her release him. He didn’t like crushing her beneath him because he felt he was too heavy. He shifted to his side and gathered her into his arms. "What do you suppose she wants?" Celeste asked after another ten minutes of silence between them. “Who?” “Your sister,” she reminded him. "Oh, her.” He sighed. “To get me to go to Eagle Grove and consummate that damnable Joining," he stated.
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"Will you?" she asked softly. He snorted. "What do you think?" She wrapped a curl of his chest hair around her middle finger. "I think I would squash any woman you dared to put your dangly in," she replied. "I'm not leaving Zykanthos," he told her. "My father can find another way to take possession of Patterly." "Is it an estate worth having?" He shrugged. "I suppose so although I've heard Summerall neglected it for the most part. Brent says there are rich, fertile lands there but they haven't been worked properly." He put up a hand to scratch at his chin. "And there may be minerals and ores. I suspect there are if my father is so anxious to own it." "Can't you just sign the land over to him?" she asked. "I could but it wouldn't be legal. The Joining has to be consummated for it to be lawful in the eyes of the Argonne High Council." He yawned and rested his chin atop his lady's head. "It's a moot point for I have no intention of going to Argonne and certainly no desire to hump the widow Summerall." "I should hope not," his lady said. She settled into his arms and closed her eyes. "But we must be nice to your sister while she's here." He pulled his head back and looked down at her. "Why?" She opened her eyes and tilted her head back to lock gazes with him. "Because—like it or not—she's your family. Let it not be said that your lady-wife did not extend courtesy and consideration to your sister." "You would have scratched my brother's eyes out or maimed his dangly on the Akinos but you'll be civil to my sister?" he questioned. "This is our home," she said. "The Akinos was not." "Oh," he said. "Well that certainly explains things." He shook his head at her logic then closed his eyes. She closed hers and in a matter of moments, they were sleeping.
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Chapter Thirteen It was a strained meal the three of them ate that evening. The conversation was stilted and the unease palpable. Although the food was excellent, the wine exquisite, and the dessert utter heaven, no one seemed to have enjoyed the repast as they retired to the study where a roaring fire kept the chill of the winter night at bay. "How many people live on Zykanthos, Sierran?" Jillian asked. "Around two hundred," he said, sipping the cognac Celeste had poured for him. "And you own the entire island?" He nodded. Out of respect for his wife's wishes, he was dressed more properly for a meal with his sister though he had adamantly refused to put on a coat and cravat. His white shirt had been begrudgingly tucked into his britches, he wore a belt, and he had on boots. That was as far as he was willing to go. Jillian on the other hand was dressed in elegance with jewels in her upswept hair—compliments of one of Vista del Mar's more creative maids—and at her ears, neck, and upon her wrists. Several rather expensive rings adored her long, tapered fingers. "You seem to have done well for yourself, Jilly," Sierran remarked. "Who was it you married?" "Lord Edward Gillespie, Earl of Haverton," she replied, her chin high. "His family is very close to the Ibydosian Royals." She took a tiny sip of the port in her hand. "And Madeline and Danica?" he asked. "Whom did they catch?"
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His sister frowned before she caught herself then forced the lines from her forehead. "You make us sound like fishwives, Sierran," she said. "We didn't catch anyone. Father made excellent matches for each of us. Maddy Joined with Lord Levon Reed of the Vantar Reeds and Dani is wife to Lord Morris Bartlett. His family is…" "Big in shipping," Sierran finished for her. "I know Morris. The others I've only heard about." Jillian sat her empty glass aside. "How do you know Morris?" she asked. It would not do for her brother to have a friend inside the family. "I own the Akinos," he replied, "and two merchant ships, the Austru and the Shamal. I met Bartlett when I purchased the Shamal. He's a prissy little twit." "I quite agree," Jillian said, relaxing. "What about our brothers?" he inquired. "Whom did they marry?" "Well, Peyton married a friend of mine, Lady Leticia Reynolds. We went to boarding school together and are very close," she said with a smile that transformed her face. "Dyllon took Lady Lizabeth Nelton as his bride and Fallon wed Lady Harriet Dunston." She sighed. "Vaughn married that odious Wetherby girl. Do you remember her?" "Vaguely," he said. He was thirteen the last time he'd been with his entire family and he had a slight recollection of his twenty-four year old brother bringing a scrawny, sharp-faced woman to supper one evening. "Teresa is not one of Father's favorites, I assure you," Jillian said. "He can barely tolerate speaking to the chit." "Yet he gave his consent to the Joining," Sierran observed. "She had a most impressive dowry," Jillian remarked. "Ah, then that explains it. How much dower land did she bring to Father's estates?" "It was a goodly portion of Wetherby lands Father purchased when we fled to Argonne and built Eagle Grove," she told him. "Teresa's dower lands abut ours to the east." "So how large does that make Eagle Grove now?" he asked.
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"Well," she said, her voice filled with pride. "Once the Patterly lands are incorporated, Eagle Grove will be by far the largest estate in all of Argonne. Father will wield such power not even the might of the Argonnese government will be able to stand against him." Sierran's smile was nasty. "I can see why he's so anxious to get his hands on Patterly." Jillian stiffened. "And do you see why it is necessary that you come to Argonne to consummate your Joining to Lady Beatrice?" she asked. "Once that is done, you can return here to your island and never once have to step foot upon Eagle Grove lands again." "The family will leave me be, eh?" he asked, lifting his snifter to drain the last of the cognac. "Indeed!" Jillian agreed. She looked from her brother's scowling face to Celeste's carefully expressionless one. "You do see the advantages, don't you, dear Celeste?" "Advantages to your family, yes," Celeste said. "But there are no advantages that I can see for Sierran." "Well, no," Jillian agreed. "There will be nothing for him at Eagle Grove but then again, there never has been or ever will be." Sierran was staring down into his empty snifter. When Jillian said that, he slowly lifted his head and looked over at her. "What happens to Patterly if I refuse to be a part of Father's scheme?" Jillian blinked. "Well, you can't," she said. "You must come to Argonne and―" "No," he said softly. When she would have protested, he held up his hand. "I said no. Not now, not ever." "But you must, Sierran!" Jillian protested. Sierran set the snifter on the table beside him and got up. He inclined his head to his sister. "Good night, Jillian. I hope you rest well." Jillian shot to her feet as her brother turned to leave the room. "This isn't finished, Sierran. You must come back with me to Argonne and―"
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"No, I don't have to do anything," he said, his back to her as he kept walking. Furious that she was being dismissed with such a cavalier attitude, Jillian spun around and glared at Celeste. "You need to make that silly boy see reason!" she insisted. Celeste got gracefully to her feet. Her smile was as nasty as her husband's had been. "Sierran isn't a boy, Lady Jillian. He is a man." She clasped her hands together in front of her. "A very powerful man who makes his own decisions. He will not be bullied into doing what he does not wish to do." Jillian flounced her skirt and stormed out of the room, not even bothering to say goodnight to her hostess. She was seething and cursing vulgarly beneath her breath as she stomped up the stairs. She slammed the door to her room behind her and flung herself on the bed, lashing out with her fists and kicking her legs like a small child having a tantrum. Celeste had stayed in the study. She was torn between going up to her husband and following behind his sister to give her a piece of her mind. For the longest time she stood there undecided but thoughts of Sierran's overbearing father trying to force him into doing something her husband had no intention of doing, brought thoughts of her own father to mind. It had been nearly three weeks since she'd last seen her father in the dungeon of Dragonmoor. She had heard his wild shouts coming from the iron box as it had rolled along behind the wagon as Vargas took Sierran to the Akinos but she had not laid eyes on her parent since. Though she had ventured many times down the corridor that led to the room where he had been incarcerated, she had turned around each time, unwilling and unable to face the man who had done such terrible things to the man she loved. The man she knew as her father had never really existed. In his place, a monster had walked and it was that monster she had not been ready to see. "He is well enough," Sierran had reported to her. "I haven't been to see him, either."
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"Why not?" "Because I'm afraid of what I might be tempted to do to him." It had been an honest statement and one Celeste knew her husband had every right to make. He had been tortured brutally at her father's hands and would bear the scars of that torture for the rest of his life. Sierran had also told her about what her father had done to shame him and that—even more than the pain that had been inflicted upon him— seemed to torment Sierran the most. "He put his filthy hands on me," Sierran had said. "To me." It had taken her many nights of gentle loving to push that vile memory from her husband's mind. Now, it was nothing more than a ghost hovering somewhere deep in the background. At least she hoped it was. Standing there in the study she hitched up her courage. Tonight would be as good a time as any to confront her father. It needed to be done. She knew he begged to be allowed to see her—accusing Sierran of having raped her and even murdered her. Drawing in a deep, cleansing breath, she left the study and took the corridor toward the room the carpenters and masons on the island had turned into a private prison for her father. "It's a large space," Sierran had explained. "I had the walls knocked down between two storage rooms and bars mortared into place over the windows. One room is airy and bright and the other—which is his bedchamber and bath—is dark but with a fireplace for warmth. There is also a fireplace in the living area. I had thick bars forged for the walls of the living area so anyone can stand there and converse with him." "Does anyone do that?" she'd asked. "Not to my knowledge," he replied. "He gets three meals a day that he has never refused to eat. I have provided him books and writing materials. Once a week my men go in to prepare a bath for him and clean the two rooms. They've been forced to wrestle him to the floor and shackle him to keep him still while they do that."
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"You've done far more for him than he would ever have done for you, milord," she had said quietly. "He is your father," Sierran said and had changed the subject. She could hear her father speaking the farther down the corridor she walked. Ahead of her was a dead end so she could see there was no one standing before the bars. She knew he was carrying on a conversation with himself. She stopped to listen but could not make out the words he was saying. Now and again, she would hear him giggle. Steeling herself, she continued toward the room where her father was being held. "If you do go to see him, stay well back from the bars, Celeste," Sierran had warned her. "He isn't in his right mind. Better yet, let me or Vargas know when you want to go and we'll accompany you. It may not be safe for you." Her father was pacing the living area of his cell with his head down, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a white shirt that looked too big for him and his britches were a bit too long over his stocking feet. His cheeks were stubbled with growth that was coming in stark white and his hair—though in need of a good washing—had gone from salt and pepper to nearly gray since last she'd seen him. "We took away his belt and cravat for fear he might do himself damage. Vargas also took his boots for there were metal strips in the soles that he could have taken out to slash at his guards. “He's never allowed metal utensils for that reason. We have provided him a blunt wooden spoon with which to eat his meals," Sierran had explained. "Tear out his fingernails with hot pinchers," she heard her father mumble. "Cut his manhood from him with a rusty blade." Celeste blanched at those words—spoken low and furtively but with such venom it sent chills down her spine. "Pull out his eyes and…" "Father?"
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Lord Charles stopped in mid stride and slowly turned his head. His eyes were vacant pools in his thin face. "Who are you?" he snapped. "How dare you address me in such a manner!" "It's me, Father. Celeste," she said gently. Tears had formed in her eyes for the man on the other side of the bars was nearly unrecognizable. "You are not Celeste!" the crazed man stated. "My Celeste is safe within the walls of St. Carolus where she is being protected from the likes of the degenerate who has imprisoned me in this vile place!" He squinted. "I know who you are. You are Morgan's whore! That's who you are!" She shook her head as tears fell down her cheeks. "I am his wife, Father," she said. "We were legally Joined." "Whore!" Lord Charles said and flung himself at the bars, thrusting a hand with crooked fingers through the bars to grab her. "Filthy slut! Diseased harlot!" Celeste jumped back to keep him from touching her. His hands were filthy, the nails packed with grime and there was a foul odor wafting from him. He was clawing at her like a wild animal with his cheek pressed tight to the bars. Lips pulled back from gnashing teeth, eyes wild, and snarls coming from deep within him, he looked more animal than human. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing, but when her father's growls became howls of rage, she looked up to see Sierran standing beside her. "I hate you!" her father screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. "I am going to tear you apart, you despicable cur! I am going to slash you to ribbons!" Sierran took his wife into his arms. "Come away, sweeting. He has lost his reason." "Foul fiend!" Lord Charles shrieked. "Evil demon from the Pit!" Leading his lady up the corridor Sierran glanced back at the insane man raking his hands beyond the bars. He knew in that moment that the lord was of no use to himself or anyone else. Rather than have Celeste 148
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obsessing about her father's downward spiral into irreversible madness, something would need to be done. Once they were well away from the howls and snarls reverberating along the corridor, Celeste sagged against her husband, overcome with the horror of what she had just witnessed. He swung her up into his arms and carried her the rest of the way to their bedchamber. He laid her down upon the bed and bent over to smooth the hair back from her forehead. "I'll be right back, sweeting," he said but he didn't think she'd heard him. She had turned over to bury her face in the pillow. He placed a soft kiss on her cheek and with grim determination turning his face hard he left the room in search of Vargas. Jillian peeked out of her room, her eyebrows drawn together. She watched her brother descend the stairs and did not miss his expression that made her shudder. Surely such a look did not bode well for someone. She glanced at the closed door to her brother's bedchamber. She heard the crying coming from his room. "Apparently all is not sweetness in paradise," she said. With a hateful sneer on her face, she stepped back and gently closed her room door. *** Vargas and Mac were playing cards with two of the guards but as soon as they saw Sierran enter the gatehouse, they got quickly to their feet. "Walk with me," Sierran said to them and his two men fell in behind him. They took the stairs up to the wall walk where there would be privacy. No one was pacing the parapet for the drawbridge had been raised for the evening, the portcullis lowered. "I've a favor to ask of you," Sierran said. He braced his hands on a merlon thrusting up from the crenellated wall.
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"Name it, milord," Vargas spoke for the both of them. "I know you have access to whomever on the island brews up the tenerse you foist off on me," Sierran said. "Would that person also have Maiden's Briar?" Vargas and Mac exchanged a look and it was Mac who spoke. "You want to poison your sister, milord?" Sierran laughed. "Aye, I do but not even I would be that evil." He shook his head. "It is for him." "Ah," Vargas said. "Him." He nodded. "I figured that was coming." "He's lost his mind completely," Mac said. "She went to see him and I don't want that to ever happen again," Sierran said, lowering his head and closing his eyes. "If he could die quietly in his sleep, just cease to breathe…" "Leave it to us, milord," Vargas said. "We'll see to things." "A stroke," Mac said and the other two men looked over at him. "If she saw him acting up, it wouldn't be a hard thing to imagine." He shrugged. "Maiden Briar can paralyze a man so he appears to have had a stroke. He can't move and eventually the poison will enter his lungs and he'll stop breathing." "If she were to be there at his deathbed and see his chest stop moving…" Vargas suggested, "She'd not know you had any hand in his death, milord." Sierran nodded. He looked out over the water and was quiet for a long time, his eyes searching the horizon for any other answer. He could find none. He turned to Mac. "I leave it in your hands. Call us when you think she should be there." Pushing away from the wall, he headed for the stairs. "Aye, milord," Mac agreed. ***
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It was just a little after midnight that the knock came on Sierran's bedchamber door. Though Celeste was sleeping restlessly beside him, he had not closed his eyes but rather had been awaiting the summons. As soon as he heard it, he shook Celeste gently to awaken her then got out of the bed, pulled on his britches, and went to the door. Vargas was standing in the hall with a lantern. "Milord, I hate bothering you in the dead of the night but it seems Lord Charles has suffered a stroke. I believe the end is near." Sierran looked behind him to see Celeste sitting up in bed. "Sweeting?" he said softly. "Do you…?" "Aye," she said, flinging the covers aside to take her robe from the foot of the bed. "We'll be along," Sierran told Vargas. He looked into the other man's eyes for a moment then turned to draw on his shirt for the air had turned chill. Her hand was clasped tightly in his as they descended the stairs and walked along the corridor toward the cell. Torches were alight on the walls and Mac was standing at the bars, looking into the cell. "Who found him?" Sierran asked. "The guard who usually checks up on him before turning in each night," Vargas replied. "Lord Charles always curses him and when he didn't, Felix called me and Vargas. Together we went in and found him on his cot, just staring up at the ceiling." "Do you want to speak to Felix, milord?" Mac asked. "No," Sierran said. "I guess not." The door to the cell was open and Celeste paused at the opening before taking a deep breath and venturing into the living area. Sierran's hand tightened even more on hers as he led her into the bedchamber where her father lay perfectly still beneath a thick coverlet. His chest rose and fell slowly but he did not move. His eyes were fixed on something beyond that world as a thin stream of saliva oozed from one corner of his mouth.
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Removing her hand from Sierran's, she knelt beside her father's cot. "Father?" she whispered, but Lord Charles did not react. She looked down at his liver-spotted hand that lay outside the coverlet and with her own hand trembling, placed her palm on his flesh, wincing at the coldness that was already spreading through his body. As she watched, his chest ceased to move and he laid perfectly still, his eyes still open. "He was waiting for you, milady," Vargas said sorrowfully. "Aye," Mac agreed. "Before he let go of this world." Sierran glanced at both men and the look he gave them was a warning they both took to heart, ducking their heads beneath that silent reprimand. Celeste knelt there for several moments more then with the help of her husband got to her feet. She lifted her hand, kissed her fingertips, and then laid them against her father's forehead. "Sleep well, Father," she said, turning away. She and Sierran were almost to the stairs when she stopped and looked up at him. "May I take him back to Dragonmoor for burial, milord?" she asked. "If that is your wish," Sierran replied. "He would prefer to be laid to rest on his own lands." "Then that is how it will be." She reached up to put a hand to his cheek. "You are ever good to me, my husband." He covered her hand and turned his face to kiss her palm then brought her hand to his chest, over his heart. "You are my light and my life, Celeste." His wife searched his eyes then smiled sadly. "I am going up to bed but before you join me, go back, and instruct Vargas to be careful where he discards the remainder of the Maiden's Briar. We want no one else to come into contact with it." Sierran watched her start up the stairs, unable to speak for a moment then he called out to her. "How did you know?"
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She didn't look back at him. "I didn't," she said and continued on up the stairs. Realizing he had confirmed with his question what had been merely a suspicion in her mind, Sierran could have kicked himself. He had never meant for her to find out he'd had a hand in her father's death. "Don't be long, Sierran," he heard her say. *** Jillian accompanied her brother and sister-in-law to Emardia though she had no real desire to be a witness to the burial of Lord Charles Allen. The weather was miserable with the threat of more snow hovering in the air. Ice floes had formed on the water as the Akinos made its way to Bowsted Harbor but Sierran and his womenfolk were cozy enough with the lively brazier that warmed the ship's salon. It had been an overnight trip from Zykanthos to Emardia and Jillian had found fault with her tiny cabin, but the ship was now berthed and its passengers awaiting the coach that would take them to Dragonmoor. A tall man in the uniform of the Ibydosian Forces arrived on horseback just as Sierran helped his sister into the coach. He turned to greet the man, smiling as he held out a hand. "How are you, Gilbreth?" "I am well, Sierran," the man replied, shaking Sierran's hand. "I trust you are well." "I am." "General Tremayne sends his regards," Gilbreth Andrews said. “And has issued an invitation for you to visit with him if you have time." Sierran knew Tremayne to be an honorable man—as vastly difference from Thurston as a man could be—but he had no desire to go to Force Headquarters on the off chance he might be taken back into custody for failure to carry out a direct command.
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"I'm afraid I really don't have time to spare this trip. Another time perhaps?" he asked, wondering how the Federation knew he was coming back to Emardia. "Certainly," Gilbreth replied. "Oh, if I may…" He reached inside his heavy wool uniform coat and withdrew a folded paper. "I was instructed to hand this into your keeping." Sierran took it. "What is it?" "The deed to Dragonmoor," Gilbreth answered. "With your marriage to the lord's only child, the property is now yours. It has been notarized and entered into Federation records. A copy has been sent to Dallwitch to the Royal Treasury." Taken aback, Sierran looked up from the papers. "How did the Federation know about my Joining to Lady Celeste?" he asked. "Or of her father's demise, for that matter?" Gilbreth's eyebrows slashed together. "From your lawgiver, of course," he replied. "Lord Brenton informed the Federation of your Joining at the time he remitted the resignation of your commission. He sent word of Lord Charles' passing the morning it happened, I believe, asking that things be settled as quickly as possible for when you arrived so the Lady Celeste could put the unpleasantness of his death behind her. I do hope that is satisfactory." Sierran wondered who the lawgiver had sent to Emardia to inform the Federation and why he'd felt the need to do so in such haste. He made a mental note to seek out Brenton as soon as they returned to Zykanthos. "I am grateful to the Federation for expediting the matter," Sierran mumbled. "It was the least we could do to atone for the terrible injustice of you being remanded to the Dungeon Master to begin with," Gilbreth said, his mouth tight. "But at least something good came from the ordeal, eh?" Sierran smiled. "Something very good, indeed, Gil." "Then you are happy?" "Very happy."
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"Good," Gilbreth said. "I see your wagon has arrived and I won't keep you. Please give my regards to your lady-wife." As the wagon rolled out of Placida and across the rugged plains over which he'd been taken in the sweltering confines of the iron box, Sierran was silent as he stared out the window. His wife sat beside him, his sister across from him with Vargas, Mac, and Seth riding behind in another coach. "You are being uncharacteristically quiet, Sierran," Jillian observed. She was tugging on her soft kid gloves. He looked around at her. "How would you know? It's been years since we were in a coach together." His eyes narrowed. "Do you even remember the last time?" Jillian thought about it for a moment. "I suppose it was when Nana Margaret passed on. We went up to Shoringtown to attend that absurdity of a funeral." "No," Sierran said. "It was when I was being taken to Breverly." There had been something in her husband's voice that alerted Celeste that the coach ride to which he was referring had not been a pleasant one. When she saw the color drain from Jillian's face, she reached out to take Sierran's hand. "What is in Breverly?" she asked, looking up at him. A muscle jumped in Sierran's jaw but he did not answer. "Oh, surely you must know that is where the Federation has a military school, Celeste," Jillian said, rearranging the heavy fur robe that covered her legs. Celeste squeezed his hand. "You did not tell me you went to military school." "I didn't," he said. "Father took him there but he kept running away," Jillian said. "Twice, if memory serves." "And that last time I was taken back by coach," he said. "With the entire family in attendance." He stared hard at Jillian. "And that was
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where I was left while the rest of you took ship to Argonne later that night." Jillian had the grace to blush. "It was for your own good," she said. Sierran rudely snorted at that statement and returned to looking out the window again though his hand jerked against Celeste's. “Your family left him then moved away?” Celeste asked, aghast at such a thing having happened to the man she loved. “Why would you…?” “Let it drop, Milady,” Sierran asked softly. Jillian pretended to find something interesting out her window and silence fell upon the travelers. Several hours later—after Lord Charles had been interred in the family crypt—and the keep inspected to make sure the servants were taking care of the estate, Celeste realized her husband was missing when it was time to leave. After looking for him above stairs, she finally realized where he must have gone and found him in the dungeon, staring at the bloodstained slab where he had spent torturous hours under her father's brutal care. "You should not have come down here," he told her. "Neither should you," she said, slipping her arm around his waist. "He was out of his mind, Celeste," he said. "I know." "The gods only know how many people died down here." "I asked Vargas to ride into town and send back a priest to exorcise the evil in this wretched place," she said. "I have also instructed the staff that these rooms are to be cleaned and stripped of all devices. There will be nothing left of the wickedness my father wrought." "It will always be here, sweeting," he said, running a hand through his hair. "The walls are saturated with the screams of his victims. Can you not hear them?" "We will lay those poor souls to rest," she said. She reached down to take his hand in hers. "Now, let's leave this place and return to the ship. I have no desire to stay here a minute longer."
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He nodded and began walking with her toward the stone stairs. "Is there anything else here you want to take with us?" "Everything that meant anything to me has already been brought to Vista del Mar." The last sight Celeste had of the home in which she'd been born, and in which she'd lived an imprisoned life, was of the sun setting over it, washing Dragonmoor in blood-red color.
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Chapter Fourteen "When are you planning on returning to Argonne, Jillian?" Sierran asked his sister a month later. They were in the study, waiting for Celeste to come down stairs so they could go in and break their fast. "Are you that anxious to be rid of me?" Jillian countered. "Nay, you can stay as long as you like but I am not going to change my mind about going back with you so you are wasting your time if you think I'm going to cave in," he told her. "I've come to that realization," Jillian lied. "And I suppose it is time I returned to Edward although this time of year he spends hours on end hunting." She sighed. "I'll send word tomorrow for Peyton to return for me." "Make sure he understands he won't be allowed to come ashore," Sierran reminded her. Jillian rolled her eyes. "Of course." She picked at a piece of lint on her skirt. "Would you have time to show me about the island later today?" she asked. "I've yet to see hardly any of it." The last thing Sierran wanted to do was spend more time with his sister. He found it hard just to be civil with her when she used her snide, condescending voice or made untoward comments about the staff. "I don't but perhaps Vargas or Mac…" "Oh for the love of Alel, Sierran!" his sister exploded. "Would you foist me off on the servants?" She dug her fingernails into her palms to make tears glisten in her eyes. "At least allow Celeste to accompany me." "Accompany you where, Jillian?" Celeste asked as she came into the study.
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Jillian sniffed. "All I want is to see the island before I am forced to leave and…" "No one is forcing you to leave, Jillian," Sierran said with a clenched jaw. "I've been cooped up here for over a month with only that trip to Dragonmoor to break the monotony. All I ask is to have a little bit of pleasure before I go." She dabbed at her tearful eyes. Celeste met Sierran's annoyed look. "If you would allow Seth to drive us, he could show us about the island. I must admit I'm a bit curious about the rest of Zykanthos and Brent has often invited us to visit him." "You've not seen it either!" Jillian gasped. "Why are you keeping her captive here, Sierran?" Sighing deeply, Sierran shook his head. "I am not keeping her prisoner in her own home, Jillian." "It seems that way to me!" "It would," he snapped. He gave his wife a droll look. "If you want to trudge about the island in the dead of winter, Celeste, you certainly can, but I've no desire to." "Then Celeste can take me sightseeing?" Jillian pressed, eyes narrowing. "There is snow on the ground, Jillian," Sierran protested. "Oh, foo! There's not that much," his sister said. "The roads are clear and we aren't going to be traipsing inland. We'll stay to the coast roads. Can't she show me the island, Sierran?" "If she likes and if the weather permits. If 'tis warm enough, I've no objection to you venturing out. If it's too cool, then no, you won't be going anywhere," Sierran replied. He held his arm out for the women to precede him to the dining hall. Standing on tiptoes, Celeste gave her husband's cheek a peck and his arm a squeeze. "Thank you, dearling," she whispered. "It will get her out of your hair for awhile."
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"Don't come crying to me when she proves to be more than you bargained for," Sierran said in a low voice. "Is Brent the lawgiver you've mentioned in passing?" Jillian inquired. "The hermit who lives on the north part of the island?" "He isn't a hermit," Celeste corrected her. "He just prefers to keep to himself." Jillian sniffed. "Sounds like a hermit to me." As they ate, Sierran kept glancing surreptitiously at his sister. Though she was an overbearing and spoiled brat, he had to admit, she seemed to get along well enough with Celeste. There had been no open confrontations between the two women, although they were rather cool to one another in his presence. Apparently Jillian had taken to heart his warning not to insult or slight his wife that first day when Jillian had arrived at Vista del Mar. They had been dutifully polite to one another and that was encouraging. "I don't like her and she doesn't like me," Celeste had stated when he asked what she thought of his sister. "I don't trust her, either. She hates you, dearling." It was the distrust Sierran felt, as well, that worried him. He didn't think Jillian would do anything to harm Celeste but he intended to make sure Seth was on alert when he took the women sightseeing. He had no illusions about how his sister felt toward him. Every question he had asked about his family had been answered as though she were speaking to an outsider—whom he supposed he was. Some questions she neatly sidestepped, others she gave only minimal response and some she pointedly ignored as though to tell him he did not have the right to ask such personal things. Often he caught her glaring at him with such animosity, it was hard to bear. But then she would smile, he would return the smile unconsciously, and she'd be gone before he could think long on the expression in her eyes. Aye, he thought, as he sipped his coffee. He would make gods-bedamned sure Seth watched Celeste like a hawk while she was in Jillian's dubious company!
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*** That evening as Sierran undressed to join his wife in their bed, he saw that Celeste was staring at him. "What?" he asked. "You are superbly formed, milord," she said, her eyes wandering down his lean frame. "I could just gobble you up." "Is that so?" he asked. He kicked off his britches and stood there with his arms outstretched in invitation. "Feeling hungry are you?" Celeste patted the bed. "I find I did not get enough supper this eve." Sierran lowered his arms and walked over to the bed. He stood there and looked at her, his head tilted to one side. "If memory serves, there was no dessert this night. Why was that, milady?" His wife threw aside the covers to reveal her nude body. She slid her hand to the soft triangle at the apex of her thighs. "I've got your dessert right here, milord." He put one knee on the mattress. "And what kind of dessert is it, Sweeting?" "A honey cream," she said. "Want a taste?" He arched his other knee over hers then stretched out so he lay between her legs. "I am all a'quiver for a taste of ye, wench," he said and he lowered his head. Reaching up to take hold of the spindles on the head post, Celeste crooked her knees to give her man better access to the sweetness between her thighs. His lips were suckling her, his tongue thrusting into her channel, and as he slowly, firmly wedged the thumb of his right hand into her anus, she groaned. The fingers of his right hand were splayed under her rump and he began to rhythmically move his thumb in and out of her, the friction of his knuckle grazing the puckered rim of her anus making her moan with pleasure.
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Suckling her, probing her, one hand reaching up to tweak her nipple, Sierran quickly brought her to one, two, three orgasms before he pushed himself up in the bed and impaled her firmly on his cock. Her legs came up, wrapped around his waist, and she met him thrust for thrust until they both came with a hard release that made the bed tremble beneath them. “I could eat that dessert every night,” he said with a sigh as he rolled over and pulled her atop him. “I’ll see what I can do, milord,” she agreed. When they fell asleep, it was with her lying on her husband, his arms wrapped securely around her. *** The day started out bright and warmer than usual. The wind had died down and the sky was crisp and clear with nary a cloud in sight. It wasn't too chill nor did the sea bring dampness inland. It seemed as good a day as any to see the sights of Zykanthos Island. For the women's comfort, Seth had loaded two small metal boxes with perforated holes on a thick sheet of metal which he laid over the floorboard of the coach. Inside the metal boxes were hot coals that gave off cheery warmth. Leather roll-down curtains sat above the brougham coach's glass windows—one to each side and two sliding ones: on the curved front and on the flat panel rear of the cab. Over the curtains cold be placed quilted canvas liners should it be necessary to block out drafts from the cold. Little brass catches at the bottom of the window would keep the liners taut against the coach walls but that day the windows were unobstructed and the view beyond open. The cook had provided jugs of hot, mulled cider and a basket of sandwiches for the trip. Driving the brougham, Seth was insulated in thick clothing and gloves with a brazier at his booted feet. "Comfy, isn't it?" Jillian asked excitedly as she settled on the plush leather seat beside Celeste.
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"I suppose so," Celeste said. She had no desire to ride along the coastline so Jillian could see the island but would in order to keep peace between brother and sister. "I am most anxious to meet the hermit," Jillian said, tugging her gloves. Celeste winced. "He is not a hermit, Jillian," she said. prefers to keep to himself."
"He simply
"Whatever," Jillian said airily. She was looking out the window as the brougham started forward. Thankful Jillian didn't need to keep up a running commentary as they toured the coastal road, Celeste allowed her sister-in-law to view the surroundings in peace, speaking only when Jillian asked for clarification on something she spied. As they passed village huts close to the shoreline, Jillian seemed to be very interested in the fishermen, though she had no questions to ask about the men. Nearing the lawgiver's estate on the north shore of the island, Jillian became very animated. "What is he like?" she asked Celeste. "Brenton is a gentleman," Celeste said. "Being a lawgiver, he is well read. I am told he has a vast library of books." Jillian looked at Celeste. "Didn’t you say you've never been to his home?" Celeste nodded. "We don't wish to intrude. On occasion, we invite Brent to dine with us but he is as likely to decline as he is to accept." She smiled. "With him, you never know." "So, he minds his own affairs," Jillian remarked. "Aye, he does." Just before rounding a large finger of land that jutted out nearly to the waterline and blocked sight of the lawgiver's property, they passed a rugged lean-to that had been constructed far away from the beach and close to the overhang of the land. A burly man dressed in many layers of clothing was taking a long string of fish into the lean-to. He looked up at them as they passed, appearing to glare at them with annoyance, then
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ducked into the lean-to with his catch. Beached beside the lean-to was a large fishing boat. "He must be a hardy soul to be out and about catching fish this time of year," Jillian mumbled, casting Celeste a quick look. "A man has to feed his family and his belly," Celeste replied. "There must be good fishing up here from the looks of his catch." Jillian shuddered. "But out on the water in this weather?" She took up her reticle and dug around inside it. "Pray ask the driver to stop, Celeste." "Why?" "I would like to give that man a little something." Surprised that her sister-in-law would be concerned with the locals plight Celeste nevertheless leaned forward and called out to Seth, asking him to halt the horses. "Don't you think a golden will get the man a good day's supply of food?" Jillian asked, pulling out a coin. Celeste agreed that it would. When Seth got down and came to the door to open it, his young face was filled with surprise. "Lady Jillian wishes to give the fisherman some money," Celeste told him. Seth frowned. "Milady, I don't know that that's a good idea," he said. "Men around here tend to be rather self-reliant. I don't know that he would appreciate the offering of charity." He glanced up at the lean-to. "And I don't know these men. They look to be poachers, if truth be told." "Oh, poppycock, lad!" Jillian said. "Run along and ask the man with the fish to come down and see me. I'll give him the coin. If there is more than one man, I'll give two but no more." "I can take the coins up to him, milady," Seth said, uneasy with the whole thing. Jillian raised her chin. "Do as I say, boy!" Celeste smiled at Seth. "Please?" she asked nicely.
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Seemingly against his better judgment, Seth shut the door to the brougham and started up to the lean-to. When a thick tarpaulin was flung aside, the man with the fish came out, looking to the coach when Seth flung an arm that way. The man nodded and jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating Seth was to go inside. "Oh, look!" Jillian said, pointing out to sea to draw Celeste's attention from the lean-to. "Is that a humpback whale?" Celeste turned her head but she saw nothing. "Where?" "There!" Jillian said excitedly. "It's a whale! I just know it is!" Celeste saw nothing that even remotely resembled a whale out on the rolling waters. She shook her head. "You must be seeing things, Jillian. All I see are the waves." Jillian sighed dramatically. "I thought sure that was a whale!" she said. The door to the coach was jerked open and the man from the lean-to poked his head inside. "You got money for me?" he asked in a harsh tone. "Aye," Jillian said and extended the coin toward the man. The man snatched the coin and put it between his teeth to test it. He grunted and his heavy brow twitched as his gaze slid to Celeste. "There be two of us," he growled. Celeste felt the first stirring of unease as the man's leer swung to her. She turned her head to search for Seth but did not see him. Her unease escalated to fear but before she could react, the man had pulled himself up into the coach and was crowding her, pulling something from his pocket to slap over her face. Though she clawed at the rough, fish-smelling hand that covered her nose and mouth, Celeste felt herself slipping into darkness and as she did, she heard the unmistakable sound of Jillian's pleased laughter. ***
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Brenton LeMoyne took his cup of hot spiced tea to the window and stared out at the rolling sea as he took a sip from the fragrant brew. He had been anxious ever since arising that morning, his nerves on edge. Whatever was causing him such apprehension kept drawing him to the spectacular view that swept up from the harbor all the way to his secluded beach where he kept his little 15-foot sailing boat. Catching sight only of the two men who had been fishing off the coast for the past few weeks, he could find nothing that should concern him. The men were down-on-their-luck fishermen and had been respectful and polite when he'd gone down to speak with them right after they'd built their lean-to. They'd explained that they had ventured a ways from their home grounds for the fishing had become scarce of late. It was a good explanation as far as he was concerned. He'd found nothing to set off any warning bells in his mind but he'd been keeping a wary eye on them just the same. They never went further than right where they were and had caused him no trouble. He had all but forgotten about them. As he stood at his window, he saw the boat the men used to fish heading out to sea, into the deeper waters, well past where they dropped anchor to fish each day. He watched them for a moment, figured they were finally headed home—wherever that was for he'd not cared enough to ask—and were leaving Zykanthos Island. He didn't give them or the bulky tarpaulin covering what he surmised was their weeks' worth of catch another thought. *** Jillian was fuming as she lay huddled beneath the stink of the tarpaulin. She had already gotten sick twice from the putrid smell wafting around her and her beautiful gown was ruined from coming into contact with the water in the bottom of the boat, her gloves and muff spoiled beyond redemption. "Just a mite further, milady," one of the fishermen laughed, "and you can get out from under the tarp."
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"Go to hell!" Jillian snapped. She was staring at her unconscious sister-in-law and thinking Celeste had the better part of the deal by being unaware of this cold, odorous journey on the high seas. Shivering uncontrollably, she kicked out at Celeste with the toe of her fashionable boot. By the time the men had rowed the boat out to the rendezvous point with Peyton's sloop, the Argyle, Jillian's lips were blue and she was beyond being able to curse the men who manhandled up onto her brother's ship. Her teeth were clicking together and she smelled worse than any dockside floozy. "I'll get her a bath drawn. She's like ice," Peyton's first mate suggested as he put a hand to Celeste's cheek. He nodded to the Guernsey fishermen who carried Celeste toward the companionway. "M-me…t-too!" Jillian managed to hiss as she stood there trembling with her arms wrapped around her. "Of course, little sister," Peyton said, his nose wrinkled from the stench as she passed him. He turned to his men. "Weigh anchor and get us the hell out of here before Sierran finds them missing!" *** Half an hour later in the lean-to, Seth tried to sit up and found himself trussed like a feast goose with his arms and legs tied behind him with heavy hemp. With a gag thrust between his teeth, he knew no one would be able to hear him if he tried calling out. Not knowing how much time had passed, he figured it would be at least a couple of hours before anyone came looking for him. Though the bump on the back of his head hurt something fierce, it was his manly pride that plagued him the most. He knew Sierran was going to be livid and he wasn't looking forward to the fist he reckoned would be his reward for having lost the commander's woman. *** www.samhainpublishing.com
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Sierran paced the solarium as the sun dipped lower on the horizon. By his calculations, Seth should have returned the women by now. He was not pleased that they had taken this long and even less pleased that a storm was showing on the horizon where the day had been clear and sunny. "If you don't like the weather on Zykanthos, just wait," Vargas said and received a glare from the commander for his trouble. He tugged at his chin. "You want me to go after 'em?" With his hands thrust deep into his pockets to keep from striking out at Vargas, Sierran merely nodded, unable to trust himself not to curse the man. Vargas turned and left the room without another word. He'd known the younger man long enough to know when Sierran Morgan had just about reached the limit of his tether. "You think something's happened?" Mac inquired as he fell into step beside Vargas. "I hope not!" Vargas replied. They walked hurriedly out to the stables. It took less time than normal for the two men to saddle their mounts and they were trotting across the drawbridge as the chill winds began to pick up from off the seas. Huddled down in their thick wool coats, they took the coastal road that Seth had chosen earlier that day, kicking their mounts into a fast gallop to retrace the brougham's route. *** When Celeste's eyelids flickered open, she found herself staring into a face that bore a remarkable resemblance to that of her husband. The man hovering over her was a bit older with fine wrinkles at the corners of his smiling eyes—a smile that did not quite reach his full lips. "Good evening, sleepy head," he greeted her. "I am your brother-inlaw, Peyton."
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It didn't take Celeste but a heartbeat to realize she was no longer on Zykanthosian soil but rather at sea and in the midst of turbulence. "Where am I?" she asked. "About twenty miles from home," Peyton replied. "My home, that is." He folded his arms over his chest. "Seamlas to be exact." "On Argonne," she said. "On Argonne," he agreed with a nod. She knew her husband would come after her. He had been given no other choice. His family would be waiting for him—along with the woman with whom he would be expected to consummate his proxy Joining. "Once the deed is done, he will be free to take you and return to Zykanthos," Peyton said as though reading her thoughts. "We've no desire to have him underfoot, wench." He cocked his head to one side. "Though to have you about would not be a burden by any stretch of the imagination. Our little brother chose well for his brideling." She turned her face away from the smug look on Peyton Morgan's face. Outside the cabin where she lay—wrists and ankles bound to the bunk, she could hear Jillian berating someone in a harsh tone. What a fool she thought herself to be for having allowed Sierran's sister to trick her this way. "If it's any consolation, we would have gotten to him come hell or high water, lass," Peyton said, moving to the door. "It was but a matter of time." A single tear slid barely noticed down Celeste's cold cheek.
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Chapter Fifteen "They had a ship," Vargas said. "Had to have." "And rowed out to it," Mac said. "Beyond where we could see them from any station on the island." Brent LeMoyne shook his head. "I am so sorry, Sierran. I never thought those men were up to no good." "You couldn't be expected to think of something so evil," Sierran said wearily. From the moment Vargas and Mac had ridden out, he knew something was wrong and he figured he knew what had happened. "I was a fool for trusting Jillian." The men huddled around Sierran looked at one another. There was nothing to say. Each of them knew the man sitting beside the fireplace with his head down, his hands clenched, would go after his woman. It was a given. "I would like to go with you," Brent said. "If only I'd come down and told you about the fishermen…" "They would have passed muster, Milord," Mac suggested. "From Seth's description, they were Guernsey men and from time to time such do come to fish off our coast. We'd have thought nothing of it." "Don't blame yourself for this, Brent," Sierran said. "There's no one to blame but me." He glanced up at Vargas. "How is Seth?" "He's got a rock-hard head, Commander," Vargas reported. "Got a knot on it but otherwise he's all right. Mad as hell but all right." "They'll expect me to come right after them," Sierran said, getting to his feet. "The sooner, the better."
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"Are you sure?" Vargas inquired. "Maybe we could find out where they took her and…" "Whose ship was it, Vargas?" Sierran asked. "Peyton's or Fallon's or Dyllon's? Was it Vaughn's or my father's or one of my sisters' husbands? How would we know? Do we have any idea where Peyton or Fallon live? Dyllon or any of my sisters?" He shook his head. "She could be anywhere on Argonne but if I go to Eagle Grove, they'll bring her there." "Will they try to keep you?" Brent asked, afraid that might be the case. "They don't want me there anymore than I want to be there," Sierran replied. "Once I screw the widow Summerall and sign over Patterly to my father, they'll let us leave. That's all they want any way." "I hope that's all they want," Brent said. "It is," Sierran said. "Trust me. I know. Get the Akinos ready and tell Kynth I want her armed." Vargas blinked. "Armed?" he repeated. "Armed as in cannons?" "Cannons and musket and plenty of shot," Sierran said with a nod. "I want every sailor going with us armed with pistol, sword, and dagger. No family men, just warriors this time out." "You are expecting treachery?" Brent inquired. "No, but if it comes, I'll be ready for it," Sierran replied with a grim face. He gave the lawgiver a stern look. "Unless you're ready to kill if need be, I suggest you stay here." Something dark flitted across the Brent's face then vanished as quickly as it appeared. "I can take a life if I need to," he told Sierran. "Give me half an hour to get my weapons and I'll meet you at the quay." "Before you go," Sierran said. "May I have a word with you in private?" Brent nodded and waited until they were alone before he cocked an inquisitive brow to Sierran. "You sent word to the Federation of Lord Charles' passing," Sierran said.
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"Aye," the lawgiver replied. "Who did you send?" A frown developed between Brent's brows. "One of my trusted men," he replied. "I am your lawyer, Sierran, and time was of the essence in regard to Dragonmoor." "Why?" The one word was like a rapier cut. "Surely you know why," Brent said. "If I did, I wouldn't be asking," Sierran snapped. "She didn't tell you her father was Duke of Northumberton? That he was the younger brother to King Edmond? Queen Tatiana is her godmother." Sierran's face turned pale. "She is royalty?" "Aye," Brent said. "She is now the Duchess of Northumberton. I am amazed you didn't know. It was imperative that word be sent to the Federation that the property go to her. And you—as her legal spouse— now own it. Had there been any doubt whatsoever about the claim of inheritance, the Federation could have stepped in and confiscated the property." He put a hand on Sierran's shoulder. "I acted quickly in her best interest―and yours. Dragonmoor is a large estate entailing a great many servants and the property, itself, is exceedingly valuable. I didn't want to take a chance you and she might lose it to Federation greed." *** When the Akinos sailed out of Zykanthos Harbor at moonrise on the morning following Celeste's abduction, it was with a full compliment of warriors and weapons—some one hundred and twenty men strong and with ten four-pounder, smooth-bore cannons ranged along the deck. Each man had pistol and shot, sword and dagger, and the commander's permission to use their weapons as they saw fit. Nothing and no one was to stand between them and bringing Lady Celeste Morgan home. Hate and fury filled the sails of the Akinos and revenge allowed her to glide easily through the waters on route to Argonne. The storm that had been 172
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building slid further south of Zykanthos Island. It was as though the gods had given their blessing—the way was clear. Edgeville Harbor was lined with men who had been awaiting Sierran's arrival. Men stood on the roofs of warehouses and along the docks with muskets primed and pointed at the Akinos. Lord James Morgan was taking no chances that his youngest son would arrive with a raiding party to seize back his young wife. "You knew he'd do this," Brent said. "Aye," Sierran said, a muscle working in his jaw. "Have our men stand by. If I'm not back within the day with my lady, turn the waterfront to rubble." He said it loud enough that those on the docks could hear. "With pleasure." Vargas and Mac said nothing though their eyes were troubled as their commander strode down the gangplank and was immediately flanked by four armed men. "Are those men any kin to him?" Captain Kynth asked. "I don't recognize them," Vargas replied. "Hired guns would be my guess." It would be an uneasy time for the men on board the Akinos but one in which every man-jack there would be diligent. They had received their orders from the commander and not a one of them would balk if it came to a firefight. Cannon was aimed at both the waterfront and the two ships berthed in the harbor. Sierran walked in the middle of the four men who had come to escort him to Eagle Grove. He had not gone armed though one of the men patted him down for a hidden weapon nevertheless. Keeping his eyes straight ahead as the man's hands moved quickly and professionally over him, he stared at the landau coach with the Morgan crest emblazed on its door. When the man was finished, he swept an arm toward the coach to indicate Sierran was to enter the oversized black vehicle. Climbing up into the luxurious interior, he was not surprised to find the seats covered
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with thick fur throws but was a bit taken aback that a brazier box sat upon the floor to heat the cab. "The ride up to Eagle Grove takes about an hour, Commander," the man who had frisked him said. "I hope you will be comfortable during the ride." There was about the man an air of apology that amazed Sierran. He had not expected his father's men to show him any form of respect. "Thank you," he said quietly. The man hesitated for a second then shook his head as he shut the door. He climbed up with the driver, and once he was settled the coach jerked forward with the snap of reins. Two outriders accompanied the coach to either side while a third took up the rear. Sierran thought perhaps it was the other three men who had escorted him from the docks who now rode guard. Settling back in the plush furs, Sierran stared out the glass window of the coach as the driver took to the inland road. He had never been into the interior of Argonne before and sat staring at the scenery they passed. Those villagers they met on the road stood aside with heads bent, not moving again until the coach was well out of sight. It was obvious to him the people of Argonne were expected to show deference even to a vehicle carrying the Morgan coat of arms. His first view of Eagle Grove astonished him for the sprawling estate rivaled even the royal residence at Dullwitch in Emardia. Soaring five stories with tiled turrets, the castle—and it could be described as nothing less—was made of pale pink marble and had been built on an island. The estate was reached over an elaborate arched causeway that spanned a pristine lake surrounded by tall, graceful willows interspersed with aspen and cypress. Swans glided upon the lake and deer grazed delicately at the water's edge. It was an idyllic setting but it turned Sierran's stomach. "My wife and children are dying of hunger, milord!" A peasant had been brought before Lord James for poaching a deer and was on his belly before the great man, pleading.
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"Let them starve for all I care!" he remembered his father saying. "If they harm another of my beautiful deer, I will roast them all over a slow spit!" The peasant had been hanged outside the gates of the Morgan estate on Emardia as a warning. Sierran had heard the man's family had slowly starved to death. As the hooves of the horses clopped over the stone archway, Sierran dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. His family had never held any care for their servants or any of those who lived on Morgan land. Treated with no regard and even less thought, those entailed to Lord James had a hard row to hoe when even a wild animal was given more consideration than a human being. He held no hope that his brothers and brothers-in-law treated their people any differently. The coach pulled up before the massive stone steps that led up to Eagle Grove's wide portico. Standing beneath the roof of the portico was Vaughn Morgan, eldest son of Lord James. Beside him stood a diminutive woman Sierran recognized from long ago—Lady Teresa Wetherby Morgan, Vaughn's lady-wife. Stepping down from the coach, Sierran took a deep breath and started up the steep steps. He did not greet Vaughn—though he did give a sketch of a bow to Teresa. "Welcome to Eagle Grove, Sierran," Teresa said in a timid voice. Mumbling his thanks, Sierran met his eldest brother's eye. "Where is my wife?" Vaughn grinned nastily. "In the study with our parents," he replied. Sierran ground his teeth. "My true wife," he snapped. "Celeste is nearby," Teresa was quick to say. "You have no need to worry." "Go inside, Teresa," Vaughn ordered her. "We don't need your inane prattle." Curtseying quickly, Vaughn's wife hurried away, her face red.
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"Always did know how to keep a woman in line, didn't you, Vaughn?" Sierran said with a snort. "You should take lessons from me, little brother," Vaughn said. "That hellion you took to your bosom would try the patience of a saint." A slow, merciless grin spread over Sierran's mouth. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that his family would not have dared to treat Celeste with anything less than respect and would have done no harm to her for fear of Sierran's wrath. "Gave you a bit of trouble did she?" Sierran sneered. Vaughn took a step forward so he was almost nose to nose with his sibling. "Get your ass inside, fuck Beatrice, and be gone. The longer you stay here, the less I like it." "That was my intention," Sierran said, not stepping back nor showing any sign of being intimidated by his brother. Pivoting on his heel, Vaughn stomped away, his shoulders bunched, hands clenched into fists. Following at a leisurely pace he certainly didn't feel, Sierran entered his parent's palatial mansion, reminding himself with every step not to gawk at the wealth exhibited so garishly. Lord James and his lady-wife, Lady Judith, were seated in the library to one side of a huge fireplace snapping with immense logs. The pleasant scent of cedar filled the room but it was far too warm for Sierran's taste. Ranged about on elegantly upholstered chairs and settees were the other adult members of Sierran's family as well as a slightly overweight woman whose bosoms were so large he nearly laughed when he saw them. Three maids moved among those gathered to offer trays of wine glasses and tidbits upon which to snack. "You certainly took your own sweet time in getting here, Sierran DeLyle," Lord James complained. "One would think your tart means very little to you." There were snickers from the others gathered and a couple of his sisters-in-law put their heads together to make some sly comment—no doubt at Celeste's expense.
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"Whatever you do," Brent had warned him before Sierran left the ship. "Do not let those vultures know Celeste is Justonian royalty—and especially not Edward Gillespie. Trust me on this, Sierran." Sierran flexed his shoulders and lifted his chin, his eyes locked with those of his father's. "Let's get this over with. Where do you want me to fuck the bull's side of beef, Father?" he asked in a casual tone. Gasps shot through the room and Sierran was hard pressed not to laugh at the blushes and fluttering hands-at-the-breasts of the women gathered. All, that is, except his mother who was looking at him with a slight smile that did not quite reach her dark eyes. She was sitting there with her hands folded in her lap, her legs politely bent to the side and crossed delicately at the ankles, her shoulders straight. "You are a crude barbarian!" Sierran's eldest sister, Madeline, hissed. Sierran cast his sister a hard look. "I am what you made of me, Maddy." His face tight with rage, Lord James got up from his chair. With military bearing, though he'd not served a day in any branch of service, he strode up to Sierran and backhanded his son. "You are not fit to be in the same room with these ladies. Apologize this instant!" Sierran staggered beneath the blow but it was not unexpected. He'd spent thirteen years of his life enduring such hits from every one of his immediate family. He had been prepared. He considered the slight trickle of blood that seeped from the corner of his mouth a small price to pay if that was the only pain they would dish out to him. "The so-called ladies gathered in this room know why I am here, Father," Sierran said. "I'll not apologize for being brought here to be a stud to the Summerall bitch. This is your doing, not mine." Lord James' brown eyes flared with obvious outrage. He was taller than any of his sons at six foot, five inches and solidly built. His eightyfour years of life had not bent his regal bearing nor had it lessened the strength of his hand when he struck Sierran again.
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"That is quite enough, James," Lady Judith said primly. "Do not punish the boy because he is being forced to tup your whore of a mistress." Shocked eyes flew to Sierran's mother who was sitting as still as a statue with that faint smile on her lips. When her husband's head snapped toward her—his lips drawn back in a snarl of outrage—she merely looked at him. "Everyone here knows you are sleeping with the Widow Summerall, James. Do not stand there and pretend indignation at her expense. We all know what she is." Sierran ran the back of his hand across his mouth. The cut to his lip from the first hit had widened with the second. His bottom teeth had scored the soft inside of his lower lip and blood flooded his mouth. "Madame, you are being deliberately insensitive," Lord James told her. "Lady Beatrice is…" "A whore," Lady Judith stated. "She was a whore when Angus wed her and she is a whore every time she opens her thighs to you." She sniffed. "Pray have the decency not to pretend otherwise to your family." Sierran could not stop the grin from forming on his face though the cut to his lip made him wince. "The bedroom in which you are to perform your duty is at the top of the stairs, Sierran DeLyle," his mother told him, "and in readiness for you. Allow the Widow Summerall a moment to take her cumbersome teats upstairs before you go and attend to things." Lady Beatrice Summerall shot to her feet, her massive bosom heaving with indignation. "Madame, I assure you I am not a cow upon whom you may foist off your rutting son." "Son, father," Lady Judith said, not even bothering to look at the woman. "I imagine you've had each of my other sons long before now. What is one more Morgan piece between your legs, Bea?" The other women gasped again and their faces turned red but one look about the room and Sierran knew the truth of it. His father had not been the only man there to part the legs of the Widow Summerall. Even his brothers-in-law had guilty looks about them. 178
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"Pray go upstairs and ready yourself, Lady Beatrice," Lord James said, his hands opening and closing at his sides. "Let us be done with this travesty as quickly as possible." "All she needs to do is bend over the bed with her skirts hiked up and I'll handle the rest," Sierran said, locking eyes with his father. "James!" Beatrice protested. "Go, Bea!" Lord James said, his face strained. distasteful to us all."
"This is most
Casting Sierran a haughty, enraged glance, Lady Beatrice grabbed up her skirts and ran from the room, her large breasts jiggling in such a way, Sierran had to bit his lip to keep from laughing. Her heavy footsteps up the stairs made the chandelier in the center of the library ceiling shake. Lord James snaked out a hand and grabbed Sierran's neck, pulling the younger man closer to him to glare down into Sierran's face. "Hurt that woman and I will take a horsewhip to you," Lord James growled from between tightly clenched teeth. "Do you understand?" "Have my wife ready when I come down from servicing that bawd," Sierran said, meeting his father's steely gaze. "I'll not sign the papers to Patterly until Celeste is at my side." "It will be my pleasure to be rid of you and that slut you call wife," Lord James snarled and let go of his son's neck, turning away from the younger man. One final look at his mother's composed face and a sweeping look across his brothers' and sisters' triumphant stares, Sierran headed for the stairs. He could feel the burden of his family's eyes weighing him down. "Go fetch that little tart," Lord James told Dyllon. "And pray do not attempt to manhandle her again!" Dyllon had the grace to blush and quickly glanced down at the scratches that had been gouged into the back of his hand.
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*** Celeste looked up from her perch atop a crate as the lock to the door of the pantry in which she had been rudely thrust snicked open and the man who had shoved her inside the claustrophobic room stood framed in the doorway. "He's here," Dyllon Morgan snapped. His upper lip twisted. "Fucking the widow even as we speak." Though she had managed to rake her fingernails down the man's hand earlier when he had dared to take liberties with her, she ached to drag them down his smug face and peel off the top layer of his skin. He looked too much like Sierran for her comfort. When he had groped her, she had attacked him like a snarling she-wolf and he was staying well back from her now, not trusting her to behave. Dyllon stepped well back from the door as Celeste got to her feet. He could not help but admire her shapely figure in the soft gray wool of the gown his mother had loaned her, but he knew better than to try to lay hands to her again. "The family is in the library," he mumbled. "I am to take you there to wait for Sierran." With her head held high, Celeste left the pantry, flicking a hateful glance down Dyllon Morgan as she passed. She wanted nothing more than to jump on him and shred him to ribbons but vengeance would have to wait until she and Sierran were free of the Morgan family fetters. They were all there, except for the fat slob that Sierran was being forced to service, when Celeste was escorted to the library. No one spoke to her or acknowledged her entrance into their midst. She was being pointedly ignored as though she were of no worth to the Morgan family. Speaking amongst themselves no one even glanced her way. "He grew up to be quite handsome," Lady Harriet, Fallon's wife was heard to comment to her sister-in-law Lady Danica. "Handsome is as handsome does," Danica snapped. "He is a pig as evidenced by his vulgarity."
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Celeste could well imagine what her husband might have said to put his middle sister's nose out of joint. "But he is, nevertheless, Danni, a very striking man," Lady Leticia, Peyton's wife, commented. "I would not mind being in Bea's garters right now." "As if he'd tup you," Celeste muttered under her breath but her mother-in-law appeared to have heard her. She nodded at Celeste as though in agreement. The clock in the library was striking the tenth hour when Lady Beatrice came back down the stairs. Every hair was in place and her gown had not the slightest wrinkle in it. She cast Lord James a nasty look then flounced to a seat near him, her bottom lip thrust out in a pout. "That man," she said in a grating voice, "is no gentleman." Lord James leaned toward her, taking her hand to soothe her. "Did he hurt you, milady?" "He insulted me with every thrust, Jamie," she said, tears gathering in her eyes. "He took me like a common streetwalker." "Surely he did not bend you over the bed as he threatened…" Lord James began with a pained expression on his face. "Worse!" Beatrice said, her mouth trembling. "He pushed me up against the wall and did it there with no regard to dignity or comfort or anything else!" Celeste's heart thudded hard against her rib cage. She didn't like the look on Lord James' face nor the gleeful expectancy hovering on the faces of the other men in the room. She stepped forward just as Sierran entered the room. "Sierran…" she began but it was Edward Gillespie, Jillian's husband who reached out to take her arms. "Milady, be still," he warned her, pulling her back against him though she tried to stomp on his instep. Lord James released Beatrice's hand and stood up. He stepped forward and took a paper from the pocket of his coat, slapping it against Sierran's chest. "Sign this and be done with it!"
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Sierran didn't even look at the paper but took it from his father, strode over to a table, bent over and scrawled his name across it. He left the paper on the desk. "James," Beatrice said. "He hit me." "I did not!" Sierran denied. "Pervert!" Lord James said. He looked to his sons. "I believe your brother needs to be taught some manners!" Sierran did not stand a chance against the six men who fell upon him to drag him from the library. Though he struggled, he could not break free of Dyllon's and Peyton's firm hold on his arms and when he kicked out at Vaughn, found his ankles grabbed as Danica's husband Lord Morris and Madeline's husband Lord Levon hefted him up between them. "Sierran!" Celeste yelled but she was held securely in Edward's grip. Twisting and bucking in his hold, she cursed him but that only seemed to strengthen his hold on her. The other members of the Morgan clan were hurrying from the room, following those who had hold of Sierran. "Let her see what becomes of defying our family!" Madeline suggested. She didn't wait for her brother-in-law to do as she ordered but practically ran from the room. Celeste bucked against Edward—especially when he gripped both her wrists behind her with one of his hands while he fumbled at her side with the other. "Behave, wench!" Edward said. He drew her out into the main hall and toward a large room where the others were gathered. It was not something Sierran would have wanted his lady to see, and had he been aware of her presence in the room set aside for his father's physical workouts, he would no doubt have struggled even harder to get loose. As it was, his back was to Celeste as she was forced into the room to the sounds of the beating his brothers were giving him. She knew better than to cry out for fear they would hurt him more. Tears running down her cheeks, Celeste sagged against Edward as fists were slammed into her husband's belly, his face, and his kidneys. Her 182
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keening was so low only Edward and Lady Judith heard it but neither paid any attention to her. Held securely in Dyllon and Peyton's hands, Sierran's head swiveled beneath the savage hits that bloodied and broke his nose, blackened his eyes, split open his lips and cheekbones. He grunted with each hard shot to his body that doubled him over. He was barely standing when Lord James strode arrogantly forward with a hand held up to stay the punishment. "Take him to the coach," Lord James ordered. "I've no desire to have him bleeding on my floor." Celeste got a good look at her husband's battered face as he was dragged past her and she cried out, trying her best to break free of Edward's hold to get to Sierran. "Be still," Edward insisted, speaking low in her ear. "You are not a fishmonger's daughter. Remember who you are, Anna Celeste!" It was at that moment Celeste knew that Lady Beatrice’s husband, this man who was Sierran’s brother-in-law, was aware of her connection to the Justonian throne. She twisted her head around and looked back at him with surprise. "Avenge him," was all Edward said as he began walking her behind Sierran's departure. Sierran had been dragged down the steps of Eagle Grove and his entire family—a few children included now—stood on the portico and watched as his brothers unceremoniously dumped him on the ground, dusted off their hands, and climbed the steps to stand with the rest of the Morgan clan. Celeste broke free of Edward and rushed to her husband, going to her knees in the gravel beside him, her hand trembling as she reached out to touch his bruised and bleeding face. He was barely conscious and every breath he took cost him. With fury lashing her lovely face, Celeste swung her head around. "You craven cowards!" she yelled at the Morgan men and their brothers-in-law. "You bloody bastards couldn't take him on man to man. www.samhainpublishing.com
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You had to gang up on him." She turned her head and spat on the ground. "Cowards. Each and every one of you is nothing but a coward!" Sierran heard the laughter of his family that accompanied his wife's insults. Though he could barely see, he watched as each of them turned their backs on him and left him to lie there on the ground—broken and in nearly unbearable pain—going into the mansion and shutting the door on him as though he was nothing but an afterthought. The coachman and the man who had frisked Sierran earlier came over to him and lifted him up to take him to the coach. "Be careful!" Celeste cried out, seeing the agony registering on Sierran's face. "We are being as careful as we can, milady," one of the men said. He gave her a stern look. "Get in and let us lay his head on your lap." Celeste didn't question that order. She hiked up her skirt and climbed into the coach's interior, sliding well over to her husband could be laid on the seat beside her. As gently as they could, the two men took Sierran into the coach and gingerly laid his head in his lady's lap. His back was arched against the bench's seat and his knees bent. His arms extended off the edge of the bench but as soon as the men had shut the door and the coach started rolling, he wrapped his arms under his wife's right leg. "It'll be all right," Celeste said, smoothing his hair back from his bruised forehead. "We're going home." He was barely hanging onto consciousness as the coach bumped over the archway. Every muscle in his body hurt. Every bone felt to be broken. With every breath he took, his ribs grated against one another. One eye was completely swollen shut while the other had only a small slit through which to see. His entire face felt out of proportion and he couldn't seem to get his lips to move so he could tell Celeste not to worry. But it wasn't the physical pain that troubled Sierran Morgan the most. It was the emotional agony of hearing his family laugh at his pain, at having them turn their backs on him—again―and to know he meant
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so little to them that they could do such terrible things to him and not even care. Celeste heard the first hitching sob that came from her husband's throat and she looked down, away from the men riding beside the coach as though guarding it. She saw the first tear ease down Sierran's battered face and knew a moment of such wild hatred and unremitting fury, she was almost tempted to tell the coachman to turn the landau around so she could go back and stomp the Morgan family into the dust. "Dearling, don't," she said, smoothing her hand on his shoulder. "They're not worth it." The one sob became a torrent that had been building up since Sierran Morgan was a child. He let loose the flood that had been bottled up inside him all those years, releasing the hurt that had been festering. His crying was like that of a lost little boy and it tore at his wife's heart, made her all that more determined to make his family pay for having caused him this much grief. Wrapping her arms around him, she held him as best she could as he cried out his sorrow until he fell asleep, his cheeks wet with tears.
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Chapter Sixteen By the time the coach rolled to a stop on the dock, Vargas and two of the sailors from Akinos were there to escort Sierran and his lady to the ship. As soon as Vargas saw the condition of his unconscious commander, he threw his head back and bellowed with rage. "Get him on the ship!" Brent yelled. "Now!" It was Vargas who slipped his arms under Sierran's body and lifted him up, carrying him carefully from the coach. "Hurry, Vargas!" Brent shouted. He was staring at a cloud of dust that was boiling toward the seaside town, figuring—and rightly so—that it was Sierran's family coming after him. Running behind Vargas as the soldier carried Sierran up the gangplank, Celeste turned to see what had garnered the lawgiver's attention. Her heart turned as hard as iron and when Mac ordered the cannon's primed, she stayed up on deck, even as her battered husband was taken below. "You'd best get down to your cabin, milady," Mac warned. "I'm not going anywhere," Celeste spat. "Get underway, Captain!" Brent ordered. The ship began moving backward out of the slip even as a thundering group of horsemen came galloping into Edgeville. With muskets leveled on them, the men standing atop the warehouses had no idea whether to fire or not. No order had been given to do so but they tracked in their sights the pilot of the ship and the four or so men standing at the railing. One musket was trained on the lone
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woman though the man wielding the gun would never have dared to shoot a female. The Akinos was a good twenty feet back from the dock when Lord James Morgan whipped his horse up onto the wooden dock. "The deed!" he yelled. "I need the deed!" "What's he talking about?" Brent asked Celeste. "I have no idea," she said. "Sierran signed the gods-be-damned thing." "Did he bring it with him?" "Of course not," she said. "He left it on the desk. What would he need with the stupid deed? He doesn't want Patterly." It was then Celeste remembered Lord Edward drawing her toward the table at which Sierran had signed the deed. She remembered his hand fumbling against her hip and put her hand to her pocket. She heard the crinkle of paper and her eyes widened. "The deed!" Lord James screeched, his mount rearing with hooves flashing. "Give me my deed!" "See if you can't knock off the end of that dock," Brent told one of the cannoneers. "With pleasure, milord," the sailor replied. The Akinos was well away from the dock and the cannoneer and his fuse man lowered the mouth of the cannon and aimed it at the dock. "You wouldn't dare!" Lord James bellowed but jerked on his horse's reins, pulling the animal back and out of the way. He looked up at the musket men. "Fire, the gods damn you, fire!" Before the men on the roofs of the warehouse could do as Lord James ordered, the cannon on the Akinos bucked and a loud explosion rent the air as wood and hemp went flying into the air and the end of the dock disappeared in a cloud of gray smoke. A loud cheer went up from the decks of the Akinos and the remaining cannons leveled on the tops of the warehouses where the musket men
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stood. To a man, they dropped their weapons and began skittering down from the roofs, most sliding down the tin roofs on their backsides. The wind and gods were on the side of Sierran Morgan and his men that day for a gust caught the mainsail of the Akinos and she sailed gracefully into the bay. Two cannons were fired from the harbor but both shots fell harmlessly into the sea, the sleek ship standing well away from any threat. "They will come after us," Brent warned. "Let them," Vargas said. "We'll blow their asses out of the water!" "It will take them awhile to arm their ships and we'll be to Zykanthos by then," Mac said. "We're not going to Zykanthos," Celeste said. "What?" the three men questioned. "Captain Kynth," Celeste called out. "Make for Dullwitch, if you will." "Milady?" the captain questioned. "You heard me," she said. "And pour on the sail. I want to be there as quickly as possible." "Aye, aye, milady," the captain said. Celeste started for the companionway, but Brent stopped her. "Do you have the deed by any chance?" he asked. She fished in her pocket and pulled out the deed to Patterly. "It appears Lord Edward stuffed it into my skirt." "Eddie's a good man," Brent said. "Remember that when we get to Dullwitch." Celeste nodded then continued on below deck. Her husband was lying on the bunk with his eyes closed but she could tell from his labored breathing that he was conscious. She hunkered down beside him and ran her fingers over his cheek. He opened his eyes. "Did we blow something up, wench?" he asked. "Just the end of the dock and it needed repairing anyway," she quipped. "I will have Vargas wrap your ribs. If I do it, there's no telling what else I might do to you for putting yourself in harm's way." 188
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"I have you back, don't I?" he countered, trying to smile although his cracked lips prevented it. "Remind me to never trust one of your kin ever again," she said. He could barely see her with his one good eye but he fumbled for her hand and when she took his hand in hers, he brought her fingers to his cheek. "Did they hurt you?" "Made me madder than snot," she said. She shrugged. "But, no. They didn't hurt me. They didn't dare." "Damned straight," he said, closing his one good eye. He drifted off and when he awoke, Vargas was gently wrapping strips of linen around his broken ribs. "Here," his lady said, holding a cup to his lips as she lifted his head up with her other hand. "Drink this and don't give me any trouble." It was tenerse and it was extremely potent—numbing his lips and tongue immediately—but he knew better than to complain. He swallowed the bitter brew, shuddered, and was asleep before his head was lowered to the pillow. "I don't know how long we'll be in Dullwitch but I don't want him awake while we're there," Celeste told Vargas. "Dribble a drop or two into his mouth to keep him out." "Milady!" Vargas said, his indignation turning his normally placid face hard as flint. "I could not do that!" Celeste turned to Brent. "Then you do it," she ordered. "Either way, I want him kept out and away from any trouble." "Consider it done," Brent agreed. "By the way, milady…" He leaned over and whispered something into her ear that made Celeste Morgan grin from ear to ear. *** Docking just after five in the afternoon, the Akinos was boarded by the harbormaster who demanded to know why the ship was in port.
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"I have business with the King," Celeste stated. The harbormaster's walrus mustaches quivered with ill-concealed disdain. "And who might you be, Milady?" "Lady Anna Celeste Allen-Morgan of Dragonmoor and Zykanthos Island, Duchess of Northumberton, and niece of King Edmond." His rubbery lips parting in shock, the harbormaster managed to get his corpulent bulk into a passable bow, sweeping his hand low to the deck. "Your Grace!" he mumbled. "Come along," Celeste said in her most regal voice. "You may accompany us to the palace, Lord Harbormaster." She motioned for Mac and Seth to join her. "At your p-pleasure, Your Grace," the man stammered and fell in behind her as Celeste headed for the gangplank. Following behind her, the harbormaster kept up a running commentary of what they were passing on their way up the street and toward the royal residence of Dullwitch. He seemed to think she needed a sightseeing guide and pointed out things that were of no interest to anyone save himself. By the time their little group arrived at the doors to the palace, Celeste was ready to throttle the chubby man. "Do you think," she asked, turning to him with a sweet smile," you might be quiet now, Lord Harbormaster? You've quite given me a migraine with all your prattling." His face infusing with a deep shade of red, the man bobbed up and down like a cork on water and stepped back. He cast a glance at the guards then drew himself up. "Her Grace, the Duchess of Northumberton!" he announced. The guards came to immediate attention—their pikes coming down hard on the stone step in salute. One quickly stepped back opened the iron-studded door for her to pass through. "If I can be of any further aide to you, Your Grace…" the harbormaster began but Celeste was already through the door with her guards shouldering the corpulent man aside as they strode after her.
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"We'll call you," Mac told the harbormaster and shut the door in the man's puffy face. Never having been inside a royal palace before, both Mac and Seth wore identical amazed expressions as they took in the artwork and tapestries, the expensive furnishings and the brilliantly clad individuals moving about the corridors. Gawking like country bumpkins on their first trip to a large city, the two men walked in a daze behind Celeste as she made straight for a scrawny man clad all in black. From her father's description of the king's undersecretary—and the number two man in the Justonian palace—Celeste had no doubt of the identity of the rather emaciated man. "Lord Wenchell?" Celeste asked, holding her hand. "I am Anna Celeste and I have come to see my uncle." The razor-thin man arched on very thin brow but he took her hand and bowed over it, then brought it momentarily to his lips for a very brief, chaste kiss. When he straightened up, his face held no expression at all. "Might I inquire why you wish to see King Edmond, Your Grace?" he asked. "A matter of national security, milord," Celeste replied. Lord Wenchell, the King's undersecretary didn't bat an eye. "Is this in regard to your recent Joining, Your Grace?" "It is." "I see, then if you will follow me…" Although she had recognized Wenchell right off, King Edmond was nothing like her father had described him to her. He did not have three heads or the horns her father had sworn grew from the top of his brother's pointed head. He was not the ogre, the buffoon, or the ugly 'drab' her father had insisted. Instead, he was a rather handsome man with a booming, infectious laugh, and sparkling eyes that seemed to miss nothing. Upon being introduced to the niece he'd never met, he promptly hooked his arm through hers and had led her off to a window seat, sitting down with her as though they were co-conspirators. www.samhainpublishing.com
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"I say, you look nothing like Charles described you," the king said, giving his niece a thorough going over with his keen gaze. Celeste smiled. "Spinsterish, ugly and fat as a cow?" "Somewhat worse than that, I am sorry to say," the king reported. "You do not bear the slightest resemblance to a scarecrow nor do I see any moles sprouting hair upon your lovely countenance, Niece." He grinned. "Am I as you envisioned?" "Nothing at all as I imagined you to be. May I ask how you managed to rid yourself of the horns and the pointed head, Your Majesty?" she countered. Kind Edmond slapped a hand on his thigh. "Oh, that one I like!" he guffawed. "Leave it to Charlie to describe me as he, himself, appeared." Celeste liked this man more each time he opened his mouth. He had a little boy quality about him that put her at ease but it was his allseeing eyes that did not escape her notice. She knew he would be as adept at ferreting out liars and thieves as he was at making a long-lost niece feel at ease in his presence. He reached out and took her hand to stroke it gently. "I hear you are Joined to one of our national heroes," he said. "Commander Sierran Morgan." "And so much in love I am still seeing stars when I look upon his brave face," she responded. "Oh, a love match," her uncle said. "Do tell!" "I doubt there is anything for me to tell you that you don't already know," she countered. He grinned impiously. "True. I make it a point to keep up with our champion. I know just about everything concerning him." "Except perhaps about what his family did just these past few days," Celeste said softly, knowing the king would not have heard of the goings on at Eagle Grove quite yet.
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The smile slipped from her uncle's face. "I have no love of the Morgan family save for our gallant commander. What goings on are these, sweeting?" he inquired. "First off," she said, "I would like to offer the Federation a piece of property they might well find of use." She reached into her pocket and withdrew the deed to Patterly. "As you can see my husband has already signed the deed and—as I am sure your men can tell you—Patterly is a very substantial holding." King Edmond glanced down at the deed. "Indeed, it is of estimable value. I believe it borders the Morgan estates of Eagle Grove and Seamlas, both rather substantial landholdings in Argonne." "A holding almost as large as Dragonmoor," she said. "A holding my husband and I would like to donate to the Federation for its use." Her uncle drew in a breath. "Are you sure?" "I have been reminded by our lawgiver that a copy of the deed is here in the royal treasury. We will, of course, remit the original when we return to Zykanthos." An astute man, the king leaned back against the stone wall of the window seat. "In exchange for what vengeance, milady?" he asked. "Vengeance?" Celeste questioned then shook her head. "Nay, Your Majesty. 'Tis not vengeance I seek but retribution." "Retribution for what?" "Actually," she said, slipping her hand from her uncle's. "It is a matter of treason to the crown." That made King Edmond sit up straight. "Treason? What treason, milady?" "The Morgan family did plan and execute an abduction of my royal personage from my home and thence hie me away to Argonne, to the estate of Lord James Morgan, where they held me at ransom for my husband's appearance there at Eagle Grove," she said, lowering her head and forcing a single tear to fall down her cheek. "For what purpose?" the king demanded, his gray eyes flashing fire.
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"To have him service a woman he was forced into marrying by proxy so Lord James could gain the woman's land," Celeste said. "A terrible, humiliating thing was put upon my poor husband, brave soldier that he is." She looked up through her lashes. "National hero that he is." "Service?" the king repeated in a deadly voice. "As in a carnal way?" Celeste simply nodded as though unable to speak. "He was put to stud?" the king snapped. Wincing at the vile descriptive, Celeste nodded again, dabbing at her eye. "Then my poor husband was horribly beaten, savagely brutalized by his brothers and brothers-in-law and now lies in a stupor on our ship in yon harbor." She sniffed. "I don't know if he will survive." "Don't lay it on so thick, bantling," her uncle said with a sigh. "We get your point. Our champion was abused at the hands of his family." Celeste knew not to say anything else. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the wheels turning in the king's head. His face was without expression but his steely gaze was boring into the floor as the situation flitted through his agile mind. "They kidnapped an heir to the Justonian throne," he said. "Aye, Your Majesty, they did." "Took you to Argonne how, milady?" "I was drugged, tied up, thrown into the bottom of a smelly fishing boat—my gown ruined, by the by―rowed out to sea and then tossed into Lord Peyton Morgan's bunk where I was kept tied hand and foot," she reported. "That is, indeed, a serious crime though unfortunately it can not be labeled as treason," King Edmond commented. "To lay hands upon a person of royal birth is a crime punishable by loss of title and confiscation of properties." "I could not ask that," Celeste was quick to say. "Confiscation of property and belongings, perhaps, but not the revocation of title." She looked up at her uncle. "Think of the Morgan children. They are innocent in this. Please?"
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"Confiscation of all properties of all members of the offending family, then," the king stated strongly. "Perhaps all but one?" she asked in a small voice. Her uncle gave her a stern look. "Who is it you are saving from our eternal damnation, sweeting?" "Lord Edward Gillespie." "The Earl of Haverton?" her uncle inquired and at her nod he sighed. "We have always liked him." "He was of some help to us and my husband's family will need a place to stay when we take their other lands," Celeste answered. The king bent forward, put his elbow on his knee, and cupped his chin in his hand. "How much property are we talking about here?" "Well, there is, of course, Eagle Grove and Seamlas," she said. "Go on." "Also lands owned by Lords Vaughn, Dyllon, and Fallon Morgan. Sloops owned by those men as well as the lands of Lord Levon Reed and Lord Morris Bartlett. Those beastly men beat my poor husband senseless." A nasty glare entered the king's eye. "Did they now?" "I would not lie to you about such a thing, Uncle," Celeste stated. "Is not Lord Morris the one who owns a rather large ship making concern?" Celeste nodded. "The one and the same." She was silent as the king seemed to be mulling something over in his mind. "Who," he asked her at last, "actually laid hands to our champion, our national hero?" "All of his brothers and the two brothers-in-law I mentioned, sire," she replied. "Attacking a member of our royal guard—retired though he may be— is punishable by confinement," he said. "Did you know that, niece?" "No, Your Majesty, I did not." She smiled. "His father also struck him, I believe, though I was not there to see it." www.samhainpublishing.com
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"Wenchell!" the king called out. Out of nowhere the scrawny little man appeared, notebook in hand, pen to paper. "Warrants, if you will, for the persons of Lords James, Vaughn, Dyllon, Fallon, and Peyton Morgan along with additional warrants for Lord Levon Reed and Lord Morris Bartlett. With the warrants for their arrest and remittal to Wardsgate prison in Placida for sentencing, I want a confiscation of all lands and belongings held singularly and jointly by the Morgan families, including those of the sisters…." The king arched a brow. "Madeline, Danica, and Jillian," Celeste provided. "Those lands and any remaining dowries the Federation might discover are now property of the Justonian throne and will be henceforth added to Federation coffers upon inspection." "What of Lord Edward Gillespie, Earl of Haverton, Your Majesty?" Wenchell inquired as he hastily wrote upon his notebook. "Let him keep his land, but make sure he understands it is at the bequest of Lady Celeste Morgan," King Edmond said. "Eddie's punishment in this will be having his family sponging off him until such time as they can scrape together enough coin to build a hovel or two." "I can not imagine all sixteen adults and nine marauding children living in stately Haverton Hall," Wenchell said, letting both the king and his niece know he knew quite a bit about the Morgan family. "It is not a large holding." "Too bad," the king snapped. "Does Haverton Hall have a dungeon?" "I believe it has a small one, Your Majesty," Wenchell replied. "I venture to say it could accommodate no more than four men comfortably. Seven would be extremely crowded and uncomfortable." "Good, then remand said miscreants after their arraignment and sentencing for a confinement in that dungeon for daring to lay hands to our champion." "Not Wardsgate, Your Majesty?" Wenchell wanted clarified.
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"Haverton will suffice." "As you wish, Your Majesty," Wenchell said with a twitch of his lips. "For how long, sire?" "Six months sounds about right," the king replied with a yawn. "We'd make it longer but we'd have their lady-wives clamoring after us and we don't want that." "Very good, Sire." The king turned a crooked brow to Celeste. "Who was the woman our champion was forced to service in that despicable way, Niece?" "Lady Beatrice Summerall." "Wenchell, have her Joining by proxy to the good Commander Sierran Morgan set aside, voided by degree of the crown, then we want her remanded posthaste to the convent of St. Carolus. We are sure the good sisters can teach her a thing or two about chastity!" "I would not wish that on my worst enemy," Celeste mumbled. "Nay, but we would," the king said emphatically. He slapped his hands on both thighs this time and stood, holding his hand out to his niece. "Pray take us to your husband, our champion, bantling, and let us see for ourselves the damage done to him by his nefarious family. We've yet to settle the issue of full punishment in our mind for this deed." Celeste took her uncle's hand and walked with him, feeling like a fairy tale princess as courtiers and ladies-in-waiting bowed and curtsied as they passed. "So you really do love our champion, eh?" the king asked as they went out into the lowering light of the late afternoon. "With all my heart," she replied. "'Tis about time he settled down," King Edmond said. "We've watched him joust many times. The fellow is spectacular in the lists." "I am content to keep him on Zykanthos Island," Celeste said. "Seeing him hurt breaks my heart." The king nodded and as they ventured down the dock, he nodded and waved to the throngs gathered to see their monarch for he had ever
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made himself accessible to his people. Though well-guarded with numerous soldiers tagging along ahead and behind his royal personage, he stopped now and again to speak to a commoner, to chuck a babe under its chin. "Alas, our Queen has not seen fit to grace us with a bantling," he said with a sigh. "We so wanted a son and she desired a daughter." He sighed again. "It was not to be." The men of the Akinos were stunned to have the king come aboard their vessel. Many dropped to the ground on their knees, their heads bent, unaccustomed to being near royalty. Brent stepped forward to introduce himself to the king, bowing low before the monarch. "Ah, yes, we have heard of you, Lawgiver," the king decreed. "How is our champion?" Brent cast Celeste a quick look. "He is unconscious, sire. His ladywife…" "We will see him now," the king interrupted. He motioned Celeste ahead of him down the companionway. In the confines of the cabin, the king stood at Sierran's bedside and shook his head. "Seeing him hurt like this breaks our heart, as well, bantling," he told Celeste. "What family could do such to one of their own?" "One that has no care for him, Your Majesty," Celeste replied. The king nodded. "All too true, niece. All too true." His jaw tightened. "Since they have no care for him I shall adopt him and make him one of our own." Celeste's mouth dropped open. "Sire?" she questioned, shocked to the foundation of her being. "It shall not affect your Joining to him. First cousins marry all the time among the monarchy, you understand. But since we are without issue and we greatly admire our champion and always have, we shall declare him our true son."
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"But Your Majesty, Queen Tatiana may not agree," she reminded him. "As we recall, our queen made comment that it was a shame our champion was not our son. Now, he is." He turned around, knowing Wenchell would not be too far behind. "Did you make note of that, Wenchell?" "Aye, Your Majesty. I did." "Prince Sierran Allen," the king said. He looked at Celeste. "Middle name?" "DeLyle, Sire," she answered. "Prince Sierran DeLyle Allen, Duke of Northumberton, Laird of Dragonmoor." He smiled. "How does that sound, bantling?" Celeste's eyes filled with tears. He was giving her back the ancestral property she had offered the Federation and in return making her husband its rightful owner. "It sounds wonderful, sire, and I know he will believe himself unworthy of your generosity." "As a champion should," the king agreed. He laid a gentle hand on Sierran's shoulder. "Sleep well, Sir Knight, for on the morrow you will have much with which to occupy your mind."
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Chapter Seventeen Reclining in his own bed, annoyed at not being allowed to get up even to piss, Sierran did not make a good patient. His face was still a motley collection of yellows, blues, purples, and reds and a few stitches had been called for to close the deep cuts on his right cheekbone. He had been chaffing at the bit for several days now but no one would allow him out of bed and—truth be told—he really didn't think he was capable of putting up too much of a protest. His ribs hurt. His head ached and when he sat up too quickly he got dizzy. Much to his chagrin, he was still pissing blood in the urinal Vargas insisted on holding for him at the side of the bed. He hurt from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet and then some. He flounced the covers to get his wife's attention as she sat sewing by the window. "I am bored, Celeste," he pronounced. His wife looked up. "Would you like to play a game of chess?" "No," he snapped. "I've had a belly full of chess with you and Vargas and Brent and Mac." "Cards?" "No." "What would you like to do?" she asked, putting aside her sewing. She got up from her chair and came over to his bed. "I'd like to beat the hell out of Levon and Morris," he seethed. "You will just have to wait until they are released from confinement," she said reasonably, "and you are more in control of your fighting skills." She grinned as she fluffed his pillow behind him. "Then you can trounce the hell out of them."
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"Don't think I won't," he stated. "I've taken the last whipping I intend to at their hands." "I should think so," his wife agreed. "They are lucky they still have their titles if not their lands and property." He had yet to come to terms with all that had happened while he laid in blissful unconsciousness onboard the Akinos. That his woman had gone behind his back to her kinsman as she had not only annoyed him, it embarrassed him even though he could see the wisdom of what she'd done. By getting the king involved, she had stopped a potential bloody fight that surely would have ensued had his father and brothers and brothers-in-law come after him on Zykanthos—though they had shown up only to find he was not there. Other than attempting to intimidate Sierran's people, the commander's family had succeeded only in being run off Zykanthos with cannons aimed at their sloop—a sloop confiscated by the crown when the Morgans had returned to Argonne. "I'd like to have been a fly on the wall when Father heard what the king proclaimed," Sierran said, his teeth clenched. "I don't imagine it set too well with any of them," Celeste said. "Not that they care that I am no longer a member of their precious family," he said, plucking at a loose thread on the coverlet. "I never truly was to begin with." She turned to pour her husband a tumbler of cool water. "What upsets them is that they'll never again dare to come up against you, milord." Sierran sighed. "That's true." He cocked a brow at the water. "Just drink it, Sierran," Celeste told him with exasperation. He took the tumbler, sniffed it, and then drank deeply, grumbling as he handed it back to her. "I am bored, Celeste," he said again, kicking his feet beneath the covers. She sat down beside him and snaked her hand under the coverlet. "You are such a brat," she said, her hand sliding over his thigh to cup his shaft.
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"Wah," he said, his voice that of a headstrong child. He wagged his eyebrows at her. Her fingers wrapped around him. "What have we here, Prince Sierran?" she asked. He turned so he was looking fully into her eyes. "My scepter, wench," he said. "Feel the power in it?" "And these?" she asked, cupping his sac. "The crown jewels, of course," he replied. Pushing aside the coverlet, she glanced down at his erection as it pulsed in her hand. "I am so glad you do not find it necessary to hide such treasures from your lady-wife," she whispered. "She's ever a grasping wench, you know," he said with a heavy sigh. "She's always pulling at my scepter, wanting to wave it about." His eyebrows drew together. "I suppose it's a good thing she doesn't want to wear the gods-be-damned crown jewels." Celeste bent over and took him in her mouth, suckling strongly, running her tongue over his tip. "There she goes again," he said, putting his hands behind his head. "Playing with my scepter." His wife chuckled and slide her lips all the way to the base of him, her throat relaxed and her tongue sweeping along the underside of his shaft. She moved her hand to cup and knead his balls. Sierran closed his eyes and drew great pleasure from his lady's mouth and tongue. She had no compunction about suckling him and not once had she ever balked at swallowing the juices she brought forth from his rod. She was the first woman he'd ever known who would lick him dry when they were finished. There was no hesitancy whatsoever on her part to do everything she could to give him enjoyment. When she pulled away from him, he looked down. "What's on your mind, sweeting?" he asked.
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"I've always wondered about royal scepters," she said and moved so she could straddle his naked hips, tugging the skirt of her gown up so her bare bottom could rest on his thighs. As she wriggled against him, Sierran could feel the soft hairs of her nether region and he inhaled the sweet scent of her musk wafting up to him. He took one hand from behind his head and reached out to pull her neckline down to bare one perfect, lush globe. "What is it you've been wondering about?" he asked in a throaty voice as he ran his thumb over her hardening nipple. "What keeps them so shiny?" she asked. Sierran's left brow quirked upward. "Honey, of course," he replied. He molded her breast in his hand. "Honey from where, milord?" she asked. "The honey pot." "And who keeps them shiny?" He massaged her breast firmly. "The honey pot maid." Celeste took his cock in her hand, running her cupped fist up and down it. "In that case, I think your scepter needs polishing, Your Grace." "I believe it does, too, wench," he said. Pushing up to her knees, Celeste positioned his straining rod between her legs then slid it into her, settling down gently on that hard shaft. She tightened the muscles of her vagina around him. "Ah, wench," he moaned at the sensation. "You are good at polishing." She began riding him slowly, moving up and down his length by raising herself onto her knees. When his hands clamped down on her waist to push her harder against him, driving him deeper inside her, she increased her rhythm. "I'm getting your scepter all nice and shiny for you, Your Grace," she said, staring down at him. "Damned if you aren't," he said in a throaty voice. "You're putting steel into that rod, milady."
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Celeste stretched out atop him, pushing up and down against him, wriggling from side to side, impaling herself as deeply as she could. Her hands went beneath his rump and her short fingernails dug into the taut flesh there. "Celeste!" he warned, striving to keep at bay the release that was hovering right at the finish line. "Come for me, my prince," she whispered in his ear, her tongue spiraling over the sensitive flesh. "Come hard for me!" And he did. He came with such power, he damned near unseated her, flipping her over to pump hard into her, reveling in her thighs clamping around his hips as he spilled himself into her warm sheath. Celeste was on the verge of coming and as he stilled inside her—deep, full, still hard—the trickles of pleasure rippled through her and she cried out, burying her face against his shoulder, her arms crushing his broken ribs though neither of them was aware of it. Collapsing atop his lady as the last tremor of pleasure undulated through her, Sierran was breathing heavy, his heart pounding, sweat glistening on his brow, and upper lip. Vaguely he felt the myriad pains that had kept him abed for so long and gently he rolled off his wife to lay with his arm crooked over his eyes. "Wench, you near polished the gold right off my scepter that time," he said in a breathless voice. "Complain, complain, complain," his lady said as she turned so she lay on her side facing him. "That's all you royals ever do." Sierran yawned and suspected there'd been something in that damned water she'd foisted off on him after all. "Did you poison me again, wench?" he asked. "Just a trace of tenerse to help you sleep," she admitted. "Stop doing that, Celeste," he said. "That's a royal command." "Oh, pooh on your royal commands," she said, snuggling close to him. She trailed her fingers over his chest.
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The Wyndmaster’s Lady
They were silent for a long time and when he spoke, his words were slurred. "I have a family, Celeste." he said. "I really have a family." "Aye, you do," she agreed. "You have me and your new father and your new mother, two uncles, five aunts, and umpty-squat cousins here and there. And there's also the new one, of course." He turned his head to look at her. "What new one?" he asked, yawning widely. "Don't know yet," she replied. "Might be a boy. Might be a girl. Might be both." Sierran's sleepy eyes flared. "Celeste, are you telling me….?" "Go to sleep, Prince Sierran," she commanded, kissing his shoulder. "Tomorrow will be time enough to discuss your future heir."
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About the Author Charlotte Boyett-Compo, known as Charlee to her many readers, is the author of over fifty books, the first nine of which are the WindLegends Saga which began with WINDKEEPER. Married 40 years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashley. She is the willing houseslave to five demanding felines who are holding her hostage in her home and only allowing her to leave in order to purchase food for them. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she was adopted at birth and grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia and now lives in the Midwest. She has traveled extensively with her retired military weatherman husband―affectionately known to her fans as Buddha Belly―and has lived in South Carolina, Illinois, Nebraska, and New York. Her hobbies include reading, collecting Anubis, gargoyle and grim reaper figurines, and listening to rousing Celtic music. Her favorite color is green, her favorite perfume is gardenia, and her favorite snack is hot salsa with tortilla chips and a Cherry Pepsi. She never misses the literary works of John Sandford, Brian Lumley, Dean Koontz, and David Wiltse and is deeply, passionately in love with the movies of Gerard Butler…for whom she’s written several novels. Her favorite movie of all time is THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN and her favorite book is SWEET, SAVAGE LOVE by Rosemary Rogers. She never misses an episode of NIP/TUCK or LOST and if there’s a Stephen King novel on TV, she’s there! To learn more about Charlee, please visit www.windlegends.org. Send an email to her at
[email protected] or join her Yahoo! group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/windlegends/join.
Look for these titles Coming Soon: Sometimes the best man for the job is a woman.
The Wyndmaster’s Son © 2006 Charlotte Boyett-Compo Prince Thiessen, the son of King Sierran and Queen Celeste, learns his hated half-brother, Morgan, has been imprisoned by an enemy: Princess Lanelle of Solaria. Family loyalty dictates Thiessen rescue the man. Unfortunately for Thiessen, Morgan's reported captivity in the dungeon at Ambergast is just a ploy to get him there. With Morgan’s blade at his throat, Thiessen is forced to marry the Princess Lanelle and while bound and gagged, he must endure a forced consummation of the marriage. Allowed to go free when the deed has been accomplished, Thiessen leaves Ambergast in chains only to come back later than night during a fierce storm to kidnap the Princess Lanelle, intent on having his revenge on her for the marriage and the rape of his royal person. What he doesn’t count on is falling hopelessly in love with a woman who he finds is his equal in just about everything that matters to him.
The greatest Elven Wizard fights to free Anfall of an ancient evil, and fights his love for the woman destined to marry his brother.
The Princes of Anfall © 2006 Ciar Cullen In the ancient, enchanted land of Anfall, wizards are dying out just when they are most needed to defend their world. Kasmarin is the Prince Adept, a warrior wizard who has selflessly taken on the responsibility to defend the kingdom with his magic. He is bound by his sense of honor and by tradition, and bound by his oath to find a gifted woman to marry the King. Lauren Emory, a New Yorker, crosses to Anfall to search for her brother, Tim. Pegged as the perfect match for the King, Kasmarin kidnaps her for his brother. A second brother, Sennsarin, tutors Lauren in her magic as the band risks all to rescue Tim Emory. Humor and danger mix in this classic romantic fantasy with a theme of star-crossed lovers. Enjoy the following excerpt for The Princes of Anfall: Lauren darted into the woods, dropping her satchel and cursing as her long skirt tangled around her legs. She glanced over her shoulder as her pursuer closed to within yards. You’re brilliant. How did you expect to outrun a warrior on a horse? At least on the road she’d had a better chance of finding help. Terrified, she turned to face the stranger, praying she could wield a quick trick to throw him off. Her legs turned to jelly at the sight of the rider, who regarded her from his vantage point high atop a magnificent white stallion. “Who are you? What do you want?” The man arched a dark brow and regarded her without a word. “Well? Can’t you talk, elf?” “Elf? Have you lost your wits?” His piercing blue eyes now flashed in anger. Lauren backed up a few steps as he dismounted.
Now that he was only a few feet away, Lauren could make out the man’s simple clothing, his long pale golden hair, and the peaked ears that betrayed his Northern heritage. When he moved, a large sapphire medallion caught the moonlight as it bounced on his chest, and she glimpsed the three barred insignia of the royals embroidered on his tunic. A quiver of arrows and a long bow hung on his back, a jeweled scabbard on his hip. Despite his simple suede clothing, this was no ordinary warrior. “It seems the North has come to me.” “Ah, well said. Pick up your bag and come here.” He spoke quietly, but with the authority of one used to giving unquestioned orders. Lauren laughed with false bravado as she folded her arms across her chest. “Like hell I will.” She closed her eyes and, taking in a deep breath, gathered her energy and stretched her hand towards him. Please, God, let this work for a change. “Ai nai alanátharin.” Light poured from her hand in a weak blue stream. He arched a dark brow and laughed. “Very pretty.” Grabbing the light, he formed it into a glowing green ball and tossed it from palm to palm as a child would, then threw it into the air over her head. It puffed into a rainbow of twinkling sparks that fell to earth around her. Lauren’s heart sank, her best attempt at magic dashed to the ground. He held her gaze and waited for her next move, amusement softening the hard planes of his handsome face. “All right, you’ve made your point. Why have you been after me for days? You’re of the royal house of Anfall, aren’t you?” “I am indeed.” “Have things gotten tough for the royals that they have to stalk single women? That’s a crime where I come from. You people are barbarians.” “I’m not sure you’re right for my brother. He likes his women a bit sweeter. But you do have gifts.” He rubbed his chin, regarding Lauren as if she were a hunk of meat hanging in a butcher’s shop.
“You’re hunting for women for your brother? What’s wrong with him? Is he so damned ugly?” “We’ll also have to work on that mouth of yours.” “We won’t be working on anything. Listen, buddy, I’m trying to find my brother and go home. I’m sick to death of this endless heat and working my hands to the bone to get a meal and a lousy cot for the night. I can’t do anything without looking over my shoulder…how long have you been tracking me?” “You felt me before tonight? That’s impossible. In any case, I know your brother well. Timothy is a good man.” Timothy? He can’t mean it. Perhaps he heard me asking for him in the taverns and shops. “You know Tim? I don’t believe you. Prove it.” “He’s a fan of the Yankees, whatever they are. He likes to swim. His hair is the color of yours.” He reached out as if to touch a strand of her hair but pulled his hand back. “Oh my God, do you know where he is?” Her words came out in a mixed rush of excitement and frustration. “I’ve looked for him everywhere, back and forth across this godforsaken place… Twice, I thought I’d caught up with him, only then… Where is he, please? I’m sorry if I offended you. Did you come to take me to him? Is he okay?” “Relax.” He held up his hand in command. A year of holding up, of pressing on, of biting back tears caught up with her, and she broke into sobs. “I’m sorry, you can’t understand how hard it’s been.” He moved in to within inches, the warmth and aroma of magic radiating from him as he lifted her chin with one finger to lock eyes with hers. “Relax, breathe.” His whisper caressed her skin like a light warm breeze. “Relax,” he repeated. She drifted, his deep blue eyes pulling her in. He wrapped her in his warmth, and she floated across a calm sea, held in his strong arms. “Tim’s all I have.” “All right, Lauren. Perhaps we’ll find your brother.”
“You know my name.” “Lauren Emory of New York City in the Old Lands. Tim spoke often of you. I am Kasmárin. You may call me Kas.” Lauren forced her eyes open for a moment. The Prince Adept of Anfall—the great wizard, the king’s brother? As she struggled to take it in, he passed his hand across her eyes, and she fell into a warm, comforting sleep.
When she bargained with the devil of her dreams, they both found their heart’s delight.
Lord Demon’s Delight © 2007 Gia Dawn Lady Jessaline Nolan is as stubborn as her fiery red hair implies; thwarting her father’s wishes every chance she gets. The day of her impending forced marriage proves no exception. She swears she would rather marry a Demon of Dunmore than the man her father has chosen. Lord Llewellyn Dunmore is happily unwed, as the men in his lineage have remained for generations. It’s become a family tradition. But he is drawn to the beautiful damsel in distress and agrees to save her on one condition—that she willingly succumb to his every sensual demand. To his utter surprise, she agrees. While Jessaline’s father schemes to bring her back by any means necessary, Jessaline and Llewellyn spend their nights in decadent delight and three rather cranky fairy-godmothers lend their magical help to the lovers. Darker secrets lurk, however, as well as a shadowy past that Jessaline is unaware of. Can the new love between Jessaline and Llewellyn survive when confronted with hidden truths? First book in the Demons of Dunmore Series Enjoy the following excerpt for Lord Demon’s Delight: Jessaline hesitated just outside the door. Her fingers shook and she was more nervous than she cared to admit. She had no doubt he would claim his portion of the bargain—no doubt he was more than capable of demanding his husbandly rights. She had seen and felt the proof of that more than once this day. But he was huge, so long and broad she did not know how she would manage to fit him all inside her. Despite his words to the contrary, she
was afraid he would hurt her. The goblets on the tray tinkled as her hands trembled again, and the newly familiar ache shuddered up from between her thighs. Anticipation. Desire. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open—and almost dropped the tray in shock when she saw him sitting naked by the fire. His hair was wet from where he had washed it, rivulets of water dripped down his neck. His chest was broad, smooth, a few faint scars from battle traced across the skin. She let her gaze roam lower, past the tensed muscles of his stomach, along the line of chestnut hair, to stare again at his heavy cock, watching in wonder as it moved beneath her gaze. He shifted in his chair, stroked a hand across his balls, and adjusted the now rigid length of flesh so it rose up to lie across his stomach. The glass chimed again as Jess’s hands began to shake in earnest. “Are you afraid?” His question surprised her. She dragged her gaze back to his face. He studied her from beneath his lashes. “I have promised not to hurt you.” So soft, his voice, soft and beguiling. “Put down the wine and come to me.” It was a command Jessaline could not refuse. Her heart pounded too fast as she placed the tray on the floor. She longed for a glass of wine to calm the sudden rush of her breath and steady the shaking of her fingers so he would not see her discomfort. He held out his hand and motioned her forward. Jess stepped closer, wishing she had some easy words to lessen her growing nervousness. She swallowed, her throat gone suddenly dry as she moved to stand before him. “Take off your gown, lady.” His voice was still soft, but Jess heard how it had deepened and grown thick with his own dark emotion. She lifted the hem and began to pull the heavy garment up her legs, knowing he watched her every move. She slid it across her breasts, feeling her nipples tighten as the rough wool scraped over them. She let the gown drop to the floor and stood draped in only her linen kirtle. “That, too.”
Jess jutted out her chin and gave him her best glare. “Are you just going to watch me all night?” She needed him to touch her, to know whether his hands would prove as soft as his voice. He chuckled, a purr that sent ripples of anticipation across her skin. “Oh, no. I intend to touch, stroke, explore and plunder every inch of your perfect flesh.” He straightened in his chair and leaned toward her, his smile one that would make the devil proud. “But first I want to look at you. All of you.” Again that shock of fire quivered between her thighs. Jess tried to press her legs together, hoping to ease the throb radiating from their depths. He saw her squirm and his smile grew broader. “The kirtle,” he said. In a last spark of bravado, Jess tore the laces apart at the neck and shrugged the garment to the floor. Her skin tingled in the sudden chill, the goose bumps puckering her nipples even more. She felt wanton standing naked in the night, her husband’s hungry gaze traveling the length of her. “You are beautiful,” he whispered. Jess was pleased to hear a tremor in his voice. For the first time she thought of herself as wanted, desirable, someone more than just her father’s pawn. “Come.” He held out his hand and sat back in the chair. Jess placed her fingers in his, feeling the faint tremor that shook them. He drew her down onto his lap, her back turned toward him and pressed against his chest. She felt her body shiver as he tucked her into his warmth, and sucked in her breath as the mass of him settled between the cheeks of her bottom. He wrapped one strong arm around her, gathered her close, and let his other hand tangle in her hair. Jess could not stop her trembling as he nuzzled his face into her neck and let his lips trail across the sensitive skin to nibble at her earlobe. Jess sucked in her breath as the delicious feelings washed over her. Now his hand swept through her hair to brush the outside of her breast. He hesitated, teasing her skin before closing his palm over its weight. “Ahhh!” The sound escaped her as he found her nipple and let it slide between his fingers. He pressed harder and Jess had to bite her lip to
keep from crying out again. She held her breath, tried to think, made a last effort to keep control as he took her nipple and pinched, firmer, rougher, while Jess twisted on his lap, trying to find some relief from the unbearable need that blasted down her stomach. She heard his own intake of breath as her wiggling jostled his stiffened cock. Now his hand dropped to fall heavy on her thigh. Jess tensed when his fingers inched their way up her leg. “Tell me to stop,” he said. His hand stayed motionless at the very top of her thigh. “Just say the word and we can come to an amicable parting.” She shook her head and settled harder on his lap. Some wicked part of her she did not know she possessed urged her to wiggle once more against his turgid length. She could hear the amusement in his voice when he whispered in her ear. “Is that the game you wish to play?” His other hand fell to her opposite thigh and he slid both hands toward her knees. In one swift movement he spread her legs wide, holding them open with his thighs. Jess shivered when she felt the air hit the moisture of her open cunt. She felt exposed and unprotected—but she could not deny that she enjoyed the position she was in. Slowly, he slid his hands up toward her mound, stretching her legs wider. Jess heard her breath grow heavy and hesitant, the anticipation almost more than she could take. When he finally brought one hand across her tangle of curls, Jess felt her body jump to meet him. One finger rubbed into her slit, slowly moving back and forth as he spread the wet of her to make the passage smoother. Jess moaned, the ache of need almost more than she could stand. “Please,” she whimpered, turning her head to nestle against his neck. “Open for me,” Llew replied. “Let me touch inside you.”
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